In order to get rid of the sense of weariness he experienced, Frederick shifted his seat. He took up his position at the lower end of the room; then at the right; after that at the left; and he remained in the middle of the bench with his arms stretched out. But a cat, daintily pressing down the velvet at the back of the seat, startled him by giving a sudden spring, in order to lick up the spots of syrup on the tray; and the child of the house, an insufferable brat of four, played noisily with a rattle on the bar steps. His mother, a pale-faced little woman, with decayed teeth, was smiling in a stupid sort of way. What in the world could Regimbart be doing? Frederick waited for him in an exceedingly miserable frame of mind.
The rain clattered like hail on the covering of the cab. Through the opening in the muslin curtain he could see the poor horse in the street more motionless than a horse made of wood. The stream of water, becoming enormous, trickled down between two spokes of the wheels, and the coachman was nodding drowsily with the horsecloth wrapped round him for protection, but fearing lest his fare might give him the slip, he opened the door every now and then, with the rain dripping from him as if falling from a mountain torrent; and, if things could get worn out by looking at them, the clock ought to have by this time been utterly dissolved, so frequently did Frederick rivet his eyes on it. However, it kept going. “Mine host” Alexandre walked up and down repeating, “He’ll come! Cheer up! he’ll come!” and, in order to divert his thoughts, talked politics, holding forth at some length. He even carried civility so far as to propose a game of dominoes.
At length when it was half-past four, Frederick, who had been there since about twelve, sprang to his feet, and declared that he would not wait any longer.
“I can’t understand it at all myself,” replied the café-keeper, in a tone of straightforwardness. “This is the first time that M. Ledoux has failed to come!”
“What! Monsieur Ledoux?”
“Why, yes, Monsieur!”
“I said Regimbart,” exclaimed Frederick, exasperated.
“Ah! a thousand pardons! You are making a mistake! Madame Alexandre, did not Monsieur say M. Ledoux?”
And, questioning the waiter: “You heard him yourself, just as I did?”
No doubt, to pay his master off for old scores, the waiter contented himself with smiling.
Frederick drove back to the boulevards, indignant at having his time wasted, raging against the Citizen, but craving for his presence as if for that of a god, and firmly resolved to drag him forth, if necessary, from the depths of the most remote cellars. The vehicle in which he was driving only irritated him the more, and he accordingly got rid of it. His ideas were in a state of confusion. Then all the names of the cafés which he had heard pronounced by that idiot burst forth at the same time from his memory like the thousand pieces of an exhibition of fireworks—the Café Gascard, the Café Grimbert, the Café Halbout, the Bordelais smoking-divan, the Havanais, the Havrais, the Bœuf à la Mode, the Brasserie Allemande, and the Mère Morel; and he made his way to all of them in succession. But in one he was told that Regimbart had just gone out; in another, that he might perhaps call at a later hour; in a third, that they had not seen him for six months; and, in another place, that he had the day before ordered a leg of mutton for Saturday. Finally, at Vautier’s dining-rooms, Frederick, on opening the door, knocked against the waiter.
“Do you know M. Regimbart?”
“What, monsieur! do I know him? ’Tis I who have the honour of attending on him. He’s upstairs—he is just finishing his dinner!”
And, with a napkin under his arm, the master of the establishment himself accosted him:
“You’re asking him for M. Regimbart, monsieur? He was here a moment ago.”
Frederick gave vent to an oath, but the proprietor of the dining-rooms stated that he would find the gentleman as a matter of certainty at Bouttevilain’s.
“I assure you, on my honour, he left a little earlier than usual, for he had a business appointment with some gentlemen. But you’ll find him, I tell you again, at Bouttevilain’s, in the Rue Saint-Martin, No. 92, the second row of steps at the left, at the end of the courtyard—first floor—door to the right!”
At last, he saw Regimbart, in a cloud of tobacco-smoke, by himself, at the lower end of the refreshment-room, near the billiard-table, with a glass of beer in front of him, and his chin lowered in a thoughtful attitude.
“Ah! I have been a long time searching for you!”
Without rising, Regimbart extended towards him only two fingers, and, as if he had seen Frederick the day before, he gave utterance to a number of commonplace remarks about the opening of the session.
Frederick interrupted him, saying in the most natural tone he could assume:
“Is Arnoux going on well?”
The reply was a long time coming, as Regimbart was gargling the liquor in his throat:
“Yes, not badly.”
“Where is he living now?”
“Why, in the Rue Paradis Poissonnière,” the Citizen returned with astonishment.
“What number?”
“Thirty-seven—confound it! what a funny fellow you are!”
Frederick rose.
“What! are you going?”
“Yes, yes! I have to make a call—some business matter I had forgotten! Goodbye!”
Frederick went
