I must tell you now who this gentleman was who dressed so ill. You will be greatly surprised to learn that he was an author—yes, a "truly author," as the children say; a man who wrote his plays himself,—especially as he had not the wherewithal to buy any,—and plays which were often very pretty, and which had been acted, and were being acted still, with success.
But, you will tell me, we have passed the time when men of letters, dramatic authors, earned barely enough to keep them alive; to-day, the stage sometimes leads to wealth even; but it does not follow by any means that all the nurslings of the Muses are destined to acquire wealth. One may be unfortunate, dissipated, reckless; and once in the mire, it is hard to extricate one's self therefrom, unless one has a firm, immovable determination, unbounded courage, and a still greater capacity for work; and everybody has not these. I cannot say what had been the trouble with Monsieur Dumouton, what reverses he had had; I did not know just how he was placed at that time; but, judging from his costume, it was impossible to escape the supposition that he had known adversity. Moreover, a few words that Dupréval let fall concerning this man of letters recurred to my memory. He always said, when Dumouton was mentioned:
"Poor fellow! he has all he can do to keep body and soul together! He has plenty of intelligence, too; but he's such a careless devil!"
Whence I concluded that Dumouton was a penniless author; I do not say, a worthless author. However, I was delighted to be in his company; for he was jovial, clever, and entirely free from conceit; so what did I care for his threadbare coat? I saw around the table several handsomely dressed men, who amounted to nothing under their fine clothes.
I have introduced you now to all of my companions who were not strangers to me; as for the others—why, if they say anything that makes it worth our while to listen to them, we shall not fail to hear it.
II
THE CHAPTER OF CONFIDENCES.—THREE SOUS
I have told you that all eyes were fixed on me, and that everybody was waiting to hear what I might have to say in justification or explanation of what I had advanced on the subject of men who love several women at once. For my part, I admit that, far from thinking about what reply I should make to those gentlemen, I was busily engaged in watching Dumouton, who was stowing away the contents of all the dessert plates within his reach, although he was not eating. When he could find nothing else on the plates that were near him, he attacked one of those pasteboard structures, usually covered with candies or small cakes, which no one ever touches, because they are intended simply as decorations for the table, and one of them often does duty for several months. I saw one of the waiters glare at him furiously when he saw what he was doing, and I said to myself:
"I wonder if that poor Dumouton is in the same position as Frédérick Lemaître in Le Joueur, when he stuffs bread into his pocket, saying: 'For my family!'"
"Well, Rochebrune! are you going to speak to-day?" said Dupréval.
"What do you mean?"