Part 44 (1/2)
”No, Monsieur Choucru,” he said sternly, ”I will not let you ruin yourself by putting off till to-morrow what can only be done to-day. I have come here, Monsieur 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 upon the most brilliant moment of your life!”
”_Mais, M'sieur_--explain yourself” ... stammered the proprietaire.
”You know who I am, Monsieur Choucru?”
”No, M'sieur--not in the least.”
”I am Muller--Franz Muller--landscape painter, portrait painter, historical painter, caricaturist, artist _en chef_ to the _Pet.i.t Courier Ill.u.s.tre_”
”_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 _Pet.i.t Courier Ill.u.s.tre_. I take the Courbevoie fete for my subject. I sketch the river, the village, the princ.i.p.al features of the-scene; and on Sat.u.r.day my designs are in the hands of all Paris. Do you understand me?”
”I understand that M'sieur is all this time talking to me of his own business, while mine, _la bas_, is standing still!” exclaimed the proprietaire, in an agony of impatience. ”I have the honor to wish M'sieur good-day.”
But Muller 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?”
”_Eh, mon Dieu_! Monsieur.”
”Will you tell me, Monsieur Choucru, what is to prevent me from giving a view of the best restaurant in Courbevoie?”
Madame Choucru, from behind the _comptoir_, uttered a little scream.
”A design in the _Pet.i.t Courier Ill.u.s.tre_, I need scarcely tell you,”
pursued Muller, with indescribable pomposity, ”is in itself sufficient to make the fortune not only of an establishment, but of a neighborhood.
I am about to make Courbevoie the fas.h.i.+on. The sun of Asnieres, of Montmorency, of Enghien 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 appet.i.te for _bifteck aux pommes frites_--all Paris with its unquenchable thirst for absinthe and Bavarian beer! Now, Monsieur Choucru, do you begin to understand me?”
”_Mais_, Monsieur, I--I think....”
”You think you do, Monsieur 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 your excellent neighbor at the corner of the Place--Monsieur Coquille of the Restaurant _Croix de Malte_?”
Monsieur Choucru scratched his ear again, stared helplessly at his wife, and said nothing. Madame looked grave.
”Are we to treat this matter on the footing of a business transaction, Monsieur!” she asked, somewhat sharply. ”Because, if so, let Monsieur at once name his price for me....”
”'PRICE,' Madame!” interrupted Muller, with a start of horror. ”Gracious powers! this to me--to Franz Muller of the _Pet.i.t Courier Ill.u.s.tre_!
'No, Madame--you mistake me--you wound me--you touch the honor 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 profoundly desolated! She implored a thousand pardons!
And then, like a true French-woman 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_?