4. CHAPTER IV.
MAX FINDS MONSIEUR PANTOUFLE IN A GREAT RAGE.
The young man, gayly humming a tune to himself, went
along Queen-street toward Monsieur Pantoufle's. Perhaps
swaggered along would more strikingly suggest his
manner of walking. But Max Courtlandt was too well
bred and graceful to swagger—in the common acceptation
of that word. His gait was jaunty and swinging;
but neither affected nor pompous: it was the easy, careless
carriage of one who is a favorite with every body, and
Max Courtlandt was certainly such a person.
This young man had one of those cordial and winning
faces which prepossess all persons in favor of the owner.
The men liked to see his cheerful countenance as he passed
along:—the fair sex had their joke or laugh for him;
the children held him in high favor, for they had judged
with the unerring instinct of childhood that the bright
smile was part of a loving nature and tender heart. With
the little things Max was a prime favorite—in fact with
every body, spite of his restless and mischievous bent of
mind. That he had his full proportion of this latter
amiable quality the reader will perceive in due course of
time.
Monsieur Pantoufle was one of those wandering “professors”
we have alluded to, and had but a short time before
set up his tent, metaphorically speaking, in the
town of Martinsburg. This metaphorical tent was in reality
“apartments”—that is to say two rooms opening on
Queen-street, one of which served him for a chamber, the
other for a studio, fencing gallery, dancing, drawing, and
music room. Monsieur Pantoufle taught each and all of
these accomplishments.
Monsieur Pantoufle was a little man, always clad in
silk stockings, pumps, and ruffles, and his thin hair—invariably
powdered—was brushed back from one of those
narrow, lynx-like faces, which look out from the portraits
of Louis XV.'s time. Under his arm he carried—an inseperable
portion of himself—a full-laced cocked hat. If
we add that his proper name was Monsieur Pantoufle
Hyacinth Xaupi, we have said as much of him as the
reader need know for the purposes of this history.
Max found Monsieur Pantoufle—so he was now universally
called—in a very great passion, striding up and
down his studio, as he liked to call it, and overturning at
every round either a music stool, a chair, or a pair of foils,
of which several pairs lay scattered about upon the tables
and stands.
“Oh me! what is the matter, sir!” cried Max, thinking
his bet with Nina already lost. “What has annoyed
you, Mousieur Pantoufle?”
“The d—d tailor—sacre!” said Monsieur Pantoufle, in
a fury.
“What has he done? Every body seems to be put out
this morning but myself.”
“He has cut my coat wrong!”
“Your coat—what coat? Ah, I recollect! you are very
fond of having your coats made in the fashion of the times
of King Louis XIV., Monsieur Pantoufle, with large cuffs
and all. Now, I suppose the tailor has cut your coat in
some other style—either Louis XIII. or Louis XV. Is
not that it, Monsieur Pantoufle?”
“Oui, oui, you guess right, my young friend,” said the
fencing-master, with a strong French accent, “but he not
only cut my coat wrong, he make it wrong!”
“I never should have expected the man to be guilty of
such conduct, especially to you, Monsieur Pantoufle, who
are so particular. Was it of much value? What was
the style of the coat?”
“It was Charlemagne, Capet, Spain, Italy, any style
but Grand Monarque style—sacre!” cried Monsieur Pantoufle
in a rage. “Begar!” he added, seizing a foil and
throwing himself into an attitude; “I will stick him, I
will transfigurate him like an ortolan on a skewer!”
“Italy did you say, monsieur?” said Max, suddenly.
“Any thing but proper cut, my young friend.”
“And was it laced?”
“Full laced.”
“What color?”
“Black—the royal color?”
“And where is it?”
“I send it back—he say I shall pay.”
“But you don't want it?”
“It is enfin a thousand league too big for me.”
“And is it at the tailor's below?
“Oui, oui!”
“Monsieur Pantoufle,” said Max, “perhaps I can help
you to get rid of it. What was the price?”
“One hundred and twenty franc.”
“But in dollars?”
“Voyons—five franc to the— 'tis twenty dollar.”
“Wait till I return, Monsieur Pantoufle,” said Max.
And putting on his hat, he ran out of the room, leaving
the fencing-master in profound perplexity.
