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IN THE DAYS OF MY YOUTH. 
 VOL. n. 
 
IN THE DAYS OF MY YOUTH. 
 
 AMELIA B. EDWARDS, 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 " BARBARA'S HISTORY," 
 
 &c., &c. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. II. 
 
 LONDON: 
 HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS, 
 
 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 
 1873. 
 
 The right of TranshtlioH is reserved. 
 
LONDON : 
 
 PRINTED h\' MACDONALD AND TUGWELL, 
 
 BLENHEIM HOUSE. 
 
IN THE DAYS OF MY YOUTH. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A dinner at the Maison Doree^ and an evening 
 party in the Quartier Latin. 
 
 HE most genial of companions was 
 our new acquaintance, Franz Mul- 
 ler, the art-student. Light-hearted, 
 buoyant, unassuming, he gave his animal 
 spirits full play, and was the life of our 
 little dinner. He had more natural gaiety 
 than generally belongs to the German cha- 
 racter, and his good-temper was inexhaust- 
 ible. He enjoyed everything ; he made the 
 best of everything ; he saw food for laughter 
 in everything. He was always amused, 
 and therefore was always amusing. Above 
 all, there was a spontaneity in his mirth 
 
 VOL. II. B 
 
hi the Days of my Youth. 
 
 which acted upon others as a perpetual 
 stimulant. He was in short, what the 
 French call a hon garqon, and the English a 
 capital fellow ; easy without assurance, comic 
 without vulgarity, and, as Sydney Smith 
 wittily hath it — " a great number of other 
 things without a great number of other 
 things." 
 
 Upon Dalrymple, who had been all day 
 silent, abstracted, and unlike his usual self, 
 this joyous influence acted like a tonic. As 
 entertainer, he was bound to exert himself, 
 and the exertion did him good. He threw 
 off his melancholy; and with the help, pos- 
 sibly, of somewhat more than his usual 
 quantity of w^ne, entered thoroughly into 
 the passing joyousness of the hour. What a 
 recherchS, luxurious extravagant little dinner 
 it was, that evening at the Maison Doree ! 
 We had a charminoj little room overlookino; 
 the Boulevard, furnished with as much look- 
 ing-glass, crimson velvet, gilding, and ara- 
 besque painting as could be got together 
 within the space of twelve feet by eight. 
 
A dmner at the Maison Doree. 3 
 
 Our wine came to table in a silver cooler 
 that Cellini might have wrought. Our meats 
 were served upon porcelain that would have 
 driven Palissy to despair. We had nothing 
 that was in season, except game, and every- 
 thing that was out ; which, by-the-way, ap- 
 pears to be our modern criterion of excel- 
 lence with respect to a dinner. Finally, we 
 were waited upon by the most imposing of 
 waiters — a waiter whose imperturbable 
 gravity was not to be shaken by any amouiU 
 of provocation, and whose neckcloth alone 
 was sufficient to qualify him for the 
 church. 
 
 How merry we were ! How Miiller tor- 
 mented that diplomatic waiter ! What stories 
 we told ! what puns we made ! What bril- 
 liant things we said, or fancied we said, over 
 our Chambertin and Johannisberger! Miiller 
 knew nothing of the substratum of sadness 
 underlying all that jollity. He little thought 
 how heav}^ Dairy mple's strong heart had 
 been that morning. He had no idea that 
 my friend and I were to part on the morrow, 
 
 B 2 
 
[n the Days of my Youth. 
 
 for months or years, as the case might be — 
 he to carry his unrest hither and thither 
 through distant lands ; I to remain alone in 
 a strange city, pursuing a distasteful study, 
 and toiling onward to a future without fasci- 
 nation or hope. But, as the glass seals tell 
 us, " such is life." We are all mysteries to 
 one another. The pleasant fellow whom 
 I invite to dinner because he amuses me, 
 carries a scar on his soul which it would 
 frighten me to see ; and he in turn, when 
 he praises my claret, little dreams of the 
 carking care that poisons it upon my palate, 
 and robs it of all its aroma. Perhaps the 
 laughter-loving painter himself had his own 
 little tragedy locked up in some secret cor- 
 ner of the heart that seemed to beat so 
 lightly under that braided blouse of Palais 
 Royale cut and Quartier Latin fashion ! Who 
 could tell ? And of what use would it be, 
 if it were told ? Smiles carry one through 
 the world more agreeably than tears, and if 
 the skeleton is only kept decently out of 
 sight in its own unsuspected closet, so much 
 
A dinner at the Maison Doree. 5 
 
 the better for you, and me, and society at 
 large. 
 
 Dinner over, and the serious waiter dis- 
 missed with tlie dessert and the empty bot- 
 tles, we sat by the open window for a long 
 time, sipping our coffee, smoking our cigars, 
 and watching the busy life of the Boulevard 
 below. There the shops were all alight and 
 the passers-by more numerous than by day. 
 Carriages were dashing along, full of opera- 
 goers and ball-room beauties. On the pave- 
 ment just under our window were seated 
 the usual crowd of Boulevard idlers, sipping 
 their al fresco absinthe, and grog-au-vin. In 
 the very next room, divided from us by only 
 a slender partition, was a noisy party of 
 young men and girls. We could hear their 
 bursts of merriment, the chinking of their 
 glasses as they pledged one another, the 
 popping of the champagne corks, and al- 
 most the very jests that passed from lip to 
 lip. Presently a band came and played at 
 the corner of an adjoining street. All was 
 mirth, all was life, all was amusement and 
 
6 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 dissipation both in-doors and out-of-doors, in 
 the " care-charming " city of Paris on that 
 pleasant September night; and we, of course, 
 were gay and noisy, like our neighbours. 
 Dalrymple and Miiller could scarcely be 
 called new acquaintances. They had met 
 some few times at the Chicards, and also, 
 some years before, in Rome. What stories 
 they told of artists whom they had known ! 
 What fun they made of Academic dons and 
 grave professors high in authority ! What 
 ])ictures the_y drew, of life in Rome — in 
 Vienna — in Paris ! Thou2;h we had no ladies 
 of our party and were only three in number, 
 I am not sure that the merry-makers in the 
 next room laughed any louder or oftener 
 than we ! 
 
 At length the clock on the mantelpiece 
 warned us that it was already half-past nine, 
 and that we had been three hours at dinner. 
 It was clearly time to vary the evening's 
 anmsemeiit in some way or other, and the 
 only questiiMi was what next to do? Should 
 we go to a billiard-room ? Or to the Salle 
 
A dinner at the Maison Doree. 7 
 
 Valentinois ? Or to some of the cheap 
 theatres on the Boulevard du Temple ? Or 
 to the Tableaux Vivants ? Or the Cafe des 
 Aveugles ? Or take a drive round by the 
 Champs Elysees in an open fly ? 
 
 At length Miiller remembered that some 
 fellow-students were giving a party that even- 
 ing, and offered to introduce us. 
 
 " It is up five pairs of stairs, in the Quar- 
 tier Latin," said he ; "but thoroughly jolly — 
 all students and grisettes. They'll be de- 
 lis^hted to see us." 
 
 This admirable proposition was no sooner 
 made than acted upon ; so we started im- 
 mediately, and Dalrymple, who seemed to 
 be well acquainted with tlie usages of 
 student-life, proposed that we should take 
 with us a store of sweetmeats for the 
 ladies, 
 
 " There subsists," observed he, " a myste- 
 rious elective affinity between the grisette 
 and the chocolate bon-bon. He who can 
 skilfully exhibit the latter, is almost certain 
 to win the heart of the former. Where the 
 
8 In the Day.<^ of my Youth. 
 
 chocolate fails, however, the marron glace 
 is an infallible specific. I recommend 
 that we lay in a liberal supply of both 
 weapons." 
 
 " Carried by acclamation," said Mliller. 
 " We can buy them on our way, in the Rue 
 Vivienne. A capital shop ; but one th»t, I 
 never patronise — they give no credit." 
 
 Chatting thus, and laughing, we made our 
 way across the Boulevard and through a 
 net- work of by-streets into the Rue Vivienne, 
 where we laid siege to a great bon-bon shop 
 — a gigantic depot for dyspepsia at so much 
 per kilogramme — and there filled our pock- 
 ets with sweets of everv imas!;inable flavour 
 and colour. This done, a cab conveyed us 
 in something less than ten minutes across 
 the Pont Neuf to the Quartier Latin. 
 
 MuUer's friends were three in number, 
 and all students — one of art, one of law, 
 and one of medicine. They lodged at the 
 top of a dingy house near the Odeon, and 
 being very great friends and very near 
 neighbours, were giving this entertainment 
 conjointly. Their names were Gustave, 
 
A dinner at the Maison Doree. 9 
 
 Jules, and Adrien. Adrien was the artist, 
 and lived in the garret, just over the 
 heads of Gustave and Jules, which made 
 it very convenient for a party, and placed 
 a suite of rooms at the disposal of their 
 visitors. 
 
 Lonoj l^efore we had achieved the five 
 pairs of stairs, we heard the sound of voices 
 and the scraping of a violin, and on the 
 fifth landing were received by a pretty 
 young lady in a coquettish little cap, whom 
 Miiller familiarly addressed as Annette, and 
 who piloted us into a very small bed -room 
 which was already full of hats and coats, 
 bonnets, shawls, and umbrellas. Having 
 added our own paletots and beavers to the 
 general stock, and having each received a 
 little bit of pasteboard in exchange for the 
 same, we were shown into the ball-room by 
 Mademoiselle Annette, who appeared to fill 
 the position of hostess, usher, and general 
 superintendent. 
 
 It was a good-sized room, somewhat low 
 in the ceiling, and brilliantly lighted with 
 lots of tallow candles in bottles. The furni- 
 
10 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 ture had all been cleared out for the dan- 
 cers, except a row of benches round the 
 walls, and a chest of drawers in a recess be- 
 tween the windows which served as a raised 
 platform for the orchestra. The said or- 
 chestra consisted of a violin and accordion, 
 both played by amateurs, with an occasional 
 ohligato on the common comb. As for the 
 guests, they were, as Mliller had already 
 told us, all students and grisettes— the for- 
 mer wearing every strange variety of beard 
 and blouse ; the latter in pretty light-colour- 
 ed muslins and bewitching little caps, with 
 the exception of two who wore flowers in 
 their hair, and belonged to the opera ballet. 
 They were in the midst of a tremendous 
 galop when we arrived ; so we stood at the 
 door and looked on, and Dalrymple flirted, 
 with Mademoiselle Annette. As soon as the 
 galop was over, two of our hosts came for- 
 ward to welcome us. 
 
 ''The Duke of Dalrymple and the Mar- 
 quis of Arbuthnot — Messieurs Jules Char- 
 pentier and Gustave Dubois," said Mliller, 
 with the most degaye air in the world. 
 
•^ A dinner at the Maison Doree. 1 1 
 
 Monsieur Jules, a tall young man with an 
 enormous false nose of the regular carnival 
 pattern, and Monsieur Gustave, who was 
 short and stout, with a visible high-water 
 niark round his throat and wrists, and curi- 
 ous leather mosaics in his boots, received us 
 very cordially, and did not appear to be in the 
 least surprised at the magnificence of the in- 
 troduction. On the contrary, they shook 
 hands with us ; apologised for the absence 
 of Adrien, wdio was preparing the supper 
 upstairs ; and offered to find us partners for 
 the next valse. Dalrymple immediately 
 proposed for the hand of Mademoiselle 
 Annette. Mliller, declining adventitious aid, 
 wandered araoncp the ladies, makins; himself 
 universally agreeable and trusting for a part- 
 ner to his own unassisted efforts. For myself, 
 I was indebted to Monsieur Gustave for an 
 introduction to a very charming young lady 
 whose name was Josephine, and with whom 
 I fell over head and ears in love without a 
 moment's warning. 
 
 She was somewhat under the middle 
 height, slender, supple, rosy-lipped, and 
 
12 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 coquettish to distraction. Her pretty mouth 
 dimpled round with smiles at every word it 
 uttered. Her very eyes laughed. Her hair, 
 which was more adorned than concealed by 
 a tiny muslin cap that clung by some unseen 
 agency to the back of her head, was of a soft, 
 warm, wavy brown, with a woof of gold 
 threading it here and there. Her voice was, 
 perhaps, a little loud ; her conversation rather 
 childish ; her accent such as would scarcely 
 have passed current.in the Faubourg St. Ger- 
 main — but what of that ? One would be 
 worse than foolish to expect style and culti- 
 vation in a grisette ; and had I not had 
 enough to disgust me with both in Madame 
 de Mariojnan ? What more charming;, after 
 all, than youth, beauty, and light-hearted- 
 ness ? Were Noel and Chapsal of any im- 
 portance to a mouth that could not speak 
 without such a smile as Hebe mio;ht have 
 envied ? 
 
 I was, at all events, in no mood to take 
 exception to these little defects. I am not 
 sure that I did not even regard them in the 
 light of additional attractions. That which 
 
A dinner at the Maison Doree. 1 8 
 
 in another I should have called hete, I set 
 down to the score of naivete in Made- 
 moiselle Josephine. One is not difficult at 
 twenty — by the way, I was now twenty- 
 one — especially after dining at the Maison 
 Doree. 
 
 Mademoiselle Josephine was, frankness it- 
 self. Before I had enjoyed the pleasure of 
 her acquaintance for ten minutes, she told 
 me she was an artificial florist : that her 
 patronne lived in the Rue Menilmontant ; 
 that she went to her work every morning at 
 nine, and left it every evening at eight ; that 
 she lodged sous les toits at No 70, Rue Aubry- 
 le-Boucher; thather relations lived at Juvisy; 
 and that she went to see them now and then 
 on Sundays, when the weather and her funds 
 permitted. 
 
 " Is the country pretty at Juvisy, Made- 
 moiselle ?" I asked, by way of keeping up the 
 conversation. 
 
 " Oh, M'sieur, it is a real paradise. There 
 are trees, and fields, and there is the Seine 
 close by, and a chateau, and a park, and a 
 church on a hill .... ma fui ! there is no- 
 
14 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 thing in Paris half so pretty ; not even the 
 Jardin des Piantes !" 
 
 " And have you been there lately ?" 
 
 " Not for eight weeks, at the very least, 
 M'sieur. But then it costs three francs and a 
 half for the return ticket, and since I quarrel- 
 led with Eniile . . . ." 
 
 "Emile!" said I, quickly. "Who is 
 he?" 
 
 " He is a picture-frame maker, M'sieur, 
 and works for a great dealer in the Rue du 
 Faubourg Montraartre, He was my sweet- 
 heart, and he took me out somewhere every 
 Sunday, till we quarrelled." 
 
 " And what did you quarrel about. Made- 
 moiselle .?" 
 
 My pretty partner laughed and tossed her 
 head. 
 
 "Eh, man Dieul he was jealous." 
 
 " Jealous of whom ?" 
 
 " Of a gentleman — an artist — who wanted 
 to paint me in one of his pictures. Emile 
 did not like me to go to his atelier so often ; 
 and the gentleman gave me a shawl (such a 
 
A dinner at the Maison Doree. 15 
 
 pretty shawl !) and a canary in a lovely green 
 and gold cage ; and . . . ." 
 
 " And Ernile objected ?" 
 
 " Yes, M'sieur." 
 
 " How very unreasonable !" 
 
 "That's just what I said, M'sieur.'" 
 
 " And have you never seen him since ?*' 
 
 " Oh, yes — he keeps company now with 
 my cousin Cecile, and she humours him in 
 everything," 
 
 " And the artist — what of him, Made- 
 moiselle ?" 
 
 " Oh, I sat to him every day, till his picture 
 was finished. // etait hien gentil. He took 
 me to the theatre several times, and once to 
 a fete at Versailles ; but that was after Emile 
 and I had broken it off." 
 
 " Did you find it tiresome, sitting as a 
 model '?" 
 
 " Mais^ coinme ci, et comme ca ! It was a 
 beautiful dress, and became me wonderfully. 
 To be sure, it was rather cold !" 
 
 " May I ask what character you were 
 supposed to represent, Mademoiselle?" 
 
16 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 " He said it was Phryne. I have no idea 
 who she was ; but I think she must have 
 found it very uncomfortable if she always 
 wore sandals, and went without stock- 
 ings." 
 
 I looked down at her little foot, and 
 thought how })retty it must have looked in 
 the Greek sandal. I pictured her to myself 
 in the graceful Greek robe, with a chalice in 
 her hand and her temples crowned with 
 flowers. What a delicious Phryne ! And 
 what a happy fellow Praxiteles must have 
 been ! 
 
 " It was a privilege, Mademoiselle, to be 
 allowed to see you in so charming a cos- 
 tume,'' I said, pressing her hand tenderly. 
 " I envy that artist from the bottom of my 
 heart." 
 
 Mademoiselle Josephine smiled, and re- 
 turned the pressure. 
 
 " One might borrow it," said she, " for 
 the Bal de I'Opera." 
 
 " Ah, Mademoiselle, if I dared only aspire 
 to the honour of conductins; vou !" 
 
 " Darnel it is nearly four months to come!" 
 
A dinner at the Maison Doree. 17 
 
 "True, but in the meantime, Mademoi- 
 selle " 
 
 " In the meantime," said the fair Jose- 
 phine, anticipating my hopes with all the 
 unembarrassed straightforwardness imagin- 
 able, " I shall be deliglited to improve 
 M'sieur's acquaintance " 
 
 " Mademoiselle, you make me happy !" 
 
 " Besides, M'sieur is an Englishman, and I 
 like the English so much !" 
 
 " I am delighted to hear it, Mademoiselle. 
 I hope I shall never give you cause to alter 
 your opinion." 
 
 " Last galop before supper ! " shouted 
 Monsieur Jules through a brass speaking- 
 trumpet, in order to make use of which he 
 was obliged to hold up his nose with one 
 hand. " Gentlemen, choose your partners. 
 All couples to dance till they drop !" 
 
 There were a dozen up immediately, 
 amongst whom Dalrymple and Mademoi- 
 selle Annette, and Muller with one of the 
 ballet ladies, were the first to start. As for 
 Josephine, she proved to be a damsel of 
 forty-galop power. She never wanted to 
 
 VOL. II. c 
 
18 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 rest, and she never cared to leave off. She 
 did not even look warm when it was over. 
 I wonder to this day how it was that I did 
 not die on the spot. 
 
 When the galop was ended, we all went 
 upstairs to Monsieur Adrien's garret, where 
 Monsieur Adrien, who had red hair and wore 
 glasses, received us in person, and made us 
 welcome. Here we found tlie supper ele- 
 gantly laid out on two doors which had been 
 taken off their hinges for the purpose ; but 
 which, being supported from beneath on 
 divers boxes and chairs of unequal heights, 
 presented a painfully sloping surface, there- 
 by causing the jellies to look like leaning 
 towers of Pisa, and the sponge-cake (wliich 
 was already professedly tipsy) to assume an 
 air so unbecomingly convivial that it might 
 almost have been called drunk. 
 
 Nobody thought of sitting down, and, if 
 they did, there were no means of doing so ; 
 for Monsieur Adrien's garret was none of the 
 largest, and, as in a small villa residence we 
 sometimes see the whole house sacrificed to 
 
A dinner at the Maison Doree. 19 
 
 a winding staircase, so in this instance had 
 the whole room been sacrificed to the splen- 
 dour of the supper. For the inconvenience 
 of standing, we were compensated, however, 
 by the abundance and excellence of the fare. 
 There were cold chickens, meat pies, dishes 
 of sliced ham, pyramids of little Bologna 
 sausages, huge rolls of bread a yard in 
 length, lobster salad, and cold punch in 
 abundance. 
 
 The flirtations at supper were tremendous. 
 In a bachelor establishment one cannot ex- 
 pect to find every convenience, and on this 
 occasion the prevailing deficiencies were 
 among the plates and glasses ; so those who 
 had been partners in the dance now became 
 partners in other matters, eating off the same 
 plate and drinking out of the same tum- 
 bler; but this only made it so much the 
 merrier. By and by somebody volunteered 
 a song, and somebody else made a speech, 
 and tlien we went down aerain to the ball- 
 room, and dancing recommenced. 
 
 The laughter now became louder, and tlie 
 
 c2 
 
20 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 leii;s of the quests more vi^orous than ever. 
 
 do O 
 
 The orchestra, too, received an addition to 
 its strength in the person of a gentleman 
 who, having drunk more cold punch than 
 was quite consistent with the preservation of 
 his equilibrium, was still sober enough to 
 oblige us with a spirited accompaniment on 
 tlie shovel and tongs, which, with the violin 
 and accordion, and the comb ohJigato before 
 mentioned, produced a startling eifect, and 
 reminded one of Turkish marches, Panto- 
 mime overtures, and the like barbaric 
 music. 
 
 In the midst of the first polka, however, 
 we were interrupted by a succession of 
 furious double knocks on the floor beneath 
 our feet. We stopped by involuntary con- 
 sent — dancers, musicians, and all. 
 
 " It's our neighbour on the storey below," 
 said Monsieur Jules. " He objects to the 
 dancing." 
 
 " Then we'll dance a little heavier, to teach 
 hira better taste," said a student, who had 
 eo little hair on his head and so much on his 
 chin, that he looked as if his face had been 
 
A dinner at the Maison Doree. 21 
 
 turned upside down. "What is the name 
 of the ridiculous monster ?" 
 
 " Monsieur Bobinet." 
 
 " Ladies and orentlemen, let us dance for 
 the edification of Monsieur Bobinet ! Or- 
 chestra, strike up, in honour of Monsieur 
 B(jbinet ! One, two, three, and away !" 
 
 Hereupon we uttered a general hurrah, 
 and dashed off again, like a herd of young 
 elephants. The knocking ceased, and we 
 thought that Monsieur Bobinet had resigned 
 himself to his fate, when, just as the Polka 
 ended and the dancers were promenading 
 noisily round and round the room, the bom- 
 bardment began afresh ; and this time against 
 the very door of the ball-room. 
 
 " Far exenvple !" cried Monsieur Jules. 
 '^ The enemy dares to attack us in our own 
 lines !" 
 
 " Bolt the door, and let him' knock till 
 he's tired," suggested one. 
 
 " Open it suddenly, and deluge him with 
 water !" cried another. 
 
 "Tar and feather him!" proposed a 
 third. 
 
22 [n the Days of my Youth. 
 
 In the meantime, Monsieur Bobinet, hap- 
 ])il3" ignorant of these agreeable schemes lor 
 his reception, continued to tliunder away 
 upon the outer panels, accompanying the 
 raps with occasional loud coughs, and hems, 
 and stampings of the feet. 
 
 " Hush ! do nothing violent," cried Miiller, 
 scenting a practical joke. "Let us invite 
 him in, and make fun of him. It will be 
 ever so much more amusing !" 
 
 And with this he drove the rest some- 
 what back and threw open the door, upon 
 the outer threshold of which, with a stick in 
 one hand and a bedroom candle in the other, 
 and a flowered dressincfi-crown tied round his 
 ample waist by a cord and tassels, stood 
 Monsieur Bobinet. 
 
 Miiller received him with a profound bow, 
 and said — 
 
 "Monsieur Bobinet, I believe?" 
 
 Monsieur Bobinet, who was very bald, 
 very cross, and very stout, cast an irritable 
 glance into the room ; but, seeing so many 
 people, drew back and said : — ■ 
 
A dinner at the Maison Dork. 23 
 
 " Yes, that is my name, Monsieur. I 
 lodge on the fourth floor . . ." 
 
 " But pray walk in, Monsieur Bobinet," 
 said Miiller, opening the door still wider 
 and bowing still more profoundly. 
 
 " Monsieur," returned the fourth-floor 
 lodger, " I — I only come to complain . . . ." 
 
 " Whatever the occasion of this honour. 
 Monsieur," pursued the student, with in- 
 creasing politeness, "we cannot suffer you 
 to remain on the landing. Pray do us the 
 favour to walk in." 
 
 " Oh, walk in — pray walk in, Monsieur 
 Bobinet," echoed Jules, Gustave, and Adrien, 
 all toujether. 
 
 The fourth-floor lodger hesitated ; took a 
 step forward ; thought, perhaps, that, since 
 we were all so polite, he would do his best 
 to conciliate us ; and, glancing down ner- 
 vously at his dressing-gown and slippers, 
 said : — 
 
 " Really, gentlemen, I should have much 
 pleasure, but I am not prepared ..." 
 
 " Don't mention it, Monsieur Bobinet," 
 
24 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 said Miiller. " We are delimited to receive 
 you. Allow me to disembarrass you of your 
 candle," 
 
 " And permit me," said Jules, " to relieve 
 you of your stick." 
 
 "Pray, Monsieur Bobinet, do you never 
 dance the polka?" asked Gustave. 
 
 " Bring Monsieur Bobinet a glass of cold 
 punch," said Adrien. 
 
 " And a plate of lobster salad," added the 
 bearded student. 
 
 Monsieur Bobinet, finding the door al- 
 ready closed behind him, looked round ner- 
 vously ; but encountering only polite and 
 smiling faces, endeavoured to seem at his 
 ease, and to put a good face upon the 
 matter. 
 
 " Indeed, gentlemen, I must beg you to 
 excuse me," said he. " I never drink at 
 night, and I never eat suppers. I only came 
 to request . . ." 
 
 " Nay, Monsieur Bobinet, we cannot suf- 
 fer you to leave us without taking a glass of 
 cold punch," pursued Miiller. 
 
A dinner at the Maison Doree. 25 
 
 " Upon 111 y word," began the lodger, " I 
 dare not ..." 
 
 " A glass of white wine, then ?" 
 
 " Or a cup of coffee?" 
 
 " Or some home-made lemonade ?" 
 
 Monsieur Bobinet cast a look of helpless 
 lonQ;in2; towards the door. 
 
 " If you really insist, gentlemen," said 
 he, "I will take a cup of coffee ; but in- 
 deed . . ." 
 
 " A cup of coffee for Monsieur Bobinet !" 
 shouted Miiller. 
 
 " A large cup of coffee for Monsieur Bob- 
 inet!" repeated Jules. 
 
 " A strong cup of coffee for Monsieur 
 Bobinet !" cried Gustave, following up the 
 lead of the other two. 
 
 The fourth-floor lodger frowned and 
 coloured up, beginning to be suspicious of 
 mischief. Seeing this, Miiller hastened to 
 apologise. 
 
 " You must pardon us, Monsieur Bobi- 
 net," he said with the most winning ami- 
 ability, " if we are all in unusually high 
 
26 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 spirits to-night. You are not aware, per- 
 haps, that our friend Monsieur Jules Char- 
 pentier was married this morning, and that 
 we are here in celebration of that happy 
 event. Allow me to introduce you to the 
 bride." 
 
 And turning to one of the ballet ladies, 
 he led her forward with exceeding gravity, 
 and presented her to Monsieur Bobinet as 
 Madame Charpentier. 
 
 The fourth-floor lodger bowed, and went 
 through the usual congratulations. In the 
 meantime, some of the others had prepared 
 a mock sofo by means of two chairs set 
 somewhat wide apart, with a shawl thrown 
 over the whole to conceal the space between. 
 Upon one of these chairs sat a certain young 
 lady named Louise, and upon the other Mam'- 
 selle Josephine. As soon as it was ready, 
 Mliller, who had been only waiting for it, 
 affected to observe for the first time that 
 Monsieur Bobinet was still standing. 
 
 " J/(9?2 DieuT he exclaimed, " has no one 
 offered our visitor a chair ? Monsieur 
 Bobinet, I beg a thousand pardons. Pray 
 
A dinner at the Maison Doree. 27 
 
 do us the favour to be seated. Your coffee 
 will be here immediately, and these ladies 
 on the sofa will be delighted to make room 
 for you !" 
 
 " Oh yes, pray be seated. Monsieur 
 Bobinet," cried the two girls. " We shall 
 be charmed to make room for Monsieur 
 Bobinet !" 
 
 More than ever confused and uncom- 
 fortable, poor Monsieur Bobinet bowed ; 
 sat down upon the treacherous space be- 
 tween the two chairs ; went through im- 
 mediately ; and presented the soles of his 
 slippers to the company in the least pictu- 
 resque manner imaginable. This involun- 
 tary performance was greeted with a shout 
 of wild delight. 
 
 " Bravo, Monsieur Bobinet !" 
 
 *' Yive Monsieur Bobinet !" 
 
 " Three cheers for Monsieur Bobinet !" 
 
 Scarlet with rage, the fourth-floor lodger 
 sprang to his feet and made a rush to the 
 door ; but he was hemmed in immediately. 
 In vain he stormed ; in vain he swore. We 
 joined hands; we called for music; we 
 
28 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 danced round him ; we sang ; and at last^ 
 having fairly bumped and thumped and 
 hustled him till we were tired, pushed him 
 out on the landing, and left him to his 
 fate. 
 
 After this interlude, the mirth grew fast 
 and furious. Valse succeeded valse, and 
 galop followed galop, till the orchestra de- 
 clared they could play no longer, and the 
 gentleman with the shovel and tongs col- 
 lapsed in a corner of the room and went to 
 sleep with his head in the coal-scuttle. 
 Then the ballet-ladies were prevailed upon 
 to favour us with a pas de deux ; after which 
 Miiller sang a comic song with a chorus, in 
 which everybody joined ; and then the 
 orchestra was bribed with hot brandy-and- 
 water, and dancing connnenced again. By 
 this time the visitors began to drop away in 
 two and threes, and even the fair Josephine, 
 to whom I had never ceased paying tlie 
 most devoted attention, declared she could 
 not stir another step. As for Dalrymple, 
 he had disappeared during supper, without 
 a word of leave-takiug to anyone. 
 
A dinner at the Maison Doree. 29 
 
 Matters being at this pass, I looked at my 
 watch, and found that it was already half- 
 past six o'clock; so having bade good-night, 
 or rather good-morning, to Messieurs Jules, 
 Gustave, and Adrien, and having, with 
 great difficult}^, discovered ra}^ own coat 
 and hat amonii; the miscellaneous collec- 
 tion in the adjoining bed-room, I prepared 
 to escort Mademoiselle Josephine to her 
 home. 
 
 " Going already ? " said Miiller, encoun- 
 tering us on the landing, with a roll in 
 one hand and a Bolosrna sausasje in the 
 other. 
 
 " Already ! Why, my dear fellow, it is 
 nearly seven o'clock !" 
 
 " Qu importe? Come up to the supper- 
 room and have some breakfast !" 
 
 " Not for the world !" 
 
 " Well, chacun a son goiit. I am as hun- 
 gry as a liunter." 
 
 " Can I not take you any part of your 
 way ? 
 
 "No, thank you. I am a Quartier 
 Latinist, jmr sang, and lodge only a street 
 
30 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 or two off. Stay, here is my address. 
 Come and see me — you can't think how 
 glad I shall be !" 
 
 " Indeed, I will come — and here is my 
 card in exchange. Good-night, Herr Mlil- 
 ler." 
 
 "Good-night, Marquis of Arbuthnot. Ma- 
 demoiselle Josephine, ait 2)Jaisir'' 
 
 So we shook hands and parted, and I 
 saw my innamorata home to her residence 
 at No. 70, Rue Aubry le Boucher which 
 opened upon the Marche des Innocents. 
 She fell asleep upon my shoulder in the 
 Gib, and was only just sufficiently awake 
 when I left her, to accept all the marrons 
 glaces that yet remained in the pockets of 
 
 niv paletot, and to remind me that I had 
 promised to take her out next Sunday for a 
 
 drive in the country, and a dinner at the 
 
 Moulin Rouge. 
 
 The fountain in the middle of the Marche 
 
 was now sparkling in the sunshine like 
 
 a shower of diamonds, and the business 
 
 of the market was already at its height. 
 
 The shops in the neighbouring streets 
 
A dinner at the Maison Dore'e. 31 
 
 were opening fast. The "iron tongue" 
 of St. Eustacbe was calling the devout to 
 early prayer. Fagged as I was, I felt that a 
 walk through the fresh air would do me good ; 
 so I dismissed the cab, and reached my lodg- 
 ings just as the sleepy conqierge had turned 
 out to sweep the hall, and open the estab- 
 lishment for the day. When I came down 
 again two hours later, after a nap and a 
 bath, I found a commissioniare waiting for 
 me. 
 
 " Tims r said Madame Bou'isse (Madame 
 Bou'isse was the wife of the concierge) "FVa! 
 here is M'sieur Arbuthnot." 
 
 The man touched his cap, and handed me 
 a letter. 
 
 " I was told to deliver it into no hands 
 but those of M'sieur himself," said he. 
 
 The address was in Dalrymple's writing. 
 I tore the envelope open. It contained only 
 a card, on the back of which, scrawled hastily 
 in pencil, were the following words : 
 
 " To have said good-bye would have made 
 our parting none the lighter. By the time 
 you decipher this hieroglyphic, I shall be 
 
32 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 some miles on my wa)'. Address Hotel de 
 Russie, Berlin. Adieu, Damon ; God bless 
 you. 0. D." 
 
 " How long is it since this letter was given 
 to you ?" said I, without taking my eyes from 
 the card. 
 
 The commissionaire made no reply. I re- 
 peated the question, looked up impatiently, 
 and found that the man was already o;one. 
 
The Chateau de Sainte Aidaire. 33 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 The Chateau de Sainte Aulaire. 
 
 " Mark yon old mansion frowning thro' the trees, 
 Whose hollow turret wooes the whistling breeze." 
 
 Y acquaintance with Mademoiselle 
 Josephine progressed rapidly ; al- 
 though, to confess the truth, I soon 
 found myself much less deeply in love than 
 I had at first supposed. For this disenchant- 
 ment, fate and myself were alone to blame. 
 It was not her fault if I had invested her 
 with a thousand imaginary perfections ; nor 
 mine if the spell was broken as soon as I dis- 
 covered my mistake. 
 
 Too impatient to wait till Sunday, I made 
 my way on Saturday afternoon to Rue Aubry- 
 le-Boucher. I persuaded myself that I was 
 bound to call on her, in order to conclude 
 our arrangements for the followins^ day. At 
 
 VOL. II. D 
 
34 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 all events, I argued, she might forget the en- 
 gagement, or believe that I had forgotten it. 
 So I went, taking with me a magnificent 
 bouquet and an embroidered satin bag full 
 of marrons gJaces. 
 
 My divinity lived, as she had told me, sous 
 les toils — and sous les toits, up seven flights of 
 very steep and dirty stairs, I found her. It 
 was a large attic with a sloping roof, overlook- 
 ing a bristling expanse of chimney-pots, and 
 commanding the twin towers of Notre Dame. 
 There were some coloured prints of battles 
 and shipwrecks wafered to the walls ; a 
 couple of flowerpots in the narrow space 
 between the windowledge and the coping 
 outside ; a dingy canary in a wire cage ; a 
 rival mechanical cuckoo in a Dutcli clock in 
 the corner ; a little bed with striped hang- 
 ings ; a Yush-hotiomed prie-dieu chair in front 
 of a plain black crucifix, over which drooped 
 a faded branch of consecrated palm ; and 
 some few articles of household furniture of 
 the humblest description. In all this, there 
 was nothing vulgar. Under other circum- 
 stances, I might, perhaps, have even elicited 
 
The Chateau de Sainte Aulaire. 35 
 
 somewhat of grace and poetry from these 
 simple materials. But conceive what it was 
 to see them through an atmosphere of warm 
 white steam that left an objectionable clam- 
 miness on the backs of the chairs and caused 
 even the door-handle to burst into a tepid 
 ])erspiration. Conceive what it was to be- 
 hold my adored one standing in the middle 
 of the room, up to her elbows in soap-suds, 
 washing out the very dress in which she 
 was to appear on the morrow . , . Good taste 
 defend us ! Could anything be more cruel- 
 ly calculated to disturb the tender tenor 
 of a lover's dreams? Fancy what Leander 
 would have felt, if, after swimming across the 
 Hellespont, he had surprised Hero at the 
 washing-tub ! Imagine Romeo's feelings, if 
 he had scaled the orchard walls only to find 
 Juliet helping to hang out the family linen ! 
 The worst of it was that my lovely Jose- 
 phine was not in the least embarrassed. She 
 evidently regarded the washing-tub as a de- 
 sirable piece of furniture, and was not even 
 conscious that the act of '' soaping in" was an 
 unromantic occupation ! 
 
 d2 
 
36 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 Such was the severity of this first blow that 
 I pleaded an engagement, presented my 
 offerings (how dreadfully inappropriate they 
 seemed !), and hurried away to a lecture on 
 materia medica at the Ecole Pratique ; that 
 being a good, congenial, dismal entertain- 
 ment for the evening ! 
 
 Sunday came with the sunrise, and at 
 midday, true as the clock of St. Eustache, 
 I knocked once more at the door of the 
 mansarde where my Josephine dwelt. This 
 time, my visit being anticipated, I found her 
 dressed to receive me. She looked more 
 fresh and charming than ever ; and tlie lilac 
 muslin which I had seen in the washing- tub 
 some eighteen or twenty hours before, be- 
 came her to perfection. So did her pretty 
 green shawl, pinned closely at the throat 
 and worn as only a Frenchwoman would 
 have known how to wear it. So did the 
 white camelia and the moss-rose buds which 
 she had taken out of my bouquet, and fas- 
 tened at her waist. 
 
 What I was not prepared for, however, 
 was her cap. I had forgotten that your 
 
Tlie Chateau de Sainte Aulaire. 37 
 
 Parisian grisette* would no more dream of 
 wearinijj a bonnet than of crownino; her head 
 with feathers and adorninsr her countenance 
 with war-paint. It had totally escaped me 
 that I, a bashful Englishman of twenty-one, 
 nervously sensitive to ridicule and gifted by 
 nature with but little of the spirit of social 
 defiance, must in broad daylight make ray 
 appearance in the streets of Paris, accom- 
 panied by a bonnetless grisette ! What 
 should I do, if I met Dr. Cheron ? or Ma- 
 dame de Courcelles ? or, worse than all, 
 Madame de Marignan ? My obvious re- 
 source was to take her in whatever direc- 
 tion we should ba least likely to meet any 
 of my acquaintances. Where, oh fate ! 
 might that obscurity be found which had 
 suddenly become the dearest object of my 
 desires ? 
 
 " Ell Men, Monsieur Basil," said Josephine, 
 when my first compliments had been paid. 
 " I am quite ready. Where are we going ?" ^ 
 
 * The grisette of twenty years ago, hien entendu. I am 
 writing, be it remembered, of " The days of my youth." 
 
38 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 " We shall dine, ma chere anye^' said I, 
 absently, " at — let me see — at . . . ." 
 
 " At the Moulin Rouge," interrupted she, 
 " But that is six hours to come. In the 
 meantime " 
 
 "In the meantime? Ay, in the mean- 
 time .... what a delightful day for the 
 time of year !" 
 
 " Shall it be Versailles?" suggested Jose- 
 phine. 
 
 " Heaven forbid !" 
 
 Josephine opened her large eyes. 
 
 " Mon Dieu r said she. " What is there 
 so very dreadful in Versailles ?" 
 
 I made no reply. I was passing all the 
 suburbs in review before my mind's eye, — 
 Bellevue, Enghien, Fontenay aux Roses, St. 
 Germains, Sceaux ; even Fontainebleau and 
 Compiegne. 
 
 The grisette pouted, and glanced at the 
 clock. 
 
 " If Monsieur is as slow to start as he is to 
 answer," said she, " we shall not get beyond 
 the barriers to-day." 
 
 At this moment, I remembered to have 
 
The Chateau de Sainte Aulaire. 39 
 
 lieard of Montlhery as a place where there 
 was a forest and a feudal ruin ; also, which 
 was more to the purpose, as lying at least 
 six and twenty miles south of Paris." 
 
 " My dear Mademoiselle Josephine," I 
 said, " forgive me. I have planned an ex- 
 cursion which I am sure will please you in- 
 finitely better than a mere common-place 
 trip to Versailles. Versailles, on Sunday, is 
 vulgar. You have heard, of course, of 
 Montlhery — one of the most interesting 
 places near Paris." 
 
 " I have read a romance called The Tower 
 of Montlhery " said Josephine. 
 
 " And that tower — that historical and in- 
 teresting tower — is still standing ! How de- 
 lightful to wander amons? the ruins — to re- 
 call the stirring events which caused it to be 
 besieged in the reign of — of either Louis the 
 Eleventh, or Louis the Fourteenth ; I don't 
 remember which, and it doesn't signify — to 
 explore the picturesque village, and ramble 
 through the adjoining woods of St. Gene- 
 vieve — to visit . . ." 
 
 " I wonder if we shall find any donkeys 
 
40 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 to ride," interrupted Josephine, upon whom 
 my eloquence was taking the desired effect. 
 
 " Donkevs !" I exchiimed, drawing, I am 
 ashamed to say, upon my imagination. " Of 
 course — hundreds of them !" 
 
 "^4A, qa! Then the sooner we go the 
 better. Stay, I must just lock my door, and 
 leave word with my neighbour on the next 
 floor that I am gone out for the day." 
 
 So she locked the door and left the mes- 
 sage, and we started. I was fortunate 
 enough to find a close cab at the corner of 
 the marche — she would have preferred an 
 open one, but I overruled that objection on 
 the score of time — and before very long we 
 were seated in the cushioned fauteuils of a 
 first-class compartment on the Orleans Rail- 
 way, and speeding away towards Montlhery. 
 
 It was with no trifling sense of relief that 
 I found the place really picturesque, when 
 we arrived. We had, it is true, to put up 
 with a comfortless drive of three or four 
 miles in a primitive, jolting, yellow omnibus, 
 which crawled at stated hours of the day be- 
 tween the town and the station ; but that 
 
The Chateau de Sainte Aulaire. 41 
 
 was a minor evil, and we made the best of 
 it. First of all, we strolled through the vil- 
 lage — the clean, white, sunny village, where 
 the people were sitting outside their doors 
 playing at dominoes, and the cocks and hens 
 were walking about like privileged inhabit- 
 ants of the market-place. Then we had 
 luncheon at the auherge of the " Lion d'Or." 
 Then we looked in at the little church (still 
 smelling of incense from the last service) 
 with its curious old altar-piece and monu- 
 mental brasses. Then we peeped through 
 the iron ofate of the melancholv dmetiere. 
 which was full of black crosses and wreaths 
 of immortelles. Last of all, we went to see 
 the ruin, which stood on the summit of a 
 steep and solitary rock in the midst of a 
 vast level plain. It proved to be a round 
 keep of gigantic strength and height, ap- 
 proached by two courtyards and surround- 
 ed by the weed-grown and fragmentary 
 traces of an extensive stronghold, nothing of 
 which now remained save a few broken 
 walls, three or four embrasured loopholes, an 
 ancient well of incalculable depth, and the 
 
42 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 rusted teeth of a formidable portcullis. Here 
 we paused awhile to rest and admire the 
 view ; while Josephine, pleased as a child on 
 a holiday, flung pebbles into the well, ate 
 sugar-plums, and amused herself with my 
 pocket-telescope. 
 
 " Regardez f she cried, " there is the dome 
 of the Pantheon. I am sure it is the Pan- 
 theon — and to the right, far away, I see a 
 town ! — little Avhite houses, and a steeple. 
 And there goes a steamer on the river — and 
 there is the railway and the railway station, 
 and the long road by which we came in the 
 omnibus. Oh, how nice it is, Monsieur Basil, 
 to look through a telescope !" 
 
 "Do me tlie favour, 7na belle, to accept it 
 — for my sake," said I, thankful to find 
 her so easily entertained. I was lying in a 
 shady angle of old wall, puffing away at a 
 cigar, with my hat over my eyes and the soles 
 of my boots levelled at the view. It is diffi- 
 cult to smoke and make love at the same 
 time ; and I preferred the tobacco. 
 
 Josephine was enchanted, and thanked 
 me in a thousand pretty, foolish phrases. 
 
llie Chateau de Sainte Aulaire. 43 
 
 She declared she saw ever so much farther 
 and clearer with the glass, now that it was 
 her own. She looked at rae tlirough it, and 
 insisted that I should look at her. She pick- 
 ed out all sorts of marvellous objects, at all 
 sorts of incredible distances. In short, she 
 prattled and chattered till I forgot all about 
 the washing-tub, and again began to think 
 her quite charming. Presently we heard 
 wandering sounds of music among the trees 
 at the foot of the hill — sounds as of a violin 
 and bagpipes ; now coming with the wind 
 from the w^est, now dying away to the north, 
 now bursting out afresh more merrily than 
 ever, and leading off towards the village. 
 
 " Tiens ! that must be a wedding !" said 
 Josephine, drumming with her little feet 
 against the side of the old well on which she 
 was sitting. 
 
 " A wedding ! what connection subsists, 
 pray, between the bonds of matrimony, and 
 a tune on the bagpipes ?" 
 
 " I don't know what you mean by bag- 
 pipes — I only know that when people get 
 married in the country, they go about with 
 
44 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 the musicians playing before tliena. What 
 you hear yonder is a violin and a come- 
 muse.''' 
 
 "A cornemuseP' I repeated. "Whats 
 that ?" 
 
 " Oh, country music. A thing you blow 
 into with your mouth, and play upon with 
 your fingers, and squeeze under your arm — 
 like this." 
 
 "Then it's the same thing, ma chere^'' said 
 I. "A bagpipes and a cornemuse — a corne- 
 muse and a bagpipes. Both of them national, 
 popular, and frightful." 
 
 " I'm so fond of music," said Josephine. 
 
 Not wishing to object to her tastes, and 
 belie vinej that this observation related to 
 
 o 
 
 the music then audible, I made no reply. 
 
 "And I have never been to an opera," add- 
 ed she. 
 
 I was still silent, though from another 
 motive. 
 
 " You will take me one ni2;ht to the Ita- 
 liens, or the Opera Comique, will you not. 
 Monsieur Basil ? " pursued she, determined 
 not to lose her opportunity. 
 
The Chateau de Sainte Aulaire. 45 
 
 I had now no resource but to promise ; 
 which I did, very reluctantly. 
 
 " You would enjoy the Opera Comique 
 far more than the Italiens," said I, remera- 
 berino; that Madame de Mariixnan had a box 
 at the Italiens, and rapidly weighing the 
 chances for and against the possibility of re- 
 cognition. " At the first they sing in French 
 — at the last, in Italian." 
 
 " Ah, bah ! I should prefer the French," 
 replied she, falling at once into the snare. 
 " When shall it be — this week ?" 
 
 " Ye — es ; one evening this week." 
 
 " What evening ?" 
 
 " Well, let me see — we had better wait, 
 and consult the advertisements." 
 
 " Dame ! never mind the advertisements. 
 Let it be Tuesday." 
 
 " Why Tuesday ?" 
 
 " Because it is soon ; and because I can 
 get away early on Tuesdays if I ask leave." 
 
 I had, plainly, no chance of escape. 
 
 " You would not prefer to see the great 
 military piece at the Porte St. ]\Iartin ?" I 
 suggested. "There are three hundred real 
 
46 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 soldiers in it, and they fire real cannon." 
 
 "Not I ! I have heen to the Porte St. 
 Martin, over and over again. Emile knew 
 one of the scene-painter's assistants, and used 
 to get tickets two or three times a month." 
 
 "Then it shall be the Opera Comique," 
 said I, with a sigh. 
 
 " And on Tuesday evening next ?" 
 
 " On Tuesday evening next." 
 
 At this moment the piping and fiddling 
 broke out afresh, and Josephine, who had 
 scarcely taken the little telescope from her 
 eye all the time, exclaimed that she saw the 
 wedding party going through the market- 
 place of the town. 
 
 "There they are — the musicians first; the 
 bride and bridegroom next ; and eight 
 friends, all two and two ! There will be a 
 dance, depend on it ! Let us go down, to 
 the town, and hear all about it ! Perhaps 
 they might invite us to join them — wIkj 
 knows ?" 
 
 " But you would not dance before dinner?" 
 
 " Eh^ mon Dieu ! I would dance before 
 breakfast, if I had the chance. Come along. 
 
The Chateau de Sainte Aulaire. 47 
 
 If we do not make haste, we may miss 
 them."' 
 
 I rose, feeling, and I daresay, looking, 
 like a martyr ; and we went down again 
 into tlie town. 
 
 There we enquired of the first person who 
 seemed likely to know — he was a dapper 
 hairdresser, standing at his shop-door with 
 liis hands in his apron pockets and a comb 
 behind his ear — and were told that the 
 wedding-party had just passed through the 
 village, on their way to the Chateau of 
 Sainte Aulaire. 
 
 "The Chateau of Sainte Aulaire!" said 
 Josephine. " What are they going to do 
 there? What is there to see ?" 
 
 " It is an ancient mansion. Mademoiselle, 
 much visited by strangers," replied the hair- 
 dresser with exceeding politeness. "Wor- 
 thy of Mademoiselle's distinguished atten- 
 tion — and Monsieur's. Contains old furni- 
 ture, old paintings, old china — stands in an 
 extensive park — one of the lions of this 
 neighbourliood, Mademoiselle — also Mon- 
 sieur." 
 
48 hi the Days of my Youth. 
 
 " To whom does it belong ?" I asked, 
 somewhat interested in this account. 
 
 " That, Monsieur, is a question difficult 
 to answer," replied the fluent hairdresser, 
 runnincT his finajers throuojh his locks and 
 dispersing a gentle odour of rose-oil. " It 
 was formerly the property of the ancient 
 family of Sainte Aulaire. The last Marquis 
 de Sainte Aulaire, with his wife and family, 
 was guillotined in 1793. Some say that the 
 young heir was saved ; and an individual as- 
 serting himself to be that heir did actually 
 put forward a claim to the estate, some 
 twenty, or five-and-twenty years ago, but 
 lost his cause for want of sufficient proof. 
 In the meantime, it had passed into the 
 hands of a wealthy republican family de- 
 scended, it is said, from General Dumouriez. 
 This family held it till within the last four 
 years, when two or three fresh claimants 
 came forward; so that it is now the object 
 of a law-suit which may last till every brick 
 of it falls to ruin, and every tree about it 
 withers away. At present, a man and his 
 wife have charge of the place, and visitors 
 
The Chateau de Sainte Aulaire. 49 
 
 are permitted to see it any day between 
 twelve and four." 
 
 " I should like to see the old place," said 
 I. 
 
 " And I should like to see how the bride 
 is dressed," said Josephine, " and if the 
 bridegroom is handsome." 
 
 " Well, let us go — not forgetting to thank 
 Monsieur le Perruquier for his polite infor- 
 mation." 
 
 Monsieur le Perruquier fell into what 
 dancing-masters call the first position, and 
 bowed elaborately. 
 
 " Most welcome, Mademoiselle — and Mon- 
 sieur," said he. " Straight up the road — 
 past the church about a quarter of a mile — 
 old iron gates — can't miss it. Good after- 
 noon, Mademoiselle — also Monsieur." 
 
 Following his directions, we came present- 
 ly to the gates, which were rusty and broken- 
 hinged, with traces of old gilding still showing 
 faintly here and there upon their battered 
 scrolls and bosses. One of them was standing 
 open, and had evidently been standing so 
 for years ; while the other had as evidently 
 
 VOL. II. B 
 
50 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 been long closed, so that the deep grass had 
 grown rankly all about it, and the very 
 bolt was crusted over with a yellow lichen. 
 Between the two, an ordinary wooden 
 hurdle had been put up, and this hurdle 
 was opened for us by a little blue-bloused 
 urchin in a pair of huge sabots^ who, think- 
 ing we belonged to the bridal party, pointed 
 Tip the dusky avenue, and said, with a grin : — 
 ^^ Toute droite, M'sieur — Us sont passes par 
 
 la r 
 
 Par la, " under the shade of melancholy 
 boughs," we went accordingly. Far away 
 on either side stretched dim vistas of ne- 
 glected park-land, deep with coarse grass 
 and weeds and, where the trees stood 
 thickest, all choked with a brambly under- 
 growth. After about a quarter of a mile of 
 this dreary avenue, we came to a broad area 
 of several acres laid out in the Italian style 
 with fountains and terraces, at the upper 
 end of which stood the house — a feudal, 
 moyen-age French chateau, with irregular 
 wings, steep slated roofings, innumerable 
 windows, and fantastic steeple-topped tur- 
 
The Chateau de Sainte Aulaire. 51 
 
 rets sheeted with lead and capped with 
 grotesque gilded weathercocks. The prin- 
 cipal front had been repaired in the style of 
 the Renaissance and decorated with little 
 foliated entablatures above the doors and 
 windows ; whilst a double flight of steps 
 leading up to a grand entrance on the level 
 of the first storey, like the famous double 
 staircase of Fontainebleau, had been patch- 
 ed on in the very centre, to the manifest 
 disfigurement of the building. Most of 
 the windows were shuttered up, and as 
 we drew nearer, the general evidences of 
 desolation became more apparent. The 
 steps of the terraces were covered with 
 patches of brown and golden moss. The 
 stone urns were some of them fallen in the 
 deep grass, and some broken. There were 
 gaps in the rich balustrade here and there : 
 and the two great fountains on either side 
 of the lower terrace had long since ceased 
 to fling up their feathery columns towards 
 the sun. In the middle of one a broken 
 Pan, noseless and armless, turned up a stony 
 face of mute appeal, as if imploring us to 
 
 E 2 
 
52 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 free him from the parasitic jungle of aquatic 
 plants which flourished rankly round him in 
 the basin. In the other, a stalwart river- 
 god with his finger on his lip seemed lis- 
 tening for the music of those waters which 
 now scarcely stirred amid the tangled weeds 
 that clustered at his feet. 
 
 Passing all these, passing also the flower- 
 beds choked with brambles and long waving 
 grasses, and the once quaintly-clipped myrtle 
 and box trees, all flinging out fantastic arms 
 of later growth, we came to the upper ter- 
 race, which was paved in curious patterns 
 of stars and arabesques, with stones alter- 
 nately round and flat. Here a good- 
 humoured, cleanly peasant-woman came 
 clattering out in her sabots from a side-door, 
 key in hand, preceded us up the double 
 flight of steps, unlocked the great door, and 
 admitted us. 
 
 The interior, like the front, had been 
 modernized about a hundred and fifty years 
 before, and resembled a little formal Ver- 
 sailles or miniature Fontainebleau. Disman- 
 tled halls paved with white marble; panelled 
 
The Chateau de Sainte Aulaire. 53 
 
 ante-chambers an inch deep in dust ; dismal 
 salons adorned with Renaissance arabesques 
 and huge looking-glasses, cracked and mil- 
 dewed, and mended with pasted seams of 
 blue paper ; boudoirs with faded Watteau 
 panellings ; corridors with painted ceilings 
 where mythological divinities, marvellously 
 foreshortened on a sky-blue ground, were 
 seen surrounded by rose-coloured Cupids 
 and garlanded with ribbons and flowers ; 
 innumerable bed-rooms, some containing 
 grim catafalques of beds with gilded cornices 
 and funereal plumes, some empty, some full 
 of stored-up furniture fast going to decay — 
 all these in endless number we traversed, 
 conducted by the good-tempered conqierge, 
 whose heavy sabuts awakened ghostly echoes 
 from floor to floor. 
 
 At length, through an ante-chamber lined 
 with a double file of grim old family por- 
 traits — some so blackened with age and dust 
 as to be totally indistinguishable, and others 
 bulging hideously out of their frames — we 
 came to the library ; a really noble room, 
 lofty, panelled with walnut wood, floored 
 
^A In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 with polished oak, and looking over a wide 
 expanse of level country. Long ranges of 
 empty book-shelves fenced in with broken 
 wire-work ran round the walls. The paint- 
 ed ceiling represented, as usual, the heavens 
 and some pagan divinities. A dumb old 
 time-piece, originally constructed to tell the 
 months, the days of the year, and the hours, 
 stood on a massive corner bracket near the 
 door. Long antique mirrors in heavy black 
 frames reached from floor to ceiling between 
 each of the windows ; and in the centre of the 
 room, piled all together and festooned with 
 a thick drapery of cobwebs, stood a dozen 
 or so of old carved chairs, screens, and foot- 
 stools, rich with velvet, brocade, and gilded 
 leather, but now looking as if a touch would 
 crumble them to dust. Over the great 
 carved fireplace, however, hung a painting 
 upon which my attention became rivetted 
 as soon as I entered the room — a paint- 
 ing yellow with age ; covered with those 
 minute cracks which are like wrinkles on 
 the face of antique art ; coated with dust ; 
 and yet so singularly attractive that, having 
 
The Chateau de Sainte Aulaire. 55 
 
 once noticed it, I looked at nothing else. 
 
 It was the half-length portrait of a young 
 lady in the costume of the reign of Louis 
 XVI. One hand rested on a stone urn ; 
 the other was raised to her bosom, holding 
 a thin blue scarf that seemed to flutter in the 
 wind. Her dress was of white satin, cut low 
 and square, with a stomacher of lace and 
 pearls. She also wore pearls in her hair, 
 on her white arms, and on her whiter neck. 
 Thus much for the mere adjuncts ; as for the 
 face — ah, how can I ever describe that pale, 
 perfect, tender face, with its waving brown 
 hair and soft brown eyes, and that steadfast 
 perpetual smile that seemed to light the eyes 
 from within, and to dwell in the corners of 
 the lips without parting or moving them ? It 
 was like a face seen in a dream, or the im- 
 perfect image which seems to come between 
 us and the page when we read of Imogen 
 asleep. 
 
 " Who was this lady ?" I asked, eagerly. 
 
 The conqierge nodded and rubbed her 
 hands. 
 
 " Aha ! M'sieur," said she, "'tis the best 
 
56 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 painting in the chateau, as folks tell me. 
 M'sieur is a connoisseur." 
 
 " But do you know whose portrait it is ?" 
 
 " To be sure I do, M'sieur. It's the por- 
 trait of the last Marquise — the one who was 
 guillotined, poor soul, with her husband, in 
 — let me see— in 1793 !" 
 
 " What an exquisite creature ! Look, 
 Josephine, did you ever see anything so 
 beautiful ?" 
 
 " Beautiful !" repeated the grisette, with 
 a sidelong glance at one of the mirrors. 
 " Beautiful, with such a coiffure and such a 
 boddice ! Ciel! how tastes differ !" 
 
 " But her face, Josephine !" 
 
 "What of her face? I'm sure it's plain 
 enouojh." 
 
 " Plain ! Good heavens ! what ..." 
 
 But it was not worth while to argue upon 
 it. I pulled out one of the old chairs, and 
 so climbed near enough to dust the surface 
 of the painting with my handkerchief. 
 
 " I wish I could buy it!" I exclaimed. 
 
 Josephine burst into a loud laugh. 
 
 ''''Grand Dieul'' said she, half pettishly, 
 
The Chateau de Sainte Aulaire. 57 
 
 " if you are so much in love with it as all 
 that, I dare say it would not be difficult !" 
 
 The conqierge shook her head. 
 
 " Everything on this estate is locked up," 
 said she. "Nothing can be sold, nothing 
 given away, nothing even repaired, till the 
 proqes is ended." 
 
 I sighed, and came down reluctantly from 
 my perch. Josephine was visibly impatient. 
 She had seen the wedding-party going 
 down one of the walks at the back of the 
 house ; and the conqierge was waiting to let 
 us out. I drew her aside, and slipped a 
 liberal gratuity into her hand. 
 
 " If I were to come down here some day 
 with a friend of mine who is a painter," I 
 whispered, " would you have any objection, 
 Madame, to allow him to make a little sketch 
 of that portrait?" 
 
 The conqierge looked into her palm, and 
 seeing the value of the coin, smiled, hesitated, 
 put her finger to her lip, and said : — 
 
 " Mafoi, M'sieur, I believe I have no busi- 
 ness to allow it ; but — to oblige a gentleman 
 like you — if there was nobody about " 
 
58 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 I nodded. We understood each other 
 sufficiently, and no more was needed. 
 
 Once out of the house, Mademoiselle 
 Josephine pouted, and took upon herself 
 to be sulky — a disposition which was by no 
 means lessened when, after traversing the 
 park in various directions in search of the 
 bridal company, we found that they had 
 gone out long ago by a gate at the other 
 side of the estate, and were by this time 
 piping, most probably, in the adjoining 
 parish. 
 
 It was now five o'clock ; so we hastened 
 back through the village, cast a last glance 
 at the grim old tower on its steep solitude, 
 consigned ourselves to the yellow omnibus, 
 and in due time were once more flying along 
 the iron road towards Paris, The rapid 
 motion, the dignity of occupying a first-class 
 seat, and, above all, the prospect of an excellent 
 dinner, soon brought my fair companionround 
 again, and by the time we reached the Moulin 
 Rouge, she was all vivacity and good temper. 
 The less I say about that dinner the better. 
 I am humihated when I recall all that I suf- 
 
llie Chateau de Sainte Aulaire. 59 
 
 fered, and all that she did. I blush even now 
 when I remember how she blew upon her 
 soup, put her knife in her mouth, and picked 
 her teeth with her shawl-pin. What pos- 
 sessed her that she would persist in calling 
 the waiter " Monsieur " ? And why, in hea- 
 ven's name, need she have clapped her hands 
 when I ordered the champagne? To say 
 that I had no appetite — that I wished my- 
 self at the antipodes — that I longed to sink 
 into my boots, to smother the waiter, or to 
 do anything equally desperate and unrea- 
 sonable, is to express but a tithe of the an- 
 guish T endured. I bore it, however, in 
 silence, little dreaming what a much heavier 
 trial was yet in store for me. 
 
60 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 / fall a sacrifice to Mrs. Grundy. 
 
 WORD with you, if you please, 
 Basil Arbuthnot," said Dr. Cheron, 
 " when you have finished copying 
 those prescriptions." 
 
 Dr. Cheron was standins; with his feet 
 firmly planted in the tiger-skin rug, and his 
 back to the fireplace. I was busy writing at 
 the study table, and glancing anxiously from 
 time to time at the skeleton clock upon the 
 chimney-piece ; for it was getting on fast to- 
 wards five, and at half-past six I was to take 
 Josephine to the Opera Comique. As per- 
 verse fortune would have it, the Doctor had 
 this afternoon given me more desk-work 
 than usual, and I began to doubt whether I 
 
I fall a sacrifice to Mrs. Grundy. 61 
 
 should be able to dine, dress, and reach the 
 theatre in time if he detained me much 
 longer. 
 
 " But you need be in no haste," he added, 
 looking at his watch. "That is to say, 
 upon my account." 
 
 I bowed nervously — I was always ner- 
 vous in his presence — and tried to write 
 faster than ever ; but, feeling his cold blue 
 eye upon me, made a blot, smeared it with 
 ray sleeve, left one word out, wrote another 
 twice over, and was continually tripped up 
 by my pen, which sputtered hideously and 
 covered the page with florid passages in lit- 
 tle round spots, which only needed tails to 
 become crotchets and quavers. At length, 
 just as the clock struck the hour, I finished 
 my task and laid aside my pen. 
 
 Dr. Cheron coughed preparatorily. 
 
 "It is some time," said he, "since you 
 have given me any news of your father. Do 
 you often hear from him ?" 
 
 " Not very often, sir," I replied. " About 
 once in every three weeks. He dislikes let- 
 ter-writing." 
 
(i2 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 Dr. Cheron took a packet of papers from 
 his breast-pocket, and ruffling them over, 
 said, somewhat indifferently : — 
 
 " Very true — very true. His notes are 
 brief and few ; but always to the purpose. I 
 heard from him this morning." 
 
 "Indeed, sir?" 
 
 " Yes — here is his letter. It encloses a 
 remittance of seventy-five pounds ; fifty of 
 which are for you. The reujaining twenty- 
 five being reserved for the defrayal of your 
 expenses at the Ecole de Medicine and the 
 Ecole Pratique." 
 
 I was delighted. 
 
 " Both are made payable through my 
 banker," continued Dr. Cheron, " and I am 
 to take charge of your share till you require 
 it ; which cannot be just yet, as I understand 
 from this letter that your father supplied you 
 Avith the sum of one hundred and five pounds 
 on leaving England." 
 
 My delight went down to zero. 
 " Does my father say that I am not to 
 have it now, sir ?" I asked, hesitatingly. 
 '' He says, as I have already told you. 
 
I fall a sacrifice to Mrs. Grundy. 63 
 
 that it is to be yours when you require it." 
 
 " And if I require it very shortly, sir — in 
 fact, if I require it now ?" 
 
 " You ought not to require it now," re- 
 plied the Doctor, with a cold, scrutinising 
 stare. " You ought not to have spent one 
 hundred and five pounds in five months." 
 
 I looked down in silence. I had more 
 than spent it long since ; and I had to thank 
 Madame de Marignan for the facility with 
 which it had flown. It was not to be 
 denied that my course of lessons in practi- 
 cal politeaess had been somewhat expensive. 
 
 "How have you spent it?" asked Dr. 
 Cheron, never removing his eyes from my 
 face. 
 
 I might have answered, in bouquets, opera 
 stalls, and riding horses ; in dress coats, tight 
 boots, and white kid gloves ; in new books, 
 new iimsic, bon-bons, cabs, perfumery, and 
 the like inexcusable follies. But I held my 
 tongue instead, and said nothing. 
 
 Dr. Cheron looked again at his watch. 
 
 " Have you kept any entries of your 
 expenses since you came to Paris ?" said he. 
 
64 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 " Not with — with any regularity, sir," I 
 replied. 
 
 He took out his pencil-case and pocket- 
 book. 
 
 "Let us try, then," said he, " to make an 
 average calculation of what they might be 
 in five months." 
 
 I began to feel very uncomfortable. 
 
 " I believe your father paid your travel- 
 ling expenses?" 
 
 I bowed affirmatively. 
 
 " Leaving you the clear sum of one hun- 
 dred and five pounds." 
 
 I bowed again. 
 
 " Allowing, then, for your rent — which is, 
 I believe, twenty francs per week," said he, 
 enterins; the figures as he went on, " there 
 will be four hundred francs spent in five 
 months. For your living, say thirty francs per 
 week, which makes six hundred. For your 
 clothing, seventy-five per month, which makes 
 three hundred and seventy-five, and ought 
 to be quite enough for a young man of mode- 
 rate tastes. For your washing and fire-wood, 
 perhaps forty per month, which makes two 
 
I fall a sacrifice to Mrs. Grundy. 65 
 
 hundred — and for your incidental expenses, 
 say fifteen per week, which makes three hun- 
 dred. We thus arrive at a total of one thou- 
 sand eight hundred and seventy-five francs, 
 which, reduced to English money at the aver- 
 age standard of twenty-five francs to the 
 sovereign, represents the exact sum of 
 seventy-five pounds. Do I make myself 
 understood ?" 
 
 I bowed, for the third time. 
 
 " Of the original one hundred and five 
 pounds, we now have thirty not accounted 
 for. May I ask how much of that surplus, 
 you have left ?" 
 
 " About — not more than — than a hundTed 
 and twenty francs," I replied, stripping the 
 feathers off all the pens in succession, without 
 knowing it. 
 
 " Have you any debts ?" 
 
 " A — a few. . 
 
 "Tailors' bills?" 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 "What others?" 
 
 " A — a couple of months' rent, I believe, 
 sir. 
 
 VOL. II. F 
 
66 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 "Is that all?" 
 
 "N — not quite." 
 
 Dr. Cheron frowned, and looked again at 
 his watch. 
 
 "Be good enough, Mr. Arbuthnot," he said, 
 "to spare me this amount of useless interro- 
 gation by at once stating the nature and 
 amount of the rest." 
 
 " I — I cannot positively state the amount, 
 sir," I said, absurdly trying to get the paper- 
 weight into my waistcoat pocket, and then 
 putting it down in great confusion, " I — I 
 have an account at Monceau's in the Rue 
 Duphot, and . . . ." 
 
 " I beg your pardon," interrupted Dr. 
 Cheron : " but who is Monceau ?" 
 
 "Monceau's — Monceau's livery-stables, sir." 
 
 Dr. Cheron slightly raised his eye-brows, 
 and entered the name. 
 
 " And at Lavoisier's, on the Boulevard 
 Poissoniere — " 
 
 " What is sold, pray, at Lavoisier's ?" 
 
 " Gloves, perfumes, hosiery, ready-made 
 unen .... 
 
 " Enough — you can proceed." 
 
I fall a sacrifice to Mrs. Grundy. 67 
 
 " I have also a bill at — at Barbet's, in the 
 Passage de I'Opera." 
 
 "AndBarbetis— ?" 
 
 " A — a ilorist !" I replied ver}' reluctantly. 
 
 "Humph I — a florist !" observed Dr. Che- 
 ron, again transfixing me with the cold, blue 
 eye. "To what amount do you suppose 
 you are indebted to Monsieur Barbet ?" 
 
 I looked down, and became utterly unin- 
 telligible. 
 
 " Fifty francs ?" 
 
 " I — I fear, more than — than — " 
 
 "A hundred? A hundred and fifty? 
 Two hundred ?" 
 
 " About two hundred, I suppose, sir," I 
 said desperately. 
 
 " Two hundred francs — that is to say, 
 eight pounds English — to your florist ! 
 Really, Mr. Arbuthnot, you must be singu- 
 larly fond of flowers !" 
 
 I looked down in silence. 
 
 " Have you a conservatory attached to 
 your rooms ?" 
 
 The skeleton clock struck the half hour. 
 
 " Excuse me, sir," I said, driven now to 
 
 r2 
 
68 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 the last extremity, "but — but I have an en- 
 gagement which — in short, I will, if you 
 please, make out a list of — of these items, 
 ascertaining the correct amount of each ; and 
 when once paid, I will endeavour — I mean, 
 it is ray earnest desire, to — to limit ray ex- 
 penditure strictly to — in short, to study 
 economy for the future. If, in the mean- 
 time, you will have the goodness to excuse 
 me .... 
 
 " One word, young man. Will the fifty 
 pounds cover your debts?" 
 
 " Quite, sir, I am confident," 
 
 " And leave you something in hand for 
 your current expenses ?" 
 
 " Indeed, I fear very little." 
 
 " In that case what will you do ?" 
 
 This was a terrible question, and one for 
 which I could find no answer. 
 
 " Write to your father for another remit- 
 tance — eh ?" 
 
 " I — upon ray word, I dare not, sir," I fal- 
 tered. 
 
 " Then you would go in debt again ?" 
 
I fall a sacrifice to Mrs. Grundy. 69 
 
 " I really fear — even with the strictest 
 economy — I — " 
 
 "Be so obliging as to let me have your 
 seat," said Dr. Cheron, thrusting the obnox- 
 ious note-book into his pocket and taking 
 ray place at the desk, from which he brought 
 out a couple of cards, and a printed paper. 
 
 " This ticket," said he, " admits the holder 
 to the anatomical course for the terra now be- 
 ginning, and this to the lectures at the Ecole 
 Pratique. Both are in ray gift. The first is 
 worth two hundred francs, and the second 
 two hundred and fifty. I ought, perhaps, 
 in strict justice, to bestow them upon some 
 needy and deserving individual: however, 
 to save you from debt, or a very unpleasant 
 alternative, I will fill them in with your 
 name, and, when you bring me all your bills 
 receipted, I will transfer to your account the 
 four hundred and fift}^ francs which I must, 
 otherwise, have paid for your courses out of 
 the remittance forwarded by your father for 
 that purpose. Understand, however, that I 
 must first have the receipts, and that I ex- 
 pect you, on the word of a gentleman, to 
 
70 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 commit no more follies, and to contract no 
 more debts." 
 
 " Oh, sir ! " I exclaimed, " how can I 
 ever " 
 
 " No thanks, I beg," interposed Dr. Che- 
 ron. " Prove your gratitude by your con- 
 duct ; do not trouble yourself to talk about 
 it." 
 
 " Indeed, sir, you may depend " 
 
 " And no promises either, if you please. 
 I attach no kind of value to them. Stay — 
 here is my cheque for the fifty pounds for- 
 warded by your father. With that sum extri- 
 cate 3^ourself from debt. You know the rest." 
 
 Hereupon Dr. Cheron replaced the cards 
 and the printed form, double-locked his desk, 
 and, with a slight gesture of the hand, frigid- 
 ly dismissed me. 
 
 I left the house quite chopfallen. I was 
 relieved, it is true, from the incubus of debt ; 
 but then how small a figure I had cut in the 
 eyes of Dr. Cheron ! Besides, I was small 
 for the second time — reproved for the second 
 time — lectured, helped, put down, and pooh- 
 poohed, for the second time ! Could I have 
 
I fall a sacrifice to Mrs. Grundy. 71 
 
 peeped at myself just then through the 
 wrong end of a telescope, I vow I could not 
 have looked smaller in my own eyes. 
 
 I had no time to dine ; so I despatched a 
 cup of coffee and a roll on my way home, 
 and went hungry to the theatre. 
 
 Josephine was got up with immense splen- 
 dour for this occasion ; greatly to her own 
 satisfaction and my disappointment. Having 
 hired a small private box in the least con- 
 spicuous part of the theatre, I had committed 
 the cowardly mistake of endeavouring to 
 transform my grisette into a woman of 
 fashion. I had bought her a pink and white 
 opera cloak, a pretty little fan, a pair of white 
 kid gloves, and a bouquet. With these she 
 wore a decent white muslin dress furnished 
 out of the limited resources of her own 
 wardrobe, and a wreath of pink roses, the 
 work of her own clever fingers. Thus 
 equipped, she was far less pretty than in her 
 coquettish little every-day cap, and looked, I 
 regret to say, more like an ouvriere than ever. 
 Aggravating above all else, however, was her 
 own undisguised delight in lier appearance. 
 
72 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 " Are my flowers all right ? Is iny dress 
 tumbled? Is the hood of my cloak in the 
 middle of my back ?" were the questions she 
 addressed to me every moment. In the 
 ante-room she took advantage of each mir- 
 ror we passed. In the lobby I caught 
 her trying to look at her own back. When 
 we reached our box she pulled her chair to 
 the very centre of it, and sat there as if she 
 expected to be admired by the whole 
 audience. 
 
 "My dear Josephine," I remonstrated, 
 " sit back here, facing the stage. You will 
 see much better — besides, it is your proper 
 seat, being the only lady in the box." 
 
 " Ah mon Dieu ! then I cannot see tlie 
 house — and how pretty it is ! Ever so much 
 prettier than the Gaiete, or the Porte St. 
 Martin !" 
 
 " You can see the house by peeping be- 
 hind the curtain." 
 
 " As if I were ashamed to be seen ! Par 
 exemple t 
 
 " Nay, as you please. I only advise you 
 according to custom and fashion." 
 
I fall a sacrifice to Mrs. Grundy. 73 
 
 Josephine pouted, and unwillingly con- 
 ceded a couple of inches. 
 
 "I wish I had brought the little telescope 
 you gave me last Sunday," said she, present- 
 ly. "There is a gentleman with one down 
 there in the stalls." 
 
 " A telescope at the opera — the Gods for- 
 bid ! Here, however, is my opera-glass, if 
 you like to use it." 
 
 Josephine turned it over curiously, and 
 peeped first through one tube, and then 
 through the other. 
 
 " Which ou<2;ht I to look through ?" asked 
 she. 
 
 " Both, of course." 
 
 " Both ! How can I ?" 
 
 "Why thus — as you would look through 
 a pair of spectacles." 
 
 '■''Ciel! I can't manage that! I can 
 never look through anything without cover- 
 ing up one eye with my hand." 
 
 " Then I think you had better be con- 
 tented with your own charming eyes, ma 
 belle,'' said I, nervously. " How do you like 
 your bouquet?" 
 
74 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 Josephine sniffed at it as if she were tak- 
 ing snuff, and pronounced it perfect. Just 
 then the opera began. I withdrew into the 
 shade, and Josephine was silenced for a 
 while in admiration of the scenery and the 
 dresses. By and by, she began to yawn. 
 
 " Ah, mon Dieu r said she, " when will 
 they have done singing ? I have not heard 
 a word, all this time." 
 
 " But everything is sung, ma che're, in an 
 opera." 
 
 " What do you mean ? Is there no play ?" 
 
 " This is the play ; only instead of speak- 
 ing their words, they sing them." 
 
 Josephine shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 " Ah, bail !" said she. " How stupid ! 1 
 had rather have seen the Closerie des Genets 
 at the Gaiete, if that is to be the case the 
 whole evening. Oh, dear ! there is such a 
 pretty lady come into the opposite box, in 
 such a beautiful blue glace trimmed with 
 black velvet and lace !" 
 
 " Hush ! you must not talk while they are 
 . singing !" 
 
 ^''Tiensf it is no pleasure to come out 
 
7 full a sacrifice to Mrs. Grundy. 75 
 
 and be dumb. But do just see the lady in 
 the opposite box ? She looks exactly as if 
 she had walked out of a fashion-book." 
 
 " My dear child, I don't care one pin to 
 look at her," said I, preferring to keep as 
 much out of sight as possible. " To admire 
 your pretty face is enough for me." 
 
 Josephine squeezed my hand affection- 
 ately. , 
 
 " That is just as Emile used to talk to me," 
 said she. 
 
 I felt by no means flattered. 
 
 '"'' Regardes done T said she, pulling me by 
 the sleeve just as I was standing up, a little 
 behind her chair, lookinsj at the staj^^e. " That 
 lady in the blue glace never takes her eyes 
 fron: our box ! She points us out to the 
 gentleman who is with her — do look !" 
 
 I turned my glass in the direction to which 
 she pointed, and recognised Madame de 
 Marignan ! 
 
 I turned hot and cold, red and white, all 
 in one moment, and shrank back like a snail 
 that has been touched, or a sea-anemone at 
 the first dig of the naturalist. 
 
76 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 " Does she know you ?" asked Josephine. 
 
 " I — I — probably — that is to say — I have 
 met her in society," 
 
 " And who is the gentleman ?" 
 
 That was just what I was wondering. It 
 was not Delaroche. It was no one whom I 
 had ever seen before. It was a short, fat, 
 pale man, with a bald head, and a ribbon in 
 his button-hole. 
 
 " Is he her husband ?" pursued Josephine. 
 
 The suggestion flashed upon me like a re- 
 velation. Had I not heard that M. de 
 Marignan was coming home from Algiers? 
 Of course it was he. No doubt of it. A 
 little vulgar, fat, bald man ... . Pshaw ! 
 just the sort of husband that she deserved ! 
 
 " How she looks at me !" said Josephine. 
 
 I felt myself blush, so to speak, from 
 head to foot. 
 
 " Good heavens ! my dear girl," I exclaim- 
 ed, " take your elbows off the front of the 
 box !" 
 
 Josephine complied, with a pettish little 
 grimace. 
 
 "And, for mercy's sake, don't hold your 
 
I fall a sacrifice to Mrs. Grundy. 11 
 
 head as if you feared it would tumble off ! " 
 
 " It is the flowers," said she. " They tickle 
 the back of ray neck, whenever I move my 
 head. I am much more comfortable in my 
 cap." 
 
 " Never mind. Make the best of it, and 
 listen to this song." 
 
 It was. the great tenor ballad of the even- 
 ing. The house was profoundly silent ; the 
 first wandering chords of a harp were heard 
 behind the scenes ; and Duprez began. In 
 the very midst of one of his finest and tender- 
 est sostenuto passages, Josephine sneezed — 
 and such a sneeze ! you might have heard it 
 out in the lobbies. An audible titter ran 
 round the house. I saw Madame de Marig- 
 nan cover her face with her handkerchief, 
 and yield to an irrepressible fit of laughter. 
 As for the tenor, he cast a withering glance 
 up at the box, and made a marked pause 
 before resuming his song. Merciful powers ! 
 what crime had I committed that I should 
 be visited with such a punishment as this ? 
 
 " Wretched girl !" I exclaimed, savagely, 
 '• what have you done ?" 
 
78 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 " Done, man ami !" said Josephine in- 
 nocently. " Why, I fear I have taken cold." 
 
 I groaned aloud. 
 
 " Taken cold !" I muttered to myself. 
 " Would to heaven you had taken prussic 
 acid !" 
 
 " Quest ce que cest?'^ asked she. 
 
 But it was not worth while to reply. I 
 gave myself up to my fate. I determined 
 to remonstrate no more. I flung myself on 
 a seat at the back of the box, and made up 
 my mind to bear all that might yet be in 
 store for me. When she openly ate a stick 
 of Sucre dorge after this, I said nothing. 
 When she applauded with both hands, I en- 
 dured in silence. At length the performance 
 came to a close and the curtain fell. Madame 
 de Marignan had left before the last act, so 
 I ran no danger of encountering her on the 
 way out ; but I was profoundly- miserable, 
 nevertheless. As for Josephine, she, poor 
 child, had not enjoyed her evening at all, 
 and was naturally out of temper. We quar- 
 relled tremendously in the cab, and parted 
 without having made it up. It was all my 
 
I fall a sacrifice to Mrs. Grundy. 79 
 
 own fault. How could I be such a fool as 
 to suppose that, with a few shreds and 
 patches of finery, I could make a tine lad}' 
 of a grisette ? 
 
80 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 High A7't in the Quartier Latin. 
 
 UT, my dear fe]low, what else 
 could you have expected ? You 
 took Mani'selle Josephine to the 
 Oj^era Comique. Eh hien ! you might as 
 well have taken an oyster up Mount Vesu- 
 vius. Our fair friend was out of her ele- 
 ment. Yoila tout.'''' 
 
 " Confound her and her element !" I ex- 
 claimed with a groan. " What the deuce is 
 her element — the Quartier Latin ?" 
 
 " The Quartier Latin is to some extent 
 her habitat — but then Mam'selle Josephine 
 belongs to a genus of which you, cher Mon- 
 sieur Arbuthnot, are deplorably ignorant — 
 the genus grisette. The grisette from a cer- 
 tain point of view is the clief-doeuvre of 
 
High Art in the Quart ier Latin. 81 
 
 Parisiau industry ; the bouquet of Parisian 
 civilization. She is indigenous to the man- 
 sarde and the pave — bears no transplantation 
 — flourishes in the premiere balcome, the 
 suburban guingette, and the Salle A^denti- 
 nois ; but degenerates at a higher elevation.. 
 To improve her is to spoil her. In her 
 white cap and muslin gown, the Parisian 
 grisette is simply delicious. In a smart 
 bonnet, a Cashmere and a brougham, she is 
 simply detestable. Fine clothes vulgarise 
 her. Fine surroundings demoralise her. 
 Lodged on the sixth storey, rich in the 
 possession of a cuckoo-clock, a canary, half 
 a dozen pots of mignonette, and some bits 
 of cheap furniture in imitation mahogany, 
 she ha? every virtue and every fault that is 
 charming in woman — childlike gaiety ; co- 
 quetry ; thoughtless generosity ; the readiest 
 laugh, the readiest tear, and the warmest 
 heart in the world. Transplant her to the 
 Chaussee d'Antin, instil the taste for dia- 
 monds, truflSes, and Veuve Clicquot, and you 
 poison her whole nature. She becomes 
 false, cruel, greedy, prodigal of your money, 
 
 VOL. II. G 
 
82 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 parsinionious of her own — a vampire — a 
 ghoul — the hideous thing we call in polite 
 parlance a Fille de Marhrey 
 
 Thus, with much gravity and emphasis, 
 spoke Herr Franz Miiller, lying on his back 
 upon a very ricketty sofa, and smoking like 
 a steam-engine. A cup of half-cold coffee 
 and a bottle of rum three-parts emptied 
 stood beside him on the floor. These were 
 the remains of his breakfast ; for it was yet 
 early in the morning of the day following 
 my great misadventure at the Opera Comique, 
 and I had sought him out at his lodgings in 
 the Rue Clovis at an hour when the Quartier 
 Latin was for the most part in bed. 
 
 " Josephine, at all events, is not of the 
 stuff that Filles de Marhre are made of," I 
 said, smiling. 
 
 " Perhaps not — mais, que voidez vous ? 
 We are what we are. A grisette makes a 
 bad fine lady. A fine lady would make a 
 still worse grisette. The Archbishopric of 
 Paris is a most respectable and desirable 
 preferment ; but your humble servant, for 
 instance, would hardly suit the place." 
 
High Art in the Quartier Latin. 83 
 
 " And the moral of this learned and 
 perspicuous discourse ?" 
 
 " Tiens ! the moral is— keep our fair 
 friend in her place. Remember that a 
 dinner at thirty sous in the Palais Royale, 
 or a fete with fireworks at Mabille, will 
 give her ten times more pleasure than the 
 daintiest repast you could order at the Maison 
 Doree, or the choicest night of the season at 
 either opera house. And how should it be 
 otherwise ? One must understand a thing 
 to be able to enjoy it ; and I'll be sworn 
 Mam'selle Josephine was infinitely more 
 bored last night than yourself." 
 
 Our conversation, or rather his monologue, 
 was here interrupted by the ringing of the 
 outer bell. 
 
 The artist sat up, took his pipe from his 
 lips, and looked considerably disturbed. 
 
 " Milk tonnerres f said he in a low tone. 
 " Who can it be? . . . so early in the day . . . 
 not yet ten o'clock ... it is very mysterious." 
 
 " It is only mysterious," said I, "as long 
 as you don't open the door. Shall I answer 
 the bell ?" 
 
 g2 
 
84 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 "No — yes — wait a moment . . . suppose 
 it is that demon, my landlord, or that arch- 
 fiend, ray tailor — then you must say . . . 
 holy St. Nicholas ! you must say I am in 
 bed with small-pox, or that I've broken out 
 suddenly into homicidal delirium, and you're 
 my keeper." 
 
 " Uirfortunately T should not know either 
 of your princes of darkness at first sight." 
 
 " True — and it might be Dupont, who 
 owes me thirty francs, and swore by the 
 bones of his aunt (an excellent person, who 
 keeps an estaminet in the Place St. Sulpice) 
 that he would pay me this week. Diable ! 
 there goes the bell again." 
 
 " It would perhaps be safest," I suggest- 
 ed, " to let M. or N. ring on till he is tired 
 of the exercise." 
 
 " But conceive the horrid possibility of 
 letting thirty francs ring themselves out of 
 patience ! No, mon ami — I will dare the 
 worst that may happen. Wait here for me 
 — T will answer the door myself." 
 
 Now, it should be explained that Muller's 
 apartments consisted of three rooms. First, 
 
Hifih Art in the Quartier Latin. 85 
 
 a small outer chamber wliich he digni- 
 fied with the title of Salle, d'Atteute, but 
 which, as it was mainly furnished with old 
 boots, umbrellas and walking-sticks, and con- 
 tained, 'by way of accommodation for visit- 
 ors only a three-legged stool and a door-mat, 
 would have been more fitly designated as the 
 hall. Between this Salle d'Attente and the 
 den in which he slept, ate, smoked, and re- 
 ceived his friends, lay the studio — once a 
 stately salon, now a wilderness of litter and 
 dilapidation. On one side you beheld three 
 windows closely boarded up, with strips of 
 newspaper pasted over the cracks to exclude 
 every gleam of day. Overhead yawned a 
 huge, dusty skylight, to make way for which 
 a fine old painted ceiling had been ruthless- 
 ly knocked away. On the walls were pinned 
 and pasted all sorts of rough sketches and 
 studies in colour and crayon. In one corner 
 lolled a despondent-looking lay figure in a 
 moth-eaten Spanish cloak ; in another lay a 
 heap of plaster casts, gigantic hands and 
 feet, broken-nosed masks of the Apollo, the 
 Laocoon, the Hercules Farnese, and other 
 
86 In the Days of 'my Youth. 
 
 foreigners of distinction. Upon the chimney- 
 piece were displayed a pair of foils, a lute, a 
 skull, an antique German drinking mug, and 
 several very modern empty bottles. In the 
 middle of the room stood two large easels, 
 a divan, a round table, and three or four 
 chairs ; while the floor was thickly strewn 
 with empty colour-tubes, bits of painting- 
 rag, corks, cigar-ends, and all kinds of mis- 
 cellaneous litter. 
 
 All these things I had observed as I passed 
 in ; for this, be it remembered, was my first 
 visit to Miiller in his own territory. 
 
 I heard him go through the studio and 
 close the door behind him, and then I heard 
 him open the door upon the public staircase. 
 Presently he came back, shutting the door 
 behind him as before. 
 
 " My dear fellow," he exclaimed breath- 
 lessly, " you have brought luck with you ! 
 What do you think ? A sitter — positively, 
 a sitter ! Wants to be sketched in at once 
 — Vive la France r 
 
 " Man or woman ? Young or old ? Plain 
 or pretty ?" 
 
High Art in the Quartier Latin. 87 
 
 " Elderly half-length, feminine gender — 
 Madame Tapotte. They are both there, Mon- 
 sieur and Madame. Excellent couple — re- 
 dolent of the country — husband bucolic, adi- 
 pose, auriferous — wife arrayed in all her 
 glory, like the Queen of Sheba. I left them 
 in the Salle d'Attente — told them I had a sit- 
 ter — time imraensel}^ occupied — half-lengths 
 furiously in demand .... Will you oblige 
 me by performing the part for a few minutes, 
 just to carry out the idea ?" 
 
 " What part ?" 
 
 "The part of sitter," 
 
 " Oh, with pleasure," I replied, laughing. 
 *' Do with me what you please." 
 
 " You don't mind ? Come ! you are the 
 best fellow in the world. Now, if you'll sit 
 in that arm-chair facing the light — head a 
 little thrown back, arms folded, chin up . . . 
 Capital ! You don't know what an effect this 
 will have upon the provincial mind !" 
 
 " But you're not going to let them in ! 
 You have no portrait of me to be at work 
 upon !" 
 
 "My dear fellow, I've dozens of half- 
 
88 In the Days of mj/ Youth. 
 
 finished stadies, any one of which will answer 
 the purpose. Voila ! here is the very thing." 
 
 And snatching up a canvas that had been 
 standing till now with its face to the wall, he 
 flourished it triuniphantly before my eyes, 
 and placed it on the easel. 
 
 "Heavens and earth!" I exclaimed, 
 " that's a copy of the Titian in the Louvre — 
 the ' Young Man with the Glove !' " 
 
 " What of that ? Our Tapottes will never 
 find out the difference. By the way, 1 told 
 them you were a great English Milord, so 
 please keep up the character." 
 
 " I will try to do credit to the peerage." 
 
 " And if you would not mind throwing in 
 a word of English every now and then . . . 
 a little Goddam, for instance . . . Eh ?" 
 
 I laughed and shook my head. 
 
 " I will pose for you as Milord with all 
 the pleasure in life," I said ; " only I cannot 
 undertake to pose for the traditional Milord 
 of the Bouffes Parisiens ! However, I will 
 speak some English, and, if you like, I'll 
 know no French." 
 
 " No, no — diable ! you must know a little, 
 
High Art in the Quartier Latin. 81) 
 
 or 1 can't exchange a word with you. But 
 very little — the less the better. And now 
 I'll let them in." 
 
 They came ; Madame first — tall, buxom, 
 large-featured, fresh-coloured, radiant in 
 flowers, lace, and Palais Royal jewelry ; 
 then Monsieur — short, fat, bald, rosy and 
 smiling, with a huge frill to his shirt-front 
 and a nankeen waistcoat. 
 
 Mliller introduced them with much cere- 
 mony and many apologies. 
 
 " Permit me, milord," he said, " to pre- 
 sent Monsieur and Madame Tapotte — Mon- 
 sieur and Madame Tapotte ; Milord Smith- 
 field." 
 
 I rose and bowed with the gravity becom- 
 ing my rank. 
 
 " I have explained to milord," continued 
 Miiller, addressing himself partly to the 
 new-comers, partly to me, and chiefly to the 
 study on the easel, " that, having no second 
 room in which to invite Monsieur and Ma- 
 dame to repose themselves, I am compelled 
 to ask them into the studio — where, how- 
 ever, his lordship is so very kind as to say 
 
90 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 that they are welcome." (Hereupon Ma- 
 dame Tapotte curtsied again, and Monsieur 
 ducked his bald head, and I returned their 
 salutations with the same dignity as before.) 
 " If Monsieur and Madame will be pleased 
 to take seats, however, his lordship's sitting 
 will be ended in about ten minutes. Mille 
 pardons^ the face, milord, a little more to 
 the right. Thank you — thank you very 
 much. And if you will do me the favour 
 to look at me . . . for the expression of 
 the eye — ^just so — thank you ! A most im- 
 portant point, milord, is the expression of 
 the eye. When I say the expression, I 
 mean the fire, the sparkle, the liquidity . . . 
 enjin, the expression !" 
 
 Here he affected to put in some touches 
 with immense delicacy — then retreated a 
 couple of yards, the better to contemplate 
 his work — pursed up his mouth — ran his 
 fingers throu2;h his hair — shaded his eyes 
 with his hand — went back and put in an- 
 other touch — again retreated — again put in 
 a touch ; and so on some three or four times 
 successively. 
 
High Art in the Quartier Latin. 91 
 
 Meanwhile Monsieur and Madame Tapotte 
 were fidgetting upon their chairs in respect- 
 ful silence. Every now and then they ex- 
 changed glances of wonder and admiration. 
 They were evidently dying to compare my 
 august features with my portrait, but dared 
 not take the liberty of rising. At length 
 the ladj^'s curiosity could hold out no 
 longer. 
 
 " ^A, mon Dieu r she said ; " but it must 
 be very fatiguing to sit so long in the same 
 position. And to paint . . . del f what 
 practice ! what perseverance ! what patience ! 
 Avec ]jermission, M'sieur" .... 
 
 And with this she sidled up to Mliller's 
 elbow, leaving Monsieur Tapotte thunder- 
 struck at her audacity. 
 
 Then for a moment she stood silent ; but 
 during that moment the eager, apologetic 
 smile vanished suddenly out of her face, 
 and was succeeded by an expression of blank 
 disappointment, 
 
 " Tiens /" she said bluntly. " I don't see 
 one bit of likeness." 
 
 I turned hot from head to foot, but 
 
92 In the Dmis of mj/ Youth. 
 
 Miiller's serene effrontery was equal to the 
 occasion. 
 
 " I daresay not, Madame," lie replied, 
 coolly. " I daresay not. This portrait is 
 not intended to be like." 
 
 Madame Tapotte's eyes and mouth opened 
 simultaneously. 
 
 " Comment r she exclaimed. 
 
 " I should be extremely sorry," continued 
 Mliller, loftily, " and his lordship would be 
 extremely sorry, if there were too much re- 
 semblance." 
 
 " But a — a likeness — it seems to me, 
 should at all events be — like," stammered 
 Madame Tapotte, utterly bewildered. 
 
 "And if M'sieur is to paint my wife," 
 added Monsieur Tapotte, who had by this 
 time joined the group at the easel, " I — I 
 . . . Dame ! it must be a good deal more 
 like than this !" 
 
 Mliller drew himself up with an air of 
 great dignity. 
 
 " Sir," he said, " if Madame does me the 
 honour to sit to me for her portrait — for 
 her own portrait, observe — I flatter myself 
 
High Art in the Quartier Latin. 93 
 
 the resemblance will be overwhelming. But 
 you must permit me to inform you that 
 Milord Sraithfield is not sitting for his own 
 portrait." 
 
 The Tapottes looked at each other in a 
 state bordering on stupefaction. 
 
 " His lordship," continued Muller, " is 
 sitting for the portrait of one of his illustrious 
 ancestors — a nobleman of the period of Queen 
 Elizabeth." 
 
 Tapotte mari scratched his head, and smiled 
 feebly. 
 
 '"'' Parhleur sai(i he, ^'mais cest hien drole, 
 qar 
 
 The artist shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " It so happens," said he, " that his lord- 
 ship's gallery at Smithfield Castle has unhap- 
 pily been more than half destroyed by fire. 
 Two centuries of family portraits reduced to 
 ashes ! Terrible misfortune ! Only one way 
 of repairing the loss — that is of partially re- 
 pairing it. I do my best. I read the family 
 records — I study the history of the period — 
 his lordship sits to me daily — I endeavour to 
 give a certain amount of family likeness ; 
 
94 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 sometimes more, you observe, sometimes 
 less .... enormous responsibility. Monsieur 
 Tapotte !" 
 
 " Oh, enormous !" 
 
 "The taste for family portraits," continued 
 Mliller, still touching up the Titian, "is a 
 very natural one — and is on the increase. 
 Many gentlemen of — of somewhat recent 
 wealth, come to me for their ancestors." 
 
 " No !" 
 
 "jP(9^' crhonneur. Few persons, however, 
 are as conscientious as his lordship in the 
 matter of family resemblance. They mostly 
 buy up their forefathers ready-made — adopt 
 them, christen them, and ask no questions." 
 ■ Monsieur and jMadame Tapotte exchanged 
 glances. 
 
 " Tit'ii^!^ man ami, why should we not have 
 an ancestt)r or two, as well as other folks," 
 suggested the lady, in a very audible whisper. 
 
 ]\Ionsieur shook his head, and mutteri^-d 
 something about the expense. 
 
 "There is no harm, at all events," urged 
 raadame, " in asking the price." 
 
 " My charge for gallery portraits, madame, 
 
Hi(jh Art in the. Quartier Latin. 95 
 
 varies from sixty to a hundred francs," said 
 MuUer. 
 
 " Heavens ! how dear ! Why, my own 
 portrait is to be only fifty." 
 
 " Sixty, Madame, if we put in the hands 
 and the jewelry," said Miiller, blandly. 
 
 " Eh hien ! — sixty. But for these other 
 things . . . bah! ils sont jierement chers.'^ 
 
 " Fardorij madame ! The elegancies and 
 superfluities of life are, by a just rule of 
 political economy, expensive. It is right 
 that they should be so ; as it is right that 
 the necessaries of life should be within the 
 reach of the poorest. Bread, for instance, 
 is strictly necessar}^, and should be cheap. 
 A great-grandfather, on the contrary, is an 
 elegant superfluity, and may be put up at a 
 high figure." 
 
 "There is some truth in that," murmured 
 Monsieur Tapotte. 
 
 " Besides, in the present instance, one also 
 pays for antiquity." 
 
 ' ' Cesi juste — C'est juste. " 
 
 " At the same time," continued Miiller, 
 " if Monsieur Tapotte were to honour me 
 
96 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 with a commission for, say, half a dozen 
 family portraits, I would endeavour to put 
 them in at forty francs apiece — including, 
 at that very low price, a Revolutionary 
 Deputy, a beauty of the Louis Quinze period, 
 and a Marshal of France." 
 
 " Tiens ! that's a fair offer enough," said 
 madame. "What say you, mon amif'' 
 
 But Monsieur Tapotte, being a cautious 
 man, would say nothing hastily. He coughed, 
 looked doubtful, declined to commit himself 
 to an opinion, and presently drew off into a 
 corner for the ])urpose of holding a whis- 
 pered consultation with his wife. 
 
 Meanwhile Muller laid aside his brushes 
 and palette, informed mew^th a profound bow 
 that my lordship had honoured him by sitting 
 as long as was strictly necessary, and requested 
 my opinion upon the progress of the work. 
 
 I praised it rapturously. You would have 
 thought, to hear me, that for drawing, breadth, 
 finish, colour, composition, chiaroscuro, and 
 every other merit thatapainting could possess, 
 this particular chef-cToeuvre excelled all the 
 masterpieces of Europe. 
 
High Art in the Quartier Latin. 97 
 
 Muller bowed, and bowed, and bowed, 
 like a Chinaman at a visit of ceremony. He 
 was more than proud ; he was overwhehned, 
 accable, et ci\3tera, et caetera. 
 
 The Tapottes left off whispering, and lis- 
 tened breathlessly. 
 
 " He is evidently a great painter, nofjeune 
 hommeT said Madame in one of her large 
 whispers. 
 
 To which Monsieur replied as audibly : — 
 " qa se voit, ma femme — sacre nom d\m 
 pipe r 
 
 " Milord will do me the favour to sit again 
 on Friday?" said Muller, as I took up my 
 hat and gloves. 
 
 I replied with infinite condescension that 
 I would endeavour to do so. I then made 
 the stifFest of stiff bows to the excellent Ta- 
 pottes, and, ushered to the door by Muller, 
 took my departure majestically in the char- 
 acter of Lord Smithfield. 
 
 VOL. II. H 
 
98 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 The Quartier Latin. 
 
 |HE dear old Quartier Latin of my 
 time — the Quartier Latin of Bal- 
 zac, of Beranger, of Henry Murger 
 ■ — the Quartier Latin where Franz Mliller 
 had his studio ; where Messieurs Gustave, 
 Jules, and Adrieu gave their unparelleled 
 soirees dansantes ; where I first met niv ex- 
 flame Josephine — exists no longer. It has 
 been improved off the face of tlie earth, 
 and with it such a gay, bizarre, improvident 
 world of youth and folly as shall never 
 again be met together on the banks of the 
 Seine. 
 
 Ah me ! how well I remember that dingy, 
 delightful Arcadia — the Rue de la Vieille 
 Boucherie, narrow, noisy, crowded, witli 
 
The Quartier Latin. 99 
 
 projecting upper storeys and Gothic pent- 
 house roofs — the Rue de la Parcheminerie, 
 unchanged since the Middle Ages — the Rue 
 St. Jacques, steep, interminable, dilapidated ; 
 with its dingy cabarets, its brasseries, its 
 cheap restaurants, its grimy shop windows 
 filled with coloured prints, with cooked 
 meats, with tobacco, old books, and old 
 clothes ; its ancient colleges and hospitals, 
 time-worn and weather-beaten, frownino; 
 down upon the busy thoroughfare and 
 breaking the squalid line of shops ; its grim 
 old hotels swarming with lodgers, floor above 
 floor, from the cobblers in the cellars to 
 the srisettes in the attics ! Then a2;ain, the 
 gloomy old Place St. Michel, its abundant 
 fountain ever flowing, ever surrounded by 
 water-carts and water-carriers, by women 
 with pails, and bare-footed street urchins, 
 and thirsty drovers drinking out of iron cups 
 chained to the wall. And then, too, the Rue 
 de la Harpe .... 
 
 I close my eyes, and the strange, pre- 
 cipitous, picturesque, decrepit old street, with 
 its busy, surging crowd, its street-cries, its 
 
 H 2 
 
100 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 street-music, and its indescribable union of 
 gloom and gaiety, rises from its ashes. 
 Here, grand old dilapidated mansions with 
 shattered stone-carvinejs, delicate wrought- 
 iron balconies all rust-eaten and broken, 
 and windows in which ever}^ other pane is 
 cracked or patched, alternate with more 
 modern but still more ruinous houses, some 
 leaning this way, some that, some with 
 bulging upper storeys, some with doorways 
 sunk below the level of the pavement. 
 Yonder, gloomy and grim, stands the Col- 
 lege of Saint Louis. Dark alleys open off 
 here and there from the main thorough- 
 fare, and narrow side streets, steep as flights 
 of steps. Low sheds and open stalls cling, 
 limpet-like, to every available nook and 
 corner. An endless procession of trucks, 
 waggons, water-carts and fiacres rumbles 
 perpetually by. Here people live at their 
 windows and in the doorways — the women 
 talking from balcony to balcon}^, the men 
 smoking, reading, pla3dng at dominoes. 
 Here too are more cafes and cabarets, open- 
 air stalls for the sale of fried fish, and cheap 
 
The Quartier Latin. 101 
 
 restaurants for workmen and students where, 
 for a sum equivalent to sevenpence half- 
 penny English, the Quartier Latin regales 
 itself upon meats and drinks of dark and 
 enigmatical origin. Close at hand is the 
 Place and College of the Sorbonne — silent 
 in the midst of noisy life, solitary in the 
 heart of the most crowded quarter of Paris. 
 A sombre mediaeval gloom pervades that 
 ancient quadrangle ; scant tufts of sickly 
 grass grow here and there in the interstices 
 of the pavement ; the dust of centuries crust 
 those long rows of windows never opened. 
 A little further on is the Rue des Gres, 
 narrow, crowded, picturesque, one uninter- 
 rupted perspective of bookstalls and book- 
 shops from end to end. Here the book- 
 seller occasionally pursues a twofold calling, 
 and retails not only literature but a cellar of 
 petit vin bleu ; and here, overnight, the thirsty 
 student exchanges for a bottle of Macon the 
 " Code Civile " that he must perforce bu}' 
 back as!;ain at second-hand in the morninsr. 
 
 A little farther on, and we come to the 
 College Saint Louis, once the old College 
 
102 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 Narbonne ; and yet a few yards more, and 
 we are at the doors of the Theatre du Pan- 
 theon, once upon a time the Church of St. 
 Benoit, where the stage occupies the site of 
 the altar, and an orchestra stall in what was 
 once the nave may be had for seventy-five 
 centimes. Here, too, might be seen the 
 sliop of the immortal Lesago, renowned 
 throughout tlie Quartier for the manufacture 
 of a certain kind of transcendental hara- 
 patty peculiarly beloved by student and 
 grisette ; and here, clustering within a stone's 
 throw of each other, were to be found those 
 famous Restaurants, Pompon, Viot, Flico- 
 teaux, and the " B(Deuf Enrage," where, on 
 gala days, many an Alphonse and Fifine, 
 many a Theophile and Cerisette, were wont 
 to hold high feast and festival — terms seven- 
 pence-halfpenny each, bread at discretion, 
 water gratis, wine and toothpicks extra. 
 
 But it was in the side streets, courts, and 
 impasses that branched off to the left and 
 right of the main arteries, that one came 
 upon the very heart of the old Pays Latin ; 
 for the Rue St. Jacques, the Rue de la 
 
The Quartier Latin. 103 
 
 Harpe, the Rue des Gres, narrow, steep, 
 dilapidated though they might be, were in 
 truth the leadino^ thorou^rhfares — the Boule- 
 vards, so to speak — of the Student Quar- 
 tier. In most of the side alleys, however, 
 some of which dated back as far, and far- 
 ther, than the fifteenth century, there was 
 no footway for passengers, and barely space 
 for one wheeled vehicle at a time. A filthy 
 gutter invariably flowed down the middle of 
 the street. The pavement, as it peeped out 
 here and there through a moraine of super- 
 imposed mud and offal, was seen to consist 
 of small oblong stones, like petrified kidney 
 potatoes. The houses, some leaning this 
 way, some that, with projecting upper 
 store3^s and overhanging gable-roofs, nodded 
 together overhead, leaving but a narrow 
 strip of sky down which the sunlight strove 
 in vain to struggle. Long poles upon 
 which were suspended old clothes hung out 
 to air, and ragged linen to dry, stood out 
 like tattered banners from the attic win- 
 dows. Here, too, every ground-floor was 
 a shop, open, unglazed, cavernous, where 
 
104 In the Daj/s of my Youth. 
 
 the dealer lay perdu in the gloom of midday, 
 like a spider in the midst of his web, sur- 
 rounded by piles of old bottles, old iron, old 
 clothes, old furniture, or whatever else his 
 stock in trade misrht consist of. 
 
 Of such streets — less like streets, indeed, 
 than narrow, overhanging gorges and ra- 
 vines of damp and mouldering stone — of 
 such streets, I say, intricate, winding, ill- 
 lighted, unventilated, pervaded by an atmo- 
 sphere compounded of the fumes of fried fish, 
 tobacco, old leather, mildew and dirt, there 
 were hundreds in the Quartier Latin of my 
 time : — streets to the last degree unattractive 
 as places of human habitation, but ricli, 
 nevertheless, in historic associations, in pic- 
 turesque detail, and in archaeological inte- 
 rest. Such a street, for instance, was the 
 Rue de la Fouarre (scarcely a feature of 
 which has been modernized to this day), 
 where Dante, when a student of theology 
 in Paris, attended the lectures of one Sige- 
 bert, a learned monk of Gemblours, who 
 discoursed to his scholars in the open air, 
 they sitting round him the while upon fresh 
 
The Quartier Latin. lOo 
 
 straw strewn upon the pavement. Such a 
 street was the Rue des Cordiers, close ad- 
 joining the Rue des Gres, where Rousseau 
 lived and wrote ; and the Rae du Dragon, 
 where might then be seen the house of 
 Bernard Palissy ; and the Rue des Masons, 
 where Racine lived ; and the Rue des 
 Marais, where Adrienne Lecouvreur — poor, 
 beautiful, generous, ill-fated Adrienne Le- 
 couvreur ! — died. Here, too, in a blind 
 alley opening off the Rue St. Jacques, yet 
 stands part of that Carmelite Convent in 
 which for thirty years Madame de la Val- 
 liere expiated the solitary frailty of her life. 
 And so at every turn ! Not a gloomy by- 
 street, not a dilapidated fountain, not a 
 grim old college fagade but had its history, 
 or its legend. Here the voice of Abelard 
 thundered new truths, and Rabelais jested, 
 and Petrarch discoursed with the doctors. 
 Here, in the Rue de I'Ancienne Comedie, 
 walked the shades of Racine, of Moliere, of 
 Corneille, of Voltaire. Dear, venerable, 
 immortal old Quartier Latin ! Thy streets 
 were narrow, but they were the arteries 
 
106 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 through which, century after century, circu- 
 lated all the wisdom and poetry, all the art, 
 and science, and learning; of Erance ! Their 
 gloom, their squalor, their very dirt, was 
 sacred. Could I have had my will, not a 
 stone of the old place should have been 
 touched, not a pavement widened, not a 
 landmark effaced. 
 
 Then beside, yet not apart from, all that 
 was mediasval and historic in the Pays 
 Latin, ran the gay, effervescent, laughing 
 current of the life of the jeunesse d'aujourd- 
 hui. Here beat the very heart of that rare, 
 that immortal, that unparalleled vie de 
 BohSme the vagabond poetry of which pos- 
 sesses such an inexhaustible charm for even 
 the soberest imagination. What brick and 
 mortar idylls, what romances aic cinquieme, 
 what joyous epithalainiums, what gay im- 
 provident menages, what kisses, what laugh- 
 ter, what tears, what lightly-spoken and 
 lightly-broken vows those old walls could 
 have told of! 
 
 Here, appareled in all sorts of unima- 
 ginable tailoring, in jaunty coloured cap or 
 
The Qaartier Latin. 107 
 
 flapped sombrero, his pipe dangling from 
 his button-hole, his hair and beard display- 
 ing every eccentricity under heaven, the 
 Paris student, the Pays Latiniste pur sang, 
 lived and had his being. Poring over the 
 bookstalls in the Place du Pantheon or the 
 Rue des Gres — hurrying along towards this 
 or that collesre with a huo;e volume under 
 each arm, about nine o'clock in the morn- 
 ing — haunting the cafes at mid-day and the 
 restaurants at six — swinging his legs out of 
 upper windows and smoking in his shirt- 
 sleeves in the summer evenings — crowding 
 the pit of the Odeon and every part of the 
 Theatre du Pantheon — playing wind instru- 
 ments at dead of night to the torment of his 
 neighbours, or, in vocal mood, traversing 
 the Quartier with a select society of musical 
 friends about the small hours of the morn- 
 ins; — ojettinof into scuffles with the f^endarmes 
 — flirting, dancing, playing billiards and the 
 deuce ; falling in love and in debt ; dividing 
 his time between Aristotle and Mademoi- 
 selle Mimi Pinson .... here, and here 
 only, in all his phases, at every hour of 
 
108 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 the day and night, he swarmed, ubiquitous. 
 
 And here, too (a necessary sequence), 
 flourished the fair and frail grisette. Her 
 race, ahis ! is now all but extinct — the race 
 of Fretillon, of Fran^ine, of Lisette, Musette, 
 Rosette, and all the rest of that too-fascinat- 
 ing terminology — the race immortalised 
 again and again by Beranger, Gavarni, 
 Balzac, De Musset ; sketched by a hundred 
 pencils and described by a hundred pens ; 
 celebrated in all manner of metres and set 
 to all manner of melodies ; now caricatured 
 and now canonized ; now painted wholly 
 en now and now all couleur de rose ; yet, 
 however often described, however skilfully 
 analysed, remaining for ever indescribable, 
 and for ever defying analysis ! 
 
 " De tons les produits Parisiens," says 
 Monsieur Jules Janin (himself the quint- 
 essence of everything most Parisian), " le 
 produit le plus Parisien, sans contredit, c'est 
 la grisette." True ; but our epigrammatist 
 sliould have gone a step farther. He should 
 have added that the grisette pur sang is to 
 be found nowhere except in Paris ; and 
 
2' lie Quartier Latin. 109 
 
 (still a step farther) nowhere in Paris save 
 between the Pont Neuf and the Barriere 
 d'Enfer. There she reigns ; there (ah ! let 
 me use the delicious present tense — let me 
 believe that I still live in Arcadia!) — there 
 she lights up the old streets with her smile ; 
 makes the old walls rinc^ with her lauj^hter : 
 Hits over the crossings like a fairy ; wears 
 the most coquettish of little caps and the 
 daintiest of little shoes ; rises to her work 
 with the dawn ; keeps a pet canary ; trains 
 a nasturtium round her window ; loves as 
 heartily as she laughs, and almost as readily ; 
 owes not a sou, saves not a centime ; sews 
 on Adolphe's buttons, like a good neigh- 
 bour ; is never so hap])y as when Adolphe in 
 return takes her to Tivoli or the Jardin Turc ; 
 adores galette^ sucre d'orge., and Frederick 
 Lemaitre ; and looks upon a masked ball 
 and a debardeur dress as the summit of 
 human felicity. 
 
 Vive la grisette! Shall I not follow many 
 an illustrious example and sing my modest 
 pjean in her praise ? Frown not, august 
 Britannia ! Look not so severely askance 
 
110 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 upon my poor little heroine of the Quartier 
 Latin ! Thinkest thou because thou art so 
 eminently virtuous that she who has many 
 a serviceable virtue of her own, shall be de- 
 barred from her share in this world's cakes 
 and ale ? 
 
 Vive la grisette ! Let us think and speak 
 no evil of her. " Elle ne tient au vice que 
 par un rayon, et s'en eloigne par les mille 
 autres points de la circonference sociale." 
 The world sees only her follies, and sees 
 them at first sight ; her good qualities lie 
 hidden in the shade. Is she not busy as a 
 bee, joyous as a lark, helpful, pitiful, un- 
 selfish, industrious, contented ? How often 
 has she not slipped her last coin into the 
 alms-box at the hospital gate, and gone sup- 
 perless to bed ? How often sat up all 
 night, after a long day's toil in a crowded 
 work-room, to nurse Victorine in the fever? 
 How often pawned her Sunday gown and 
 shawl, to redeem that coat without which 
 Adolphe cannot appear before the examin- 
 ers to-morrow morning? Granted, if you 
 will, til at she has an insatiable appetite for 
 
The Qaartler Latin. ^ 1 1 
 
 sweets, cigarettes, and theatrical admissions 
 — shall she not be welcome to her tastes ? 
 And is it her fault if her capacity in the 
 Avay of miscellaneous refreshments partakes 
 of the nature of the miraculous — somewhat 
 to the inconvenience of Adolphe, who has 
 overspent his allowance ? Supposing even 
 that she may now and then indulge (among 
 friends) in a very modified can-can at the 
 Chaumiere — vv^hat does that prove, except 
 that her heels are as light as her heart, and 
 that her early education has been somewhat 
 neglected ? 
 
 Bat I am writing of a world that has 
 vanished as completely as the lost Pleiad. 
 The Quartier Latin of my time is no more. 
 The Chaumiere is no more. The grisette 
 is fast dying out. Of the Rue de la Harpe 
 not a recognisable feature is left. The old 
 Place St Michel, the fountain, the Theatre 
 du Pantheon, are gone as if they had never 
 l)een. Whole streets, I might say whole 
 parishes, have been swept away — whole 
 chapters of mediasval history erased for 
 ever. 
 
112 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 Well, I love to close my eyes from time 
 to time, and evoke the dear old haunts 
 from their ruins ; to descend once more the 
 perilous steeps of the Rue St. Jacques, and 
 to thread the laJbyrinthine by-streets that 
 surround the Ecole de Medicine. I see 
 them all so plainly ! I look in at the fami- 
 liar print-shops — I meet many a long-for- 
 gotten face — I hear many a long-forgotten 
 voice — I am twenty years of age and a 
 student again ! 
 
 Ah me ! what a pleasant time, and what 
 a land of enchantment ! Ding)^, dilapidated, 
 decrepit as it was, that graceless old Quartier 
 Latin, believe me, -was paved with roses 
 and lio;hted with laucfhinsj ejas. 
 
The Fete at Courbevoie. 113 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 The Fete at Courbevoie. 
 
 f,ALTE la ! I thoudit I should catch 
 you about this time ! They've 
 been giving you unconscionable 
 good measure to-day, though, haven't they ? 
 I thought Bollinet's lecture was always over 
 by three ; and here I've been moralizing on 
 the flight of Time for more than twenty 
 minutes." 
 
 So saying, Mliller, having stopped me as I 
 was coming down the steps of the Hotel 
 Dieu, linked his arm in mine, drew me into 
 a shady angle under the lee of Notre Dame, 
 and, without leaving me time to reply, went 
 on pouring out his light, eager chatter as 
 readily as a mountain-spring bubbles out its 
 waters. 
 
 VOL. II. I 
 
114 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 " I thought you'd like to know about the 
 Tapottes, you see — and I was dying to tell 
 you. I went to your rooms last night be- 
 tween eight and nine, and you were out ; so 
 I thought the only sure way was to come 
 here — I know you never miss Bollinet's Lec- 
 tures, Well, as I was saying, the Tapottes 
 . . . Oh, mon cher I I am your debtor for life 
 in that matter of Milord Smithfield. It has 
 been the making of me. What do you 
 think ? Tapotte is not only going to sit for 
 a companion half-length to Madame's por- 
 trait, but he has given me a commission for 
 half-a-dozen ancestors. Fancy — half-a-dozen 
 illustrious dead-and-gone Tapottes ! What 
 a scope for the imagination ! What a be- 
 wildering vista of billets de hanque ! I feel 
 — ah, mon ami! I feel that the wildest 
 visions of my youth are about to be realized, 
 and tliat I shall see my tailor's bill receipted 
 before I die !" 
 
 'Tm delighted," said I, "that Tapotte has 
 turned up a trump card." 
 
 " A trump card ? Say a California — a 
 Pactolus — a Golden Calf. Nay, hath not 
 
The Fete at Courhevoie. 1 1 .5 
 
 Tapotte two golden calves ? Is he not of 
 the precious metal all compact ? Stands he 
 not, in the amiable ripeness of his years, a 
 living representative of the Golden Age ? 
 ' hella eta del oro /' " 
 
 And to my horror, he then and there exe- 
 cuted a frantic ^j<25 seul. 
 
 " Gracious powers !" I exclaimed. " Are 
 you mad ?" 
 
 " Yes — raving mad. Have you any ob- 
 jection ?" 
 
 " But, my dear fellow — in the face of da}' 
 — in the streets of Paris ! We shall get 
 taken up by the police !" 
 
 " Then suppose we get out of the streets 
 of Paris? I'm tired enough, Heaven knows, 
 of cultivating the arid soil of the Pave. See, 
 it's a glorious afternoon. Let's go some- 
 where." 
 
 '' With all ni}- heart. Where ?" 
 
 " Ah., mon Dieu ! cela in est egal. Enghien 
 — Vincennes — St. Cloud — Versailles .... 
 anywhere you like. j\Iost probably there's 
 a fete going on somewliere, if we only knew 
 where." 
 
 I 2 
 
116 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 " Can't we find out ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes — we can drop into a Cafe and 
 look at t]ie Petites Affiches ; only that entails 
 an absinthe ; or we can go into the nearest 
 Omnibus Bureau and see the notices on the 
 walls, which will be cheaper." 
 
 So we threaded our way along the nar- 
 row thoroughfares of the He de la Cite, and 
 came presently to an Omnibus Bureau on 
 the Quai de I'Horloge, overlooking the Pont 
 Neuf and the river. Here the first thing we 
 saw was a fiaming placard setting forth the 
 pleasures and attractions of the great annual 
 fete at Courbevoie ; a villa2;e on the banks 
 of the Seine, a mile or two beyond Neuilly. 
 
 '' Voila notre affaire P' said Miiller, gaily. 
 " We can't do better than steer straidit for 
 
 o 
 
 Courbevoie." 
 
 Saying which, he hailed a passing fiacre 
 and bade the coachman drive to the Embar- 
 cadere of the Rive Droite. 
 
 " We shall amuse ourselves famously at 
 Courbevoie," he said, as we rattled over the 
 stones. " We'll dine at the Toison d'Or — 
 an excellent little restaurant overlooking 
 
The Fete at Courhevoie. 1 1 7 
 
 the river ; and if yuu're fond of angling, we 
 can hire a punt and catcli our own fish for 
 dinner. Then there will be plenty of fid- 
 dling and daneinsT at the o;uino:ettes and 
 gardens in the evening. By the way, 
 though, I've no money ! That is to say, 
 none w^orth speaking of — voila ! . . . one 
 franc, one piece of fifty centimes, another 
 of twenty centimes, and some sous. I 
 hope your pockets are better lined than 
 mine." 
 
 " Not much, I fear," I replied, pulling 
 out my porte-monnaie, and emptying the 
 contents into my hand. They amounted to 
 nine francs and seventy-five centimes. 
 
 " Parhleu! we've just eleven francs and a 
 half between us," said Mliller. "A modest 
 sum-total ; but we must make it as elastic as 
 we can. Let me see, there'll be a franc for 
 the fiacre, four francs for our return tickets, 
 four for our dinner, and two and a half to 
 spend as we like in the fair. Well, we can't 
 commit any great extravagance with that 
 amount of floating capital." 
 
 " Better turn back and go to my rooms 
 
118 [n tlvi Day.'^ of my Youth. 
 
 for some more money !" I exclaimed. " I've 
 two Napoleons in my desk." 
 
 "No, no — we should miss the three-fifty 
 train, and not get another till between five 
 and six." 
 
 " But we shall have no fun if we have no 
 money !" 
 
 " I dissent entirely from that proposition, 
 Monsieur Englishman. I have always had 
 plenty of fun, and I have been short of cash 
 since the hour of my birth. Come, it shall 
 be my proud task to-day to prove to you 
 the pleasures of impecuniosity !" 
 
 So with our eleven francs and a half, we 
 went on to the station, and took our places 
 for Courbevoie. 
 
 We travelled, of course, b}^ third class in 
 the open wagons ; and it so happened that 
 in our compartment we had the company of 
 three pretty little chattering grisettes, a fat 
 countrywoman with a basket, and a quiet- 
 looking elderly female with her niece. 
 These last wore bonnets, and some kind of 
 slight mourning. They belonged evidently 
 to the small bourgeoise class, and sat very 
 
The Fete at Courbevoie. 119 
 
 quietly in the corner of the carriage, speak- 
 ing to no one. The three grisettes, however, 
 kept up an incessant fire of small talk and 
 squabble. 
 
 " I was on this very line last Sunday," 
 said one. " I went with Julie to Asnieres, 
 and we were so gay ! I wonder if it will be 
 very gay at Courbevoie." 
 
 " Je men donie,'' replied another, whom 
 they called Lolotte. " I came to one of the 
 Courbevoie fetes last spring, and it was not 
 gay at all. But then, to be sure, I was with 
 Edouard, and he is as dull as the first day in 
 Lent. Where were you last Sunday, Adele?" 
 
 " I did not go beyond the barriers. I 
 went to the Cirque with my cousin, and 
 we dined in the Palais Royale. We en- 
 joyed ourselves so much ! You know my 
 cousin ?" 
 
 " Ah ! yes — the little fellow with the 
 curly hair and the whiskers, who waits for 
 you at the corner when we leave the work- 
 shop." 
 
 " The same— Achille." 
 
 " Your Achille is nice-looking," said 
 
120 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 Mademoiselle Lolotte, with a somewhat 
 critical air. " It is a pity he squints." 
 
 " He does not squint, mam'selle." 
 
 "Oh, ma chere ! I appeal to Caroline." 
 
 " I am not sure that he actually squints," 
 said Mam'selle Caroline, speaking for the 
 first time; "but he certainly has one eye 
 larger than the other, and of quite a different 
 colour." 
 
 " Tiens, Caroline — it seems to me that 
 j^ou look very closely into the eyes of young 
 men," exclaims Adele, turning sharply upon 
 this new assailant. 
 
 " At all events you admit that Caroline is 
 right !" cries Lolotte triumphantly. 
 
 " I admit nothing of the kind. I say that 
 you are both very ill-natured, and that you 
 say what is not true. As for you, Lolotte, 
 I don't believe you ever had the chance of 
 seeing a young man's eyes turned upon you, 
 or you would not be so pleased with the 
 attentions of an old one." 
 
 "An old one!" shrieked Mam'selle Lo- 
 lotte. "Ah, 7non Dieu! Is a man old at 
 forty-seven ? Monsieur Durand is in the 
 
The FHe at Courhevoie. 121 
 
 prime of life, and there isn't a girl in the 
 Quartier who would not be proud of his 
 attentions !" 
 
 " He's sixty, if an hour," said the injured 
 Adele. " And as for you, Caroline, who 
 have never had a beau in your life "... 
 
 " Ciel ! what a calumny! — I — never had 
 a . . . Holy Saint Genevieve ! why, it was 
 only last Thursday week " . . . . 
 
 Here the train stopped at the Asnieres 
 station, and two privates of the Garde Im- 
 periale got into the carriage. The horizon 
 cleared as if by magic. The grisettes sud- 
 denly forgot their differences, and began to 
 chat quite amicably. The soldiers twirled 
 their mustachios, listened, smiled, and es- 
 sayed to join in the conversation. In a few 
 minutes all was mirth and flirtation. 
 
 Meanwhile Mliller was casting admiring 
 glances on the young girl in the corner, 
 whilst the fat countrywoman, pursing up 
 her mouth, and watching the grisettes and 
 soldiers, looked the image of offended 
 virtue. 
 
 " Dame ! Madame," she said, addressing 
 
122 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 herself to the old lady in the bonnet, " girls 
 usen't to be so forward in the days when 
 you and I were }'oung !" 
 
 To which the old lady in the bonnet, 
 blandly smiling, replied : — 
 
 " Beautiful, for the time of year." 
 
 "Eh? For the time of year? Dame! 
 I don't see that the time of year has any- 
 thing to do with it," exclaimed the fat coun- 
 trywoman. 
 
 Here the young girl in the corner, blush- 
 ing and smiling very sweetly, interposed 
 with — " Pardon, Madame — ni}'- aunt is some- 
 what deaf. Pray excuse her." 
 
 Whereupon the old lady, watching the 
 motion of her niece's lips, added : — 
 
 " Ah, yes — yes ! I am a poor, deaf old 
 woman — I don't understand what you say. 
 Talk to my little Marie here — she can an- 
 swer you." 
 
 " I, for one, desire nothing better than 
 permission to talk to Mademoiselle," said 
 Miiller gallantly. 
 
 " Mais^ Monsieur " . . . . 
 
The Fete at Courbevoie. 1 23 
 
 " Mademoiselle, with Madame her aunt, 
 are going to the fete at Courbevoie ?" 
 
 "Yes, Monsieur." 
 
 "The river is very pretty thereabouts, 
 and the walks through the meadows are de- 
 lightfal." 
 
 " Indeed, Monsieur !" 
 
 " Mademoiselle does not know the place ?" 
 
 " No, Monsieur." 
 
 " Ah, if I might only be permitted to act 
 as guide ! I know every foot of the ground 
 about Courbevoie," 
 
 Mademoiselle Marie blushed again, looked 
 down, and made no reply. 
 
 " I am a painter," continued Mliller; " and 
 I have sketched all the windings of the 
 Seine from Neuilly to St. Germains. My 
 friend here is English — he is a student of 
 medicine, and speaks excellent French." 
 
 " What is the gentleman saying, mon 
 enfant?" asked the old lady, somewhat 
 anxiously. 
 
 " Monsieur says that the river is very 
 pretty about Courbevoie, ma tante,'' replied 
 Mademoiselle Marie, raising her voice. 
 
124 In the Dm/s of n)i/ Youth. 
 
 " Ah ! ah ! and what else ?" 
 
 " Monsieur is a painter." 
 
 "Apahiter? Ah, dear nie ! it's an un- 
 healthy occupation. My poor brother Pierre 
 might have been alive to this day if he had 
 taken to any other line of business ! You 
 must take great care of your lungs, young 
 man. You look delicate." 
 
 Muller laughed, shook his head, and de- 
 clared at the top of his voice that he had 
 never had a day's illness in his life. 
 
 Here the pretty niece again interposed. 
 
 "Ah, Monsieur," she said, "my aunt 
 does not understand .... My — my uncle 
 Pierre was a house-painter." 
 
 "A very respectable occupation, Made- 
 moiselle," replied Muller, politely. " For 
 my own part, I would sooner paint the 
 insides of some houses than the outsides of 
 some people." 
 
 At this moment the train began to slacken 
 pace, and the steam was let off with a de- 
 moniac shriek. 
 
 " Tiens, man enfant,'' said the old lady, 
 turning towards her niece with affectionate 
 
The Fete at Courhevoie. 125 
 
 anxiety. " I hope you liuve not taken 
 cold." 
 
 The excellent soul believed that it was 
 Mademoiselle Marie who sneezed. 
 
 And now the train had stopped — the 
 porters were running along the platform, 
 shouting, " Courbevoie ! Courbevoie !" — the 
 passengers were scrambling out en masse — 
 and beyond the barrier one saw a confused 
 crowd of charrette and omnibus drivers, 
 touters, fruit-sellers, and idlers of every 
 desci'iption. Midler handed out the old 
 lady and the niece ; the fat countrywoman 
 scrambled up into a kind of tumbril driven 
 by a boy in sahots ; the grisettes and soldiers 
 walked off together ; and the tide of holi- 
 day-makers, some on foot, some in hired 
 vehicles, set towards the village. In the 
 meanwhile, what with the crowd on the 
 platform and the crowd outside the barrier, 
 and what with the hustling and pushing at 
 the point where the tickets were taken, we 
 lost sight of the old lady and her niece. 
 
 "What the deuce has become of ma 
 tante T' exclaimed Mliller, looking round. 
 
126 [n the Days of my Youth. 
 
 But neither ma tante nor xvladeiuoiselle 
 Marie were anywhere to be seen. I sug- 
 gested that they must have gone on in the 
 omnibus or taken a charrette, and so have 
 passed us unperceived. 
 
 " And after all," I added, " we didn't 
 want to enter upon an indissoluble union 
 with thejn for the rest of the day. 3Ia 
 tantes deafness is not entertaining, and la 
 pet'ite Marie has nothing to say." 
 
 '''' La petite Marie is uncommonly pretty, 
 though," said Mliller. " I mean to dance a 
 quadrille with her by-and-by, 1 promise 
 you." 
 
 "J. la bonne Iteure! We shall be sure to 
 chance upon them again before long." 
 
 We had come by this time to a group of 
 pretty villa-residences with high garden 
 Avails and little shady side-lanes leading 
 down to the river. Then came a church and 
 more houses ; then an open Place ; and sud- 
 denly we found ourselves in the midst of 
 the fair. 
 
 It was just like any other of the hundred 
 and one fetes that take place every summer in 
 
The FHe at Courhmne. 127 
 
 the environs of Paris. There was a merry- 
 go-round and a greasy pole ; there was a 
 juggler who swallowed knives and ribbons ; 
 there were fortune-tellers without number ; 
 there weredining-booths,anddrinking-booths, 
 and dancing-booths ; there were acrobats, 
 organ-boys with monkeys, and Savoyards 
 with white mice ; there were stalls for the 
 sale of cakes, fruit, sweetmeats, toys, combs, 
 cheap jewelry, glass, crockery, boots and 
 shoes, holy-water vessels, rosaries, medals, and 
 little coloured prints of saints and martyrs ; 
 there were brass ban'ds, and stringed bands, 
 and ballad-singers everywhere; and there was 
 an atmosphere compounded of dust, tobacco- 
 smoke, onions, musk, and every objection- 
 able perfume under heaven. 
 
 " Dine at the Restaurant de I'Empire, 
 Messieurs," shouted a shabby touter in a 
 blouse, thrusting a greasy card into our 
 faces. "Three dishes, a dessert, a half- 
 botile, and a band of music, for one franc- 
 iifty. The cheapest dinner in the fair !" 
 
 " The cheapest dinner in the fair is at the 
 Belle Gabrielle !" cried another. '" We'll 
 
128 A dinner at the Maison Doree. 
 
 give you for the same money soup, fish, two 
 dishes, a dessert, a half-bottle, and take your 
 photograph into the bargain !" 
 
 " Bravo ! mon vieux — -you first poison 
 them with your dinner, and then provide 
 photographs for the widows and children," 
 retorts touter number one. " That's justice, 
 anyhow." 
 
 Whereupon touter number two shrieks 
 out a torrent of abuse, and we push on, 
 leaving them to settle their differences after 
 their own fashion. 
 
 At the next booth we are accosted by a 
 burly fellow daubed to the eyes with red 
 and blue paint, and dressed as an Indian 
 chief. 
 
 ^^ Entrez, entrez, Messieurs et Mesdames^'' 
 he cries, flourishing a war-spear some nine 
 feet in length. " Come and see the won- 
 derful Peruvian maiden of Tanjore, with 
 webbed fino-ers and toes, her mouth in the 
 back of her head, and her eyes in the soles 
 of her feet ! Only four sous each, and an 
 opportunity that will never occur again !" 
 
 "Only fifty centimes!" shouts another 
 
TJte Fete at Courbevoie. 129 
 
 public orator; "the most ingenious little 
 machine ever invented ! Goes into the 
 waistcoat pocket — is wound up every twenty- 
 four hours — tells the day of the month, the 
 day of the year, the age of the moon, the 
 state of the Bourse, the- bank rate of dis- 
 count, the quarter from which the wind is 
 blowing, the price of new-laid eggs in Paris 
 and the provinces, the rate of mortality in the 
 Fee-jee islands, and the state of your sweet- 
 heart's affections !" 
 
 A little further on, by dint of much elbow- 
 ing, we made our way into a crowded booth 
 where, for the modest consideration of two 
 sous per head, might be seen a Boneless 
 Youth and an Ashantee King. The per- 
 formances were half over when we went in. 
 The Boneless Youth had gone through his 
 feats of agility, and was lying on a mat in a 
 corner of the stage, the picture of limp inca- 
 pability. The Ashantee monarch was just 
 about to make his appearance. Meanwhile, 
 a little man in fleshino-s and a cocked hat 
 addressed the audience. 
 
 " Messieurs and Mesdames — I have the 
 
 VOL. II. K 
 
130 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 honour to announce that Caraba Radokala, 
 King of Ashantee, will next appear before 
 you. This terrific native sovereign was 
 taken captive by that famous Dutch navi- 
 <.',ator the Mynheer Van Dunk, in his last 
 voyage round the globe. Van Dunk, hav- 
 ing brought his prisoner to Europe in an 
 iron cage, sold him to the English govern- 
 ment in 1840; who sold him again to Milord 
 Barnum, the great American philanthropist, 
 in 1842; who sold him again to Franconi of 
 the Cirque Olympique; who finally sold him 
 to me. At the time of his capture, Caraba 
 Radokala was the most treacherous, bar- 
 barous, and sanguinary monster upon record. 
 He had three hundred and sixty-five wives 
 — a wife, you observe, for every day in the 
 year. He lived exclusively upon human 
 flesh, and consumed, when in good health, 
 one baby per diem. His palace in Ashantee 
 was built entirely of the skulls and leg bones 
 of his victims. He is now, however, much 
 less ferocious ; and, though he feeds on live 
 pigeons, rabbits, dogs, mice, and the like, 
 he has not tasted human flesh since his 
 
The Fete at Courhevoie. 131 
 
 captivity. He is also heavily ironed. The 
 distinguished company need therefore enter- 
 tain no apprehensions. Pierre — draw the 
 bolt, and let his majesty loose!" 
 
 A savage roar was now heard, followed 
 by a rattling of chains. Then the curtains 
 were suddenly drawn back, and the Ashantee 
 king — crowned with a feather head-dress, 
 loaded with red and blue war-paint, and 
 chained from ankle to ankle — bounded on 
 the stage. 
 
 Seeing the audience before him, he ut- 
 tered a terrific howl. The front rows were 
 visibly agitated. Several young women 
 faintly screamed. 
 
 The little man in the cocked hat rushed 
 to the front, protesting that tlie ladies had 
 no reason to be alarmed. Caraba Rado- 
 kala, if not wantonly provoked, was now 
 quite harmless — a little irritable, perhaps, 
 from being waked too suddenly — would be 
 as gentle as a lamb, if given something to 
 eat : — '' Pierre, quiet his majesty with a 
 pigeon !" 
 
 Pierre, a lank lad in motley, hereupon 
 
 K 2 
 
132 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 appeared with a live pigeon, which imme- 
 diately escaped from his hands and perched 
 on the top of the proscenium. Caraba 
 Radokala yelled ; the little man in the 
 cocked hat raved ; and Pierre, in default of 
 more pigeons, contritely reappeared with a 
 lump of raw beef, into which his majesty 
 ravenously duoj his royal teeth. The pigeon, 
 meanwhile, dressed its feathers and looked 
 complacently down, as if used to the incident. 
 
 "Having fed, Caraba Radokala will now 
 be quite gentle and good-humoured," said 
 the showman. " If any lady desires to 
 shake hands with him, she may do so with 
 perfect safety. Will any lady embrace the 
 opportunity ?" 
 
 A faint sound of tittering was heard in 
 various parts of the booth ; but no one came 
 forward. 
 
 "Will no lady be persuaded? Well, 
 then, is there any gentleman present who 
 speaks Ashantee ?" 
 
 Mliller gave me a dig with his elbow, and 
 started to his feet. 
 
 " Yes," he replied, loudly. " I do." 
 
The Fete at Courhevoie. ^ 88 
 
 Every head was instantly turned in our 
 direction. 
 
 The showman collapsed with astonish- 
 ment. Even the captive, despite his 
 ignorance of the French tongue, looked 
 considerably startled. 
 
 " Comment .'" stammered the cocked hat. 
 " Monsieur speaks Ashantee ?"' 
 
 " Fluently." 
 
 " Is it permitted to enquire how and 
 when monsieur acquired this very unusual 
 accomplishment?" 
 
 "I have spoken Ashantee from my in- 
 fancy," replied Muller, with admirable 
 aplomb. " I was born at sea, brought up 
 in an undiscovered island, twice kidnapped 
 by hostile tribes before attaining the age of 
 ten years, and have lived among savage 
 nations all my life." 
 
 A murmur of admiration ran through the 
 audience, and Muller became, for the time, an 
 object of livelier interest than Caraba Rado- 
 kala himself Seeing this, the indignant 
 monarch executed a warlike pas^ and rattled 
 his chains fiercely. 
 
1 34 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 " In that case, monsieur, you had better 
 come upon the stage, and speak to his 
 majesty," said the showman reluctantly. 
 
 " With all the pleasure in life." 
 
 " But I warn you that his temper is un- 
 certain." 
 
 " Bah !" said Miiller, working his way 
 round through the crowd, " I'm not afraid 
 of his temper." 
 
 " As monsieur pleases — but, if monsieur 
 oflPends him, / will not be answerable for the 
 consequences." 
 
 " All right — give us a hand up, man 
 vieux f' 
 
 And Miiller, having clambered upon the 
 stage, made a bow to the audience and a 
 salaam to his majesty^ 
 
 " Chickahominy chowdar bang," said he, 
 by way of opening the conversation. 
 
 The ex-king of Ashantee scowled, folded 
 his arms, and maintained a haughty silence. 
 
 " Hie hac horum, high cockalorum," con- 
 tinued Miiller, with exceeding suavity. 
 
 The captive monarch stamped impatiently, 
 ground his teeth, but still made no reply. 
 
The Fete at Courbevoie. 135 
 
 " Monsieur had better not aggravate him,'' 
 said the showman. 
 
 " On the contrary — I am overwhelming 
 him with civilities. Now observe — I con- 
 dole with him upon his melancholy position; 
 I enquire after his wives and children ; and 
 I remark how uncommonly well he is look- 
 mg. 
 
 And with this, he made another salaam, 
 smiled persuasively, and said — 
 
 " Alpha, beta, gamma, delta — chin-chin — 
 Potz tausend ! — Erin-go-bragh !"' 
 
 " Borriobooloobah !" shrieked his majesty, 
 apparently stung to desperation. 
 
 " Rocofoco f retorted Miiller promptly. 
 
 But as if this last was more than any 
 Ashantee temper could bear, Caraba Rodo- 
 kala clenched both his fists, set his teeth 
 hard, and charged down upon MuUer like a 
 wild elephant. Being met, however, by a 
 well-planted blow between the eyes, he went 
 down like a ninepin — picked himself up, — 
 rushed in again, and, being forcibly seized 
 and held back by the cocked hat, Pierre of 
 the pigeons, and a third man who came 
 
136 In the Dai/.^ '\f iim Yonth. 
 
 tumbling up precipitately from somewhere 
 behind the stage, vented his fury, in a tor- 
 rent of very highly civilized French oaths. 
 
 " Eh, sacredieu !" he cried, shaking his 
 fist in MUller's face, " I've not done with 
 you yet, diable de gahrlen /" 
 
 Whereupon there burst forth a general 
 roar — a roar like the " inextinguishable 
 laughter " of Olympus. 
 
 " Tiensf said Mliller, "his majesty speaks 
 French almost as well as I speak Ashantee !" 
 
 " Bourreaii! Brigaiid! Assassin T shrieked 
 his Ferocity, as his friends hustled him off 
 the stage. 
 
 The curtains then fell together again ; and 
 the audience, still laughing vociferously, dis- 
 .persed with cries of "Vive Caraba Rodo- 
 kala !" " Kind remembrances to the Queens 
 of Ashantee !" " What's the latest news 
 from home ? " " Borriobooloobah — ah — 
 ah!" 
 
 Elbowing our way out with the crowd, 
 we now plunged once more into the press of 
 the fair. Here our old friends the dancing 
 dogs of the Champs Elysees, and the familiar 
 
Thi' Fete at (^ourhevoie. 137 
 
 charlatan of the Place du Chfitelet with his 
 chariot and barrel-organ, transported us from 
 Ashantee to Paris. Next we came to a tem- 
 porary shooting-gallery, adorned over the en- 
 trance with a spirited cartoon of a Tyrolean 
 sharpshooter ; and then to an exhibition of 
 cosmoramas ; and presently to a weighing-ma- 
 chine, in which a great, rosy-cheeked, laugh- 
 ing Normandy peasant girl, with her high cap, 
 blue skirt, massive gold cross and heavy ear- 
 rings, was in the act of beinoj weidied. 
 
 " Tiens ! MamseUe est joliment solide /" re- 
 marks a saucy bystander, as the owner of 
 the machine piles on weight after weight. 
 
 " Perhaps if I had no more brains than 
 m'sieur, I should wei2;h as Yvjhi !" retorts the 
 damsel, with a toss of her high cap. 
 
 ''^ Pcirdon ! it is not a question of brains — 
 it is a question of hearts," interposes an 
 elderly exquisite in a white hat. " Mara'selle 
 has captured so many that she is completely 
 overweighted." 
 
 " Twelve stone six ounces," pronounces 
 the owner of the machine, adjusting the last 
 weight. 
 
138 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 Whereupon there is a burst of ironical 
 applause, and the big paysanne^ half laugh- 
 ing, half angry, walks off, exclaiming, " Eh 
 Men ! tant mieux ! I've no mind to be a 
 scarecrow — moi /" 
 
 By this time we have both had enough of 
 the fair, and are glad to make our way out 
 of the crowd and down to the river-side. 
 Here we find lovers strolling in pairs along 
 the towing-path ; family groups pic-nic-ing in 
 the shade ; boats and punts for hire ; and a 
 swimming-match just coming off, of which 
 all that is visible are two black heads bob- 
 bing up and down along the middle of the 
 stream. 
 
 " And now, mon ami, what do you vote 
 for ?" asks Miiller. " Boating or fishing ? 
 or both ? or neither ?" 
 
 " Both, if you like — but I never caught 
 anything in my life." 
 
 "The pleasure of fishing, I take it," says 
 Mliller, " is not in the fish you catch, but in 
 the fish you miss. The fish you catch is a 
 poor little wretch, worth neither the trouble 
 of landing, cooking, nor eating; but the fish 
 
The Fete at Courbevoie. 139 
 
 you miss is always the finest fellow you ever 
 saw in your life !" 
 
 '^ AIlo?is doncl I know, then, which of 
 us two will have most of the pleasure to- 
 day," I reply, laughing. " But how about 
 the expense ?" 
 
 To which Mliller, with a noble reckless- 
 ness, answers : — 
 
 " Oh, hang the expense ! Here, boat- 
 man ! a boat a quatre rames, and some fish- 
 ing-tackle — by the hour." 
 
 Now it was undoubtedly a fine sentiment 
 this of Muller's, and had we but fetched my 
 two Napoleons before starting I should 
 have applauded it to the echo ; but when I 
 considered that something very nearly ap- 
 proaching to a franc had already filtered 
 out of our pockets in passing through the 
 fair, and that the hour of dinner was loom- 
 ing somewhat indefinitely in the distance, I 
 confess that my soul became disquieted 
 within me. 
 
 " Don't forget, for heaven's sake," I said, 
 " that we must keep something for dinner !" 
 
 " My dear fellow," he replied, " I* have 
 
140 In the Dai/ft of mil Youth. 
 
 already a tremendous appetite for dinner — 
 that is something." 
 
 After this, I resigned myself to whatever 
 might happen. 
 
 We then rowed up tlie river for about a 
 mile beyond Courbevoie, moored our boat 
 to a friendly willow, put our fishing-tackle 
 together, and composed ourselves for the 
 gentle excitement that waits upon the gud- 
 geon and the minnow. 
 
 " I haven't yet had a single nibble," said 
 Mliller, when we had been sitting to our 
 Avork for something less than ten minutes. 
 
 " Hush !" I said. " You mustn't speak, 
 3'ou know." 
 
 " True — I had forgotten. I'll sing instead. 
 Fishes, I have been told, are fond of music. 
 
 ' Fanfan, je vous aimerais bieu ; 
 C'outre vous je n'ai nul caprice ; 
 Vous etes gentil, j'en convieii . . .'" 
 
 " Come, now !" I exclaimed pettishly, 
 " this is really too bad. I had a bite — a 
 most decided bite — and if you had only kept 
 quiet " . . . . 
 
 " Nonsense, my dear fellow ! I tell you 
 
The 'Fete at Courbevoie. 141 
 
 again — and 1 have it on the best authorit}' 
 — fishes like music. Did you never hear of 
 Arion ? Have you forgotten about the 
 Syrens ? Believe nie, your gudgeon nibbled 
 because I sang hiiu to the surface — just as 
 the snakes come out for the sono- of the 
 snake-charmer. Til trv aiijain !" 
 And with this he becjan : — 
 
 " Jeannette est une brune 
 Qui demeure a Pantiu, 
 Ou toute sa fortune 
 Est un petit jardin !" 
 
 " Well, if you go on like that, all I have 
 to say is that not a fish will come within 
 half a mile of our bait," said I, with tranquil 
 despair. 
 
 ''^ Alas ! man cher, I am grieved to observe 
 in your otherwise estimable character, a 
 melancholy want of faith," replied Miillei'. 
 " Without faith, what is friendship ? What 
 is angling ? What is matrimony ? Now, I 
 tell you that with regard to the finny tribe, 
 the more I charm them, the more entliusi- 
 astically they will flock to be caught. We 
 shall have a miraculous draught in a few 
 minutes, if you are but patient." 
 
142 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 And then he began again : — 
 
 " Mimi Pinson est une blonde, 
 Une blonde que Ton connait. 
 Elle n'a qu'une robe au monde, 
 Land.erirette ! 
 Et qu'un bonnet." 
 
 I laid aside my rod, folded ray arras, and 
 when he had done, applauded ironically. 
 
 "Very good," I said. " I understand the 
 situation. Wq are here, at some — indeed, 
 I may say, considering the state of our ex- 
 chequer, at a considerable mutual expense ; 
 not to catch fish, but to afford the Herr 
 iMiiller an opportunity of exercising his ex- 
 tensive menior}^ and his limited baritone 
 voice. The entertainment is not without its 
 ayrements, but I find it dear at the price." 
 
 " Tiensf, Arbuthnot ! let us fish seriously. 
 I promise not to open my lips again till you 
 have caught something." 
 
 "Then, seriously, I believe you would 
 have to be silent the whole night, and all T 
 should catch would be the rheumatism. I 
 am the worst angler in the worh^, and the 
 most unlucky." 
 
 "Really and truly?" 
 
The Fete at Courhevoie. 143 
 
 " Really and truly. And you ?" 
 
 " As bad as yourself. If a tolerably large 
 and energetic fish did me the honour to 
 swallow my bait, the probability is that he 
 would catch me. I certainly shouldn't know 
 what to do with him." 
 
 "Then the present question is — what shall 
 we do with ourselves ?" 
 
 " I vote that we row up as far as yonder 
 bend in the river, just to see what lies be- 
 yond ; and then back to Courbevoie." 
 
 " Heaven only grant that by that time we 
 shall have enough money left for dinner !" I 
 nmr mured with a sigh. 
 
 We rowed up the river as far as the first 
 bend, a distance of about half a mile ; and 
 then we rowed on as far as the next bend. 
 Then we turned, and, resting on our oars, 
 drifted slowly back with the current. The 
 evening was indescribably brilliant and se- 
 rene. The skv was cloudless, of a ejreenish 
 blue, and full of light. The river was clear 
 as glass. We could see the flaccid water- 
 weeds swaying languidly with the current 
 far below, and now and then a shoal of tiny 
 
14'1 In the iJnys of my Youth. 
 
 fish shooting; aloua' liali'-way between the 
 weeds and the surface. A rich frinsje of 
 purple iris, spear-leafed Sagittarius, and tufted 
 meadow-sweet (each blossom a bouquet on a 
 slender thyrsus) bordered the towing-path 
 and filled the air with perfume. Here the 
 meadows lay open to the Avater's edge ; a 
 little farther on, they were sluit off by a close 
 rampart of poplars and wiHows wliose leaves, 
 already yellowed by autumn, were now fiery 
 in the sunset. Joyous bands of gnats, like 
 wild little intoxicated maenads, circled and 
 hummed about our heads as we drifted slowly 
 on ; while, far away and mellowed by dis- 
 tance, we heard the brazen music of the fair. 
 
 We were both silent. MilUer pulled out 
 a small sketch-book and made a rapid study 
 of the scene — the reach in the river ; the 
 wooded banks ; the green flats traversed by 
 long lines of stunted polhu'ds ; the church- 
 tops and roof's of Coui'bevoie beyond. 
 
 Presently a soft voice, singing, broke upon 
 the silence. Miiller stopped involuntarily, 
 pencil in hand. I held my breath, and lis- 
 tened. The tune was flowing and sweet; 
 
The Fete at Courhevoie. 145 
 
 and as our boat drifted on, the words of the 
 sinsrer became audible. 
 
 o 
 
 " O miroir ondoyant! 
 Je reve en te voyant 
 Harmonie et lumiere, 
 
 O ma riviere, 
 O ma belle riviere ! 
 
 " On voit se reflechir 
 Daustses eaux les nuages; 
 Elle semble dormir 
 Entre les paturages 
 Oil paissent les grands boeufa 
 Et les grasses genisses. 
 Aux patres amoureux 
 Que ses bords sont propices !" 
 
 " A woman's voice," said Muller. " Du- 
 pont's words and music. She must be young 
 and pretty . . . where has she hidden her- 
 self?" 
 
 The unseen singer, meanwhile, went on 
 with another verse. 
 
 " Pres des iris du bord, 
 Sous une berge haute, 
 La carpe aux reflets d'or 
 Oil le barbeau ressaute, 
 Les goujons font le guet, 
 L'Ablette qui scintille 
 Fuit le dent du brochet ; 
 Au fond rampe Tanguille ! 
 
 VOL. II. L 
 
146 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 " O miroir ondoyant ! 
 Je reve en te voyant 
 Harmonie et lumiere, 
 
 O ma riviere, 
 O ma belle riviere !" 
 
 " Look !" said Miiller. " Do you not see 
 them yonder — two women under the trees ? 
 By Jupiter ! it's ma tante and la petite Marie ! 
 
 Saying which, he flung himself upon his 
 oars and began pulling vigorously towards 
 the shore. 
 
That terrible Midler. 147 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 That terrible Muller. 
 
 k petite Marie broke off at the 
 sound of our oars, and blushed a 
 becoming rose-colour. 
 "Will these ladies do us the honour of 
 letting us row them back to Courbevoie ?" 
 said Muller, running our boat close in against 
 the sedges, and pulling off his hat as re- 
 spectfully as if they were duchesses. 
 
 Mademoiselle Marie repeated the invita- 
 tion to her aunt, who accepted it at once. 
 
 " Tres volontiers, tres volontiers, messieurs.,''' 
 she said, smiling and nodding. " We have 
 rambled out so far — so far ! And I am not 
 as young as I was forty years ago. A\ man 
 Dieu ! how my old bones ache ! Give me 
 
 L 2 
 
148 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 thy hand, Marie, and thank the gentlemen 
 for their politeness." 
 
 So Mam'selle Marie helped her aunt to 
 rise, and we steadied the boat close under 
 the bank, at a point where the interlacing 
 roots of a couple of sallows made a kind of 
 natural step b}' means of which they could 
 easily get down. « 
 
 " Oh, dear ! dear ! it will not turn over, 
 will it, ray dear young man? Ciel ! I am 
 slipping . . . All, Dieu merci ! — Marie, ma 
 chere enfant, V^^Y ^^ careful not to jump in, 
 or you will upset us all !" 
 
 And ma tante, somewhat tremulous from 
 the ordeal of embarking, settled down in her 
 place, while Mliller lifted Mam'selle Marie 
 into the boat, as if she had been a child. 
 I then took the oars, leaving him to steer ; 
 and so we pursued our way towards Cour- 
 bevoie. 
 
 " Mam'selle has of course seen the fair ?" 
 said Muller, from behind the old lady's 
 back. 
 
 " No, monsieur." 
 
 " No ! Is it possible ?" 
 
That terrible Muller. 1 49 
 
 " There was so much crowd, monsieur, 
 and such a noise ... we were quite too much 
 afraid to venture in." 
 
 " Would you be afraid, raara'selle, to 
 venture with me ?" 
 
 " I — I do not know, monsieur." 
 
 " Ah, mam'selle, you might be very sure 
 that I would take good care of you !" 
 
 " Mais . . . monsieur "... 
 
 " These gentlemen, I see, have been 
 angling," said the old lady, addressing me 
 very graciously. " Have you caught many 
 fish ?" 
 
 " None at all, madanie," I replied, loudly. 
 
 " Tiens ! so many as that?" 
 
 " Pardo7i^ madame," I shouted at the top 
 of my voice. " We have caught nothing — 
 nothino; at all." 
 
 Ma tante smiled blandly. 
 
 " Ah, yes," she said ; " and you will have 
 them cooked presently for dinner, 7iest ce 
 pas? There is no fish so fresh, and so 
 well-flavoured, as the fish of our own catch- 
 ing." 
 
 "Will madame and mam'selle do us the 
 
150 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 honour to taste our fish and share our 
 modest dinner ?" said MUller, leaning for- 
 ward in his seat in the stern, and deliver- 
 ing his invitation close into the old lady's 
 ear. 
 
 To which ma tante^ with a readiness of 
 hearing for which no one would have given 
 her credit, replied : — 
 
 "But — but monsieur is very polite — if 
 we should not be inconveniencing these 
 gentlemen "... 
 
 "We shall be charmed, madame — we 
 shall be honoured !" 
 
 '■'' Eh biefil with pleasure, then — Marie, 
 my child, thank the gentlemen for their 
 amiable invitation." 
 
 I was thunderstruck. I looked at Miiller 
 to see if he had suddenl}^ gone out of his 
 senses. Mam'selle Marie, however, was in- 
 finitely amused. 
 
 ^^ Fi doncl monsieur," she said. "You 
 have no fish. I heard the other gentleman 
 say so." 
 
 " The other gentleman, mam'selle," re- 
 plied Miiller, " is an Englishman, and 
 
That terrible Muller. 151 
 
 troubled with the spleen. You must not 
 mind anything he says." 
 
 Troubled with the spleen ! I believe 
 myself to be as even-tempered and as ready 
 to fall in with a joke as most men ; but I 
 should have liked at that moment to punch 
 Franz Muller's head. Gracious heavens ! 
 into what a position he had now brought 
 us ! What was to be done ? How were 
 we to get out of it ? It was now just 
 seven ; and we had already been upon the 
 water for more than an hour. What should 
 we have to pay for the boat ? And when 
 we had paid for the boat, how much money 
 should we have left to pay for the dinner ? 
 Not for our own dinners — ah, no ! For 
 ma tante's dinner (and ma tante had a hungry 
 eye) ; and for la petite Marie's dinner ; and 
 la petite Marie, plump, rosy, and well-liking, 
 looked as if she might have a capital appe- 
 tite upon occasion ! Should we have as 
 much as two and a half francs ? I doubted 
 it. And then, in the absence of a miracle, 
 what could we do with two and a half 
 francs, if we had them ? A miserable sum ! 
 
1.52 In the Days of my Yoifth. 
 
 — convertible, perhaps, into as much bouilli, 
 bread and cheese, and tliin country wine as 
 might have satisfied our own hunger in a 
 prosaic and commonplace way ; but for four 
 persons, two of them women ! . . . 
 
 And tliis was not the worst of it. I 
 thought I knew Mliller well enough by this 
 time to feel that he would entirely dismiss 
 this minor consideration of ways and means; 
 that he would order the dinner as recklessly 
 as if we had twenty francs apiece in our 
 pockets ; and that he would not only order 
 it, but eat it and preside at it with all the 
 gaiety and audacity in life. 
 
 Then would come the horrible retribution 
 of the bill! 
 
 I felt myself turn red and hot at the mere 
 thought of it. 
 
 Then a dastardly idea insinuated itself into 
 my mind. I had my return-ticket in my 
 waistcoat-pocket : — what if I slipped away 
 presently to the station and went back to 
 Paris by the next train, leaving my clever 
 friend to improvise his way out of his own 
 scrape as best he could ? 
 
That terrible Miiller. 1 .5 3 
 
 In the meanwhile, as I was rowing with 
 the stream, we soon got back to Courbe- 
 voie. 
 
 " Are you mad ?" I said, as, having landed 
 the ladies, Miiller and I delivered up the 
 boat to its owner. 
 
 "Didn't I admit ifc, two or three hours 
 ago ?" he replied. " I wonder you don't 
 get tired, man c]w\ of asking the same ques- 
 tion so often." 
 
 " Four francs, fifty centimes, Messieurs," 
 said the boatman, having made fast his boat 
 to the landing-place. 
 
 " Four francs, fifty centimes !" I echoed, 
 in dismay. 
 
 Even Miiller looked aghast. 
 
 '' My good fellow," he said, " do you take 
 us for coiners ?" 
 
 " Hire of boat, two francs the hour. These 
 gentlemen have been out nearly one hour and 
 a half — three francs. Hire of bait and fish- 
 ing-tackle, one franc fifty. Total, four francs 
 and a half," replied the boatman, putting 
 out a great brown palm. 
 
 Miiller, who was acting as cashier and 
 
154 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 paymaster, pulled out his purse, deposited 
 one solitar}^ half-franc in the middle of that 
 brown palm, and suggested that the boat- 
 man and he should toss up for the remain- 
 ing four francs — or race for them — or play 
 for them — or fight for them. The boatman, 
 however, indignantly rejected each succes- 
 sive proposal, and, being paid at last, retired 
 with a decrescendo of oaths. 
 
 " Tiens r said Mliller, reflectively. " We 
 have but one franc left. One franc, two 
 sous, and a centime. Vive la France !" 
 
 " And you have actually asked that 
 wretched old woman and her niece to 
 dinner !" 
 
 " And I have actually solicited that ex- 
 cellent and admirable woman, Madame Ma- 
 rotte, relict of the late lamented Jacques 
 Marotte, umbrella maker, of number one 
 hundred and two. Rue du Faubourg St. 
 Denis, and her beautiful and accomplished 
 niece. Mademoiselle Marie Charpentier, to 
 honour us with their company this evening. 
 Dis-donc, what shall we give them for 
 dinner ?" 
 
That terrible Muller. 155 
 
 " Precisely what you invited them to, I 
 should guess — the fish we caught this after- 
 noon." 
 
 '* Agreed. And what else ?" 
 
 " Say — a dish of invisible greens, and a 
 phoenix a la Marengo.'' 
 
 " You are funny, mon chery 
 
 "Then, for fear I should become too 
 funny — good afternoon." 
 
 " What do you mean ?" 
 
 " I mean that I have no mind to dine 
 first, and be kicked out of doors afterwards. 
 It is one of those aids to digestion that I can 
 willingly dispense with." 
 
 " But if I guarantee that the dinner shall 
 be paid for — money down !" 
 
 " Tra la la !" 
 
 "You don't believe me? Well, come and 
 see." 
 
 With this, he went up to Madame Marotte, 
 who, with her niece, had sat down on a 
 bench under a walnut-tree close by, waiting 
 our pleasure. 
 
 " Would not these ladies prefer to rest 
 here, while we seek for a suitable restaurant 
 
156 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 and order the dinner ?" said Mliller insinuat- 
 ingly. 
 
 The old lady looked somewhat blank. 
 She was not too tired to s:o on — thou2!;ht it 
 a pity to bring us all the way back again — 
 would do, however, as " ces messieurs " 
 pleased ; and so was left sitting under the 
 walnut-tree, reluctant and disconsolate. 
 
 " Tiens ! mon enfant^'' I heard her say as 
 we turned away, " suppose they don't come 
 back again !" 
 
 We had promised to be gone not longer 
 than twenty minutes, or at most half an 
 hour. Mliller led the way straight to the 
 Toison d'Or. 
 
 I took him by the arm as we neared the 
 gate. 
 
 " Steady, steady, mon gaillard^'' I said. 
 " We don't order our dinner, you know, till 
 we've found the money to pay for it." 
 
 " True — but suppose I go in here to look 
 for it?" 
 
 " Into the restaurant garden ?" 
 
 " Precisely." 
 
The Petit Courier lllustrS. 157 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 The Petit Courier Illustre. 
 
 HE Toison dOr was but a modest 
 little establishment as regarded the 
 house, but it was surrounded on 
 three sides by a good-sized garden over- 
 looking the river. Here, in the trellised 
 arbours which lined the lawn on either 
 side, those customers who preferred the 
 open air could take their dinners, coffees, 
 and absinthes al fresco. 
 
 The scene when we arrived was at its 
 gayest. There were dinners going on in 
 every arbour ; waiters running distract- 
 edly to and fro with trays and bottles ; 
 two women, one with a guitar, the other 
 with a tambourine, sinmno^ under a tree 
 in the middle of the garden ; while in the 
 
 VOL. II. L 3 
 
158 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 air there reigned an exhilarating confu- 
 sion of sounds and smells impossible to 
 describe. 
 
 We went in. Miiller paused, looked 
 round, captured a passing waiter, and asked 
 for Monsieur le proprietaire. The waiter 
 pointed over his shoulder towards the 
 house, and breathlessly rushed on his 
 way. 
 
 Miiller at once led the way into a salon 
 on the ground-floor looking over the gar- 
 den. 
 
 Here we found ourselves in a large low 
 I'oora containing some thirty or forty tables, 
 and fitted up after the universal restaurant 
 pattern, with cheap-looking glasses, rows of 
 hooks, and spittoons in due number. The 
 air was heavy with the combined smells of 
 many dinners, and noisy with the clatter of 
 many tongues. Behind the fruits, cigars, 
 and liqueur bottles that decorated the 
 comptoir sat a plump, black-eyed little wo- 
 man in a gorgeous cap and a red silk dress. 
 This ladv welcomed us with a bewitch- 
 
The Petit Courier Illustre. 159 
 
 ing smile and a gracious inclination of the 
 head. 
 
 *' Ces messieurs,'" she said, " will find a 
 vacant table yonder, by the window." 
 
 Miiller bowed majestically. 
 
 " Madame," he said, " I wish to see Mon- 
 sieur le proprietaire." 
 
 The dame de comptoir looked very un- 
 easy. 
 
 " If Monsieur has any complaint to 
 make," she said, " he can make it to 
 me." 
 
 " Madame, I have none." 
 
 "Or if it has reference to the ordering 
 of a dinner " . . . . 
 
 Miiller smiled loftily. 
 
 " Dinner, Madame," he said, with a dis- 
 dainful gesture, " is but one of the acci- 
 dents common to humanity. A trifle ! A 
 trifle always humiliating — sometimes in- 
 convenient — occasionally impossible. No, 
 Madame, mine is a serious mission ; a mis- 
 sion of the highest importance, both social- 
 ly and commercially. May I beg that you 
 
160 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 will have the goodness to place my card in 
 the hands of Monsieur le proprietaire, and 
 say that I request the honour of five min- 
 utes' interview." 
 
 The little woman's eyes had all this time 
 been getting rounder and blacker. She 
 was evidently confounded by my friend's 
 grandiloquence. 
 
 " Ah ! mon Dieu ! M'sieur,^^ she said, ner- 
 vously, " my husband is in the kitchen. It 
 is a busy day with us, you understand — but 
 I will send for him." 
 
 And she forthwith despatched a waiter 
 for " Monsieur Choucru." 
 
 Miiller seized me by the arm. 
 
 " Heavens !" he exclaimed, in a very 
 audible aside, " did you hear ? She is his 
 wife ! She is Madame Choucru !" 
 
 " Well, and what of that ?" 
 
 " What of that, indeed ? Mais, mon 
 ami, how can you ask the question ? 
 Have you no eyes ? Look at her ! 
 Such a remarkably handsome woman — 
 such a tournure — such eyes — such a fig- 
 
The Petit Courier Illustre. 161 
 
 ure for an illustration ! Only conceive 
 the effect of Madame Choucru — in medal- 
 lion !" 
 
 " Oh, magnificent !" I replied. " Magni- 
 ficent — in medallion." 
 
 But I could not, for the life of me, ima- 
 gine what he was driving at. 
 
 "And it would make the fortune of the 
 Toison dOr,'' he added solemnly. 
 
 To which I replied that it would un- 
 doubtedly do so. 
 
 Monsieur Choucru now came upon the 
 scene ; a short, rosy, round-faced little 
 man in a white flat cap and bibbed apron 
 — like an elderly cherub that had taken 
 to cookery. He hung back upon the 
 threshold, wiping his forehead, and evi- 
 dently unwilling to show himself in his 
 shirt-sleeves. 
 
 " Here, mon bon,'' cried Madame, who 
 was by this time crimson with gratified 
 vanity, and in a fever of curiosity ; " this 
 
 way — the gentleman is waiting to speak to 
 
 I" 
 you! 
 
 VOL. II. M 
 
162 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 Monsieur the cook and proprietor shuffled 
 his feet to and fro in the doorway, but came 
 no nearer. 
 
 ^' Parbleu f he said, "if M'sieurs business 
 is not urgent." 
 
 " It is extremely urgent, Monsieur 
 Choucru," replied Miiller ; " and, more- 
 over, it is not so much my business as it 
 is yours." 
 
 " Ah bah ! if it is my business, then, it 
 may stand over till to-morrow," replied the 
 little man, impatiently. " To-day I have 
 eighty dinners on hand, and with M'sieurs 
 permission " . . . . 
 
 But Miiller strode to the door and caught 
 him by the shoulder. 
 
 " No, Monsieur Choucru," he said stern- 
 ly, " I will not let you ruin yourself by 
 putting off till to-morrow what can only 
 be done to-day. I have come here, Mon- 
 sieur Choucru, to offer you fame. Fame 
 and fortune, Monsieur Choucru ! — and I 
 will not suffer you, for the sake of a 
 few miserable dinners, to turn your back 
 
The Petit Courier Illustre. 163 
 
 upon the most brilliant moment of your 
 life !" 
 
 " Mais Msieur — explain yourself "... 
 stammered the proprietaire. 
 
 " You know who I am, Monsieur Chou- 
 cru c 
 
 " No, M'sieur — not in the least." 
 
 " I am Mliller — Franz Miiller — landscape 
 painter, portrait painter, historical painter, 
 caricaturist, artist en chef to the Petit Courier 
 Illustre." 
 
 " Hein ! M'sieur est peintre .'" 
 
 "Yes, Monsieur Choucru — and I offer 
 you my protection." 
 
 Monsieur Choucru scratched his ear, and 
 smiled doubtfully. 
 
 " Now listen. Monsieur Choucru — I am 
 here to-day in the interests of the Petit 
 Courier Illustre. I take the Courbevoie fete 
 for my subject. I sketch the river, the vil- 
 lage, the principal features of the scene ; 
 and on Saturday ray designs are in the 
 hands of all Paris. Do you understand 
 me?" 
 
 M 2 
 
164 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 " I understand that M'sieur is all this 
 time talking to me of his own business, 
 while mine, la has, is standing still !" ex- 
 claimed the proprietaire, in an agony of 
 impatience. " I have the honour to wish 
 M'sieur good day." 
 
 But Miiller seized him again, and would 
 not let him escape. 
 
 " Not so fast, Monsieur Choucru," he 
 said ; " not so fast ! Will you answer me 
 one question before you go ?" 
 
 " E\ man Dieu ! Monsieur " . . . . 
 
 " Will you tell me, Monsieur Chou- 
 cru, what is to prevent me from giving 
 a view of the best restaurant in Courbe- 
 voie ?" 
 
 Madame Choucru, from behind the comp- 
 toij\ uttered a little scream. 
 
 '' A design in the Petit Courier Illustre, I 
 need scarcely tell you," pursued Miiller, 
 with indescribable pomposit}^, "is in itself 
 sufficient to make the fortune not only of 
 an establishment, but of a neighbourhood. 
 I am about to make Courbevoie the fashion. 
 
The Petit Courier lUustre. 165 
 
 The sun of Asnieres, of Montmorency, of 
 Eno;hien has set — the sun of Courbevoie is 
 about to rise. My sketches will produce an 
 unheard-of effect. All Paris will throng to 
 your fetes next Sunday and Monday — all 
 Paris, with its inexhaustible appetite for 
 bifteck aux pomnies frttes — all Paris with its 
 unquencliable thirst for absinthe and Bava- 
 rian beer ! Now, Monsieur Choucru, do you 
 begin to understand me?" 
 
 " Mais, Monsieur, I — I think . . . . " 
 
 " You think you do, ]\Ionsieur Choucru ? 
 Very good. Then will you please to answer 
 me one more question. What is to prevent 
 me from conferring fame, fortune, and other 
 benefits too numerous to mention, on 3^our 
 excellent neio;hbour at the corner of the 
 Place — Monsieur Coquille of the Restaurant 
 Croix de Malte V 
 
 Monsieur Choucru scratched his ear 
 again, stared helplessly at his wife, and said 
 nothing'. Madame looked rjrave, 
 
 "Are we to treat this matter on the foot- 
 ing of a business transaction, Monsieur ?" 
 she asked, somewhat sharply. " Because, 
 
166 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 if so, let Monsieur at once name his price 
 for the " 
 
 " ' Price,' Madame !" interrupted Miiller, 
 with a start of horror. " Gracious powers ! 
 this to me — to Franz Miiller of the Petit 
 Courier lllusire\ No, Madame — you mis- 
 take me — you wound me — you touch the 
 honour of the Fine Arts ! Madame, I am 
 incapable of selling my patronage." 
 
 Madame clasped her hands ; raised her 
 voice ; rolled her black eyes ; did everything 
 but burst into tears. She was shocked to 
 have offended Monsieur ! She was pro- 
 foundly desolated ! She implored a thou- 
 sand pardons ! And then, like a true 
 Frenchwoman of business, she brought back 
 the conversation to the one important 
 point : — since money was not in question, 
 upon what consideration would Monsieur 
 accord his preference to the Toison d ^Or 
 instead of to the Croix de Malte ? 
 
 Miiller bowed, laid his hand upon his 
 heart, and said : — 
 
 " I will do it, pour les beaux yeux de Ma- 
 dame ^ 
 
The Petit Courier lUustre. 167 
 
 And then, in graceful recognition of the 
 little man's rights as owner of the eyes in 
 question, he bowed to Monsieur Choucru. 
 
 Madame was inexpressibly charmed. 
 Monsieur smiled, fid^etted, and cast lon2:iniJr 
 
 7 0/ CO 
 
 glances towards the door. 
 
 " I have eighty dinners on hand," he 
 began again, " and if M'sieur will excuse 
 me " 
 
 " One moment more, my dear Monsieur 
 Choucru," said Mliller, slipping his hand 
 affectionately through the little man's arm. 
 " For myself, as I have already told you, I 
 can accept nothing — but I am bound in 
 honour not to nesjlect the interests of the 
 journal I represent. You will of course 
 wish to express your sense of the compli- 
 ment paid to your house by adding your 
 name to the subscription list of the Petit 
 Courier lllustre f " 
 
 " Oh, by — by all means — with pleasure," 
 faltered the proprietaire. 
 
 " For how many copies, Monsieur Chou- 
 cru ? Shall we say — six ?" 
 
 Monsieur looked at Madame. Madame 
 
1G8 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 nodded. Mliller took out his pocket-book, 
 and waited, pencil in hand. 
 
 " Eh — parbleu ! — let it be for six, then," 
 said Monsieur Choucru, somewhat reluc- 
 tantly. 
 
 Mliller made the entry, shut up the 
 pocket-book, and shook hands boisterously 
 with his victim. 
 
 " My dear Monsieur Choucru," he said, 
 " I cannot tell you how gratifying this is to 
 my feelings, or with what disinterested satis- 
 faction I shall make your establishment 
 known to the Parisian public. You shall 
 be immortalised, my dear fellow — positively 
 immortalized !" 
 
 ''^ Bien oblige^ Msieur — hien oblige. Will 
 you not let ray wife offer you a glass of 
 liqueure ?" 
 
 " Liqueure, mon cher !" exclaimed Mliller, 
 with an outburst of frank cordiality — " hang 
 liqueure ! — we'll dine with you !" 
 
 " Monsieur shall be heartily welcome to 
 the best dinner the Toison dOr can send 
 up ; and his friend also," said Madame, with 
 her sweetest smile. 
 
The Petit Courier Illustre. 169 
 
 "Ah, Madame!" 
 
 " And M'sieur Choucru shall make you 
 one of his famous cheese souffles. Tiens^ 
 mon hon, go down and prepare a cheese 
 souffle for two." 
 
 Miiller smote his forehead distractedly. 
 
 " For two !" he cried. " Heavens ! I had 
 forgotten my aunt and my cousin !" 
 
 Madame looked up inquiringly. *• 
 
 " Monsieur has forgotten something?" 
 
 "Two somethings, Madame — two some- 
 bodies ! My aunt — my excellent and ad- 
 mirable maternal aunt, — and my cousin. 
 We left them sitting under a tree by the 
 river-side, more than half an hour ago. 
 But the fault, Madame, is yours." 
 
 "How, Monsieur?" 
 
 " Yes ; for in your charming society I 
 forget the ties of family and the laws of 
 politeness. But I hasten to fetch my for- 
 gotten relatives. With what pleasure they 
 will share your amiable hospitality! Au 
 revov% Madame. In ten minutes we shall be 
 with you again !" 
 
 Madame Choucru looked grave. She 
 
170 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 had not bargained to entertain a party 
 of four ; yet she dared not disoblige the 
 Petit Courier Illustre. She had no time, 
 however, to demur to the arrangement ; for 
 Miiller, ingeniously taking her acquiescence 
 for granted, darted out of the room without 
 waiting for an answer. 
 
 " Miserable man !" I exclaimed, as soon 
 as wc were outside the doors, " what will 
 you do now ?" 
 
 " Do ! Why, fetch ray admirable mater- 
 pal aunt and my interesting cousin, to be 
 sure.", 
 
 " But you have raised a dinner under false 
 pretences !" 
 
 " I, man cher ? Not a bit of it." 
 
 " Have you, then, really anything to do 
 with the Petit Courier Illustre T' 
 
 " The Editor of the Petit Courier Illustre 
 is one of the best fellows in the world, and 
 occasionally (when my pockets represent 
 that vacuum which Nature very properly 
 abhors) he advances me a couple of Na- 
 poleons. I wipe out the score from time to 
 time by furnishing a design for the paper. 
 
Tlie Petit Courier Illustre. 171 
 
 Now to-day, you see, I'm in luck. I shall 
 pay off two obligations at once — to say 
 nothing of Monsieur Choucru's six-fold sub- 
 scription to the P.C., on which the publish- 
 ers will allow me a douceur of thirty francs. 
 Now, confess that I'm a man of genius ! " 
 
 In less than a quarter of an hour we were 
 all four established round one of Madame 
 Choucru's comfortable little dining-tables, 
 in a snug recess at the farthest end of the 
 salon. Here, being well out of reach of 
 our hostess's black eyes, Milller assumed all 
 the airs of a liberal entertainer. He hung 
 up ma cousines bonnet ; fetched a footstool 
 for ma tante ; criticised the sauces ; presided 
 over the wine ; cut jokes with the waiter ; 
 and pretended to have ordered every dish 
 beforehand. The stewed kidneys with mush- 
 rooms were provided especially for Madame 
 Marotte ; the fricandeau was selected in 
 honour of Mam'selle Marie (had he not an 
 innate presentiment that she loved frican- 
 deau ?) ; and as for the soles au gratin, he 
 swore, in defiance of probability and all the 
 laws of nature, that they were the very fish 
 
172 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 we had just caught in the Seine. By-and- 
 by came Monsieur Choucru's famous cheese 
 souffle; and then, with a dish of fruit, four 
 cups of coffee, and four glasses of liqueure, 
 the banquet came to an end. 
 
 As we sat at dessert, Mliller pulled out 
 his book and pencilled a rapid but flattering 
 sketch of the dining-room interior, develop- 
 ing a perspective as long as the Rue de 
 Rivoli, and a moh'dier at least equal in splen- 
 dour to that of the Trois Freres. 
 
 At sight of this chef cfoeuvre, Madame 
 Choucru was moved almost to tears. Ah, 
 heaven ! if Monsieur could only figure to 
 himself her admiration for his beau talent ! 
 But alas ! that was impossible — as impossible 
 as that Monsieur Choucru should ever repay 
 this unheard-of obligation ! 
 
 Mliller laid his hand upon his heart, and 
 bowed profoundly. 
 
 " Ah ! Madame," he said, " it is not to 
 Monsieur Choucru that I look for repay- 
 ment — it is to you." 
 
 "To me, Monsieur? Dieu merci ! Mon- 
 sieur se moque de moi f 
 
The Petit Courier Illustre. 173 
 
 And the Dame de Comptoir, entrenched 
 behind her fruits and liqueure bottles, shot 
 a Parthian glance from under her black eye- 
 lashes, and made believe to blush, 
 
 " Yes, Madame, to you. I only ask per- 
 mission to come again very soon, for the 
 purpose of executing a little portrait of Ma- 
 dame — a little portrait which, alas ! must 
 fail to render adequate justice to such a 
 multitude of charms." 
 
 And with this choice compliment, Muller 
 bowed again, took his leave, bestowed a 
 whole franc upon the astonished waiter, and 
 departed from the Toison dOr in an atmo- 
 sphere of glory. 
 
 The fair, or rather that part of the fair 
 where the dancers and diners most did 
 congregate, was all ablaze with lights and 
 noisy with brass bands as we came out. 
 Ma tante, who was somewhat tired, and had 
 been dozing for the last half hour over her 
 coffee and liqueure, was impatient to get 
 back to Paris. The fair Marie, who was 
 not tired at all, confessed that she should 
 enjoy a waltz above everything. While 
 
174 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 Miiller, who professed to be an animated 
 time-table, swore that we were just too late 
 for the ten minutes past ten train, and that 
 there would be no other before eleven 
 forty-five. So Madame Marotte was carried 
 off, hon gjx', mal gre, to a dancing-booth, 
 where gentlemen were admitted on payment 
 of forty centimes per head, and ladies went 
 in free. 
 
 Here, despite the noise, the dust, the 
 braying of an abominable band, the over- 
 whelming smell of lamp-oil, and the clatter, 
 not only of heavy walking-boots, but even 
 of several pairs of sabots upon an uneven 
 Hoor of loosely-joined planks — ma tante, 
 being disposed of in 'a safe corner, went 
 soundly to sleep. 
 
 It was a larf'e booth, somewhat over-full; 
 and the company consisted mainly of Pari- 
 sian blue-blouses, little foot-soldiers, grisettes 
 (for there were grisettes in those days, and 
 plenty of them), v/ith a sprinkling of farm- 
 boys and dairymaids from the villages round 
 about. We found this select society cara- 
 colinsr round the booth in a thunderimr 
 
The Petit Courier Illustre. 175 
 
 galop, on first going in. After the galop, 
 the conductor announced a valse a deux 
 temps. The band struck up — one — two — 
 three. Away went some thirty couples — 
 away went Miiller and the fair Marie — and 
 away went the chronicler of this modest 
 biography with a pretty little girl in green 
 boots who waltzed remarkably well, and who 
 deserted him in the middle of the dance for 
 a hideous little French soldier about four 
 foot and a half hig-h. 
 
 After this rebuff (having learned, notwith- 
 standing my friend's representations to the 
 contrary, that a train ran from Courbevoie 
 to Paris every half hour up till midnight) I 
 slipped away, leaving Miiller and ma cousine 
 in the midst of a furious flirtation, and 
 Madame Marotte fast asleep in her corner. 
 
 The clocks were just striking twelve as I 
 passed under the archway leading to the 
 Cite Bergere. 
 
 " Tiens !" said the fat concierge, as she 
 gave me my key and my candle, "Monsieur 
 has perhaps been to the theatre this even- 
 ing ? Ko ! — to the country — to the fete at 
 
176 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 Courbevoie ! Ah, then, I'll be sworn that 
 M'sieur has had plenty of fun !" 
 
 But had I had plenty of fun ? That was 
 the question. That Miiller had had plenty 
 of flirting and plenty of fun was a fact 
 beyond the reach of doubt. But a flirtation, 
 after all, unless in a one-act comedy, is not 
 entertaining to the mere looker-on; and 
 oh ! must not those bridesmaids who some- 
 times accompany a happy couple in their 
 wedding-tour, have a dreary time of it ? 
 
The Ecole de Natation. Ill 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Tlie Ecole de Natation. 
 
 T seemed to me that I had but just 
 closed my eyes, when I was waked 
 by a hand upon my shoulder, and 
 a voice calling me by my name. I started 
 up to find the early sunshine pouring in at 
 the window, and Franz Miiller standing by 
 my bedside. 
 
 " Tiens P' said he. " How lovely are the 
 slumbers of innocence ! I was hesitating, 
 mon cher, whether to wake or sketch you." 
 
 I muttered something between a growl 
 and a yawn, to the effect that I should have 
 been better satisfied if he had left me alone. 
 
 "You prefer everything that is basely 
 self-indulgent, young man," replied Miiller, 
 making a divan of my bed, and coolly light- 
 ing his pipe under my very nose. " Con- 
 
 VOL. II. N 
 
178 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 trary to all the laws of hon camaraderie., you 
 stole away last night, leaving your unpro- 
 tected friend in the hands of the enemy. 
 And for what? — for the sake of a few hours' 
 ignominious oblivion ! Look at me — I have 
 not been to bed all night, and I am as lively 
 as a lobster in a lobster-pot." 
 
 " How did you get home ?" I asked, rub- 
 bing my eyes ; " and when ?" 
 
 " I have not got home at all yet," replied 
 my visitor. " I have come to breakfost 
 with you first." 
 
 Just at this moment, the pendide in the 
 adjoining room struck six. 
 
 "To breakfast!" I repeated. "At this 
 hour? — you who never breakfast before 
 midday !" 
 
 "True, mon clier ; but then you see there 
 are reasons. In the first place, we danced 
 a little too long, and missed the last train, 
 so I was obliged to bring the dear creatures 
 back to Paris in a fiacre. In the second 
 place, the driver was drunk, and the horse 
 was groggy, and the fiacre was in the last 
 stage of dilapidation. The powers below 
 
The Ecole de Natation. 179 
 
 only know how many hours we were on the 
 road ; for we all fell asleep, driver included, 
 and never woke till we found ourselves at 
 the Barriere de I'Etoile at dawn of day." 
 
 " Then what have you done with Madame 
 Marotte and Mademoiselle Marie ?" 
 
 " Deposited them at their own door in 
 the Rue du Faubourg St. Denis, as was the 
 bounden duty of a preux chevalier. But then, 
 mon cher, I had no money ; and having no 
 money, I couldn't pay for the fiacre ; so I 
 drove on here — and here I am — and num- 
 ber One Thousand and Eleven is now at the 
 door, waiting to be paid." 
 
 "The deuce he is !" 
 
 " So you see, sad as it was to disturb the 
 slumbers of innocence, I couldn't possibly 
 let you go on sleeping at the rate of two 
 francs an hour." 
 
 " And what is the rate at which you have 
 waked me ?" 
 
 " Sixteen francs the fare, and something 
 for the driver — say twenty in all." 
 
 "Then, my dear fellow, just open my 
 desk and take one of the two Napoleons 
 
 n2 
 
180 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 yon. will see lying inside, and dismiss num- 
 ber One Thousand and Eleven without loss 
 of time ; and then . . . . " 
 
 *' A thousand thanks ! And then what ?" 
 
 "Will you accept a word of sound ad- 
 Vice i 
 
 " Depends on whether it's pleasant to 
 follow, caro mioy 
 
 " Go home ; get three or four hours' rest; 
 and meet me in the Palais Royale about 
 twelve for breakfast." 
 
 " In order that you may turn round and 
 go to sleep again in comfort ? No, young 
 man, I will do nothing of the kind. You 
 shall get up, instead, and we'll go down to 
 Molino's." 
 
 "ToMolino's?" 
 
 "Yes — don't you know Molino's? — the 
 large swimming-school by the Pont Neuf. 
 It's a glorious morning for a plunge in the 
 Seine." 
 
 A plunge in the Seine ! Now, given a 
 warm bed, a chilly autumn morning, and a 
 decided inclination to quote the words of 
 the sluggard, and " slumber again," could 
 
The Ecole de Natation. 181 
 
 any proposition be more inopportune, savage, 
 and alarming ? I shuddered ; I protested ; 
 I resisted ; but in vain. 
 
 " I shall be up again in less time than it 
 will take you to tell your beads, mon gail- 
 lard,'^ said Miiller the ferocious, as, having 
 captured my Napoleon, he prepared to go 
 down and liquidate with number One Thou- 
 sand and Eleven. " And it's of no use to 
 bolt me out, because I shall hammer away 
 till you let me in, and that will wake your 
 fellow-lodgers. So let me find you up, and 
 ready for the fray." 
 
 And then, execrating Miiller, and Molino, 
 and Molino's bath, and Molino's customers, 
 and all Molino's ancestors from the period 
 of the deluge downwards, I reluctantly com- 
 plied. 
 
 The air was brisk, the sky cloudless, the 
 sun coldly bright ; and the city wore that 
 strange, breathless, magical look so peculiar 
 to Paris at early morning. The shops were 
 closed ; the pavements deserted ; the busy 
 thoroughfares silent as the avenues of Pere 
 la Chaise. Yet how different from the early 
 
182 In tlte Days of my Youth. 
 
 stillness of London ! London, before the 
 world is up and stirring, looks dead, and 
 sullen, and melancholy ; but Paris lies all 
 beautiful, and bright, and mysterious, with a 
 look as of dawning smiles upon her face ; 
 and we know that she will wake presently, 
 like the Sleeping Beaut}^, to sudden joyous- 
 ness and activity. 
 
 Our road lay for a little way along the 
 Boulevards, then down the Rue Vivieune, 
 and through the Palais Royale to the quays; 
 but long ere we came within sight of the 
 river this magical calm had begun to break 
 up. The shop-boys in the Palais Royale 
 were already taking down the shutters — the 
 great book-stall at the end of the Galerie 
 Vitree showed signs of wakefulness ; and in 
 the Place du Louvre there was already a 
 detachment of brisk little foot-soldiers at 
 drill. By the time we had reached the open 
 line of the quays, the first omnibuses were 
 on the road ; the water-carriers were driv- 
 insr their carts and blowin^^ their shrill little 
 bugles ; the washerwomen, hard at work in 
 their gay, oriental-looking floating kiosques, 
 
The Ecole de Natatio7i. 183 
 
 were hammering away, mallet m hand, and 
 chattering like millions of magpies ; and the 
 early matin-bell was ringing to prayers as 
 we passed the doors of St, Germain L'Auxer- 
 rois. 
 
 And now we were skirting the Quai de 
 I'Ecole, looking down upon the bath known 
 in those days as Molino's — a huge, floating, 
 quadrangular structure, surrounded by trel- 
 lised arcades and rows of dressing-rooms, 
 with a divan, a cafe restaurant, and a per- 
 manent corps of cooks and hair-dressers on 
 the establishment. For j^our true Parisian 
 has ever been wedded to his Seine, as the 
 Venetian to his Adriatic ; and the Ecole 
 de Natation was then, as now, a lounge,- a 
 reading-room, an adjunct of the clubs, and 
 one of the great institutions of the capital. 
 
 Some bathers, earlier than ourselves, 
 were already sauntering about the galleries 
 in every variety of undress, from the simple 
 caleqon to the gaudiest version of. Turkish 
 robe and Algerian kepi. Some were smok- 
 ing ; some reading the morning papers ; 
 some chatting in little knots ; but as yet, 
 
184 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 with the exception of two or three school- 
 boys, (called in the argot of the bath, mou- 
 tards) there were no swimmers in the water. 
 
 With some of these loungers Miiller ex- 
 changed a nod or a few words as we passed 
 along the platform ; but shook hands cordi- 
 ally with a bronzed, stalwart man, dressed 
 like a Venetian gondolier in the frontispiece 
 to a popular ballad, with white trousers, 
 blue jacket, anchor buttons, red sash, gold 
 ear-rings, and great silver buckles in his 
 shoes. Miiller introduced this romantic- 
 looking person to me as " Monsieur Barbet." 
 
 "My friend Monsieur Barbet," said he, 
 " is the prince of swimming-masters. He is 
 more at home in the water than on land, 
 and knows more about swimming than a 
 fish. He will calculate you the specific 
 gravity of the heaviest German metaphysician 
 at a glance, and is capable of floating even 
 the works of Monsieur Thiers, if put to the 
 test." 
 
 " Monsieur can swim ?" said the master, 
 addressing me with a nautical scrape. 
 
 " I think so," I replied. 
 
The Ecole de Natation. 185 
 
 "Many gentlemen think so," said Mon- 
 sieur Barbet, " till they find themselves in 
 the water." 
 
 " And many who wish to be thought 
 accomplished swimmers never venture into 
 it on that account," added Miiller. " You 
 would scarcely suppose," he continued, turn- 
 ing to me, " that there are men here — 
 regular habitues of the bath — who never go 
 into the water, and yet give themselves all 
 the airs of practised bathers. That tall man, 
 for instance, with the black beard and 
 striped peignoir, yonder — there's a fellow 
 who comes once or twice a week all through 
 the season, goes through the ceremony of 
 undressing, smokes, gossips, criticises, is 
 looked up to as an authority, and has never 
 yet been seen off the platform. Then there's 
 that bald man in the white robe — his name's 
 Giroflet — a retired stockbroker. Well, that 
 fellow robes himself like an ancient Ro- 
 man, puts himself in classical attitudes, 
 affects taciturnity, models himself upon Bru- 
 tus and all that sort of thing; but is as 
 careful not to get his feet wet as a cat. 
 
186 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 Others, again, come simply to feed. The 
 restaurant is one of the choicest in Paris, 
 with this advantage over Vefour or the 
 Trois Freres, that it is the only place where 
 you may eat and drink of the best in hot 
 weather, with nothing on but the briefest of 
 caleqons.'''' 
 
 Thus chattering, Mliller took me the tour 
 of the bath, which now began to fill rapidly. 
 We then took possession of two little dress- 
 ing-rooms no bigger than sentry-boxes, and 
 were presently in the water. 
 
 The scene now became very animated. 
 Hundreds of eccentric figures crowded the 
 galleries — some absurdly fat, some ludi- 
 crously thin ; some old, some young ; some 
 bow-legged, some knock-kneed ; some short, 
 some tall ; some brown, some yellow ; some 
 got up for effect in gorgeous wrappers ; and 
 all more or less hideous. 
 
 " An amusing sight, isn't it ?" said Mliller, 
 as, having swum several times round the 
 bath, we sat down for a few moments on 
 one of the flights of steps leading down to 
 the water. 
 
The Ecole de Natation. ] 87 
 
 " It is a sight to disgust one for ever with 
 human-kind," I replied. 
 
 "And to fill one with the profoundest 
 respect for one's tailor. After all, it's broad- 
 cloth makes the man." 
 
 " But these are not men — they are cari- 
 catures." 
 
 " Every man is a caricature of himself 
 when you strip him," said Miiller, epigram- 
 matically. "Look at that scarecrow just 
 opposite. He passes for an Adonis, de par 
 le mondey 
 
 I looked, and recognised the Count de 
 Rivarol, a tall young man, an elegaiit of the 
 first water, a curled darling of society, a 
 professed lady-killer, whom I had met many 
 a time in attendance on Madame de Marig- 
 nan. He now looked like a monkey : — 
 
 .... " long, and lank and brown, 
 As in the ribb'd sea sand !" 
 
 " Gracious heavens !" I exclaimed, " what 
 would become of the world, if clothes went 
 out of fashion ?" 
 
 " Humph ! — one half of us, my dear 
 fellow, would commit suicide." 
 
188 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 At the upper end of the bath was a semi- 
 circular platform somewhat loftier than the 
 rest, called the Amphitheatre. This, I 
 learned, was the place of honour. Here 
 clustered the elite of the swimmers; here 
 they discussed the great principles of their 
 art, and passed judgment on the perform- 
 ances of those less skilful than themselves. 
 To the right of the Amphitheatre rose a 
 slender spiral staircase, like an openwork 
 pillar of iron, with a tiny circular platform 
 on the top, half surrounded by a light iron 
 rail. This conspicuous perch, like the pillar 
 of St. Simeon Stylites, was ever}'' now and 
 then surmounted by the gaunt figure of some 
 ambitious plunger who, after attitudinising 
 awhile in the pose of Napoleon on the 
 column Vendome, would join his hands 
 above his head and take a tremendous 
 " header " into the gulf below. When this 
 feat was successfully performed, the elite in 
 the Amphitheatre applauded graciously. 
 
 And now, what with swimming, and 
 lounging, and looking on, some two hours 
 had slipped by, and we were both hungry 
 
The Ecole cle Natation- 189 
 
 and tired. Mliller proposed that we should 
 breakfast at the Cafe Procope. 
 
 " But why not here ?" I asked, as a deli- 
 cious breeze from the buffet came wafting 
 by " like a steam of rich distill'd perfumes." 
 
 " Because a breakfast chez Molino costs 
 at least twenty-five francs per head — be- 
 cause I have credit at Procope — because I 
 have not a sou in my pocket — and because, 
 milord Smithfield, I aspire to the honour 
 of entertaining your lordship on the present 
 occasion !" replied Mliller, punctuating each 
 clause of his sentence with a bow. 
 
 If Mliller had not a sou, I, at all events, 
 had now only one Napoleon ; so the Caf^ 
 Procope carried the day. 
 
190 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 The Rue de VAncienne Comedie arid the Cafe 
 Procoj)e. 
 
 HE Rue des Fosses-Saint-Germain des 
 Pres and tlie Rue de I'Ancienne 
 Comedie are one and the same. 
 As the Rue des Fosses-Saint-Germain des 
 Pres, it dates back to somewhere about the 
 reign of Philippe Auguste ; and as the Rue 
 de I'Ancienne Comedie it takes its name and 
 fame from the year 1G89, when the old 
 Theatre Fran^ais was opened on the 18th 
 of April by the company known as Moliere's 
 troupe — Moliere being then dead, and Lully 
 having succeeded him at the Theatre du 
 Palais Royal. 
 
 In the same year, 1689, one Francois 
 Procope, a Sicilian, conceived the happy 
 idea of hiring a house just opposite the new 
 
The Cafe Procope. 191 
 
 theatre, and there opening a public refresh- 
 ment-room, which at once became famous, 
 not only for the excellence of its coffee 
 (then newly introduced into France), but 
 also for beinsf the favourite resort of all the 
 wits, dramatists, and beaux of that brilliant 
 time. Here the laiest epigrams were circu- 
 lated, the newest scandals discussed, the 
 bitterest literary cabals set on foot. Here 
 Jean Jacques brooded over his chocolate ; 
 and Voltaire drank his mixed with coffee ; 
 and Dorat wrote his love-letters to Made- 
 moiselle Saunier ; and Marmontel wrote 
 praises of Mademoiselle Clairon ; and the 
 Marquis de Bievre made puns innumerable ; 
 and Duclos and Mercier wrote satires, now 
 almost forgotten ; and Piron recited those 
 verses which are at once his shame and his 
 fame ; and the Chevalier de St. Georges 
 gave fencing lessons to his literary friends ; 
 andLamothe, Freron, D'Alembert, Diderot, 
 Helvetius, and all that wonderful company 
 of wits, philosophers, encyclopaedists, and 
 poets, that lit up as with a dying glory the 
 last decades of the old regime^ met daily, 
 
192 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 nightly, to write, to recite, to squabble, to 
 lampoon, and sometimes to fight. 
 
 The year 1770 beheld, in the closing of 
 the Theatre Frangais, the extinction of a 
 great power in the Rue des Fosses-Saint- 
 Germ ain-des-Pres — for it was not, in fact, 
 till the theatre was no more a theatre that 
 the street changed its name, and became 
 the Rue de I'Ancienne Comedie. A new 
 house (to be on first opening invested with 
 the time-honoured title of Theatre Fran9ais, 
 but afterwards to be known as the Odeon) 
 was now in progress of erection in the close 
 neighbourhood of the Luxembourg. The 
 actors, meanwhile, repaired to the little 
 theatre of the Tuileries. At length, in 
 1782,* the Rue de I'Ancienne Comedie was 
 one evenincr awakened from its two vears' 
 lethargy by the echo of many footfalls, the 
 glare of many flambeaux, and the rattle of 
 many wheels ; for all Paris, all the wits 
 and critics of the Cafe Procope, all the fair 
 
 * 1782 is the date given by M. Hippolyte Lucas. Sainte- 
 Beuve places it two years later. 
 
The Cafe Procope. 193 
 
 shepherdesses and all the beaux seigiiieurs 
 of the court of Marie Antoinette and Louis 
 XVI., were hastening on foot, in chairs, 
 and in chariots, to the opening of the 
 new house and the performance of a 
 new play ! And what a play ! Surely, 
 not to consider it too curiously, a play 
 which struck, however sportively, the key- 
 note of the coming Revolution ; — a play 
 which, for the first time, displayed society 
 literally in a state of houleversement ; — a play 
 in which the greed of the courtier, the 
 venality of tlie judge, the empty glitter of 
 the crown, were openly held up to scorn ; 
 — a play in which all the wit, audacity, and 
 success are on the side of the canaille ; — a 
 play in which a lady's-maid is the heroine, 
 and a valet canes his master, and a great 
 nobleman is tricked, outwitted, and covered 
 with ridicule ! 
 
 This play, prod,uced for the first time 
 under the title of La Folk Journce, was 
 written by one Caron de Beauraarchais — a 
 man of wit, a man of letters, a man of the 
 people, a man of nothing — and was destined 
 
 VOL. II. o 
 
194 hi the Days of my Youth. 
 
 to achieve immortality under its later title of 
 Le Manage de Figaro. 
 
 A few years later, and the Rue de TAn- 
 cienne Comedie echoed daily and nightly to 
 the dull rumble of Revolutionary tumbrils, 
 and the heavy tramp of Revolutionary mobs. 
 Danton and Camille Desmoulius must have 
 passed through it habitually on their way to 
 the Revolutionary Tribunal. Charlotte Cor- 
 day (and this is a matter of history) did pass 
 through it that bright July evening, 1793, 
 on her wa}'^ to a certain gloomy house still 
 to be seen in the adjoining Rue de I'Ecole 
 de Medicine, where she stabbed Marat in his 
 bath. 
 
 But throughout every vicissitude of time 
 and politics, though fashion deserted the 
 Rue de TAncienne Comedie, and actors mi- 
 grated, and fresh generations of wits and 
 philosophers succeeded each other, the Cafe 
 Procope still held its ground and maintained 
 its ancient reputation. The theatre (closed 
 in less than a century) became the studio 
 first of Gros and then of Gerard, and was 
 finally occupied by a succession of restaura- 
 
The Cafe Procope. 195 
 
 teurs ; but tlie Caf^ Procope remained the 
 Cafe Procope, and is the Cafe Procope to 
 this day. 
 
 The old street and all belono;in<]^ to it — 
 especially and peculiarly the Cafe Procope 
 — was of the choicest Quartier Latin flavour 
 in the time of which I write ; in the pleasant, 
 careless, impecunious days of my youth. A 
 cheap and highly popular restaurateur named 
 Pinson rented the old theatre. A costumier 
 hung out wigs, and masks, and debardeur 
 garments next door to the restaurateur. 
 Where the fatal tumbril used to labour past, 
 the frequent omnibus now rattled gaily by ; 
 and the pavements trodden of old by Voltaire, 
 and Beaumarchais, and Charlotte Corday, 
 were thronged by a merry tide of students 
 and grisettes. 
 
 Meanwhile the Cafe Procope, though no 
 lonsjer the resort of "iireat wits and famous 
 philosophers, received within its hospitable 
 doors, and nourished with its indifferent re- 
 freshments, many a now celebrated author, 
 painter, barrister, and statesman. It was 
 the general rendezvous for students of all 
 
 o2 
 
196 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 kinds — poets of the Ecole-de-Droit, philoso- 
 phers of the Ecole- de-Medicine, critics of 
 the Ecole-des-Beaux Arts. It must how- 
 ever be admitted that the poetry and criti- 
 cism of these future great men was some- 
 what too liberally perfumed with tobacco, 
 and that into their systems of philosophy 
 there entered a considerable element of gri- 
 sette. 
 
 Such, at the time of my first introduction 
 to it, was the famous Cafe Procope. 
 
The Pldlosophy of Breakfast. 197 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 The Philosophy of Breakfast 
 
 OW this, mon cher,'' said Mliller, 
 taking off his hat with a flourish 
 to the young lady at the co/nptoir, 
 " is the immortal Cafe Procope," 
 
 I looked round, and found myself in a 
 dingy, ordinar}^ sort of Cafe, in no wise 
 differing from any other dingy, ordinary 
 sort of Cafe in that part of Paris. The 
 decorations were ugly enough to be modern. 
 The ceilinsf was as black with sjas fumes and 
 tobacco-smoke as any other ceiling in any 
 other estaminet in the Quartier Latin. The 
 waiters looked as waiters always look before 
 midday — sleepy, discontented, and unwash- 
 ed. A few young men of the regular student 
 type were scattered about here and there at 
 
198 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 various tables, reading, smoking, chatting, 
 breakfastinij, and reading; the mornins: 
 papers. In an alcove at the upper end of 
 the second room (for there were two, one 
 opening from the other) stood a blackened, 
 broken-nosed, plaster bust of Voltaire, upon 
 the summit of whose august wig some ir- 
 reverent customer had perched a particularly 
 rakish-looking hat. Just in front of this 
 alcove and below the bust stood a marble- 
 topped table, at one end of which two young 
 men were playing dominoes to the accom- 
 paniment of the matutinal absinthe. 
 
 "And. this," said MUller, with another 
 flourish, " is the still more immortal table of 
 the still more supremely immortal Voltaire. 
 Here he was wont to rest his sublime elbows 
 and sip his demitasse. Here, upon this very 
 table, he wrote that famous letter to Marie 
 Antoinette that Freron stole, and in revenge 
 for which he wrote the comedy called 
 HEcossaise ; but of this admirable satire you 
 English, who only know Voltaire in his 
 Henriade and his history of Charles the 
 Twelfth, have probably never heard till 
 
The Philosophy of Breakfast. 199 
 
 this moment ! Eh Men ! I'm not much 
 wiser than you — so never mind. I'll be 
 handed if I've ever read a line of it. Anv- 
 how, here is the table, and at this other end 
 of it we'll have our breakfast." 
 
 It was a large, old-fashioned, Louis Qua- 
 torze piece of furniture, the top of which, 
 formed from a single slab of some kind of 
 grey and yellow marble, was stained all over 
 with the coffee, wine, and ink splashes of 
 many generations of customers. It looked 
 as old — nay, .older — than the house it- 
 self. 
 
 The young men who were playing at 
 dominoes looked up and nodded, as three 
 or four others had done in the outer room 
 when we passed through. 
 
 ^''Bonjoia^ rami,'' said the one who seemed 
 to be winning. " Hast thou chanced to see 
 anything of Martial, coming along ?" 
 
 " I observed a nose defilinsj round the 
 corner of the Rue de Bussy," replied Mliller, 
 " and it looked as if Martial might be some- 
 where in the far distance, but I didn't wait 
 to see. Are you expecting him ?"' 
 
200 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 " Confound him — yes ! We've been wait- 
 ing more than half an hour," 
 
 " If you have invited him to breakfast," 
 said Miiller, " he is sure to come." 
 
 " On the contrar}^, he has invited us to 
 breakfast." 
 
 " Ah, that alters the case," said Miiller, 
 philosophically. " Then he is sure not to 
 come. Gar^on !" 
 
 A bullet-headed, short-jacketted, long- 
 aproned waiter, who looked as if he had not 
 been to bed since his early youth, answered 
 the summons. 
 
 " M'sieur !" 
 
 " What have you that you can especially 
 recommend this morning?" 
 
 The waiter, with that nasal volubility pecu- 
 liar to his race, rapidly ran over the whole 
 vegetable and animal creation. 
 
 Miiller listened with polite incredulity. 
 
 "Nothing else?" said he, when the other 
 stopped, apparently from want of breatli. 
 
 " Mais Old, MsieurT and, thus stimulated, 
 the waiter, having " exhausted worlds and 
 then imagined new," launched forth into a 
 
The Philosophy of Breakfast. 201 
 
 second and still more impossible catalogue. 
 
 Mliller turned to me. 
 
 " The resources of this establishment, you 
 observe," he said very gravely, " are inex- 
 haustible. One misfht have a Roc's e^^j: k la 
 Sindbad for the askinsr." 
 
 o 
 
 The waiter looked puzzled, shuffled his 
 slippered feet, and murmured something 
 about '''' oeufs sur le platy 
 
 " Unfortunately, however," continued 
 Mliller, " we are but men — not fortresses 
 provisioning for a siege. Antoine, man en- 
 fant, we know thee to be a fellow of incon- 
 testible veracity, and thy list is magnificent ; 
 but we will be content with a vol-au-vent of 
 fish, a hifteck aux ponimes f rites, an omelette 
 sucree, and a bottle of thy 1840 Bordeaux 
 with the yellow seal. Now vanish !" 
 
 The waiter, wearing an expression of in- 
 tense relief, vanished accordingly. 
 
 Meanwhile more students had come in, 
 and more kept coming. Hats and caps 
 cropped up ra])idly wherever there were 
 pegs to hang them on, and the talking be- 
 came fast and furious. 
 
202 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 I soon found that everybody knew everj'-- 
 body at the Cafe Procope, and that the 
 speciahty of the establishment was dominoes 
 — just as the speciality of the Cafe de la 
 Regence is chess. There were games going 
 on before long at almost every table, and 
 groups of lookers-on gathered about those 
 who enjoyed the reputation of being skilful 
 players. 
 
 Gradually breakfast after breakfast emerged 
 from some mysterious nether world known 
 only to the waiters, and the war of domi- 
 noes lang;uished. 
 
 "These are all students, of course," I said 
 presently, "and yet, though I meet a couple 
 of hundred fellows at our hospital lectures, 
 I don't see a face I know." 
 
 "You would find some by this time, I 
 flare say, in the other room," replied Mul- 
 ler. " I brought you in here that you 
 might sit at Voltaire's table, and eat your 
 steak under the shadow of Voltaire's bust ; 
 but this salon is chiefly frequented by 
 law-students — the other by medical and 
 art students. Your place, mon clier, as 
 
The Philosophj of Breakfast 203 
 
 well as mine, is in the outer sanctuary." 
 
 " That infernal Martial !" groaned one of 
 the domino players at the other end of the 
 table. " So ends the seventh game, and 
 here we are still. Parhleu! Horace, hasn't 
 that absinthe given you an inconvenient 
 amount of appetite ?" 
 
 " Alas ! my friend — don't mention it. 
 And when the absinthe is paid for, I haven't 
 a sou." 
 
 " My own case precisely. What's to be 
 done?" 
 
 " Done ! " echoed Horace pathetically. 
 " Shade of Apicius ! inspire me . . . but, 
 no — he's not listening." 
 
 " Hold ! I have it. We'll make our wills 
 in one another's favour, and die." 
 
 " I should prefer to die when the wind is 
 due East, and the moon at the full," said 
 Horace, contemplatively. 
 
 "True — besides, there is still la mere 
 Gaudissart. Her cutlets are tough, but her 
 heart is tender. She would not surely 
 refuse to add one more breakfast to the 
 score ! " 
 
204 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 Horace shook his head with an air of 
 great despondency. 
 
 " There was but one Job," said he, " and 
 he has been dead some time. The pa- 
 tience of la mere Gaudissart has \on^ since 
 been entirely exhausted." 
 
 " I am not so sure of that. One might 
 appeal to her feelings, you know — have a 
 presentiment of early death — wipe away a 
 tear . . . Bah ! it is worth the effort, any- 
 how." 
 
 " It is a forlorn hope, my dear fellow, 
 but, as you say, it is worth the effort. 
 Allons done! to the storming of la mere 
 Gaudissart !" 
 
 And with this they pushed aside the 
 dominoes, took down their hats, nodded to 
 Mliller, and went out. 
 
 "There go two of the brightest fellows 
 and most improvident scamps in the whole 
 Quartier," said my companion. " They are 
 both studying for the bar ; both under age ; 
 both younger sons of good families ; and 
 both destined, if I am not much mistaken, 
 to rise to eminence by-and-by. Horace 
 
The Philosophy of Breakfast. 205 
 
 writes for Figaro and the Petit Journal pour 
 Rire — Theophile does feidlleton work — ro- 
 mances, chit-chat, and political squibs — rub- 
 bish, of course ; but clever rubbish, and 
 wonderful when one considers what bovs 
 they both are, and what dissipated lives 
 they lead. The amount of inipecuuiosity 
 those fellows ijet throuo;h in the course of a 
 terra is something inconceivable. They 
 have often only one decent suit between 
 them — and sometimes not that. To-day, 
 you see, they are at their wits' end for a 
 breakfast. They have run their credit dry 
 at Procope and everywhere else, and are 
 gone now to a miserable little den in the 
 Rue du Paon, kept by a fat good-natured 
 old soul called la mere Gaudissart. She 
 will perhaps take compassion on their 
 youth and inexperience, and let them have 
 six sous worth of horsebeef soup, stale 
 bread, and the day before yesterday's 
 vegetables. Nay, don't look so pitiful ! 
 We poor devils of the Student Quartier 
 hug our Bohemian life, and exalt it above 
 every other. When we have money, we 
 
206 Li the Days of my Youth. 
 
 cannot find windows enough out of which 
 to fling it — when we have none, we start 
 upon la chasse au diner, and enjoy the plea- 
 sures of the chase. We revel in the ex- 
 tremes of fasting and feasting, and scarcely 
 know which w^e prefer." 
 
 " I think your friends Horace and Theo- 
 phile are tolerably clear as to which they 
 prefer," I remarked, with a smile. 
 
 " Bah ! they would die of ennui if the}'' 
 had always enough to eat ! Think how it 
 sharpens a man's wits if — given the time, the 
 place, and the appetite — he has every day to 
 find the credit for his dinners ! Show me a 
 mathematical problem to compare with it 
 as a popular educator of youth !" 
 
 " But for young men of genius, like 
 Horace and Theophile " . . . . 
 
 " Make yourself quite easy, moh cher. A 
 little privation will do them no kind of 
 harm. They belong to that class of whom 
 it has been said that ' they would borrow 
 money from Harpagon, and find truffles on 
 the raft of the Medusa." But hold ! we are 
 at the end of our breakfast. What sav you? 
 
The Philosophy of Breakfast. 207 
 
 Shall we take our demi-tasse in the next 
 room, among our fellow-students of physic 
 and the fine arts ?" 
 
208 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 CHAPTER XIL 
 
 A Man ivith a History. 
 
 HE society of the outer salon clifFered 
 essentially from the society of the 
 inner salon at the Cafe Procope. 
 It was noisier — it was shabbier — it was 
 smokier. The conversation in the inner 
 salon was of a sreneral character on the 
 whole, and, as one caught sentences of it 
 here and there, seemed for the most part 
 to relate to the literature and news of the 
 da}^ — to the last important paper in the 
 Revue des Deux Mondes, to the new drama 
 at the Odeon, or to the article on foreign 
 politics in the Journal des Debats. But in 
 the outer salon the talk was to the last de- 
 gree shoppy, and overflowed with the argot 
 of the studios. Some few medical students 
 were clustered, it is true, in a corner near 
 
A Man with a History. 209 
 
 the door ; but they were so outnumbered 
 by the artists at the upper end of the room, 
 that these latter seemed to hold complete 
 possession, and behaved more like the mem- 
 bers of a recognised club than the casual 
 customers of a cafe. They talked from 
 table to table. They called the waiters by 
 their Christian names. They swaggered up 
 and down the middle of the room with 
 their hats on their heads, their hands in 
 their pockets, and their pipes in their 
 mouths, as coolly as if it were the broad 
 walk of the Luxembourg gardens. 
 
 And the appearance of these gentlemen 
 was not less remarkable than their deport- 
 ment. Their hair, their beards, their clothes, 
 were of the wildest devising. They seemed 
 one and all to have started from a central 
 idea, that central idea being to look as un- 
 like their fellow-men as possible; and thence 
 to have diverged into a variety that was no- 
 thing short of infinite. Each man had evi- 
 dently modelled himself upon his own ideal, 
 and no two ideals were alike. Some were 
 picturesque, some were grotesque ; and 
 
 VOL. IT. P 
 
210 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 some, it must be admitted, were rather dirty 
 ideals, into the realization of which no such 
 paltry considerations as those of soap, 
 water, or brushes were permitted to enter. 
 
 Here, for instance, were Roundhead crops 
 and flowing locks of Cavalier redundancy — 
 steeple-crowned hats, and Roman cloaks 
 draped bandit-fashion — moustachios frizzed 
 and brushed up the wrong way in the style 
 of Louis XIV. — pointed beards and slouched 
 hats, after the manner of Vandyke — patri- 
 archal beards a la Barharossa — open collars, 
 smooth chins, and long undulating locks of 
 the Raffaelle type — coats, blouses, paletots 
 of inconceivable cut, and all kinds of un- 
 usual colours — in a word, every eccentricity 
 of clothing, short of fancy costume, in 
 which it was practicable for men of the 
 nineteenth century to walk abroad and meet 
 the light of day. 
 
 We had no sooner entered this salon, 
 taken possession of a vacant table, and call- 
 ed for coffee, than my companion was beset 
 by a storm of greetings. 
 
 " Hola ! Miiller, where hast thou been 
 
A Man with a History. 211 
 
 hiding these last few centuries, mon gail- 
 larcir 
 
 " Tiens ! MUller risen from the dead !" 
 " What news from la bas, old follow ?" 
 To all which ingenious pleasantries my com- 
 panion replied in kind — introducing me at 
 the same time to two or three of the nearest 
 speakers. One of these, a dark young man 
 got up in the style of a Byzantine Christ, 
 with straight hair parted down the middle, 
 a bifurcated beard, and a bare throat, was 
 called Eugene Droz. Another — big, burly, 
 warm-complexioned, with bright open blue 
 eyes, curling reddish beard and moustache, 
 slouched hat, black velvet blouse, immacu- 
 late linen, and an abundance of rings, chains, 
 and ornaments — was made up in excellent 
 imitation of the well-known portrait of Ru- 
 bens. This gentleman's name, as I present- 
 ly learned, was Caesar de Lepany. 
 
 When we came in, these two young men, 
 Droz and De Lepany, were discussing, in 
 enthusiastic but somewhat unintelligible 
 language, the merits of a certain Monsieur 
 Lemonnier, of whom, although till that nio- 
 
 p2 
 
212 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 ineut ignorant of his name and fame, I at 
 once perceived that he must be some cele- 
 brated chef de cuisine. 
 
 " He will never surpass that last thing of 
 his," said the Byzantine youth. " Heavens ! 
 How smooth it is 1 How buttery ! How 
 pulpy !" 
 
 " Ay — and yet with all that lusciousness 
 of quality, he never wants piquancy," added 
 De Lepany. 
 
 " I think his greens are apt to be a little 
 raw," interposed Miiller, taking part in the 
 conversation. 
 
 " Raw !" echoed the first speaker, indig- 
 nantly. " Eh.^ mon Dieu ! What can you 
 be thinking of? They are almost too hot !" 
 
 " But they were not so always, Eugene," 
 said he of the Rubens make-up, with an air 
 of reluctant candour. '' It must be admit- 
 ted that Lemonnier's greens used formerly 
 to be a trifle — just a trifle — raw. Evident- 
 ly Monsieur MuUer does not know how 
 much he has taken to warming them up of 
 late. Even now, perhaps, his olives are a 
 little cold." 
 
A Man with a History. 213 
 
 " But then, how juicy his oranges are !" 
 exclaimed young Byzantine. 
 
 " True — and when you remember that he 
 never washes !" 
 
 "Ah, sacredie ! yes — there is the mar- 
 vel!" 
 
 And Monsieur Eugene Droz held up his 
 hands and eyes with all the reverent admira- 
 tion of a true believer for a particularly 
 dirty dervish. 
 
 " Wlio, in heaven's name, is this unclean 
 individual who used to like his vegetables 
 underdone, and never washes ?" whispered 
 I in Mliller's ear. 
 
 " What — Lemonnier ? You don't mean 
 to say you never heard of Lemonnier ?" 
 
 " Never, till now. Is he a cook ?" 
 
 M tiller gave me a dig in the ribs that took 
 my breath away. 
 
 '"'' Goguenard I '' said he. " Leraonnier's 
 an artist — the foremost man of the water- 
 colour school. But I wouldn't be too 
 funny if I were you. Suppose you were to 
 burst your jocular vein — there'd be a catas- 
 trophe !" 
 
214 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 Meanwhile the conversation of Messieurs 
 Droz and Lepany had taken a fresh turn, 
 and attracted a little circle of listeners, 
 among whom I observed an eccentric-look- 
 ing young man with a club-foot, an enor- 
 mously long neck, and a head of short, stiff, 
 dust}' hair, like the bristles of a blacking- 
 brush. 
 
 " Queroulet !" said Lepany, with a con- 
 temptuous flourish of his pipe. " Who 
 spoke of Queroulet ? Bah ! — a miserable 
 plodder, destitute of ideality — a fellow who 
 paints only what he sees, and sees only what 
 is commonplace — a dull, narrow-souled, un- 
 imaginative handicraftsman, to whom a tree 
 is just a tree ; and a man, a man ; ar^d a 
 straw, a straw, and nothing more !" 
 
 " That's a very low-souled view to take 
 of art, no doubt," croaked in a grating 
 treble voice the youth with the club-foot ; 
 " but if trees and men and straws are not 
 exactly trees and men and straws, and are 
 not to be represented as trees and men and 
 straws, may I inquire what else they are, 
 and how they are to be pictorially treated ?" 
 
A Man ivith a History. 215 
 
 "They must be ideally treated, Monsieur 
 Valentin," replied Lepany, majestically. 
 
 " No doubt ; but wliat will they be like 
 when they are ideally treated ? Will they 
 still, to the vulgar eye, be recognisable for 
 trees and men and straws ?" 
 
 " I should scarcely have supposed that 
 Monsieur Valentin would jest upon such a 
 subject as a canon of the art he professes," 
 said Lepany, becoming more and more dig- 
 nified. 
 
 "I am not jesting," croaked Monsieur 
 Valentin ; " but when I hear men of your 
 school talk so much about the Ideal, I (as a 
 realist) always want to know what the}- 
 themselves understand by the phrase." 
 
 " Are you asking me for my definition of 
 the Ideal, Monsieur Valentin ?" 
 
 " Well, if it's not giving you too much 
 trouble — yes." 
 
 Lepany, who evidently relished every 
 chance of showing off, fell into a picturesque 
 attitude and prepared to hold forth. Val- 
 entin winked at one or two of his own 
 clique, and lit a cigar. 
 
216 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 " You ask me," began Lepaiiy, " to de- 
 fine the Ideal — in other words, to define the 
 indefinite, which alas ! whether from a meta- 
 physical, a philosophical, or an aesthetic 
 point of view, is a task transcending im- 
 measurably my circumscribed powers of 
 expression." 
 
 " Gracious heavens !" whispered Mliller in 
 my ear. " He must have been reared from 
 infancy on words of five syllables !" 
 
 " What shall I say ?" pursued Lepany. 
 " Shall I say that the Ideal is, as it were, 
 the Real distilled and sublimated in the 
 alembic of the imagination? Shall I say 
 that the Ideal is an image projected by 
 the soul of genius upon the background of 
 the universe ? That it is that dazzling, that 
 unimaginable, that incommunicable goal to- 
 wards which the suns in their orbits, the stars 
 in their courses, the spheres with all their 
 harmonies, have been chaotically tending 
 since time began ? Ideal, say you ? Call it 
 ideal, soul, mind, matter, art, eternity .... 
 what are they all but words ? What are 
 words but the weak striving's of the fettered 
 
A Man with a History. 217 
 
 soul that fain would soar to those empyrean 
 heights where Truth, and Art, and Beauty 
 are one and indivisible? Shall I say all 
 this . . . ," 
 
 " My dear fellow, you have said it al- 
 ready — you needn't say it again," interrupt- 
 ed Valentin. 
 
 "Ay; but having said it — having expressed 
 myself, perchance with some obscurity . . ," 
 
 " With the obscurity of Erebus !" said, 
 very deliberately, a fat student in a blouse. 
 
 " Monsieur !" exclaimed De Lepany, 
 measuring the length and breadth of the 
 fat student with a glance of withering scorn. 
 
 The Byzantine was no less indignant. 
 
 "Don't heed them, mon amir he cried, 
 enthusiastically. " Thy definition is sublime 
 — eloquent !" 
 
 "Nay," said Valentin, "we concede that 
 Monsieur de Lepany is sublime ; we recog- 
 nise with admiration that he is eloquent ; 
 but we submit that he is wholly unintel- 
 ligible." 
 
 And having delivered this parting shot, 
 the club-footed realist slipped his arm through 
 
218 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 the arm of the fat student, and went off 
 to a distant table and a game at domhioes. 
 
 Then followed an outburst of offended 
 idealism. His own clique crowded round 
 Lepany as the champion of their school. 
 They shook hands with him. They era- 
 braced him. They fooled him to the top 
 of his bent. Presently, being not only as 
 good-natured as he was conceited, but (rare 
 phenomenon in the Quartier Latin !) a rich 
 fellow into the bargain, De Lepany called 
 for champagne and treated his admirers all 
 round. 
 
 In the midst of the chatter and bustle 
 wliich this incident occasioned, a pale, 
 earnest-looking man of about five and thirty, 
 coming past our table on his way out of the 
 Cafe, touched Miiller on the arm, bent down, 
 and said quietly : — 
 
 " Miiller, will you do me a favour ?" 
 
 " A hundred, Monsieur," replied my com- 
 panion ; half rising, and with an air of un- 
 usual respect and alacrity. 
 
 " Thanks, one will be enough. Do you 
 see that man yonder, sitting alone in 
 
A Man loith a History. 219 
 
 the corner, with his back to the light ? " 
 
 " I do." 
 
 *' Good — don't look at him again, for fear 
 of attracting his attention. I have been 
 trying for the last half hour to get a sketch 
 of his head, but I think he suspected me. 
 Anyhow he moved so often, and so hid his 
 face with his hands and the newspaper, that 
 I was completely baffled. Now it is a re- 
 markable head — just the head I have 
 been wanting for my Marshal Romero — and 
 if, with your rapid pencil and your skill in 
 seizing expression, you could manage this for 
 me .... 
 
 " I will do my best," said Mliller. 
 
 " A thousand thanks. I will go now ; for 
 when T am gone he will be off his guard. 
 You will find me in the den up to three 
 o'clock. Adieu." 
 
 Saying which, the stranger passed on, and 
 went out. 
 
 "That's Flandrin !" said Mliller. 
 
 "Really?" I said. "Flandrin! And 
 you know him ?" 
 
 But in truth I only answered thus to 
 
2 20 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 cover my own ignorance ; for I knew little 
 at that time of modern French art, and I 
 had never even heard the name of Flandrin 
 before. 
 
 " Know him !" echoed Mliller. " I should 
 think so. Why, I worked in his studio for 
 nearly two years." 
 
 And then he explained to me that this 
 great painter (great even then, though as 
 yet appreciated only in certain choice Paris- 
 ian circles, and not known out of France) 
 was at work upon a grand historical subject 
 connected with the Spanish persecutions in 
 the Netherlands — the execution of Egmont 
 and Horn, in short, in the great square be- 
 fore the Hotel de Ville in Brussels. 
 
 " But the main point now," said Muller, 
 *' is to get the sketch — and how ? Confound 
 the fellow ! while he keeps his back to the 
 light and his head down like that, the thing 
 is impossible. Anyhow I can't do it without 
 an accomplice. You must help me." 
 
 "I! What can I do?" 
 
 " Go and sit near him — speak to him — 
 make him look up — keep him, if possible. 
 
A Man with a History. 221 
 
 for a few minutes in conversation — nothing 
 easier." 
 
 " Nothing easier, perhaps, if I were you ; 
 but, being only myself, few things more dif- 
 ficult !" 
 
 " Nevertheless, ray dear boy, you must 
 try, and at once. Hey — presto ! — away !" 
 
 Placed where we were, the stranger was 
 not likely to have observed us ; for we had 
 come into the room from behind the corner 
 in which he was sitting, and had taken our 
 places at a table which he could not have 
 seen without shifting his own position. So, 
 thus peremptorily commanded, I rose ; slip- 
 ped quietly back into the inner salon, made 
 a pretext of looking at the clock over the 
 door ; and came out again, as if alone and 
 looking for a vacant seat. 
 
 The table at which he had placed himself 
 was very small — only just big enough to 
 stand in a corner and hold a plate and a 
 coffee-cup ; but it was supposed to be large 
 enough for two, and there were evidently 
 two chairs belonging to it. On one of these, 
 being alone, the stranger had placed his 
 
222 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 overcoat and a small black bag. I at ODce 
 saw and seized my opportunity. 
 
 " Pardon, Monsieur," I said, very civilly, 
 " will you permit me to hang these things 
 up.'' 
 
 He looked up, frowned, and said abrupt- 
 
 ly :- 
 
 "Why, Monsieur?" 
 
 "That I may occupy this chair." 
 
 He glanced round ; saw that there was 
 really no other vacant ; swept off the bag 
 and coat with his own hands ; hung them 
 on a peg overhead ; dropped back into his 
 former attitude, and went on reading. 
 
 " I regret to have given you the trouble, 
 Monsieur," I said, hoping to pave the way 
 to a conversation. 
 
 But a little quick, impatient movement of 
 the hand was his only reply. He did not 
 even raise his head. He did not even lift 
 his eyes from the paper. 
 
 I called for a demi-tasse and a cigar ; 
 then took out a note-book and pencil, 
 assumed an air of profound abstraction, and 
 affected to become absorbed in calculations. 
 
A Man tvith a History. 223 
 
 111 the lueanwhile, I could not resist fur- 
 tively observing the appearance of this man 
 whom a great artist had selected as his 
 modqi for one of the darkest characters of 
 media3val history. 
 
 He was rather below than above the 
 middle height ; spare and sinewy ; square in 
 the shoulders and deep in the chest ; with 
 close-clipped hair and beard ; grizzled 
 moustache ; high cheek-bones ; stern impas- 
 sive features, sharply cut ; and deep-set rest- 
 less eyes, quick and glancing as the eyes of 
 a monkey. His face, throat, and hands 
 were sunburnt to a deep copper colour, as 
 if cast in bronze. His age might have been 
 from forty-five to fifty. He wore a thread- 
 bare frock coat buttoned to the chin ; a stiff 
 black stock revealing no glimpse of shirt- 
 collar ; a well-worn hat pulled low over his 
 eyes ; and trousers of dark blue cloth, worn 
 very white and shiny at the knees, and 
 strapped tightly down over a pair of much- 
 mended boots. 
 
 The more I looked at him, the less I was 
 surprised that Flandrin should have been 
 
224 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 struck by his appearance. There was an 
 air of stern poverty and iron resolution 
 about the man that arrested one's attention 
 at first sight. The words " ancien miliiaire" 
 were written in every furrow of his face ; in 
 every seam and on every button of his 
 shabb}^ clothing. That he had seen service, 
 missed promotion, suffered unmerited ne- 
 glect (or, it might be, merited disgrace), 
 seemed also not unlikely. 
 
 Watching him as he sat, half turned 
 away, half hidden by the newspaper he was 
 reading, one elbow resting on the table, one 
 brown, sinewy hand supporting his chin 
 and partly concealing his mouth, I told my- 
 self that here, at all events, was a man with 
 a history — perhaps with a very dark history. 
 What were the secrets of his past ? What 
 had he done ? What had he endured ? I 
 would give much to know. 
 
 My coffee and cigar being brought, I 
 asked for the Figaro, and, holding the 
 paper somewhat between the stranger and 
 myself, watched him with increasing inter- 
 est. 
 
A Man luith a History. 225 
 
 I now began to suspect that he was less 
 interested in his own newspaper than he 
 appeared to be, and that his profound ab- 
 straction, like my own, was assumed. An 
 indefinable something in the turn of his 
 head seemed to tell me that his attention 
 was divided between whatever might be 
 going forward in the room and what he was 
 reading. I cannot describe wdiat that some- 
 thing was ; but it gave me the impression 
 that he was always listening. When the 
 outer door opened or shut, he stirred un- 
 easily, and once or twice looked sharply 
 round to see what new-comer entered the 
 cafe. Was he anxiously expecting someone 
 who did not come ? Or was he dreading 
 the appearance of someone whom he wished 
 to avoid ? Might he not be a political re- 
 fugee ? Might he not be a spy ! 
 
 " There is nothing of interest in the papers 
 to-day, Monsieur," I said, making another 
 effort to force him into conversation. 
 
 He affected not to hear me. 
 
 I drew my chair a little nearer, and re- 
 peated the observation. 
 
 VOL. II. Q 
 
226 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 He frowned impatiently, and without 
 looking up, replied : — 
 
 " Eh^ 711071 Dieii, Monsieur ! — when there is 
 a dearth of news !" 
 
 " There need not, even so, be a dearth of 
 wit. Figaro is as heavy to-day as a govern- 
 ment leader in the Moniteur.'" 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders and moved 
 slightly round, apparently to get a better 
 light upon what he was reading, but in 
 reality to turn still more away from me. 
 The gesture of avoidance was so marked, 
 that Avith the best will in the world, it 
 would have been impossible for me to ad- 
 dress him again. 1 therefore relapsed into 
 silence. 
 
 Presently I saw a sudden change flash 
 over him. 
 
 Now, in turning away from myself, he had 
 faced round towards a narrow looking-glass 
 panel which reflected part of the opposite 
 side of the room ; and chancing, I suppose, 
 to lift his eyes from the paper, he had seen 
 something that arrested his attention. His 
 head was still bent ; but I could see that 
 
A Man luith a History. 227 
 
 his eyes were riveted upon the mirror. 
 There was alertness in the tightening of his 
 hand before his mouth — in the suspension of 
 his breathing. 
 
 Then he rose abruptly, brushed past me 
 as if I were not there, and crossed to where 
 Miiller, sketch-book in hand, was in the 
 very act of taking his portrait. 
 
 1 jumped up, almost involuntaril}^ and 
 followed him. Miiller, with an unsuccess- 
 ful effort to conceal his confusion, tlirust the 
 book into his pocket. 
 
 " Monsieur," said the stranger, in a low, 
 resolute voice, " I protest against what you 
 have been doing. You have no right to take 
 my likeness without my permission." 
 
 " Pardon, Monsieur, I — I beg to assure 
 you " stammered Miiller. 
 
 " That you intended no offence ? I am 
 willing to suppose so. Give me up the 
 sketch, and I am content." 
 
 " Give up the sketch !" echoed Muller. 
 
 " Precisely, Monsieur." 
 
 "Nay — but if, as an artist, I have observ- 
 ed that which leads me to desire a — a 
 
 q2 
 
228 [n the* Days of my Youth. 
 
 memorandum — let us say of the pose and 
 contour of a certain head," replied Miiller, 
 recovering his self-possession, " it is not 
 likely t1iat I shall be disposed to part from 
 my memorandum," 
 
 " How, Monsieur ! you refuse ?" 
 
 " I am infinitely sorry, but " 
 
 " But you refuse ? 
 
 " I cannot certainly comply with Mon- 
 sieur's request." 
 
 The stranger, for all his bronzing, grew 
 pale with rage. 
 
 " Do not compel me, Monsieur, to say 
 what I must think of your conduct, if 
 you persist in this determination," he said 
 fiercely. 
 
 Miiller smiled, but made no reply. 
 
 " You absolutely refuse to yield up the 
 sketch ?" 
 
 "Absolutely." 
 
 "Then, Monsieur, cest une infamie — et 
 vous etes un lache f 
 
 But the last word had scarcely hissed 
 past his lips before Miiller dashed his coffee 
 dregs full in the stranger's face. 
 
A Man with a H^tory. 229 
 
 In one second, the table was upset — blows 
 were exchanged — Mliller, pinned against the 
 wall witli his adversary's hands upon his 
 throat, was striking out with the despera- 
 tion of a man whose strength is over- 
 matched — and the whole room was in a 
 tumult. 
 
 In vain I attempted to fling myself be- 
 tween them. In vain the waiters rushed 
 to and fro, imploring " ces Messieurs" to in- 
 terpose. In vain a stout man pushed his 
 way through the bystanders, exclaiming 
 angrily : — 
 
 " Desist, Messieurs! Desist, in the name of 
 the law ! I am the proprietor of this es- 
 tablishment — I forbid this brawling — I will 
 have you both arrested ! Messieurs, do you 
 hear?" 
 
 Suddenly the flush of rage faded out of 
 Miiller's face. He gasped — he became livid. 
 Lepany, Droz, myself, and one or two 
 others, flew at the stranger and dragged him 
 forcibly back. 
 
 "Assassin!" I cried, "would you murder 
 him?" 
 
230 [n the^Days of imj Youth. 
 
 He flung us off, as a baited bull flings off 
 a pack of curs. For myself, though I re- 
 ceived only a back-handed blow on the 
 chest, I staggered as if I had been struck 
 with a sledgehammer. 
 
 Miiller, half-fainting, dropped into a 
 chair. 
 
 There was a tramp and clatter at the 
 door — a swaying and parting of the crowd. 
 
 " Here are the sergens de ville !" cried a 
 trembling waiter. 
 
 " He attacked me first," gasped Miiller. 
 " He has half strangled me." 
 
 " Quest ce que qa 7ne fait? " shouted the 
 enraged proprietor. " You are a couple of 
 canaille ! You have made a scandal in my 
 Cafe. Sergens, arrest both these gentle- 
 men ! 
 
 The police — there were two of them, with 
 their big cocked hats on their heads and 
 their long sabres by their sides — pushed 
 through the circle of spectators. The first 
 laid his hand on Miiller's shoulder ; the 
 second was about to lay his hand on mine, 
 but I drew back. 
 
A Man luith a History. 231 
 
 " Which is the other ?" said he, looking 
 round. 
 
 ^^SacredieT stammered the proprietor, 
 " he was here — there — not a moment 
 ago !" 
 
 " Diahle /" said the sergen de ville, strok- 
 ing his moustache, and staring fiercely about 
 him. " Did no one see him go ? " 
 
 There was a chorus of exclamations — a 
 rush to the inner salon — to the door — to the 
 street. But the stranger was nowhere in 
 sight ; and, which was still more incompre- 
 hensible, no one had seen him go ! 
 
 ^^ Mais, mon i)^e^^/" exclaimed the pro- 
 prietor, mopping his head and face violently 
 with his pocket-handkerchief, "was the man 
 a ghost, that he should vanish into the 
 an^ ^ 
 
 ^^ Parhleu ! a ghost with muscles of iron," 
 said Mliller. " Talk of "".he strength of a 
 madman — he has the streng-th of a whole 
 lunatic asylum !" 
 
 "He gave me a most confounded blow in 
 tlie ribs, anyhow !" said Lepany. 
 
232 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 " And nearly broke my arm," added Eu- 
 gene Droz. 
 
 " And has given rae a pain in my chest for 
 a week," said I, in chorus. 
 
 " If he wasn't a ghost," observed the fat 
 student sententiously, "he must certainly be 
 the devil." 
 
 The sergens de ville grinned. 
 
 " Do we, then, arrest this gentleman ?'* 
 asked the taller and bigger of the two, his 
 hand still upon my friend's shoulder. 
 
 But Miiller laughed and shook his head. 
 
 " What !" said he, " arrest a man for re- 
 sisting the devil ? Nonsense, mes amis, you 
 ought to canonise me. What says Monsieur 
 le proprietaire ?" 
 
 Monsieur the proprietor smiled. 
 
 " I am willing to let the matter drop," he 
 replied, " on the understanding that Mon- 
 sieur Miiller was not really the first of- 
 fender." 
 
 "i^oz dlionneur ! He insulted me — I 
 threw some coffee in his face — 'he Hung; him- 
 self upon me like a tiger, and almost choked 
 me, as all here witnessed. And for what ? 
 
A Man luith a History. 233 
 
 Because I did him the honour to make a 
 a rough pencilling of his ugly face . . . Mille 
 tonnerres ! — the fellow has stolen my sketch- 
 book!" 
 
234 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 CHAPTER XIIL 
 
 Fancies about Faces. 
 
 HE sketch-book was undoubtedly 
 gone, and the stranger had un- 
 doubtedly taken it. How he took 
 it, and how he vanished, remained a mys- 
 tery. 
 
 The aspect of affairs, meanwhile, was ma- 
 terially changed. Mllller no longer stood 
 in the position of a leniently-treated offender. 
 He had become accuser, and plaintiff. A 
 grave breach of the law had been committed, 
 and he was the victim of a bold and skilful 
 tour de main. 
 
 The police shook their heads, twirled their 
 mustaches, and looked wise. 
 
 It was a case of premeditated assault — in 
 short, of robbery with violence. It must 
 
Fancies about Faces. 235 
 
 be inquired into — reported, of course, at 
 head-quarters without loss of time. Would 
 Monsieur be pleased to describe the stolen 
 sketch-book ? An oblong, green volume, 
 secured by an elastic band ; contains sketches 
 in pencil and water-colours ; value uncer- 
 tain Good. And the accused . . . would 
 
 Monsieur be pleased also to describe the 
 person of the accused ? His probable age, 
 for instance ; his height ; the colour of his 
 hair, eyes, and beard ? Good again. Lastly, 
 Monsieur's own name and address^ exactly 
 and in full. Tres hon. It might, perhaps, 
 be necessary for Monsieur to enter a formal 
 deposition to-morrow morning at the Pre- 
 fecture of Police, in which case due notice 
 would be given. 
 
 Whereupon he who seemed to be chief 
 of the twain, having entered Muller's replies 
 in a greasy pocket-book of stupendous di- 
 mensions, which he seemed to wear like a 
 cuirass under the breast of his uniform, pro- 
 ceeded to interrogate the proprietor and 
 waiters. 
 
 Was the accused an habitual frequenter 
 
236 hi the Days of my Youth. 
 
 of the cafe ? — ^No. Did they remember 
 ever to have seen him there before ? — No. 
 Should they recognise him if they saw him 
 again ? To this question the answers were 
 doubtfuL One waiter thouQ-ht he should 
 recognise the man ; another was not sure ; 
 and Monsieur the proprietor admitted that 
 he had himself been too angry to observe 
 anything or anybody very minutely. 
 
 Finally, having made themselves of as 
 nmch importance and asked as many ques- 
 tions as possible, the sergens de ville con- 
 descended to accept a couple of petits verres 
 a-piece, and then, with much lifting of 
 cocked hats and clattering of sabres, de- 
 parted. 
 
 Most of the students had ere this dropped 
 off by twos and threes, and were gone to 
 their day's work, or pleasure — to return 
 again in equal force about five in the after- 
 noon. Of those that remained, some five 
 or six came up when the police were gone, 
 and began chatting about the robbery. 
 When they learned that Flandrin had desired 
 to have a sketch of the man's head ; when 
 
Fancies ahout Faces. 237 
 
 Muller described his features, and I his ob- 
 stinate reserve and serai-military air, their 
 excitement knew no bounds. Each liad im- 
 mediately his own conjecture to offer. He 
 was a political spy, and therefore fearful lest 
 his portrait should be recognised. He was 
 a conspirator of the Fieschi school. He was 
 Mazzini in person ! 
 
 In the midst of the discussion, a sudden 
 recollection flashed upon me. 
 
 " A clue ! a clue !" I shouted triumphantly. 
 " He left his coat and black bag hanging 
 up in the corner ! " 
 
 Followed by the others, I ran to the spot 
 where I had been sitting before the affray 
 began. But my exultation was short-lived. 
 Coat and bag, like their owner, had disap- 
 peared. 
 
 Muller thrust his hands into his pockets, 
 shook his head, and whistled dismally. 
 
 " I shall never see my sketch-book again, 
 parifezi/" said he. "The man who could 
 not only take it out of my breast-pocket, 
 but also, in the very teeth of the police, 
 secure his property and escape unseen, is a 
 
238 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 master of his profession. Our friends in the 
 cocked hats have no chance against hira." 
 
 " And Flandrin who is expecting the 
 sketch," said I ; " what of him ?" 
 
 Miiller shrusored his shoulders. 
 
 " Next to beinsc beaten," Q;rowled he, 
 " there's nothing I hate like confessing it. 
 However, it has to be done — so the sooner 
 the better. Would you like to coywq with 
 nie ? You'll see his studio." 
 
 I was only too glad to accompany him ; 
 for to me, as to most of us, there was ever 
 a nameless charm in the picturesque litter 
 of an artist's studio. Muller's own studio, 
 however, was as yet the only one I had 
 seen. He laughed when I said this. 
 
 " If 3^our only notion of a studio is de- 
 rived from that specimen," said he, " you 
 will be agreeably surprised by the contrast. 
 He calls his place a ' den ;' but that's a me- 
 taphor. Mine is a howling wilderness." 
 
 Arriving presently at a large house at the 
 bottom of a courtyard in the Rue Vaugi- 
 rard, he knocked at a small side-door bear- 
 ing a tiny brass plate not much larger than 
 
Fancies about Faces. 239 
 
 a visiting-card, on which was engraved — 
 " Monsieur Flandrin." 
 
 The door opened by some invisible means 
 from within, and we entered a passage dim- 
 ly lighted by a painted glass door at the 
 farther end. My companion led the way 
 down this passage, through the door, and 
 into a small garden containing some three 
 or four old trees, a rustic seat, a sun-dial 
 on an antique-looking fragment of broken 
 column, and a little weed-grown pond 
 about the size of an ordinary drawing-room 
 table, surrounded by artificial rock-work. 
 
 At the farther extremity of this garden, 
 filling the whole space from wall to wall 
 and occupying as much ground as must 
 have been equal to half the original enclo- 
 sure, stood a large, new, windowless build- 
 ing, in shape exactly like a barn, lighted 
 from a huge skylight in the roof, and enter- 
 ed by a small door in one corner. I did 
 not need to be told that this was the studio. 
 
 But if the outside was like a barn, the 
 inside was like a beautiful mediaeval interior 
 by Cattermole — an interior abounding in 
 
240 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 rich and costly detail ; in heavy crimson 
 draperies, precious old Italian cabinets, 
 damascened armour, carved chairs with up- 
 right backs and twisted legs, old paintings 
 in massive Florentine frames, and strange 
 quaint pieces of Elizabethan furniture, like 
 buffets, with open shelves full of rare and 
 artistic things — bronzes, ivory-carvings, un- 
 wieldy Majolica jars, and lovely goblets of 
 antique Venetian glass laced with spiral or- 
 naments of blue and crimson and that dark 
 emerald g-reen of which the secret is now 
 
 o 
 
 lost for ever. 
 
 Then, besides all these things, there were 
 great folios leaning piled against the walls, 
 one over the other ; and Persian rugs of 
 many colours lying here and there about 
 the floor ; and down in one corner I ob- 
 served a heap of little models, useful, no 
 doubt, as accessories in pictures — gondolas, 
 frigates, foreign-looking carts, a tiny sedan 
 c]iair, and the like. 
 
 But the main interest of the scene con- 
 centrated itself in the unfinished picture, 
 the hired model (a brawny fellow in a 
 
Fancies about Faces. 241 
 
 close-fitting suit of black, leaning on a huge 
 two-handed sword), and the artist in his 
 holland blouse, with the palette and brushes 
 in his hand. 
 
 It was a very large picture, and stood on 
 a monster easel, somewhat towards the end 
 of the studio. The light from above poured 
 full upon the canvas, while beyond lay a 
 backsfround of shadow. Much of tlie sub- 
 ject was as yet only indicated, but enough 
 was already there to tell the tragic story 
 and display the power of the painter. 
 There, hidi above the heads of the mount- 
 ed guards and the assembled spectators, 
 rose the scaffold, hung with black. Eg- 
 niont, wearing a crimson tabard, a short 
 black cloak embroidered with gold, and a 
 hat ornamented with black and white 
 plumes, stood in a haughty attitude, as if 
 facing the square and the people. Two 
 other figures, apparently of an ecclesiastic 
 and a Spanish general, partly in outline, 
 partly laid in with Hat colour, were placed 
 to the right of the principal character. 
 The headsman stood behind, leaning upon 
 
 VOL. II. R 
 
242 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 his sword. The slender spire of the Hotel 
 de Ville, surmounted by its gilded archangel 
 glittering in the morning sun, rose high 
 against a sky of cloudless blue ; while all 
 around was seen the well-known square 
 with its sculptured gables and decorated 
 facades — every roof, window, and balcony 
 crowded with spectators. 
 
 Unfinished though it was, I saw at once 
 that I was brought face to face with what 
 would some day be a famous work of art. 
 The figures were grandly grouped ; the 
 heads were noble ; the sky was full of air ; 
 the action of the whole scene informed with 
 life and motion. 
 
 I stood admiring and silent, while Miiller 
 told his tale, and Flandrin paused in his 
 work to listen. 
 
 "It is horribly unlucky," said he. "I 
 had not been able to find a portrait of Ro- 
 mero and, faute de mieiu:, have been trying 
 for days past to invent the right sort of 
 head for him — of course, without success. 
 You never saw such a heap of failures ! 
 But as for that man at the cafe, if Provi- 
 
Fancies about Faces. 243 
 
 dence had especially created him for ray 
 purpose, he could not have answered it 
 better." 
 
 " I believe I am as sorry as you can pos- 
 sibly be," said Mliller. 
 
 " Then you are very sorry indeed," re- 
 plied the painter ; and he looked even more 
 disappointment than he expressed. 
 
 " I'm afraid I can't do it," said Miiller, 
 after a moment's silence ; " but if yo\x\\ 
 give me a pencil and a piece of paper, and 
 credit me with the will in default of the 
 deed, I will try to sketch the head from 
 memory." 
 
 " Ah ! if you can only do that ! Here is 
 a drawing-block — choose what pencils you 
 prefer — or here are crayons, if you like 
 them better." 
 
 Miiller took the pencils and block, perched 
 himself on the corner of a table, and began. 
 Flandrin, breathless with expectation, look- 
 ed over his shoulder. Even the model (in' 
 the grim character of Egmont's executioner) 
 laid aside his two-handed sword, and came 
 round for a peep. 
 
 R 2 
 
244 Li the Days of my Youth. 
 
 " Bravo ! that's just his nose and brow," 
 said Flandrin, as Mliller's rapid hand flew 
 over the paper. " Yes — the likeness comes 
 with every touch . . . and the eyes, so keen 
 and furtive . . . Nay ! that eyelid should be 
 a little more depressed at the corner . . . 
 Yes, yes — just so. Admirable ! There ! — 
 don't attempt to work it up. The least 
 thing might mar the likeness. My dear 
 
 fellow, what u service you have rendered 
 
 I" 
 me ! 
 
 " Quatre-vingt mille cliahks /" ejaculated 
 the model, his eyes rivetted upon the 
 sketch. 
 
 Mliller laughed and looked up. 
 
 " Tiens! Guichet," said he, " is that meant 
 for a compliment ?" 
 
 " Where did you see him ?" asked the 
 model pointing down at the sketch. 
 
 " Why? Do you know him ?" 
 
 " Where did you see him, I say ?" repeat- 
 ed Guichet, impatiently. 
 
 He was a rough fellow, and garnished 
 every other sentence with an oath ; but he 
 did not mean to be uncivil. 
 
Fancies about Faces. 245 
 
 " At the Cafe Procope." 
 
 " When r 
 
 " About an hour ago. But again I repeat 
 — do you know him ?" 
 
 " Do I know him ? Tonnerre cle Dieu /" 
 
 " Then who and what is he ?" 
 
 The model stroked his beard ; shook his 
 head ; declined to answer. 
 
 " Bah !" said he, gloomily, " I may have 
 seen him, or I may be mistaken. 'Tis not 
 my affair." 
 
 " I suspect Guichet knows something 
 against this interesting stranger," laughed 
 Flandrin. " Come, Guichet, out with it ! 
 We are amons; friends." 
 
 But Guichet again looked at the drawing, 
 and asrain shook his head, 
 
 o 
 
 " I'm no judge of pictures, messieurs," 
 said he. " I'm only a poor devil of a 
 model. How can I pretend to know a man 
 from such a griffonage as that ?" 
 
 And, taking up his big sword agaiai, he 
 retreated to his former post over against 
 the picture. We all saw that he was re- 
 solved to say no more. 
 
246 hi the Days of my Youth. 
 
 Flandrin, delighted with Muller's sketch, 
 put it, with many thanks and praises, care- 
 fully away in one of the great folios against 
 the wall. 
 
 " You have no idea, mon cher Mliller," he 
 said, " of what value it is to me. I was in 
 despair about the thing till I saw that fellow 
 this morning in the Cafe ; and he looked as 
 if he had stepped out of the Middle Ages 
 on purpose for me. It is quite a mediaeval 
 face — if you know what I mean by a me- 
 diseval face." 
 
 " I think I do," said Mliller. " You mean 
 that there was a moyen-age type, as there 
 was a classical type, and as there is a modern 
 type. 
 
 " 'Just so ; and therein lies the main diffi- 
 culty that we historical painters have to en- 
 counter. When we cannot find portraits of 
 our characters, we are driven to invent faces 
 for them — and who can invent what he 
 never sees? Invention must be based on 
 some kind of experience ; and to study old -* 
 portraits is not enough for our purpose, ex- 
 cept we frankly make use of them as por- 
 
Fancies about Faces. 247 
 
 traits. We cannot generalise upon them, so 
 as to resuscitate a vanished type." 
 
 " But then has it really vanished ?" said 
 Miiller. " And how can we know for cer- 
 tain that the mediaeval type did actually 
 differ from the type we see before us every 
 day?" 
 
 " B}'- simple and direct proof — by study- 
 ing tlie epochs of portrait painting. Take 
 Holbein's heads, for instance. Were not the 
 people of his time grimmer, harder-visaged, 
 altogether more unbeautiful than the people 
 of ours ? Take Petitot's and Sir Peter Lely's. 
 Can you doubt that the characteristics of 
 their period were entirely different ? Do 
 you suppose that either race would look as 
 we look, if resuscitated and clothed in the 
 fashion of to-day ?" 
 
 " I am not at all sure that we should ob- 
 serve any difference," said Miiller, doubt- 
 fully. 
 
 " And I feel sure we should observe the 
 greatest," replied Flandrin, striding up and 
 down the studio, and speaking with great 
 animation. " I believe, as regards the men 
 
248 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 and women of Holbein's time, that their 
 faces were more lined than ours ; their eyes, 
 as a rule, smaller — their mouths wider — 
 their eyebrows more scanty — their ears 
 larger — their figures more ungainly. And 
 in like manner, I believe the men and 
 women of the seventeenth century to have 
 been more fleshy than either Holbein's 
 people or ourselves; to have had rounder 
 cheeks, eyes more prominent and heavy- 
 lidded, shorter noses, more prominent chins, 
 and lips of a fuller and more voluptuous 
 mould," 
 
 " Still we can't be certain how much of all 
 this may be owing to the mere mannerisms 
 of successive schools of art," urged 'MilUer, 
 sticking manfully to his own opinion, 
 " Where will you find a more decided man- 
 nerist than Holbein ? And because he was 
 the first portrait-])aiutcr of his day, was he 
 not reproduced with all his faults of literal- 
 ness and dryness by a legion of imitators ? 
 So with Sir Peter Lely, with Petitot, with 
 Vandyck, with every great artist who painted 
 kings and queens and court, beauties. Then 
 
Fancies about Faces. 249 
 
 again, a certain style of beauty becomes the 
 rage, and a skilful painter flatters each fair 
 sitter in turn by bringing up her features, or 
 her expression, or the colour of her hair, as 
 near as possible to the fashionable standard. 
 And further, there is the dress of a period 
 to be taken into account. Think of the 
 family likeness that pervades the flowing 
 wigs of the courts of Louis Quatorze and 
 Charles the Second — see what powder did a 
 hundred years ago to equalise mankind ! " 
 
 Flandrin shook his head. 
 
 " Ingenious, mon garqon" said he ; " in- 
 genious, but unsound. The cut of a fair 
 lady's bodice never yet altered the shape 
 of her nose ; neither was it the fashion of 
 their furred surcoats that made Erasmus and 
 Sir Thomas More as like as twins. What you 
 call the ' mannerism ' of Holbein is only his 
 way of looking at his fellow-creatures. He 
 and Sir Antonio More were the most faith- 
 ful of portrait painters. They didn't know 
 how to flatter. They painted exactly what 
 they saw — no more, and no less ; so that 
 every head they have left us is a chapter in 
 
250 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 the history of the Middle Ages. The race — 
 depend on't — the race was unbeautiful ; and 
 not even the picturesque dress of the period 
 (which, according to your theory, should 
 have helped to make the wearers of it more 
 attractive) could soften one jot of their 
 plainness." 
 
 " I can't biing myself to believe that we 
 were all so ugly — French, English, and 
 Germans alike — only a couple of centuries 
 ago," said Mliller. 
 
 "That is to say, you prefer to believe 
 that Holbein, and Lucas Cranach, and Sir 
 Antonio More, and all their school, were 
 mannerists. Nonsense, my dear fellow — 
 nonsense ! It is Nature ivho is the manner- 
 ist. She loves to turn out a certain genera- 
 tion after a particular pattern ; and when 
 she is tired of that pattern, she invents an- 
 other. Her fancies last, on the average, 
 about a hundred years. Sometimes she 
 changes the type quite abruptly ; sometimes 
 modifies it by gentle, yet always perceptible, 
 degrees. x\nd who shall say what her se- 
 cret processes are ? Education, travel, in- 
 
Fancies about Faces. 251 
 
 termarriage with foreigners, the introduc- 
 tion of new kinds of food, the adoption of 
 new habits, may each and all have some- 
 thing to do with these successive changes ; 
 but of one point at least we may be certain 
 — and that is, that we painters are not re- 
 sponsible for her caprices. Our mission is 
 to interpret Dame Nature more or less 
 faithfully, according to our powers ; but 
 beyond interpretation we cannot go. And 
 now (for you know I am as full of specula- 
 tions as an experimental philosopher) I will 
 tell you another conclusion I have come to 
 with regard to this subject ; and that is that 
 national types were less distinctive in me- 
 dia3val times than in ours. The French, 
 English, Flemish, and Dutch of the Middle 
 Ages, as we see them in their portraits, are 
 curiously alike in all outward characteristics. 
 The courtiers of Francis the First and their 
 dames, and the lords and ladies of the court 
 of Henry the Eighth, resemble each other 
 as people of one nation. Their features are, 
 as it were, cast in one mould. So also with 
 the courts of Louis Quatorze and Charles 
 
252 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 the Second. As for the regular French 
 face of to-day, with its broad cheek-bones 
 and high temples running far up into the 
 hair on either side, that type does not make 
 its appearance till close upon the advent of 
 the Reicjn of Terror. Butenoudi! I shall 
 weary you with theories, and wear out the 
 patience of our friend Guichet, who is suffi- 
 ciently tired already with waiting for a head 
 that never comes to be cut off as it ought. 
 Adieu — adieu. Come soon again, and see 
 how I get on with Marshal Romero." 
 
 Thus dismissed, we took our leave and 
 left the painter to his work. 
 
 " An extraordinary man !" said MllUer, 
 as we passed out again through tlie neglect- 
 ed garden and paused for a moment to look 
 at some half-dozen fat gold and silver fish 
 tliat were swimming lazily about the little 
 pond. "A man made up of contradictions 
 — abounding in energy, yet at the same 
 time the dreamiest of speculators. An ori- 
 ginal thinker, too ; but wanting that basis 
 which alone makes orimnal thinkina^ of anv 
 permanent value." 
 
Fancies about Faces. 253 
 
 " But," said I, " he is evidently ati edu- 
 cated man." 
 
 " Yes — educated as most artists are edu- 
 cated ; but Flandrin has as strong a bent 
 for science as for art, and deserved some- 
 thing better. Five years at a German 
 university would have made of him one 
 of the most remarkable men of his time. 
 What did you think of his theory of 
 faces ? " 
 
 " I know nothing of the subject, and can- 
 not form a judgment ; but it sounded as if 
 it might be true." 
 
 "Yes — ^just that. It may be true, and it 
 may not. If true, then for my own part I 
 should like to pursue his theory a step fur- 
 ther, and trace the operation of these secret 
 processes by means of which I am, happily, 
 such a much better-looking fellow than my 
 great-great-great-great grandfather of two 
 hundred years ago. What, for instance, has 
 the introduction of the potato done for the 
 noses of mankind ?" 
 
 Chatting thus, we walked back as far as 
 the corner of the Rue Racine, where we 
 
254 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 parted ; I to attend a lecture at the Ecole 
 de Medicine, and Mliller to go home to his 
 studio in the Rue Clovis. 
 
Returned with Thanks. 255 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Returned with Thanks. 
 
 WEEK or two had thus gone by 
 since the dreadful eveninsr at the 
 Opera Comique, and all this time I 
 had neither seen nor heard more of the fair 
 Josephine. My acquaintance with Franz 
 Miiller and the life of the Quartier Latin 
 had, on the contrary, progressed rapidly. 
 Just as the affair of the Opera had dealt a 
 final blow to my romance a la grisette on the 
 one hand, so had the excursion to Courbevoie, 
 the visit to the Ecole de Natation, and the 
 adventure of the Cafe Procope, fostered my 
 intimacy with the artist on the other. We 
 were both young, somewhat short of money, 
 and brimful of fun. Each, too, had a cer- 
 
256 III the Days of my Youth. 
 
 tain substratum of earnestness underlying 
 the mere surface-gaiet}^ of his character. 
 Muller was enthusiastic for art; I for poetry; 
 and both for libert}^ I fear, when I look 
 back upon them, that we talked a deal of 
 nonsense about Brutus, and the Rights of 
 Man, and the noble savage, and all that sort 
 of thing, in those hot-headed days of our 
 youth. It was a form of political measles 
 that the young men of that time were 
 quite as liable to as tlie young men of 
 our own; and, living as we then were 
 in the heart of the most revolutionary 
 city in Europe, I do not well see how we 
 could have escaped the infection. Muller 
 (who took it worse than I did, and was very 
 rabid indeed when I first knew him) belong- 
 ed just then not only to the honourable 
 brotherhood of Les Chicards, but also to. a 
 small debating club that met twice a week 
 in a private room at the back of an obscure 
 Estaminet in the Rue de la Harpe. The 
 members of this club were mostly art-stu- 
 dents, and some, like himself, Chicards — 
 generous, turbulent, liigli -spirited boys, with 
 
Returned with Thanhs. 257 
 
 more enthusiasm than brains, and a flow of 
 words wholly out of proportion to the bulk 
 of their ideas. As I came to know him more 
 intimately, I used sometimes to go there 
 with Mliller, after our cheap dinner in the 
 Quartier and our evening stroll along the 
 Boulevards or the Champs Elysees; and I am 
 bound to admit that I never, before or since, 
 heard quite so much nonsense of the decla- 
 matory sort as on those memorable occasions. 
 I did not think it nonsense then, however. 
 I admired it with all my heart ; applauded 
 the nursery eloquence of these sucking Mira- 
 beaus and Camille Desmoulins as frantically 
 as their own vanity could desire ; and was 
 even secretly chagrined that ray own French 
 was not yet fluent enough to enable me to 
 take part in their discussions. 
 
 In the meanwhile, my debts were paid ; 
 and, having dropped out of society when I 
 fell out of love with Madame de Marignan, 
 I no longer overspent my allowance. I 
 bought no more bouquets, paid for no more 
 opera-stalls, and hired no more prancing 
 steeds at seven francs the hour. I bade 
 
 VOL. II. s 
 
258 In the Days of iny Youth. 
 
 adieu to picture-galleries, fiower-shows, morn- 
 ing concerts, dress boots, white kid gloves, 
 elaborate shirt-fronts, and all the vanities of 
 the fashionable world. In a word, I re- 
 nounced the Faubourg St. Germain for the 
 Quartier Latin, and applied myself to such 
 work and such pleasures as pertained to the 
 locality. If, after a long day at Dr. Cheron's, 
 or the Hotel Dieu, or the Ecole de Medicine, 
 1 did waste a few hours now and then, I, at 
 least, wasted them cheaply. Cheaply, but 
 oh, so pleasantly ! Ah me ! those nights at 
 the debating club, those evenings at the 
 Chicards, those student's balls at the Chau- 
 miere, those third-class trips to Versailles and 
 Fontainebleau, those one-franc pit seats at the 
 Gaiete and the Palais Royale, those little sup- 
 pers at Pompon's and Flicoteau's — how de- 
 lightful they were! How joyous ! How 
 free from care ! And even when we made 
 up a party and treated the ladies (for to 
 treat the ladies is de rigueure in the code of 
 Quartier Latin etiquette) how little it still 
 cost, and what a world of merriment we had 
 for the money ! 
 
Returned with Thanks. 259 
 
 It was well for ine, too, and a source of 
 much inward satisfaction, that my love- 
 affair with Mademoiselle Josephine had 
 faded and died a natural death. We never 
 made up that quarrel of the Opera Comique, 
 and I had not desired that we should make 
 it up. On the contrar}', I was exceedingly 
 glad of the opportunity of withdrawing m}^ 
 attentions ; so I wrote her a polite little 
 note in which I expressed my regret that 
 our tastes were so dissimilar and our paths 
 in life so far apart ; wished her every happi- 
 ness ; assured her that I should ever remem- 
 ber her with friendly regard ; and signed 
 my name with a tremendous flourish at the 
 bottom of the second page. With the note, 
 liowever, I sent her a raised pie and a red 
 and green shawl, of which I begged her ac- 
 ceptance in token of amity ; and as neither 
 of those gifts was returned, I concluded that 
 she ate the one and wore the other, and 
 that there was peace between us. 
 
 But the scales of fortune as tliey go up 
 for one, go down for another. This mans 
 luck is balanced by that man's ruin — Orestes 
 
 s2 
 
260 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 falls sick, and Pylades returns from Kissen- 
 gen cured of his lumbago — old Croesus dies, 
 and little Miss Kilmansegg comes into the 
 world with a golden spoon in her mouth. 
 So it fell out with Franz Muller and my- 
 self. As I happily steered clear of Charyb- 
 dis, he drifted into Scylla — in other words, 
 just as I recovered from my second attack 
 of the tender passion, he caught the epide- 
 mic and fmcied himself in love with the fair 
 Marie. 
 
 I say " fancied," because his way of falling 
 in love was so unlike my way, that I could 
 scarcely believe it to be the same complaint. 
 It affected neither his appetite, nor his 
 spirits, nor his wardrobe. He made as 
 many puns and smoked as many pipes as 
 usual. He did not even buy a new hat. 
 If, in fact, he had not told me himself, I 
 should never have guessed that anything 
 whatever was the matter with him. 
 
 It came out one day when he was pressing 
 me to go with him to a certain tea-party at 
 Madame Marotte's, in the Rue St. Denis. 
 
 " You see," said he, "it is la jjetite Marie's 
 
Returned with Thanks. 261 
 
 fete ; and the party's in her honour ; and 
 thej^'d be so proud if we both went to it ; 
 and — and, upon my soul, I'm awfully fond 
 of that little girl " 
 
 " Of Marie Marotte ?" 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 " You are not serious," I said. 
 
 "I am as serious," he replied, "as a danc- 
 ing dervish." 
 
 And then, for I suppose I looked incredu- 
 lous, he went on to justify himself 
 
 " She's very good," he said, " and very 
 prett}^ Quite a Madonna face, to my think- 
 ing. 
 
 " You may see a dozen such Madonna 
 faces among the nurses in the Luxembourg 
 Gardens, every afternoon of your life," said 
 I. 
 
 " Oh, if you come to that, every woman 
 is like every other woman, up to a certain 
 point." 
 
 ''^ Le femmes se suivent etse ressemblent tou- 
 jows" said I, parodying a well-known 
 apothegm. 
 
 " Precisely, but then they wear their rue, 
 
262 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 or cause you to wear yours, * with a differ- 
 ence.' This girl, however, escapes the mono- 
 tony of her sex by one or two peculiarities : 
 — she has not a bit of art about her, nor a 
 shred of coquetry. She is as simple and as 
 straightforward as an Arcadian. She doesn't 
 even know when she is being made love to, 
 or understand what you mean, when you pay 
 her a compUment." 
 
 "Then she's a phenomenon — and what 
 man in his senses would fall in love with a 
 phenomenon ?" 
 
 " Every man, mon cher enfant^ who falls 
 in love at all ! The woman we worship is 
 always a phenomenon, whether of beauty, 
 or grace, or virtue — till we find her out ; 
 and then, probably, she becomes a pheno- 
 menon of deceit, or slovenliness, or bad tem- 
 per ! And now, to return to the point we 
 started from — will you go with me to 
 Madame Marotte's tea-party to-morrow 
 evening at eight ? Don't say ' No,' there's 
 a good fellow." 
 
 " I'll certainly not say No, if you particu- 
 larly want me to say Yes," I replied, "but — " 
 
Returned with Thanks. 203 
 
 " Prythee, no buts ! Let it be Yes, and 
 the thinsi; is settled. So — here we are. 
 Won't you come in and sraoke a pipe with 
 nie ? I've a bottle of capital Rhenish in the 
 cupboard." 
 
 We had met near the Odeon, and, as 
 our roads lay in the same direction, had 
 gone on walking and talking till we came 
 to Mliller's own door in the Rue Clovis. I 
 accepted the invitation, and followed him in. 
 ^\iQ portiere, a sour-looking, bent old woman 
 with a very dirty duster tied about her head, 
 hobbled out from her little dark den at the 
 foot of the stairs, and handed him the key 
 of his apartment. 
 
 ''' Tiens r said she, "wait a moment — 
 there's a parcel for you, M'sieur Mliller." 
 
 And so, hobbling back again, she brought 
 out a small flat brown paper packet sealed 
 at both ends. 
 
 "Ah, I see — from the Emperor!" said 
 Miiller. " Did he bring it himself, Madame 
 Duphot, or did he send it by t1ie Archbishop 
 of Paris?" 
 
264 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 A faint grin flitted over the little old 
 woman's withered face. 
 
 " Get along with you, M'sieur Muller," she 
 said. " You're always playing i\\Q. farceur ! 
 The parcel was brought by a man who 
 looked like a stonemason." 
 
 " And nobody has called?" 
 
 " Nobody, except M'sieur Richard." 
 
 " Monsieur Richard's visits are always 
 gratifying and deliglitful — may tlie diahle 
 fly away with him !" said Muller. "What 
 did dear Monsieur Richard want to-dav, 
 Madame Duphot?" 
 
 " He wanted to see you, and the tlnrd- 
 floor gentleman also — about the rent." 
 
 "Dear Richard! What an admirable 
 memory he has for dates ! Did he leave 
 any message, Madame Duphot '?" 
 
 The old woman looked at me, and hesi- 
 tated. 
 
 " He says, M'sieur Muller — he says . . . ." 
 
 " Nay, this gentleman is a friend — you 
 may speak out. What does our beloved 
 and respected ijroprietaire say, Madame Du- 
 phot?" 
 
Beturned with Thanks. 265 
 
 " He says, if you don't both of you pay 
 up the arrears b}^ juidday on Sunday next, 
 he'll seize your goods, and turn you into the 
 street." 
 
 " Ah, I always said he was the nicest man 
 I knew !" observed Miiller, gravely. " Any- 
 thing else, Madame Duphot ?" 
 
 " Only this, M'sieur Mllller — that if you 
 didn't go quietly, he'd take your windows 
 out of the frames and your doors off the 
 hinges." 
 
 " Comment ! He bade you give me that 
 message, the miserable old son of a spider! 
 Quatre vingt milk plats de diahles aux iruffes ! 
 Take my windows out of the frames, indeed ! 
 Let him try, Madame Duphot — that's all — 
 let him try !" 
 
 And with this, Miiller, in a towering rage, 
 led the way upstairs, muttering volleys of 
 the most extraordinary and eccentric oaths 
 of liis own invention, and leaving the little 
 o\di portiere grinning maliciously in the hall. 
 
 " But can't you pay him ?" said I. 
 
 " Whether I can, or can't, it seems I must," 
 he replied, kicking open the door of his 
 
266 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 studio as viciously as if it were the corporeal 
 frame of Monsieur Richard, " The only 
 question is — how ? At the present moment, 
 T haven't five francs in the till." 
 
 "Nor have I more than twenty. How 
 much is it ?" 
 
 " A hundred and sixty — worse luck !" 
 
 " Haven't the Tapottes paid for any of 
 their ancestors yet ?" 
 
 " Confound it ! — yes ; they've paid for a 
 Marshal of France and a Farmer General, 
 which are all I've yet finislied and sent 
 home. But there was the washerwoman, 
 and the traiteur, and the artist's colourman, 
 and, enjin, the devil to pay — and the money's 
 gone, somehow !" 
 
 "I've only just cleared myself from a lot 
 of debts," I said, ruefully, " and I daren't 
 ask either ray father or Doctor Cheron for 
 an advance just at present. What is to be 
 done ?" 
 
 " Oh, I don't know, I must raise the 
 money somehow. I must sell something — 
 there's my copy of Titian's ' Pietro Are- 
 tino.' It's worth eighty francs, if only for a 
 
JReturned with Thanks. 267 
 
 -sign. And there's a Madonna and Child 
 after Andrea del Sarto, worth a fortune to 
 any enterprising sage-femme with artistic 
 proclivities. I'll try what Nebuchadnezzar 
 will do for me." 
 
 " And who, in the name of all that's 
 Israelitish, is Nebuchadnezzar ?" 
 
 *' Nebuchadnezzar, my dear Arbuthnot, 
 is a worthy Shylock of my acquaintance — 
 a gentleman well known to Bohemia — one 
 who buys and sells whatever is purchaseable 
 and saleable on the face of the globe, from a 
 ship of war to a comic paragraph in the 
 Charivari. He deals in bric-a-brac, sermons, 
 government sinecures, pugs, false hair, light 
 literature, patent medicines, and the fine 
 arts. He lives in the Place des Victoires. 
 Would you like to be introduced to him ?" 
 
 " Immensely." 
 
 " Well, then, be here by eight to-morrow 
 morning, and I'll take you with me. After 
 nine he goes out, or is onl}'' visible to bu3^ers. 
 Here's my bottle of Rhenish — genuine Ass- 
 raanshauser. Are you hungry ?" 
 
268 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 I admitted that I was not unconscious of a 
 sensation akin to appetite. 
 
 He gazed stedfastly into the cupboard, and 
 shook his head. 
 
 " A box of sardines," he said, gloomily, 
 " nearly empty. Half a loaf, evidently dis- 
 interred from Pompeii. An inch of Lyons 
 sausage, saved from the ark ; the remains 
 of a bottle of fish sauce, and a pot of currant 
 jelly. What will you have ?" 
 
 I decided for the relics of Pompeii and 
 the deluge, and we sat down to discuss those 
 curious delicacies. Having no corkscrew, 
 we knocked off the neck of the bottle, and 
 being short of glasses, drank our wine out 
 of teacups. 
 
 " But you have never opened your parcel 
 all this time," I said presently. " It may be 
 full of billets de hanque — who can tell ?" 
 
 " That's true," said Miiller ; and broke the 
 seals. 
 
 " By all the Gods of Olympus!" he shouted, 
 holding up a small oblong volume bound 
 in dark green cloth. " My sketch-book !" 
 
 He opened it, and a slip of paper fell out. 
 
Rdurned with Thanks. 269 
 
 On this slip of paper were written, in a very 
 neat, small hand, the words, " Eetumed with 
 tlianls ;" but the page that contamed the 
 sketch made in the Cafe Procope was miss- 
 ing. 
 
270 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 An Evening Party among the Petit Bourgeoisie. 
 
 ADAME MAROTTE, as I have al- 
 ready mentioned more than once, 
 lived in the Rue du Faubourg St. 
 Denis ; which, as all the world knows, is a 
 prolongation of the Rue St. Denis — ^just as 
 the Rue St. Denis was, in my time, a trans- 
 pontine continuation of the old Rue de la 
 Harpe. Beginning at the Place du Chatelet 
 as the Rue St. Denis, opening at its farther 
 end on the Boulevart St. Denis and passing 
 under the triumphal arch of Louis le Grand 
 (called the Porte St. Denis), it there be- 
 comes first the Rue du I/iubourg St. Denis, 
 and then the interminable Grande Route de 
 St. Denis which draprs its slow lenf]!th alontr 
 
All Evenimj Party. 271 
 
 all the way to the famous Abbey outside 
 Paris. 
 
 The Rue du Faubourg St. Denis is a chang- 
 ed street now, and widens out, prim, white, 
 and glittering, towards the new barrier and 
 the new Rond Point. But in the dear old 
 days of which I tell, it was the sloppiest, 
 worst-paved, worst-lighted, noisiest, narrow- 
 est, and most crowded of all the great Paris 
 thoroughfares north of the Seine. All the 
 country traffic from Chantilly and Compiegne 
 came lumbering this way into the city ; dili- 
 gences, omnibuses, waggons, fiacres, water- 
 carts, and all kinds of vehicles thronged and 
 blocked the street perpetually ; and the 
 sound of wheels ceased neither by night nor 
 by day. The foot-pavements of the Rue du 
 Faubourg St. Denis, too, were always muddy, 
 be tlie weather what it might ; and the gut- 
 ters were alvvays full of stagnant pools. An 
 ever-chanf>iniT never-failing stream of rustics 
 from the country, workpeople from the fac- 
 tories of the hanlieu, grisettes, commercial 
 travellers, porters, commissionaires, and 
 gamins of all ages here flowed to and fro. 
 
272 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 Itinerant vendors of cakes, lemonade, cocoa, 
 chickweed, aUumettes, pincushions, six-bkided 
 penknives, and never-pointed pencils filled 
 the air with their cries, and made both day 
 and night hideous. You could not walk a 
 dozen yards at any time without falling 
 down a yawning cellar-trap, or being run 
 over by a porter with a huge load upon his 
 head, or getting splashed from head to foot 
 by the sudden pulling-up of some cart in the 
 gutter beside you. 
 
 It was among the peculiarities of the Rue 
 du Faubourg St. Denis that everybody was 
 always in a hurry, and that nobody w^as ever 
 seen to look in at the shop-windows. The 
 shops, indeed, might as well have had no 
 windows, since there were no loungers to 
 profit by them. Every house, nevertheless, 
 was a shop, and every shop had its window. 
 These windows, however, were for the most 
 part of that kind before which the passer-by 
 rarely cares to linger ; for the commerce of 
 the Rue du Faubouro; St. Denis was of that 
 steady, unpretending, money-making sort 
 that despises mere shop-front attractions. 
 
An Evening Party. 273 
 
 Grocers, stationers, corn-chandlers, printers, 
 cutlers, leather-sellers, and such other inele- 
 gant trades, here most did congregate ; and 
 to the wearied wayfarer toiling along the 
 dead level of this dreary pave, it was quite 
 a relief to come upon even an artisticall3"-ar- 
 ranged Magasin cle Charcuterie^ with its rows 
 of glazed tongues, micjhtv Lyons sausas!;es, 
 yellow terrines of Strasbourg pies, fantasti- 
 cally shaped pickle-jars, and pyramids of 
 silvery sardine boxes. 
 
 It was at number One Hundred and Two 
 in this agreeable thoroughfare that my 
 friend's innamorata resided with her maternal 
 aunt, the worthy relict of Monsieur Jacques 
 Marotte, umbrella-maker, deceased. Thither, 
 accordingly, we wended our miry way, Mlil- 
 ler and I, after dinino; toorether at one of 
 our accustomed haunts on the evening fol- 
 lowing the events related in my last chapter. 
 The day had been dull and drizzly, and the 
 evening had turned out duller and more 
 drizzly still. We had not had rain for some 
 time, and the weather had been (as it often 
 is in Paris in October) oppressively hot ; and 
 
 VOL. II. T 
 
2 74 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 now that the rain had come, it did not seem 
 to cool the air at all, but rather to load it 
 with vapours, and make the heat less endur- 
 able than before. 
 
 Having toiled all the way up from the 
 Rue de la Harpe on the farther bank of the 
 Seine, and having forded the passage of the 
 Arch of Louis le Grand, we were very wet 
 and raudd}^ indeed, very much out of breath, 
 and very melancholy objects to behold. 
 
 " It's dreadful to think of going into any 
 house in this condition, Miiller," said I, 
 glancing down ruefully at the state of my 
 boots, and having just received a copious 
 spattering of mud all down the left side of 
 my person, " What is to be done !" 
 
 " We've only to go to a boot-cleaning and 
 brushing-up shop," replied Miiller, "There's 
 sure to be one close by somewhere." 
 
 " A boot-cleaning and brushing-up shop !" 
 1 echoed, 
 
 " What — didn't you know there were lots 
 of them, all over Paris ? Have you never 
 noticed places that look like shops, with 
 ground glass windows instead of shop-fronts, 
 
An Evening Party. 275 
 
 on which are painted up the words, ' cirage 
 des bottes ?' " 
 
 "Never, that I can remember." 
 "Then be grateful to me for a piece of 
 very useful information ! Suppose we turn 
 down this by-street — it's mostly to the se- 
 clusion of by-streets and passages that our 
 bashful sex retires to renovate its boots and 
 its broadcloth." 
 
 I followed him, and in the course of a few 
 minutes we found tlie sort of place of which 
 we were in search. It consisted of one 
 large, long room, like a shop without goods, 
 counters, or shelves. A single narrow 
 bench ran all round tlie walls, raised on a 
 sort of wooden platform about three feet in 
 width and three feet from the ground. 
 Seated upon this bench, somewhat uncom- 
 fortably, as it seemed, with their backs 
 against the wall, sat some ten or a dozen 
 men and boys, each with an attendant shoe- 
 black kneeling before him, brushing away 
 vigorously. Two or three other customers, 
 standing up in the middle of the shop, like 
 liorses in the hands of the groom, were hav- 
 
 t2 
 
276 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 ing their coats brushed instead of their boots. 
 Of those present, some looked like young 
 shopmen, some were of the ouvrier class, 
 and one or two looked like respectable small 
 tradesmen and fathers of families. The 
 younger men were evidently smartening up 
 for an hour or two at some cheap ball or 
 Cafe-Concert, now that the warehouse was 
 closed, and the day's work was over. 
 
 Our boots being presently brouglit up to 
 the highest degree of polish, and our garments 
 cleansed of every disfiguring speck, we paid 
 a few sous apiece and turned out again into 
 the streets. Happily, we had not far to go. 
 A short cut brought us into the midst of the 
 Rue de Faubourg St. Denis, and within a 
 few yards of a gloomy-looking little shop 
 with the words " Veuve Marotte " painted 
 up over the window, and a huge red and 
 white umbrella daniilins; over the door. A 
 small boy in a shiny black apron was at that 
 moment putting up the shutters ; the win- 
 dows of the front room over the shop were 
 brightly lit from within ; and a little old gen- 
 tleman in goloshes and a large blue cloak 
 
An Evening Parti/. 277 
 
 with a curly collar, was just going in at the 
 private door. We meekly followed hira, 
 and hung up our hats and overcoats, as he 
 did, in the passage. 
 
 " After you, Messieurs," said the little old 
 gentleman, skipping politely back, and flour- 
 ishing his hand in the direction of the stairs. 
 " After you !" 
 
 We protested vehemently against this ar- 
 rangement, and fought quite a skirmish of 
 civilities at the foot of the stairs. 
 
 " I am at home here, Messieurs," said the 
 little old gentleman, who, now that he was 
 divested of hat, cloak, and goloshes, appear- 
 ed in a flaxen toupet^ an antiquated blue 
 coat with brass buttons, a profusely frilled 
 shirt, and low-cut shoes with silver buckles. 
 " I am an old friend of the family — a friend 
 of fifty years. I hold myself privileged to 
 to do the honours, Messieurs : — a friend of 
 fifty years may claim to have his privi- 
 leges !" 
 
 With this he smirked, bowed, and backed 
 against the wall, so that we were obliged to 
 precede him. When we reached the land- 
 
2 78 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 ing, however, he (being evidently an old 
 gentleman of uncommon politeness and 
 agility) sprang forward, held open the door 
 for us, and insisted on ushering us in. 
 
 It was a narrow, long-shaped room, the 
 size of the shop, with two windows looking 
 upon the street ; a tiny square of carpet in 
 the middle of the floor ; boards highly wax- 
 ed and polished ; a tea-table squeezed up in 
 one corner ; a somewhat ancient-looking, 
 spindle-legged cottage piano behind the 
 door ; a mirror and an ornamental clock 
 over the mantelpiece ; and a few French 
 lithographs coloured in imitation of crayon- 
 drawings, hanging against the walls. 
 
 Madame Marotte, very deaf and fussy in 
 a cap with white ribbons, came forward to 
 receive us. Mademoiselle Marie, sitting be- 
 tween two other young women of her own 
 age, hung her head, and took no notice of 
 our arrival. 
 
 The rest of the party consisted of a gen- 
 tleman and two old ladies. The gentleman 
 (a plump, black-whiskered elderly Cupid, 
 with a vast expanse of shirt-front like an 
 
An Evening Party. 279 
 
 immense white ace of hearts, and a rose in 
 his button-hole) was standing on the hearth- 
 rug in a graceful attitude, with one hand 
 resting on his hip, and the other under his 
 coat-tails. Of the two old ladies, who 
 seemed as if expressly created by nature to 
 serve as foils to one another, one was very 
 fat and rosy, in a red silk gown and a kind 
 of black velvet hat trimmed with white 
 marabout feathers and Roman pearls ; while 
 the other was tall, gaunt and pale, with a long 
 nose, a long upper lip, and supernaturallylong 
 yellow teeth. She wore a black gown, black 
 cotton gloves, and a black velvet band across 
 her forehead, fastened in the centre with a 
 black and gold clasp containing a ghastly re- 
 presentation of a human eye, apparently 
 purblind — which gave this lady the air of a 
 serious Cyclops. 
 
 Madame Marotte was profuse of thanks, 
 welcomes, apologies and curtseys. It was 
 so good of these gjentleraen to come so far — 
 and in such unpleasant weather, too ! But 
 would not these Messieurs give themselves 
 the trouble to be seated ? And would they 
 
280 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 prefer tea or coffee — for both were on the 
 table ? And where was Marie ? Marie, 
 whose fete-diW.y it was, and who should have 
 come forward to welcome these gentlemen, 
 and thank them for the honour of their 
 company ! 
 
 Thus summoned, Mademoiselle Marie 
 emerged from between the two young wo- 
 men, and curtsied demurely. 
 
 In the meanwhile, the little old gentle- 
 man who had ushered us in was bustlins 
 about the room, shaking liands with ever}'- 
 one, and complimenting the ladies. 
 
 "Ah, Madame Desjardins," he said, ad- 
 dressing the stout lady in the hat, " enchant- 
 ed to see you back from the sea-side ! — you 
 and your charming daughter. I do not 
 know which looks the more young and 
 blooming." 
 
 Then, turning to the grim lady in black: — 
 
 " And I am charmed to pay my homage 
 to Madame de Mont Parnasse. I liad tlie 
 pleasure of being present at the brilliant 
 debut of Madame's gifted daughter the other 
 evening at the private performance of the 
 
An Evening Party. 281 
 
 pupils of the Conservatoire, Mademoiselle 
 Honoria inherits the grande aii\ Madame, 
 from yourself." 
 
 Then, to the plump gentleman with the 
 shirt-front : — 
 
 " And Monsieur Philom^ne ! — this is in- 
 deed a privilege and a pleasure. Bad 
 weather, Monsieur Philomene, for the 
 voice !" 
 
 Then, to the two girls : 
 
 '' Mesdemoiselles — Achille Dorinet pros- 
 trates himself at the feet of youth, beauty, 
 and talent ! Mademoiselle Honoria, I salute 
 in you the future Empress of the tragic-stage. 
 Mademoiselle Rosalie, modesty forbids me 
 to extol the acquired graces of even my 
 most promising pupil ; but I may be per- 
 mitted to adore in you the graces of na- 
 ture." 
 
 While I was listening to these scraps of 
 salutation, Miiller was murmuring tender 
 nothings in the ear of the fair Marie, and 
 Madame Marotte was pouring out the 
 coffee. 
 
 Monsieur Achille Dorinet, having gone the 
 
282 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 round of the company, next addressed him- 
 self to me. 
 
 " Permit me, Monsieur," he said, bringing 
 his heels together and punctuating his sen- 
 tences with little bows, " permit me, in the 
 absence of a master of the ceremonies, to 
 introduce myself — Achille Dorinet. Achille 
 Dorinet, whose name may not, perhaps, be 
 wholly unknown to you in connection with 
 the past glories of the classical ballet. 
 Achille Dorinet, formerly premier sujet of 
 the Opera Fran^ais — now principal choreo- 
 graphic professor at the Conservatoire Im- 
 periale de Musique. I have had the honour, 
 Monsieur, of dancing at Erfurth before their 
 Imperial Majesties the Emperors Napoleon 
 and Alexander, and a host of minor sove- 
 reigns. Those, Monsieur, were the high 
 and palmy days of the art. We performed 
 a ballet descriptive of the siege of Troy, and 
 I undertook the part of a river god — the 
 god Scamander, en effet. The great ladies 
 of the court, Mo^'ieur, were graciously 
 pleased to admire my proportions as the 
 god Scamander. I wore a girdle of sedges, 
 
An Evening Party. 283 
 
 a wreath of water-lilies, and a scarf of blue 
 and silver. I have reason to believe that 
 the costume became me." 
 
 " Sir," I replied gravely, " I do not doubt 
 it. 
 
 "It is a noble art, Monsieur, Tart de la 
 danse," said the former premier sujet, with a 
 sigh ; " but it is on the decline. Of the 
 grand style of fifty years ago, only myself 
 and tradition remain." 
 
 " Monsieur was, doubtless, a contempo- 
 rary of Vestris, the famous dancer," I said. 
 
 " The illustrious Vestris, Monsieur," said 
 the little old gentleman, " was, next to Louis 
 the Fourteenth, the greatest of Frenchmen. 
 I am proud to own myself his disciple, as 
 well as his contemporary." 
 
 " Why next to Louis the Fourteenth, 
 Monsieur Dorinet ?" I asked, keeping my 
 countenance with difficulty. " Why not 
 next to Napoleon the First, vho was a still 
 greater conqueror ?" 
 
 " But no dancer, Monsieur ! " replied 
 the ex-god Scamander, with a kind of 
 half pirouette ; " whereas the Grand Mon- 
 
284 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 arque was the finest dancer of his epoch." 
 
 Madame Marotte had by this time sup- 
 pHed all her guests with tea and coffee, 
 while Monsieur Philomene went round with 
 the cakes and bread and butter. Madame 
 Desjardins spread her pocket-handkerchief 
 on her lap — a pocket-handkerchief the size 
 of a small table-cloth. Madame de Mont- 
 parnasse, more mindful of her gentility, 
 removed to a corner of the tea-table, and 
 ate her bread and butter in her black cotton 
 gloves. 
 
 " We hope we have another bachelor 
 by-and-by, " said Madame Marotte, ad- 
 dressing herself to the young ladies, who 
 looked down and giggled. "A charming 
 man, mesdemoiselles, and quite the gen- 
 tleman — our locataire, M'sieur Lenoir. You 
 know him, M'sieur Dorinet — pray tell these 
 demoiselles what a charming man M'sieur 
 Lenoir is !" 
 
 The little dancing-master bowed, coughed, 
 smiled, and looked somewhat embarrassed. 
 
 " Monsieur Lenoir is no doubt a man of 
 much information," he said, hesitatingly; "a 
 
An Evening Party. 285 
 
 traveller — a reader — a gentleman — oh ! yes, 
 certainly a gentleman. But to say that he 
 is a — a charming man . . . well, perhaps the 
 ladies are the best judges of such nice ques- 
 tions. What says Mam'selle Marie ?" 
 
 Thus applied to, the fair Marie became 
 suddenly crimson, and had not a word to 
 reply with. Monsieur Dorinet stared. The 
 young ladies tittered. Madame Marotte, 
 deaf as a post and serenely unconscious, 
 smiled, nodded, and said " Ah, yes, yes — 
 didn't I tell you so ?" 
 
 " Monsieur Dorinet has, I fear, asked an 
 indiscreet question," said Miiller, boiling 
 over with jealousy. 
 
 " I — I have not observed Monsieur Lenoir 
 sufficiently to — to form an opinion," faltered 
 Marie, ready to cry with vexation. 
 
 Miiller glared at her reproachfully, turned 
 on his heel, and came over to where I was 
 standinsr. 
 
 " You saw how she blushed ?" he said in 
 a fierce whisper. " Sacredie ! I'll bet my 
 head she's an arrant flirt. Who, in the 
 name of all the fiends, is this lodger she's 
 
286 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 been carrying on with? A lodger, too — 
 oh ! the artful puss !" 
 
 At this awkward moment, Monsieur Dori- 
 net, with considerable tact, asked Monsieur 
 Philomene for a song ; and Monsieur Philo- 
 mene (who as I afterwards learned was a 
 favourite tenor at fifth-rate concerts) was 
 graciously pleased to comply. 
 
 Not, however, without a little preliminary 
 coquetry, after the manner of tenors. First 
 he feared he was hoarse ; then struck a note 
 or two on the piano, and tried his falsetto ; 
 then asked for a glass of water ; and finally 
 begged that one of the young ladies would 
 be so amiable as to accompany him. 
 
 Mademoiselle Honoria, inheriting rigidity 
 from the maternal Cyclops, drew herself up 
 and declined stiffly ; but the other, whom 
 the dancing-master had called Rosalie, got 
 up directly and said she would do her best. 
 
 " Only," she added, blushing, " I play so 
 badly !" 
 
 Monsieur Philomene was provided with 
 two copies of his song — one for the accom- 
 panyist and one for himself; then, standing 
 
An Evening Party. 287 
 
 well away from the piano with his face to 
 the audience, he balanced his music in his 
 hand, made his little professional bow, 
 coughed, ran his fingers through his hair, 
 and assumed an expression of tender melan- 
 choly. 
 
 "One — two — three," began Mdlle. Rosa- 
 lie, her little fat fingers staggering help- 
 lessly among the first cadenzas of the sym- 
 phony. "One — two — three. One" . . . 
 
 Monsieur Philoraene interrupted with a 
 wave of the hand, as if conducting an or- 
 chestra. 
 
 " Pardon, Mademoiselle," he said, " not 
 quite so fast, if you please ! Andantino — 
 andantino — one — two — three . . . Just so ! 
 A thousand thanks !" 
 
 Again Mdlle. Rosalie attacked the sym- 
 phony. Again Monsieur Philomene cleared 
 his voice, and suffered a pensive languor to 
 cloud his manly brow. 
 
 '■'' Revenez, revenez, beaux jours de man en/ance," 
 
 lie began, in a small, tremulous, fluty voice. 
 " They'll have a long road to travel back, 
 jMrbkuT muttered Mliller. 
 
288 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 " De votre aspect riant charmer nion souvenance /"' 
 
 Here Mdlle. Rosalie struck a wrong chord, 
 became involved in hopeless difficulties, and 
 gasped audibly. 
 
 Monsieur Philoraene darted a withering 
 glance at her, and went on : — 
 
 "il/o?i c(E?<?', mon pauvre coeur''^ .... 
 
 More wrong chords, and a smothered 
 '^ mille loardons r from Mdlle. Rosalie. 
 
 " Mon cceur^ mon j}anvre cosur a la tristesse en proie, 
 En/oidUant le j)asse" .... 
 
 A dead stop on the part of Mdlle. Rosalie. 
 
 '■'■ En foiiillant le passe'''' • . . . 
 
 repeated the tenor, with the utmost severity 
 of emphasis. 
 
 ^^ Mais, mon Dieu, Rosalie! what are you 
 doing?" cried Madame Desjardins, angrily. 
 " Why don't you go on ?" 
 
 Mdlle. Rosalie burst into a flood of tears. 
 
 " I — I can't !" she sobbed. " It's so — so 
 very difficult — and " . . . . 
 
 Madame Desjardins flung up her hands in 
 despair. 
 
 " del r she cried, "and I have been pay- 
 
An Evening Party. 289 
 
 ing three francs a lesson for you, Mademoi- 
 selle, twice a week for the last six years !" 
 
 " Mais, maman " . . . . 
 
 " Fi done, Mademoiselle ! I am ashamed 
 of you. Make a curtsey to Monsieur Philo- 
 mene this moment, and beg his pardon ; for 
 you have spoiled his beautiful song !" 
 
 But Monsieur Philomene would hear of 
 no such expiation. His soul, to use his own 
 eloquent language, recoiled from it with 
 horror ! The accompaniment, a vrai dire, 
 was not easy, and la Men aimable Mam'selle 
 Rosalie had most kindly done her best with 
 it. Allans done ! — on condition that no more 
 should be said on the subject. Monsieur 
 Philomene would volunteer to sing a little 
 unaccompanied romance of his own compo- 
 sition — a mere bagatelle ; but a tribute to 
 " les beaux yeux de ces cheres dames f 
 
 So Mam'selle Rosalie wiped away her tears, 
 and Madame Desjardins smoothed her ruffled 
 feathers, and Monsieur Philomene warbled a 
 plaintive little ditty in which " coeur'' rhymed 
 to '"'' peur,'' and ''''amours^'' to ^'' toujours,'' smdi 
 " le sort " to " la mort " in quite the usual way; 
 
 VOL. II. U 
 
290 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 so giving great satisfaction to all present, but 
 most, perhaps, to himself. 
 
 And now, hospitably anxious that each of 
 her guests should have a chance of achieving 
 distinction, Madame Marotte invited Mdlle. 
 Honoria to favour the company with a dra- 
 matic recitation. 
 
 Mdlle. Honoria hesitated ; exchanged 
 glances with the Cyclops ; and, in order to 
 enhance the value of her performance, began 
 raising all kinds of difficulties. There was 
 no stage, for instance ; and there were no 
 footlights ; but M. Dorinet met these objec- 
 tions by proposing to range all the seats at 
 one end of the room, and to divide the stage 
 off by a row of lighted candles. 
 
 " But it is so difficult to render a dramatic 
 scene without an interlocutor !" said the 
 young lady. 
 
 " What is it you require, 7na chh'e demoi- 
 selle V asked Madame Marotte. 
 
 " I have no interlocutor," said Mdlle. Ho- 
 noria. 
 
 "No what, my love?" 
 
An Evening Pai'ty. 291 
 
 "No interlocutor," repeated Mdlle. Ho- 
 noria, at the top of her voice. 
 
 " Dear ! dear ! what a pity ! Can't we 
 send the boy for it ? Marie, my child, bid 
 Jacques run to Madame de Montparnasse's 
 apvartement in the Rue " . . . . 
 
 But Madame Marotte's voice was lost in 
 the confusion ; for Monsieur Dorinet was 
 already deep in the arrangement of the 
 room, and we were all helping to move the 
 furniture. As for Mademoiselle's last diffi- 
 culty, the little dancing-master met that by 
 offering to read wliatever was necessary to 
 carry on the scene. 
 
 And now, the stage being cleared, the 
 audience placed, and Monsieur Dorinet pro- 
 vided with a volume of Corneille, Mademoi- 
 selle Honoria proceeded to drape herself in 
 an old red shawl belonginsr to Madame 
 Marotte. 
 
 The scene selected is the fifth of the 
 fourth act of Horace, where Camille, meet- 
 ing her only surviving brother, upbraids him 
 with the death of Curiace. 
 
 Mam'selle Honoria, as Camille, with clasped 
 
 u 2 
 
292 In the Days of my Yoiitli. 
 
 hands and tragic expression, stalks in a slow 
 and stately manner towards the footlights. 
 
 (Breathless suspense of the audience.) 
 
 M. Dorinet, who should begin by vaunt- 
 ing his victory over the Curiatii, stops to 
 put on his glasses, finds it difficult to read 
 with all the candles on the ground, and 
 mutters something about tlie smallness of 
 the type. 
 
 Mdlle. Honoria, not to keep the audience 
 waiting, surveys the ex-God Scamander with 
 a countenance expressive of horror ; starts ; 
 and takes a turn across the stage. 
 
 '"''Ma sonir^'"' begins M. Dorinet, holding 
 tlie book very much on one side, so as to 
 catch the light upon the page, "?/i(2 sceur^ 
 void le bras " . . . . 
 
 " Ah, heaven ! my dear Mademoiselle, 
 take care of the candles !" cries Madame 
 ]\Iarotte in a shrill whisper. 
 
 . . . . " Ze hras qui vengc nos deux freres, 
 Le hras qui rompt le cows de 7ios destins contraires^ 
 Qui nous rend " . . . . 
 
 Here he lost his place ; stammered ; and 
 recovered it with difficultv. 
 
Ari Eveiiing Party. 293 
 
 " Qui nous rend maitres d''Albe " . . . . 
 
 Madame Marotte groans aloud in an agony 
 of apprehension. 
 
 " Ah, mon Dieu /" she exclaims, gaspingly, 
 " if they didn't flare so, it wouldn't be half 
 so dansjerous !" 
 
 Here M. Dorinet dropped his book, and 
 stooping to pick up the book, dropped his 
 spectacles. 
 
 " I think," said Mdlle. Honoria, indig- 
 nantly, " we had better begin again. Mon- 
 sieur Dorinet, pray read with the help of a 
 candle, this time !" 
 
 And, with an angry toss of her head, 
 Mdlle. Honoria went up the stage, put on 
 her tragedy face again, and prepared once 
 more to stalk down to the footlights. 
 
 Monsieur Dorinet, in the meanwhile, had 
 snatched up a candle, readjusted his spec- 
 tacles, and found his place. 
 
 " Ma soeu7\'' he began again, holding the 
 book close to his eyes and the candle just 
 under his nose, and nodding vehemently 
 with every emphasis : — 
 
294 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 " Ma soeur, void le hras qui venge nos deux freres, 
 Le bras qui rompt le cows de nos destins contraires, 
 Qui nous rend maitres d\ilbe "... ." 
 
 A piercing scream from Madame Marotte, 
 a general cry on the part of the audience, 
 and a strong smell of burning, brought the 
 dancing-master to a sudden stop. He looked 
 round, bewildered. 
 
 " Your wig ! Your wig's on fire !" cried 
 every one at once. 
 
 Monsieur Dorinet clapped his hand to his 
 lirad, which was now adorned with a 
 rapidly-spreading glory ; burned his fingers ; 
 and cut a frantic caper. 
 
 " Save him ! save him !" yelled Madame 
 Marotte. 
 
 But almost before the words were out of 
 her mouth, Mliller, clearing the candles at 
 a bound, had rushed to the rescue, scalped 
 Monsieur Dorinet by a tou?' de main, cast 
 the blazing wig upon the floor, and trampled 
 out the fire. 
 
 Then followed a roar of " inextinguish- 
 able laugliter," in which, however, neither 
 tlie tragic Camille nor the luckless Horace 
 joined. 
 
An Evening Party. 295 
 
 " Heavens and earth!" murmured the little 
 dancing-master, ruefully surveying the ruins 
 of his blonde peruke. And then he put his 
 hand to his head, which was as bald as an 
 
 In the meanwhile Mdlle. Honoria, who had 
 not yet succeeded in uttering a syllable of 
 her part, took no pains to dissemble her an- 
 noyance ; and was only pacified at last by 
 a happy proposal on the part of Monsieur 
 Philomene, who suggested that " this gifted 
 demoiselle " should be entreated to favour 
 the society with a soliloquy. 
 
 Thus invited, she draped herself again, 
 stalked down to the footlights for the third 
 time, and in a high, shrill voice, with every 
 variety of artificial emphasis and studied ges- 
 ture, recited Voltaire's famous " Death of 
 Coligny," from the Henriade. 
 
 In the midst of this performance, just at 
 that point when the assassins are described 
 as falling upon tlieir knees before their 
 victim, the door of the room was softly 
 opened, and another guest slipped in unseen 
 behind us. Slipped in, indeed, so quietly 
 
296 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 that (the backs of the audience being turned 
 that way) no one seemed to hear, and no 
 one looked round but myself. 
 
 Brief as was that glaace, and all in the 
 shade as he stood, I recognized him instantly. 
 
 It was the mysterious stranger of the Cafe 
 Procope. 
 
2Iy Aunt's Floiver Garden. 297 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 My Aunt's Flower Garden. 
 
 AVING despatched the venerable Co- 
 ligny much to her own satisfaction 
 and apparently to the satisfaction 
 of her hearers, Mdlle. Honoria returned to 
 private life ; Messieurs Philomene and Dori- 
 net removed the footlights ; the audience 
 once more dispersed itself about the room ; 
 and Madame Marotte welcomed the new- 
 comer as Monsieur Lenoir. 
 
 ^^ Monsieur est Men aimahle,'' she said, nod- 
 ding and smiling, and, with tremulous hands, 
 smoothing down the front of her black silk 
 gown, " I had told these young ladies that 
 we hoped for the honour of Monsieur's so- 
 ciety. Will Monsieur permit me to intro- 
 duce him ?" 
 
298 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 " With pleasure, Madame Marotte." 
 
 And M. Lenoir — white cravatted, white- 
 kid gloved, hat in hand, perfectly well-dress- 
 ed in full evening black, and wearing a small 
 orange-coloured rosette at his button-hole — 
 bowed, glanced round the room, and, though 
 his eyes undoubtedly took in both Muller 
 and myself, looked as if he had never seen 
 either of us in his life. 
 
 I saw Muller start, and the colour fly into 
 his face. 
 
 " By heaven !" he exclaimed, " it is — it 
 must be . . . look at him, Arbuthnot ! If 
 that isn't the man who stole my sketch-book, 
 I'll eat my head !" 
 
 " It is the man," I replied. " I recognized 
 him ten minutes ago, when he first came in." 
 
 " You are certain ?" 
 
 " Quite certain." 
 
 " And yet — there is something different !" 
 
 There ivas something different ; but, at the 
 same time, much that was identical. There 
 was the same strange, inscrutable look, the 
 same bronzed complexion, the same military 
 bearing. M. Lenoir, it was true, was well. 
 
My Aunt's Flower Garden. 299 
 
 and eveD elegantly dressed ; whereas the 
 stranger of the Cafe Procope bore all the 
 outward stigmata of penury; but that was 
 not all. There was yet " something differ- 
 ent." The one looked like a man who had 
 done, or suffered, a wrong in his time ; who 
 had an old quarrel with the world ; and who 
 only sought to hide himself, his poverty, and 
 his bitter pride from the observation of his fel- 
 low men. The other stood before us digni- 
 fied, decore, self-possessed, a man not only of 
 the world, but apparently no stranger to 
 that small section of it called "the great 
 world." In a word, the man of the Cafe, 
 sunken, sullen, threadbare as he was, would 
 have been almost less out of his proper place 
 in Madame Marotte's society of small trades- 
 people and minor professionals, than was M. 
 Lenoir with his grande air and his orange- 
 coloured ribbon. 
 
 " It's the same man," said Mliller ; " the 
 same, beyond a doubt ! The more I look 
 at him, the more confident I am." 
 
 " And the more I look at him," said I, 
 " the more doubtful I get." 
 
300 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 Madame Marotte, meanwhile, had intro- 
 duced M. Lenoir to the two Conservatoire 
 pupils and their mammas ; Monsieur Dori- 
 net had proposed some '"'' i^etits jeux ]'' and 
 Monsieur Philomene was helping him to re- 
 arransje the chairs — this time in a circle. 
 
 "Take your places, Messieurs et Mesdanies 
 — take your places !" cried Monsieur Dorinet, 
 who had by this time resumed his wig, 
 singed as it was, and shorn of its fair pro- 
 portions. " What game shall we play at ?" 
 
 " Pied de Boeuf,'' " Colin Maillard,'' and 
 other games were successivel}^ proposed and 
 rejected. 
 
 " We have a game in Alsace called ' My 
 Aunt's Flower Garden,' " said Mliller. "Does 
 anyone know it ?" 
 
 " 'My Aunt's Flower Garden?'" repeated 
 Monsieur Dorinet. " I never heard of it." 
 
 " It sounds pretty," said Mdlle. Rosalie. 
 
 " Will M'sieur teach it to us, if it is not 
 very difficult?" suggested Mdlle. Rosalie's 
 mamma. 
 
 " With pleasure, Madame. It is not a 
 bad game — and it is extremely easy. We 
 
My Aunfs Flower Garden. .']0l 
 
 will sit in a circle, if you please — the chairs 
 as they are placed will do quite well." 
 
 We were just about to take our places 
 when Madame Marotte seized the oppor- 
 tunity to introduce MlUler and myself to M. 
 Lenoir. 
 
 "We have met before, Monsieur," said 
 Miiller, pointedly. 
 
 " I am ashamed to confess, Monsieur, that I 
 do not remember to have had that pleasure," 
 replied M. Lenoir, somewhat stiffly. 
 
 " And yet, Monsieur, it was but the other 
 day," persisted Miiller. 
 
 " Monsieur, I can but reiterate my regret." 
 
 "At the Cafe Procope." 
 
 M. Lenoir stared coldly, slightly shrugged 
 his shoulders, and said, with the air of one 
 who repudiates a discreditable charge : — 
 
 "Monsieur, I do not frequent the Cafe 
 Procope." 
 
 " If Monsieur Miiller is to teach us the 
 game, Monsieur Miiller must begin it !" said 
 Monsieur Dorinet. 
 
 " At once," replied Miiller, taking his 
 place in the circle. 
 
302 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 As ill-luck would have it (the rest of us 
 being already seated) there were but two 
 chairs left ; so that M. Lenoir and Miiller 
 had to sit side by side. 
 
 " I begin with my left-hand neighbour," 
 said Miiller, addressing himself with a bow 
 to Mdlle. Rosalie ; " and the circle will 
 please to repeat after me : — ' I have the four 
 corners of my Aunt's Flower Garden for 
 sale — 
 
 ' In the first of these corners groics sweet mignonette ; 
 Pve seen thee, and lov\l thee, and ne'er can forgety 
 
 Mdlle. Rosalie to M, Philomene. — I 
 have tlie four corners of my Aunt's Flower 
 Garden for sale — 
 
 ' In the first ofi these corners grows sweet mignonette ; 
 Pve seen thee, and lov^d thee, and ne''er can forget.'^ 
 
 M. Philomene to Madame de Montpar- 
 NASSE. — I have the four corners of my 
 Aunt's Flower Garden, etc., etc. 
 
 Madame de Montparnasse to M. Dorinet. 
 — I have the four corners of my Aunt's 
 Flower Garden, etc., etc. 
 
 Monsieur Dorinet repeats the formula to 
 Madame Desjardins; Madame Desjardins 
 
My Aunfs Flower Garden. 303 
 
 passes it on to me ; I proclaim it at the top 
 of my voice to Madame Marotte ; Madame 
 Marotte transfers it to Mdlle. Honoria ; Mdlle. 
 Honoria delivers it to the fair Marie ; the 
 fair Marie tells it to M. Lenoir, and the first 
 round is completed. 
 
 Miiller resumes the lead : — 
 
 " In the second grow heartsease and wild eglantine ; 
 Fair exchange is no theft — -for my heart, give me thine.'" 
 
 Mdlle. Rosalie to M. Philomene : — 
 
 '' In the second grow heartsease and wild eglantine ; 
 Fair exchange is no theft — for my heart, give me thine.'''' 
 
 M. Philomene to Mdlle. de Montpar- 
 
 nasse : — 
 
 " i/i the second grow heartsease,^'' Sfc. ^c. 
 
 And so on again, till the second round is 
 done. 
 
 Then Miiller began again : — 
 
 " In the third of these corners pale primroses grow ; 
 Now tell me thy secret, and whisper it low.'''' 
 
 Mdlle. Rosalie was about to repeat these 
 lines as before ; but he stopped her. 
 
 " No, Mademoiselle, not till you have told 
 me the secret !" 
 
 " The secret, M'sieur ! What secret ? " 
 
304 In the Days <^f my Youth. 
 
 " Nay, Mademoiselle, how can I tell that 
 till you have told rae? You must whisper 
 something to me — something very secret, 
 which you would not wish anyone else to 
 hear — before you repeat the lines. And 
 when you repeat them, Monsieur Philomene 
 must whisper his secret to you — and so on 
 through the circle." 
 
 Mdlle. Rosalie hesitated, smiled, whisper- 
 ed something in MUller's ear, and went on 
 with : — 
 
 " In the third of these corners pale primroses groic ; 
 Noiv tell me thy secret, and whisper it low.'''' 
 
 Monsieur Philomene then whispered his se- 
 cret to Mdlle. Rosalie, and so on again till 
 it ended with M. Lenoir and Mllller. 
 
 " I don't think it is a very amusing game," 
 said Madame Marotte ; who, being deaf, had 
 been left out of the last round, and found it 
 dull. 
 
 "It will be more entertaining presently, 
 Madame," shouted Mllller, with a malicious 
 twinkle about his eyes. " Pray observe the 
 next lines. Messieurs et Mesdames, and fol- 
 low my lead as before : — 
 
My Aunt's Floiver Garden. 305 
 
 ' Roses hloom in the fourth ; and your secret^ my dear. 
 Which you ivhisper^d so softly just now in my ear, 
 I repeat toordfor to or d, for the others to hear /' 
 
 Mademoiselle Rosalie (whose pardon I im- 
 plore !) whispered to me that Monsieur 
 Philomene dyed his moustache and whis- 
 kers." 
 
 There was a general murmur of alarm 
 tempered with tittering. Mademoiselle 
 Rosalie was dumb with confusion. MiU)- 
 sieur Philomene's face became the colour of 
 a full-blown peony. Madame de Mont- 
 parnasse and Mdlle. Honoria turned abso- 
 lutely green. 
 
 " Comment r exclaimed one or two voices. 
 " Is everything to be repeated ?" 
 
 " Everything, Messieurs et Mesdamcs," 
 replied Miiller — " everything — without re- 
 servation. I call upon Mdlle. Rosalie to 
 reveal the secret of Monsieur Philomene." 
 
 Mdlle. Rosalie (with great promptitude) : 
 — Monsieur Philomene whispered to me that 
 Honoria was the most disagreeable girl in 
 Paris, Marie the dullest, and myself the 
 prettiest. 
 
 VOL. II. X 
 
30G In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 M. Philomene {in an ayony of confusion) : 
 — I beseech you, Mam'selle Honoria ... I 
 entreat you, Mam'selle Marie, not for an in- 
 stant to suppose .... 
 
 Mdlle. HoNoiiiA (drawing herself up and 
 smiling acidly): — Oh, pray do not give your- 
 self the trouble to apologise. Monsieur Philo- 
 mene. Your opinion, I assure you, is not 
 of the least moment to either of us. Is it, 
 Marie ? 
 
 But the fair Marie only smiled good- 
 naturedly, and said : — 
 
 " I know I am not clever. Monsieur 
 Philomene is quite right ; and I am not at 
 all angry with him." 
 
 " But — but, indeed, Mesdemoiselles, I — I 
 am incapable . , . ." stammered the luck- 
 less tenor, wiping tlie perspiration from his 
 brow. " I am incapable . . . ." 
 
 •' Silence in the circle !" cried Muller, 
 authoritatively. " Private civilities are for- 
 bidden by the rules of the game. I call 
 Monsieur Philora^.ne to order, and I demand 
 from him the secret of Madame de Mont- 
 parnasse." 
 
My Aunt's Flower Garden. 307 
 
 M. Philomene looked even more miser- 
 able than before. 
 
 " I — I . . . but it is an odious position ! 
 To betray the confidence of a lady .... 
 Heavens ! I cannot." 
 
 *' The secret ! — the secret !" shouted the 
 others, impatiently. 
 
 Madame de Montparnasse pursed up her 
 parchment lips, glared upon us defiantly, 
 and said : — 
 
 " Pray don't hesitate about repeating my 
 words, M'sieur Philomene. I am not 
 ashamed of them." 
 
 M. Philomene (reluctantly): — Madame de 
 Montparnasse observed to me that what she 
 particularly disliked was a mixed society 
 like — like the present ; and that she hoped 
 our friend Madame Marotte would in future 
 be less indiscriminate in the choice of her 
 acquaintances. 
 
 MuLLER (with elaborate courtesy): — We are 
 all infinitely obliged to Madame de Mont- 
 parnasse for her opinion of us — (I speak for 
 the society, as leader of the circle) — and 
 beg to assure her that we entirely coincide 
 
 X 2 
 
308 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 in her views. It rests with Madame to carry 
 on the game, and to betray the confidence 
 of Monsieur Dorinet. 
 
 Madame de Montparnasse : — (luith ob- 
 vious satisfaction) — Monsieur Dorinet told 
 me that Rosalie Desjardin's legs were ill- 
 made, and that she would never make a 
 dancer, though she practised from now till 
 doomsday. 
 
 M. Dorinet : (springing to his feet as if he 
 had been shot) — Heavens and earth ! Madame 
 de Montparnasse, what have I done that 
 you should so pervert my words ? Mam'- 
 selle Rosalie — ma chere eleve, believe me, I 
 never .... 
 
 " Silence in the circle !" shouted Muller 
 aijcain. 
 
 M. Dorinet : — But, M'sicur, in simple 
 self-defence .... 
 
 Muller : — Self-defence, Monsieur Dori- 
 net, is contrary to the rules of the game. 
 Revenge only is permitted. Revenge your- 
 self on Madame Desjardins, whose secret it 
 is your turn to tell. 
 
 M Dorinet • — Madame Desjardins drew 
 
My Aunt's Flower Garden. 309 
 
 ray attention to the toilette of Madame de 
 Montparnasse. She said : " Mon Dieu ! 
 Monsieur Dorinet, are you not tired of see- 
 ing La Montparnasse in that everlasting old 
 black gown? My Rosalie says she is in 
 mourning; for her ugliness. 
 
 Madame Desjardins : (laughing heartily) 
 — Eh bien — oui ! I don't deny it ; and 
 Rosalie's mot was not bad. And now, 
 M'sieur the Englishman (turning to me), it is 
 your turn to be betrayed. Monsieur, whose 
 name I cannot pronounce, said to me : — 
 " Madame, the French, selo?i moi, are the 
 best dressed and most spirituel people of 
 Europe. Their very silence is witty ; and 
 if mankind were, by universal consent, to 
 go without clothes to-morrow, they would 
 wear the primitive costume of Adam and Eve 
 more elegantly than the rest of the world, 
 and still lead the fashion." 
 
 {A murmur of approval on the part of the 
 company^ who take the compliment entirely au 
 serieux.) 
 
 Myself : {agreeably conscious of having 
 achieved popularity) — Our hostess's deafness 
 
310 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 having unfortunately excluded her from this 
 part of the game, I was honoured with the 
 confidence of Mdlle. Honoria, who informed 
 me that she is to make her dehtd before long 
 at the Theatre Frangais, and hoped that I 
 would take tickets for the occasion. 
 
 Mdlle. Rosalie: {satirically) — Bi^ava, 
 Honoria ! What a woman of business you are ! 
 
 Mdlle. Honoria : (affecting not to hear 
 this observation) — 
 
 " Roses bloom in the fourth^ and your secret, my dear, 
 Which you whispered so softly just now in my ear, 
 I repeat word for word for the others to hear." 
 
 Marie said to me ... . Tiens ! Marie, don't 
 pull my dress in that way. You shouldn't 
 have said it, you know, if it won't bear re- 
 peating ! Marie said to me that she could 
 have either Monsieur Mliller or Monsieur 
 Lenoir, by only holding up her finger — but 
 she couldn't make up her mind wliich she 
 liked best. 
 
 Mdlle Marie : (half crying) — Nay, Ho- 
 noria — how can you be so — so unkind . . . 
 so spiteful ? I — I did not say I could have 
 either M'sieur Miiller or . , or . . , . 
 
My Aunt's Flower Garden. 311 
 
 M. Lenoir : (ivith great sjnrit and good 
 breeding) — Whether Mademoiselle used those 
 words or not is of very little importance. 
 The fact remains the same ; and is as old as 
 the world. Beauty has but to will and to 
 conquer. 
 
 MuLLER : — Order in tlie circle ! The 
 game waits for Mademoiselle Marie. 
 
 Marie : (hesitatingly) — 
 
 '•'■ RoRCshloom in the fourth, and your secreV^ . . . 
 
 M'sieur Lenoir said that — that he admired 
 the colour of my dress, and that blue be- 
 came me more than lilac. 
 
 MuLLER: (coldly) — Pardon^ Mademoiselle, 
 but I happened to overhear what Monsieur 
 Lenoir whispered just now, and those were 
 not his words. Monsieur Lenoir said, 
 "Look in "... . but perhaps Mademoi- 
 selle would prefer me not to repeat more ? 
 
 Marie: — (in great confusion) — As — as you 
 please, M'sieur. 
 
 MuLLER : — Then, Mademoiselle, I will be 
 discreet, and I will not even impose a forfeit 
 upon you, as I might do, by the laws of the 
 sjame. It is for Monsieur Lenoir to continue. 
 
312 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 M. Lenoir : — I do not remeaiber what 
 Monsieur Mliller whispered to me at the 
 close of the last round. 
 
 MuLLER : (pointedly) — Pardon^ Monsieur, 
 I should have thought that scarcely possible. 
 
 M. Lenoir : — It was perfectly unintelligi- 
 ble, and therefore left no impression on my 
 memory. 
 
 Muller : — Permit me, then, to have the 
 honour of assisting your memory. I said to 
 you — " Monsieur, if I believed that any 
 modest young woman of my acquaintance 
 was in danger of being courted by a man 
 of doubtful character, do you know what I 
 would do? I would hunt that man down 
 with as little remorse as a ferret hunts down 
 a rat in a drain." 
 
 M. Lenoir: — The sentiment does you 
 honour. Monsieur; but I do not see the 
 application. 
 
 Muller : — Vous ne le trouvez pas. Mon- 
 sieur ? 
 
 M. Lenoir : — (ivith a cold stai'e, and a 
 scarcely perceptible shrug of the shoulders) — 
 Non, Monsieur. 
 
My Aunfs Floiver Garden. 313 
 
 Here Mdlle. Rosalie broke in with : — 
 "What are we to do next, M'sieur Miiller? 
 Are we to begin another round, or shall we 
 start a fresh game ?" 
 
 To which Muller replied that it must be 
 '''' selon le plaisir de ces dames -^ and put the 
 question to the vote. 
 
 But too many plain, unvarnished truths 
 had cropped up in the course of the last 
 round of ray Aunt's Flower Garden ; and the 
 ladies were out of humour. Madame de 
 Montparnasse, frigid, Cyclopoean, black as 
 Erebus, found that it was time to go home ; 
 and took her leave, bristling with gentility. 
 The tragic Honoria stalked majestically after 
 her. Madame Desjardins, mortally offend- 
 ed with M. Dorinet on the score of Rosa- 
 lie's legs, also prepared to be gone ; while 
 M. Philomene, convicted of hair-dye and 
 brouilU for ever with " the most disagreeable 
 girl in Paris," hastened to make his adieux 
 as brief as possible. 
 
 " A word in your ear, mon cher Dorinet," 
 whispered he, catching the little dancing- 
 master by the button-hole. " Isn't it the 
 
314 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 most unpleasant party you were ever at in 
 your life ?" 
 
 The ex-God Scaraander held up his hands 
 and eyes. 
 
 " E\ mon Dieu /" he replied. " What an 
 evening of disasters ! I have lost my best 
 pupil and niy second-best wig !" 
 
 In the meanwhile, we went up like the 
 others, and said good night to our hostess. 
 
 She, good soul ! in her deafness, knew 
 nothing about the horrors of the ev^ening, 
 and was profuse of her civilities. "So ami- 
 able of these gentlemen to honour her little 
 soiree — so kind of M'sieur Mliller to have 
 exerted himself to make things go off plea- 
 santly — so sorry we w^ould not stay half an 
 hour longer," &c., &c. 
 
 To all of which Mliller (with a sly grimace 
 expressive of contrition) replied only by a 
 profound salutation and a rapid retreat. 
 Passing M. Lenoir without so much as a 
 glance, he paused a moment before Mdlle. 
 Marie who was standing near the door, and 
 said in a tone audible only to her and my- 
 self:— 
 
My Aunfs Flower Garden. 31.5 
 
 "I congratulate you, Mademoiselle, on 
 your admirable talent for intrigue. I trust, 
 when you look in the usual place and find 
 the promised letter, it will prove agreeable 
 reading. J'ai I'honneur, Mademoiselle, de 
 vous saluer." 
 
 I saw the girl flush crimson, then turn 
 deadly white, and draw back as if his hand 
 had struck her a sudden blow. The next 
 moment we were half-way down the stairs. 
 
 " What, in heaven's name, does all this 
 mean ?" I said, when we were once more in 
 the street. 
 
 "It means," replied Miiller fiercely, "that 
 the man's a scoundrel, and the woman, like 
 all other women, is false." 
 
 "Then the whisper you overheard" . . . 
 
 " Was only this : — ' Look in, the usual 
 place ^ and you wUl find a letter.'' Not many 
 words, mon cher ; but confoundedly compre- 
 hensive ! And I who believed that girl to 
 be an ang;el of candour!. I who was within 
 an ace of falling seriously in love with her ! 
 Sacredie ! what an idiot I have been !" 
 
 " Forget her, rby dear fellow," said I. 
 
316 In the Days of my Youth. 
 
 " Wipe her out of your memory (which I 
 think will not be difficult) and leave her to 
 her fiite." 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 " No," he said, gloomily, " I won't do 
 that. I'll get to the bottom of that man's 
 mystery ; and if, as I suspect, there's that 
 about his past life which won't bear the light 
 of day — I'll save her, if I can," 
 
 BND OF THE SECOND VOLUME. 
 
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