But there is this striking difference between the two: whereas old le Roué is delicately made, frail, shrunken, old de Mô is enormous, apoplectic, with flowing white whiskers, a round, bumpy bald head, a fiery complexion and a huge gouty foot which is ever encased in a wonderful elastic shoe. Le Roué and de Mô rejoiced extravagantly together in the latter brilliant days of the Second Empire. And to-day, in the year of 1912, they love to recall their past conquests, duels, follies, and never tire of abusing the Republican régime.
“What a Government, what an age!” complains le Roué.
“Abominable—odious—sinister,” declares de Mô.
Also, our superannuated viveurs recall affectionate memories of a dear, mutual friend, the late Comte Robert de Barsac, who died last year, of a vague illness, shortly after he had riotously celebrated his seventieth birthday. The truth was, old de Barsac could not keep pace with old le Roué and old de Mô. His face became leaden in colour and his speech rambling and incoherent. And one night, he suddenly passed away in his sleep from exhaustion.
“Ce pauvre cher Robert!” exclaims le Roué sadly. “Ce pauvre cher Robert!” sighs de Mô.
Then there is another old friend, still living, of whom le Roué and de Mô speak affectionately as they sit together in their corner of the quiet, comfortable café.
She is “Madeline”—who, once upon a time, was the “star” actress at the Variétés theatre. In truth, Marguerite de Prèsles (as she figured on the bills) was something of a queen: the queen of the half-world. The newspapers of that period, in alluding to her wit, beauty and charm, called her the “exquisite Madeline”; the “adorable Madeline”; the “incomparable” Madeline de Prèsles. Le Roué and de Mô worshipped at her shrine. And to-day—forty years after—they often visit her at Pichon’s gaudy night restaurant: where the “adorable” Variétés actress of years ago makes constant rounds of the place—with tinselled boxes of chocolates and a basket of flowers!
Yes; “Madeline” sells chocolates and flowers chez Pichon! And the gold hair has turned white and the slim figure has swollen, and the once pretty, bejewelled little hands have become knotted and coarse; and the old lady herself—the former radiant “star” of the Variétés—lives in a sombre hôtel meublé on the outskirts of Paris, where she passes most of the day in making up bouquets and button-holes for the painted, rackety company that assembles nightly at Pichon’s.
Thus some romance is left in old le Roué and old de Mô. They still seek out “Madeline.” They make her presents on New Year’s Day; nor do they ever fail to remember her birthday. Once they offered her an annuity—but whilst expressing her thanks and declaring herself “touched,” she assured her old admirers that she was content with the income she derived from her speculations in flowers and chocolates: although (so she added) she held but a scornful opinion of the modern young worldlings—the young worldlings of the “odious,” “sinister” Republic—who were her customers chez Pichon. And so, attached, by force of memories and by reason of their long, constant gallantry, so attached is “Madeline” to old le Roué, and old de Mô, that when those two valiant old rakes are seized with rheumatism or gout, and are obliged most unwillingly and angrily to lie up, she pays them daily visits; and refreshes and embellishes their rooms with her flowers; and reminds them vivaciously and wittily of the epoch—the wonderful epoch—when all three of them were gay, brilliant ornaments of the Amazing City....