“How do you know that?”
“Why, by watching the fellow; one can tell the condition of his purse as correctly as he could himself. If his funds are low, he has his meals brought to his room from a cook-shop where he has credit; his mustache droops despondingly; he is humble even to servility with his friends, and he brushes his hair over his forehead. When he is in average circumstances, he dines at Launay’s, waxes his mustache, and brushes his hair back from his face. But when he dines at the Cafe Riche, my boy, when he has dyed his mustache, and tips his hat over his ear, and deports himself in that arrogant fashion, why, he has at least five or six thousand francs in his pocket, and all is well with him.”
“Where does he get his money from?”
“Who can tell?”
“Is he rich?”
“He must have plenty of money—I lent him ten louis once, and he paid me back.”
“Zounds! He’s a very honorable fellow, then.” Thereupon the two young men laughed, and passed on.
Chupin had been greatly edified. “Now I know you as well as if I were your concierge,” he muttered, addressing the unconscious Wilkie; “and when I’ve followed you home, and learned your number, I shall have richly earned the fifty francs M. Fortunat promised me.” As well as he could judge through the windowpane, M. Wilkie was eating his dinner with an excellent appetite. “Ah!” he exclaimed, not without envy, “these fighting-cocks take good care of their stomachs. He’s there for an hour at least, and I shall have time to run and swallow a mouthful myself.”
So saying, Chupin hastened to a small restaurant in a neighboring street, and magnificently disbursed the sum of thirty-nine sous. Such extravagance was unusual on his part, for he had lived very frugally since he had taken a vow to become rich. Formerly, when he lived from hand to mouth—to use his own expression—he indulged in cigars and in absinthe; but now he contented himself with the fare of an anchorite, drank nothing but water, and only smoked when some one gave him a cigar. Nor was this any great privation to him, since he gained a penny by it—and a penny was another grain of sand added to the foundation of his future wealth. However, this evening he indulged in the extravagance of a glass of wine, deciding in his own mind that he had fairly earned it.
When he returned to his post in front of the Cafe Riche, M. Wilkie was no longer alone at his table. He was finishing his coffee in the company of a man of his own age, who was remarkably good-looking—almost too good-looking, in fact—and a glance at whom caused Chupin to exclaim: “What! what! I’ve seen that face somewhere before—“. But he racked his brain in vain in trying to remember who this newcomer was, in trying to set a name on this face, which was positively annoying in its classical beauty, and which he felt convinced had occupied a place among the phantoms of his past. Irritated beyond endurance by what he termed his stupidity, he was trying to decide whether he should enter the cafe or not, when he saw M. Wilkie take his bill from the hands of a waiter, glance at it, and throw a louis on the table. His companion had drawn out his pocketbook for the ostensible purpose of paying for the coffee he had taken; but Wilkie, with a cordial gesture, forbade it, and made that magnificent, imperious sign to the waiter, which so clearly implies: “Take nothing! All is paid! Keep the change.” Thereupon the servant gravely retired, more than ever convinced of the fact that vanity increases the fabulous total of Parisian gratuities by more than a million francs a year.