On the day on which our tale opens, Arthur Cherami found himself anew in this perplexing plight, which was aggravated by the circumstance that he had gone without dinner on the preceding day.

To be sure, he had only to go to Bernardin's, where he was very sure that they would not refuse to give him a dinner, in default of cash. But you know that our ex-high-liver was far from satisfied with the meal of which he had partaken at the coal dealer's board; not only did he find everything bad, for my gentleman, even in his poverty, was still very hard to please, but he had discovered that at his debtor's house it would be of no use for him to try to blaguer—that is to say, to put on airs, to lie, to display his impertinence. The coal dealer's family did not even smile at the extraordinary tales he told, and it was that fact which had irritated Cherami even more than the simplicity of the dinner, perhaps. At the cheap resort to which he was obliged to go sometimes, he was content with a wretched, ill-cooked dish, because, while he ate it, he could talk at the top of his voice, speechify, and force most of the habituÉs of the place to listen to him. We know how he compelled those who ventured not to believe all that he said to pay for his coffee.

Arthur had no business whatever at the omnibus office, but he knew that one frequently meets acquaintances at such places. Amid the constant going and coming, departures and arrivals, it is no uncommon thing to meet someone whom you have not seen for a long time, and whom you did not know to be in Paris. So that Arthur, who had nothing to do, frequently visited the railroad stations, where he walked to and fro in front of the ticket offices, as if he were expecting someone; and, in fact, he was always expecting that chance would bring there some acquaintance from whom he could borrow five francs.

Or he would go and take his stand in front of an omnibus office, always with the same hope. On this occasion he had, in fact, met several acquaintances, but the result had not fulfilled his expectations. Coldly greeted by Papa Blanquette, repulsed by Madame Capucine, he was beginning to think that he should not make his expenses, and he said to himself, but not aloud as usual:

"Sapristi! what times are these we live in? The world is becoming vile beyond cleansing! No courtesy, no affability, no good manners! Formerly, when I met a friend, my first words were: 'You must come to dine with me.'—He might accept or not, but I had made the offer. To-day, I meet nobody but cads, who are very careful not to offer me the slightest thing; indeed, many of them presume to pass me by, and act as if they didn't know me. There are others who carry their insolence so far as to dare to ask me for some paltry hundred-sou pieces which they have loaned me and I have not paid. Pardieu! I've loaned them plenty of 'em in the old days; and I never asked for them, because I knew it would be of no use. As if one ever returned money loaned among friends! As if what belongs to one doesn't belong to the other! That's the way I understand friendship—that noble, genuine friendship which united Castor and Pollux, Damon and Pythias, Achilles and Patroclus, Orestes and Pylades. Do we find in the Iliad that Patroclus ever said to Achilles: 'I loaned you a hundred sous, or twenty francs; I want you to pay them'? Bah! nothing of the sort; there's no instance in history of such a thing! And I defy all my former companions in pleasure to cite a single one. However, I am conscious to-day that the need of eating is making itself felt; I can't go to my little cabaret on Rue Basse-du-Temple, for the mistress is sick; her husband takes her place at the desk, and he is always ill-disposed toward me; he presumes to ask me for money! Vile turnspit! do you suppose I would go to your place for food if I had money? Ah! there's Bernardin; I am sure of a dinner there; but I am horribly bored with those good people. And then, it wounds my self-esteem to dine with one of my father's former clerks. Corbleu! can it be that, like Titus, I have wasted my day?"

And Cherami, still tapping his trousers with his switch, cast his eyes about him. Thereupon he spied the two girls who were waiting to go to Belleville.

"There are two little grisettes, whose aspect rather pleases me," he said to himself, throwing his weight on his left hip; "a blonde and a brunette—meat for the king's attorney, as we used to say at the club. They're pretty hussies both; the blonde has a rather stupid look, but the dark one has wit in her eye.—Suppose I should try to make a conquest by offering them a good dinner? Ten to one, they'll accept! I know the sex; these girls are so fond of eating! Yes, but in that case—they'll have to pay for the dinner; that might embarrass them, and I don't want to embarrass any woman. But if I did, I should do no more than avenge myself."

While making these reflections, Cherami had walked toward the young women; he struck a pose in front of them, humming a lively tune, and darted a glance at them into which he put all the seductiveness of which he was still capable. The young women looked at each other and laughed heartily; Mademoiselle Laurette went so far as to say, in a bantering tone:

"That must be a smoke-pipe from the OpÉra-Comique that has a vent in this neighborhood; however, it's better than an escape of gas."

"Aha! we are clever and satirical!" said Cherami, addressing Mademoiselle Laurette; "I had guessed as much, simply by observing your saucy face."

"Why, I don't know what you mean, monsieur!" replied the girl, trying to assume a serious expression.

"I was simply answering the reflection in which you just indulged on the subject of a roulade which I ventured to perform, and which, perhaps, was not rendered with perfect accuracy."

"But, monsieur, I really didn't know that you were singing; I was saying to my friend Lucie that we should be very late in getting to the restaurant in Parc Saint-Fargeau, and that I didn't know whether there was dancing there on Saturday."

"Aha! so the young ladies are going to Parc Saint-Fargeau?—That is just beyond Belleville, I believe?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"And there's a restaurant there now, where they have dancing? Pardon me, I ask simply for information, being a great lover of places where one can dine well—and enjoy one's self; and it's a long while since I have been in that neighborhood."

"In that case, you'll find great changes. Yes, monsieur; there is a restaurant now in Parc Saint-Fargeau, with a large garden where there's a pond. But it's no toy pond; it's big enough for a boat, and you can go rowing; it's quite big, and there's an island in it which you can row around if you're very careful, for the water's quite deep."

"You can be drowned in it," observed Mademoiselle Lucie.

"Oho! one has also the right to drown one's self, eh?"

"Why, yes! if you should fall into the water!"

"True. And there's a dance-hall, you say?"

"Yes, monsieur; one out-of-doors, and one inside for rainy days."

"Good; I see that everything is complete; and if, with all the rest, the cooking is good——"

"Very good; and they give you fine matelotes, because they catch the fish on the spot."

"This rustic restaurant will certainly receive a call from me very soon; indeed, I would go there to-day—delighted to take the trip with you, mesdemoiselles—if I were not expecting someone—who, I am beginning to think, will not come. It's an infernal shame! we are invited to dine at the Palais-Royal; it's almost five o'clock now, and we shall break our engagement and they'll dine without us, all on his account!"

"You'll dine somewhere else; that's all. There's no lack of restaurants in Paris."

"Vive Dieu! who knows that better than I! So I have no difficulty on that score—that is to say, I don't know which to select, and if you young ladies will do me the honor to accept a little dinner in the suburbs——"

"Thanks, monsieur; but we don't accept dinners; besides, we are to meet someone at Parc Saint-Fargeau."

"That's just the reason I venture to invite them," said Cherami to himself.—"Are you young ladies engaged in business?" he asked.

"Yes, monsieur; we make feathers; we work in one of the best shops on Rue Saint-Denis; but to-day is the mistress's birthday; that's why we have the whole day to ourselves."

"Enchanted to have made your acquaintance. Ah! so you're in feathers—a charming trade for a woman! They have the same volatility: birds of a feather flock together."

"Is he talking nonsense to us?" whispered Mademoiselle Lucie in her friend's ear.

"Why, no, stupid; not at all; that's a compliment."

"Belleville! passengers for Belleville!"

"Here's the Belleville 'bus, Laurette, and they're making signs that there are seats for us."

"Oh! we must run, then. Bonjour! monsieur."

"What! you are going so soon! I thought—I hoped——"

The two girls were already in the omnibus, which soon disappeared. Cherami turned on his heel, muttering:

"They were shrewd to refuse my dinner. Peste! how should I have got out of it? I'm not sorry to have had a chat with the little dears—one's name is Laurette, and the other's Lucie, or Lucile; they may be desirable acquaintances, on occasion; if I ever want to buy feathers, for instance."