mouldings, and sham sculpture during the last fifteen years by individuals of the Crevel stamp.
Beyond this drawing-room was a splendid boudoir furnished with tables and cabinets in imitation of Boulle.
The bedroom, smart with chintz, also opened out of the drawing-room. Mahogany in all its glory infested the dining-room, and Swiss views, gorgeously framed, graced the panels. Crevel, who hoped to travel in Switzerland, had set his heart on possessing the scenery in painting till the time should come when he might see it in reality.
So, as will have been seen, Crevel, the Mayor’s deputy, of the Legion of Honor and of the National Guard, had faithfully reproduced all the magnificence, even as to furniture, of his luckless predecessor. Under the Restoration, where one had sunk, this other, quite overlooked, had come to the top—not by any strange stroke of fortune, but by the force of circumstance. In revolutions, as in storms at sea, solid treasure goes to the bottom, and light trifles are floated to the surface. Cesar Birotteau, a Royalist, in favor and envied, had been made the mark of bourgeois hostility, while bourgeoisie triumphant found its incarnation in Crevel.
This apartment, at a rent of a thousand crowns, crammed with all the vulgar magnificence that money can buy, occupied the first floor of a fine old house between a courtyard and a garden. Everything was as spick-and-span as the beetles in an entomological case, for Crevel lived very little at home.
This gorgeous residence was the ambitious citizen’s legal domicile. His establishment consisted of a woman-cook and a valet; he hired two extra men, and had a dinner sent in by Chevet, whenever he gave a banquet to his political friends, to men he wanted to dazzle or to a family party.
The seat of Crevel’s real domesticity, formerly in the Rue Notre-Dame de Lorette, with Mademoiselle Heloise Brisetout, had lately been transferred, as we have seen, to the Rue Chauchat. Every morning the retired merchant—every ex-tradesman is a retired merchant—spent two hours in the Rue des Saussayes to attend to business, and gave the rest of his time to Mademoiselle Zaire, which annoyed Zaire very much. Orosmanes-Crevel had a fixed bargain with Mademoiselle Heloise; she owed him five hundred francs worth of enjoyment every month, and no “bills delivered.” He paid separately for his dinner and all extras. This agreement, with certain bonuses, for he made her a good many presents, seemed cheap to the ex-attache of the great singer; and he would say to widowers who were fond of their daughters, that it paid better to job your horses than to have a stable of your own. At the same time, if the reader remembers the speech made to the Baron by the porter at the Rue Chauchat, Crevel did not escape the coachman and the groom.
Crevel, as may be seen, had turned his passionate affection for his daughter to the advantage of his self-indulgence. The immoral aspect of the situation was justified by the highest morality. And then the ex-perfumer derived from this style of living—it was the inevitable, a free-and-easy life, Regence, Pompadour, Marechal de Richelieu, what not—a certain veneer of superiority. Crevel set up for being a man of broad views, a fine gentleman with an air and grace, a liberal man with nothing narrow in his ideas—and all for the small sum of about twelve to fifteen hundred francs a month. This was the result not of hypocritical policy, but of middle-class vanity, though it came to the same in the end.
On the Bourse Crevel was regarded as a man superior to his time, and especially as a man of pleasure, a bon vivant. In this particular Crevel flattered himself that he had overtopped his worthy friend Birotteau by a hundred cubits.
“And is it you?” cried Crevel, flying into a rage as he saw Lisbeth enter the room, “who have plotted this marriage between Mademoiselle Hulot and your young Count, whom you have been bringing up by hand for her?”
“You don’t seem best pleased at it?” said Lisbeth, fixing a piercing eye on Crevel. “What interest can you have in hindering my cousin’s marriage? For it was you, I am told, who hindered her marrying Monsieur Lebas’ son.”
“You are a good soul and to be trusted,” said Crevel. “Well, then, do you suppose that I will ever forgive Monsieur Hulot for the crime of having robbed me of Josepha—especially when he turned a decent girl, whom I should have married in my old age, into a good-for-nothing slut, a mountebank, an opera singer!—No, no. Never!”
“He is a very good fellow, too, is Monsieur Hulot,” said Cousin Betty.
“Amiable, very amiable—too amiable,” replied Crevel. “I wish him no harm; but I do wish to have my revenge, and I will have it. It is my one idea.”
“And is that desire the reason why you no longer visit Madame Hulot?”
“Possibly.”
“Ah, ha! then you were courting my fair cousin?” said Lisbeth, with a smile. “I thought as much.”
“And she treated me like a dog!—worse, like a footman; nay, I might say like a political prisoner.—But I will succeed yet,” said he, striking his brow with his clenched fist.
“Poor man! It would be dreadful to catch his wife deceiving him after being packed off by his mistress.”
“Josepha?” cried Crevel. “Has Josepha thrown him over, packed him off, turned him out neck and crop? Bravo, Josepha, you have avenged me! I will send you a pair of pearls to hang in your ears, my ex-sweetheart!—I knew nothing of it; for after I had seen you, on the day after that when the fair Adeline had shown me the door, I went back to visit the Lebas, at Corbeil, and have but just come back. Heloise played the very devil to get me into the country, and I have found out the purpose of her game; she wanted me out of the way while she gave a house-warming in the Rue Chauchat, with some artists, and players, and writers.—She took me in! But I can forgive her, for Heloise amuses me. She is a Dejazet under a bushel. What a character the hussy is! There is the note I found last evening:
“‘DEAR OLD CHAP,—I have pitched my tent in the Rue Chauchat. I
have taken the precaution of getting a few friends to clean up the
paint. All is well. Come when you please, monsieur; Hagar awaits
her Abraham.’
“Heloise will have some news for me, for she has her bohemia at her fingers’ end.”
“But Monsieur Hulot took the disaster very calmly,” said Lisbeth.
“Impossible!” cried Crevel, stopping in a parade as regular as the swing of a pendulum.
“Monsieur Hulot is not as young as he was,” Lisbeth remarked significantly.
“I know that,” said Crevel, “but in one point we are alike: Hulot cannot do without an attachment. He is capable of going back to his wife. It would be a novelty for him, but an end to my vengeance. You smile, Mademoiselle Fischer—ah! perhaps you know something?”
“I am smiling at your notions,” replied Lisbeth. “Yes, my cousin is still handsome enough to inspire a passion. I should certainly fall in love with her if I were a man.”
“Cut and come again!” exclaimed Crevel. “You are laughing at me.—The Baron has already found consolation?”
Lisbeth bowed affirmatively.
“He is a lucky man if he can find a second Josepha within twenty-four hours!” said Crevel. “But I am not altogether surprised, for he told me one evening at supper that when he was a young man he always had three mistresses on hand that he might not be left high and dry—the one he was giving over, the one
