Part 24 (1/2)

”You're a terrible fellow. They accuse me of being fickle, a deceiver, but I am sure that you're a hundred times worse than I.”

”I won't deny that I'm rather given to changing!”

”And the lady?”

”Oh! charming, delicious! a regular swell, with her carriage and livery!

We are here incog.”

”So I imagine.”

”She has granted me to-day a favor she has refused a thousand other men.”

”What a lucky dog you are! You arouse my curiosity; might I not see her?”

”Oh! impossible, my dear fellow, impossible! she's a woman who is most particular about her reputation. If she knew that I had talked about her to one of my friends, she would be deadly angry with me and would never forgive me.”

”Very good, I'll say no more about it; I see that it would be no kindness to you. I congratulate you, none the less, on such a brilliant conquest.”

”It's worth what it costs, that's true. You know that in the matter of women I am rather particular; I don't take up with the first comer; I insist on good form and style.”

I thought that Monsieur Raymond was trying to be sarcastic.

”Above all things, I like to subdue those who are cruel,” he continued; ”with them there are at least some merit and firmness--you understand.

But I wager that my charmer is getting impatient; adieu, neighbor! love and pleasure call me.”

”Don't keep them waiting.”

Raymond left my room, his bosom swelling with delight at being seen _en bonne fortune_, and returned to his own, closing the door behind him.

All that he had said increased my curiosity; I was convinced that he had been telling me fables, as usual. I gave no credit to his tales of great ladies; and I could see him cudgelling his brains for lies while he was talking to me; indeed, he seemed to go more into detail than his custom was, the better to pull the wool over my eyes.--You were not sly enough to catch me, my dear Raymond! it was because you had happened to see me with a flower girl that you put on so many airs and hurled epigrams at me; but I had a shrewd idea that your great swell was not worth my humble Nicette.

My window looked on the boulevard, and, while I waited for my soup, I opened the sash to enjoy the prospect. I was not _en partie fine_, consequently had no desire for a subdued light. I observed that my neighbor's blinds were not lowered, and my conclusion was strengthened that Raymond's affairs had not progressed very far.

As I watched the pa.s.sers-by, I saw a young man whom I knew stop in front of our restaurant. It was the same Gerville who lived in our house, and with whom Mademoiselle Agathe pa.s.sed the memorable night when I offered hospitality to Nicette. What was he doing there? He stopped and looked this way and that, as if he were expecting or seeking someone.

The window in my neighbors' Good! perhaps the lady would come there for a breath of air and I could see her face. But what was the matter? I heard an exclamation, and the window was suddenly closed; something extraordinary must have happened. In truth, I seemed to be becoming almost as inquisitive as Raymond.

I walked away from the window; a warm discussion was in progress in the next room. Faith! they could do what they chose! I proposed to dine, for I was hungry. At that very moment the waitress appeared with my soup.

But what a racket! Raymond suddenly rushed out of his room and into mine, pale, haggard, trembling, and in his haste jostled the servant and caused her to spill my soup on the floor.

”Oh! mon Dieu! what a mess, monsieur!” exclaimed the girl, picking up her tureen. ”You have made me burn myself awfully--all that hot soup on my foot! I know that I shall have big blisters there!”

”It's all right, my girl; I'll pay for your soup.”

”And what about my ap.r.o.n, which is ruined, and my leg?”

”I'll pay you for everything!” Raymond replied, with no idea what he was saying; and he pushed the girl out of the room and carefully closed the door.

”Well, well! what in the devil's the matter with you, Monsieur Raymond?