Читать книгу The Bohemians of the Latin Quarter - Henri Murger - Страница 8

SCHAUNARD and Marcel, after working valiantly all the morning, had come to a sudden stop.

“How hungry it is, by Jove!” exclaimed Schaunard; then he added carelessly, “is there not to be any lunch to-day?”

Never was question more inopportunely raised, and Marcel seemed very much astonished by it.

“Since when have we begun to lunch two days in succession?” he demanded. “Yesterday was Thursday.” And he rounded out this observation by pointing with his mahl-stick to the commandment of the Church—

“Thou shalt eat no meat of a Friday,

Nor anything resembling thereunto.”

Schaunard, having no answer to make to this, betook himself again to his picture, which represented a plain with a blue tree and a red tree stretching out their branches to shake hands with one another—a transparent allusion to the delights of friendship which, notwithstanding, contained a good deal of philosophy.

Just at that moment someone knocked at the door; it was the porter with a letter for Marcel.

“Three sous to pay,” added the man.

“Are you sure?” asked the artist. “Good, then we will owe you the money,” and he shut the door in his face.

Marcel meanwhile had broken the seal. At the very first words he began to skip like an acrobat about the studio, thundering out with all his might the following well-known ballad, which, with him, denoted the highest possible pitch of jubilation—

“ ‘There were four young men of the neighbourhood,

Who all fell ill, as I’ve understood;

So they took them off to the hospital—

Al! al! al! al!’ ”

“Well, yes,” said Schaunard, taking it up.

“ ‘They laid them all in a full-sized bed,

Two at the foot and two at the head.’

“We know that.”

“ ‘And a little Sister came that way—

Ay! ay! ay! ay!’ ”

continued Marcel.

“If you do not hold your tongue, I shall begin to play the allegro from my symphony on ‘The Influence of Blue in the Arts,’ ” said Schaunard, who already felt symptoms of mental derangement; and he made for the piano.

The threat produced the effect of a little cold water poured into a boiling pot; Marcel calmed down as though by enchantment.

“There!” he said, handing over the letter. “Look!”

It was an invitation to dine with a deputy, an enlightened patron of the arts, and of Marcel in particular, who had painted a picture of his country house.

“If it is for to-day, it is unlucky that the card will not admit two persons,” remarked Schaunard; “but now I come to think of it, your deputy is Ministerialist. You cannot, you ought not, to accept; for your principles forbid your eating bread soaked in the sweat of the people’s brows.”

“Pooh!” said Marcel, “my deputy is Centre Left; he voted against the Government the other day. Besides, he ought to put me in the way of a commission, and he promised to give me some introductions. What is more, you see, I am as ravenous as Ugolino. Friday or no, I mean to dine to-day, so there it is!”

“There are other things in the way,” Schaunard went on, being, in fact, a trifle jealous of his friend’s windfall. “You cannot possibly go out to dine in a short red jacket and a bargeman’s cap.”

“I am going to Colline’s or Rodolphe’s to borrow some clothes.”

“Insensate youth! Have you forgotten that we have passed the twentieth day of the month? By this time any articles of apparel belonging to those gentlemen will have been spouted over and over again.”

“I shall find a black coat, anyhow, by five o’clock,” said Marcel.

“It took me three weeks to find one to wear at my cousin’s wedding, and that was in the beginning of January.”

“Very well, I shall go as I am,” retorted Marcel, striding up and down. “It shall not be said that paltry considerations of etiquette prevented me from making my first step into society.”

“By the way, how about boots?” put in Schaunard, who seemed greatly to enjoy his friend’s chagrin.

Marcel went out in a state of agitation impossible to describe.

In two hours’ time he came back with a linen collar.

“It was all I could find,” he said mournfully.

“It was not worth while to run about for so little. There is paper enough here to make a dozen.”

Marcel tore his hair. “Hang it all, but we must have some things here!” he cried.

A strict search, pursued for the space of an hour through every corner of both rooms, yielded a costume thus composed:—

A pair of plaid trousers.

A grey hat.

A red cravat.

One glove, which had once been white.

One black glove.

“They will make a pair at a pinch,” suggested Schaunard. “By the time you are dressed you will look like the solar spectrum. But what is that, when one is a colourist?”

Marcel meanwhile was trying on the boots. By some unlucky chance both belonged to the same foot!

Then, in his despair, Marcel bethought himself of an old boot lying in a corner—a receptacle for spent bladders of paint. On this he seized.

“From Garrick to Syllabus,” was his friend’s ironical comment; “one is pointed at the toes, and the other square.”

“No one will see it; I am going to varnish them.”

“What a notion! Now you only want a regulation dress-coat.”

“Oh, look here!” groaned Marcel, biting his hand, “I would give ten years of my life and my right hand for one!”

There was another knock at the door. Marcel went to open it.

“M. Schaunard?” said a stranger, pausing on the threshold.

“I am he,” said the painter, and begged him to enter.

“Monsieur,” began the stranger, whose honest countenance marked him out as a typical provincial, “my cousin has been talking a good deal of your talent as a portrait painter, and as I am just about to start on a voyage to the colonies as delegate of the sugar refiners of Nantes, I should like to leave a souvenir with my family. So I have come to look you up.”

“Oh, sacred Providence!” muttered Schaunard. “Marcel, hand a chair to Monsieur——”

“M. Blancheron,” the stranger continued. “Blancheron of Nantes, delegate of the sugar industry, formerly Mayor of V——, Captain in the National Guard, and author of a pamphlet on the sugar question.”

“I feel greatly honoured by being chosen by you,” said the artist, bowing before the refiners’ delegate. “How do you wish to have your portrait painted?”

“In miniature, like that,” rejoined M. Blancheron, pointing to an oil portrait (for to the worthy delegate, as to a good many other people, there are but two kinds of paintings—house and miniature; there is no middle term).

This artless reply gave Schaunard the measure of the good soul with whom he had to do, especially when M. Blancheron added that he wished to have his portrait done in fine colours.

“I never use any other kind,” said Schaunard. “How large do you desire to have your portrait, monsieur?”

“As big as that one,” said M. Blancheron, pointing to a canvas in the studio. “But what price does that come to?”

“Fifty to sixty francs; sixty with hands included, fifty without.”

“The devil! my cousin talked about thirty francs.”

“It varies with the season,” rejoined the painter, “colours are much dearer at some times than at others.”

“Why, then, it is like sugar!”

“Exactly.”

“Let it be fifty francs, then,” said M. Blancheron.

“You are making a mistake. For another ten francs the hands could be put in; and I should paint you holding your pamphlet on the sugar question, which would be very gratifying to you.”

“Upon my word, you are right.”

“By Jove!” said Schaunard to himself, “if he keeps on at this, I shall burst; and somebody may be hurt with the pieces.”

“Did you notice?” Marcel continued to whisper.

“What?”

“He has a black coat.”

“I comprehend, and I enter into your ideas. Leave it to me.”

“Well, monsieur,” said the delegate, “when shall we begin? We must not leave it too long, for I start almost directly.”

“I am going on a short journey myself; I am leaving Paris the day after to-morrow. So we can begin at once, if you like. A great deal can be done in one good sitting.”

“But it will be dark directly, and you cannot paint by artificial light,” said M. Blancheron.

“My studio is so arranged that you can work in it at any time. If you like to take off your coat and sit, we can begin now.”

“Take off my coat? Why?”

“Did you not tell me that you wanted a portrait to give to your family?”

“Certainly.”

“Well, then, you ought to be painted in the dress you wear at home—in your dressing-gown. Besides, it is usual to do so.”

“But I have not my dressing-gown with me.”

“I keep one on purpose,” said Schaunard, presenting to his model’s gaze a ragged object bespattered with paint. At sight of it the provincial appeared to hesitate.

“It is a strange-looking garment,” he began.

“And very valuable,” rejoined the painter. “A Turkish vizier presented it to M. Horace Vernet, by whom it was given to me. I am a pupil of his.”

“Are you one of Vernet’s pupils?” asked Blancheron.

“I am, monsieur, I am proud to say. (Horrors!” he muttered to himself, “I am denying my gods.”)

“And well you may be, young man,” returned the delegate, enveloping himself in a dressing-gown of such distinguished antecedents.

“Hang M. Blancheron’s coat up,” said Schaunard, with a significant wink to his friend.

Marcel flew upon his prey. “I say,” he murmured, “this is something very good. Could you not keep a bit for me?”

“I will try, but let that be; dress quickly, and be off. Come back at ten o’clock, I will keep him here till then. And on no account forget to bring me something back in your pockets.”

“I will bring you a pineapple,” said Marcel as he went.

The coat was hastily slipped on (it fitted him like a glove), and he departed by another door.

Schaunard meanwhile got to work. As it grew quite dark and the clocks struck six, M. Blancheron recollected that he had not dined. He made an observation to this effect.

“I am in the same case,” said Schaunard, “but to oblige you I will dispense with dinner this evening, though I have an invitation to a house in the Faubourg Saint Germain. We cannot be disturbed now, it might spoil the likeness,” and he set to work again.

“By-the-by,” he added suddenly, “we can dine without putting ourselves about. There is a very good restaurant below; they will send us up anything we like”; and Schaunard watched the effect of this trio of “we’s.”

“I am quite of your opinion,” said M. Blancheron, “and on the other hand, I shall be glad to think that you will do me the honour of keeping me company at table.”

Schaunard bowed.

“Come!” he said to himself, “this is a good man, a real messenger of Providence. Will you give the order?” he asked his host.

“You will oblige me by undertaking it yourself,” the other returned politely.

“Tu t’en repentiras Nicolas,” sang the painter as he skipped downstairs four steps at a time.

Entering the restaurant, he betook himself to the counter, where he drew up such a menu that the Vatel of the establishment read it with blanched cheeks.

“Bordeaux, as usual.”

“Who is going to pay me?”

“Not I, probably,” said Schaunard, “but mine uncle, an epicure; you will see him upstairs. So try to distinguish yourself, and let us have dinner served up in half an hour; and on porcelain, that is most important.”

At eight o’clock that night M. Blancheron had already begun to feel the need of some friendly bosom on which to pour out all his ideas on the sugar industry, and recited his pamphlet aloud to a pianoforte accompaniment by Schaunard.

At ten o’clock M. Blancheron and his friend danced a galop together, and thee and thoued each other freely. At eleven they swore never to part, and each made a will leaving the whole of his fortune to the other.

At midnight Marcel came in and found them weeping in each other’s arms and the studio half an inch deep in water already. Stumbling against the table, he discovered the remains of a splendid banquet, and looking at the bottles saw that they were all perfectly empty.

Then he tried to wake Schaunard, but that worthy, with his head pillowed on M. Blancheron, threatened to kill him if he took his friend away from him.

“Ingrate!” was Marcel’s comment, as he drew a handful of hazel nuts from his coat pocket, “and I was bringing him home something for dinner!”