Part 23 (1/2)

”It's an illusion,” quoth Boreas, as he amused himself by brus.h.i.+ng back the hair of Rodolphe's bear skin.

”Let's blow down the pipe,” suggested another wind, ”and make the chimney smoke.” But just as they were about to plague the poor poet, the south wind perceived Monsieur Arago at a window of the Observatory threatening them with his finger; so they all made off, for fear of being put under arrest. Meanwhile the second act of ”The Avenger” was going off with immense success, and Rodolphe had written ten lines. But he only achieved two during the third act.

”I always thought that third act too short,” said Rodolphe, ”luckily the next one will take longer; there are twenty three scenes in it, including the great one of the throne.” As the last flourish of the throne scene went up the chimney in fiery flakes, Rodolphe had only three couplets more to write. ”Now for the last act. This is all monologue. It may last five minutes.” The catastrophe flashed and smouldered, and Rodolphe in a magnificent transport of poetry had enshrined in lyric stanzas the last words of the ill.u.s.trious deceased.

”There is enough left for a second representation,” said he, pus.h.i.+ng the remainder of the ma.n.u.script under his bed.

At eight o'clock next evening, Mademoiselle Angela entered the ballroom; in her hand was a splendid nosegay of white violets, and among them two budding roses, white also. During the whole night men and women were complimenting the young girl on her bouquet. Angela could not but feel a little grateful to her cousin who had procured this little triumph for her vanity; and perhaps she would have thought more of him but for the gallant persecutions of one of the bride's relatives who had danced several times with her. He was a fair-haired youth, with a magnificent moustache curled up at the ends, to hook innocent hearts. The bouquet had been pulled to pieces by everybody; only two white roses were left.

The young man asked Angela for them; she refused--only to forget them after the ball on a bench, whence the young fair-haired youth hastened to take them.

At that moment it was fourteen degrees below freezing point in Rodolphe's belvidere. He was leaning against his window looking out at the lights in the ballroom, where his cousin Angela, who didn't care for him, was dancing.

CHAPTER X

THE CAPE OF STORMS

In the opening month of each of the four seasons there are some terrible epochs, usually about the 1st and the 15th. Rodolphe, who could not witness the approach of one or the other of these two dates without alarm, nicknamed them the Cape of Storms. On these mornings it is not Aurora who opens the portals of the East, but creditors, landlords, bailiffs and their kidney. The day begins with a shower of bills and accounts and winds up with a hailstorm of protests. _Dies irae_.

Now one morning, it was the 15th of April, Rodolphe was peacefully slumbering--and dreaming that one of his uncles had just bequeathed him a whole province in Peru, the feminine inhabitants included.

Whilst he was wallowing in this imaginary Pacolus, the sound of a key turning in the lock interrupted the heir presumptive just at the most dazzling point of his golden dream.

Rodolphe sat up in bed, his eyes and mind yet heavy with slumber, and looked about him.

He vaguely perceived standing in the middle of his room a man who had just entered.

This early visitor bore a bag slung at his back and a large pocketbook in his hand. He wore a c.o.c.ked hat and a bluish-grey swallow-tailed coat and seemed very much out of breath from ascending the five flights of stairs. His manners were very affable and his steps sounded as sonorously as that of a money-changer's counter on the march.

Rodolphe was alarmed for a moment, and at the sight of the c.o.c.ked hat and the coat thought that he had a police officer before him.

But the sight of the tolerably well filled bag made him perceive his mistake.

”Ah! I have it,” thought he, ”it is something on account of my inheritance, this man comes from the West Indies. But in that case why is he not black?”

And making a sign to the man, he said, pointing to the bag, ”I know all about it. Put it down there. Thanks.”

The man was a messenger of the Bank of France. He replied to Rodolphe's request by holding before his eyes a small strip of paper covered with writing and figures in various colored inks.

”You want a receipt,” said Rodolphe. ”That is right. Pa.s.s me the pen and ink. There, on the table.”

”No, I have come to take money,” replied the messenger. ”An acceptance for a hundred and fifty francs. It is the 15th of April.”

”Ah!” observed Rodolphe, examining the acceptance. ”Pay to the order of---- Birmann. It is my tailor. Alas,” he added, in melancholy tones casting his eyes alternately upon a frock coat thrown on the bed and upon the acceptance, ”causes depart but effects return. What, it is the 15th of April? It is extraordinary, I have not yet had any strawberries this year.”

The messenger, weary of delay, left the room, saying to Rodolphe, ”You have till four o'clock to pay.”

”There is no time like the present,” replied Rodolphe. ”The humbug,” he added regretfully, following the c.o.c.ked hat with his eyes, ”he has taken away his bag.”