Chapter XIII: The Gouty Gentleman

The gouty gentleman had followed the boulevards, walking toward the small theatres; when I say small theatres, I do it in accordance with an old habit, which it would be well to lay aside. Indeed, there are on Boulevard du Temple theatres which are very far from being small; and then too, even at the small ones sometimes they give works which are much superior to those which are played at the large ones.

The gentleman turned into Rue Charlot, in the heart of the Marais, walking very slowly, because of his lame foot, and also because he never failed to stop and turn around whenever a pretty face passed; which caused Chicotin to say:

“This old boy seems to be a connoisseur! I ought to have let myself out by the hour, and I should have made a handsome thing of it!”

The gentleman finally stopped in front of a small furnished lodging house, of very modest appearance, on Rue de Bretagne. He turned to the messenger and said with a smile:

“Here we are, this is my hotel. It doesn’t come up to Hôtel Meurice, or even to Hôtel des Ambassadeurs! Other times, other hotels.--Follow me.”

Chicotin followed the gentleman, who went up to the third floor and entered a room comfortably furnished, but without taste or style or harmony; the bed was mahogany, the bureau oak, and the chairs walnut; the bed curtains were modern in style; but there were curtains at the windows which were suitable for a peasant’s cottage at best; in short, all the articles of furniture seemed to swear at finding themselves together, and the occupant of the room also made a wry face at finding himself surrounded by such things.

He threw himself down on a sort of couch, on which castors had been put to give it some resemblance to an easy-chair _à la Voltaire_, and said to the young messenger who had remained in the middle of the room:

“Well, what do you say to this? It is magnificent, isn’t it?”

Chicotin shook his head as he replied:

“Well! it isn’t bad, but I’ve seen better.”

“Good! I am very glad to see that you know a thing or two! The fact is that this house is furnished in the most wretched fashion! I have no idea where they could have picked up all this stuff; a second-hand dealer would never recognize himself here; and when one has lived a long while at the Hôtel Meurice, one finds a terrible difference! But still one resigns oneself to it, when one cannot do otherwise. Wait while I write a line; then you will carry my letter and this bouquet. Just pull that bell over there.”

Chicotin pulled the bell; a maid-servant, covered with a layer of dust from top to toe, answered the summons and said:

“What does monsieur want?”

“Light to seal a letter, for there is nothing here! not a candle on the mantelpiece, no sealing wax on this desk--if that’s what you call it.”

“But there’s wafers in the box where the night light is. Look, monsieur.”

“Will you be kind enough to take all that away! Do you suppose that I would touch that filthy box? Do you suppose that I use wafers? I tell you that I want wax, a seal and a candle. Come, make haste.”

The girl left the room grumbling. The gentleman moved his chair to the desk and began to write, swearing at the paper, the pens and the sand.

The maid returned, bringing a copper candlestick, with a tallow candle lighted, and a stick of wax, which she placed on the desk.

“As for a seal,” she said, “madame says that she ain’t got any, but that a big sou will do just as well.”

“What’s this you have brought me?” cried the gentleman, pushing the candle away in disgust. “Ah! what an outrage!”

“What’s that? an outrage! I’ve brought what you ordered.”

“You dare to bring me a tallow candle--for this certainly is tallow, isn’t it?”

“Of course it’s a tallow candle, as you want to use sealing wax.”

“But a wax candle is what you ought to bring; as if one could use anything else! Since when has it been permissible to offer tenants a tallow candle? What do you take me for, my dear?”

“Your dear! Why, monsieur, I take you--I mean I don’t take you at all; I bring you the best that I could find; there ain’t no wax candle that’s been used, and madame said that this was good enough to light your wax.”

“And this place dares to call itself a hotel! There are furnished lodgings for masons here, and nothing else!”

“On my word, monsieur!”

“Take that candle away, I say. Pouah! how it smells! Let’s make haste.”

He sealed his letter, using a topaz set in a ring, which he wore as a charm on his watch chain; then he dismissed the maid, who muttered as she left the room:

“What airs he puts on! If he was a pacha, he couldn’t put on any more. Why don’t he have a hotel of his own?”

“Here, my boy,” said the gentleman, when he had written the address on his letter, “take this note and this bouquet, which I stole from those gentlemen for the pleasure of playing a trick on them, for I hadn’t the slightest idea of buying a bouquet. But since I have it, I must make some use of it, and I am not sorry to show myself a gallant once more. So you will carry this bouquet and this letter to this address. Can you read?”

“Yes, monsieur, a little--print; but as for hand-writing----”

“Why don’t you say at once that you don’t know how to read?--Well, you are to go to Madame la Baronne de Grangeville; she lives, or at all events she did live, twelve years ago, at 27 Rue de Provence. If by any chance she has moved, ask the concierge for her new address and take the things there. If you are not an idiot, you will succeed in finding the lady. If she is visible, you will wait for a reply; if not, you will leave both with her maid, and come back here, where I will pay you; I forbid you to take anything elsewhere. Do you understand?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“You remember the lady’s name?”

“Baronne de Grangeville, 27 Rue de Provence.”

“That’s right; now be off, and hurry back.--By the way, if before admitting you, they should ask you from whom you come, you will reply that you come from Monsieur de Roncherolle.”

“Monsieur de Roncherolle; very good, monsieur.”

Chicotin took his leave. Thereupon, Monsieur de Roncherolle,--for now we know that that was the gouty gentleman’s name,--placed his diseased foot on one of the chairs covered with cotton, then stretched himself in the easy-chair, rested his head against the back, and with his eyes fixed upon the ceiling, reflected thus:

“Dear Lucienne! I am sure that she will be delighted to see me again; and for my part it will give me pleasure to be in her company once more. It is fully twelve years since we met! Twelve years! This infernal time flies with terrifying rapidity, on my word! it seems to me that it was only yesterday; and yet a good many things have happened in the interval! Ah! I hadn’t the gout then, and my sufferings were very much less. To grow old and to suffer--all varieties of annoyance at once! But that is the common law, and as the inimitable Potier says in _Le Chiffonier_: ‘When a man is not satisfied, he must be a philosopher!’--She was very pretty, was Lucienne! Yes, she was one of the prettiest women in Paris! and I was one of the handsomest gallants of my time; indeed, if it weren’t for this infernal gout, I should still be very presentable!--Ow! There was a twinge, I wonder if I am going to have another attack? If so, it would be rather hard for me to go to present my respects to the baroness, as I have asked permission to do in my note. But let me see; as I think it over, it seems to me that Lucienne and I parted on rather bad terms, yes, very bad; she became jealous; what nonsense! she should know better than anyone that jealousy doesn’t keep one from being deceived! But twelve years have passed since that, and there is no better refrigerant than time. The poor baroness must have become reasonable by now; we don’t look at those things from the same point of view at forty as at thirty--if she isn’t forty, she can’t be far from it.--It’s a pity! Women ought never to grow old, nor men either; children are the only ones who ought to grow, and they should stop when they reach maturity.--Ah! there’s a twinge; and yet I am leading the life of an anchorite: no champagne, no truffles! To be sure, the funds are low, very low, in fact. I expected to break the bank at Baden-Baden: I had discovered a very ingenious _martingale_, an infallible method of winning at roulette; I don’t understand how it happened that it was my pocket that was broken! Ah! if I were not short of money, how quickly I would send this dieting business to the devil! and then if I had the gout, there would be some reason for it. They say that it is due to my past excesses; I don’t believe a word of it, for I should have had it sooner!--And he--what has become of him, I wonder, of that dear friend of mine, who was absolutely determined to kill me? In the six weeks since I came back to Paris, it is probable that I should have come face to face with him on the street, if the gout had not kept me in this hotel, in this barrack. But still, it is so long ago, perhaps he is dead. On my honor, I should be very sorry to learn it! I should feel it badly. If he is dead, the baroness must know it.--How gloomy it is here! What a wretched neighborhood! One doesn’t even hear the noise of carriages--I believe, God forgive me, that no carriages pass here. Ah! I will not stay here. I would rather have a room under the eaves in the dear old Bréda quarter! The only thing one can do here is to sleep! and as my gout permits it, I will take a nap, while I await the return of my messenger. He has a mighty cunning air, that fellow; he reminds me of a little Norman whom I employed in 1830, or thereabouts, and whom I surprised one day throwing oil on my trousers and coat, because I usually made him a present of my clothes as soon as they had any spots on them.”

Monsieur de Roncherolle fell asleep, dreaming of his past. It is what a man usually does who is on the decline, whereas in youth he dreams of the future.

Chicotin’s shrill voice woke the ex-gallant abruptly, and he opened his eyes, muttering:

“Who is the rascal who dares to enter my room without ringing? Ten thousand devils! I was dreaming that I was at Baden-Baden again. Alas! I must return to the sad reality.--It’s you, is it, my boy? Well, what reply to your message?”

“Here it is, monsieur.”

As he spoke, Chicotin held out the note and the bouquet, which he still had in his hands.

“What! you have brought them both back? She refused my bouquet and my letter?”

“Why, no, monsieur, the lady did not refuse anything, because I didn’t find her; she has moved!”

“Pardieu! I thought you were cleverer than this, my boy! Because a person has changed her lodgings, you can’t find her! There’s a sharp messenger for you!”

“I am no more stupid than others, monsieur, and you will see if it’s my fault. I went to Rue de Provence, to the number you gave me; a fine house, good style. I asked the concierge, who has a lodge furnished better than this room, for Madame la Baronne de Grangeville. He opened his eyes, looked at his wife who was sipping coffee from a silver cup, and said to her: ‘The Baronne de Grangeville--do you know her, wife?’ and his wife drank her coffee first and then answered: ‘We haven’t got anybody here of that name.’--‘But,’ I said to her, ‘that lady did live in this house; the gentleman who sent me is certain of it; if she’s moved, she must have left her address. Give me that and I will go away.’--‘How long ago did this baroness live here?’ asked the concierge.--‘Twelve years,’ I said.--At that the husband and wife began to laugh, and said to me: ‘In twelve years a lot of water has flowed under the bridge, my boy. It’s seven years now since we took the place of the former concierge, who died here, and we never heard the name of your baroness. If the other concierge was alive, perhaps he might know her address. But he’s at Montmartre, you know where; perhaps you’ll go there and ask him.’ Faith, monsieur, I thought it wasn’t worth while to go to Montmartre, so I came back with your letter and your bouquet. Do you still think that it’s my fault?”

Monsieur de Roncherolle took the articles which Chicotin handed him. He tore up the letter, muttering:

“No, so long as you didn’t find the scent. Hum! more of the ill effects of time. I come back, and I find nobody left: some are dead; others have disappeared. Ah! it’s foolish to travel; or if one must travel, one should do like the Wandering Jew: keep going all the time, and never stop. But the Wandering Jew didn’t have the gout.--Here, my boy, this is for your commission.”

Monsieur de Roncherolle paid the messenger handsomely, because the man who has always borne himself like a gentleman retains the habit of making a show of generosity, even when his means allow him no longer to be generous; and sometimes imposes great privations upon himself in order to enjoy the pleasure of throwing money out of the window.

“Then monsieur has no further need of my services?” said Chicotin, his appetite whetted by the fee he had received for his errand.

“Faith, my boy, I should have been very glad to find the lady to whom I wrote the letter. It isn’t certain that she’s dead, like the concierge of the house where she lived, for she was quite young a dozen years ago, and she should be a woman of about forty now. If chance should make you acquainted with her present residence, come at once and tell me, and you shall have a good pourboire.”

“All right, master. I’ll look, I’ll ask questions, and I shall end by finding her. I go into every corner of Paris, you know; but perhaps it will take rather a long time. However, as soon as I find out anything, I’ll come to tell you.”

When Chicotin had gone, Monsieur de Roncherolle, whose face had assumed a melancholy expression, looked at the bouquet which he still held, muttering:

“Well, I will keep the bouquet; these flowers are very pretty; it’s a long while since anyone gave me any; I will imagine that someone has sent them to me; I have reached the age where I must live on illusions.”