The Parisians | Page 7

a half. The Marquis silently drew forth his purse and
extracted the same sum. When they were out of the restaurant, Frederic
proposed adjourning to his own rooms. "I can promise you an excellent
cigar, one of a box given to me by an invaluable young Spaniard
attached to the Embassy here. Such cigars are not to be had at Paris for
money, nor even for love; seeing that women, however devoted and
generous, never offer you anything better than a cigarette. Such cigars
are only to be had for friendship. Friendship is a jewel."
"I never smoke," answered the Marquis, "but I shall be charmed to
come to your rooms; only don't let me encroach on your good-nature.
Doubtless you have engagements for the evening."
"None till eleven o'clock, when I have promised to go to a soiree to
which I do not offer to take you; for it is one of those Bohemian
entertainments at which it would do you harm in the Faubourg to assist,
--at least until you have made good your position. Let me see, is not the
Duchesse de Tarascon a relation of yours?"
"Yes; my poor mother's first cousin."
"I congratulate you. 'Tres grande dame.' She will launch you in 'puro
coelo,' as Juno might have launched one of her young peacocks."
"There has been no acquaintance between our houses," returned the
Marquis, dryly, "since the mesalliance of her second nuptials."
"Mesalliance! second nuptials! Her second husband was the Duc de
Tarascon."

"A duke of the First Empire, the grandson of a butcher."
"Diable! you are a severe genealogist, Monsieur le Marquis. How can
you consent to walk arm-in-arm with me, whose great-grandfather
supplied bread to the same army to which the Due de Tarascon's
grandfather furnished the meat?"
"My dear Frederic, we two have an equal pedigree, for our friendship
dates from the same hour. I do not blame the Duchesse de Tarascon for
marrying the grandson of a butcher, but for marrying the son of a man
made duke by a usurper. She abandoned the faith of her house and the
cause of her sovereign. Therefore her marriage is a blot on our
scutcheon."
Frederic raised his eyebrows, but had the tact to pursue the subject no
further. He who interferes in the quarrels of relations must pass through
life without a friend.
The young men now arrived at Lemercier's apartment, an entresol
looking on the Boulevard des Italiens, consisting of more rooms than a
bachelor generally requires; low-pitched, indeed, but of good
dimensions, and decorated and furnished with a luxury which really
astonished the provincial, though, with the high-bred pride of an
oriental, he suppressed every sign of surprise.
Florentine cabinets, freshly retouched by the exquisite skill of Mombro;
costly specimens of old Sevres and Limoges; pictures and bronzes and
marble statuettes,--all well chosen and of great price, reflected from
mirrors in Venetian frames,--made a 'coup d'oeil' very favourable to
that respect which the human mind pays to the evidences of money.
Nor was comfort less studied than splendour. Thick carpets covered the
floors, doubled and quilted portieres excluded all draughts from chinks
in the doors. Having allowed his friend a few minutes to contemplate
and admire the 'salle a manger' and 'salon' which constituted his more
state apartments, Frederic then conducted him into a small cabinet,
fitted up with scarlet cloth and gold fringes, whereon were artistically
arranged trophies of Eastern weapons and Turkish pipes with amber
mouthpieces.

There, placing the Marquis at ease on a divan and flinging himself on
another, the Parisian exquisite ordered a valet, well dressed as himself,
to bring coffee and liqueurs; and after vainly pressing one of his
matchless cigars on his friend, indulged in his own Regalia.
"They are ten years old," said Frederic, with a tone of compassion at
Alain's self-inflicted loss,--"ten years old. Born therefore about the year
in which we two parted--"
"When you were so hastily summoned from college," said the Marquis,
"by the news of your father's illness. We expected you back in vain.
Have you been at Paris ever since?"
"Ever since; my poor father died of that illness. His fortune proved
much larger than was suspected: my share amounted to an income from
investments in stocks, houses, etc., to upwards of sixty thousand francs
a-year; and as I wanted six years to my majority of course the capital
on attaining my majority would be increased by accumulation. My
mother desired to keep me near her; my uncle, who was joint guardian
with her, looked with disdain on our poor little provincial cottage; so
promising an heir should acquire his finishing education under masters
at Paris. Long before I was of age, I was initiated into politer mysteries
of our capital than those celebrated by Eugene Sue. When