The Nabob Volume 1 Read online

  X.

  MEMOIRS OF A CLERK.--THE SERVANTS.

  Really the wheel of fortune in Paris revolves in a way to make one'shead swim!

  To have seen the _Caisse Territoriale_ as I have seen it, firelessrooms, never swept, covered with the dust of the desert, notices ofprotest piled high on the desks, a notice of sale on execution at thedoor every week, and my ragout diffusing the odor of a poor man'skitchen over it all; and to witness now the rehabilitation of ourSociety in its newly-furnished salons, where it is my duty to lightministerial fires, in the midst of a busy throng, with whistles,electric bells, piles of gold pieces so high that they topple over--itborders on the miraculous. To convince myself that it is all true, Ihave to look at myself in the glass, to gaze at my iron-gray coattrimmed with silver, my white cravat, my usher's chain such as I usedto wear at the Faculty on council days. And to think that, to effectthis transformation, to bring back to our brows the gayety that is themother of concord, to restore to our paper its value ten times over andto our dear Governor the esteem and confidence of which he was sounjustly deprived, it only needed one man, that supernatural Croesuswhom the hundred voices of fame designate by the name of the Nabob.

  Oh! the first time that he came into the offices, with his finepresence, his face, a little wrinkled perhaps but so distinguished, themanners of an habitue of courts, on familiar terms with all the princesof the Orient, in a word with the indescribable touch ofself-confidence and grandeur that great fortune gives, I felt my heartswell in my waistcoat with its double row of buttons. They may say allthey choose about their equality and fraternity, there are some men whoare so much above others, that you feel like falling on your facebefore them and inventing new formulae of adoration to compel them topay some attention to you. Let me hasten to add that I had no need ofanything of the sort to attract the attention of the Nabob. When I roseas he passed--deeply moved but dignified: you can always trustPassajon--he looked at me with a smile and said in an undertone to theyoung man who accompanied him: "What a fine head, like--" then a wordthat I did not hear, a word ending in _ard_, like leopard. But no,it could not be that, for I am not conscious of having a head like aleopard. Perhaps he said like Jean-Bart, although I do not see theconnection. However, he said: "What a fine head, like--" and hiscondescension made me proud. By the way, all the gentlemen are verykind, very polite to me. It seems that there has been a discussion inregard to me, whether they should keep me or send me away like ourcashier, that crabbed creature who was always talking about sendingeverybody to the galleys, and whom they requested to go and make hiseconomical shirt-fronts somewhere else. Well done! That will teach himto use vulgar language to people.

  When it came to me, the Governor was kind enough to forget my ratherhasty words in consideration of my certificates of service at the_Territoriale_ and elsewhere; and after the council meeting he said tome with his musical accent: "Passajon, you are to stay on with us." Youcan imagine whether I was happy, whether I lost myself in expressionsof gratitude. Just consider! I should have gone away with my few sous,with no hope of ever earning any more, obliged to go and cultivate mylittle vineyard at Montbars, a very narrow field for a man who haslived among all the financial aristocracy of Paris and the bold strokesof financiering that make fortunes. Instead of that, here I amestablished all anew in a superb position, my wardrobe replenished, andmy savings, which I actually held in my hand for a whole day, intrustedto the fostering care of the Governor, who has undertaken to make themyield a handsome return. I rather think that he is the man who knowshow to do it. And not the slightest occasion for anxiety. Allapprehensions vanish before the word that is all the fashion at thismoment in all administrative councils, at all meetings of theshareholders, on the Bourse, on the boulevards, everywhere: "The Nabobis in the thing." That is to say, we are running over with cash, theworst _combinazioni_ are in excellent shape.

  That man is so rich!

  Rich to such a degree that one cannot believe it. Why, he has justloaned fifteen millions off-hand to the Bey of Tunis. Fifteen millions,I say! That was rather a neat trick on Hemerlingue, who tried to maketrouble between him and that monarch and to cut the grass from underhis feet in those lovely Oriental countries, where it grows tall andthick and golden-colored. It was an old Turk of my acquaintance,Colonel Brahim, one of our council at the _Territoriale_, who arrangedthe loan. Naturally the bey, who was very short of pocket money, itseems, was greatly touched by the Nabob's zeal to accommodate him, andhe sent him by Brahim a letter of acknowledgment in which he told himthat on his next trip to Vichy he would pass two days with him at themagnificent Chateau de Saint-Romans, which the former bey, this one'sbrother, once honored with a visit. Just think what an honor! Toreceive a reigning prince! The Hemerlingues are in a frenzy. They hadmanoeuvred so skilfully, the son in Tunis, the father in Paris, tobring the Nabob into disfavor. To be sure, fifteen millions is a largesum of money. But do not say: "Passajon is gulling us." The person whotold me the story had in his hands the paper sent by the bey in a greensilk envelope stamped with the royal seal. His only reason for notreading it was that it was written in Arabic; otherwise he would havetaken cognizance of it as he does of all the Nabob's correspondence.That person is his valet de chambre, M. Noel, to whom I had the honorto be presented last Friday at a small party of persons in service,which he gave to some of his friends. I insert a description of thatfestivity in my memoirs, as one of the most interesting things I haveseen during my four years' residence in Paris.

  I supposed at first, when M. Francis, Monpavon's valet de chambre,mentioned the affair to me, that it was to be one of the littleclandestine junkets such as they sometimes have in the attic rooms onour boulevard, with the leavings sent up by Mademoiselle Seraphine andthe other cooks in the house, where they drink stolen wine and stuffthemselves, sitting on trunks, trembling with fear, by the light of twocandles which they put out at the slightest noise in the corridors.Such underhand performances are repugnant to my character. But when Ireceived an invitation on pink paper, written in a very fine hand, asif for a ball given by the people of the house:

  _M. Noel pri M.--de se randre a sa soire du 25 couran._

  _On soupra._[3]

  [3] M. Noel requests the pleasure of M. ----'s company on the evening of the 25th instant. Supper.

  I saw, notwithstanding the defective orthography, that it was aserious, authoritative function; so I arrayed myself in my newest frockcoat and my finest linen, and betook myself to Place Vendome, to theaddress indicated by the invitation.

  M. Noel had selected for his party the evening of a first performanceat the Opera, which society attended _en masse_, so that the wholehousehold had the bit in their teeth until midnight, and the entirehouse at their disposal. Nevertheless, our host had preferred toreceive us in his room in the upper part of the house, and I stronglyapproved his judgment, being therein of the opinion of the good man whosaid:

  Fi du plaisir Que la crainte peut corrompre![4]

  [4]

  A fig for the pleasure Which fear can destroy!

  But talk to me about the attics on Place Vendome! A thick carpet on thefloor, the bed out of sight in an alcove, Algerian curtains with redstripes, a green marble clock, the whole lighted by patentself-regulating lamps. Our dean, M. Chalmette, at Dijon had no betterquarters than that. I arrived about nine o'clock with Monpavon's oldFrancis, and I must confess that my appearance created a sensation,preceded as I was by the fame of my academic past, by my reputation forrefined manners and great learning. My fine bearing did the rest, for Imust say that I know how to carry myself. M. Noel, very dark skinned,with mutton-chop whiskers, and dressed in a black coat, came forward tomeet us.

  "Welcome, Monsieur Passajon," he said; and taking my cap with silverornaments, which, as I entered the room, I held in my right handaccording to custom, he handed it to an enormous negro in red and goldlivery.

  "Here, Lakdar, take this--and this," he said, by way of jest, g
ivinghim a kick in a certain portion of the back.

  There was much laughter at that sally, and we began to converse mostamicably. An excellent fellow, that M. Noel, with his Southern accent,his determined bearing, the frankness and simplicity of his manners. Hereminded me of the Nabob, minus his master's distinguished mien,however. Indeed, I noticed that evening that such resemblances are ofcommon occurrence in valets de chambre, who, as they live on intimateterms with their masters, by whom they are always a little dazzled, endby adopting their peculiarities and their mannerisms. For instance, M.Francis has a certain habit of drawing himself up and displaying hislinen shirtfront, a mania for raising his arms to pull down his cuffs,which is Monpavon to the life. But there is one who does not resemblehis master in the least, that is Joe, Dr. Jenkins' coachman. I call himJoe, but at the party everybody called him Jenkins; for in that circlethe stable folk among themselves call one another by their employers'names, plain Bois-l'Hery, Monpavon and Jenkins. Is it to debase thesuperiors, to exalt the servant class? Every country has its customs;nobody but a fool ought to be astonished by them. To return to JoeJenkins--how can the doctor, who is such an amiable man, so perfect inevery respect, keep in his service that _gin_ and _porter_-soakedbrute, who sits silent for hours at a time, and then, the instant thatthe liquor goes to his head, begins to roar and wants to boxeverybody--witness the scandalous scene that had just taken place whenwe arrived.

  The marquis's little tiger, Tom Bois-l'Hery, as they call him here,undertook to joke with that Irish beast, who--at some Parisian gamin'sjest--retorted by a terrible Belfast knock-down blow in the middle ofthe face.

  "Come on, Humpty-Dumpty! Come on, Humpty-Dumpty!" roared the coachman,choking with rage, while they carried his innocent victim into theadjoining room, where the ladies, young and old, were engaged inbandaging his nose. The excitement was soon allayed, thanks to ourarrival, thanks also to the judicious words of M. Barreau, a man ofmature years, sedate and majestic, of my own type. He is the Nabob'scook, formerly _chef_ at the Cafe Anglais, and M. Cardailhac, managerof the Nouveautes, secured him for his friend. To see him in his blackcoat and white cravat, with his handsome, full, clean-shaven face, youwould take him for one of the great functionaries of the Empire. To besure, a cook in a house where the table is set for thirty people everymorning, in addition to Madame's table, and where everyone is fed onthe best and the extra best, is no ordinary cook-shop artist. Hereceives a colonel's salary, with board and lodging, and then theperquisites! No one has any idea of what the perquisites amount to in aplace like that. So every one addressed him with great respect, withthe consideration due to a man of his importance: "Monsieur Barreau"here, "my dear Monsieur Barreau" there. You must not imagine that theservants in a house are all chums and social equals. Nowhere is thehierarchy more strictly observed than among them. For instance, Inoticed at M. Noel's party that the coachmen did not fraternize withtheir grooms, nor the valets de chambre with the footmen andout-riders, any more than the steward and butler mingled with thescullions; and when M. Barreau cracked a little joke, no matter what itwas, it was a pleasure to see how amused his underlings seemed to be. Ihave no fault to find with these things. Quite the contrary. As ourdean used to say: "A society without a hierarchy is a house without astairway." But the fact seemed to me worth noting in these memoirs.

  The party, I need not say, lacked something of its brilliancy until thereturn of its fairest ornaments, the ladies who had gone to look afterlittle Tom; ladies' maids with glossy, well-oiled hair, housekeepers inberibboned caps, negresses, governesses, among whom I at once acquiredmuch prestige, thanks to my respectable appearance and the nickname "myuncle" which the youngest of those attractive females were pleased tobestow upon me. I tell you there was no lack of second-hand finery,silk and lace, even much faded velvet, eight-button gloves cleanedseveral times and perfumery picked up on Madame's toilet-table; buttheir faces were happy, their minds given over to gayety, and I had nodifficulty in forming a very lively little party in one corner--alwaysperfectly proper, of course--that goes without saying--and entirelybefitting a person in my position. But that was the general tone of theoccasion. Not until toward the close of the collation did I hear any ofthe unseemly remarks, any of the scandalous anecdotes that amuse thegentlemen of our council so highly; and it gives me pleasure to statethat Bois-l'Hery the coachman, to cite no other instance, is verydifferently brought up from Bois-l'Hery the master.

  M. Noel alone, by his familiar tone and the freedom of his repartees,overstepped the limit. There's a man who does not scruple to callthings by their names. For instance, he said to M. Francis, so loudthat he could be heard from one end of the salon to the other: "I say,Francis, your old sharper played still another trick on us last week."And as the other threw out his chest with a dignified air, M. Noelbegan to laugh. "No offence, old girl. The strong box is full. You'llnever get to the bottom of it." And it was then that he told us aboutthe loan of fifteen millions I mentioned above.

  Meanwhile I was surprised to see no signs of preparation for the suppermentioned on the invitations, and I expressed my anxiety in anundertone to one of my lovely nieces, who replied:

  "We are waiting for M. Louis."

  "M. Louis?"

  "What! Don't you know M. Louis, the Duc de Mora's valet de chambre?"

  Thereupon I was enlightened on the subject of that influentialpersonage, whose good offices are sought by prefects, senators, even byministers, and who evidently makes them pay roundly for them, for, withhis salary of twelve hundred francs from the duke, he has saved enoughto have an income of twenty-five thousand francs, has his daughters atthe boarding-school of the Sacred Heart, his son at Bourdaloue College,and a chalet in Switzerland to which the whole family go for thevacation.

  At that juncture the personage in question arrived; but there wasnothing in his appearance that would have led me to guess his position,which has not its like in Paris. No majesty in his bearing, a waistcoatbuttoned to the chin, a mean, insolent manner, and a fashion ofspeaking without opening his lips, very unpleasant to those who arelistening to him.

  He saluted the company with a slight nod, offered a finger to M. Noel,and there we sat, staring at each other, congealed by his grandmanners, when a door was thrown open at the end of the room and thesupper made its appearance--all kinds of cold meats, pyramids of fruit,bottles of every shape, beneath the glare of two candelabra.

  "Now, messieurs, escort the ladies."

  In a moment we were in our places, the ladies seated, with the oldestor most important of us men, the others standing, passing dishes,chattering, drinking out of all the glasses, picking a mouthful fromevery plate. I had M. Francis for my neighbor, and I was obliged tolisten to his spiteful remarks against M. Louis, of whom he is jealousbecause he has such a fine situation in comparison with that he himselfholds in his played-out nobleman's household.

  "He's a parvenu," he said to me in an undertone. "He owes his fortuneto his wife, to Madame Paul."

  It seems that this Madame Paul is a housekeeper who has been twentyyears in the duke's service, and who understands, as no one else does,how to make a certain pomade for certain infirmities that he has. Moracannot do without her. Remarking that fact, M. Louis paid his court tothe old woman, married her, although he is much younger than she; and,in order not to lose his nurse _aux pommades_, His Excellency tookthe husband for his valet de chambre. In my heart, notwithstanding whatI may have said to M. Francis, I considered that marriage perfectlyproper and in conformity with the healthiest morality, as both themayor and the cure had a hand in it. Moreover, that excellent repast,consisting of choice and very expensive dishes which I did not evenknow by name, had disposed my mind to indulgence and good humor. Buteverybody was not in the same mood, for I heard M. Barreau's baritonevoice on the other side of the table, grumbling:

  "Why does he meddle? Do I stick my nose into his business? In the firstplace, it's a matter that concerns Bompain, not him. And what does itamount to? What is it that he finds fa
ult with me for? The butchersends me five baskets of meat every morning. I use only two and sellthe other three. Where's the chef who doesn't do that? As if hewouldn't do better to keep an eye on the big leakage above stairs,instead of coming and spying about my basement. When I think that thefirst-floor clique has smoked twenty-eight thousand francs' worth ofcigars in three months! Twenty-eight thousand francs! Ask Noel if Ilie. And on the second floor, in Madame's apartments, there's a finemess of linen, dresses thrown aside after one wearing, jewels by thehandful, and pearls so thick that you crush 'em as you walk. Oh! youjust wait a bit, and I'll take a twist on that little fellow."

  I understood that he was talking about M. de Gery, the Nabob's youngsecretary, who often comes to the _Territoriale_, where he doesnothing but rummage among the books. Very polite certainly, but a veryproud youngster who does not know how to make the most of himself.There was nothing but a chorus of maledictions against him around thetable. Even M. Louis delivered himself on that subject, with his highand mighty air:

  "Our cook, my dear Monsieur Barreau, has recently had an experiencesimilar to yours with His Excellency's chief secretary, who presumed toindulge in some observations concerning the household expenses. Thecook ran up to the duke's study post-haste, in his professionalcostume, and said, with his hand on his apron string: 'Your Excellencymay choose between Monsieur and me.' The duke did not hesitate. One canfind as many secretaries as one wants; whereas the good cooks are allknown. There are just four in Paris. I include you, my dear Barreau. Wedismissed our chief secretary, giving him a prefecture of the firstclass as a consolation; but we kept our chief cook."

  "Ah! that's the talk," said M. Barreau, who was delighted to hear thatanecdote. "That's what it is to be in a great nobleman's service. Butparvenus are parvenus, what do you expect?"

  "And Jansoulet is nothing more than that," added M. Francis, pullingdown his cuffs. "A man who was once a porter at Marseille."

  At that M. Noel bristled up.

  "I say there, old Francis, you're glad enough to have the porter of LaCannebiere pay for your roastings at _bouillotte_ all the same. Youwon't find many parvenus like us, who loan millions to kings, and whomgreat noblemen like Mora don't blush to receive at their table."

  "Oh! in the country," sneered M. Francis, showing his old fangs.

  The other rose, red as fire, on the point of losing his temper, butM. Louis made a sign with his hand that he had something to say, andM. Noel at once sat down, putting his hand to his ear, like the restof us, in order to lose none of the august words.

  "It is true," said the great personage, speaking with the ends ofhis lips and sipping his wine slowly; "it is true that we receivedthe Nabob at Grandbois some weeks ago. Indeed, a very amusingthing happened there. We have a great many mushrooms in thesecond park, and His Excellency sometimes amuses himself by pickingthem. At dinner a great dish of mushrooms was served. There wasWhat-d'ye-call-him--Thingamy--What's-his-name--Marigny, the Ministerof the Interior, Monpavon, and your master, my dear Noel. Themushrooms made the round of the table,--they looked very inviting,and the gentlemen filled their plates, all except Monsieur le Duc,who can't digest them and thought that politeness required him to sayto his guests: 'Oh! it isn't that I am afraid of them, you know. Theyare all right,--I picked them with my own hand.'

  "'_Sapristi!_' said Monpavon, laughingly, 'in that case, my dearAuguste, excuse me if I don't taste them,' Marigny, being less at home,looked askance at his plate.

  "'Why, Monpavon, upon my word, these mushrooms look very healthy. I amreally sorry that I am no longer hungry.'

  "The duke remained perfectly serious.

  "'Come, Monsieur Jansoulet, I trust that you won't insult me as theyhave done. Mush-rooms selected by myself!'

  "'Oh! your Excellency, the idea! Why, I would eat them with my eyesclosed.'

  "I leave it to you, if that wasn't great luck for the poor Nabob, thefirst time that he ate a meal with us. Duperron, who was waitingopposite him, told us about it in the butler's pantry. It seems that itwas the most comical thing in the world to see Jansoulet stuff himselfwith mushrooms, rolling his eyes in terror, while the others watchedhim curiously without touching their plates. It made him sweat, poordevil! And the best part of it was that he took a second portion; hehad the courage to take more. But he poured down bumpers of winebetween every two mouthfuls. Well! shall I tell you what I think? Thatwas a very shrewd move on his part, and I am no longer surprised thatthat fat ox-driver has been the favorite of sovereigns. He knows how toflatter them, in the little things that they don't talk about. In fact,the duke has doted on him since that day."

  That little story caused much hilarity, and scattered the cloudscollected by a few imprudent words. And thereupon, as the wine hadloosened all our tongues, and as we all knew one another better, werested our elbows on the table and began to talk about masters andplaces where we had worked, and the amusing things we had seen. Ah! Iheard some fine stories and had a glimpse at some domestic scenes!Naturally, I produced my little effect with the story of my pantry atthe _Territoriale_, of the time when I used to put my ragout in theempty safe, which did not prevent our cashier, a great stickler forroutine, from changing the combination every two days, as if itcontained all the treasures of the Bank of France. M. Louis seemed toenjoy my story. But the most astonishing thing was what littleBois-l'Hery, with his Parisian street-arab's accent, told us of thehome life of his employers.

  Marquis and Marquise de Bois-l'Hery, second floor, Boulevard Haussmann.Furniture like the Tuileries, blue satin on all the walls, pictures,mantel ornaments, curiosities, a genuine museum, I tell you!overflowing on to the landings. Service very stylish: six servants,chestnut-colored livery in winter, nankeen livery in summer. You seethose people everywhere,--at the small Monday parties, at the races, atfirst nights, at ambassadors' balls, and their names always in thenewspapers, with remarks as to Madame's fine toilets and Monsieur'samazing _chic_. Well! all that is nothing but flim-flam, veneer,outside show, and if the marquis needed a hundred sous, no one wouldloan them to him on his worldly possessions. The furniture is hired bythe fortnight from Fitily, the cocottes' upholsterer. The curiosities,the pictures, belong to old Schwalbach, who sends his customers thereand makes them pay double price, because a man doesn't haggle whenhe thinks he is buying from a marquis, an amateur. As for themarchioness's dresses, the milliner and dress-maker furnish her withthem for exhibition every season, make her wear the new styles, alittle ridiculous sometimes, but instantly adopted by society, becauseMadame is still a very beautiful woman, and of high repute in thematter of fashion; she is what is called a _lanceuse_. And theservants! Provisional like all the rest, changed every week at thepleasure of the intelligence office, which sends them there to givethem practice before taking serious positions. They may have neithersponsors nor certificates; they may have just come from prison orelsewhere. Glanard, the great place-broker on Rue de la Paix, suppliesBoulevard Haussmann. The servants stay there one week, two weeks, longenough to purchase recommendations from the marquis, who, mark you,pays nothing and barely feeds them; for in that house the kitchen ovensare cold most of the time, as Monsieur and Madame dine out almost everyevening, or attend balls at which supper is served. It is a positivefact that there are people in Paris who take the buffet seriously, andeat their first meal of the day after midnight. The Bois-l'Herys arewell posted as to houses where there is a buffet. They will tell youthat you get a very good supper at the Austrian embassy, that theSpanish embassy is a little careless in the matter of wines, and thatthe Minister of Foreign Affairs gives you the best _chaud-froid devolailles_. Such is the life of that curious household. Nothing of allthey have is sewn on; everything is basted or pinned. A gust of wind,and away it all goes. But at all events they are sure of losingnothing. That is what gives the marquis that _blagueur_, PereTranquille air, as he looks you in the face with both hands in hispockets, as much as to say: "Well, what then? What can you do to me?"

  And the little tiger, in the afo
resaid attitude, with his prematurelyold, vicious child's face, copied his master so perfectly that itseemed to me as if I were looking at the man himself sitting in ouradministrative council, facing the Governor, and overwhelming him withhis cynical jests. After all, we must agree that Paris is a wonderfulgreat city, for any one to be able to live here in that way for fifteenyears, twenty years of tricks and dodges and throwing dust in people'seyes, without everybody finding him out, and to go on making atriumphant entry into salons in the wake of a footman shouting his nameat the top of his voice: "Monsieur le Marquis de Bois-l'Hery."

  You see, you must have been to a servants' party before you can believeall that one learns there, and what a curious thing Parisian society iswhen you look at it thus from below, from the basement. For instance,happening to be between M. Francis and M. Louis, I caught this scrap ofconfidential conversation concerning Sire de Monpavon. M. Louis said:

  "You are doing wrong, Francis, you are in funds just now. You ought totake advantage of it to return that money to the Treasury."

  "What can you expect?" replied M. Francis, disconsolately. "Play isconsuming us."

  "Yes, I know. But beware. We shall not always be at hand. We may die orgo out of the government. In that case you will be called to accountover yonder. It will be a terrible time."

  I had often heard a whisper of the marquis's forced loan of two hundredthousand francs from the State, at the time when he wasreceiver-general; but the testimony of his valet de chambre was theworst of all. Ah! if the masters suspected what the servants know, allthat they tell in their quarters, if they could hear their namesdragged about in the sweepings of the salons and the kitchen refuse,they would never again dare to say so much as: "Close the door," or"Order the carriage." There's Dr. Jenkins, for example, with therichest practice in Paris, has lived ten years with a magnificent wife,who is eagerly welcomed everywhere; he has done everything he could toconceal his real position, announced his marriage in the newspapers inthe English style, and hired only foreign servants who know barelythree words of French, but all to no purpose. With these few words,seasoned with faubourg oaths and blows on the table, his coachman Joe,who detests him, told us his whole history while we were at supper.

  "She's going to croak, his Irishwoman, his real wife. Now we'll see ifhe'll marry the other one. Forty-five years old Mistress Maranne is,and not a shilling. You ought to see how afraid she is that he'll turnher out. Marry her, not marry her--_kss-kss_--what a laugh we'll have."And the more they gave him to drink, the more he told, speaking of hisunfortunate mistress as the lowest of the low. For my part, I confessthat she excited my interest, that false Madame Jenkins, who weeps inevery corner, implores her husband as if he were the headsman, and isin danger of being sent about her business when all society believesher to be married, respectable, established for life. The others didnothing but laugh, especially the women. _Dame!_ it is amusing when oneis in service to see that these ladies of the upper ten have theiraffronts too, and tormenting cares which keep them awake.

  At that moment our party presented a most animated aspect, a circle ofmerry faces turned toward the Irishman, who carried off the palm by hisanecdote. That aroused envy; every one rummaged his memory and draggedout whatever he could find there of old scandals, adventures ofbetrayed husbands, all the domestic secrets that are poured out on thekitchen table with the remains of dishes and the dregs of bottles. Thechampagne was beginning to lay hold of its victims among the guests.Joe insisted on dancing a jig on the cloth. The ladies, at theslightest suggestion that was a trifle broad, threw themselves backwith the piercing laughter of a person who is being tickled, lettingtheir embroidered skirts drag under the table, which was piled withbroken victuals, and covered with grease. M. Louis had prudentlywithdrawn. The glasses were filled before they were emptied; achambermaid dipped a handkerchief in hers, which was full of water, andbathed her forehead with it because her head was going round, she said.It was time that it should end; in fact, an electric bell, ringingloudly in the hall, warned us that the footman on duty at the theatrehad called the coachmen. Thereupon Monpavon proposed a toast to themaster of the house, thanking him for his little party. M. Noelannounced that he would repeat it at Saint-Romans, during thefestivities in honor of the bey, to which most of those present wouldprobably be invited. And I was about to rise in my turn, beingsufficiently familiar with banquets to know that on such occasions theoldest of the party is expected to propose a toast to the ladies, whenthe door was suddenly thrown open and a tall footman, all muddy,breathless and perspiring, with a dripping umbrella in his hand, roaredat us, with no respect for the guests:

  "Come, get out of here, you pack of cads; what are you doing here?Don't I tell you it's done!"