The sprightly romance of Marsac

Madame Schmid, round and red, with the spotless lappets of her washerwoman’s cap flapping angrily, was plainly in a rage; and the three loud whacks she gave at the garret door of 17 Rue Montignal caused two young gentlemen on the other side of the door to quake visibly. One of them, Fontaine, ran incontinently into a closet and hid, while Marsac, the other, after a ghastly pretence of a joke about Madame Schmid’s whacks sounding like the three given at the Comédie Française before the curtain goes up, stalked with dignity to a corridor door. But, Madame Schmid bouncing in suddenly, Marsac as suddenly whisked out of sight.

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Madame Schmid was of that coarse, buxom beauty common enough in her class. She had one year been elected queen of the washer-women, in that picturesque festival peculiar to Paris, and it had been said that fear of her stout arm and robust tongue had some share in her election. But she had a good heart, along with her vile temper; and as she planted her basket viciously on the floor, and whipped out a tremendously long bill, her quick eye took in the poverty of the surroundings, and she was softened in spite of herself. However, as one whistles going through a graveyard, so Madame Schmid always stormed the more when her excellent heart prevented her from taking stronger measures.

The room was excessively shabby. A moth-eaten sofa, and a large but rickety table, covered with newspapers and the implements of the journalist’s trade, were the principal articles of furniture. The light of a gray day shone dully in at the curtainless windows. A number of pipes, together with a cracked mirror, ornamented the mantel, while scattered about the room were a violin and case, an easel, and painting materials.

Madame Schmid belonged to that large class of persons who believe that a man who engages in any form of art is necessarily a loafer. The sight of the painter’s tools, the violin, and especially the abundance of pens, ink, and paper, acted on her like a red rag on a bull, and gave her the excuse she wanted to raise a tempest. First, she exclaimed scornfully,--

“Painters!”

Next, more scornfully still,--

“Fiddlers!”

And last, with a concentration of contempt that would have made her fortune at any theatre in Paris,--

“Journalists!”

Then she began to bawl, in a voice like an auctioneer,--

“M’sieu Marsac! M’sieu Fontaine! Oh, I know you are somewhere about! This is an old dodge, running away when I come with my bill! You owe me, both of you, for seven weeks’ washing. Seven weeks have I rubbed and scrubbed for you, and I have not seen the colour of my money yet!”

Madame Schmid stopped for a moment to take breath, and then, noticing the door leading into the corridor, darted to it and began to tug vigorously at the knob. But Marsac, who was holding it on the other side, was Madame Schmid’s superior in muscle, though not in weight, and the door resisted successfully. She then marched over to the closet door; but Fontaine followed Marsac’s tactics, and Madame Schmid grew still redder in the face and shorter of breath, with no better luck than at the corridor door.

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At that moment a very well-dressed little man entered the room, after an almost imperceptible knock, and, unrolling a bill about a yard long, began,--

“Gentlemen, I have a little bill here--” and then, raising his eyes, he said in a surprised voice, “Why, there aren’t any gentlemen here!”