It was a pretty dance they led; but our three friends of the Place St. Anatole (who hadn’t got to pay the pipers) loved them both, especially Dodor.
One fine Sunday afternoon Little Billee found himself studying life and character in that most delightful and festive scene la Fête de St. Cloud, and met Dodor and l’Zouzou there, who hailed him with delight, saying:
“Nous allons joliment jubiler, nom d’une pipe!” and insisted on his joining in their amusements and paying for them—roundabouts, swings, the giant, the dwarf, the strong man, the fat woman—to whom they made love and were taken too seriously, and turned out—the menagerie of wild beasts, whom they teased and aggravated till the police had to interfere. Also al fresco dances, where their cancan step was of the wildest and most unbridled character, till a sous-officier or a gendarme came in sight, and then they danced quite mincingly and demurely, en maître d’école, as they called it, to the huge delight of an immense and ever-increasing crowd, and the disgust of all truly respectable men.
They also insisted on Little Billee’s walking between them, arm in arm, and talking to them in English whenever they saw coming towards them a respectable English family with daughters. It was the dragoon’s delight to get himself stared at by fair daughters of Albion for speaking as good English as themselves—a rare accomplishment in a French trooper—and Zouzou’s happiness to be thought English too, though the only English he knew was the phrase “I will not! I will not!” which he had picked up in the Crimea, and repeated over and over again when he came within earshot of a pretty English girl.
Little Billee was not happy in these circumstances. He was no snob. But he was a respectably brought-up young Briton of the higher middle class, and it was not quite pleasant for him to be seen (by fair countrywomen of his own) walking arm in arm on a Sunday afternoon with a couple of French private soldiers, and uncommonly rowdy ones at that.
Later, they came back to Paris together on the top of an omnibus, among a very proletarian crowd, and there the two facetious warriors immediately made themselves pleasant all round and became very popular, especially with the women and children; but not, I regret to say, through the propriety, refinement, and discretion of their behavior. Little Billee resolved that he would not go a-pleasuring with them any more.
However, they stuck to him through thick and thin, and insisted on escorting him all the way back to the quartier latin, by the Pont de la Concorde and the Rue de Lille in the Faubourg St. Germain.
Little Billee loved the Faubourg St. Germain, especially the Rue de Lille. He was fond of gazing at the magnificent old mansions, the “hôtels” of the old French noblesse, or rather the outside walls thereof, the grand sculptured portals with the armorial bearings and the splendid old historic names above them—Hôtel de This, Hôtel de That, Rohan-Chabot, Montmorency, La Rochefoucauld-Liancourt, La Tour d’Auvergne.
He would forget himself in romantic dreams of past and forgotten French chivalry which these glorious names called up; for he knew a little of French history, loving to read Froissart and Saint-Simon and the genial Brantôme.
Halting opposite one of the finest and oldest of all these gateways, his especial favorite, labelled “Hôtel de la Rochemartel” in letters of faded gold over a ducal coronet and a huge escutcheon of stone, he began to descant upon its architectural beauties and noble proportions to l’Zouzou.
“Parbleu!” said l’Zouzou, “connu, farceur! why, I was born there, on the 6th of March, 1834, at 5:30 in the morning. Lucky day for France—hein?”
“Born there? what do you mean—in the porter’s lodge?”
At this juncture the two great gates rolled back, a liveried Suisse appeared, and an open carriage and pair came out, and in it were two elderly ladies and a younger one.
To Little Billee’s indignation, the two incorrigible warriors made the military salute, and the three ladies bowed stiffly and gravely.
And then (to Little Billee’s horror this time) one of them happened to look back, and Zouzou actually kissed his hand to her.
“Do you know that lady?” asked Little Billee, very sternly.
“Parbleu! si je la connais! Why, it’s my mother! Isn’t she nice? She’s rather cross with me just now.”
“Your mother! Why, what do you mean? What on earth would your mother be doing in that big carriage and at that big house?”
“Parbleu, farceur! She lives there!”
“Lives there! Why, who and what is she, your mother?”
“The Duchesse de la Rochemartel, parbleu! and that’s my sister; and that’s my aunt, Princess de Chevagné-Bauffremont! She’s the patronne of that chic equipage. She’s a millionaire, my aunt Chevagné!”
“Well, I never! What’s your name, then?”
“Oh, my name! Hang it—let me see! Well—Gontran-Xavier—François—Marie—Joseph d’Amaury—Brissac de Roncesvaulx de la Rochemartel-Boisségur, at your service!”
“Quite correct!” said Dodor; “l’enfant dit vrai!”
“Well—I—never! And what’s your name, Dodor?”
“Oh! I’m only a humble individual, and answer to the one-horse name of Théodore Rigolot de Lafarce. But Zouzou’s an awful swell, you know—his brother’s the Duke!”
Little Billee was no snob. But he was a respectably brought-up young Briton of the higher middle class, and these revelations, which he could not but believe, astounded him so that he could hardly speak. Much as he flattered himself that he scorned the bloated aristocracy, titles are titles—even French titles!—and when it comes to dukes and princesses who live in houses like the Hôtel de la Rochemartel … !
It’s enough to take a respectably brought-up young Briton’s breath away!
When he saw Taffy that evening, he exclaimed: “I say, Zouzou’s mother’s a duchess!”
“Yes—the Duchesse de la Rochemartel-Boisségur.”
“You never told me!”
“You never asked me. It’s one of the greatest names in France. They’re very poor, I believe.”
“Poor! You should see the house they live in!”
“I’ve been there, to dinner;
