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.”
At eight o’clock that night M. Blancheron had already begun to feel the need of some friendly bosom on which to pour out all his ideas on the sugar industry, and recited his pamphlet aloud to a pianoforte accompaniment by Schaunard.
At ten o’clock M. Blancheron and his friend danced a galop together, and thee and thoued each other freely. At eleven they swore never to part, and each made a will leaving the whole of his fortune to the other.
At midnight Marcel came in and found them weeping in each other’s arms and the studio half an inch deep in water already. Stumbling against the table, he discovered the remains of a splendid banquet, and looking at the bottles saw that they were all perfectly empty.
Then he tried to wake Schaunard, but that worthy, with his head pillowed on M. Blancheron, threatened to kill him if he took his friend away from him.
“Ingrate!” was Marcel’s comment, as he drew a handful of hazel nuts from his coat pocket, “and I was bringing him home something for dinner!”
III
LENTEN LOVES
ONE evening in Lent Rodolphe went home early intending to work. But scarcely had he sat down and dipped his pen in the ink when he was disturbed by an unusual sound. Applying his ear to the indiscreet partition wall, he could hear and distinguish perfectly well an onomatopoetic dialogue carried on principally in kisses in the next room.
“Confound it!” thought Rodolphe as he glanced at the clock. “It is early yet, and my fair neighbour is a Juliet who seldom permits her Romeo to depart with the lark. It is impossible to work to-night.” So taking up his hat he sallied forth.
As he stepped into the porter’s lodge to hang up his key, he found the portress half imprisoned by the arm of a gallant. The poor woman was so overcome that it was fully five minutes before she could pull the door-string.
“It is a fact,” mused Rodolphe, “there are moments when portresses become mere women.”
He opened the street door, and lo! in the corner, a fireman and a cook-maid were exchanging a preliminary token of affection, standing there holding each other by the hand.
“Egad!” cried he, as he thought of the warrior and his stalwart companion, “here be heretics, who scarcely so much as know that Lent has begun.” And he made for the lodging of a friend in the neighbourhood.
“If Marcel is at home, we will spend the evening in abusing Colline,” said he to himself. “One must do something, after all.”
After a vigorous rapping, the door at length stood ajar, and a young man simply dressed in little but a shirt and a pair of eye-glasses put his head out.
“I cannot ask you to come in,” said this person.
“Why not?” demanded Rodolphe.