“Would you like mine, master?”
“No, thanks! That would look nice!”
“I’ll go and buy you a pair at the druggist’s on Rue du Temple.”
“What does the idiot say?” muttered Jéricourt; “suspenders at a druggist’s! do you propose to buy them made of marshmallow paste?”
“At all events I can’t stop here any longer,” cried Alfred; “Zizi will make a horrible row; she will be in an infernal humor; and if she sees that my trousers are creased, it will be much worse! And she will see it, for she always looks at them first when I join her; she is so particular about dress; she said to me once: ‘A man who doesn’t have morocco straps to his boots shall never step foot inside my door!’—Well, Jéricourt, are you coming?”
Tall Jéricourt decided at last to go away with his friend; for the flower girl, busily engaged in picking up her flowers, did not seem disposed to laugh, and he saw that he must needs abandon the idea of being listened to for that day at least. So he walked away, arm-in-arm with Alfred de Saint-Arthur, who, as he walked, did his utmost to hold his trousers up. When he saw the two young men take their leave, Chicotin Patatras nodded his head to Georget, who was not very far away, and who answered with a smile. And Violette, as she tried to replace her flowers in order upon her counter, did not fail to notice that pantomime.
V
A CONCIERGE’S LODGE
In a house of respectable appearance on Rue d’Angoulême, about half-past eleven one evening, the street bell was pulled so violently that it caused Monsieur Baudoin, the concierge, to leap from his chair, upon which he was beginning to doze, while his wife Hildegarde took advantage of his nodding to open a small cupboard and take therefrom a bottle, the neck of which she proceeded to introduce into her mouth, and took several swallows of a fluid which she seemed to enjoy greatly.
Baudoin the concierge was a tall, thin man, with a pale face and light hair, who had passed his fiftieth year, but was still very straight, and as active as a young man. To his occupation of concierge, he added that of clerk in a stage office, which kept him only until six o’clock. He was an honest man, to whom one could fearlessly entrust his house and his treasure; he did promptly whatever he was ordered to do, unless he did not fully understand; but in that case it was not safe to reproach him, for Baudoin lost his temper very readily, having an immeasurable self-esteem and claiming that he never made a mistake. When he did lose his temper, Baudoin swore like a trooper, and turned as red as a turkey-cock.
Hildegarde, the concierge’s wife, was two or three years older than her husband; she had once been pretty and sentimental; she was not very well preserved, and her inclination to sentiment having with age become diverted to brandy, Madame Baudoin had neglected herself considerably; there was a deplorable carelessness in her dress, which resulted in nothing ever being in place. Baudoin, who was always neat and decently dressed, often reproached his wife for her heedlessness in that respect, and as he had also discovered her unlucky fondness for liquor, he sometimes added to his reproaches lessons of an impressive sort, which made Hildegarde bellow loudly, and promise never to give way again to her miserable failing; but she never failed to forget that promise, whenever she thought that her husband would know nothing about it.