Accordingly, the very choice cigars which M. Raindal smoked at the brasserie were, according to him, a present from the Marquis.
“Yes, my dear Schleifmann!” he asserted, “I found the box waiting for me when I came home.”
It must have been a huge box, a trunk almost, if one could judge from the number of havanas which it kept on supplying.
And it was the same thing about the tricycle which the ex-official had not been able to resist purchasing: perhaps Schleifmann thought that it was the result of further speculation? That was a very serious mistake! It had been paid for with the remains of his seven hundred francs profit, that tricycle.... Huh! That shut him up effectively, the moralist!... Or else Cyprien opposed a stoic reply to the inquiries of his brother, his niece, and his sister-in-law:
“Where did I find the money to buy this machine, you wish to know? With my savings on cigarettes, my good friends!... What do you suppose? When you wish one thing you have to do without another. It is extremely simple.”
He had added to these purchases that of a soft brown felt hat, the broad wings of which gave to his close-cropped head somewhat of a Cromwellian aspect. Thus he could be seen every day with his sombrero, his trousers gathered at the ankles, riding up and down the city on his tricycle, even when he had no further to go than the rue de Fleurus to see Schleifmann, the rue Vavin to get to Klapprot, or the rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs to see his brother.
To such short trips, however, he preferred a ride to the Bois, especially on Sundays, for there he was not troubled by his anxiety concerning the stock market.
He would go out about ten lock, following the boulevard St. Germain, the place de la Concorde, and the avenue des Champs Élysées. He wore red gloves and carried a cigar between his teeth. He pedaled with delight, bending over his front wheel, drinking in the sweet morning breeze that rushed against his cheeks. Then, as he approached the Arc de Triomphe, he straightened up, slowed down his pace and rectified his position. The avenue du Bois stretched before him, as far as he could see, the ample magnificence of its sidewalks and gardens. In the atmosphere there was already a certain heat which gave a feeling of ripeness and of summer. Under the chestnut trees near the entrance, a crowd of pretty women in light dresses chatted, standing, or sitting down with elegant gentlemen. From the distance, officers and young men approached at a canter and slowed down as they passed out of the riding track. Their horses shook themselves, stretched their necks and, if pulled back, scratched the hard ground under them. Or there would be a light-colored coach entering the avenue, pulled by four imposing horses. One could see light dresses on top of it, flowery hats, graceful women who smiled, and men with dissipated faces. Behind them in a smart herald-like attitude, his elbow lifted high and his body bent backward, a lackey would draw out of a long brass instrument raucous and triumphant appeals. One might think it the gorgeous chariot of Youth and Pleasure.
Uncle Cyprien was thrilled by this spectacle and the noise that went with it. His eyes, his lungs, and his ears drunk in the intoxication of the orgy of colors, perfumes and sounds; in spite of himself he derived from it a sensation of supreme enchantment. He rushed after the fascinating coach, caught up with it, ran alongside of it and in front of it, swelling with pride, despite the speed which caught his breath.
He passed through the gate, rode slowly under the shady trees, and stopped at a café to drink an apéritif. It was not until the lunch hour that he returned, still by the avenue du Bois.