Fromont and Risler, vol 2 | Page 9

"I must see the estimates."
For a whole week the actor had delved away at plans and figures,
seated between his wife and daughter, who watched him in admiration,
and intoxicated themselves with this latest dream. The people in the
house said, "Monsieur Delobelle is going to buy a theatre." On the
boulevard, in the actors' cafes, nothing was talked of but this
transaction. Delobelle did not conceal the fact that he had found some
one to advance the funds; the result being that he was surrounded by a
crowd of unemployed actors, old comrades who tapped him familiarly
on the shoulder and recalled themselves to his recollection--" You
know, old boy." He promised engagements, breakfasted at the cafe,
wrote letters there, greeted those who entered with the tips of his
fingers, held very animated conversations in corners; and already two
threadbare authors had read to him a drama in seven tableaux, which
was "exactly what he wanted" for his opening piece. He talked about
"my theatre!" and his letters were addressed, "Monsieur Delobelle,
Manager."
When he had composed his prospectus and made his estimates, he went
to the factory to see Risler, who, being very busy, made an appointment
to meet him in the Rue Blondel; and that same evening, Delobelle,
being the first to arrive at the brewery, established himself at their old
table, ordered a pitcher of beer and two glasses, and waited. He waited
a long while, with his eye on the door, trembling with impatience.
Whenever any one entered, the actor turned his head. He had spread his
papers on the table, and pretended to be reading them, with animated
gestures and movements of the head and lips.
It was a magnificent opportunity, unique in its way. He already fancied
himself acting--for that was the main point--acting, in a theatre of his
own, roles written expressly for him, to suit his talents, in which he
would produce all the effect of--
Suddenly the door opened, and M. Chebe made his appearance amid
the pipe- smoke. He was as surprised and annoyed to find Delobelle
there as Delobelle himself was by his coming. He had written to his

son-in-law that morning that he wished to speak with him on a matter
of very serious importance, and that he would meet him at the brewery.
It was an affair of honor, entirely between themselves, from man to
man. The real fact concerning this affair of honor was that M. Chebe
had given notice of his intention to leave the little house at Montrouge,
and had hired a shop with an entresol in the Rue du Mail, in the midst
of a business district. A shop? Yes, indeed! And now he was a little
alarmed regarding his hasty step, anxious to know how his son-in-law
would take it, especially as the shop cost much more than the
Montrouge house, and there were some repairs to be made at the outset.
As he had long been acquainted with his son-in-law's kindness of heart,
M. Chebe had determined to appeal to him at once, hoping to lead him
into his game and throw upon him the responsibility for this domestic
change. Instead of Risler he found Delobelle.
They looked askance at each other, with an unfriendly eye, like two
dogs meeting beside the same dish. Each divined for whom the other
was waiting, and they did not try to deceive each other.
"Isn't my son-in-law here?" asked M. Chebe, eying the documents
spread over the table, and emphasizing the words "my son-in-law," to
indicate that Risler belonged to him and to nobody else.
"I am waiting for him," Delobelle replied, gathering up his papers.
He pressed his lips together, as he added with a dignified, mysterious,
but always theatrical air:
"It is a matter of very great importance."
"So is mine," declared M. Chebe, his three hairs standing erect like a
porcupine's quills.
As he spoke, he took his seat on the bench beside Delobelle, ordered a
pitcher and two glasses as the former had done, then sat erect with his
hands in his pockets and his back against the wall, waiting in his turn.
The two empty glasses in front of them, intended for the same absentee,
seemed to be hurling defiance at each other.

But Risler did not come.
The two men, drinking in silence, lost their patience and fidgeted about
on the bench, each hoping that the other would tire of waiting.
At last their ill-humor overflowed, and naturally poor Risler received
the whole flood.
"What an outrage to keep a man of my years waiting so long!" began M.
Chebe, who never mentioned his great age except upon such occasions.
"I believe, on my word, that he is making sport of us," replied M.
Delobelle.
And the other: