The Bohemians of the Latin Quarter. Henri Murger

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СКАЧАТЬ be necessary to “oppress” foreigners, he had learned the requisite formulæ for borrowing five francs in every language under the sun. He had made a profound study of the whole repertory of ruses by which the precious metals are wont to escape their pursuers. No pilot is better acquainted with the state of the tides than he with the times of low and high water; which is to say, the days when his friends and acquaintances were sure to be in funds. So much so, indeed, that if he were seen entering any particular house, people would say, not “There is M. Schaunard,” but, “To-day is the first, or the fifteenth of the month.” Partly to facilitate the collection of this kind of tithe which he levied when hard up, partly to spread it evenly over the area of persons capable of meeting the call, Schaunard had drawn up alphabetical lists of all his acquaintances, and tabulated them under the headings of quarters and arrondissements. Opposite each name he set down the highest possible sum that he could expect to borrow in proportion to the owner’s means, the dates when he was in funds, a time-table of meals, together with the probable bill of fare. Schaunard kept besides a little set of books in perfect order, in which he entered all the sums that he borrowed down to the most minute fractions, for he had no mind to burden himself with debt beyond a certain figure, and the amount of that figure still hung on the pen of an uncle in Normandy whose property he was one day to inherit. So soon as Schaunard owed twenty francs to any one individual, he stopped borrowing and repaid the money in a lump, even if he had to borrow from others to whom he owed smaller amounts. In this way he always kept up a certain credit on the market, which credit he was pleased to style his “floating debt,” and as it was known that he invariably paid his debts so soon as his resources permitted him to do so, people were very ready to oblige him whenever they could.

      But to-day, since eleven o’clock in the morning when he started out to scrape together those seventy-five indispensable francs, he had only succeeded in making up one poor little five-franc piece. This had been done with the collaboration of the letters M V and R on his famous list; all the rest of the alphabet was passing through a precisely similar crisis, and this brought his quest to an end.

      By six o’clock a ferocious appetite was ringing the dinner-bell within, and he had reached the Barrière du Maine, where the letter U was domiciled. Schaunard had a serviette ring in U’s establishment, whenever there were serviettes. The porter called after him as he went past.

      “Where are you going, sir?”

      “Up to M. U——.”

      “He is out.”

      “And madame?”

      “She is out too. They went out to dinner and left a message with me for one of their friends who was sure to come this evening, they said. In fact they were expecting you, and this is the address they left with me,” added the porter, holding out a scrap of paper.

      Schaunard read these words in his friend U’s handwriting:—

      “Gone to dine with Schaunard, Rue—Come and look us up.”

      “Well, well,” thought he as he went away, “when chance comes in pretty tricks he plays!”

      Then Schaunard bethought himself of a little eating-house only a few steps away, where he had made a meal once or twice before for a trifling sum. To this establishment, known to lower Bohemia as La Mère Cadet, he now betook himself. La Mère Cadet, half tavern, half restaurant, situated in the Chaussée du Maine, is patronised largely by carters of the Orléans Road with a sprinkling of cantatrices from Montparnasse and first walking gentlemen from Bobino’s. In summer the place is crammed with young aspirants from studios round about the Luxembourg, literary gentlemen unknown to fame, and scribblers attached to more or less mysterious journals, who flock to La Mère Cadet, famous for stewed rabbit, genuine sauerkraut and a thin white wine with a smack of brimstone.

      Two or three stunted trees spread a few sickly green leaves over the heads of diners in the establishment; and beneath the shadow of these shrubs, known to frequenters of La Mère Cadet as “the grove,” Schaunard now took his place.

      “My word! what must be, must!” said he to himself. “Now for a blow-out, a private jollification all to myself.”

      And without more ado, he called for soup, a half portion of sauerkraut and two half portions of stewed rabbit; having remarked that in this case two halves are greater than the whole by at least a quarter.

      His order attracted the attention of a young person in white, with a wreath of orange blossoms in her hair; she wore dancing slippers, and a veil of imitated imitation floated over a pair of shoulders which might have been suffered to preserve their incognito. She was a singer from the Théâtre Montparnasse, where the wings are entrances, as one may say, of La Mère Cadet’s kitchen. The lady having stepped in for refreshments between the acts of Lucia di Lammermoor was taking a half-cup of coffee, after a dinner composed simply and solely of an artichoke with oil and vinegar.

      “Two portions of stewed rabbit, the dog!” she muttered to the waitress, “the young man goes in for high feeding. What is to pay, Adèle?”

      “One artichoke, four; one half-cup, four; and bread, one sou. Nine sous altogether.”

      “Here it is,” returned the vocalist, and out she went, humming, “Cet amour que Dieu me donne.”

      “I say! She can take the la!” remarked a mysterious individual sitting at Schaunard’s table behind a rampart of old books.

      “Take it!” ejaculated Schaunard. “I rather think she takes it and keeps it to herself. Besides,” he added, pointing to the plate on which Lucia di Lammermoor had just partaken of her artichoke, “nobody has any idea what it is to steep your headnotes in vinegar.”

      “It is a powerful acid, and that is a fact,” admitted the other. “The city of Orleans produces a brand which justly enjoys a great reputation.”

      Schaunard took a closer look at this person, who angled thus for conversation. The fixed gaze of the man’s big blue eyes, which always seemed to be looking out for something, gave to his face that expression of smug serenity which you may remark in the visages of seminarists. His complexion was of the colour of old ivory, except for a dab of opaque brick-red upon the cheeks; his mouth might have been drawn by a student of the first principles of design (if somebody had given a jog to the draughtsman’s elbow). The lips turned up a little, negro-fashion, disclosing a set of dog’s teeth; the double chin below reposed on the folds of a white cravat tied so that one end menaced the firmament while the other pointed to earth. The hair of this personage flowed in a yellow torrent from under the prodigious brim of a tawny-brown felt hat. He wore a long, nut-brown overcoat with a cape, a threadbare garment, rough as a nutmeg-grater. A mass of papers and pamphlets protruded from its yawning pockets. He sat with a book propped up before him on the table, careless of Schaunard’s scrutiny, eating his choucroûte garnie with evident relish, for sounds of unqualified satisfaction escaped him at frequent intervals; and now again, taking a pencil from behind his ear, he jotted down a note in the margin of the work which he was perusing.

      Schaunard all at once struck his knife against a glass. “How about my stewed rabbit, eh?” he called.

      The waitress came up with a plate in her hand.

      “Monsieur,” she said, “stewed rabbit is off the bill. Here is the last portion, and this gentleman ordered it,” she added, setting it down in front of the man of books.

      “Sacrebleu!” cried Schaunard. And in that “Sacrebleu” there was such a depth of melancholy disappointment that it went to the heart of the man of books. СКАЧАТЬ