Frédérique, vol. 1

by Paul de Kock

Next came a man of thirty-six to forty years of age, rather ugly than handsome, with a round face, smooth hair, a shifty eye, and an equivocal smile, who spoke very slowly, and always seemed to reflect upon what he was going to say. His tone was honeyed, and his manners excessively polite. He was a clerk at the Treasury, by name Monsieur Faisandé. When someone, at the beginning of the dinner, said a few words that were a trifle free in tone, I noticed that he frowned, as a lady might have done who had strayed among us by mistake. After drinking five or six different kinds of wine, he pursed his lips less; but at every loose word that escaped us,—and such things are inevitable at a men's dinner which has no diplomatic object,—Monsieur Faisandé exclaimed:

"Hum! hum! Oh! messieurs, that's a little too bad! you go too far!"

"I may be mistaken," I thought; "but I would stake my head that Monsieur Faisandé is a hypocrite. That offended modesty is, to say the least, out of place, and almost discourteous toward the rest of us; for it seems a criticism of our conversation. In heaven's name, did the man think that if he came to dinner with a party of men, most of them young, and all high livers, he would hear no broad talk? There can be nothing so insufferable at a party as one of those people who seem determined to benumb your gayety by their sullen looks and their stiff manners. When such a person does appear in a merry company, he should be courteously turned out of doors."

What would you say of a doctor who should keep crying out during a dinner:

"Don't eat so much; you'll make yourself ill; don't take any of this, it's indigestible; don't drink any of that wine, it's too strong!"

No, indeed; at table the doctor disappears, or allows you to eat and drink anything; nobody can be more accommodating, even with his patients. And if doctors are so indulgent to the caprices of the stomach, by what right does a pedant or a hypocrite undertake to put my mind on a strict diet, and reprove the freedom of my conversation? There is an old proverb that says: "We must laugh with the fools;" or, if you please: "We must howl with the wolves."—Whence I conclude that it is, to say the least, in bad taste to appear shocked by a loose word or a vulgar jest, in such a company; and this Monsieur Faisandé's virtue seemed to be all the more doubtful because of his behavior.

In my review of the guests I must not forget Monsieur Dumouton, although I only knew him then from having been once or twice in his company. He was an individual who did not seem to be universally popular. Not that he had an unattractive physique; on the contrary, he was a tall, slender man, rather well than ill looking; his face was amiable, his strongly marked features did not lack character; his bright, black eyes and high color seemed to indicate a native of the Midi, although there was no trace of such origin in his speech. But poor Monsieur Dumouton was always dressed in such strange fashion, that it was difficult, on glancing at his costume, to avoid forming a melancholy opinion of his resources.

Imagine a threadbare coat, once green, but beginning to turn yellow, and made after the style of a dozen years before—that is to say, very short in front; in truth, it was also short in the skirts, which were very scant, and hardly hid the seat of his trousers, which were olive green and only just reached to his ankles, and fitted as close about the thigh and knee as a rope dancer's tights. His boots were always innocent of blacking, but, by way of compensation, were often coated with mud. Add to all this a plaid waistcoat, double-breasted, and buttoned to the chin; a black cravat, twisted into a rope; no shirt, collar, or gloves; and a beard that was usually of about three days' growth: such was Monsieur Dumouton's ordinary costume.

You will assume, perhaps, that he had donned other clothes to dine with us; if so, you would make a mistake: it seemed that he was not fond of change. Perhaps he had his reasons for that. However, he had made some slight ameliorations: he had a false collar, and a white muslin cravat, the ends of which were tied in a large knot that stood out conspicuously against the soiled background formed by the coat and waistcoat.

I cannot tell why it was that I imagined I had seen that cravat playing the part of draw-curtain at a window; it was an unkind thought, I confess, and I did my utmost to discard it; but, as you must know, evil thoughts are more persistent than good ones; and whenever my eyes fell on the ends of that enormous cravat, it seemed to me that I was sitting by a window.