San-Cravate; or, The Messengers; Little Streams Part 80

"Can it be possible?" cried Sans-Cravate, jumping for joy; "you consent--you are willing? I am not deceiving myself?"

"Yes, my friend, I consent; you have my word; but you must leave your present business; I will find you some more suitable employment."

"Oh! whatever you choose, monsieur; mon Dieu! I'll go back to the old home, I'll take care of the barnyard, I'll never go out of the house, if you say so."

"Never fear, my friend; I will arrange matters so that we shall all be satisfied. Go and get your sister, and bring her back with you; I will receive her as my daughter, and I desire that the marriage ceremony be performed at the earliest possible moment."

"Oh! this is too much good fortune! I knew that you were a good man. I will love you as I do my own father; and my poor sister, my Liline, how happy she will be! Why, it's enough to make one crazy with joy!"

And Sans-Cravate danced about the room, overturning furniture, laughing and singing. Monsieur Vermoncey was obliged to quiet him, and to remind him that his sister was expecting him.

"Oh, yes! you are right," was the reply; "my sister's waiting for me, and I don't hurry and tell her! What a fool I am! And that poor Monsieur Albert, who is with her, no doubt! I'll go right away and tell them how kind you are; and I'll bring them back to your arms. Oh! it won't take me long, I promise you."

A minute later, Sans-Cravate was in the street, and he ran without stopping to the house where he had left his sister. He was drenched with perspiration when he arrived. He entered the house and was already on the stairs, when the concierge called him.

"Well, comrade, where are you going so fast?"

"Parbleu! to see my sister. The pretty little lady who moved in to-day is my sister."

"I don't know anything about that, but you won't find her."

"What! has she gone out--alone?"

"No--with the young gentleman who brought her here; he came back just after you went away."

"Well! they'll be back soon, no doubt. Do you know which way they went?"

"No; and I don't think they'll be back for a long while. The gentleman sent for a cab, and put in the satchel of clothes they brought here this morning. Then he gave me the keys to the apartment, and said: 'Just air the rooms a little, now and then.'--And with that, he put the little lady in the cab, got in beside her, and good-day. It's my opinion they've left Paris."

"Gone! they have gone!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Sans-Cravate. "Great G.o.d! Monsieur Albert probably thought that his father wouldn't forgive him; he was afraid he'd have to part with Liline. Oh! what a misfortune! But they'll write, I hope. Didn't my sister leave any word for me?"

"Not a word; but I saw she was crying when she got into the cab."

"She was crying--poor girl! and they'd have been so happy, if they had only waited for me!"

Sans-Cravate was in despair; but as he could learn nothing more from the concierge, he returned to Monsieur Vermoncey and told him of the abrupt departure of the lovers.

Albert's father was greatly distressed by the news, and he at once sent to his son's apartment to ascertain whether he had left a letter for him. The servant brought back a short note, which had evidently been written in great haste and contained these words only:

"Excuse my absence, father; I am compelled to go away again, and this time without saying good-bye to you. But don't be anxious; you will hear from me often, and I hope to see you again before long."

"And he don't say where he's going!" murmured Sans-Cravate. "What a pity! you could have written to him at once that he could come back, that everything was forgiven."

"Perhaps he will tell me where he is, in his first letter," suggested Monsieur Vermoncey; "then I will write to him, or else we will both go and join them."

"Ah! yes, yes, we will do that, that's a fine idea; but till then I must be patient. Will you allow me, monsieur, to come often to ask whether you have heard from your son?"

"Whenever you choose, my friend; you are no longer a stranger to me.

Here, etienne, take this purse, and give up your trade; from this moment you do not need to earn money."

Sans-Cravate declined the money that was offered him, and replied, in a melancholy tone:

"No, monsieur, not yet; my sister ain't your son's wife as yet; until then, let me stay as I am."

Monsieur Vermoncey's persistent entreaties could not shake his determination.

"Let's hope they will come back," he said, as he went away, "or that we shall soon find out where they are."

He returned to his stand, lost in thought, with no desire to laugh or dance, and saying to himself:

"Was it because he learned that Liline had found her brother that Monsieur Albert carried her off so quick?"

XXVII

LOVE AND FRIENDs.h.i.+P

When Paul lay on the ground, unconscious, after he had been wounded on the head and arm by his fall, Bastringuette had hastened to the spot; and seeing Sans-Cravate walk rapidly away, she had partly divined the cause of the younger man's deplorable condition.

"Mon Dieu! mon Dieu!" cried the girl; "they have been fighting--or, rather, Sans-Cravate insisted on fighting this poor boy, who ain't strong enough to stand up to him. And it must have been jealousy that made Sans-Cravate do it--because he saw me talking to Paul. I'm the cause of his hard luck--or my beastly coquetry, my foolish idea of changing lovers, when I was well off. But that's how it always is in love; when you're well off, it bores you, and you want to change; when you're badly off, you stay as you are."

While she talked thus to herself, Bastringuette did what she could for the young messenger. The people who had collected talked about carrying him to the nearest hospital, but Bastringuette cried out at the word:

"I guess not much! You don't catch me letting this poor boy go to the hospital while I have a decent place to take him to! He must have rooms somewhere himself; but as he can't talk just now, he can't tell us where they are. Anyway, it will be more convenient for me to nurse him and make herb tea for him in my room; for these boys never have a kettle fit to boil water in."

So the flower girl sent for a cab; they lifted the wounded man into it, after she had bandaged his head and arm as well as she could; then she gave her address--Rue des Martyrs, near the barrier--and when they arrived there, Paul was taken up to her room, with the a.s.sistance of the cabman and the concierge, and placed on her bed.

As may be imagined, Bastringuette's domicile was not luxurious. Her apartment consisted of a bedroom and closet, on the fifth floor, under the eaves. She called it the sparrows' entresol.

The furniture was very modest: a wooden cot-bed, a cherry commode, six cane-seated chairs,--or rather six chairs that needed to be reseated,--a small table, a mirror, a foot-warmer, and a stove. So much for the bedroom. As to the closet, it contained a row of pegs, on which nothing was ever hung. But the aspect of the bedroom was not unpleasant and did not indicate downright poverty, thanks to the spotless cleanliness that prevailed.

The bed was surrounded with calico curtains, always very white; there were also two little curtains of the same material at the window, taking the place of one large one. On the commode, on the little table, and on the window sill, there were almost always flowers, some in pots, some in blue carafes. Flowers were Bastringuette's one luxury, and more than once she had breakfasted on a crust of bread in order to have flowers during the winter, when she did not sell them.

After placing Paul on the bed, Bastringuette went to one of her neighbors and asked her to go for a doctor. The tall girl was popular in the house, because she was light-hearted and clever; and they loved to hear her talk, and repeat in her homely language all the flattering speeches made to her by the men who bought flowers of her.

When they learned that the flower girl had a wounded man in her room, the neighbors all wanted to help: one went for a doctor, another for a druggist; this one had a remedy of her own preparation, that one an infallible ointment; so that when Paul opened his eyes he found himself surrounded by women of all ages, all talking at once, and all anxious to cure him, offering ointment, herb tea, plasters, and blisters, each with at least three phials in her hand. Luckily for the wounded man, the doctor came and restored peace among the women, who were disputing with one another as to whose remedy should be preferred. The doctor began by throwing all the phials out of the window, then turned his would-be confreres out of the room; and having examined the patient, found that the wound on the head was severe but not dangerous, that he had sprained his arm when he fell, and that what he most needed were rest and good nursing.

Paul looked about the room in amazement. When the doctor had gone, Bastringuette said:

"Now, try to be calm and quiet; let me take care of you, and don't talk!

the doctor says you mustn't. You're in my room; that vexes you, perhaps, but, _dame!_ I didn't know your address, and I wouldn't let you be taken to the hospital. It don't put me out a bit, don't you be afraid; I'm my own mistress, and I snap my fingers at what folks say! I know well enough that there's some people always ready to see something wrong in whatever anyone does, and who'll think you're my lover. I don't care for that. There was a time when I'd have liked right well to have you, I don't deny it; I had fallen in love with you; you made my head queer, like a sunstroke. And that was when I turned my back on poor Sans-Cravate! I made a great success of that. You told me right out that you loved somebody else--and then--there was what I heard, what I found out about you. I saw plain enough, then, that you was too far above me--by the way you acted. Hus.h.!.+ don't speak, the doctor says you mustn't. You don't like what I say, so I'm done, it's dead; I won't mention it again. When chance let me into your secret, you made me swear to keep quiet about it; but that's no reason why I can't tell you, between ourselves, that it's a n.o.ble thing you're doing, and you ought to have the prize of virtue, the prize of---- Well, you're moving your lips, so I'll shut up. Now, go to sleep, or try to go to sleep; and when you wake up, perhaps you'll have a pleasant surprise--no one knows!"

"You are too good," murmured Paul, in a weak voice; "but I am in your way here; you ought to have let me----"

"Hold your tongue this minute! I ought to have let you be taken to the hospital, eh? That would have been a sweet thing to do! when I was the cause of it all--yes, it was my nonsense! If I hadn't made eyes at you--in fact, if I hadn't tried to catch you, would Sans-Cravate have hit you? Now, he hates me, and he's quite right; but he's all wrong to fight you, because it ain't your fault. Come, go to sleep; the doctor said you must sleep; and I tell you again that you ain't in my way; I've got another bed in the closet, and I'll sleep on that. I'm going out to get the medicines the doctor ordered; I shan't be gone long."