The Bohemians of the Latin Quarter. Henri Murger

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СКАЧАТЬ as a typical provincial, “my cousin has been talking a good deal of your talent as a portrait painter, and as I am just about to start on a voyage to the colonies as delegate of the sugar refiners of Nantes, I should like to leave a souvenir with my family. So I have come to look you up.”

      “Oh, sacred Providence!” muttered Schaunard. “Marcel, hand a chair to Monsieur——”

      “M. Blancheron,” the stranger continued. “Blancheron of Nantes, delegate of the sugar industry, formerly Mayor of V——, Captain in the National Guard, and author of a pamphlet on the sugar question.”

      “I feel greatly honoured by being chosen by you,” said the artist, bowing before the refiners’ delegate. “How do you wish to have your portrait painted?”

      “In miniature, like that,” rejoined M. Blancheron, pointing to an oil portrait (for to the worthy delegate, as to a good many other people, there are but two kinds of paintings—house and miniature; there is no middle term).

      This artless reply gave Schaunard the measure of the good soul with whom he had to do, especially when M. Blancheron added that he wished to have his portrait done in fine colours.

      “I never use any other kind,” said Schaunard. “How large do you desire to have your portrait, monsieur?”

      “As big as that one,” said M. Blancheron, pointing to a canvas in the studio. “But what price does that come to?”

      “Fifty to sixty francs; sixty with hands included, fifty without.”

      “The devil! my cousin talked about thirty francs.”

      “It varies with the season,” rejoined the painter, “colours are much dearer at some times than at others.”

      “Why, then, it is like sugar!”

      “Exactly.”

      “Let it be fifty francs, then,” said M. Blancheron.

      “You are making a mistake. For another ten francs the hands could be put in; and I should paint you holding your pamphlet on the sugar question, which would be very gratifying to you.”

      “Upon my word, you are right.”

      “By Jove!” said Schaunard to himself, “if he keeps on at this, I shall burst; and somebody may be hurt with the pieces.”

      “Did you notice?” Marcel continued to whisper.

      “What?”

      “He has a black coat.”

      “I comprehend, and I enter into your ideas. Leave it to me.”

      “Well, monsieur,” said the delegate, “when shall we begin? We must not leave it too long, for I start almost directly.”

      “I am going on a short journey myself; I am leaving Paris the day after to-morrow. So we can begin at once, if you like. A great deal can be done in one good sitting.”

      “But it will be dark directly, and you cannot paint by artificial light,” said M. Blancheron.

      “My studio is so arranged that you can work in it at any time. If you like to take off your coat and sit, we can begin now.”

      “Take off my coat? Why?”

      “Did you not tell me that you wanted a portrait to give to your family?”

      “Certainly.”

      “Well, then, you ought to be painted in the dress you wear at home—in your dressing-gown. Besides, it is usual to do so.”

      “But I have not my dressing-gown with me.”

      “I keep one on purpose,” said Schaunard, presenting to his model’s gaze a ragged object bespattered with paint. At sight of it the provincial appeared to hesitate.

      “It is a strange-looking garment,” he began.

      “And very valuable,” rejoined the painter. “A Turkish vizier presented it to M. Horace Vernet, by whom it was given to me. I am a pupil of his.”

      “Are you one of Vernet’s pupils?” asked Blancheron.

      “I am, monsieur, I am proud to say. (Horrors!” he muttered to himself, “I am denying my gods.”)

      “And well you may be, young man,” returned the delegate, enveloping himself in a dressing-gown of such distinguished antecedents.

      “Hang M. Blancheron’s coat up,” said Schaunard, with a significant wink to his friend.

      Marcel flew upon his prey. “I say,” he murmured, “this is something very good. Could you not keep a bit for me?”

      “I will try, but let that be; dress quickly, and be off. Come back at ten o’clock, I will keep him here till then. And on no account forget to bring me something back in your pockets.”

      “I will bring you a pineapple,” said Marcel as he went.

      The coat was hastily slipped on (it fitted him like a glove), and he departed by another door.

      Schaunard meanwhile got to work. As it grew quite dark and the clocks struck six, M. Blancheron recollected that he had not dined. He made an observation to this effect.

      “I am in the same case,” said Schaunard, “but to oblige you I will dispense with dinner this evening, though I have an invitation to a house in the Faubourg Saint Germain. We cannot be disturbed now, it might spoil the likeness,” and he set to work again.

      “By-the-by,” he added suddenly, “we can dine without putting ourselves about. There is a very good restaurant below; they will send us up anything we like”; and Schaunard watched the effect of this trio of “we’s.”

      “I am quite of your opinion,” said M. Blancheron, “and on the other hand, I shall be glad to think that you will do me the honour of keeping me company at table.”

      Schaunard bowed.

      “Come!” he said to himself, “this is a good man, a real messenger of Providence. Will you give the order?” he asked his host.

      “You will oblige me by undertaking it yourself,” the other returned politely.

      “Tu t’en repentiras Nicolas,” sang the painter as he skipped downstairs four steps at a time.

      Entering the restaurant, he betook himself to the counter, where he drew up such a menu that the Vatel of the establishment read it with blanched cheeks.

      “Bordeaux, as usual.”

      “Who is going to pay me?”

      “Not I, probably,” said Schaunard, “but mine uncle, an epicure; you will see him upstairs. So try to distinguish yourself, and let us have dinner served up in half an hour; and on porcelain, that is most important.”

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