Monsieur Cherami. Paul de Kock

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      The madeira having been brought, Cherami immediately drank two glasses to restore the tone of his stomach; then he took the bill of fare, and took pains to order the best of everything. The waiter, who scrutinized our friend's costume while he was writing, would probably have displayed less zeal in serving him, had not his companion begun by slipping five francs into his hand. But that spontaneous generosity had given another direction to the waiter's ideas, and he concluded that the gentleman with the check trousers was a Scotchman who had not changed his travelling costume.

      While Cherami wrote his order, young Gustave was unable to sit still for a moment; he went constantly to the door and took a few steps in the corridor, then returned to question the waiter, to whose particular attention Cherami commended his menu.

      "Waiter, is the wedding party at table yet?"

      "They sat down just a moment ago, monsieur."

      "Above all things, don't have the fillet cooked too much."

      "Never fear, monsieur."

      "Where is the bride sitting?"

      "At the middle of the table, monsieur."

      "And well supplied with truffles."

      "By whose side?"

      "I think her father's on one side, monsieur."

      "And on the other?"

      "A salmon-trout."

      "A lady, monsieur."

      "If it isn't fresh, we won't take it."

      "How is the lady's hair dressed?"

      "She has lilies of the valley on her head."

      "What's that! lilies of the valley on a salmon-trout! I never saw it served so."

      "Not the trout, monsieur; I was speaking of a lady—one of the wedding party."

      "And the groom, where is he sitting?"

      "Opposite his wife, monsieur."

      "Next, a capon au gros sel."

      "Does he look at her often?"

      "Done to a turn."

      "Faith! monsieur, I didn't have time to notice as to that."

      "What's that! Sapristi! you haven't time to tell the chef to cook it to a turn?"

      "Pardon, monsieur; monsieur was asking me about the bridegroom.—Now I am at your service."

      And the waiter, to escape these questions, which confused him, took the menu and disappeared. Cherami poured out another glass of madeira, saying to his new friend:

      "Come, come, my dear Gustave; if you persist in imitating the bear of Berne, by going from this room into the corridor, and returning from the corridor to this room, you won't do yourself any good. You know that the wedding party is at the table. Naturally, they will be there some time. So follow their example. Take a seat opposite me, recover your tranquillity, and let us dine. See, here's our soup, just in time, exhaling a delicious odor. Allow me to help you."

      The young man took his seat, and swallowed a few spoonfuls of soup; then pushed his plate away, crying:

      "No; it's impossible for me to eat anything."

      "Very well! then talk to me. Look you, while I am eating, as you don't choose to do the same, you have an excellent opportunity to tell me the story of your loves—with the ungrateful Fanny."

      "Oh! yes, monsieur, gladly. I will tell you all, and you will see if I am wrong to complain of her inconstancy."

      "Men are hardly ever wrong. Go on, my dear friend; tell me the whole story; I shall not lose a word of your narrative, because one can listen splendidly while eating."

      "My name is Gustave Darlemont, and I am twenty-five years old. My parents lived on their income; but in order to obtain the means to live more expensively, they invested all their capital in an annuity."

      "The devil! rather selfish parents, I should say. If everyone did the same, the word inheritance would be superfluous. Here's a fillet that is worth its weight in gold. Just taste it."

      "No, thanks, monsieur.—For my part, I find no fault with my parents for doing as they did; they had earned their fortune by their own labor, they had given me a good education: what more could I ask?"

      "You are delightful! Pardieu! you could ask for money. Let me give you some of this Château-Léoville.—It's cool and sweet—it will refresh your ideas. Go on, I beg."

      "My parents died, and from what they left me in furniture, jewels, and plate, I had an income of twelve hundred francs."

      "A mere trifle! that's not enough to pay one's tailor. To be sure, there's the alternative of not paying him at all."

      "I was then seventeen; I didn't know just what business to embrace."

      "And, pending your decision, you embraced all the pretty girls who came to hand. I know all about that."

      "Oh! no, monsieur; I was very virtuous; I have never been what is called a lady's man."

      "So much the worse, young man; so much the worse! There's nothing like women for training the young. You may say that they overtrain them sometimes. But think of the experience they acquire! I might cite myself as an example; but we haven't come to me yet. Go on, my young friend—for I am your friend. Although Aristotle said: 'O my friends, there are no friends!' I maintain that there are. And that's simply a play upon words by the Greek philosopher, to whom, had I been Philip, I would not have intrusted the education of my son Alexander, because of that one assertion.—But I beg your pardon; I am listening."

      "Luckily, I had an uncle, Monsieur Grandcourt, my mother's brother. He took me into his family. He is rather an original, but kind and obliging. He is not an old man: only about forty-eight now."

      "So much the worse, so much the worse! You certainly have hard luck in the matter of inheritances. Is this uncle of yours rich?"

      "Not rich perhaps, but very comfortably fixed, I fancy."

      "What does he do?"

      "He's a banker."

      "Everybody is, more or less."

      "Oh! my uncle is a prudent man, who never risks his money in doubtful speculations; he is noted for the exactitude with which he fulfils his engagements, and for his absolute probity."

      "Good! there's a man to whom I will intrust my funds, when I have more than I can handle."

      "So I entered my uncle's employ as a clerk. I was very happy there. We often went to the theatre, to concerts, and to the best restaurants; and my uncle always paid."

      "Pardieu! it would have been a fine thing if the nephew had had to stand treat! However, I see that СКАЧАТЬ