It was just five o'clock in the afternoon, when a fashionably dressed young man, of comely aspect, and possessed of an attractive countenance, although his large blue eyes sometimes expressed a decided penchant for raillery, entered the café which stands, or stood, at the corner of Faubourg Poissonnière and the boulevard, on the right as you turn into the latter.
The young man looked into the first room, then into the others in succession, and at last said to himself:
"No one! not a single one of them has come! Probably not a single one of them will come! Five years is quite long enough to forget an appointment. However, I remembered it. I am sure that they are not all dead, for I met Dodichet within two months, and I saw Dubotté at the theatre less than a week ago. Lucien is the only one I haven't heard of for some time. Well, I'll wait a while. Everyone is entitled to the fifteen minutes' grace."
And the young man, whose name was Adhémar Monbrun, seated himself at a table, took up a newspaper, ordered a petit verre of chartreuse, and read a review of the play which had had a successful first performance the night before, but which the newspaper critic abused because the author was not a friend of his. Which fact, luckily, was not likely to prevent the play from making its way and achieving a long run, because the public was beginning to take at their true value the articles of those aristarchs of the press, who took for their motto, generally speaking: "No one shall be allowed to have any cleverness except ourselves and our friends."
Adhémar had not been reading the paper two minutes, when a man, who had just entered the café, walked straight to the table at which he was seated, and tapped him on the shoulder, saying:
"Well, my boy, here I am, too; as prompt as the sun in pleasant weather. I didn't forget our appointment, you see. Good-afternoon, Adhémar, I am delighted to see you once more! You're well, I trust? So am I, as you see. Everybody says that I have a prosperous face. Indeed, sometimes it irritates me to hear it, because I have noticed that prosperity often has a stupid look. But I hope that mine isn't so bad as that!"
This second individual was a man of about thirty years, who looked fully as old as he was, because he was a little inclined to corpulency; rather below than above medium height, with a full, high-colored face, always wreathed in smiles, a forest of light hair which curled naturally, china-blue eyes, as round as a cat's, and large mutton-chop whiskers—such was Philémon Dubotté, who considered himself a very good-looking fellow, and paid court to all the ladies except his own wife, whom he neglected shamefully, but who, on the contrary, adored him, and was always lavishing caresses on him. But the ladies are often like that: the colder you are with them, the more ardent they are with you; perhaps I shall be told that it is because they want to warm you.
Adhémar shook hands with the new-comer.
"How are you, Philémon! come and sit down. Yes, you have a look of robust health which does one good to see!"
"I haven't the look of it only, I beg you to believe. I'm as rugged as Porte Saint-Denis. By the way, is Porte Saint-Denis still standing?"