Zéphine prefers the dinners at Édon's. Blachevelle prefers Bombarda's: more luxury, more Asiatic, mirrors on the walls. Favourite would rather have ices on her plate. Blachevelle persists: the knife-handles are silver here, bone there; silver is more valuable than bone. Except for those who have a silver chin, says Tholomyès, looking at the dome of the Invalides. Fameuil and Listolier have been disputing philosophy. Descartes or Spinoza? Désaugiers, says Tholomyès, and drinks. He consents to live. All is not at an end on earth since they can still talk nonsense. The Madeira they are drinking so tranquilly comes from a vineyard three hundred and seventeen fathoms above the sea; Bombarda sells them those fathoms for four francs fifty. His favourite author is Ber-Choux. Honour to Bombarda. Aspasia was a soul of rosy and purple hue, goddess and prostitute, created in case a mistress should be needed for Prometheus.
He would have found some difficulty in stopping, had not a horse fallen down upon the quay. The shock halts the cart and the orator. It is a Beauceron mare, old and thin, fit for the knacker, dragging a very heavy cart. In front of Bombarda's the worn-out beast refuses to go further. The carter has barely had time to utter the sacramental Mâtin, backed with a pitiless cut of the whip, when the jade falls, never to rise again. The merry auditors turn their heads. Tholomyès closes with a melancholy strophe: she was of this world where cuckoos and carriages have the same destiny; as a jade she lived what jades live, the space of a morning. Poor horse, sighs Fantine. Dahlia exclaims that Fantine is on the point of crying over horses. How can one be such a pitiful fool as that.
At that moment Favourite, folding her arms and throwing her head back, looks resolutely at Tholomyès. Come now. The surprise. Exactly. The moment has arrived. Gentlemen, the hour for giving these ladies a surprise has struck. Wait for us a moment. It begins with a kiss, says Blachevelle. On the brow, adds Tholomyès. Each gravely bestows a kiss on his mistress's brow; then all four file out through the door, with their fingers on their lips. Favourite claps her hands. It is beginning to be amusing already. Do not be too long, murmurs Fantine. We are waiting for you.
Coming Up in Chapter 36
Left alone, the young girls lean two by two on the window-sills. They see the men emerge from Café Bombarda arm in arm, smile, and disappear into the dusty Sunday throng. Do not be long, cries Fantine. Favourite wants the surprise to be of gold.
