“So I see; but where shall I find Bertrand?”
“Ach! you vill see him quite vell; dere is no tanger! He is in a safe blace—up the street. Go up und up—near the Parrière Montmartre.”
“Is he in a wine-shop?”
“No; don’t I tell you that you vill see him quite vell?”
Unable to extract any further information from Schtrack, Auguste decided to go in search of Bertrand; he succeeded in getting the door opened, and went out in the middle of the night to try to find his faithful comrade, with no other guide than the very vague information given him by Schtrack. From Rue Saint-Georges where he lived, he went by way of Rue Saint-Lazare to Rue des Martyrs, knowing that Montmartre was Bertrand’s usual promenade.
Desiring to avail himself of the permission Auguste had given him, Bertrand had invited Schtrack to go for a walk with him. The old German did not think of refusing; and, leaving his wife in his place, he polished his boots, took his cane and accompanied friend Bertrand, who had no sooner passed the porte cochère than he began on the battle of Wagram, which was certain to take them a very long way. In fact, the battle of Wagram was still in progress when they arrived at the Buttes de Montmartre, without once stopping for a drink. Schtrack, who had thus far ventured upon nothing beyond a sacretié! proposed that they should go into a wine-shop, which proposition was instantly acted upon. They found the wine very poor because they were accustomed to Dalville’s cellar, and they left that wine-shop to look for a better one. They went into another, drank another bottle, decided again that it was poor stuff and went in search of a third. After four hours of prospecting they had visited six wine-shops and drunk six bottles. When they reached the seventh, they began to think that the wine was better, or rather they were no longer in condition to pass judgment on it. Bertrand began again on his campaigns; Schtrack smoked four cigars, and it was nearly midnight when our friends were informed that it was closing time.
Bertrand paid without looking at the bill, and they left the shop; but the fresh air put the finishing touch to their intoxication. Bertrand especially, who was not accustomed to poor wine, soon felt his legs begin to wobble, and at the corner of Rue des Martyrs and Rue du Faubourg-Montmartre, he fell, reviling himself as a coward and sluggard and a wretched drinker.
Schtrack, who had kept his head better because he was used to wine-shop wine, emitted a sacretié! when he saw Bertrand fall, and tried to raise him. He could not succeed. After several minutes, during which Schtrack exclaimed from time to time: “Come, come, comrade Pertrand, off we go!” the old German discovered that his companion was already snoring as if he were in his bed.
“So, so! he’s asleep!” thought Schtrack; “I must not vake him; he pe vell comfort there to sleep. Put, suppose some carriage might pass und not see mein comrade!”
This reflection disturbed Schtrack, who was quite ready to go to sleep himself; but, looking about, he saw a grocer’s shop still open. Thither he went post haste and asked for a lamp. They gave it to him, after lighting it at his request. Beacon in hand, Schtrack returned to Bertrand, who was still sleeping peacefully, stretched out by the wall. The old concierge took the sleeper’s hat, placed it beside his head with the lamp upon it, and went away, saying to himself: