A Start in Life

unload the barrow, which contained, besides two trunks, pails, brushes, and boxes of strange shape, a mass of packets and utensils, which the younger of the two newcomers who had climbed to the box-seat stowed and packed away with such expedition that Oscar, smiling at his mother, who was now watching him from the other side of the street, failed to see any of the paraphernalia which might have explained to him in what profession his traveling companions were employed. This boy, about sixteen years of age, wore a holland blouse with a patent leather belt; his cap, knowingly stuck on one side, proclaimed him a merry youth, as did the picturesque disorder of his curly brown hair tumbling about his shoulders. A black silk tie marked a black line on a very white neck, and seemed to heighten the brightness of bis gray eyes. The restless vivacity of a sunburnt, rosy face, the shape of his full lips, his prominent ears, and his turn-up nose⁠—every feature of his face showed the bantering wit of a Figaro and the recklessness of youth, while the quickness of his gestures and saucy glances revealed a keen intelligence, early developed by the practice of a profession taken up in boyhood. This boy, whom art or nature had already made a man, seemed indifferent to the question of dress, as though he were conscious of some intrinsic moral worth; for he looked at his unpolished boots as if he thought them rather a joke, and at his plain drill trousers to note the stains on them, but rather to study the effect than to hide them.

“I have acquired a fine tone!” said he, giving himself a shake, and addressing his companion.

The expression of the senior showed some authority over this youngster, in whom experienced eyes would at once have discerned the jolly art student, known in French studio slang as a rapin.

“Behave, Mistigris!” replied the master, calling him no doubt by a nickname bestowed on him in the studio.

The elder traveler was a slight and pallid young fellow, with immensely thick black hair in quite fantastic disorder; but this abundant hair seemed naturally necessary to a very large head with a powerful forehead that spoke of precocious intelligence. His curiously puckered face, too peculiar to be called ugly, was as hollow as though this singular young man were suffering either from some chronic malady or from the privations of extreme poverty⁠—which is indeed a terrible chronic malady⁠—or from sorrows too recent to have been forgotten.

His clothes, almost in keeping with those of Mistigris in proportion to his age and dignity, consisted of a much worn coat of a dull green color, shabby, but quite clean and well brushed, a black waistcoat buttoned to the neck, as the coat was too, only just showing a red handkerchief round his throat. Black trousers, as shabby as the coat, hung loosely round his lean legs. His boots were muddy, showing that he had come far, and on foot. With one swift glance the artist took in the depths of the hostelry of the Silver Lion, the stables, the tones of color, and every detail, and he looked at Mistigris, who had imitated him, with an ironical twinkle.

“Rather nice!” said Mistigris.

“Yes, very nice,” replied the other.

“We are still too early,” said Mistigris. “Couldn’t we snatch a toothful? My stomach, like nature, abhors a vacuum!”

“Have we time to get a cup of coffee?” said the artist, in a pleasant voice, to Pierrotin.

“Well, don’t be long,” said Pierrotin.

“We have a quarter of an hour,” added Mistigris, thus revealing the genius for inference, which is characteristic of the Paris art student.

The couple disappeared. Just then nine o’clock struck in the inn kitchen. Georges thought it only fair and reasonable to appeal to Pierrotin.

“I say, my good friend, when you are the proud possessor of such a shandrydan as this,” and he rapped the wheel with his cane, “you should at least make a merit of punctuality. The deuce is in it! we do not ride in that machine for our pleasure, and business must be devilish pressing before we trust our precious selves in it! And that old hack you call Rougeot will certainly not pick up lost time!”

“We will harness on Bichette while those two gentlemen are drinking their coffee,” replied Pierrotin. “Go on, you,” he added to the stableman, “and see if old Léger means to come with us⁠—”

“Where is your old Léger?” asked Georges.

“Just opposite at Number 50; he couldn’t find room in the Beaumont coach,” said Pierrotin to his man, paying no heed to Georges, and going off himself in search of Bichette.

Georges shook hands with his friend and got into the chaise, after tossing in a large portfolio, with an air of much importance; this he placed under the cushion. He took the opposite corner to Oscar.

“This ‘old Léger’ bothers me,’ said he.

“They cannot deprive us of our places,” said Oscar. “Mine is No. 1.”

“And mine No. 2,” replied Georges.

Just as Pierrotin reappeared, leading Bichette, the stableman returned, having in tow a huge man weighing nearly seventeen stone at least.

Old Léger was of the class of farmer who, with an enormous stomach and broad shoulders, wears a powdered queue and a light coat of blue linen. His white gaiters were tightly strapped above the knee over corduroy breeches, and finished off with silver buckles. His hobnailed shoes weighed each a couple of pounds. In his hand he carried a little knotted red switch, very shiny, and with a heavy knob, secured round his wrist by a leather cord.

“And is it you who are known as old Léger?” (Farmer Light), said Georges gravely as the farmer tried to lift his foot to the step of the chaise.

“At your service,” said the farmer, showing him a face rather like that of Louis XVIII, with a fat, red jowl, while above it rose a nose which in any other face would have seemed enormous. His twinkling eyes were