Bibi-the-Smoker flew into a passion. He had worked at the Elysee; he had seen Bonaparte just as he saw My-Boots in front of him over there.
Well that muff of a president was just like a jackass, that was all!
It was said that he was going to travel about in the direction of Lyons; it would be a precious good riddance of bad rubbish if he fell into some hole and broke his neck.
But, as the discussion was becoming too heated, Coupeau had to interfere.
“Ah, well!
How simple you all are to quarrel about politics.
Politics are all humbug!
Do such things exist for us?
Let there be any one as king, it won’t prevent me earning my five francs a day, and eating and sleeping; isn’t that so?
No, it’s too stupid to argue about!”
Lorilleux shook his head.
He was born on the same day as the Count of Chambord, the 29th of September, 1820.
He was greatly struck with this coincidence, indulging himself in a vague dream, in which he established a connection between the king’s return to France and his own private fortunes.
He never said exactly what he was expecting, but he led people to suppose that when that time arrived something extraordinarily agreeable would happen to him.
So whenever he had a wish too great to be gratified, he would put it off to another time, when the king came back.
“Besides,” observed he, “I saw the Count de Chambord one evening.”
Every face was turned towards him.
“It’s quite true.
A stout man, in an overcoat, and with a good-natured air.
I was at Pequignot’s, one of my friends who deals in furniture in the Grand Rue de la Chapelle. The Count of Chambord had forgotten his umbrella there the day before; so he came in, and just simply said, like this:
‘Will you please return me my umbrella?’
Well, yes, it was him; Pequignot gave me his word of honor it was.”
Not one of the guests suggested the smallest doubt.
They had now arrived at dessert and the waiters were clearing the table with much clattering of dishes.
Madame Lorilleux, who up to then had been very genteel, very much the lady, suddenly let fly with a curse. One of the waiters had spilled something wet down her neck while removing a dish.
This time her silk dress would be stained for sure.
Monsieur Madinier had to examine her back, but he swore there was nothing to be seen.
Two platters of cheese, two dishes of fruit, and a floating island pudding of frosted eggs in a deep salad-bowl had now been placed along the middle of the table.
The pudding caused a moment of respectful attention even though the overdone egg whites had flattened on the yellow custard. It was unexpected and seemed very fancy.
My-Boots was still eating.
He had asked for another loaf.
He finished what there was of the cheese; and, as there was some cream left, he had the salad-bowl passed to him, into which he sliced some large pieces of bread as though for a soup.
“The gentleman is really remarkable,” said Monsieur Madinier, again giving way to his admiration.
Then the men rose to get their pipes.
They stood for a moment behind My-Boots, patting him on the back, and asking him if he was feeling better.
Bibi-the-Smoker lifted him up in his chair; but tonnerre de Dieu! the animal had doubled in weight.
Coupeau joked that My-Boots was only getting started, that now he was going to settle down and really eat for the rest of the night.
The waiters were startled and quickly vanished from sight.
Boche, who had gone downstairs for a moment, came up to report the proprietor’s reaction. He was standing behind his bar, pale as death. His wife, dreadfully upset, was wondering if any bakeries were still open. Even the cat seemed deep in despair.
This was as funny as could be, really worth the price of the dinner.
It was impossible to have a proper dinner party without My-Boots, the bottomless pit.
The other men eyed him with a brooding jealousy as they puffed on their pipes. Indeed, to be able to eat so much, you had to be very solidly built!
“I wouldn’t care to be obliged to support you,” said Madame Gaudron. “Ah, no; you may take my word for that!”
“I say, little mother, no jokes,” replied My-Boots, casting a side glance at his neighbor’s rotund figure.
“You’ve swallowed more than I have.”
The others applauded, shouting “Bravo!” — it was well answered.
It was now pitch dark outside, three gas-jets were flaring in the room, diffusing dim rays in the midst of the tobacco-smoke.
The waiters, after serving the coffee and the brandy, had removed the last piles of dirty plates.
Down below, beneath the three acacias, dancing had commenced, a cornet-a-piston and two fiddles playing very loud, and mingling in the warm night air with the rather hoarse laughter of women.
“We must have a punch!” cried My-Boots; “two quarts of brandy, lots of lemon, and a little sugar.”