Part 12 (1/2)

Suddenly a noise was heard in the entry, and the door opened, admitting a person who, without saying a word, marched straight to one of the stoves, which served the purpose of a secretary, opened the stove-door, and drew out a bundle of papers.

”Hallo!” cried the new-comer, after examining the ma.n.u.script attentively, ”the chapter on ventilators not finished yet!”

”Allow me to observe, uncle,” replied the Turk, ”the chapter on ventilators is one of the most interesting in your book, and requires to be studied with care. I am studying it.”

”But you miserable fellow, you are always saying that same thing. And the chapter on stoves--where are you in that?”

”The stoves are going on well, but, by the way, uncle, if you could give me a little wood, it wouldn't hurt me. It is a little Siberia here. I am so cold, that I make a thermometer go down below zero by just looking at it.”

”What! you've used up one f.a.ggot already?”

”Allow me to remark again, uncle, there are different kinds of f.a.ggots, and yours was the very smallest kind.”

”I'll send you an economic log--that keeps the heat.”

”Exactly, and doesn't give any.”

”Well,” said the uncle as he went off, ”you shall have a little f.a.ggot, and I must have my chapter on stoves for tomorrow.”

”When I have fire, that will inspire me,” answered the Turk as he heard himself locked in.

Were we making a tragedy, this would be the time to bring in a confidant. Noureddin or Osman he should be called, and he should advance towards our hero with an air at the same time discreet and patronizing, to console him for his reverses, by means of these three verses:

'What saddening grief, my Lord, a.s.sails you now?

Why sits this pallor on your n.o.ble brow?

Does Allah lend your plans no helping hand?

Or cruel Ali, with severe command, Remove to other sh.o.r.es the beauteous dame, Who charmed your eyes and set your heart on flame!'

But we are not making a tragedy, so we must do without our confidant, though he would be very convenient.

Our hero is not what he appears to be. The turban does not make the Turk. This young man is our friend Rodolphe, entertained by his uncle, for whom he is drawing up a manual of ”The Perfect Chimney Constructor.”

In fact, Monsieur Monetti, an enthusiast for his art, had consecrated his days to this science of chimneys. One day he formed the idea of drawing up, for the benefit of posterity, a theoretic code of the principles of that art, in the practice of which he so excelled, and he had chosen his nephew, as we have seen, to frame the substance of his ideas in an intelligible form. Rodolphe was found in board, lodging, and other contingencies, and at the completion of the manual was to receive a recompense of three hundred francs.

In the beginning, to encourage his nephew, Monetti had generously made him an advance of fifty francs. But Rodolphe, who had not seen so much silver together for nearly a year, half crazy, in company with his money, stayed out three days, and on the fourth came home alone!

Thereupon the uncle, who was in haste to have his ”Manual” finished inasmuch as he hoped to get a patent for it, dreading some new diversion on his nephew's part, determined to make him work by preventing him from going out. To this end he carried off his garments, and left him instead the disguise under which we have seen him. Nevertheless, the famous ”Manual” continued to make very slow progress, for Rodolphe had no genius whatever for this kind of literature. The uncle avenged himself for this lazy indifference on the great subject of chimneys by making his nephew undergo a host of annoyances. Sometimes he cut short his commons, and frequently stopped the supply of tobacco.

One Sunday, after having sweated blood and ink upon the great chapter of ventilators, Rodolphe broke the pen, which was burning his fingers, and went out to walk--in his ”park.” As if on purpose to plague him, and excite his envy the more, he could not cast a single look about him without perceiving the figure of a smoker on every window.

On the gilt balcony of a new house opposite, an exquisite in his dressing gown was biting off the end of an aristocratic ”Pantellas”

cigar. A story above, an artist was sending before him an odorous cloud of Turkish tobacco from his amber-mouthed pipe. At the window of a _bra.s.serie_, a fat German was crowning a foaming tankard, and emitting, with the regularity of a machine, the dense puffs that escaped from his meershaum. On the other side, a group of workmen were singing as they pa.s.sed on their way to the barriers, their ”throat-scorchers” between their teeth. Finally, all the other pedestrians visible in the street were smoking.

”Woe is me!” sighed Rodolphe, ”except myself and my uncle's chimneys, all creation is smoking at this hour!” And he rested his forehead on the bar of the balcony, and thought how dreary life was.

Suddenly, a burst of long and musical laughter parted under his feet.

Rodolphe bent forward a little, to discover the source of this volley of gaiety, and perceived that he had been perceived by the tenant of the story beneath him, Mademoiselle Sidonia, of the Luxembourg Theater. The young lady advanced to the front of her balcony, rolling between her fingers, with the dexterity of a Spaniard, a paper-full of light-colored tobacco, which she took from a bag of embroidered velvet.

”What a sweet cigar girl it is!” murmured Rodolphe, in an ecstacy of contemplation.