A Queer Night in Paris
Mattre Saval, notary at Vernon, was passionately fond of music. Althoughstill young he was already bald; he was always carefully shaven, wassomewhat corpulent as was suitable, and wore a gold pince-nez instead ofspectacles. He was active, gallant and cheerful and was considered quitean artist in Vernon. He played the piano and the violin, and gavemusicals where the new operas were interpreted.He had even what is called a bit of a voice; nothing but a bit, verylittle bit of a voice; but he managed it with so much taste that cries of"Bravo!" "Exquisite!" "Surprising!" "Adorable!" issued from everythroat as soon as he had murmured the last note.He subscribed to a music publishing house in Paris, and they sent him thelatest music, and from time to time he sent invitations after thisfashion to the elite of the town:"You are invited to be present on Monday evening at the house of M.Saval, notary, Vernon, at the first rendering of 'Sais.'"A few officers, gifted with good voices, formed the chorus. Two or threelady amateurs also sang. The notary filled the part of leader of theorchestra with so much correctness that the bandmaster of the 190thregiment of the line said of him, one day, at the Cafe de l'Europe"Oh! M. Saval is a master. It is a great pity that he did not adopt thecareer of an artist."When his name was mentioned in a drawing-room, there was always somebodyfound to declare: "He is not an amateur; he is an artist, a genuineartist."And two or three persons repeated, in a tone of profound conviction:"Oh! yes, a genuine artist," laying particular stress on the word"genuine."Every time that a new work was interpreted at a big Parisian theatreM. Saval paid a visit to the capital.Now, last year, according to his custom, he went to hear Henri VIII. Hethen took the express which arrives in Paris at 4:30 P.M., intending toreturn by the 12:35 A.M. train, so as not to have to sleep at a hotel.He had put on evening dress, a black coat and white tie, which heconcealed under his overcoat with the collar turned up.As soon as he set foot on the Rue d'Amsterdam, he felt himself in quitejovial mood. He said to himself:"Decidedly, the air of Paris does not resemble any other air. It has init something indescribably stimulating, exciting, intoxicating, whichfills you with a strange longing to dance about and to do many otherthings. As soon as I arrive here, it seems to me, all of a sudden, thatI have taken a bottle of champagne. What a life one can lead in thiscity in the midst of artists! Happy are the elect, the great men whomake themselves a reputation in such a city! What an existence istheirs!"And be made plans; he would have liked to know some of these celebratedmen, to talk about them in Vernon, and to spend an evening with them fromtime to time in Paris.But suddenly an idea struck him. He had heard allusions to little cafesin the outer boulevards at which well-known painters, men of letters, andeven musicians gathered, and he proceeded to go up to Montmartre at aslow pace.He had two hours before him. He wanted to look about him. He passed infront of taverns frequented by belated bohemians, gazing at the differentfaces, seeking to discover the artists. Finally, he came to the sign of"The Dead Rat," and, allured by the name, he entered.Five or six women, with their elbows resting on the marble tables, weretalking in low tones about their love affairs, the quarrels of Lucie andHortense, and the scoundrelism of Octave. They were no longer young,were too fat or too thin, tired out, used up. You could see that theywere almost bald; and they drank beer like men.M. Saval sat down at some distance from them and waited, for the hour fortaking absinthe was at hand.A tall young man soon came in and took a seat beside him. The landladycalled him M. "Romantin." The notary quivered. Was this the Romantinwho had taken a medal at the last Salon?The young man made a sign to the waiter."You will bring up my dinner at once, and then carry to my new studio,15 Boulevard de Clichy, thirty bottles of beer, and the ham I orderedthis morning. We are going to have a housewarming."M. Saval immediately ordered dinner. Then, he took off his overcoat, sothat his dress suit and his white tie could be seen. His neighbor didnot seem to notice him. He had taken up a newspaper, and was reading it.M. Saval glanced sideways at him, burning with the desire to speak tohim.Two young men entered, in red vests and with peaked beards, in thefashion of Henry III. They sat down opposite Romantin.The first of the pair said:"Is it for this evening?"Romantin pressed his hand."I believe you, old chap, and everyone will be there. I have Bonnat,Guillemet, Gervex, Beraud, Hebert, Duez, Clairin, and Jean-Paul Laurens.It will be a stunning affair! And women, too! Wait till you see! Everyactress without exception--of course I mean, you know, all those who havenothing to do this evening."The landlord of the establishment came across."Do you often have this housewarming?"The painter replied:"I believe you, every three months, each quarter."M. Saval could not restrain himself any longer, and in a hesitating voicesaid:"I beg your pardon for intruding on you, monsieur, but I heard your namementioned, and I would be very glad to know if you really areM. Romantin, whose work in the last Salon I have so much admired?"The painter answered:"I am the very person, monsieur."The notary then paid the artist a very well-turned compliment, showingthat he was a man of culture.The painter, gratified, thanked him politely in reply.Then they chattered. Romantin returned to the subject of his house-warming, going into details as to the magnificence of the forthcomingentertainment.M. Saval questioned him as to all the men he was going to receive,adding:"It would be an extraordinary piece of good fortune for a stranger tomeet at one time so many celebrities assembled in the studio of an artistof your rank."Romantin, vanquished, replied:"If it would be agreeable to you, come."M. Saval accepted the invitation with enthusiasm, reflecting:"I shall have time enough to see Henri VIII."Both of them had finished their meal. The notary insisted on paying thetwo bills, wishing to repay his neighbor's civilities. He also paid forthe drinks of the young fellows in red velvet; then he left theestablishment with the painter.They stopped in front of a very long, low house, the first story havingthe appearance of an interminable conservatory. Six studios stood in arow with their fronts facing the boulevards.Romantin was the first to enter, and, ascending the stairs, he opened adoor, and lighted a match and then a candle.They found themselves in an immense apartment, the furniture of whichconsisted of three chairs, two easels, and a few sketches standing on theground along the walls. M. Saval remained standing at the door somewhatastonished.The painter remarked:"Here you are! we've got to the spot; but everything has yet to be done."Then, examining the high, bare apartment, its ceiling disappearing in thedarkness, he said:"We might make a great deal out of this studio."He walked round it, surveying it with the utmost attention, then went on:"I know someone who might easily give a helping hand. Women areincomparable for hanging drapery. But I sent her to the country forto-day in order to get her off my hands this evening. It is not that shebores me, but she is too much lacking in the ways of good society.It would be embarrassing to my guests."He reflected for a few seconds, and then added:"She is a good girl, but not easy to deal with. If she knew that I washolding a reception, she would tear out my eyes."M. Saval had not even moved; he did not understand.The artist came over to him."Since I have invited you, you will assist ma about something."The notary said emphatically:"Make any use of me you please. I am at your disposal."Romantin took off his jacket."Well, citizen, to work!' We are first going to clean up."He went to the back of the easel, on which there was a canvasrepresenting a cat, and seized a very worn-out broom."I say! Just brush up while I look after the lighting."M. Saval took the broom, inspected it, and then began to sweep the floorvery awkwardly, raising a whirlwind of dust.Romantin, disgusted, stopped him: "Deuce take it! you don't know how tosweep the floor! Look at me!"And he began to roll before him a heap of grayish sweepings, as if he haddone nothing else all his life. Then, he gave bark the broom to thenotary, who imitated him.In five minutes, such a cloud of dust filled the studio that Rormantinasked:"Where are you? I can't see you any longer."M. Saval, who was coughing, came near to him. The painter said:"How would you set about making a chandelier?"The other, surprised, asked:"What chandelier?""Why, a chandelier to light the room--a chandelier with wax-candles."The notary did not understand.He answered: "I don't know."The painter began to jump about, cracking his fingers."Well, monseigneur, I have found out a way."Then he went on more calmly:"Have you got five francs about you?"M. Saval replied:"Why, yes."The artist said: "Well! you'll go out and buy for me five francs' worthof wax-candles while I go and see the cooper."And he pushed the notary in his evening coat into the street. At the endof five minutes, they had returned, one of them with the wax-candles andthe other with the hoop of a cask. Then Romantin plunged his hand into acupboard, and drew forth twenty empty bottles, which he fixed in the formof a crown around the hoop.He then went downstairs to borrow a ladder from the janitress, afterhaving explained that he had made interest with the old woman by paintingthe portrait of her cat, exhibited on the easel.When he returned with the ladder, he said to M. Saval:"Are you active?"The other, without understanding, answered:"Why, yes.""Well, you just climb up there, and fasten this chandelier for me to thering of the ceiling. Then, you put a wax-candle in each bottle, andlight it. I tell you I have a genius for lighting up. But off with yourcoat, damn it! You are just like a Jeames."The door was opened brusquely. A woman appeared, her eyes flashing, andremained standing on the threshold.Romantin gazed at her with a look of terror.She waited some seconds, crossing her arms over her breast, and then in ashrill, vibrating, exasperated voice said:"Ha! you dirty scoundrel, is this the way you leave me?"Romantin made no reply. She went on:"Ha! you scoundrel! You did a nice thing in parking me off to thecountry. You'll soon see the way I'll settle your jollification. Yes,I'm going to receive your friends."She grew warmer."I'm going to slap their faces with the bottles and the wax-candles----"Romantin said in a soft tone:"Mathilde----"But she did not pay any attention to him; she went on:"Wait a little, my fine fellow! wait a little!"Romantin went over to her, and tried to take her by the hands."Mathilde----"But she was now fairly under way; and on she went, emptying the vials ofher wrath with strong words and reproaches. They flowed out of her mouthlike, a stream sweeping a heap of filth along with it. The words pouringforth seemed struggling for exit. She stuttered, stammered, yelled,suddenly recovering her voice to cast forth an insult or a curse.He seized her hands without her having noticed it. She did not seem tosee anything, so taken up was she in scolding and relieving her feelings.And suddenly she began to weep. The tears flowed from her eyes, but thisdid not stop her complaints. But her words were uttered in a screamingfalsetto voice with tears in it and interrupted by sobs. She commencedafresh twice or three times, till she stopped as if something werechoking her, and at last she ceased with a regular flood of tears.Then he clasped her in his arms and kissed her hair, affected himself."Mathilde, my little Mathilde, listen. You must be reasonable. Youknow, if I give a supper-party to my friends, it is to thank thesegentlemen for the medal I got at the Salon. I cannot receive women. Youought to understand that. It is not the same with artists as with otherpeople."She stammered, in the midst of her tears:"Why didn't you tell me this?"He replied:"It was in order not to annoy you, not to give you pain. Listen, I'mgoing to see you home. You will be very sensible, very nice; you willremain quietly waiting for me in bed, and I'll come back as soon as it'sover."She murmured:"Yes, but you will not begin over again?""No, I swear to you!"He turned towards M. Saval, who had at last hooked on the chandelier:"My dear friend, I am coming back in five minutes. If anyone arrives inmy absence, do the honors for me, will you not?"And he carried off Mathilde, who kept drying her eyes with herhandkerchief as she went along.Left to himself, M. Saval succeeded in putting everything around him inorder. Then he lighted the wax-candles, and waited.He waited for a quarter of an hour, half an hour, an hour. Romantin didnot return. Then, suddenly there was a dreadful noise on the stairs, asong shouted out in chorus by twenty mouths and a regular march like thatof a Prussian regiment. The whole house was shaken by the steady trampof feet. The door flew open, and a motley throng appeared--men and womenin file, two and two holding each other by the arm and stamping theirheels on the ground to mark time, advanced into the studio like a snakeuncoiling itself. They howled:"Come, and let us all be merry,Pretty maids and soldiers gay!"M. Saval, thunderstruck, remained standing in evening dress under thechandelier. The procession of revellers caught sight of him, and uttereda shout:"A Jeames! A Jeames!"And they began whirling round him, surrounding him with a circle ofvociferations. Then they took each other by the hand and went dancingabout madly.He attempted to explain:"Messieurs--messieurs--mesdames----"But they did not listen to him. They whirled about, they jumped, theybrawled.At last, the dancing ceased. M. Saval said:"Gentlemen----"A tall young fellow, fair-haired and bearded to the nose, interruptedhim:"What's your name, my friend?"The notary, quite scared, said:"I am M. Saval."A voice exclaimed:"You mean Baptiste."A woman said:"Let the poor waiter alone! You'll end by making him get angry. He'spaid to wait on us, and not to be laughed at by us."Then, M. Saval noticed that each guest had brought his own provisions.One held a bottle of wine, and the other a pie. This one had a loaf ofbread, and one a ham.The tall, fair young fellow placed in his hands an enormous sausage, andgave orders:"Here, go and arrange the sideboard in the corner over there. Put thebottles at the left and the provisions at the right."Saval, getting quite distracted, exclaimed: "But, messieurs, I am anotary!"There was a moment's silence and then a wild outburst of laughter. Onesuspicious gentleman asked:"How came you to be here?"He explained, telling about his project of going to the opera, hisdeparture from Vernon, his arrival in Paris, and the way in which he hadspent the evening.They sat around him to listen to him; they greeted him with words ofapplause, and called him Scheherazade.Romantin did not return. Other guests arrived. M. Saval was presentedto them so that he might begin his story over again. He declined; theyforced him to relate it. They seated and tied him on one of three chairsbetween two women who kept constantly filling his glass. He drank; helaughed; he talked; he sang, too. He tried to waltz with his chair, andfell on the ground.From that moment, he forgot everything. It seemed to him, however, thatthey undressed him, put him to bed, and that he was nauseated.When he awoke, it was broad daylight, and he lay stretched with his feetagainst a cupboard, in a strange bed.An old woman with a broom in her hand was glaring angrily at him. Atlast, she said:"Clear out, you blackguard! Clear out! What right has anyone to getdrunk like this?"He sat up in bed, feeling very ill at ease. He asked:"Where am I?""Where are you, you dirty scamp? You are drunk. Take your rottencarcass out of here as quick as you can--and lose no time about it!"He wanted to get up. He found that he was in no condition to do so. Hisclothes had disappeared. He blurted out:"Madame, I---- Then he remembered. What was he to do? He asked:"Did Monsieur Romantin come back?"The doorkeeper shouted:"Will you take your dirty carcass out of this, so that he at any rate maynot catch you here?"M. Saval said, in a state of confusion:"I haven't got my clothes; they have been taken away from me."He had to wait, to explain his situation, give notice to his friends, andborrow some money to buy clothes. He did not leave Paris till evening.And when people talk about music to him in his beautiful drawing-room inVernon, he declares with an air of authority that painting is a veryinferior art.
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