As she sat by the window, her usual place for sewing and observation, she would gaze at the damp little garden, where the volubilis and the nasturtiums, stripped of their blossoms, were dropping away from the lattices with an air of exhaustion, at the long, straight line of the gra.s.sy slope of the fortifications, still fresh and green, and, a little farther on, at the corner of a street, the office of the Paris omnibuses, with all the points of their route inscribed in enticing letters on the green walls. Whenever one of the omnibuses lumbered away on its journey, she followed it with her eyes, as a government clerk at Cayenne or Noumea gazes after the steamer about to return to France; she made the trip with it, knew just where it would stop, at what point it would lurch around a corner, grazing the shop-windows with its wheels.
As a prisoner, M. Chebe became a terrible trial. He could not work in the garden. On Sundays the fortifications were deserted; he could no longer strut about among the workingmen"s families dining on the gra.s.s, and pa.s.s from group to group in a neighborly way, his feet encased in embroidered slippers, with the authoritative demeanor of a wealthy landowner of the vicinity. This he missed more than anything else, consumed as he was by the desire to make people think about him. So that, having nothing to do, having no one to pose before, no one to listen to his schemes, his stories, the anecdote of the accident to the Duc d"Orleans--a similar accident had happened to him in his youth, you remember--the unfortunate Ferdinand overwhelmed his wife with reproaches.
"Your daughter banishes us--your daughter is ashamed of us!"
She heard nothing but that "Your daughter--your daughter--your daughter!" For, in his anger with Sidonie, he denied her, throwing upon his wife the whole responsibility for that monstrous and unnatural child. It was a genuine relief for poor Madame Chebe when her husband took an omnibus at the office to go and hunt up Delobelle--whose hours for lounging were always at his disposal--and pour into his bosom all his rancor against his son-in-law and his daughter.
The ill.u.s.trious Delobelle also bore Risler a grudge, and freely said of him: "He is a dastard."
The great man had hoped to form an integral part of the new household, to be the organizer of festivities, the "arbiter elegantiarum". Instead of which, Sidonie received him very coldly, and Risler no longer even took him to the brewery. However, the actor did not complain too loud, and whenever he met his friend he overwhelmed him with attentions and flattery; for he had need of him.
Weary of awaiting the discerning manager, seeing that the engagement he had longed for so many years did not come, it had occurred to Delobelle to purchase a theatre and manage it himself. He counted upon Risler for the funds. Opportunely enough, a small theatre on the boulevard happened to be for sale, as a result of the failure of its manager. Delobelle mentioned it to Risler, at first very vaguely, in a wholly hypothetical form--"There would be a good chance to make a fine stroke." Risler listened with his usual phlegm, saying, "Indeed, it would be a good thing for you." And to a more direct suggestion, not daring to answer, "No," he took refuge behind such phrases as "I will see"--"Perhaps later"--"I don"t say no"--and finally uttered the unlucky words "I must see the estimates."
For a whole week the actor had delved away at plans and figures, seated between his wife and daughter, who watched him in admiration, and intoxicated themselves with this latest dream. The people in the house said, "Monsieur Delobelle is going to buy a theatre." On the boulevard, in the actors" cafes, nothing was talked of but this transaction.
Delobelle did not conceal the fact that he had found some one to advance the funds; the result being that he was surrounded by a crowd of unemployed actors, old comrades who tapped him familiarly on the shoulder and recalled themselves to his recollection--"You know, old boy." He promised engagements, breakfasted at the cafe, wrote letters there, greeted those who entered with the tips of his fingers, held very animated conversations in corners; and already two threadbare authors had read to him a drama in seven tableaux, which was "exactly what he wanted" for his opening piece. He talked about "my theatre!" and his letters were addressed, "Monsieur Delobelle, Manager."
When he had composed his prospectus and made his estimates, he went to the factory to see Risler, who, being very busy, made an appointment to meet him in the Rue Blondel; and that same evening, Delobelle, being the first to arrive at the brewery, established himself at their old table, ordered a pitcher of beer and two gla.s.ses, and waited. He waited a long while, with his eye on the door, trembling with impatience. Whenever any one entered, the actor turned his head. He had spread his papers on the table, and pretended to be reading them, with animated gestures and movements of the head and lips.
It was a magnificent opportunity, unique in its way. He already fancied himself acting--for that was the main point--acting, in a theatre of his own, roles written expressly for him, to suit his talents, in which he would produce all the effect of--
Suddenly the door opened, and M. Chebe made his appearance amid the pipe-smoke. He was as surprised and annoyed to find Delobelle there as Delobelle himself was by his coming. He had written to his son-in-law that morning that he wished to speak with him on a matter of very serious importance, and that he would meet him at the brewery. It was an affair of honor, entirely between themselves, from man to man. The real fact concerning this affair of honor was that M. Chebe had given notice of his intention to leave the little house at Montrouge, and had hired a shop with an entresol in the Rue du Mail, in the midst of a business district. A shop? Yes, indeed! And now he was a little alarmed regarding his hasty step, anxious to know how his son-in-law would take it, especially as the shop cost much more than the Montrouge house, and there were some repairs to be made at the outset. As he had long been acquainted with his son-in-law"s kindness of heart, M. Chebe had determined to appeal to him at once, hoping to lead him into his game and throw upon him the responsibility for this domestic change. Instead of Risler he found Delobelle.
They looked askance at each other, with an unfriendly eye, like two dogs meeting beside the same dish. Each divined for whom the other was waiting, and they did not try to deceive each other.
"Isn"t my son-in-law here?" asked M. Chebe, eying the doc.u.ments spread over the table, and emphasizing the words "my son-in-law," to indicate that Risler belonged to him and to n.o.body else.
"I am waiting for him," Delobelle replied, gathering up his papers.
He pressed his lips together, as he added with a dignified, mysterious, but always theatrical air:
"It is a matter of very great importance."
"So is mine," declared M. Chebe, his three hairs standing erect like a porcupine"s quills.
As he spoke, he took his seat on the bench beside Delobelle, ordered a pitcher and two gla.s.ses as the former had done, then sat erect with his hands in his pockets and his back against the wall, waiting in his turn.
The two empty gla.s.ses in front of them, intended for the same absentee, seemed to be hurling defiance at each other.
But Risler did not come.
The two men, drinking in silence, lost their patience and fidgeted about on the bench, each hoping that the other would tire of waiting.
At last their ill-humor overflowed, and naturally poor Risler received the whole flood.
"What an outrage to keep a man of my years waiting so long!" began M.
Chebe, who never mentioned his great age except upon such occasions.
"I believe, on my word, that he is making sport of us," replied M.
Delobelle.
And the other:
"No doubt Monsieur had company to dinner."
"And such company!" scornfully exclaimed the ill.u.s.trious actor, in whose mind bitter memories were awakened.
"The fact is--" continued M. Chebe.
They drew closer to each other and talked. The hearts of both were full in respect to Sidonie and Risler. They opened the flood-gates. That Risler, with all his good-nature, was an egotist pure and simple, a parvenu. They laughed at his accent and his bearing, they mimicked certain of his peculiarities. Then they talked about his household, and, lowering their voices, they became confidential, laughed familiarly together, were friends once more.
M. Chebe went very far: "Let him beware! he has been foolish enough to send the father and mother away from their daughter; if anything happens to her, he can"t blame us. A girl who hasn"t her parents" example before her eyes, you understand--"
"Certainly--certainly," said Delobelle; "especially as Sidonie has become a great flirt. However, what can you expect? He will get no more than he deserves. No man of his age ought to--Hush! here he is!"
Risler had entered the room, and was walking toward them, distributing hand-shakes all along the benches.
There was a moment of embarra.s.sment between the three friends. Risler excused himself as well as he could. He had been detained at home; Sidonie had company--Delobelle touched M. Chebe"s foot under the table--and, as he spoke, the poor man, decidedly perplexed by the two empty gla.s.ses that awaited him, wondered in front of which of the two he ought to take his seat.
Delobelle was generous.
"You have business together, Messieurs; do not let me disturb you."
He added in a low tone, winking at Risler:
"I have the papers."
"The papers?" echoed Risler, in a bewildered tone.
"The estimates," whispered the actor.
Thereupon, with a great show of discretion, he withdrew within himself, and resumed the reading of his doc.u.ments, his head in his hands and his fingers in his ears.
The two others conversed by his side, first in undertones, then louder, for M. Chebe"s shrill, piercing voice could not long be subdued.--He wasn"t old enough to be buried, deuce take it!--He should have died of ennui at Montrouge.--What he must have was the bustle and life of the Rue de Mail or the Rue du Sentier--of the business districts.
"Yes, but a shop? Why a shop?" Risler timidly ventured to ask.
"Why a shop?--why a shop?" repeated M. Chebe, red as an Easter egg, and raising his voice to its highest pitch. "Why, because I"m a merchant, Monsieur Risler, a merchant and son of a merchant. Oh! I see what you"re coming at. I have no business. But whose fault is it? If the people who shut me up at Montrouge, at the gates of Bicetre, like a paralytic, had had the good sense to furnish me with the money to start in business--"
At that point Risler succeeded in silencing him, and thereafter only s.n.a.t.c.hes of the conversation could be heard: "a more convenient shop--high ceilings--better air--future plans--enormous business--I will speak when the time comes--many people will be astonished."
As he caught these fragments of sentences, Delobelle became more and more absorbed in his estimates, presenting the eloquent back of the man who is not listening. Risler, sorely perplexed, slowly sipped his beer from time to time to keep himself, in countenance.
At last, when M. Chebe had grown calm, and with good reason, his son-in-law turned with a smile to the ill.u.s.trious Delobelle, and met the stern, impa.s.sive glance which seemed to say, "Well! what of me?"
"Ah! Mon Dieu!--that is true," thought the poor fellow.
Changing at once his chair and his gla.s.s, he took his seat opposite the actor. But M. Chebe had not Delobelle"s courtesy. Instead of discreetly moving away, he took his gla.s.s and joined the others, so that the great man, unwilling to speak before him, solemnly replaced his doc.u.ments in his pocket a second time, saying to Risler:
"We will talk this over later."