Bohemians of the Latin Quarter | Page 9

"Rue de Rivoli!" muttered the porter, scratching his nose, "it's very odd
they should have let him lodgings in the Rue de Rivoli, and never come
here to ask about him. Very odd, that. At any rate, he can't carry off his
furniture without paying. If only the new tenant don't come moving in
just as Monsieur Schaunard is moving out! That would make a nice
mess! Well, sure enough," he exclaimed, suddenly putting his head out
of his little window, "here he comes, the new tenant!"
In fact, a young man in a white hat, followed by a porter who did not
seem over-burdened by the weight of his load, had just entered the
court. "Is my room ready?" he demanded of the house-porter, who had
stepped out to meet him.
"Not yet, sir, but it will be in a moment. The person who occupies it has
gone after a cart for his things. Meanwhile, sir, you may put your
furniture in the court."
"I am afraid it's going to rain," replied the young man, chewing a
bouquet of violets which he held in his mouth, "My furniture might be
spoiled. My friend," continued he, turning to the man who was behind
him, with something on a trunk which the porter could not exactly

make out, "put that down and go back to my old lodging to fetch the
remaining valuables."
The man ranged along the wall several frames six or seven feet high,
folded together, and apparently being capable of being extended.
"Look here," said the new-comer to his follower, half opening one of
the screens and showing him a rent in the canvas, "what an accident!
You have cracked my grand Venetian glass. Take more care on your
second trip, especially with my library."
"What does he mean by his Venetian glass?" muttered the porter,
walking up and down with an uneasy air before the frames ranged
against the wall. "I don't see any glass. Some joke, no doubt. I only see
a screen. We shall see, at any rate, what he will bring next trip."
"Is your tenant not going to make room for me soon?" inquired the
young man, "it is half-past twelve, and I want to move in."
"He won't be much longer," answered the porter, "but there is no harm
done yet, since your furniture has not come," added he, with a stress on
the concluding words.
As the young man was about to reply, a dragoon entered the court.
"Is this Monsieur Bernard's?" he asked, drawing a letter from a huge
leather portfolio which swung at his side.
"He lives here," replied the porter.
"Here is a letter for him," said the dragoon; "give me a receipt," and he
handed to the porter a bulletin of despatches which the latter entered his
lodge to sign.
"Excuse me for leaving you alone," said he to the young man who was
stalking impatiently about the court, "but this is a letter from the
Minister to my landlord, and I am going to take it up to him."
Monsieur Bernard was just beginning to shave when the porter knocked

at his door.
"What do you want, Durand?"
"Sir," replied the other, lifting his cap, "a soldier has just brought this
for you. It comes from the Ministry." And he handed to Monsieur
Bernard the letter, the envelope of which bore the stamp of the War
Department.
"Heavens!" exclaimed Monsieur Bernard, in such agitation that he all
but cut himself. "From the Minister of War! I am sure it is my
nomination as Knight of the Legion of Honour, which I have long
solicited. At last they have done justice to my good conduct. Here,
Durand," said he, fumbling in his waistcoat-pocket, "here are five
francs to drink to my health. Stay! I haven't my purse about me. Wait,
and I will give you the money in a moment."
The porter was so overcome by this stunning fit of generosity, which
was not at all in accordance with his landlord's ordinary habits, that he
absolutely put on his cap again.
But Monsieur Bernard, who at any other time would have severely
reprimanded this infraction of the laws of social hierarchy, appeared
not to notice it. He put on his spectacles, broke the seal of the envelope
with the respectful anxiety of a vizier receiving a sultan's firman, and
began to read the dispatch. At the first line a frightful grimace ploughed
his fat, monk-like cheeks with crimson furrows, and his little eyes
flashed sparks that seemed ready to set fire to his bushy wig. In fact, all
his features were so turned upside-down that you would have said his
countenance had just suffered a shock of face-quake.
For these were the contents of the letter bearing the ministerial