Page:The Bohemians of the Latin Quarter.djvu/125

On the gilt balcony of a new house opposite, an exquisite in his dressing-gown was biting off the end of an aristocratic “Panatellas” cigar. A story above, an artist was sending before him an odorous cloud of Turkish tobacco from his amber-mouthed pipe. At the window of a brasserie, a fat German was crowning a foaming tankard, and emitting, with the regularity of a machine, the dense puffs that escaped from his meerschaum. On the other side, a group of workmen were singing as they passed on their way to their barriers, their “throat-scorchers” between their teeth. Finally, all the other pedestrians visible in the street were smoking.

“Woe is me!” sighed Rodolphe: “except myself and my uncle’s chimneys, all creation is smoking at this hour!” And he rested his forehead on the bar of the balcony, and thought how dreary life was.

Suddenly, a burst of long and musical laughter parted under his feet. Rodolphe bent forward a little, to discover the source of this volley of gaiety, and perceived that he had been perceived by the tenant of the story beneath him, Mademoiselle Sidonia, of the Luxembourg Theatre. The young lady advanced to the front of her balcony, rolling between her fingers, with the dexterity of a Spaniard, a paper-full of light-colored tobacco, which she took from a bag of embroidered velvet.

“What a sweet cigar-girl it is!” murmured Rodolphe, in an ecstasy of contemplation.

“Who is this Ali-Baba?” thought Mademoiselle Sidonia on her part. And she meditated on a pretext for engaging in conversation with Rodolphe, who was himself trying to do the very same.

“Bless me!” cried the lady, as if talking to herself, “what a bore! I’ve no matches!”

“Allow me to offer you some, mademoiselle,” said Ro-