ears of M. Hardy the hurried clanging of the alarm-bell of the burning factory.
(35) We wish it to be understood, that the necessities of our story alone have made the Wolves the assailants. While endeavoring to paint the evils arising the abuse of the spirit of association, we do not wish to ascribe a character of savage hostility to one sect rather than to the other to the Wolves more than to the Devourers. The Wolves, a club of united stone-cutters, are generally industrious, intelligent workmen, whose situation is the more worthy of interest, as not only their labors, conducted with mathematical precision, are of the rudest and most wearisome kind, but they are likewise out of work during three or four months of the year, their profession being, unfortunately, one of those which winter condemns to a forced cessation. A number of Wolves, in order to perfect themselves in their trade, attend every evening a course of linear geometry, applied to the cutting of stone, analogous to that given by M. Agricole Perdignier, for the benefit of carpenters. Several working stone- cutters sent an architectural model in plaster to the last exhibition.
CHAPTER VI. THE GO-BETWEEN.
A few days have elapsed since the conflagration of M. Hardy's factory. The following scene takes place in the Rue Clovis, in the house where Rodin had lodged, and which was still inhabited by Rose-Pompon, who, without the least scruple, availed herself of the household arrangements of her friend Philemon. It was about noon, and Rose- Pompon, alone in the chamber of the student, who was still absent, was breakfasting very gayly by the fireside; but how singular a breakfast! what a queer fire! how strange an apartment!
Imagine a large room, lighted by two windows without curtains—for as they looked on empty space, the lodger had fear of being overlooked. One side of this apartment served as a wardrobe, for there was suspended Rose-Pompon's flashy costume of debardeur, not far from the boat-man's jacket of Philemon, with his large trousers of coarse, gray stuff, covered with pitch (shiver my timbers!), just as if this intrepid mariner had bunked in the forecastle of a frigate, during a voyage round the globe. A gown of Rose Pompon's hung gracefully over a pair of pantaloons, the legs of which seemed to come from beneath the petticoat. On the lowest of several book-shelves, very dusty and neglected, by the side of three old boots (wherefore three boots?) and a number of empty bottles, stood a skull, a scientific and friendly souvenir, left to Philemon by one of his comrades, a medical student. With a species of pleasantry, very much to the taste of the student-world, a clay pipe with a very black bowl was placed between the magnificently white teeth of this skull; moreover, its shining top was half hidden beneath an old hat, set knowingly on one side, and adorned with faded flowers and ribbons. When Philemon was drunk, he used to contemplate this bony emblem of mortality, and break out into the most poetical monologues, with regard to this philosophical contrast between death and the mad pleasures of life. Two or three plaster casts, with their noses and chins more or less injured, were fastened to the wall, and bore witness to the temporary curiosity which Philemon had felt with regard to phrenological science, from the patient and serious study of which he had drawn the following logical conclusion:—That, having to an alarming extent the bump of getting into debt, he ought to resign himself to the fatality of this organization, and accept the inconvenience of creditors as a vital necessity. On the chimney-piece, stood uninjured, in all its majesty, the magnificent rowing-club drinking-glass, a china teapot without a spout, and an inkstand of black wood, the glass mouth of which was covered by a coat of greenish and mossy mould. From time to time, the silence of this retreat was interrupted by the cooing of pigeons, which Rose- Pompon had established with cordial hospitality in the little study. Chilly as a quail, Rose-Pompon crept close to the fire, and at the same time seemed to enjoy the warmth of a bright ray of sunshine, which enveloped her in its golden light. This droll little creature was dressed in the oddest costume, which, however, displayed to advantage the freshness of her piquant and pretty countenance, crowned with its fine, fair hair, always neatly combed and arranged the first thing in the morning. By way of dressing-gown, Rose-Pompon had ingeniously drawn over her linen, the ample scarlet flannel shirt which belonged to Philemon's official garb in the rowing-club; the collar, open and turned down, displayed the whiteness of the young girl's under garment, as also of her neck and shoulders, on whose firm and polished surface the scarlet shirt seemed to cast a rosy light. The grisette's fresh and dimpled arms half protruded from the large, turned-up sleeves; and her charming legs were also half visible, crossed one over the other, and clothed in neat white stockings, and boots. A black silk cravat formed the girdle which fastened the shirt round the wasp-like waist of Rose-Pompon, just above those hips, worthy of the enthusiasm of a modern Phidias, and which gave to this style of dress a grace very original.
We have said, that the breakfast of Rose-Pompon was singular. You shall judge. On a little table placed before her, was a wash-hand-basin, into which she had recently plunged her fresh face, bathing it in pure water. From the bottom of this basin, now transformed into a salad-bowl, Rose Pompon took with the tips of her fingers large green leaves, dripping with vinegar, and crunched them between her tiny white teeth, whose enamel was too hard to allow them to be set on edge. Her drink was a glass of water and syrup of gooseberries, which she stirred with a wooden mustard-spoon. Finally, as an extra dish, she had a dozen olives in one of those blue glass trinket- dishes sold for twenty-five sous. Her dessert was composed of nuts, which she prepared to roast on a red-hot shovel. That Rose-Pompon, with such an unaccountable savage choice of food, should retain a freshness of complexion worthy of her name, is one of those miracles, which reveal the mighty power of youth and health. When she had eaten her salad, Rose-Pompon was about to begin upon her olives, when a low knock was heard at the door, which was modestly bolted on the inside.
'Who is there?' said Rose-Pompon.
'A friend—the oldest of the old,' replied a sonorous, jovial voice. 'Why do you lock yourself in?'
'What! is it you, Ninny Moulin?'
'Yes, my beloved pupil. Open quickly. Time presses.'
'Open to you? Oh, I dare say!—that would be pretty, the figure I am!'
'I believe you! what does it matter what figure you are? It would be very pretty, thou rosiest of all the roses with which Cupid ever adorned his quiver!'
'Go and preach fasting and morality in your journal, fat apostle!' said Rose—Pompon, as she restored the scarlet shirt to its place, with Philemon's other garments.
'I say! are we to talk much longer through the door, for the greater edification of our neighbors?' cried Ninny Moulin. 'I have something of importance to tell you—something that will astonish you—'
'Give me time to put on my gown, great plague that you are!'
'If it is because of my modesty, do not think of it. I am not over nice. I should like you very well as you are!'
'Only to think that such a monster is the favorite of all the churchgoers!' said Rose-Pompon, opening the door as she finished fastening her dress.
'So! you have at last returned to the dovecot, you stray girl!' said Ninny Moulin, folding his arms, and looking at Rose-Pompon with comic seriousness. 'And where may you have been, I pray? For three days the naughty little bird has left its nest.'
'True; I only returned home last night. You must have called during my absence?'
'I came, every day, and even twice a day, young lady, for I have very serious matters to communicate.'
'Very serious matters? Then we shall have a good laugh at them.'
'Not at all—they are really serious,' said Ninny Moulin, seating himself. 'But, first of all, what did you do during the three days that you left your conjugal and Philemonic home? I must know all about it, before I tell you more.'
'Will you have some olives?' said Rose-Pompon, as she nibbled one of them herself.
'Is that your answer?—I understand!—Unfortunate Philemon!'
'There is no unfortunate Philemon in the case, slanderer. Clara had a death in her house, and, for the first few days after the funeral she was afraid to sleep alone.'
'I thought Clara sufficiently provided against such fears.'
'There you are deceived, you great viper! I was obliged to go and keep the poor girl company.'
At this assertion, the religious pamphleteer hummed a tune, with an incredulous and mocking air.
'You think I have played Philemon tricks?' cried Rose-Pompon, cracking a nut with the indignation of injured innocence.
'I do not say tricks; but one little rose-colored trick.'
'I tell you, that it was not for my pleasure I went out. On the contrary—for, during my absence, poor Cephyse disappeared.'
'Yes, Mother Arsene told me that the Bacchanal-Queen was gone on a journey. But when I talk of Philemon,
