Rise and Fall of Cesar Birotteau [67]
Vauquelin!' Suppose we print an extract from Monsieur Vauquelin's report to the Academy of Sciences, confirming our statement, hein? Famous! Come, Finot, sit down; attack the viands! Soak up the champagne! let us drink to the success of my young friend, here present!"
"I felt," said the author modestly, "that the epoch of flimsy and frivolous prospectuses had gone by; we are entering upon an era of science; we need an academical tone,--a tone of authority, which imposes upon the public."
"We'll boil that oil; my feet itch, and my tongue too. I've got commissions from all the rival hair people; none of them give more than thirty per cent discount; we must manage forty on every hundred remitted, and I'll answer for a hundred thousand bottles in six months. I'll attack apothecaries, grocers, perfumers! Give 'em forty per cent, and they'll bamboozle the public."
The three young fellows devoured their dinner like lions, and drank like lords to the future success of Cephalic Oil.
"The oil is getting into my head," said Finot.
Gaudissart poured out a series of jokes and puns upon hats and heads, and hair and hair-oil, etc. In the midst of Homeric laughter a knock resounded, and was heard, in spite of an uproar of toasts and reciprocal congratulations.
"It is my uncle!" cried Popinot. "He has actually come to see me."
"An uncle!" said Finot, "and we haven't got a glass!"
"The uncle of my friend Popinot is a judge," said Gaudissart to Finot, "and he is not to be hoaxed; he saved my life. Ha! when one gets to the pass where I was, under the scaffold--/Qou-ick/, and good-by to your hair,"--imitating the fatal knife with voice and gesture. "One recollects gratefully the virtuous magistrate who saved the gutter where the champagne flows down. Recollect?--I'd recollect him dead- drunk! You don't know what it is, Finot, unless you have stood in need of Monsieur Popinot. Huzza! we ought to fire a salute--from six pounders, too!"
The virtuous magistrate was now asking for his nephew at the door. Recognizing his voice, Anselme went down, candlestick in hand, to light him up.
"I wish you good evening, gentlemen," said the judge.
The illustrious Gaudissart bowed profoundly. Finot examined the magistrate with a tipsy eye, and thought him a bit of a blockhead.
"You have not much luxury here," said the judge, gravely, looking round the room. "Well, my son, if we wish to be something great, we must begin by being nothing."
"What profound wisdom!" said Gaudissart to Finot.
"Text for an article," said the journalist.
"Ah! you here, monsieur?" said the judge, recognizing the commercial traveller; "and what are you doing now?"
"Monsieur, I am contributing to the best of my small ability to the success of your dear nephew. We have just been studying a prospectus for his oil; you see before you the author of that prospectus, which seems to us the finest essay in the literature of wigs." The judge looked at Finot. "Monsieur," said Gaudissart, "is Monsieur Andoche Finot, a young man distinguished in literature, who does high-class politics and the little theatres in the government newspapers,--I may say a statesman on the high-road to becoming an author."
Finot pulled Gaudissart by the coat-tails.
"Well, well, my sons," said the judge, to whom these words explained the aspect of the table, where there stilled remained the tokens of a very excusable feast. "Anselme," said the old gentleman to his nephew, "dress yourself, and come with me to Monsieur Birotteau's, where I have a visit to pay. You shall sign the deed of partnership, which I have carefully examined. As you mean to have the manufactory for your oil on the grounds in the Faubourg du Temple, I think you had better take a formal lease of them. Monsieur Birotteau might have others in partnership with him, and it is better to settle everything legally at once; then there can be no discussion. These walls seem to me very damp, my dear boy; take up the straw matting near your bed."
"Permit me, monsieur," said Gaudissart, with an ingratiating
"I felt," said the author modestly, "that the epoch of flimsy and frivolous prospectuses had gone by; we are entering upon an era of science; we need an academical tone,--a tone of authority, which imposes upon the public."
"We'll boil that oil; my feet itch, and my tongue too. I've got commissions from all the rival hair people; none of them give more than thirty per cent discount; we must manage forty on every hundred remitted, and I'll answer for a hundred thousand bottles in six months. I'll attack apothecaries, grocers, perfumers! Give 'em forty per cent, and they'll bamboozle the public."
The three young fellows devoured their dinner like lions, and drank like lords to the future success of Cephalic Oil.
"The oil is getting into my head," said Finot.
Gaudissart poured out a series of jokes and puns upon hats and heads, and hair and hair-oil, etc. In the midst of Homeric laughter a knock resounded, and was heard, in spite of an uproar of toasts and reciprocal congratulations.
"It is my uncle!" cried Popinot. "He has actually come to see me."
"An uncle!" said Finot, "and we haven't got a glass!"
"The uncle of my friend Popinot is a judge," said Gaudissart to Finot, "and he is not to be hoaxed; he saved my life. Ha! when one gets to the pass where I was, under the scaffold--/Qou-ick/, and good-by to your hair,"--imitating the fatal knife with voice and gesture. "One recollects gratefully the virtuous magistrate who saved the gutter where the champagne flows down. Recollect?--I'd recollect him dead- drunk! You don't know what it is, Finot, unless you have stood in need of Monsieur Popinot. Huzza! we ought to fire a salute--from six pounders, too!"
The virtuous magistrate was now asking for his nephew at the door. Recognizing his voice, Anselme went down, candlestick in hand, to light him up.
"I wish you good evening, gentlemen," said the judge.
The illustrious Gaudissart bowed profoundly. Finot examined the magistrate with a tipsy eye, and thought him a bit of a blockhead.
"You have not much luxury here," said the judge, gravely, looking round the room. "Well, my son, if we wish to be something great, we must begin by being nothing."
"What profound wisdom!" said Gaudissart to Finot.
"Text for an article," said the journalist.
"Ah! you here, monsieur?" said the judge, recognizing the commercial traveller; "and what are you doing now?"
"Monsieur, I am contributing to the best of my small ability to the success of your dear nephew. We have just been studying a prospectus for his oil; you see before you the author of that prospectus, which seems to us the finest essay in the literature of wigs." The judge looked at Finot. "Monsieur," said Gaudissart, "is Monsieur Andoche Finot, a young man distinguished in literature, who does high-class politics and the little theatres in the government newspapers,--I may say a statesman on the high-road to becoming an author."
Finot pulled Gaudissart by the coat-tails.
"Well, well, my sons," said the judge, to whom these words explained the aspect of the table, where there stilled remained the tokens of a very excusable feast. "Anselme," said the old gentleman to his nephew, "dress yourself, and come with me to Monsieur Birotteau's, where I have a visit to pay. You shall sign the deed of partnership, which I have carefully examined. As you mean to have the manufactory for your oil on the grounds in the Faubourg du Temple, I think you had better take a formal lease of them. Monsieur Birotteau might have others in partnership with him, and it is better to settle everything legally at once; then there can be no discussion. These walls seem to me very damp, my dear boy; take up the straw matting near your bed."
"Permit me, monsieur," said Gaudissart, with an ingratiating