It is not about
myself, but about my opposite neighbour, Madame Mahuchet, a ladies'
shoemaker. I had loaned money to a countess, a woman who has too many
passions for her means,--lives in a fine apartment filled with
splendid furniture, and makes, as we say, a devil of a show with her
high and mighty airs. She owed three hundred francs to her shoemaker,
and was giving a dinner no later than yesterday. The shoemaker, who
heard of the dinner from the cook, came to see me; we got excited, and
she wanted to make a row; but I said: 'My dear Madame Mahuchet, what
good will that do? you'll only get yourself hated. It is much better
to obtain some security; and you save your bile.' She wouldn't listen,
but go she would, and asked me to support her; so I went. 'Madame is
not at home.'--'Up to that! we'll wait,' said Madame Mahuchet, 'if we
have to stay all night,'--and down we camped in the antechamber.
Presently the doors began to open and shut, and feet and voices came
along. I felt badly. The guests were arriving for dinner. You can see
the appearance it had. The countess sent her maid to coax Madame
Mahuchet: 'Pay you to-morrow!' in short, all the snares! Nothing took.
The countess, dressed to the nines, went to the dining-room. Mahuchet
heard her and opened the door. Gracious! when she saw that table
sparkling with silver, the covers to the dishes and the chandeliers
all glittering like a jewel-case, didn't she go off like soda-water
and fire her shot: 'When people spend the money of others they should
be sober and not give dinner-parties.
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