“Shh!”
I signal to him to stop. I’m upset because I’ve heard from the anteroom two discreet rings at the doorbell . . . It’s him!
And Brague is still here! . . . After all, they’ve met.
“Come in, Max, come in . . . It’s Brague . . . We’re discussing the tour.
It won’t bore you?”
No, it won’t bore him, but it does constrain me, somewhat.
My vaudeville business is petty, detailed, commercial, and I don’t like to involve my friend in it, my darling, lazy friend . . .
Brague, who can be very nice when he wants to, gives Max a smile.
“Is it all right with you, sir?
We’re fussing around in our professional kitchen, and I pride myself on being a thrifty cook who lets nothing go to waste and never pockets any of the food money.”
“Absolutely!” Max assures him. “In fact, since I know nothing about it, I’ll be entertained; I’ll learn something . . .”
The liar!
For a man being entertained, he certainly looks cross and very unhappy.
“I resume!” Brague begins. “On our last tour, in September, if you recall, we wasted up to ten or eleven francs a day on excess baggage, as if we were Carnegie.”
“Not all the time, Brague!” “Not all the time.
There were days when it was only three or four francs for excess. That’s already too much.
As for me, I’ve had it!
What luggage have you got apart from your carry-on valise?”
“My black trunk.”
“That big one?
You’re nutty.
I refuse to allow it.”
Max coughs . . .
“Here’s what you’re going to do: you’ll use mine.
In the top compartment, stage costumes. In the second compartment, our underwear, your slips, your panties, your stockings, my shirts, my shorts, et cetera.”
Max twitches . . .
“And in the bottom, shoes, spare suits for you and me, odds and ends, et cetera.
Got it?”
“Yes, it’s not a bad idea.”
“But . . .,” Max says.
“This way,” Brague continues, “we’ll have just one big piece of luggage (the Caveman will look out for himself; his mother, who’s a feather plucker, will lend him a basket!), just one altogether.
We get rid of the penalty, we give a smaller tip to the station porters, theater hands, et cetera . . . If we don’t save five francs a day each, I’ll go and become a tenor! . . .
How often do you change your underwear on tour?”
I blush because of Max.
“Every other day.”
“That’s your business.
Since there’s laundry service in the big burgs, Lyons, Marseilles, Toulouse, Bordeaux, I make it twelve slips and twelve panties, and the rest to match.
Am I big-hearted and generous?
In short, I’m trusting you to be reasonable.”
“Relax!”
Brague stands up, shakes Max’s hand, and says:
“You see how quickly we’ve settled it, sir.
You, Miss, I’ll meet you at the station at a quarter after seven Tuesday morning.”
I walk him to the anteroom; on my return I’m greeted with a storm of protests, lamentations, and reproaches:
“Renee! It’s monstrous! It’s impossible! You’ve lost your mind!
Your slips, your slips, and your little panties (which are much too short, darling) all mixed up with that fellow’s shorts!
And your stockings with his socks, perhaps!
And all that to save five francs a day! What a mockery and what a misery!”
“What do you mean, misery?
It comes to two hundred francs!”