A Start in Life [82]
which now ply, in
rivalry with the railroad, between Paris and Versailles. Both solid
and light, well-painted and well-kept, lined with fine blue cloth, and
furnished with blinds of a Moorish pattern and cushions of red
morocco, the "Swallow of the Oise" could carry, comfortably, nineteen
passengers. Pierrotin, now about fifty-six years old, was little
changed. Still dressed in a blue blouse, beneath which he wore a black
suit, he smoked his pipe, and superintended the two porters in livery,
who were stowing away the luggage in the great imperiale.
"Are your places taken?" he said to Madame Clapart and Oscar, eyeing
them like a man who is trying to recall a likeness to his memory.
"Yes, two places for the interieur in the name of my servant,
Bellejambe," replied Oscar; "he must have taken them last evening."
"Ah! monsieur is the new collector of Beaumont," said Pierrotin. "You
take the place of Monsieur Margueron's nephew?"
"Yes," replied Oscar, pressing the arm of his mother, who was about to
speak.
The officer wished to remain unknown for a time.
Just then Oscar thrilled at hearing the well-remembered voice of
Georges Marest calling out from the street: "Pierrotin, have you one
seat left?"
"It seems to me you could say 'monsieur' without cracking your
throat," replied the master of the line of coaches of the Valley of
the Oise, sharply.
Unless by the sound of the voice, Oscar could never have recognized
the individual whose jokes had been so fatal to him. Georges, almost
bald, retained only three or four tufts of hair above his ears; but
these were elaborately frizzed out to conceal, as best they could, the
nakedness of the skull. A fleshiness ill-placed, in other words, a
pear-shaped stomach, altered the once elegant proportions of the ex-
young man. Now almost ignoble in appearance and bearing, Georges
exhibited the traces of disasters in love and a life of debauchery in
his blotched skin and bloated, vinous features. The eyes had lost the
brilliancy, the vivacity of youth which chaste or studious habits have
the virtue to retain. Dressed like a man who is careless of his
clothes, Georges wore a pair of shabby trousers, with straps intended
for varnished boots; but his were of leather, thick-soled, ill-
blacked, and of many months' wear. A faded waistcoat, a cravat,
pretentiously tied, although the material was a worn-out foulard,
bespoke the secret distress to which a former dandy sometimes falls a
prey. Moreover, Georges appeared at this hour of the morning in an
evening coat, instead of a surtout; a sure diagnostic of actual
poverty. This coat, which had seen long service at balls, had now,
like its master, passed from the opulent ease of former times to daily
work. The seams of the black cloth showed whitening lines; the collar
was greasy; long usage had frayed the edges of the sleeves into
fringes.
And yet, Georges ventured to attract attention by yellow kid gloves,
rather dirty, it is true, on the outside of which a signet ring
defined a large dark spot. Round his cravat, which was slipped into a
pretentious gold ring, was a chain of silk, representing hair, which,
no doubt, held a watch. His hat, though worn rather jauntily,
revealed, more than any of the above symptoms, the poverty of a man
who was totally unable to pay sixteen francs to a hat-maker, being
forced to live from hand to mouth. The former admirer of Florentine
twirled a cane with a chased gold knob, which was horribly battered.
The blue trousers, the waistcoat of a material called "Scotch stuff,"
a sky-blue cravat and a pink-striped cotton shirt, expressed, in the
midst of all this ruin, such a latent desire to SHOW-OFF that the
contrast was not only a sight to see, but a lesson to be learned.
"And that is Georges!" said Oscar, in his own mind,--"a man I left in
possession of thirty thousand francs a year!"
"Has Monsieur
rivalry with the railroad, between Paris and Versailles. Both solid
and light, well-painted and well-kept, lined with fine blue cloth, and
furnished with blinds of a Moorish pattern and cushions of red
morocco, the "Swallow of the Oise" could carry, comfortably, nineteen
passengers. Pierrotin, now about fifty-six years old, was little
changed. Still dressed in a blue blouse, beneath which he wore a black
suit, he smoked his pipe, and superintended the two porters in livery,
who were stowing away the luggage in the great imperiale.
"Are your places taken?" he said to Madame Clapart and Oscar, eyeing
them like a man who is trying to recall a likeness to his memory.
"Yes, two places for the interieur in the name of my servant,
Bellejambe," replied Oscar; "he must have taken them last evening."
"Ah! monsieur is the new collector of Beaumont," said Pierrotin. "You
take the place of Monsieur Margueron's nephew?"
"Yes," replied Oscar, pressing the arm of his mother, who was about to
speak.
The officer wished to remain unknown for a time.
Just then Oscar thrilled at hearing the well-remembered voice of
Georges Marest calling out from the street: "Pierrotin, have you one
seat left?"
"It seems to me you could say 'monsieur' without cracking your
throat," replied the master of the line of coaches of the Valley of
the Oise, sharply.
Unless by the sound of the voice, Oscar could never have recognized
the individual whose jokes had been so fatal to him. Georges, almost
bald, retained only three or four tufts of hair above his ears; but
these were elaborately frizzed out to conceal, as best they could, the
nakedness of the skull. A fleshiness ill-placed, in other words, a
pear-shaped stomach, altered the once elegant proportions of the ex-
young man. Now almost ignoble in appearance and bearing, Georges
exhibited the traces of disasters in love and a life of debauchery in
his blotched skin and bloated, vinous features. The eyes had lost the
brilliancy, the vivacity of youth which chaste or studious habits have
the virtue to retain. Dressed like a man who is careless of his
clothes, Georges wore a pair of shabby trousers, with straps intended
for varnished boots; but his were of leather, thick-soled, ill-
blacked, and of many months' wear. A faded waistcoat, a cravat,
pretentiously tied, although the material was a worn-out foulard,
bespoke the secret distress to which a former dandy sometimes falls a
prey. Moreover, Georges appeared at this hour of the morning in an
evening coat, instead of a surtout; a sure diagnostic of actual
poverty. This coat, which had seen long service at balls, had now,
like its master, passed from the opulent ease of former times to daily
work. The seams of the black cloth showed whitening lines; the collar
was greasy; long usage had frayed the edges of the sleeves into
fringes.
And yet, Georges ventured to attract attention by yellow kid gloves,
rather dirty, it is true, on the outside of which a signet ring
defined a large dark spot. Round his cravat, which was slipped into a
pretentious gold ring, was a chain of silk, representing hair, which,
no doubt, held a watch. His hat, though worn rather jauntily,
revealed, more than any of the above symptoms, the poverty of a man
who was totally unable to pay sixteen francs to a hat-maker, being
forced to live from hand to mouth. The former admirer of Florentine
twirled a cane with a chased gold knob, which was horribly battered.
The blue trousers, the waistcoat of a material called "Scotch stuff,"
a sky-blue cravat and a pink-striped cotton shirt, expressed, in the
midst of all this ruin, such a latent desire to SHOW-OFF that the
contrast was not only a sight to see, but a lesson to be learned.
"And that is Georges!" said Oscar, in his own mind,--"a man I left in
possession of thirty thousand francs a year!"
"Has Monsieur