The artist is his opposite,—a big, bluff, hearty fellow, loud of voice and full of life. And he is successful, for he has received a medal and several honorable mentions at the Salon des Champs-Élysées, and has a fine twilight effect in the Luxembourg Gallery. After dinner he and M. Darblay play piquet for the coffee, and M. Darblay is generally loser.
The blind musician is a kindly old man with a benevolent face and a jovial spirit. He is the head professor of music at the Institution des Aveugles, on the Boulevard des Invalides. His wife is very attentive to him, taking his hat and cane, tucking his napkin under his chin, placing the dishes where he knows how to find them, and reading the papers to him. He knows where everybody sits, and he addresses each by name, and passes many brisk sallies about the room.
One poet is vivacious, not at all like the dreamy species to which he belongs. True, he wears long hair and a Quartier Latin "plug," but his eyes are not vague, and he is immensely fond of Madame Darblay's beans, of which he has been known to stow away five platefuls at a meal. Often he brings in a copy of Gil Bias, containing a poem by himself in the middle of the page and with illustrations by Steinlen.
A strange, solitary figure used to sit in one corner, speaking to no one, and never ordering more than a bowl of chocolate and two sous of bread. It was known merely that he was an Hungarian and an artist, and from his patched and frayed clothes and meagre fare it was surmised that he was poor. But he had a wonderful face. Want was plainly stamped upon it, but behind it shone a determination and a hope that nothing could repress. There was not a soul among the boarders but that would have been glad to assist in easing whatever burden sat upon him, and no doubt it was his suspicion of that fact and his dread of its manifestation that made him hold absolutely aloof. Madame Darblay once or twice made efforts to get nearer to him, but he gently and firmly repulsed her. He was a pitiable figure, but his pride was invincible, and with eyes looking straight forward, he held up his head and walked like a king. He came and went as a shadow.
None knew where he had a room. There were many stories and conjectures about him, but he wrapped his mantle of mystery and solitude about him and was wholly inaccessible. It was clear to see that he lived in another world,—a world of hopes, filled with bright images of peace and renown. After a time his seat became vacant, and I shall presently tell how it happened.
These will suffice as types of the Maison Darblay, though I might mention old M. Decamp, eighty-four years of age, and as hearty and jovial a man as one would care to see. In his younger days he had been an actor, having had a fame during the Empire of Napoléon III. And there were a professor of languages, who gave lessons at fifteen sous an hour, a journalist of the Figaro, and two pretty milliner girls from the shop next door.