Part 2 (1/2)

As the young man was about to reply, a dragoon entered the court.

”Is this Monsieur Bernard's?” he asked, drawing a letter from a huge leather portfolio which swung at his side.

”He lives here,” replied the porter.

”Here is a letter for him,” said the dragoon; ”give me a receipt,” and he handed to the porter a bulletin of despatches which the latter entered his lodge to sign.

”Excuse me for leaving you alone,” said he to the young man who was stalking impatiently about the court, ”but this is a letter from the Minister to my landlord, and I am going to take it up to him.”

Monsieur Bernard was just beginning to shave when the porter knocked at his door.

”What do you want, Durand?”

”Sir,” replied the other, lifting his cap, ”a soldier has just brought this for you. It comes from the Ministry.” And he handed to Monsieur Bernard the letter, the envelope of which bore the stamp of the War Department.

”Heavens!” exclaimed Monsieur Bernard, in such agitation that he all but cut himself. ”From the Minister of War! I am sure it is my nomination as Knight of the Legion of Honour, which I have long solicited. At last they have done justice to my good conduct. Here, Durand,” said he, fumbling in his waistcoat-pocket, ”here are five francs to drink to my health. Stay! I haven't my purse about me. Wait, and I will give you the money in a moment.”

The porter was so overcome by this stunning fit of generosity, which was not at all in accordance with his landlord's ordinary habits, that he absolutely put on his cap again.

But Monsieur Bernard, who at any other time would have severely reprimanded this infraction of the laws of social hierarchy, appeared not to notice it. He put on his spectacles, broke the seal of the envelope with the respectful anxiety of a vizier receiving a sultan's firman, and began to read the dispatch. At the first line a frightful grimace ploughed his fat, monk-like cheeks with crimson furrows, and his little eyes flashed sparks that seemed ready to set fire to his bushy wig. In fact, all his features were so turned upside-down that you would have said his countenance had just suffered a shock of face-quake.

For these were the contents of the letter bearing the ministerial stamp, brought by a dragoon--orderly, and for which Durand had given the government a receipt:

”Friend landlord: Politeness-who, according to ancient mythology, is the grandmother of good manners--compels me to inform you that I am under the cruel necessity of not conforming to the prevalent custom of paying rent--prevalent especially when the rent is due. Up to this morning I had cherished the hope of being able to celebrate this fair day by the payments of my three quarters. Vain chimera, bitter illusion! While I was slumbering on the pillow of confidence, ill-luck--what the Greeks call _ananke_--was scattering my hopes. The returns on which I counted--times are so bad!-have failed, and of the considerable sums which I was to receive I have only realised three francs, which were lent me, and I will not insult you by the offer of them. Better days will come for our dear country and for me. Doubt it not, sir! When they come, I shall fly to inform you of their arrival, and to withdraw from your lodgings the precious objects which I leave there, putting them under your protection and that of the law, which hinders you from selling them before the expiration of a year, in case you should be disposed to try to do so with the object of obtaining the sum for which you stand credited in the ledger of my honesty. I commend to your special care my piano, and also the large frame containing sixty locks of hair whose different colours run through the whole gamut of capillary shades; the scissors of love have stolen them from the forehead of the Graces.”

”Therefore, dear sir, and landlord, you may dispose of the roof under which I have dwelt. I grant you full authority, and have hereto set my hand and seal.”

”ALEXANDER SCHAUNARD”

On finis.h.i.+ng this letter, (which the artist had written at the desk of a friend who was a clerk in the War Office,) Monsieur Bernard indignantly crushed it in his hand, and as his glance fell on old Durand, who was waiting for the promised gratification, he roughly demanded what he was doing.

”Waiting, sir.”

”For what?”

”For the present, on account of the good news,” stammered the porter.

”Get out, you scoundrel! Do you presume to speak to me with your cap on?”

”But, sir--”

”Don't you answer me! Get out! No, stay there! We shall go up to the room of that scamp of an artist who has run off without paying.”

”What! Monsieur Schaunard?” e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the porter.

”Yes,” cried the landlord with increasing fury, ”and if he has carried away the smallest article, I send you off, straight off!”

”But it can't be,” murmured the poor porter, ”Monsieur Schaunard has not run away. He has gone to get change to pay you, and order a cart for his furniture.”

”A cart for his furniture!” exclaimed the other, ”run! I'm sure he has it here. He laid a trap to get you away from your lodge, fool that you are!”