2. M. Alfred Capus. “Nôtre Jeunesse” at the Française
Through a novel published some years ago, under the title of Qui Perd Gagne, I made the acquaintance of a number of Parisians who committed all manner of faults and follies, got into all kinds of dilemmas; and yet compelled a certain sympathy by reason of their good-heartedness and good humour. Never a dull moment in this novel; never, indeed, a moment when there was not some anxious situation to face, some formidable difficulty to overcome. The leading personages were a retired blanchisseuse and her husband. Their names I cannot recall—let them be christened the Belons; and let it be admitted that the atmosphere in which they lived would most assuredly be condemned by the orthodox English critic as “unsavoury.” Laid bare before us in all its tawdriness, all its feverishness, all its swift delirious ups and downs, was the life of the adventurer. A good round dozen of these gentlemen, but the most “enterprising,” the most audacious, the most entertaining amongst them was our friend Belon, who, before becoming the husband of the blanchisseuse, and the master of the money realised by the sale of the blanchisserie, had been a seedy figure in shady newspaper offices and suspicious gambling clubs. In his unmarried days Belon rejoiced when a bet at baccarat, or a successful operation in the line of canvassing for advertisements, yielded him a louis. He was always “hard up”—always (as he described it) in a “crisis”—but adversity neither disheartened him nor turned his temper.
“Times will change,” predicted Belon, when he surveyed his shabby form in the mirror of a café.
“One of these days you will dine magnificently at Paillard’s,” Belon murmured, when he issued forth (his hunger still unsatisfied) from a greasy restaurant.
“Paris,” he soliloquised, as he swaggered along the boulevards, with a shocking little black cigar in the corner of his mouth, and his hat tilted rakishly on one side, “Paris, I know you well—know your weaknesses, your failings, your vanities. And with this precious knowledge to assist me, I shall undoubtedly succeed.”
Certainly, Belon knew Paris thoroughly—or part of it. He was full of anecdote and scandal. He had amazing stories to tell of personages high up in the grande monde, the monde d’affaires, and the demi-monde, and he told them well. He could be gallant—in a way. Also, when it served his purpose, he could feign a seriousness that inspired confidence. And it was his gaiety, his gallantry, his flashy worldliness, that fascinated the blanchisseuse—not a foolish woman by any means, but a practical, amiable soul, still in her thirties, still attractive, still (as the French novelist has it) “appétissante,” who saw in her marriage to Belon not only a means of escape from the steamy, stifling atmosphere of her laundry, but a position of importance, even of luxury and brilliancy. Belon she believed capable of great things; Belon, with his enterprise, his audacity, his knowledge of the world, needed only a small capital, such as the sale of the laundry would provide, to become a master of affaires, and a leader of men. And then—was not Belon fascinating, and ardent, and tender? Thus, half prosaically, half sentimentally, did the blanchisseuse consider Belon’s eloquently worded proposal; and the result of her deliberations was good-bye to the blanchisserie. Affectionately she embraced, liberally she rewarded, Charlotte and Amélie, her assistants. Charlotte and Amélie wept. The future Madame Belon wept. Belon himself was moved to tears by the scene.
“Adieu, mes filles,” sobbed the future Madame Belon.
“Adieu, Madame,” sobbed back Charlotte and Amélie.