Dodichet, disinherited by his aunt, and with only a hundred francs that he could call his own, should have looked about for some occupation which would afford him a livelihood; but, instead of that, he bought more tobacco and cigars, went into a cafÉ and drank a glass of beer, then took a cab and was driven to the so-called hotel on Rue Saint-Jacques, where he had left Monsieur Seringat. He said to himself on the road:

"I must have recourse to that idiot again; it's a great pity, because I owe him a thousand crowns already, and I have no prospect of any legacy hereafter with which to pay him; but still, nobody knows, perhaps the public won't treat me as harshly everywhere as it did at Quimper-Corentin; my voice will come back; I'll take to a diet of yolks of eggs—and mulled eggs. Meanwhile, Seringat may as well lend me another thousand crowns. He's rich; if he wasn't, I wouldn't ask him for a sou, especially as he couldn't give it to me. But he told me himself, in the course of conversation, that he had twelve thousand francs a year. The idiot! he could be so happy with that! And to think that he's in hiding, that he's afraid someone will recognize him—and all because his wife—— Upon my word, it's incredible! I am perfectly sure that he hasn't his like in Paris!"

When he arrived at the old house, Dodichet dismissed the cab; he crossed the courtyard, and on the ground floor found the landlady, who was also concierge, and who supplied her guests with food; she filled a number of positions, in order to increase her profits. At that moment she was preparing snails À la provenÇale: first she took them out of the shell, which she filled with a stuffing strongly seasoned with garlic, then replaced the creature, and let the whole simmer over a slow fire.

"Gad! that smells good!" observed Dodichet; "you're cooking snails, are you, madame?"

"Yes, monsieur; and I venture to flatter myself that they'll be delicious."

"I am not mad over that animal; it seems to me that when he's cooked he becomes exactly like india rubber; but these have a seductive odor."

"They are À la provenÇale. If monsieur would like a portion, they're only six sous each; that ain't dear."

"Faith! no; and one must come to the upper end of Rue Saint-Jacques to get any sort of a dish all cooked at that price. Put one portion aside for me. I'll eat it when I come down from my friend MiflorÈs. For I suppose he's in, isn't he? and I'll go up."

The landlady-concierge dropped a snail which she was just preparing, looked at Dodichet with a tragic expression, and exclaimed:

"Stop, monsieur! don't go up! it's no use; you wont find Monsieur MiflorÈs."

"Has he gone out? Well, then I'll wait for him and eat my snails now; he won't be out long, I fancy?"

"Oh! I beg your pardon, monsieur; I can assure you that he'll never come back."

"What do you say? he'll never come back? Has he moved again, then? What does this mean?"

"Why, don't you know what has happened, monsieur?"

"Parbleu! madame, if I did know, I wouldn't ask you."

"Well, then, monsieur, I'll tell you everything, just as it happened. But first let me pick up this snail which slipped out of my hand."

"To be sure; shall you cook it with the others?"

"Fire purifies everything, monsieur.—It was like this: just a fortnight ago, a middle-aged man, very well dressed and with a very jovial air, came into my house, followed by a porter with his luggage. He asked me for a good room, and said he expected to spend ten or twelve days in Paris; that he had come here to enjoy himself; and he told me his name, Jacques Ronflard. Very good; I put him in a room on the first floor, looking on this courtyard; he went out soon, and didn't come in till very late. The next morning, monsieur, your friend MiflorÈs went out as usual to take a short walk before breakfast. He'd no sooner gone than my new tenant, Monsieur Ronflard, comes downstairs and says:

"'Pardieu! you've got an acquaintance of mine here; I just saw him through the window, and I recognized him right off. I'm very glad to find him in the same hotel; he's a good friend of mine, is Seringat, and he comes from Pontoise.'

"I looks at him, and I says:

"'But you're mistaken, monsieur; I haven't got any Seringat in my house.'

"'Excuse me, madame, but I saw him go out of this house this very minute.'

"'The man you saw go out of this house is named MiflorÈs, and not Seringat, and he never told me that he came from Pontoise.'

"'Apparently, madame, he's concluded to change his name; but I am perfectly sure that the person who just went out is named Seringat, formerly a druggist at Pontoise. Parbleu! I know him well; I've often bought insect powder of him to kill fleas. Poor Seringat! he's had a hard time. His wife—you see what I mean? The whole town knew about it; somebody even went so far as to write a song about him. Stay! I remember one verse. It goes to the tune of the Carillon de Dunkerque.'—And with that, he begins to sing:

"Then he goes back to his room, saying:

"'To prove that it's him, you'll see me throw myself into his arms when he comes back. Be kind enough to let me know.'

"So he goes back to his room; and I don't deny that I didn't care much whether the other man was the hero of the song or not. In about a quarter of an hour, Monsieur MiflorÈs came back. As soon as I saw him, I runs and says to him:

"'Is it true, monsieur, that your name's Seringat, and that you came from Pontoise? There's a man in the house who says he recognized you. He even knows a song about you. He asked me to let him know as soon as you came in.'

"At that, I saw the poor man change color; he rolled his eyes around and clenched his fists, and he says to me:

"'Madame, I forbid you to let that man know. Make up my bill; I am going up to get my baggage and leave the house instantly.'

"It was no use for me to promise not to say anything to the other one; he wouldn't listen to me. He went up to his room, packed his valise, came down again, paid me my money, and went off. But Monsieur Ronflard had seen him through the window. So he comes running down again.

"'What!' he says; 'has he gone? didn't he wait for me? Oh! but I'll catch him!'

"And with that, he ran out to try to overtake his friend. He saw him in front of him, but the other turned and, seeing that he was being followed, began to run as if the devil was after him. Monsieur Ronflard was obstinate; he ran after him, and it seems that he kept calling to him:

"'Stop, don't run like that, Seringat! it's Ronflard; don't you know me?'

"The man from Pontoise ran all the faster. Somebody who saw them scurrying through the streets told me he thought they were running for the firemen. To cut it short, Monsieur MiflorÈs came to the river; he went down to the shore, saw a boatman pulling down stream, and motioned to him to take him aboard. The man rowed to the bank and laid a plank for him to come aboard. At that moment, Monsieur Ronflard came up and began to sing at the top of his lungs:

"Poor Monsieur MiflorÈs no sooner heard that song than he rushed onto the plank; but he made a misstep and fell into the water. The current dragged him away—it seems that he couldn't swim. And when they succeeded in fishing him up, he was dead!"

"Dead! Can it be that he is dead? Poor Seringat!—for that really was his true name.—Well! there's no doubt that your Monsieur Ronflard did a good stroke of business then!"

"Why, monsieur, he seemed to be terribly distressed; he had the jaundice on account of it, and he only left Paris yesterday.—'I must go and tell Madame Seringat she's a widow,' he says to me, when he went away; 'I feel sure that it won't make her feel so badly as I do.'"

Dodichet did not recover for several minutes from the shock he had received. Then he sat down at a table and said:

"Be kind enough to give me my plate of snails, madame, with some bread and wine; for, after all, if I don't eat them, that won't bring poor Seringat to life. That's why I prefer to eat them."

The landlady hastened to serve Dodichet, and remained with him to talk, that being her greatest enjoyment. Dodichet heaved a faint sigh from time to time, but he did not waste a mouthful.

"Does monsieur find my snails to his taste?"

"They're very good, madame, and perfectly cooked. You almost make me like the dish, and I am forgetting the loss I have suffered.—Poor Seringat!"

"Is monsieur a great loser by his death?"

"Yes, indeed! I have lost—all that I had in prospect."

"Did he owe you money?"

"No, not exactly. But it amounted to the same thing."

"You will fall back on your friend's wife—his widow, I mean—won't you?"

"No; I have no claim on her. There is nothing left for me but to dedicate one last sigh to the deceased, and think of something else.—How much do I owe you, madame?"

"Sixteen sous in all, monsieur, for the snails and wine and bread."

"Well, that's not dear, on my honor! When I want to treat my mistress, I'll bring her here; especially as I see no prospect of a dinner at BrÉbant's."

Dodichet paid his bill and left the old hotel of which he had formerly held such a low opinion, but which he was now very glad to know, looking upon it as a possible resource in adversity. He bent his steps toward Boulotte's abode. As the wine he had taken with his snails had not gone to his head, he reflected on his position. The two blows which he had received in rapid succession annihilated all his hopes, and made even his present very precarious. However, he would not allow himself to be cast down; his heedless nature kept him from worrying about the future. Such natures are much to be envied, so some people declare. They never borrow trouble, and everything is rose-colored in their eyes!—I am not of that opinion; heedlessness means disorder, and disorder means ruin; and that is the fate of such happy-go-lucky natures.

When Dodichet arrived at the young ballet dancer's, she was not, as usual, making mineral rouge with bricks, but was engaged in drawing a dainty little network of veins on her temples, with indigo. At sight of her lover, she threw aside her brush and ran to embrace him.

"Here you are! How glad I am! Tell me all about your dÉbut and your triumph. I am sure you had wreaths thrown to you, and made plenty of conquests! You were so handsome as Joconde! How many recalls did you have?"

"They recalled me, that's true enough," Dodichet replied, dropping into a chair, "but I didn't choose to go back; because they wanted to play a low trick on me. I had just time to escape, in a policeman's cloak and a fireman's helmet."

"What sort of a tale is this? What new practical joke have you been playing?"

"Well, it was a very poor one; the audience at Quimper-Corentin had the cheek to hiss, to send me to the devil; and I turned round and showed them my other face. At that, there were shouts and yelling and a great hullabaloo; and, as I have just told you, I had hardly time to get away."

"Is it possible? And what's become of your pretty costume?"

"I sold it, on my way back, to get a pair of trousers and a coat."

"So your dÉbut—you've got to begin again, eh?"

"Thanks, no! I have no desire to try it again in the same line. My voice won't come back."

"Oh! you smoke too much! I told you so! Luckily, your aunt's dead; a friend of yours told me."

"Yes, my aunt's dead, that's true; but she disinherited me!"

"Oh! my poor boy! what a grind! But, thank heaven! you still have your gold mine—the man who can't refuse you when you ask him for money—the man with the mystery!"

"My dear girl, the man with the mystery has followed my aunt's example; that is, he hasn't disinherited me, but he's dead."

"Oh! mon Dieu! Did someone mention Pontoise to him?"

"Better than that: someone sang him a song that was written about him at Pontoise, in which they poked fun at him about his accident; for I can tell you now what it was that that jackass was so afraid people would find out. Sieur Seringat had a very pretty wife, whom he believed to be a regular Lucretia. The fellow had the bad habit of making sport of deceived husbands, of laughing at their expense, and saying that no such misfortune would ever happen to him. But, lo and behold! one day, at an outdoor fÊte, our Seringat saw a veiled lady in the distance, just at dusk, slip into an isolated summer house, where, not long after, she was joined by a young officer. Feeling sure that the lady he had seen was the wife of one of the leading men of the town, Seringat got together several young men, confided his discovery to them, and guided them to the pavilion, which was not lighted, but which they entered, carrying torches, on the pretext of illuminating it. Whom did they find there? Whom but Madame Seringat, in criminal conversation with the young officer! Who was sheepish and shamefaced then? Who but Seringat; for all the husbands in Pontoise revenged themselves on him, and that same evening his misadventure was known all over the town. Seringat, in his rage and vexation at becoming one of that class at which he had always laughed, left Pontoise the next day, swearing never to return. He took the name of MiflorÈs, and anybody who knew him could get anything out of him by threatening to disclose his name and his adventure. In fact, he was drowned not long ago, because a man from Pontoise chased him, calling him by his real name, and singing a couplet in which he was ridiculed about his accident. In his haste to escape, Seringat, who was trying to get aboard a boat, made a misstep, fell into the river, and was drowned.—Now you know, my dear girl, how I made him lend me money. He had so much self-esteem, and was so vexed at wearing a pair of horns, that you had only to threaten to tell about it, to obtain all you wanted."

"Well, he was a Gribouille, on my word! to throw himself into the water for fear someone would know he had taken a fancy to the yellow! If all the husbands that happens to should run into the river, the fish would get a good fright!—And what are you going to do now, my poor Dodichet?"

"I am going to make a cigarette."

"That won't keep you alive."

"True; but to-morrow I shall go to see the theatrical agent. I'll tell him that I've changed my line, that I play the legitimate drama now, the leading rÔles, FrÉdÉrick LemaÎtre's and MÉlingue's and Dumaine's. He'll soon find me an engagement in some large town; for I don't propose to play in holes in the ground any more. I want a chance now to display my talents on a vast stage!"

"You're sure you have talents, are you?"

"Pardieu! everyone has; the only thing is to find them. A famous thinker has said: 'How many people have come into the world and left it without unpacking all their merchandise!'"

"What does that mean?"

"Don't you understand? You grieve me! That means that many people are born with talents and faculties which events, fatality or poverty, do not permit them to develop, to make manifest. Now, do you see, something tells me that I have dramatic genius in my stomach!"

"Dear me! And do you mean to force it out?"

"I mean to find my real vocation. Meanwhile, would you like me to treat you to snails? I know a place where they cook them in a way to make you lick your fingers."

"Thanks, I prefer something else!"

"After all, I still have a little money in my pocket, and I'll take you to Bonvalet's. Come, O Boulotte! On the way, I will purchase a number of dramas, and this evening I will learn the leading rÔles by heart."

"I think I see you!" said Boulotte, putting on her jaunty little hat; "this evening you will smoke!"