Part 3 (2/2)
”To Monsieur U,” replied the artist.
”He's out.”
”And madame?”
”Out too. They told me to say to a friend who was coming to see them this evening, that they were gone out to dine. In fact, if you are the gentleman they expected, this is the address they left.” It was a sc.r.a.p of paper on which his friend U. had written. ”We are gone to dine with Schaunard, No.__, Rue de__. Come for us there.”
”Well,” said he, going away, ”accident does make queer farces sometimes.” Then remembering that there was a little tavern near by, where he had more than once procured a meal at a not unreasonable rate, he directed his steps to this establishment, situated in the adjoining road, and known among the lowest cla.s.s of artistdom as ”Mother Cadet's.”
It is a drinking-house which is also an eating-house, and its ordinary customers are carters of the Orleans railway, singing-ladies of Mont Parna.s.se, and juvenile ”leads” from the Bobino theatre. During the warm season the students of the numerous painters' studios which border on the Luxembourg, the unappreciated and unedited men of the letters, the writers of leaders in mysterious newspapers, throng to dine at ”Mother Cadet's,” which is famous for its rabbit stew, its veritable sour-crout, and a miled white wine which smacks of flint.
Schaunard sat down in the grove; for so at ”Mother Cadet's” they called the scattered foliage of two or three rickety trees whose sickly boughs had been trained into a sort of arbor.
”Hang the expense!” said Schaunard to himself, ”I have to have a good blow-out, a regular Belthazzar's feast in private life,” and without more ado, he ordered a bowl of soup, half a plate of sour-crout, and two half stews, having observed that you get more for two halves than one whole one.
This extensive order attracted the attention of a young person in white with a head-dress of orange flowers and b.a.l.l.shoes; a veil of _sham imitation_ lace streamed down her shoulders, which she had no special reason to be proud of. She was a _prima donna_ of the Mont Parna.s.se theatre, the greenroom of which opens into Mother Cadet's kitchen; she had come to take a meal between two acts of _Lucia_, and was at that moment finis.h.i.+ng with a small cup of coffee her dinner, composed exclusively of an artichoke seasoned with oil and vinegar.
”Two stews! Duece take it!” said she, in an aside to the girl who acted as waiter at the establishment. ”That young man feeds himself well. How much do I owe, Adele?”
”Artichoke four, coffee four, bread one, that makes nine sous.”
”There they are,” said the singer and off she went humming:
”This affection Heaven has given.”
”Why she is giving us the la!” exclaimed a mysterious personage half hidden behind a rampart of old books, who was seated at the same table with Schaunard.
”Giving it!” replied the other, ”keeping it, I should say. Just imagine!” he added, pointing to the vinegar on the plate from which Lucia had been eating her artichoke, ”pickling that falsetto of hers!”
”It is a strong acid, to be sure,” added the personage who had first spoken. ”They make some at Orleans which has deservedly a great reputation.”
Schaunard carefully examined this individual, who was thus fis.h.i.+ng for a conversation with him. The fixed stare of his large blue eyes, which always seemed looking for something, gave his features the character of happy tranquility which is common among theological students. His face had a uniform tint of old ivory, except his cheeks, which had a coat, as it were of brickdust. His mouth seemed to have been sketched by a student in the rudiments of drawing, whose elbow had been jogged while he was tracing it. His lips, which pouted almost like a negro's, disclosed teeth not unlike a stag-hound's and his double-chin reposed itself upon a white cravat, one of whose points threatened the stars, while the other was ready to pierce the ground. A torrent of light hair escaped from under the enormous brim of his well-worn felt-hat. He wore a hazel-coloured overcoat with a large cape, worn thread-bare and rough as a grater; from its yawning pockets peeped bundles of ma.n.u.scripts and pamphlets. The enjoyment of his sour-crout, which he devoured with numerous and audible marks of approbation, rendered him heedless of the scrutiny to which he was subjected, but did not prevent him from continuing to read an old book open before him, in which he made marginal notes from time to time with a pencil that he carried behind his ear.
”Hullo!” cried Schaunard suddenly, making his gla.s.s ring with his knife, ”my stew!”
”Sir,” said the girl, running up plate in hand, ”there is none left, here is the last, and this gentleman has ordered it.” Therewith she deposited the dish before the man with the books.
”The deuce!” cried Schaunard. There was such an air of melancholy disappointment in his e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n, that the possessor of the books was moved to the soul by it. He broke down the pile of old works which formed a barrier between him and Schaunard, and putting the dish in the centre of the table, said, in his sweetest tones:
”Might I be so bold as to beg you, sir, to share this with me?”
”Sir,” replied the artist, ”I could not think of depriving you of it.”
”Then will you deprive me of the pleasure of being agreeable to you?”
”If you insist, sir,” and Schaunard held out his plate.
”Permit me not to give you the head,” said the stranger.
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