The five francs given by young Gustave to a waiter instantly produced a most satisfactory result. He placed the new-comers in a private room on the first floor, at the end of a corridor; and the large hall in which Monsieur MonlÉard's wedding feast was to be given was at the other end of the same corridor. Gustave would have preferred to be nearer the scene of festivity, but that was impossible; and his companion persuaded him that they were much better off at the end of the corridor, where Mademoiselle Adolphine could, if she chose, come to exchange a few words with him, unobserved by the wedding guests.

"And now, let us dine!" cried Cherami, hanging his hat on a hook; "I will admit that I am hungry. All these events—your distress—your despair—have moved me deeply, and emotion makes one hollow. You also must feel the need of refreshment, for you are very pale."

"I am not at all hungry, monsieur."

"One isn't hungry at first; but afterward one eats very well. Besides, we came here to dine, if I'm not mistaken."

"Look you, monsieur; have the kindness to order—ask for whatever you choose—whatever you would like; but don't compel me to think about it."

"Very good; I agree. In truth, I am inclined to think that's the better way! With your abstraction, your sighs, you would never be able to order a dinner; you would order veal for fish, and radishes for prawns, while I excel in that part of the game. You see, I have lived, and lived well, I flatter myself! Some madeira first of all, waiter—and put some MoËt in the ice; meanwhile, I will make out our menu!"

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 your uncle's not a miser; he likes to enjoy himself. That's the kind of an uncle I like. I shall be glad to make his acquaintance."

"I have now arrived, monsieur, at the moment which changed the whole course of my life, which made me acquainted with a sentiment of whose power I had thus far been entirely ignorant. For, while I had had a few amourettes, I had never known a genuine passion. Ah! monsieur! the instant that I saw Fanny, I felt as if my heart were born to a new life; I was no longer the same. No, until then I had not lived!"

"That's a common sort of talk with lovers. They never have lived before their frantic passion,—the ingrates!—and they often forget the happiest days of their youth.—Ah! here's our salmon-trout—a delicious fish! You will surely taste a mouthful?"

"My uncle had bought some shares in the OrlÉans railway for Monsieur Gerbault, Fanny's father. He gave them to me to deliver to him. Monsieur Gerbault was not at home. Fanny received me, and invited me to wait till her father returned. We talked; I was amazed to hear that young girl discuss affairs at the Bourse quite as intelligently as a broker could do."

"And that was what fascinated you?"

"Oh! no, monsieur. But while Fanny was talking to me, I examined her. Her eyes were bright and intelligent; her smile was charming. Her whole person was instinct with a childish grace which fascinated me, and a perfect naturalness which put me at my ease at once. Before I had been with her half an hour, you would have thought that we were old friends. I took the greatest pleasure in listening to her, and I think that she perceived it, for she was never at a loss for something to say. Her father returned, and I was terribly sorry. Monsieur Gerbault is a very courteous old man. He smiled at me when he heard his daughter ask me the prices of all the different securities, and said:

"'It's very unfortunate for Fanny that women are not allowed on the Bourse, for I believe she would go there every day; she has a very pronounced taste for speculation; I dare not say for gambling, for I hope that it won't go so far as that. However, monsieur, she has five or six thousand francs, and so has her sister; it comes from their mother. Adolphine has very wisely invested her funds in government securities; but Fanny—oh! she's a different sort! she wants to speculate, to buy stocks, and she will probably lose her money.'

"'Why so, father, I should like to know?' said Fanny; 'why shouldn't luck be favorable to me? Besides, I don't mean to buy anything on margin, but only for cash; I shall keep what I buy, and not sell until I can sell at a profit. It seems to me that that is easy enough, and that there's no need of being a clerk in a broker's office to understand the operation. With my six thousand francs I could only get a miserable little income; why shouldn't I try to increase my principal?'

"'As you please,' said Monsieur Gerbault; 'you are perfectly at liberty to dispose of what belongs to you.'

"You can understand that I flattered the young woman's hopes, feeling as I did that I was already in love with her. I offered to keep her posted as to the general tendency of values on the Bourse and the financial situation. She accepted my offer; and Monsieur Gerbault, knowing that I was Monsieur Grandcourt's nephew, gave me free access to his house. In short, my dear—my dear—monsieur—I beg your pardon, but I don't as yet know your name."

"Pardieu! that's true; I had not thought to tell you. My name is Arthur Cherami, former land-holder, ci-devant premier high-liver of the capital. I set the fashion, I was the arbiter of style, and all the women doted on me. Oh! my story is very short: at twenty-two, I had thirty-five thousand francs a year; at thirty, I had nothing left. When I say nothing, I mean practically nothing; I still have a small remnant of income, a bagatelle, but my fortune is all eaten up. Well! young man, I give you my word of honor, that, if I could start afresh, I believe I would do the same again. I employed my youth to good purpose, and everybody can't say as much. For God's sake, must a man be old, infirm, and gouty, to enjoy life? You can't crack nuts when your teeth are all gone; therefore, you shouldn't wait till you're old to play the young man. Now, if I add that I am still a lusty fellow, as brave as Caesar, as gallant as FranÇois I, and as philosophical as Socrates, you will know me as well as if you had been my groom.—I have said."

"Very good! Your name, you say, is——? I beg your pardon, but I have forgotten it already."

"You are absent-minded; I can understand that. My name is Cherami, and I am yours, which constitutes a pun;[B] but, to avoid mistakes, call me Arthur; that is my Christian name, and all the ladies call me that. Sapristi! this is an excellent fish; do eat a bit of it."

"I prefer to talk to you of my love."

"So be it!—That won't give you indigestion. Meanwhile, I'll eat for two—and listen to you. Fire away!"