The father of our spendthrift had, shortly before his death, obliged one of his employÉs by loaning him eleven thousand francs to start in the coal business. And the creditor, knowing his debtor's probity, had made the loan subject to no other condition than this: "You will pay my son the interest on this sum at five per cent. That makes five hundred and fifty francs a year that you will have to pay him so long as it doesn't inconvenience you; and, in any event, not more than ten years. After that time, your debt will be paid. But it must be understood that I forbid you ever to repay the principal."

These conditions were witnessed by no written contract; the merchant had declined to take his debtor's note. But the latter had faithfully carried out his former employer's intentions. Every three months, he brought Arthur one hundred and thirty-seven francs fifty centimes, the stipulated interest of the money he had received. In his prosperous days, when he still had an income of thirty-five thousand francs, young Arthur had often said to Bernardin—that was the coal dealer's name:

"What the devil do you expect me to do with your hundred and thirty-seven francs, Bernardin? As if I cared for such a trifle! Go and have a good fish dinner at La RÂpÉe—with some pretty wench. That will be much better. I consider that you've paid up."

But the coal dealer, an upright, economical man, scrupulously exact in all his dealings, always contented himself with replying:

"I owe you this money, monsieur; it's the interest on what your late father was kind enough to give me. I say give, because my late excellent master would not even let me pay him the interest."

"I know all that, Bernardin; I know all that; but, you see, I don't ask you for the interest either. You are welcome to keep it; buy bonbons for your children with it."

"My children have all they need, monsieur; and I make it a point to fulfil my engagements."

"There is no real obligation in this case, as I have no note, no receipt, from you."

"Between honest men there's no need of any writing, monsieur. I offered your father a note, and he positively refused; just as he forbade me ever to repay the principal on which I pay you the interest."

"And you are to pay the interest only ten years; I know that too."

"Oh! as to that, monsieur, I made your father no answer when he added that condition; but I shall do my duty."

And the honest coal dealer took his departure, leaving with Arthur the small sum he had brought.

When the thirty-five thousand francs a year had disappeared, and Arthur was reduced to the necessity of turning his furniture into cash, he received less scornfully the hundred and thirty-seven francs fifty centimes which Bernardin never failed to bring him on the first of each of the months when rent falls due.

One day, Cherami, having no more furniture, jewels, or horses to sell, had taken a furnished lodging, when Bernardin brought him his quarterly interest. The faithful coal dealer was informed as to the conduct of his former employer's son; he had watched the young man squander in riotous living the fortune which his parents had amassed with such unremitting toil; sell the house they had left him; then move from a fine hÔtel to a more modest apartment, and finally to furnished lodgings. Bernardin had never ventured to make the slightest comment; but at each new downward plunge of the young man, he heaved a profound sigh, and said to himself:

"O my poor master! it's very fortunate that you do not see your son's conduct!"

Now, on the day in question, Arthur, being absolutely penniless, was overjoyed when his paltry income arrived; but as Bernardin, having paid the money, was about to leave him, he detained him, saying:

"Look you, Monsieur Bernardin, I have a proposition to make to you."

"I am listening, monsieur."

"You bring me regularly the interest on the eleven thousand francs which you received from my father; you would be perfectly justified, however, in ceasing to pay it; for more than ten years have passed, and——"

"I think I have told you, monsieur, that I should continue to pay it; I should not consider that I had paid my debt, otherwise."

"Very good! Far be it from me to blame such scrupulous probity; but I am going to propose to you a method of paying your debt once for all. Give me a thousand crowns—three thousand francs—cash; that will gratify me, indeed, it will be a favor to me, because with three thousand francs one can do something, you know; whereas I can't do anything at all with your hundred and thirty-seven francs. So give me that amount in cash, and I will discharge you entirely and you'll have no more interest to pay me. Is that satisfactory?"

"No, monsieur; I can't do that."

"Why not, if I am satisfied?"

"It wouldn't satisfy me to discharge a life-rent of five hundred and fifty francs for three thousand francs; that would be usury."

"What are you talking about with your usury? if it suits me, if I ask it as a favor——"

"No, monsieur; I must not accept this proposition."

"Very well! then give me the eleven thousand francs you received, as you're so finical in the matter of probity. In that way, your conscience will be altogether at rest, and we shall both be satisfied."

"No, monsieur; I will not hand you the principal sum which I received, because your father expressly forbade me to do it. That was the first condition on which he let me have the money; and who knows if he didn't read the future then? if he didn't foresee that the day would come when this small income would be his son's last resource?"

"Monsieur Bernardin, you presume to——"

"I beg your pardon, monsieur; I do not presume at all. But monsieur must realize that I am aware of his position."

"My position? Why, pardieu! it's the position of all young men who have lived well, who have amused themselves, and adored the ladies."

"True, monsieur; but perhaps you have been too kind, too generous, to them."

"I have done what I chose; if I could begin over again, I would do the same."

"I don't doubt it, monsieur; and, of course, you are at liberty to dispose of your own property."

"Yes, to be sure I am—that is to say, I was. Come, Bernardin, won't you give me the eleven thousand francs?"

"No, monsieur; for, from above, your father would blame me."

"Give me a thousand crowns, then."

"Not that, either; but I shall continue to pay monsieur the interest; and if I should die to-morrow, my children would continue to pay it. Oh! it's a sacred thing, and monsieur can rely upon it."

"Very good! pay me three years in advance: sixteen hundred and fifty francs. You can't refuse me that?"

"Excuse me, monsieur; I do refuse, and in your own interest; for you would spend the three years' interest in less than six months; and then you would not have even that trifling resource."

"Monsieur Bernardin, do you refuse to make me any advance?"

"I cannot do it, monsieur."

"Very well! off with you, then; I have my cue!"

Bernardin saluted his late master's son with the utmost respect, and took his leave.

Some time after, when he was in a most desperate plight, Arthur Cherami had renewed his urgent solicitations to Bernardin, in the hope of obtaining a little interest in advance or a portion of the principal; but all his entreaties were of no avail. The old fellow was not to be moved, and his resolution was the more inflexible because he knew that by acting thus he was saving a modest income for his benefactor's son.

The years passed. Far from becoming wiser in the school of adversity, the ci-devant Beau Arthur retained the same passions, the same faults, and the same impertinence, as in his prosperous days. Doubtless forty-six francs a month is a very small allowance; it amounts to about thirty sous per day; and when with that amount a man must board, lodge, and clothe himself, he must needs live very sparingly. However, in this Paris of ours, where living is said to be so expensive, since the opening of those beneficent establishments for the sale of soup and cooked beef, and especially since those establishments have conceived the happy idea of serving their own products, a man may dine for seven sous; yes, reader, for seven sous! to wit: soup, two sous; beef, three sous; bread, two sous. And that man will have eaten more healthful and more nourishing food than he who, for thirty-two sous, regales himself with soup, his choice of three entrÉes, dessert, bread at discretion, and a pint of wine.

But when Monsieur Cherami received his quarterly interest, instead of husbanding that small sum, his last resource, paying some few debts, and dining inexpensively at one of the soup-kitchens, he would betake himself, with head erect and an arrogant air, to one of the best restaurants in Paris, take his seat with a great flourish, call the waiter, and order a sumptuous dinner of the daintiest dishes and the most expensive wines; and all in such wise that everybody who was in the room could hear him. In short, he would resume his rÔle of dandy, forgetting that he no longer wore the costume of the rÔle, yet imposing respect on the multitude by his lordly manner.

Some said: "He's an original, who affects a shabby costume to conceal the fact that he's a millionaire." Others: "He is some foreigner, some eminent personage, who desires to remain incognito in Paris."

And the waiters served promptly and with the utmost respect this party in a threadbare frock-coat, who ate truffled partridges and drank champagne frappÉ; and when he paid his bill, Cherami never took the change which the waiter brought him, even if it amounted to two or three francs.

"All right!" he would cry; "keep that; it's for you!"

Thereupon, the waiter would bow to the ground before so generous a patron; and he would stalk forth proudly from the restaurant, enchanted with the effect he had produced. And the next morning he would have nothing with which to procure a dinner.

I beg you not to believe that this character is an imaginary one; that there are no men foolish enough to act in this way; there are, and many of them. For our own part, we have known more than one.

But when naught remained of the small quarterly payment, he had to live anew on loans and stratagems; he had to content himself with the very modest fare of a cheap restaurant, where the mistress was willing to supply him on credit because he flattered her and compared her with Venus, although she was blear-eyed and had a purple nose. In that place he could not order champagne and truffles, to be sure; that would have been a waste of time; but Cherami found a way, none the less, to make a sensation: shouting louder than anybody else, bewildering everybody with his chatter, and always having some marvellous adventure to relate, of which he was the hero, and in which he had performed wonderful exploits. If one of his auditors seemed to doubt the veracity of his narrative, he would insult him, threaten him, challenge him, insist on fighting him instanter, and, in order to pacify my gentleman and restore peace, the person abused must needs treat him to nothing less than a cup of coffee followed by a petit verre of liqueur. As for the waiters, as he had nothing to give them, he treated them like dogs, and threatened them with his switch when they did not serve him promptly enough.

If, instead of passing his time in smoking and loitering, Monsieur Cherami had chosen to do something, he might have increased his income, and have lived without constantly resorting to loans. He was well informed; he retained from his early education a superficial idea of many things; he knew quite a lot, in fact, and might have passed for a scholar in the eyes of those who knew nothing. His handwriting was so good that he could have obtained work as a copyist. In his youth, he had studied music, and he could play the violin a little; he might have made something of his talent in that direction and have found a place in the orchestra of a second-class theatre, or played in dance-halls for the grisette and the mechanic.

But the ci-devant Beau Arthur considered every sort of work that was suggested to him very far beneath him; he thought that he would degrade himself by becoming a copyist or a minstrel, and he was not ashamed to borrow a hundred sous when he knew that he could not repay them. What do such people understand by the word honor? Let us conclude that they fashion a kind of honor for their own use, just as some painters paint scenes from nature in which there is nothing natural, but which by common consent are called conventional nature.

One day, when he was without a sou, having been denied by all those from whom he had sought to borrow, and not daring to go to his cheap restaurant, because the mistress was absent, Cherami found himself confronted by the stern necessity of going without a mouthful of dinner, when it occurred to him to call upon his payer of interest. So he set out for the abode of the coal dealer, saying to himself on the way:

"Bernardin always refuses to make me the smallest advance; but, sacrebleu! when I tell him that I have nothing with which to pay for a dinner, it isn't possible that he will let me starve to death."

The modest tradesman was just about to sit down to dinner with his family when Cherami appeared, crying:

"The deuce! it would seem that you are about to dine! You're very lucky! For my part, I haven't the means to pay for a dinner. Lend me a crown, Bernardin, so that I can satisfy my hunger, too."

"I never have money to loan," the coal dealer replied respectfully; "but if monsieur will do us the honor to take a seat at our table, we shall be happy to offer him a share of our modest dinner."

"Oho! that's your game! Well, so be it!" rejoined Cherami, taking his seat without further parley.

But Bernardin's dinner was very simple; it consisted of soup, beef, and a dish of potatoes. The wine was Argenteuil, and very new.

Cherami exclaimed that the soup was watery, the beef tough, and the wine execrable; for dessert there was nothing but a piece of GÉromÉ cheese, which he declared to be fit only for masons; and he was much surprised that they did not take coffee after the meal; in short, he rose from the table in a vile humor, saying to Bernardin and his wife:

"You live very badly, my dears; you live like rustics; I shall not dine with you again."

That was his only word of thanks to his hosts.