The Colonel walked in next day, a few minutes after breakfast. When his mother expressed uneasiness at his absence, he flew into a passion, and asked if he were of age or no.
“By heaven! I come in with good news, and you all look as solemn as hearses. The Duc de Berry is dead! Well, so much the better! There is one less of them.—I am going to be cashier of a newspaper office, with a thousand crowns a year, so you are free from all worry so far as I am concerned.”
“Is it possible?” cried Agathe.
“Yes, if you can stand surety for twenty thousand francs. You have only to deposit your securities for thirteen hundred francs a year, and you will draw your half-yearly dividends all the same.”
The two widows, who for two months past had been killing themselves with wondering what Philippe was doing, and how to find him employment, were so delighted at his prospects that they thought no more of the various difficulties of the hour. In the evening old du Bruel, Claparon, who was a dying man, and the inflexible Desroches senior—the three Sages of Greece—were unanimous. They advised the widow to stand surety for her son. The paper having been started, most fortunately, before the murder of the Duc de Berry, escaped the blow struck at the press by M. Decaze. The widow Bridau’s State securities for thirteen hundred francs of dividends were deposited as a pledge for Philippe, and he was appointed cashier. This good son then promised to pay the widows a hundred francs a month for his board and lodging, and was regarded as the best of good boys. Those who had thought ill of him congratulated Agathe.
“We judged him wrongly,” they said.
Poor Joseph, not to be left in the lurch, tried to keep himself, and succeeded.
At the end of three months, the Colonel—who ate and drank for four, who was very particular, and, under the pretext of his paying, led the two widows into expensive living—had not contributed a farthing. Neither his mother nor Madame Descoings would remind him of his promise, out of delicate feeling. The year went by, and not one of the crown pieces, which Léon Gozlan picturesquely calls a tiger with five claws, had passed from Philippe’s pocket to the housekeeping. On this point, to be sure, the Colonel had silenced his scruples of conscience: he rarely dined at home.
“And, after all, he is happy,” said his mother. “He is easy, he has an appointment.”
Through the influence of the theatrical articles, written by Vernou, a friend of Bixiou’s, of Finot’s, and Giroudeau’s, Mariette came out; not indeed at the Panorama-dramatique, but at the Porte Saint-Martin, where she was a success even by the side of Bégrand. Among the directors of that theatre there was just then a wealthy and luxurious general, who, being in love with an actress, had become an impresario for her sake. There are always in Paris men in love with some actress, dancer, or singer, who make themselves theatrical managers for love’s sake. This general knew Philippe and Giroudeau. By the help of the two newspapers, Finot’s and Philippe’s, Mariette’s debut was arranged by the three officers, with all the greater ease because, as it would seem, such passions are always reciprocally helpful in matters of folly.
Bixiou, ever mischievous, had soon told his grandmother and the pious Agathe that Philippe the cashier, the bravest of the brave, was the lover of Mariette the famous dancer at the Porte Saint-Martin. The stale news fell like a thunderclap on the two widows. In the first place, Agathe’s religious sentiments made her look on the women of the stage as brands of hell, and then they both believed that such women ate gold, drank pearls, and devoured the finest fortunes.
“Why!” said Joseph to his mother, “do you suppose that Philippe would be such a fool as to give any money to Mariette? Such women only ruin rich men.”
“There is a talk already of securing Mariette at the Opera-house,” said Bixiou. “But don’t be alarmed, Madame Bridau; the corps diplomatique haunts the Porte Saint-Martin, and that handsome girl will soon throw over your son. They say there is an ambassador who is desperately in love with Mariette.—There is some other news. Old Claparon is dead, and is to be buried tomorrow; and his son, who is a banker, and rolling in gold and silver, has ordered a third-class funeral. The fellow has no breeding. Such a thing could not happen in China!”
Philippe, with an eye to profit, proposed to marry the dancer; but being on the eve of an engagement at the Opera, Mademoiselle Godeschal refused him, either because she guessed the Colonel’s motive, or because she understood that independence was necessary to her fortunes.
Throughout the remainder of this year Philippe came to see his mother twice a month at most. Where was he? At his office, at the theatre, or with Mariette. No light was shed on his proceedings in the home in the Rue Mazarine.
Giroudeau, Finot, Bixiou, Vernou, and Lousteau saw him leading a life of pleasure. Philippe was at every party given by Tullia, one of the first singers at the Opera; by Florentine, who took Mariette’s place at the Porte Saint-Martin; by Florine and Matifat, Coralie and Camusot. From four o’clock, when he left his office, he amused himself till midnight; for there was always some ploy arranged the day before, a good dinner given by somebody, an evening at cards, or a supper-party. Philippe lived in his element.
But this carnival, which lasted for eighteen months, was not devoid of cares. The fair Mariette on her debut at the Opera, in January 1821, subjugated one of the most brilliant dukes of Louis XVIII’s court. Philippe tried to hold his own against the duke; but, notwithstanding some luck at the gaming-table, as the month of April came round his passion compelled him to borrow from the cashbox of
