Page:The Bohemians of the Latin Quarter.djvu/106

Schaunard. “You are going to look like the solar spectrum in that dress. To be sure, a colorist such as you are—”

Marcel was trying the boots. Alas! they are both for the same foot! The artist, in despair, perceived an old boot in a corner which had served as the receptacle of their empty bladders. He seized upon it.

“From Garrick to Syllable,”^[1] said his jesting comrade; “One square-toed and the other round.”

“I am going to varnish them, and it won’t show.”

“A good idea! Now you only want the dress-coat.”

“Oh!” cried Marcel, biting his fists:

They heard another knock at the door. Marcel opened it.

“Monsieur Schaunard?” inquired a stranger, halting on the threshold.

“At your service,” replied the painter, inviting him in.

The stranger had one of those honest faces which typify the provincial.

“Sir,” said he, “my cousin has often spoken to me of your talent for portrait-painting, and being on the point of making a voyage to the colonies, whither I am deputed by the sugar-refiners of the city of Nantes, I wish to leave my family something to remember me by. That is why I am come to see you.”

“Holy Providence!” ejaculated Schaunard. “Marcel, a seat for Monsieur ———”

“Blancheron,” said the new-comer; “Blancheron of Nantes, delegate of the sugar-interest, Ex-Mayor, Captain of the National Guard, and author of a pamphlet on the sugar-question.”