Part 24 (1/2)

”A hundred and sixty two francs,” said Monsieur Benoit, presenting the three bills.

”A hundred and sixty two francs,” observed Rodolphe, ”it is extraordinary. What a fine thing arithmetic is. Well, Monsieur Benoit, now that the account is settled we can both rest easy, we know exactly how we stand. Next month I will ask you for a receipt, and as during this time the confidence and friends.h.i.+p you must entertain towards me can only increase, you can, in case it should become necessary, grant me a further delay. However, if the landlord and the bootmaker are inclined to be hasty, I would ask the friend to get them to listen to reason. It is extraordinary, Monsieur Benoit, but every time I think of your triple character as a landlord, a bootmaker, and a friend, I am tempted to believe in the Trinity.”

Whilst listening to Rodolphe the landlord had turned at one and the same time red, green, white, and yellow, and at each fresh jest from his lodger that rainbow of anger grew deeper and deeper upon his face.

”Sir,” said he, ”I do not like to be made game of. I have waited long enough. I give you notice of quit, and unless you let me have some money this evening, I know what I shall have to do.”

”Money! money! Am I asking you for money?” said Rodolphe. ”Besides, if I had any, I should not give it to you. On a Friday, it would be unlucky.”

Monsieur Benoit's wrath grew tempestuous, and if the furniture had not belonged to him he would no doubt have smashed some of it.

”You are forgetting your bag,” cried Rodolphe after him. ”What a business,” murmured the young fellow, as he found himself alone. ”I would rather tame lions. But,” he continued, jumping out of bed and dressing hurriedly, ”I cannot stay here. The invasion will continue. I must flee; I must even breakfast. Suppose I go and see Schaunard. I will ask him for some breakfast, and borrow a trifle. A hundred francs will be enough. Yes, I'm off to Schaunard's.”

Going downstairs, Rodolphe met Monsieur Benoit, who had received further shocks from his other lodgers, as was attested by his empty bag.

”If any one asks for me, tell them I have gone into the country--to the Alps,” said Rodolphe. ”Or stay, tell them that I no longer live here.”

”I shall tell the truth,” murmured Monsieur Benoit, in a very significant tone.

Schaunard was living at Montmartre. It was necessary to go right through Paris. This peregrination was one most dangerous to Rodolphe.

”Today,” said he, ”the streets are paved with creditors.”

However, he did not go along by the outer Boulevards, as he had felt inclined to. A fanciful hope, on the contrary, urged him to follow the perilous itinerary of central Paris. Rodolphe thought that on a day when millions were going about the thoroughfares in the money-cases of bank messengers, it might happen that a thousand franc note, abandoned on the roadside, might lie awaiting its Good Samaritan. Thus he walked slowly along with his eyes on the ground. But he only found two pins.

After a two hours' walk he got to Schaunard's.

”Ah, it's you,” said the latter.

”Yes, I have come to ask you for some breakfast.”

”Ah, my dear fellow, you come at the wrong time. My mistress has just arrived, and I have not seen her for a fortnight. If you had only called ten minutes earlier.”

”Well, have you got a hundred francs to lend me?”

”What! you too!” exclaimed Schaunard, in the height of astonishment.

”You have come to ask me for money! You, in the ranks of my enemies!”

”I will pay you back on Monday.”

”Or at the Greek Calends. My dear fellow, you surely forget what day it is. I can do nothing for you. But there is no reason to despair; the day is not yet over. You may still meet with Providence, who never gets up before noon.”

”Ah!” replied Rodolphe, ”Providence has too much to do looking after little birds. I will go and see Marcel.”

Marcel was then residing in the Rue de Breda. Rodolphe found him in a very downcast mood, contemplating his great picture that was to represent the pa.s.sage of the Red Sea.

”What is the matter?” asked Rodolphe, as he entered. ”You seem quite in the dumps.”

”Alas!” replied the painter, in allegorical language, ”for the last fortnight it has been Holy Week.”

”Red herrings and black radishes. Good, I remember.”

Indeed, Rodolphe's memory was still salt with the remembrance of a time when he had been reduced to the exclusive consumption of the fish in question.

”The deuce,” said he, ”that is serious. I came to borrow a hundred francs of you.”

”A hundred francs,” said Marcel. ”You are always in the clouds. The idea of coming and asking me for that mythological amount at a period when one is always under the equator of necessity. You must have been taking has.h.i.+sh.”

”Alas!” said Rodolphe, ”I have not been taking anything at all.”

And he left his friend on the banks of the Red Sea.