On leaving Lucien, Dodichet first of all purchased some tobacco, then called at Mademoiselle Boulotte's, where Rosa had agreed to be; for those damsels were informed of the scene which was to be played at Monsieur Mirotaine's, and, as they were very curious to know how it had gone off, Dodichet had promised to call and tell them about it the same night.

The two figurantes were smoking, and drinking grog; and Boulotte's room, although much larger than Lucien's, was so filled with smoke that one could hardly see across it. Which fact did not prevent Dodichet from exclaiming in admiration at the picture before his eyes:

"Bravo! bravi! This brings me back to life! I have just left a man who is not a man—he doesn't smoke! But here, on the contrary, I find women who are equal to any trooper; this sets me up again!"

"Ah! here's Dodichet! Good-evening, Dodichet!"

"Good-evening, my young fairies of the wings! have you any cigarette papers?"

"Oh! what a question! We would as soon be without bread!"

"True! my question was unnecessary. Your education is complete. Give me a few. What are you drinking there?"

"Grog at three-six——"

"I will take several glasses. Be good enough to mix me one, Rosa, while Boulotte, who has the knack of rolling cigarettes, rolls eight or ten for me. Ah! mesdemoiselles, I am thirsty for a smoke!"

"Well, I don't see that you've anything to do but open your mouth; there's no lack of smoke here."

"You do not understand me, my gay young Andalusian; I mean that I am athirst to smoke, myself, and I have just been calling on a man who never smokes!"

"Mon Dieu! where was that bird raised?"

"He never goes out, he stays at home all the time; he is in love, he thinks of his charmer—that takes the place of a pipe."

"Has his charmer been well seasoned?"

"I didn't ask him."

"Well! tell us about the scene with the would-be husband at Monsieur Mirotaine's, the marriage À la Putiphar."

"Everything went off perfectly; but in the evening, a friend of mine, Phoebus DubottÉ—I call him Phoebus because he's fair-haired and conceited—Phoebus arrived with his wife. It happens that he knows the individual whom I had introduced as an Italian count."

"The man who lends you money because you know a secret that concerns him, and in whose presence we mustn't mention Pontoise?"

"The same; Boulotte, you have a memory like a creditor. But Phoebus mentioned Pontoise, and called my friend MiflorÈs by his true name. You can guess the effect produced by that recognition!—Pass me a cigarette.—The Mirotaines are furious, Putiphar would like an opportunity to horsewhip me. My false count ran away, and I took my leave, declaring that I proposed to run my sword through him somewhere. The dÉnouement of our comedy was hurried a little; but it had to come to an end some time, and I was beginning to be rather tired of the Mirotaine circle. Still, there were some excellent types there. A certain Monsieur Brid'oison, who looked on in admiration while his son performed gymnastic feats on everybody's shoulders; his wife ate her hair, and a sister of the host wept all the while because a pickled onion hit her in the eye."

"And the dinner—was that good?"

"A miser's dinner. Wretched wines! no truffles! a crÊme au camphre!"

"Au camphre?"

"With camphor instead of sugar; I don't advise you to try it; it isn't a satisfactory substitute. However, we did the trick; and I have just been to see Lucien, to tell him how I have helped on his love affair."

"Did he thank you?"

"On the contrary, he scolded me, and preached me a sermon on tobacco!—Pass me a cigarette.—Now, I must find my MiflorÈs, for I need money. I have seen a dramatic correspondent, and he tells me that I am wanted at Quimper-Corentin, where they require a tenor jeune premier. I am young; I have an attractive countenance and a good enough voice! I can reach high G!"

"G! but that isn't C!"

"I am perfectly well aware, Mademoiselle Rosa, that G is not C, or rather do, to speak more elegantly; but a chest G is very neat, all the same; and, besides, if the audience isn't satisfied, I'll say: zut! [you be hanged!] and they will be."

"In what rÔle are you going to make your first appearance?"

"In Joconde. I sing: J'ai longtemps parcouru le monde! as if I'd never done anything else."

"So they play comic opera at Quimper-Corentin, do they?"

"Why, my dear Rosa, where have you been? Don't you know that since the theatres were enfranchised they play all kinds everywhere? I have seen Tartuffe in a barn, and La Bataille de Pultava in a bedroom; the Russians hid behind a night commode, and the Swedes carried a chamber vessel with the bayonet. So there is nothing strange in their playing comic opera at Quimper. There's only one thing that makes me hesitate: the correspondent warned me that the manager doesn't furnish the costumes; and as I don't want to play Joconde in a frock-coat or an overcoat, I must buy a costume. I want it to be dazzling, gorgeous! That's why I need money, and I must find MiflorÈs."

"But I thought you were expecting a legacy from an old aunt?"

"Yes, I still have that legacy in prospect; and that's the last! But the old aunt persists in living. That's why I must see MiflorÈs."

"But by what spell do you succeed in making that man lend you money so often?"

"Ah! that is my secret!"

"But you'll tell us your secret, Dodichet, won't you? You'll confide it to us?"

"I will tell it to you, mesdemoiselles, when I no longer need to borrow money of MiflorÈs; when I have inherited from my aunt."

"Oh! do tell us your secret, dear old Dodichet! We'll be very close-mouthed."

"I do not doubt your discretion, mesdemoiselles! That's why I won't tell you anything more."

Dodichet drank three grogs, smoked five cigarettes, then went home, humming:

The next morning, quite early, Dodichet went to the hotel where the mysterious apothecary lived. He found him packing his trunks and preparing to move.

"What does this mean?" cried Dodichet; "why these preparations for going away?"

"Because I am leaving this house."

"Why, pray?"

"Because I'm afraid I shall be found here. There's your friend, that stout man, who presumed to call me Seringat last night before a whole roomful! I am very angry, monsieur! It was a mean trick that you played on me, to take me to a house where I might meet a man who knew me at Pontoise! I don't propose to lend you money so that you can treat me in such a way as that!"

"Allow me to observe, my dear friend, that at this moment you are talking like a goose! And I will prove to you in a few words that you have no common sense. I borrow money of you—which I will return, by the way, when I inherit from my aunt, you may be sure."

"Very well; I don't care about that; I'm in no hurry."

"Now, my reason for having recourse to your purse of late is that I am rather short, that I need your help. You lend me money, not to oblige me, I know that perfectly well, but because you're afraid that I will divulge what you are so anxious to conceal."

"Yes, monsieur; that's the only reason—it's not from friendship at all."

"Thanks; I appreciate that token of affection! But if I brought you face to face with someone who had known you at Pontoise, that is to say, who might disclose—what concerns you, why, it would be all over; you wouldn't lend me any more money, because everything would be known!—So you see that it is altogether against my interest that anyone should recognize you. This DubottÉ came to Mirotaine's—a most miraculous thing; for he had always refused to go there, because they give their guests cocoa for refreshments—he said so himself in my presence. So it was simply an unlucky chance that he came there last night. Moreover, I had no idea that DubottÉ had ever known you at Pontoise; but luckily it was before your—your event; he knows nothing about that."

"My word! if he'd mentioned that, I should have done some crazy thing!"

"I don't know what you'd have done; but you see that I could not have anticipated that meeting. Come, my little Seringat, you're not angry with me any more, are you?"

"Oh! don't call me Seringat—I don't want to be Seringat again!"

"To be sure—you are MiflorÈs. All right! My dear friend, I shall be obliged to resort to your purse once more. I am going to make my dÉbut at the Quimper-Corentin theatre, in Joconde, nothing less! And I must have a costume for the rÔle, a rich and elegant costume; Joconde is Count Robert's friend, you know?"

"No, I don't know that play."

"I will reply in the words of Monsieur Prudhomme, in La Famille ImprovisÉe: 'You would be wrong if you could.'—How much do I owe you now?"

"Two thousand francs, which I have lent you at four different times."

"That's right—five hundred francs each time; well, lend me a thousand at once to-day. Then I shall owe you three thousand. But my old aunt can't last much longer; and then, too, I am going to make a great success on the stage, and tenors are paid fabulous prices now! I can easily pay you three thousand francs, when I am earning fifty thousand a year."

Monsieur Seringat took his wallet from his pocket and took from it a thousand-franc note, which he handed to Dodichet, saying:

"This is for keeping my secret!"

"Thanks, my dear friend; you have unpleasant moments, but some very agreeable quarter-hours. Will you come to Quimper to see my dÉbut?"

"No, I don't want to leave Paris; one can lose one's self better here, in the crowd. I have discovered a small hotel, at the rear of a courtyard, at the farther end of Rue Saint-Jacques, and I am going to take refuge there."

"Very good; but as it is essential that I should always be able to find you, if only to repay what I owe you, I think I will accompany you to your small hotel at the rear of a courtyard—for it must be rather hard to find, courtyards ordinarily being behind the hotel. Then I will bid you farewell, and start for Bretagne to gather laurels and yellow-boys."

A cab was waiting at the door; the luggage was placed on top, Dodichet took his place inside, with Seringat, and did not leave him until he had seen him established in an old house on Rue Saint-Jacques, which resembled a hotel about as much as Suresnes wine resembles Chambertin.

Dodichet's first care was to lay in a stock of tobacco, pipes, cigars, and cigarette papers. After that, he turned his attention to his costume for the rÔle of Joconde. He spent three hundred francs, but he had a gorgeous costume, which was almost new. On returning home, he tried it on, and deemed himself so handsome in it that he sent his concierge to tell Boulotte to come to see him as Joconde.

Mademoiselle Boulotte came, and uttered an admiring exclamation at sight of Dodichet in tight, white silk pantaloons, slashed with violet velvet, a tunic of velvet of the same color, a lace ruff, a velvet cap surmounted by a fine white feather, a gilt belt, and yellow turn-over top-boots. She insisted that he should go in that guise and take a glass of beer with her; but he dared not take the risk of going to a cafÉ, because it was not Carnival time. The best he could do was to send out for a dinner to the nearest restaurant, and dine with his young friend in his new costume.

Mademoiselle Boulotte was enchanted, and fancied that she was dining with a foreign nobleman. They ate and laughed, and drank freely. Dodichet sang snatches of his part between the courses; his voice had a fair range, but it had been made hoarse by the excessive use of tobacco.

"My dear boy," said Boulotte, "you mustn't smoke on the day of your dÉbut; no, nor on the day before, either."

"Pshaw! pshaw! I'm a little hoarse this evening; but if you swallow the yolk of an egg raw, your voice becomes clear again, as if by magic. Meanwhile, let's drink and smoke! I don't act to-morrow."

They smoked and drank so much that Joconde ended by rolling on the floor in his fine costume, which he found spotted and rumpled and torn the next morning. He was obliged to buy another pair of silk trousers; then he lost no time in taking the train for Bretagne, without trying on his costume again.

Arrived at Quimper-Corentin, Dodichet started off at once to find the manager of the theatre. As he had a large supply of self-assurance and cheek, he assumed the airs of one of the most talented performers of the age, and the manager was taken in by his manner of the man accustomed to winning triumphs. To make himself thoroughly agreeable to the manager and to his future comrades, Dodichet invited them all to dine at the best hotel in the town. At the table, he announced that they must not spare the claret or the champagne. The local artists were not accustomed to such treatment, and the manager himself, amazed to see a tenor who was apparently wallowing in gold, was persuaded that he had placed his hand on an Elleviou or a Tamberlick.

That same evening, the posters announced the early dÉbut of a young tenor who had already appeared with great success at the leading theatres of Russia, Germany, and Italy. As a measure of precaution, Dodichet did not include France. As his name was not very pleasant to the ear, and seemed better fitted to a comic actor than a real virtuoso, he caused himself to be announced as Signor Rouladini, which name seemed to promise an Italian artist.

"How many rehearsals do you want?" the manager asked his new recruit; who replied, with the assurance which never deserted him:

"One will be enough. I know the piece by heart, and at a pinch I could play all the parts."

But, at the rehearsal, il Signor Rouladini, who claimed to know the play by heart, did not know even his own lines, and repeatedly turned to the prompter.

"I have forgotten it a little, because I knew it too well," he said. "But to-morrow, before the audience, I shan't miss a word."

"You are still very hoarse," said the manager; "would you prefer to have your dÉbut postponed a day or two?"

"No, indeed! for my voice will be just the same later; but on the day of my dÉbut, I will swallow the yolks of two or three eggs raw, and my voice will be clear and sweet. Don't you worry at all!"

The manager did not seem to be altogether reassured, but all the artists to whom Dodichet had given a dinner declared that he must have a very sweet voice when he was not hoarse. The leading lady advised him not to smoke till after his dÉbut. But Dodichet laughed in her face, and offered to bet that he would smoke on the stage while she was singing; the manager formally forbade his dÉbutant to make that experiment, and warned him that the audiences in that town were not very patient.

"That's because you don't know how to take them," was the reply; "I defy them to show a bad temper with me!"

The day of the dÉbut arrived. In the morning there was another rehearsal. Dodichet knew his part no better, and constantly appealed to the prompter, an obstinate old supernumerary, who insisted that the dÉbutant was deaf. The voice was somewhat improved, thanks to the yolks of eggs; but on leaving the rehearsal, Dodichet, in order to tighten up his nerves, drank punch and treated all his comrades except the prompter, with whom he was angry; and therein he made a capital mistake: an actor should take as much pains to stand well with his prompter as a tenant with his concierge.

At dinner, Dodichet thought it best to get slightly tipsy, so that he would not be frightened when he faced the audience. Then he smoked, coughed, spat, and tried his voice: the punch had entirely destroyed the effect of the eggs, and his voice was almost inaudible. He sent out for eggs, and ate several more raw while he was dressing, so that he was horribly sick at his stomach when he went on the stage.

The sight of the crowded theatre greatly disturbed the dÉbutant; he did not know where he was, and spying in a proscenium box a man with whom he had played dominoes the night before, he bowed and took off his cap to him. Luckily, the audience took the salute for itself. The actor who was on the stage with Dodichet motioned to him that it was his turn to speak, but he had not the faintest idea what he was to say; so he turned to the prompter and said in an undertone:

"My cue! my cue!"

"I just gave it to you," retorted the prompter, with the utmost coolness.

The audience began to murmur. The actor who was playing Count Robert came to his comrade's assistance once more; he skipped part of the scene to the prelude to Joconde's famous air: J'ai longtemps parcouru le monde. Thereupon there was profound silence in the hall; for everybody was curious to hear the voice of the individual who acted so wretchedly, and they were beginning to say to one another:

"That's your Italian singer all over! The dialogue is nothing to him, and the music everything."

But on that occasion the music proved to be much worse than the dialogue. The combination of eggs, punch, wine, and tobacco had given the dÉbutant such a peculiar voice that, when he attempted to sing, he emitted a sort of unearthly sound which reminded one of a tea kettle, a duck, and a serpent all at once.

The pit roared with laughter at first. But Dodichet coughed, spat, and tried to smile at the audience, saying:

"This is nothing! it's a cat [hoarseness]!"

Then he began again:

"'J'ai longtemps parcouru le monde!'"

"Go and do it again!" cried a voice from the pit.

Dodichet began to cough again, then spat at the prompter, who stuck his head out of his box, and shouted:

"Look out what you're doing!"

Once more the dÉbutant began his air:

A storm of hisses arose; this time the audience thought that he meant to mock at them, and on all sides there were shouts of:

"Down with him! put him out!"

Dodichet tried to go on:

"'Et l'on m'a vu, et l'on m'a vu!'"

"We've seen quite enough of you!" cried the pit in chorus. "Off you go!"

Dodichet pretended not to hear, and insisted on continuing his air; but the audience made a terrible uproar, and some young men in the pit threw raw potatoes and copper sous at the dÉbutant.

"Ah! this is the way you treat me, is it?" he cried; "well, you're a pack of brazen-faced hounds!"

And with that, he turned his back on the audience, made a most contemptuous gesture, and rushed into the wings. But the gesture he had indulged in and the words he had uttered excited the wrath of the spectators to the highest pitch; they jumped down among the musicians, climbed upon the stage, and scoured it in all directions.

"We'll teach the fellow to show such disrespect to the public," they said; "it's a hiding, not hisses, that Signor Rouladini needs."

And the prompter in his hole rubbed his hands in glee.

The manager tried in vain to pacify the audience; they would not listen to him. But Dodichet's comrades, seeing that the matter was becoming serious, hustled him out of the theatre by a side door, with a policeman's cloak over his shoulders and a fireman's helmet on his head.

"Leave the town at once," they said to him. "Don't go back to your hotel, for you won't be safe there. Hurry to the station, and skip! the Bretons don't understand a joke; they might do you a serious injury."

Bewildered by what had happened to him, Dodichet found himself in the street with no clear idea how he had got there. Luckily for him, he invariably carried his purse in his belt, so that he would always be able to take something. He soon decided what course to take. Wrapping himself in the cloak they had thrown over his shoulders, and fixing the fireman's helmet firmly on his head, he made for the railway station.

"The provinces are not enlightened enough to appreciate me," he said to himself; "I will return to Paris. I have two hundred francs in my purse still, and with that I can await events."

He jumped into a carriage in which there were three women. His strange costume frightened them, and they started to change carriages; but Dodichet reassured them by saying that he had just left a fancy-dress ball, and that he had retained his disguise on a wager. But, at the first stop, he purchased other clothes, not daring to return to Paris as Joconde, a policeman, and a fireman all in one.

This change of costume was expensive, and when he arrived in Paris Dodichet had but one hundred francs left of the thousand Seringat had lent him. But, on the very day of his return, he received a letter from Troyes in an envelope with a black border.

"My poor aunt is dead!" he said to himself; "faith! I'll not play the hypocrite so far as to weep for her. Her money arrives in the nick of time. I will pay Seringat, I will buy a cashmere shawl for Boulotte, and I will weave days of gold, truffles, and champagne; for the dear aunt was rich. She must have left me more than a hundred thousand francs!"

Dodichet broke the seal; the letter did, in fact, announce the death of his aunt, who had left her whole fortune to a third or fourth cousin, as she did not choose that it should go to her scapegrace of a nephew, who had made such a wretched use of the money his other relations had left him.

Dodichet did not expect to be disinherited; he angrily crumpled the notary's letter which told him the news; and for the first time his reflections were not rose-colored.