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“The dinners are better at don’s than at Bombarda’s,” exclaimed Zphine.
“I prefer Bombarda to don,” declared Blachevelle. “There is more luxury. It is more Asiatic. Look at the room downstairs; there are mirrors [glaces] on the walls.”
“I prefer them [glaces, ices] on my plate,” said Favourite.
Blachevelle persisted:—
“Look at the knives. The handles are of silver at Bombarda’s and of bone at don’s. Now, silver is more valuable than bone.”
“Except for those who have a silver chin,” observed Tholomys.
He was looking at the dome of the Invalides, which was visible from Bombarda’s windows.
A pause ensued.
“Tholomys,” exclaimed Fameuil, “Listolier and I were having a discussion just now.”
“A discussion is a good thing,” replied Tholomys; “a quarrel is better.”
“We were disputing about philosophy.”
“Well?”
“Which do you prefer, Descartes or Spinoza?”
“Dsaugiers,” said Tholomys.
This decree pronounced, he took a drink, and went on:—
“I consent to live. All is not at an end on earth since we can still talk nonsense. For that I return thanks to the immortal gods. We lie. One lies, but one laughs. One affirms, but one doubts. The unexpected bursts forth from the syllogism. That is fine. There are still human beings here below who know how to open and close the surprise box of the paradox merrily. This, ladies, which you are drinking with so tranquil an air is Madeira wine, you must know, from the vineyard of Coural das Freiras, which is three hundred and seventeen fathoms above the level of the sea. Attention while you drink! three hundred and seventeen fathoms! and Monsieur Bombarda, the magnificent eating-house keeper, gives you those three hundred and seventeen fathoms for four francs and fifty centimes.”
Again Fameuil interrupted him:—
“Tholomys, your opinions fix the law. Who is your favorite author?”
“Ber—”
“Quin?”
“No; Choux.”
And Tholomys continued:—
“Honor to Bombarda! He would equal Munophis of Elephanta if he could but get me an Indian dancing-girl, and Thygelion of Chronea if he could bring me a Greek courtesan; for, oh, ladies! there were Bombardas in Greece and in Egypt. Apuleius tells us of them. Alas! always the same, and nothing new; nothing more unpublished by the creator in creation! Nil sub sole novum, says Solomon; amor omnibus idem, says Virgil; and Carabine mounts with Carabin into the bark at Saint-Cloud, as Aspasia embarked with Pericles upon the fleet at Samos. One last word. Do you know what Aspasia was, ladies? Although she lived at an epoch when women had, as yet, no soul, she was a soul; a soul of a rosy and purple hue, more ardent hued than fire, fresher than the dawn. Aspasia was a creature in whom two extremes of womanhood met; she was the goddess prostitute; Socrates plus Manon Lescaut. Aspasia was created in case a mistress should be needed for Prometheus.”
Tholomys, once started, would have found some difficulty in stopping, had not a horse fallen down upon the quay just at that moment. The shock caused the cart and the orator to come to a dead halt. It was a Beauceron mare, old and thin, and one fit for the knacker, which was dragging a very heavy cart. On arriving in front of Bombarda’s, the worn-out, exhausted beast had refused to proceed any further. This incident attracted a crowd. Hardly had the cursing and indignant carter had time to utter with proper energy the sacramental word, Mtin (the jade), backed up with a pitiless cut of the whip, when the jade fell, never to rise again. On hearing the hubbub made by the passers-by, Tholomys’ merry auditors turned their heads, and Tholomys took advantage of the opportunity to bring his allocution to a close with this melancholy strophe:—
“Elle tait de ce monde ou coucous et carrosses Ont le mme destin; Et, rosse, elle a vcu ce que vivant les rosses, L’espace d’un mtin!” 3
“Poor horse!” sighed Fantine.
And Dahlia exclaimed:—
“There is Fantine on the point of crying over horses. How can one be such a pitiful fool as that!”
At that moment Favourite, folding her arms and throwing her head back, looked resolutely at Tholomys and said:—
“Come, now! the surprise?”
“Exactly. The moment has arrived,” replied Tholomys. “Gentlemen, the hour for giving these ladies a surprise has struck. Wait for us a moment, ladies.”
“It begins with a kiss,” said Blachevelle.
“On the brow,” added Tholomys.
Each gravely bestowed a kiss on his mistress’s brow; then all four filed out through the door, with their fingers on their lips.
Favourite clapped her hands on their departure.
“It is beginning to be amusing already,” said she.
“Don’t be too long,” murmured Fantine; “we are waiting for you.”
When the young girls were left alone, they leaned two by two on the window-sills, chatting, craning out their heads, and talking from one window to the other.
They saw the young men emerge from the Caf Bombarda arm in arm. The latter turned round, made signs to them, smiled, and disappeared in that dusty Sunday throng which makes a weekly invasion into the Champs-lyses.
“Don’t be long!” cried Fantine.
“What are they going to bring us?” said Zphine.
“It will certainly be something pretty,” said Dahlia.
“For my part,” said Favourite, “I want it to be of gold.”
Their attention was soon distracted by the movements on the shore of the lake, which they could see through the branches of the large trees, and which diverted them greatly.
It was the hour for the departure of the mail-coaches and diligences. Nearly all the stage-coaches for the south and west passed through the Champs-lyses. The majority followed the quay and went through the Passy Barrier. From moment to moment, some huge vehicle, painted yellow and black, heavily loaded, noisily harnessed, rendered shapeless by trunks, tarpaulins, and valises, full of heads which immediately disappeared, rushed through the crowd with all the sparks of a forge, with dust for smoke, and an air of fury, grinding the pavements, changing all the paving-stones into steels. This uproar delighted the young girls. Favourite exclaimed:—
“What a row! One would say that it was a pile of chains flying away.”
It chanced that one of these vehicles, which they could only see with difficulty through the thick elms, halted for a moment, then set out again at a gallop. This surprised Fantine.
“That’s odd!” said she. “I thought the diligence never stopped.”
Favourite shrugged her shoulders.
“This Fantine is surprising. I am coming to take a look at her out of curiosity. She is dazzled by the simplest things. Suppose a case: I am a traveller; I say to the diligence, ‘I will go on in advance; you shall pick me up on the quay as you pass.’ The diligence passes, sees me, halts, and takes me. That is done every day. You do not know life, my dear.”
In this manner a certain time elapsed. All at once Favourite made a movement, like a person who is just waking up.
“Well,” said she, “and the surprise?”
“Yes, by the way,” joined in Dahlia, “the famous surprise?”
“They are a very long time about it!” said Fantine.
As Fantine concluded this sigh, the waiter who had served them at dinner entered. He held in his hand something which resembled a letter.
“What is that?” demanded Favourite.
The waiter replied:—
“It is a paper that those gentlemen left for these ladies.”
“Why did you not bring it at once?”
“Because,” said the waiter, “the gentlemen ordered me not to deliver it to the ladies for an hour.”
Favourite snatched the paper from the waiter’s hand. It was, in fact, a letter.
“Stop!” said she; “there is no address; but this is what is written on it—”
“THIS IS THE SURPRISE.”
She tore the letter open hastily, opened it, and read [she knew how to read]:—
“OUR BELOVED:—
“You must know that we have parents. Parents—you do not know much about such things. They are called fathers and mothers by the civil code, which is puerile and honest. Now, these parents groan, these old folks implore us, these good men and these good women call us prodigal sons; they desire our return, and offer to kill calves for us. Being virtuous, we obey them. At the hour when you read this, five fiery horses will be bearing us to our papas and mammas. We are pulling up our stakes, as Bossuet says. We are going; we are gone. We flee in the arms of Laffitte and on the wings of Caillard. The Toulouse diligence tears us from the abyss, and the abyss is you, O our little beauties! We return to society, to duty, to respectability, at full trot, at the rate of three leagues an hour. It is necessary for the good of the country that we should be, like the rest of the world, prefects, fathers of families, rural police, and councillors of state. Venerate us. We are sacrificing ourselves. Mourn for us in haste, and replace us with speed. If this letter lacerates you, do the same by it. Adieu.
“For the space of nearly two years we have made you happy. We bear you no grudge for that. “Signed: BLACHEVELLE. FAMUEIL. LISTOLIER. FLIX THOLOMYS.
“Postscriptum. The dinner is paid for.”
The four young women looked at each other.
Favourite was the first to break the silence.
“Well!” she exclaimed, “it’s a very pretty farce, all the same.”
“It is very droll,” said Zphine.
“That must have been Blachevelle’s idea,” resumed Favourite. “It makes me in love with him. No sooner is he gone than he is loved. This is an adventure, indeed.”
“No,” said Dahlia; “it was one of Tholomys’ ideas. That is evident.
“In that case,” retorted Favourite, “death to Blachevelle, and long live Tholomys!”
“Long live Tholomys!” exclaimed Dahlia and Zphine.
And they burst out laughing.
Fantine laughed with the rest.
An hour later, when she had returned to her room, she wept. It was her first love affair, as we have said; she had given herself to this Tholomys as to a husband, and the poor girl had a child.
