Page:The Lady's Book Vol. IX.pdf/207



THE PARTY OF PLEASURE.

“I know all that. Did Bellefeuille see her?” “No, thank heaven! he was far behind.” “Oh! then all is well. There is no harm done, since Bellefeuille did not see her. Hola! Bellefeuille —here, my dear friend, do me the favour to lead back these quadrupeds; they have amused us sufficiently. Meantime, we will go and roll ourselves on the grass, and wait for your return.”

The young artist, by no means relishing this em- ployment, dared not, however, refuse. He, therefore, mounted one horse, and led on one side the remaining horse, and on the other the donkey. M. Barbeau told him that he bore a faint resemblance to Franconi.

“We will go to the traiteur’s yonder,” said M. Bar- beau, “and“inquire where there is a fete in this neighbourhood.”

“I see nothing that indicates one,” observed Grigou; “but I am hungry.”

“Oh! we have plenty of time; we shan’t dine yet.”

“Plenty of time! that is a good one. You take it so coolly, because you had beef-steaks for break- fast.”

But the ex-bookseller cut the matter short. “My dear,” said he to his wife, “do you stay here with Leonora, whilst I go and inquire where the fete is held.”

Madame Barbeau, whose feet were tingling with fatigue, from being unaccustomed to such walks, was well pleased at being able to rest. She therefore took her station on the grass by the side of her daughter, and Grigon accompanied her husband.

The traiteur, to whom they applied, was as fond of talking as M. Barbeau. To answer a simple question, he turned, and twisted, and beat about the bush, and involved himself in a labyrinth of sentences from which he could find no outlet. To indicate a road, he would begin by describing the whole neighbour- hood; and when you asked what he could give you for dinner, he would enumerate the dishes he could dress, those he had invented, the ingredients of a sauce, and all that, to end the acknowledgment that he had nothing left but roast veal.

N. Barbeau writhed with impatience as he listened to this man. At length, suddenly interrupting him in the midst of a dissertation upon a desert dish of his own composition, he said, “I have been asking you this half hour whether or not there is a fete to day at Romainville, and if we can dine here;—instead of replying to my questions, you talk to me about pickles and preserves! Do you think I came here to learn to be a cook?”

“Sir—what, sir!—Have I insulted you, sir? If you think so. Sir, I am ready to give you every possible satisfaction as a gentleman.”

“Go to the devil!” ‘said the enraged Barbeau;—“a pretty joke truly—a knight of the spit and gridiron challenging me to fight a duel. We shall certainly not dine at your house, my fine fellow, because, in the first place, your tongue runs too fast, and next because you can’t answer a simple question.”

M. Barbeau walked with great dignity out of the house, followed by Grigou, who muttered with a sigh of despondency, “But we must certainly dine some- where.”

On joining the ladies, the party seated themselves upon the grass. M. Bellefeuille had just returned with young Alexander, who walked with a hobbling gait, because he had torn his new trowsers, and want- ed to conceal the fact from his mother. But at that instant the mother and daughter were admiring, from the spot on which they were seated, some fine walnuts that were on the trees near them, and M. Barbeau was in the middle of a long story, which he was re- lating to poor Grigou, whom it did not much amuse,

because there was no end to it. “I was telling you, then,” continued the ex-booksel-

ler, “that being one day in the country with some friends, we had agreed to make one of the drunk. He was red hot from his province—a fat, = tempered, thick-headed simpleton, named Du- iret.”

“Duloiret! why I know him intimately,” cried Grigou.

“Well, no matter; your knowing him has nothing to do with my story.”

“But it has, though; and as a proof of it, I can mtr you the story myself. I had it from his own lips, and”

“No! permit me; I must know the story better than you, and I flatter myself that I can tell it quite as well.”

And without waiting for Grigou’s permission, M. Barbeau began the anecdote over again, and proceed- ed to relate a dozen others arising from it. In the midst, however, of one of his stories, he perceived that his wife and daughter were not listening to him.

“What are you staring at,” said he, “whilst I am speaking?”

“We are looking at the walnuts yonder,” replied his wife. “They are very fine.”

“Shall I climb the tree, papa?” said Alexander.

“No, child,” M. Barbeau-replied. “I perceive that your trowsers are sufficiently torn already. If you at- tempted to climb the tree, you'd be in a pretty mess.— Grigou, go and knock down some of those walnuts for the ladies. You see that Bellefeuille is sketching — Come, you are very ungallant, Grigou”——

“Why don’t you knock them down yourself?” said Grigou.

“Because I am not so active as you.”

“But are people allowed to”

“What nonsense. What, man, art really afraid to knock down a few walnuts?”

Grigou could not withstand this insinuation against his courage. Besides, he had a chance of escaping from M. Barbeau’s long stories. He therefore ap- proached the walnut tree. Meantime, M. Barbeau stretching his unwieldly limbs upon the grass near the artist, the following conversation took place.

“Were I a painter,” M. Barbeau began, “I would sketch every living oddity I met with.”

“Sir, it is not so easy to”

“Permit me to explain my idea; I have had many hap- py ones in the course of my life. I have often given the subject of a book toan author; and such a Wook always sold well.”

“But a book, sir, is not a”

“Thave not yet done, my friend;—pray don’t in- terrupt me—you put me out. Let us, for instance, examine the persons who are passing before us. This is Paris in the country—that is tu say; there are here some cilizens, some workmen; in short, there are in- dividuals of all kinds here from Paris; and if I were a painter or an author, I should take advantage of the present moment. There—look at that couple who are passing. They are inhabitants of the city; and from being in their Sunday’s best, they cut a tolerably good figure. They converse too closely, and look at each other too often to be husband and wife The young man seems to pout a littlke—the lady affects to be sorry that she has trusted herself with him in the wood. But they are going to the traiteur’s; they will call for a private room, and all will be made up. They look to me like a dapper linen-draper and a dress-ma- ker. Do you not observe that the lady’s frill is very carefully got up, and that the gentleman’s trowsers and waistcoat are of the newest patterns? But you need not ask what they are who follow them—laugh- ing, jumping, making such a noise, and kicking up such a cloud of dust. They are grissettes, but of the second order, which is, however, the gayest. These females care not much for appearances. There are