François made no reply to this interrogation, but signed to Thibault to hold his tongue.
“I am not to speak? not to speak?” said Thibault, “and supposing it does not suit me to hold my tongue, supposing I wish to talk, and that I am bored at having to dine alone? and that it pleases me to say; ‘Friend François, come here; I invite you to dine with me?!’ You will not? no? very well, then I shall come and fetch you.” And Thibault rose from his seat, and followed by all eyes, went up to his friend and gave him a slap on the shoulder vigorous enough to dislocate it.
“Pretend that you have made a mistake, Thibault, or you will lose me my place; do you not see that I am not in livery, but am only wearing my drab great-coat! I am here as proxy in a love affair for my master, and I am waiting for a letter from a lady to carry back to him.”
“That’s another matter altogether, and I understand now and am sorry for my indiscretion. I should like, however, to have dined in your company.”
“Well, nothing is easier; order your dinner to be served in a separate room, and I will give word to our host, that if another man dressed in grey like me comes in, he is to show him upstairs; he and I are old cronies, and understand one another.”
“Good,” said Thibault; and he therewith ordered his dinner to be taken up to a room on the first floor, which looked out upon the street.
François seated himself so as to be able to see the person he was expecting, while some distance off, as he came down the hill of Ferté-Milon. The dinner which Thibault had ordered was quite sufficient for the two; all that he did was to send for another bottle or so of wine. Thibault had only taken two lessons from Maître Magloire, but he had been an apt pupil, and they had done their work; moreover Thibault had something which he wished to forget, and he counted on the wine to accomplish this for him. It was good fortune, he felt, to have met a friend with whom he could talk, for, in the state of mind and heart in which he was, talking was as good a help towards oblivion as drinking. Accordingly, he was no sooner seated, and the door shut, and his hat stuck well down on to his head so that François might not notice the change in the colour of his hair, than he burst at once into conversation, boldly taking the bull by the horns.
“And now, friend François,” he said, “you are going to explain to me some of your words which I did not quite understand.”
“I am not surprised at that,” replied François, leaning back in his chair with an air of conceited impertinence, “we attendants on fashionable lords learn to speak court language, which everyone of course does not understand.”
“Perhaps not, but if you explain it to your friends, they may possibly understand.”
“Quite so! ask what you like and I will answer.”
“I look to your doing so the more, that I will undertake to supply you with what will help to loosen your tongue. First, let me ask, why do you call yourself a grey-coat? I thought grey-coat another name for a jack-ass.”
“Jack-ass yourself, friend Thibault,” said François, laughing at the shoe-maker’s ignorance. “No, a grey-coat is a liveried servant, who puts on a grey overall to hide his livery, while he stands sentinel behind a pillar, or mounts guard inside a doorway.”
“So you mean that at this moment then, my good François, you are on sentry go? And who is coming to relieve you?”
“Champagne, who is in the Comtesse de Mont-Gobert’s service.”
“I see; I understand exactly. Your master, the Lord of Vauparfond, is in love with the Comtesse de Mont-Gobert, and you are now awaiting a letter which Champagne is to bring from the lady.”
“Optimé! as the tutor to Monsieur Raoul’s young brother says.”
“My Lord Raoul is a lucky fellow!”
“Yes indeed,” said François, drawing himself up.
“And what a beautiful creature the Countess is!”
“You know her then?”
“I have seen her out hunting with his Highness the Duke of Orleans and Madame de Montesson.”
Thibault in speaking had said out hunting.
“My friend, let me tell you that in society we do not say hunting and shooting, but huntin’ and shootin’.”
“Oh!” said Thibault, “I am not so particular to a letter as all that. To the health of my Lord Raoul!”
As François put down his glass on the table, he uttered an exclamation; he had that moment caught sight of Champagne.
They threw open the window and called to this third comer, and Champagne, with all the ready intuition of the well-bred servant, understood at once, and went upstairs. He was dressed, like François, in a long grey coat, and had brought a letter with him.
“Well,” asked François, as he caught sight of the letter in his hand, “and is there to be a meeting to-night?”
“Yes,” answered Champagne, with evident delight.
“That’s all right,” said François cheerfully.
Thibault was surprised at these expressions of apparent sympathy on the part of the servants with their master’s happiness.
“Is it your master’s good luck that you are so pleased about?” he asked of François.
“Oh, dear me no!” replied the latter, “but when my master is engaged, I am at liberty!”
“And do you make use of your liberty?”
“One may be a valet, and yet have one’s own share of good luck, and also know how to spend the time more or less profitably,” answered François, bridling as he spoke.
“And you, Champagne?”
“Oh, I,” replied the last comer, holding his wine up to the light, “yes, I too hope to make good use of it.”
“Well, then, here’s to all your love affairs! since everybody seems to have one or more on hand,” said Thibault.
“The same to yours!” replied the two other men in chorus.
“As to myself,” said the shoe-maker, a look of hatred to his fellow creatures passing over his face, “I am the only person who loves nobody, and whom nobody loves.”
His companion looked at him with a certain surprised curiosity.
“Ah! ah!” said François, “is the report that is whispered abroad about you in the country-side a true tale then?”
“Report about me?”
“Yes, about you,” put in Champagne.
“Oh, then they say the same thing about me at Mont-Gobert as they do at Vauparfond?”
Champagne nodded his head.
“Well, and
