Chapter Three
The second week after, he met Prouvaire once more, quite by accident. It was at a different caf�, one in the Rue St. Michel, where Feuilly was having boiled potatoes and black coffee for supper. He was actually twice as rich to-day as he had been upon the same day last week, but it was as impossible to stop being frugal as it was impossible to treat time lightly on a Saturday. He didn't trust himself to use money unwisely for a single day, because he might easily get into the habit of it.
So he ate boiled potatoes the same way he always ate them, which was as quickly as possible, because he had never learnt to eat slowly in order to make food last longer; he had learnt the other clich�, to bolt it for fear that it might be stolen from him. He drank the coffee more slowly, because that was more difficult to steal, and because he wanted it to last after the potatoes were gone, and he was afraid that if he drank as much as he'd like there would be none left.
When Prouvaire came in, it was quietly, shyly, with the kind of rare dignity that comes from being gentle and rich, both considerate and spoiled. He was toying with an embroidered handkerchief that was tied about the handle of his stick, and his face was its usual pale colour, his usual gentle expression. He looked very little like the tousled, foolish, drunken boy on the bed from a week ago, and yet he looked very like him. Feuilly glanced at him guardedly from his table and wondered what he was doing there.
Prouvaire looked around the room cautiously, as the other men turned toward him for a moment, making a soft murmur at the sight of so wealthy a young fellow appearing in a caf� meant for poor working-men, but went back to their suppers and their drinking because he was not really as interesting as themselves and their own conversations. Even a wealthy young fellow does not command as much attention as all that, for all he prides himself of catching everyone's eye and causing an admiring, or a jealous, stir. When Prouvaire caught sight of Feuilly, he went over, and stood before his table awkwardly.
"Good evening."
"Good evening," said Feuilly, swallowing a mouthful of coffee.
"I wish to apologise."
"Sorry?"
"For last week. Sometimes, I have periods of inactivity when it is difficult for me to get down on paper any of the things I feel in my heart or have in my mind, and it frustrates me. I imagine that you must have been exceptionally disgusted by the display you witnessed, and I beg your pardon."
Feuilly had all but forgotten that he'd wanted to get an explanation, but he tilted his head and looked at Prouvaire more closely. "Sit."
Prouvaire did.
"I had hoped that you might forgive me if I made things clear."
"Yes, of course. Where in hell do you get your candles and all that other mess?"
"I purchase candles and tobacco at separate shops in Paris. I bought the incense and opium at an opium den when I was in London, though I'm certain that if I looked for it here I could find it." Prouvaire smiled, whitely, and added, "My matches come from a shop in the Rue St. Mathieu that also sells wicks and tacks."
"I apologise," said Feuilly. He didn't really mind overstepping boundaries of this sort as a rule, but he felt slightly displeased with himself for being inquisitive with Prouvaire.
"No need. Did my poems suit?"
"Excellently. Between them and the sudden warm weather, I've become a man of means. I need not worry about supper to-morrow, for example, or the next day. I have at least a week before it's a concern again."
"I'm glad."
"Yes," said Feuilly, musingly.
They sat silently for several moments, and Feuilly, realising that his coffee had begun to grow cold, picked up his cup and drank from it quickly. Prouvaire continued to toy with the embroidered handkerchief.
"I suppose your mistresses enjoy your poetry," Feuilly said at last.
"I have none."
Once more they were silent.
"Well, this is very queer. I started out trying to earn money and seemed to have forced us into an acquaintance. I even know something improprietous about you now. We will acknowledge one another in public because we can't pretend not to know each other any longer."
"That is queer, indeed," said Prouvaire, smiling less wanly now. "Perhaps it is how some friendships begin."
"Perhaps it is. What kind of friendship is it, though? We aren't destined to be lifelong friends, are we? Or are we just casual acquaintances? Or are we the sort of friends who meet on weekends, or the sort who meet for supper? Are we obliged to call on one another, or is it only a necessity when we feel like it?"
"You're asking too many questions about it too early. It must go as it will. Such things always do."
"Presumably. I bow to your superior knowledge."
"You've never been in a friendship before?"
Feuilly paused reflectively. He considered, for a moment, and to his utmost surprise, couldn't think of anyone he would really have called a friend. Of course he knew people, but he didn't like many of them. He had talked with hundreds of men, perhaps half as many women, and he had still liked hardly any of them. He was never lonely. He was only annoyed with other humans and their faults and their innumerable shortcomings. He looked at Prouvaire and shrugged. "Perhaps. I don't recall."
"You do need a friend, then." Prouvaire rested a hand lightly on his arm.
"Yes, well, we'll see."
"So we will. Will you be busy next Saturday?"
"I don't know. I'll probably be soliciting to unsuspecting bourgeois gentlemen going about their business of strolling in the afternoon and convincing them they need yet another useless thing to clutter their homes with."
"If I were to be one of those unsuspecting gentlemen, I suppose we might meet and exchange greetings?"
"We might."
"We might go for a drink after your work was finished?"
"We might."
Prouvaire laughed, a strange, shy, gentle laugh that bore his cultured accent. "Very well. I believe I'll look forward to my afternoon walk, then next Saturday. I hope you'll find time to come back to Les Amis, as well, some time soon. We have all been missing you. Courfeyrac wonders often where you've gone."
"It's only been two weeks," said Feuilly irritably, glancing at Prouvaire to be certain he was telling the truth.
"Two weeks is a long time."
"All right. Perhaps I'll be there this week. When is it?"
"On Thursday evening, at six o'clock. Perhaps I'll see you there."
"Perhaps."
Prouvaire stood. "Well, then. That's a pleasing thought. Good evening, Feuilly. Thank you."
"Yes, yes," Feuilly said carelessly. "Good evening."
Then, with a sudden, secret sort of smile, Prouvaire did something entirely unexpected. He leaned forward and shook Feuilly's hand, a warm, dry clasp that lasted hardly a moment, and then turned away. As he left, he looked back with bright, pleased eyes, and lifted a hand in farewell, touched the brim of his hat, and disappeared.
Feuilly sat silently for a moment, staring thoughtfully at his coffee cup and keeping his hand exactly as it had fallen when Prouvaire released it. At last, he rose. He would need to reorganise his time yet again, and very carefully, if he wanted to be with Les Amis at six o'clock on Thursday.
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