The Bohemians of the Latin Quarter. Henri Murger
by pointing with his mahl-stick to the commandment of the Church—
“Thou shalt eat no meat of a Friday,
Nor anything resembling thereunto.”
Schaunard, having no answer to make to this, betook himself again to his picture, which represented a plain with a blue tree and a red tree stretching out their branches to shake hands with one another—a transparent allusion to the delights of friendship which, notwithstanding, contained a good deal of philosophy.
Just at that moment someone knocked at the door; it was the porter with a letter for Marcel.
“Three sous to pay,” added the man.
“Are you sure?” asked the artist. “Good, then we will owe you the money,” and he shut the door in his face.
Marcel meanwhile had broken the seal. At the very first words he began to skip like an acrobat about the studio, thundering out with all his might the following well-known ballad, which, with him, denoted the highest possible pitch of jubilation—
“ ‘There were four young men of the neighbourhood,
Who all fell ill, as I’ve understood;
So they took them off to the hospital—
Al! al! al! al!’ ”
“Well, yes,” said Schaunard, taking it up.
“ ‘They laid them all in a full-sized bed,
Two at the foot and two at the head.’
“We know that.”
“ ‘And a little Sister came that way—
Ay! ay! ay! ay!’ ”
continued Marcel.
“If you do not hold your tongue, I shall begin to play the allegro from my symphony on ‘The Influence of Blue in the Arts,’ ” said Schaunard, who already felt symptoms of mental derangement; and he made for the piano.
The threat produced the effect of a little cold water poured into a boiling pot; Marcel calmed down as though by enchantment.
“There!” he said, handing over the letter. “Look!”
It was an invitation to dine with a deputy, an enlightened patron of the arts, and of Marcel in particular, who had painted a picture of his country house.
“If it is for to-day, it is unlucky that the card will not admit two persons,” remarked Schaunard; “but now I come to think of it, your deputy is Ministerialist. You cannot, you ought not, to accept; for your principles forbid your eating bread soaked in the sweat of the people’s brows.”
“Pooh!” said Marcel, “my deputy is Centre Left; he voted against the Government the other day. Besides, he ought to put me in the way of a commission, and he promised to give me some introductions. What is more, you see, I am as ravenous as Ugolino. Friday or no, I mean to dine to-day, so there it is!”
“There are other things in the way,” Schaunard went on, being, in fact, a trifle jealous of his friend’s windfall. “You cannot possibly go out to dine in a short red jacket and a bargeman’s cap.”
“I am going to Colline’s or Rodolphe’s to borrow some clothes.”
“Insensate youth! Have you forgotten that we have passed the twentieth day of the month? By this time any articles of apparel belonging to those gentlemen will have been spouted over and over again.”
“I shall find a black coat, anyhow, by five o’clock,” said Marcel.
“It took me three weeks to find one to wear at my cousin’s wedding, and that was in the beginning of January.”
“Very well, I shall go as I am,” retorted Marcel, striding up and down. “It shall not be said that paltry considerations of etiquette prevented me from making my first step into society.”
“By the way, how about boots?” put in Schaunard, who seemed greatly to enjoy his friend’s chagrin.
Marcel went out in a state of agitation impossible to describe.
In two hours’ time he came back with a linen collar.
“It was all I could find,” he said mournfully.
“It was not worth while to run about for so little. There is paper enough here to make a dozen.”
Marcel tore his hair. “Hang it all, but we must have some things here!” he cried.
A strict search, pursued for the space of an hour through every corner of both rooms, yielded a costume thus composed:—
A pair of plaid trousers.
A grey hat.
A red cravat.
One glove, which had once been white.
One black glove.
“They will make a pair at a pinch,” suggested Schaunard. “By the time you are dressed you will look like the solar spectrum. But what is that, when one is a colourist?”
Marcel meanwhile was trying on the boots. By some unlucky chance both belonged to the same foot!
Then, in his despair, Marcel bethought himself of an old boot lying in a corner—a receptacle for spent bladders of paint. On this he seized.
“From Garrick to Syllabus,” was his friend’s ironical comment; “one is pointed at the toes, and the other square.”
“No one will see it; I am going to varnish them.”
“What a notion! Now you only want a regulation dress-coat.”
“Oh, look here!” groaned Marcel, biting his hand, “I would give ten years of my life and my right hand for one!”
There was another knock at the door. Marcel went to open it.
“M. Schaunard?” said a stranger, pausing on the threshold.
“I am he,” said the painter, and begged him to enter.
“Monsieur,” began the stranger, whose honest countenance marked him out as a typical provincial, “my cousin has been talking a good deal of your talent as a portrait painter, and as I am just about to start on a voyage to the colonies as delegate of the sugar refiners of Nantes, I should like to leave a souvenir with my family. So I have come to look you up.”
“Oh, sacred Providence!” muttered Schaunard. “Marcel, hand a chair to Monsieur——”
“M. Blancheron,” the stranger continued. “Blancheron of Nantes, delegate of the sugar industry, formerly Mayor of V——, Captain in the National Guard, and author of a pamphlet on the sugar question.”
“I feel greatly honoured by being chosen by you,” said the artist, bowing before the refiners’ delegate. “How do you wish to have your portrait painted?”
“In miniature, like that,” rejoined M. Blancheron, pointing to an oil portrait (for to the worthy delegate, as to a good many other people, there are but two kinds of paintings—house and miniature; there is no middle term).
This artless reply gave Schaunard the measure of the good soul with whom he had to do, especially when M. Blancheron added that he wished to have his portrait done in fine colours.
“I never use any other kind,” said Schaunard. “How large do you desire to have your portrait, monsieur?”
“As big as that one,” said M. Blancheron, pointing to a canvas in the studio. “But what price does that come to?”
“Fifty to sixty francs; sixty with hands included, fifty without.”
“The devil! my cousin talked about thirty francs.”
“It varies with the season,” rejoined the painter, “colours