Parisian Points of View Part 15

"I don't know."

"It's because he has married a charming woman, and this charming woman is a skater of the first rank. She had a tremendous success on the ice at the Bois de Boulogne. In the society columns of all the papers there was mention of the exquisite, delightful, and ideal Mme. Robineau. She was in the swim at one stroke. And Robineau, he too was in the swim. He was a member of the little club six weeks later! Papa, he doesn't understand the importance of these things; one can't reason with him about it; it's all Greek to him. However, as he had absolutely cut off my supplies, I had to submit, and consent to an interview with Number Two."

"And what was Number Two like?"

"Ah, my dear fellow, what was she like! She was the daughter of a rich merchant of Antwerp. A Belgian article! First a provincial, and then a foreigner! Papa doesn't like Parisians. Mamma was from Chatellerault, and she was indeed a saint. Number Two happened to be in Paris; so last night, at the Opera Comique, they showed me a Fleming, who was very blond, very insipid, very masculine--a Rubens, a true Rubens; a giantess, a colossal woman, a head taller than I, which is to say that materially one could not take her in a lower stage-box, and those are the only boxes I like. On leaving the theatre I told papa that I wouldn't have Number Two any more than Number One, and that I had had enough, and that I wouldn't see Number Three. The discussion was heated.

Papa went off banging doors and repeating, 'No more money!' I saw that it was serious. I went to bed, but I couldn't sleep--I thought; but I could think of nothing to save me from the fat hands of the Antwerp girl. Suddenly, towards three in the morning, I had an inspiration--I had an idea that I can call, if you'll permit it, a stroke of genius."

"I'll permit it."

"Yes, genius. I knew that you left to-day for Ma.r.s.eilles, and this morning I departed, English fas.h.i.+on, without explanation, and in a little while, at the first stop, at Laroche--I have looked at the time-table, I have thought of everything--I shall send the following despatch to my father," and Raoul triumphantly pulled a paper out of his pocket. "It's all ready. Listen. 'M. Chamblard, 8 Rue Rougemont, Paris, Laroche station. I left on the express for Ma.r.s.eilles with Maurice. I am going to make a voyage around the world. I sha'n't be more than six months. I have engaged by telegraph a state-room on the _Traonaddy_ which leaves to-morrow for Singapore. Anything rather than a Flemish alliance! Farewell. With regrets for leaving you, your affectionate son, Raoul Chamblard.' My telegram's all right, isn't it?"

"It isn't bad, but do you seriously mean--"

"Yes, I shall go if, before I reach Ma.r.s.eilles, I haven't an answer from papa; but I shall have one, for two reasons. In the first place, Papa Chamblard knows how to reason, and he will say to himself: 'What shall I gain by it? Instead of fooling round with little white women in Paris, he will fool round with little yellow ones at Singapore.' And then another reason, the best one, is that Papa Chamblard adores me, and he can't do without me, and the little sentimental phrase at the end of my despatch will appeal to his heart. You'll see how it will turn out. At 11.20 my telegram will leave Laroche; papa will receive it at half-past twelve. And I'll bet you ten louis that at Dijon or Macon I'll find in the wire screen of the station a telegram addressed to me, and worded thus: 'Return; no longer question of Antwerp marriage.' Papa's telegram will be brief, because he is saving and suppresses unnecessary words.

Will you take the bet?"

"No, I should lose."

"I think so. Have you the papers?"

"Yes."

They read three or four papers, Parisian papers, and read them like true Parisians. It took a short fifteen minutes. While reading they exchanged short remarks about the new ministry, the races at Auteuil, and Yvette Guilbert--particularly about Yvette Guilbert. Young Chamblard had been to hear her the day before, and he hummed the refrain:

"Un fiacre allait trottinant Cahin-caha Hu dia! Hop la!

Un fiacre allait trottinant Jaune avec un cocher blanc."

And as the light cavalryman had never heard Yvette Guilbert sing the "Fiacre," young Chamblard threw up his arms and exclaimed: "You never heard the 'Fiacre,' and you had three months' leave! What did you do in Paris? _I_ know the 'Fiacre' by heart."

Upon which Raoul began to hum again, and while humming in a voice which became more and more slow, and more and more feeble, he settled back into his arm-chair, and soon fell into a peaceful slumber, like the big baby that he was.

All at once he was waked up with a start by the stepping of the train, and by the voice of the conductor, who cried, "Ouah! Ouah! Ouah!" The cry is the same for all stations. This time it was meant for Laroche.

And now for the telegram. Young Chamblard ran to the telegraph-office.

The immovable operator counted the sixty-seven words of that queer despatch. "All aboard, all aboard!"

Young Chamblard had scarcely time to jump on the step of his car.

"Ouf! that's done," he said to the cavalryman. "Suppose we lunch."

So they both started on their way to the dining-car. It was quite a journey, for two parlor-cars separated them from the restaurant-car, and those two cars were crowded. It was the season for the great pilgrimage of a few Parisians and a good many English towards Nice, Cannes, and Monte Carlo. The express was running very fast, and was pitching violently. One needed sea-legs. Then a furious wind beat against the train, and wrapped it in clouds of dust, making the crossing of the platforms particularly disagreeable.

They advanced, walking with difficulty through the first car, over the first crossing, and encountering the first squall, then through the second car; but Chamblard, who went ahead, had difficulty in opening the door to the second platform. It resisted on account of the force of the wind; finally it yielded, and Raoul received at the same time in his eyes a cloud of dust, and in his arms a young blonde, who exclaimed, "Oh, excuse me!" while he, too, exclaimed, "Oh, excuse me!" and at the same time he received the cavalryman on his back, who, also blinded by the dust, was saying, "Go on, Raoul, go on."

The two doors of the cars had shut, and they were all three crowded in the little pa.s.sage in the wind--young Raoul, young Maurice, and the young blonde.

The "Oh, excuse me" was immediately followed by a "M. Maurice!" which was replied to by a "Mlle. Martha!" The little blonde knew the cavalryman, and perceiving that she was almost in the arms of a stranger, Mlle. Martha disengaged herself, and backed cleverly towards the platform of the car, saying to Maurice, "You're on the train, and you're going?"

"To Algeria."

"We to Ma.r.s.eilles. I am getting a shawl for mamma, who is cold. Mamma will be delighted to see you. You will find her in the dining-car. I'll see you later."

"But I will accompany you?"

"If you like."

She walked on, but not without first having slightly bowed to young Chamblard, who had remained there astounded, contemplating Mlle. Martha with eyes filled with admiration.

She had time before going to notice that he was a good-looking young fellow, that he wore a neat little suit, and that he looked at her with staring eyes; but in those staring eyes a thought could be clearly read that could not displease her: "Oh, how pretty you are!"

Raoul was, in fact, saying to himself: "My type, exactly my type! And what style--what style in the simplicity of that costume! And the little toque, a little on one side over the ear--it's a masterpiece! How well she knows how to dress! What an effect she would make in an audience!

And that little English accent!"

For she had a little English accent; she had even taken a good deal of trouble for several years to acquire that little accent. She used to say to her governess, Miss Butler:

"Yes, of course I want to know English, but I wish especially to speak French with an English accent." She had worked for nothing else. She had been, fortunately, rewarded for her perseverance; her little Anglo-Parisian gibberish was at times quite original.

While Maurice was retracing his steps with Mlle. Martha, Raoul placed himself at a table in the dining-car. He soon saw them come back with mamma's shawl. Maurice lingered for a few minutes at the table where the mother and the young brother of the little blonde were lunching. Then he came back to Raoul, who said as soon as he approached:

"Who is she--quick, tell me, who is she? Whenever one pleases I will marry her--now, on getting down from the train. In my arms! I held her in my arms! Such a waist! A dream! There are, as you must know, slim waists and slim waists. There are waists which are slim, hard, harsh, stiff, bony, or mechanically made by odious artifices in the corsets. I have thoroughly studied the corset question. It's so important! And then there's the true slim waist, which is easy, natural, supple. Supple isn't sufficient for what just slid through my hands a short time ago.

Slippery--yes, that's the word. Slippery just expresses my thought--a slippery waist!"

Raoul was quite charmed with what he said.

"Yes," he continued, "slippery; and that little pug-nose! and her little eyes have quite a--a Chinese air! But who is she, who is she?"

"The daughter of one of my mother's friends."

"Is she rich?"

"Very rich."

"It's on account of papa that I asked you that, because I would marry her without a dowry. It's the first time I've ever said such a thing on meeting a young girl. And now the name."

"Mlle. Martha Derame."

"Derame, did you say?"

"Yes."

"Isn't the father a wealthy merchant who has business in j.a.pan and China?"

"The same."

"Ah, my dear fellow--no; one only sees such things in the comic plays of the minor theatres, at Cluny or Dejazet."

"What's the matter with you?"