CHAPTER VII
FROM LEON VERDIER, IN PARIS, TO PROSPER GOBAIN, AT LILLE.
September 28th.
My Dear Prosper--It is a long time since I have given you of my news,
and I don't know what puts it into my head to-night to recall myself
to your affectionate memory. I suppose it is that when we are happy
the mind reverts instinctively to those with whom formerly we shared
our exaltations and depressions, and je t'eu ai trop dit, dans le bon
temps, mon gros Prosper, and you always listened to me too
imperturbably, with your pipe in your mouth, your waistcoat
unbuttoned, for me not to feel that I can count upon your sympathy
to-day. Nous en sommes nous flanquees des confidences--in those
happy days when my first thought in seeing an adventure poindre a
l'horizon was of the pleasure I should have in relating it to the
great Prosper. As I tell thee, I am happy; decidedly, I am happy,
and from this affirmation I fancy you can construct the rest. Shall
I help thee a little? Take three adorable girls . . . three, my good
Prosper--the mystic number--neither more nor less. Take them and
place thy insatiable little Leon in the midst of them! Is the
situation sufficiently indicated, and do you apprehend the motives of
my felicity?
You expected, perhaps, I was going to tell you that I had made my
fortune, or that the Uncle Blondeau had at last decided to return
into the breast of nature, after having constituted me his universal
legatee. But I needn't remind you that women are always for
something in the happiness of him who writes to thee--for something
in his happiness, and for a good deal more in his misery. But don't
let me talk of misery now; time enough when it comes; ces demoiselles
have gone to join the serried ranks of their amiable predecessors.
Excuse me--I comprehend your impatience. I will tell you of whom ces
demoiselles consist.
You have heard me speak of my cousine de Maisonrouge, that grande
belle femme, who, after having married, en secondes noces--there had
been, to tell the truth, some irregularity about her first union--a
venerable relic of the old noblesse of Poitou, was left, by the death
of her husband, complicated by the indulgence of expensive tastes on
an income of 17,000 francs, on the pavement of Paris, with two little
demons of daughters to bring up in the path of virtue. She managed
to bring them up; my little cousins are rigidly virtuous. If you ask
me how she managed it, I can't tell you; it's no business of mine,
and, a fortiori none of yours. She is now fifty years old (she
confesses to thirty-seven), and her daughters, whom she has never
been able to marry, are respectively twenty-seven and twenty-three
(they confess to twenty and to seventeen). Three years ago she had
the thrice-blessed idea of opening a sort of pension for the
entertainment and instruction of the blundering barbarians who come
to Paris in the hope of picking up a few stray particles of the
language of Voltaire--or of Zola. The idea lui a porte bonheur; the
shop does a very good business. Until within a few months ago it was
carried on by my cousins alone; but lately the need of a few
extensions and embellishments has caused itself to he felt. My
cousin has undertaken them, regardless of expense; she has asked me
to come and stay with her--board and lodging gratis--and keep an eye
on the grammatical eccentricities of her pensionnaires. I am the
extension, my good Prosper; I am the embellishment! I live for
nothing, and I straighten up the accent of the prettiest English
lips. The English lips are not all pretty, heaven knows, but enough
of them are so to make it a gaining bargain for me.
Just now, as I told you, I am in daily conversation with three
separate pairs. The owner of one of them has private lessons; she
pays extra. My cousin doesn't give me a sou of the money; but I make
bold, nevertheless, to say that my trouble is remunerated. But I am
well, very well, with the proprietors of the two other pairs. One of
them is a little Anglaise, of about twenty--a little figure de
keepsake; the most adorable miss that you ever, or at least that I
ever beheld. She is decorated all over with beads and bracelets and
embroidered dandelions; but her principal decoration consists of the
softest little gray eyes in the world, which rest upon you with a
profundity of confidence--a confidence that I really feel some
compunction in betraying. She has a tint as white as this sheet of
paper, except just in the middle of each cheek, where it passes into
the purest and most transparent, most liquid, carmine. Occasionally
this rosy fluid overflows into the rest of her face--by which I mean
that she blushes--as softly as the mark of your breath on the window-
pane.
Like every Anglaise, she is rather pinched and prim in public; but it
is very easy to see that when no one is looking elle ne demande qu'a
se laisser aller! Whenever she wants it I am always there, and I
have given her to understand that she can count upon me. I have
reason to believe that she appreciates the assurance, though I am
bound in honesty to confess that with her the situation is a little
less advanced than with the others. Que voulez-vous? The English
are heavy, and the Anglaises move slowly, that's all. The movement,
however, is perceptible, and once this fact is established I can let
the pottage simmer. I can give her time to arrive, for I am over-
well occupied with her concurrentes. Celles-ci don't keep me
waiting, par exemple!
These young ladies are Americans, and you know that it is the
national character to move fast. "All right--go ahead!" (I am
learning a great deal of English, or, rather, a great deal of
American.) They go ahead at a rate that sometimes makes it difficult
for me to keep up. One of them is prettier than the other; but this
hatter (the one that takes the private lessons) is really une file
prodigieuse. Ah, par exemple, elle brule ses vais-seux cella-la!
She threw herself into my arms the very first day, and I almost owed
her a grudge for having deprived me of that pleasure of gradation, of
carrying the defences, one by one, which is almost as great as that
of entering the place.
Would you believe that at the end of exactly twelve minutes she gave
me a rendezvous? It is true it was in the Galerie d'Apollon, at the
Louvre; but that was respectable for a beginning, and since then we
have had them by the dozen; I have ceased to keep the account. Non,
c'est une file qui me depasse.
The little one (she has a mother somewhere, out of sight, shut up in
a closet or a trunk) is a good deal prettier, and, perhaps, on that
account elle y met plus de facons. She doesn't knock about Paris
with me by the hour; she contents herself with long interviews in the
petit salon, with the curtains half-drawn, beginning at about three
o'clock, when every one is a la promenade. She is admirable, this
little one; a little too thin, the bones rather accentuated, but the
detail, on the whole, most satisfactory. And you can say anything to
her. She takes the trouble to appear not to understand, but her
conduct, half an hour afterwards, reassures you completely--oh,
completely!
However, it is the tall one, the one of the private lessons, that is
the most remarkable. These private lessons, my good Prosper, are the
most brilliant invention of the age, and a real stroke of genius on
the part of Miss Miranda! They also take place in the petit salon,
but with the doors tightly closed, and with explicit directions to
every one in the house that we are not to be disturbed. And we are
not, my good Prosper; we are not! Not a sound, not a shadow,
interrupts our felicity. My cousine is really admirable; the shop
deserves to succeed. Miss Miranda is tall and rather flat; she is
too pale; she hasn't the adorable rougeurs of the little Anglaise.
But she has bright, keen, inquisitive eyes, superb teeth, a nose
modelled by a sculptor, and a way of holding up her head and looking
every one in the face, which is the most finished piece of
impertinence I ever beheld. She is making the tour du monde entirely
alone, without even a soubrette to carry the ensign, for the purpose
of seeing for herself a quoi s'en tenir sur les hommes et les choses-
-on les hommes particularly. Dis donc, Prosper, it must be a drole
de pays over there, where young persons animated by this ardent
curiosity are manufactured! If we should turn the tables, some day,
thou and I, and go over and see it for ourselves. It is as well that
we should go and find them chez elles, as that they should come out
here after us. Dis donc, mon gras Prosper . . .
