A Start in Life [21]
personal value, this child, made man by Art or
by vocation, seemed indifferent to the question of costume; for he
looked at his boots, which had not been polished, with a quizzical
air, and searched for the spots on his brown Holland trousers less to
remove them than to see their effect.
"I'm in style," he said, giving himself a shake and addressing his
companion.
The glance of the latter, showed authority over his adept, in whom a
practised eye would at once have recognized the joyous pupil of a
painter, called in the argot of the studios a "rapin."
"Behave yourself, Mistigris," said his master, giving him the nickname
which the studio had no doubt bestowed upon him.
The master was a slight and pale young man, with extremely thick black
hair, worn in a disorder that was actually fantastic. But this
abundant mass of hair seemed necessary to an enormous head, whose vast
forehead proclaimed a precocious intellect. A strained and harassed
face, too original to be ugly, was hollowed as if this noticeable
young man suffered from some chronic malady, or from privations caused
by poverty (the most terrible of all chronic maladies), or from griefs
too recent to be forgotten. His clothing, analogous, with due
allowance, to that of Mistigris, consisted of a shabby surtout coat,
American-green in color, much worn, but clean and well-brushed; a
black waistcoat buttoned to the throat, which almost concealed a
scarlet neckerchief; and trousers, also black and even more worn than
the coat, flapping his thin legs. In addition, a pair of very muddy
boots indicated that he had come on foot and from some distance to the
coach office. With a rapid look this artist seized the whole scene of
the Lion d'Argent, the stables, the courtyard, the various lights and
shades, and the details; then he looked at Mistigris, whose satirical
glance had followed his own.
"Charming!" said Mistigris.
"Yes, very," replied the other.
"We seem to have got here too early," pursued Mistigris. "Couldn't we
get a mouthful somewhere? My stomach, like Nature, abhors a vacuum."
"Have we time to get a cup of coffee?" said the artist, in a gentle
voice, to Pierrotin.
"Yes, but don't be long," answered the latter.
"Good; that means we have a quarter of an hour," remarked Mistigris,
with the innate genius for observation of the Paris rapin.
The pair disappeared. Nine o'clock was striking in the hotel kitchen.
Georges thought it just and reasonable to remonstrate with Pierrotin.
"Hey! my friend; when a man is blessed with such wheels as these
(striking the clumsy tires with his cane) he ought at least to have
the merit of punctuality. The deuce! one doesn't get into that thing
for pleasure; I have business that is devilishly pressing or I
wouldn't trust my bones to it. And that horse, which you call Rougeot,
he doesn't look likely to make up for lost time."
"We are going to harness Bichette while those gentlemen take their
coffee," replied Pierrotin. "Go and ask, you," he said to his porter,
"if Pere Leger is coming with us--"
"Where is your Pere Leger?" asked Georges.
"Over the way, at number 50. He couldn't get a place in the Beaumont
diligence," said Pierrotin, still speaking to his porter and
apparently making no answer to his customer; then he disappeared
himself in search of Bichette.
Georges, after shaking hands with his friend, got into the coach,
handling with an air of great importance a portfolio which he placed
beneath the cushion of the seat. He took the opposite corner to that
of Oscar, on the same seat.
"This Pere Leger troubles me," he said.
"They can't take away our places," replied Oscar. "I have number one."
"And I number two," said Georges.
Just as Pierrotin reappeared, having harnessed Bichette, the porter
returned with a stout man in tow, whose weight could not have been
less than two
by vocation, seemed indifferent to the question of costume; for he
looked at his boots, which had not been polished, with a quizzical
air, and searched for the spots on his brown Holland trousers less to
remove them than to see their effect.
"I'm in style," he said, giving himself a shake and addressing his
companion.
The glance of the latter, showed authority over his adept, in whom a
practised eye would at once have recognized the joyous pupil of a
painter, called in the argot of the studios a "rapin."
"Behave yourself, Mistigris," said his master, giving him the nickname
which the studio had no doubt bestowed upon him.
The master was a slight and pale young man, with extremely thick black
hair, worn in a disorder that was actually fantastic. But this
abundant mass of hair seemed necessary to an enormous head, whose vast
forehead proclaimed a precocious intellect. A strained and harassed
face, too original to be ugly, was hollowed as if this noticeable
young man suffered from some chronic malady, or from privations caused
by poverty (the most terrible of all chronic maladies), or from griefs
too recent to be forgotten. His clothing, analogous, with due
allowance, to that of Mistigris, consisted of a shabby surtout coat,
American-green in color, much worn, but clean and well-brushed; a
black waistcoat buttoned to the throat, which almost concealed a
scarlet neckerchief; and trousers, also black and even more worn than
the coat, flapping his thin legs. In addition, a pair of very muddy
boots indicated that he had come on foot and from some distance to the
coach office. With a rapid look this artist seized the whole scene of
the Lion d'Argent, the stables, the courtyard, the various lights and
shades, and the details; then he looked at Mistigris, whose satirical
glance had followed his own.
"Charming!" said Mistigris.
"Yes, very," replied the other.
"We seem to have got here too early," pursued Mistigris. "Couldn't we
get a mouthful somewhere? My stomach, like Nature, abhors a vacuum."
"Have we time to get a cup of coffee?" said the artist, in a gentle
voice, to Pierrotin.
"Yes, but don't be long," answered the latter.
"Good; that means we have a quarter of an hour," remarked Mistigris,
with the innate genius for observation of the Paris rapin.
The pair disappeared. Nine o'clock was striking in the hotel kitchen.
Georges thought it just and reasonable to remonstrate with Pierrotin.
"Hey! my friend; when a man is blessed with such wheels as these
(striking the clumsy tires with his cane) he ought at least to have
the merit of punctuality. The deuce! one doesn't get into that thing
for pleasure; I have business that is devilishly pressing or I
wouldn't trust my bones to it. And that horse, which you call Rougeot,
he doesn't look likely to make up for lost time."
"We are going to harness Bichette while those gentlemen take their
coffee," replied Pierrotin. "Go and ask, you," he said to his porter,
"if Pere Leger is coming with us--"
"Where is your Pere Leger?" asked Georges.
"Over the way, at number 50. He couldn't get a place in the Beaumont
diligence," said Pierrotin, still speaking to his porter and
apparently making no answer to his customer; then he disappeared
himself in search of Bichette.
Georges, after shaking hands with his friend, got into the coach,
handling with an air of great importance a portfolio which he placed
beneath the cushion of the seat. He took the opposite corner to that
of Oscar, on the same seat.
"This Pere Leger troubles me," he said.
"They can't take away our places," replied Oscar. "I have number one."
"And I number two," said Georges.
Just as Pierrotin reappeared, having harnessed Bichette, the porter
returned with a stout man in tow, whose weight could not have been
less than two