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Four Short Stories

Chapter II
THE CAFE
The Cafe de Paris, kept by Melanie Cartier, a widow, was situated on the Place du Palais,
a large irregular square planted with meager, dusty elm trees. The place was so well
known in Vauchamp that it was customary to say, "Are you coming to Melanie's?" At the
farther end of the first room, which was a spacious one, there was another called "the
divan," a narrow apartment having sham leather benches placed against the walls, while
at each corner there stood a marble-topped table. The widow, deserting her seat in the
front room, where she left her little servant Phrosine, spent her evenings in the inner
apartment, ministering to a few customers, the usual frequenters of the place, those who
were currently styled "the gentlemen of the divan." When a man belonged to that set it
was as if he had a label on his back; he was spoken of with smiles of mingled contempt
and envy.
Mme Cartier had become a widow when she was five and twenty. Her husband, a
wheelwright, who on the death of an uncle had amazed Vauchamp by taking the Cafe de
Paris, had one fine day brought her back with him from Montpellier, where he was wont
to repair twice a year to purchase liqueurs. As he was stocking his establishment he
selected, together with divers beverages, a woman of the sort he wanted—of an engaging
aspect and apt to stimulate the trade of the house. It was never known where he had
picked her up, but he married her after trying her in the cafe during six months or so.
Opinions were divided in Vauchamp as to her merits, some folks declaring that she was
superb, while others asserted that she looked like a drum-major. She was a tall woman
with large features and coarse hair falling low over her forehead. However, everyone
agreed that she knew very well how to fool the sterner sex. She had fine eyes and was
wont to fix them with a bold stare on the gentlemen of the divan, who colored and
became like wax in her hands. She also had the reputation of possessing a wonderfully
fine figure, and southerners appreciate a statuesque style of beauty.
Cartier had died in a singular way. Rumor hinted at a conjugal quarrel, a kick, producing
some internal tumor. Whatever may have been the truth, Melanie found herself
encumbered with the cafe, which was far from doing a prosperous business. Her husband
had wasted his uncle's inheritance in drinking his own absinthe and wearing out the cloth
of his own billiard table. For a while it was believed that the widow would have to sell
out, but she liked the life and the establishment just as it was. If she could secure a few
customers the bigger room might remain deserted. So she limited herself to repapering
the divan in white and gold and recovering the benches. She began by entertaining a
chemist. Then a vermicelli maker, a lawyer and a retired magistrate put in an appearance;
and thus it was that the cafe remained open, although the waiter did not receive twenty
orders a day. No objections were raised by the authorities, as appearances were kept up;
and, indeed, it was not deemed advisable to interfere, for some respectable folks might
have been worried.
 
 
 
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