I can scarcely avoid a smile even yet as I call to mind the awe I felt on entering the splendid shop of Monsieur Crillac,—the fashionable tailor of those days, whose plateglass windows and showy costumes formed the standing point for many a lounger around the corner of the Rue de richelieu and the Boulevard. His saloon, as he somewhat ostentatiously called it, was the rendezvous for the idlers of a fashionable world, who spent their mornings canvassing the last gossip of the city and devising new extravagances in dress. The morning papers, caricatures, prints of fashions, patterns of waistcoats, and new devices for buttons, were scattered over a table, round which, in every attitude of indolence and ease, were stretched some dozen of the exquisites of the period, engaged in that species of half-ennui, half-conversation, that forms a considerable part of the existence of your young men of fashion of every age and every country. Their frock-coats of light cloth, high-collared, and covered with buttons; their bottes à revers reaching only mid-leg, and met there by a tight pantalon collant; their hair studiously brushed back off their foreheads, and worn long, though not in queue behind,—bespoke them as the most accurate types of the mode.
The appearance of a youth in the simple uniform of the Polytechnique, in such a place, seemed to excite universal astonishment. Such a phenomenon apparently had never been witnessed before; and as they turned fully round to stare at me, it was clear they never deemed that any mark of rudeness could be felt by one so humble as I was. Monsieur Crillac himself, who was sipping his glass of eau sucrée, with one arm leaning on the chimney-piece, never deigned to pay me other attention than a half-smile, as, with a voice of most patronizing softness, he lisped out,—
“What can we do for you here, Monsieur?”
Apparently the answer to this question was a matter of interest to the party, who suddenly ceased talking to listen.
“I wish to order a uniform,” said I, summoning up all my resolution not to seem abashed. “This is a tailor's, if I don't mistake?”
“Monsieur is quite correct,” replied the imperturbable proprietor, whose self-satisfied smile became still more insulting, “but perhaps not exactly what you seek for. Gentlemen who wear your cloth seldom visit us.”
“No, Crillac,” interrupted one of the bystanders; “I never heard that you advertised yourself as fashioner to the Polytechnique, or tailor in ordinary to the corps of Pompiers.”
“You are insolent, sir!” said I, turning fiercely round upon the speaker. The words were scarce spoken, when the party sprang to their legs,—some endeavoring to restrain the temper of the young man addressed; others, pressing around, called on me to apologize on the spot for what I had said.
“No, no; let us have his name,—his name,” said three or four in a breath. “De Beauvais will take the punishment into his own hands.”
“Be advised, young gentleman; unsay your words, and go your way,” said an elder one of the party; while he added in a whisper, “De Beauvais has no equal in Paris with the small sword.”