The Nabob [22]
had just prepared in all haste and without having received any order, exactly as at a /table d'hote/. Among those preoccupied and feverish faces, this one at any rate stood out in contrast by its good humour, its cheerfulness, and that loquacious and flattering benevolence which makes the Irish in a way the Gascons of England. And what a splendid appetite! With what heartiness, what ease of conscience he used his white teeth as he talked!
"Well, Jansoulet, you have read it?"
"What?"
"How, then! you do not know? You have not read what the /Messenger/ says about you this morning?"
Beneath the dark tan of his cheeks the Nabob blushed like a child, and, his eyes shining with pleasure:
"Is it possible--the /Messenger/ has spoken of me?"
"Through two columns. How is it that Moessard has not shown it to you?"
"Oh," put in Moessard modestly, "it was not worth the trouble."
He was a little journalist, with a fair complexion and smart in his dress, sufficiently good-looking, but with a face which presented that worn appearance noticeable as the special mark of waiters in night- restaurants, actors, and light women, and produced by conventional grimacing and the wan reflection of gaslight. He was reputed to be the paid lover of an exiled and profligate queen. The rumour was whispered around him, and, in his own world, secured him an envied and despicable position.
Jansoulet insisted on reading the article, impatient to know what had been said of him. Unfortunately Jenkins had left his copy at the duke's.
"Let some one go fetch me a /Messenger/ quickly," said the Nabob to the servant behind him.
Moessard intervened.
"It is needless. I must have the thing on me somewhere."
And with the absence of ceremony of the tavern /habitue/, of the reporter who scribbles his paragraph with his glass beside him, the journalist drew out a pocket-book, crammed full of notes, stamped papers, newspaper cuttings, notes written on glazed paper with crests, which he proceeded to litter over the table, pushing away his plate in order to search for the proof of his article.
"There you are." He passed it over to Jansoulet; but Jenkins besought him:
"No, no; read it aloud."
The company having echoed the request in chorus, Moessard took back his proof and commenced to read in a loud voice, "The Bethlehem Society and Mr. Bernard Jansoulet," a long dithyramb in favour of artificial lactation, written from notes made by Jenkins, which were recognisable through certain fine phrases much affected by the Irishman, such as "the long martyrology of childhood," "the sordid traffic in the breast," "the beneficent nanny-goat as foster-mother," and finishing, after a pompous description of the splendid establishment at Nanterre, with a eulogy of Jenkins and a glorification of Jansoulet: "O Bernard Jansoulet, benefactor of childhood!" It was a sight to see the vexed, scandalized faces of the guests. What an intriguer was this Moessard! What an impudent piece of sycophantry! And the same envious, disdainful smile quivered on every mouth. And the deuce of it was that a man had to applaud, to appear charmed, the master of the house not being weary as yet of incense, and taking everything very seriously, both the article and the applause it provoked. His big face shone during the reading. Often, down yonder, far away, had he dreamed a dream of having his praises sung like this in the newspapers of Paris, of being somebody in that society, the first among all, on which the entire world has its eyes fixed as on the bearer of a torch. Now, that dream was becoming a reality. He gazed upon all these people seated at his board, the sumptuous dessert, this panelled dining-room as high, certainly, as the church of his native village; he listened to the dull murmur of Paris rolling along in its carriages and treading the pavements beneath his windows, with the intimate conviction that he was about to become an important piece in that active and complicated machine. And then, through the atmosphere of physical well-being produced by the
"Well, Jansoulet, you have read it?"
"What?"
"How, then! you do not know? You have not read what the /Messenger/ says about you this morning?"
Beneath the dark tan of his cheeks the Nabob blushed like a child, and, his eyes shining with pleasure:
"Is it possible--the /Messenger/ has spoken of me?"
"Through two columns. How is it that Moessard has not shown it to you?"
"Oh," put in Moessard modestly, "it was not worth the trouble."
He was a little journalist, with a fair complexion and smart in his dress, sufficiently good-looking, but with a face which presented that worn appearance noticeable as the special mark of waiters in night- restaurants, actors, and light women, and produced by conventional grimacing and the wan reflection of gaslight. He was reputed to be the paid lover of an exiled and profligate queen. The rumour was whispered around him, and, in his own world, secured him an envied and despicable position.
Jansoulet insisted on reading the article, impatient to know what had been said of him. Unfortunately Jenkins had left his copy at the duke's.
"Let some one go fetch me a /Messenger/ quickly," said the Nabob to the servant behind him.
Moessard intervened.
"It is needless. I must have the thing on me somewhere."
And with the absence of ceremony of the tavern /habitue/, of the reporter who scribbles his paragraph with his glass beside him, the journalist drew out a pocket-book, crammed full of notes, stamped papers, newspaper cuttings, notes written on glazed paper with crests, which he proceeded to litter over the table, pushing away his plate in order to search for the proof of his article.
"There you are." He passed it over to Jansoulet; but Jenkins besought him:
"No, no; read it aloud."
The company having echoed the request in chorus, Moessard took back his proof and commenced to read in a loud voice, "The Bethlehem Society and Mr. Bernard Jansoulet," a long dithyramb in favour of artificial lactation, written from notes made by Jenkins, which were recognisable through certain fine phrases much affected by the Irishman, such as "the long martyrology of childhood," "the sordid traffic in the breast," "the beneficent nanny-goat as foster-mother," and finishing, after a pompous description of the splendid establishment at Nanterre, with a eulogy of Jenkins and a glorification of Jansoulet: "O Bernard Jansoulet, benefactor of childhood!" It was a sight to see the vexed, scandalized faces of the guests. What an intriguer was this Moessard! What an impudent piece of sycophantry! And the same envious, disdainful smile quivered on every mouth. And the deuce of it was that a man had to applaud, to appear charmed, the master of the house not being weary as yet of incense, and taking everything very seriously, both the article and the applause it provoked. His big face shone during the reading. Often, down yonder, far away, had he dreamed a dream of having his praises sung like this in the newspapers of Paris, of being somebody in that society, the first among all, on which the entire world has its eyes fixed as on the bearer of a torch. Now, that dream was becoming a reality. He gazed upon all these people seated at his board, the sumptuous dessert, this panelled dining-room as high, certainly, as the church of his native village; he listened to the dull murmur of Paris rolling along in its carriages and treading the pavements beneath his windows, with the intimate conviction that he was about to become an important piece in that active and complicated machine. And then, through the atmosphere of physical well-being produced by the