"_Mais, quel bonheur_!" cries she. "And to meet in the Temple, above all places! Emile, you heard me speak of Monsieur Basil--the gentleman who gave me that lovely shawl that I wore last Sunday to the Chateau des Fleurs--_eh bien_! this is he--and here is Monsieur Muller, his friend.
Gentlemen, this is Emile, my _fiance_. We are to be married next Friday week, and we are buying our furniture."
The good-looking workman pulled off his cap and made his bow, and we proffered the customary congratulations.
"We have bought such sweet, pretty things," continued she, rattling on with all her old volubility, "and we have hired the dearest little _appartement_ on the fourth story, in a street near the Jardin des Plantes. See--this looking-gla.s.s is ours; we have just bought it. And those maple chairs, and that chest of drawers with the marble top. It isn"t real marble, you know; but it"s ever so much better than real:--not nearly so heavy, and so beautifully carved that it"s quite a work of art. Then we have bought a carpet--the sweetest carpet! Is it not, Emile?"
Emile smiled, and confessed that the carpet was "_fort bien_."
"And the time-piece, Madame?" suggested the furniture-dealer, at whose door we were standing. "Madame should really not refuse herself the time-piece."
Josephine shook her head.
"It is too dear," said she.
"Pardon, madame. I am giving it away,--absolutely giving it away at the price!"
Josephine looked at it wistfully, and weighed her little purse. It was a very little purse, and very light.
"It is so pretty!" said she.
The clock was of ormolu upon a painted stand, that was surmounted by a stout little gilt Cupid in a triumphal chariot, drawn by a pair of hard-working doves.
"What is the price of it?" I asked.
"Thirty-five francs, m"sieur," replied the dealer, briskly.
"Say twenty-five," urged Josephine.
The dealer shook his head.
"What if we did without the looking-gla.s.s?" whispered Josephine to her _fiance_. "After all, you know, one can live without a looking-gla.s.s; but how shall I have your dinners ready, if I don"t know what o"clock it is?"
"I don"t really see how we are to do without a clock," admitted Emile.
"And that darling little Cupid!"
Emile conceded that the Cupid was irresistible.
"Then we decide to have the clock, and do without the looking-gla.s.s?"
"Yes, we decide."
In the meantime I had slipped the thirty-five francs into the dealer"s hand.
"You must do me the favor to accept the clock as a wedding-present, Mademoiselle Josephine," I said. "And I hope you will favor me with an invitation to the wedding."
"And me also," said Muller; "and I shall hope to be allowed to offer a little sketch to adorn the walls of your new home."
Their delight and grat.i.tude were almost too great. We shook hands again all round. I am not sure, indeed, that Josephine did not then and there embrace us both for the second time.
"And you will both come to our wedding!" cried she. "And we will spend the day at St. Cloud, and have a dance in the evening; and we will invite Monsieur Gustave, and Monsieur Jules, and Monsieur Adrien. Oh, dear! how delightful it will be!"
"And you promise me the first quadrille?" said I.
"And me the second?" added Muller.
"Yes, yes--as many as you please."
"Then you must let us know at what time to come, and all about it; so, till Friday week, adieu!"
And thus, with more shaking of hands, and thanks, and good wishes, we parted company, leaving them still occupied with the gilt Cupid and the furniture-broker.
After the dense atmosphere of the clothes-market, it is a relief to emerge upon the Boulevart du Temple--the noisy, feverish, crowded Boulevart du Temple, with its half dozen theatres, its glare of gas, its cake-sellers, bill-sellers, lemonade-sellers, cabs, cafes, gendarmes, tumblers, grisettes, and pleasure-seekers of both s.e.xes.
Here we pause awhile to applaud the performances of a company of dancing-dogs, whence we are presently drawn away by the sight of a gentleman in a _moyen-age_ costume, who is swallowing penknives and bringing them out at his ears to the immense gratification of a large circle of bystanders.
A little farther on lies the Jardin Turc; and here we drop in for half an hour, to restore ourselves with coffee-ices, and look on at the dancers. This done, we presently issue forth again, still in search of amus.e.m.e.nt.
"Have you ever been to the Pet.i.t Lazary?" asks my friend, as we stand at the gate of the Jardin Turc, hesitating which way to turn.
"Never; what is it?"
"The most inexpensive of theatrical luxuries--an evening"s entertainment of the mildest intellectual calibre, and at the lowest possible cost.
Here we are at the doors. Come in, and complete your experience of Paris life!"
The Pet.i.t Lazary occupies the lowest round of the theatrical ladder. We pay something like sixpence half-penny or sevenpence apiece, and are inducted into the dress-circle. Our appearance is greeted with a round of applause. The curtain has just fallen, and the audience have nothing better to do. Muller lays his hand upon his heart, and bows profoundly, first to the gallery and next to the pit; whereupon they laugh, and leave us in peace. Had we looked dignified or indignant we should probably have been hissed till the curtain rose.
It is an audience in shirt-sleeves, consisting for the most part of workmen, maid-servants, soldiers, and street-urchins, with a plentiful sprinkling of pickpockets--the latter in a strictly private capacity, being present for entertainment only, without any ulterior professional views.
It is a noisy _entr"acte_ enough. Three vaudevilles have already been played, and while the fourth is in preparation the public amuses itself according to its own riotous will and pleasure. Nuts and apple parings fly hither and thither; oranges describe perilous parabolas between the pit and the gallery; adventurous _gamins_ make daring excursions round the upper rails; dialogues maintained across the house, and quarrels supported by means of an incredible copiousness of invective, mingle in discordant chorus with all sorts of howlings, groanings, whistlings, crowings, and yelpings, above which, in shrillest treble, rise the voices of cake and apple-sellers, and the piercing cry of the hump-back who distributes "vaudevilles at five centimes apiece." In the meantime, almost distracted by the patronage that a.s.sails him in every direction, the lemonade-vendor strides. .h.i.ther and thither, supplying floods of nectar at two centimes the gla.s.s; while the audience, skilled in the combination of enjoyments, eats, drinks, and vociferates to its heart"s content. Fabulous meats, and pies of mysterious origin, are brought out from baskets and hats. Pocket-handkerchiefs spread upon benches do duty as table-cloths. Clasp-knives, galette, and sucre d"orge pa.s.s from hand to hand--nay, from mouth to mouth--and, in the midst of the tumult, the curtain rises.
All is, in one moment, profoundly silent. The viands disappear; the lemonade-seller vanishes; the boys outside the gallery-rails clamber back to their places. The drama, in the eyes of the Parisians, is almost a sacred rite, and not even the noisiest _gamin_ would raise his voice above a whisper when the curtain is up.
The vaudeville that follows is, to say the least of it, a perplexing performance. It has no plot in particular. The scene is laid in a lodging-house, and the discomforts of one Monsieur Choufleur, an elderly gentleman in a flowered dressing-gown and a gigantic nightcap, furnish forth all the humor of the piece. What Monsieur Choufleur has done to deserve his discomforts, and why a certain student named Charles should devote all the powers of his mind to the devising and inflicting of those discomforts, is a mystery which we, the audience, are never permitted to penetrate. Enough that Charles, being a youth of mischievous tastes and extensive wardrobe, a.s.sumes a series of disguises for the express purpose of tormenting Monsieur Choufleur, and is unaccountably rewarded in the end with the hand of Monsieur Choufleur"s daughter; a consummation which brings down the curtain amid loud applause, and affords entire satisfaction to everybody.
It is by this time close upon midnight, and, leaving the theatre with the rest of the audience, we find a light rain falling. The noisy thoroughfare is hushed to comparative quiet. The carriages that roll by are homeward bound. The waiters yawn at the doors of the cafes and survey pedestrians with a threatening aspect. The theatres are closing fast, and a row of flickering gas-lamps in front of a faded transparency which proclaims that the juvenile _Tableaux Vivants_ are to be seen within, denotes the only place of public amus.e.m.e.nt yet open to the curious along the whole length of the Boulevart du Temple.
"And now, _amigo_, where shall we go?" says Muller. "Are you for a billiard-room or a lobster supper? Or shall we beat up the quarters of some of the fellows in the Quartier Latin, and see what fun is afoot on the other side of the water?"
"Whichever you please. You are my guest to-night, and I am at your disposal."
"Or what say you to dropping in for an hour among the Chicards?"
"A capital idea--especially if you again entertain the society with a true story of events that never happened."
"_Allons donc_!--
"C"etait de mon temps Que brillait Madame Gregoire.
J"allais a vingt ans Dans son cabaret rire et boire."