The young man, somewhat surprised, raised his head and looked his colleague full in the face. Then he replied without removing his eyes, that he might read the thoughts of the other: “But, my dear fellow you see—all my evenings are promised here for some time to come.”
Cachelin insisted in a good-humoured tone: “Oh, but, I say, you will not disappoint us by refusing, after the service that you have rendered me. I beg you in the name of my family and in mine.”
Lesable hesitated, perplexed. He had understood well enough, but he did not know what to reply, not having had time to reflect and to weigh the pros and the cons. At last he thought: “I commit myself to nothing by going to dinner,” and he accepted with a satisfied air, choosing the Saturday following. He added, smiling: “So that I shall not have to get up too soon the next morning.”
II
M. Cachelin lived in a small apartment on the fifth floor of a house at the upper end of the Rue Rochechouart. There was a balcony from which one could see all Paris, and three rooms, one for his sister, one for his daughter, and one for himself. The dining room served also for a parlour.
He occupied himself during the whole week in preparing for this dinner. The menu was discussed at great length, in order that they might have a repast which should be at the same time homelike and elegant. The following was finally decided upon: A consommé with eggs, shrimps and sausage for hors d’oeuvre, a lobster, a fine chicken, preserved peas, a pâté de foie gras, a salad, an ice, and dessert.
The foie gras was ordered from a neighbouring pork butcher with the injunction to furnish the best quality. The pot alone cost three francs and a half.
For the wine, Cachelin applied to the wine merchant at the corner who supplied him with the red beverage with which he ordinarily quenched his thirst. He did not want to go to a big dealer reasoning thus: “The small dealers find few occasions to sell their best brands. On this account they keep them a long time in their cellars, and they are therefore better.”
He came home at the earliest possible hour on Saturday to assure himself that all was ready. The maid who opened the door for him was red as a tomato, for she had lighted her fire at midday through fear of not being ready in time, and had roasted her face at it all day. Emotion also excited her. He entered the dining room to inspect everything. In the middle of the little room the round table made a great white spot under the bright light of a lamp covered with a green shade.
The four plates were almost concealed by napkins folded in the form of an archbishop’s miter by Mlle. Cachelin, the aunt, and were flanked by knives and forks of white metal. In front of each stood two glasses, one large and one small. César found this insufficient at a glance, and he called: “Charlotte!”
The door at the left opened and a little old woman appeared. Older than her brother by ten years, she had a narrow face framed with white ringlets. She did these up in papers every night.
Her thin voice seemed too weak for her little bent body, and she moved with a slightly dragging step and tired gestures.
They had said of her when she was young: “What a dear little creature!”
She was now a shrivelled up old woman, very clean because of her early training, headstrong, spoiled, narrow-minded, fastidious, and easily irritated. Having become very devout, she seemed to have totally forgotten the adventures of her past.
She asked: “What do you want?”
He replied: “I find that two glasses do not make much of a show. If we could have champagne—it would not cost me more than three or four francs; we have the glasses already, and it would entirely change the aspect of the table.”
Mlle. Charlotte replied: “I do not see the use of going to that expense. But you are paying; it does not concern me.”
He hesitated, seeking to convince himself:
“I assure you it would be much better. And then, with the cake it would make things more lively.” This decided him. He took his hat and went downstairs, returning in five minutes with a bottle under his arm which bore on a large white label, ornamented with an enormous coat of arms, the words: “Grand vin mousseux de Champagne du Comte de Chatel-Rénovau.”
Cachelin declared: “It cost only three francs, and the man says it is delicious.”
He took the champagne glasses from the cupboard and placed them before each place.
The door at the right opened. His daughter entered. She was a tall girl with firm, rosy flesh—a handsome daughter of a strong race. She had chestnut hair and blue eyes. A simple gown outlined her round and supple figure; her voice was strong, almost the voice of a man, with those deep notes which make the nerves vibrate. She cried: “Heavens! Champagne! What luck!” clapping her hands like a child.
Her father said to her: “I wish you to be particularly nice to this gentleman; he has done such a lot for me.”
She began to laugh—a sonorous laugh, which said: “I know.”
The bell in the vestibule rang. The doors opened and closed and Lesable appeared.
He wore a black coat, a white cravat, and white gloves. He created a stir. Cachelin sprang forward, embarrassed and delighted: “But, my dear fellow, this is among ourselves. See me—I am in ordinary dress.”
The young man replied: “I know, you told me so; but I never go out in the evening without my dress-coat.” He saluted, his opera-hat under his arm, a flower in his buttonhole. César presented him: “My sister, Mlle. Charlotte; my daughter Coralie, whom
