Solution Manual for Principles of Economics, 9th Edition, N.

Gregory Mankiw

Principles of Economics, 9th

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WHAT’S NEW IN THE NINTH EDITION:

There are no major changes to this chapter.

LEARNING OBJECTIVES:
By the end of this chapter, students should understand:

 Explain how scarcity influences decisions.

 Explain how individuals evaluate opportunity costs to make decisions.

 Explain how marginal analysis influences decision making.

 Apply basic, economic principles of individual decision making that determine how an economy generally
works.

 Explain how the terms of trade can lead to gains.

 Given a scenario, identify the distribution system being used.

CONTEXT AND PURPOSE:

Chapter 1 is the first chapter in a three-chapter section that serves as the introduction to the text.
Chapter 1 introduces ten fundamental principles on which the study of economics is based. In a broad
sense, the rest of the text is an elaboration on these ten principles. Chapter 2 will develop how
economists approach problems while Chapter 3 will explain how individuals and countries gain from
trade.
The purpose of Chapter 1 is to lay out ten economic principles that will serve as building blocks for
the rest of the text. The ten principles can be grouped into three categories: how people make decisions,
how people interact, and how the economy works as a whole. Throughout the text, references will be
made repeatedly to these ten principles.

1
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2 ❖ Chapter 1/Ten Principles of Economics

KEY POINTS:
 The fundamental lessons about individual decision making are that people face trade-offs among
alternative goals, that the cost of any action is measured in terms of forgone opportunities, that
rational people make decisions by comparing marginal costs and marginal benefits, and that people
change their behavior in response to the incentives they face.

 The fundamental lessons about interactions among people are that trade and interdependence can
be mutually beneficial, that markets are usually a good way of coordinating economic activity among
people, and that the government can potentially improve market outcomes by remedying a market
failure or by promoting greater economic equality.

 The fundamental lessons about the economy as a whole are that productivity is the ultimate source
of improving living standards, that growth in the quantity of money is the ultimate source of inflation,
and that society faces a short-run trade-off between inflation and unemployment.

CHAPTER OUTLINE:
I. Introduction

Begin by pointing out that economics is a subject that students must confront in their
daily lives. Point out that they already spend a great deal of their time thinking about
economic issues: changes in prices, buying decisions, use of their time, concerns
about employment, etc.

A. The word “economy” comes from the Greek word oikonomos meaning “one who manages a
household.”

B. Both households and economies face many decisions about how to allocate resources.

C. Resources are scarce so they must be managed carefully.

You will want to start the semester by explaining to students that part of learning
economics is understanding a new vocabulary. Economists generally use very precise
(and sometimes different) definitions for words that are commonly used outside of
the economics discipline. Therefore, it will be helpful to students if you follow the
definitions provided in the text as much as possible.

D. Definition of scarcity: the limited nature of society’s resources.

E. Definition of economics: the study of how society manages its scarce resources.

Because most college freshmen and sophomores have limited experiences with
viewing the world from a cause-and-effect perspective, do not underestimate how
challenging these principles will be for the student.

As you discuss the ten principles, make sure that students realize that it is okay if
they do not grasp each of the concepts completely or find each of the arguments
fully convincing. These ideas will be explored more completely throughout the text.

© 2018 Cengage Learning®. All Rights Reserved. May not be scanned, copied or duplicated, or posted to a publicly accessible website, in whole or in part,
except for use as permitted in a license distributed with a certain product or service or otherwise on a password-protected website or school-approved learning
management system for classroom use.
 Chapter 1/Ten Principles of Economics ❖ 3

II. How People Make Decisions

A. Principle #1: People Face Trade-offs

1. “There ain’t no such thing as a free lunch.” To get something that we like, we usually have to
give up, or trade for, something else that we also like.

2. Examples include how students spend their time, how a family decides to spend its income,
how the U.S. government spends tax dollars, and how regulations may protect the
environment at a cost to firm owners.

3. An important trade-off that society faces is the trade-off between efficiency and equality.

a. Definition of efficiency: the property of society getting the most it can from its
scarce resources.

b. Definition of equality: the property of distributing economic prosperity

uniformly among the members of society.

c. For example, tax dollars paid by wealthy Americans and then distributed to those less
fortunate may improve equality but lower the return to hard work and therefore reduce
the level of output produced by our resources.

d. This implies that the cost of this increased equality is a reduction in the efficient use of
our resources.

4. Recognizing that trade-offs exist does not indicate what decisions should or will be made.

B. Principle #2: The Cost of Something Is What You Give Up to Get It

1. Making decisions requires individuals to consider the benefits and costs of some action.

2. What are the costs of going to college?

a. We should not count room and board (unless they are more expensive at college than
elsewhere) because the student would have to pay for food and shelter even if she were
not in school.

b. We should count the value of the student’s time because she could be working for pay
instead of attending classes and studying.

3. Definition of opportunity cost: whatever must be given up in order to obtain some

item.

One of the hardest ideas for students to grasp is that “free” things are not truly
free. Provide students with many examples of such “free” things with hidden costs,
especially the value of time. Suggested examples include the time students spend
waiting in line for “free” sporting event tickets at their universities, time spent
relaxing in the sun outside their residence halls, or driving on a road with no tolls
but lots of congestion.

© 2018 Cengage Learning®. All Rights Reserved. May not be scanned, copied or duplicated, or posted to a publicly accessible website, in whole or in part,
except for use as permitted in a license distributed with a certain product or service or otherwise on a password-protected website or school-approved learning
management system for classroom use.
 Another random document
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Pierre appeared.
He was about Monsieur Bouchard’s age, height and size—medium in all
respects—clean shaven, like his master, and wore a cast-off suit of
Monsieur Bouchard’s, as it was the morning and his livery was religiously
saved for the afternoon. He was, in short, a very good replica of Monsieur
Bouchard.
Mademoiselle Bouchard stated the case to him, carefully giving Monsieur
Paul’s bogus reasons.
“The Rue Bassano is a very gay and noisy place, Pierre, as you know, with
a great many theatres and restaurants about, and much passing to and fro. It
will be a change from the Rue Clarisse.”
“Mademoiselle, I know it,” Pierre replied, showing the whites of his eyes.
“I would much rather remain in this decent, quiet street.”
Mademoiselle turned to Élise with an I-told-you-so air, and said, “No doubt
you would, Pierre—a man of your excellent character.”
“Yes, Mademoiselle. The theatres and music halls must be very
objectionable—and the restaurants. I suppose the waiters would laugh at me
when I went to fetch Monsieur’s dinner of boiled mutton and rice.”
“Yes; but if it were your duty to go with Monsieur?”
“Duty, Mademoiselle, has ever been a sacred word with me. Though but a
servant, I have always revered my duty,” replied the virtuous Pierre. He
backed and filled for some time longer, as servants commonly do—and as
some of their masters and mistresses do sometimes—but finally, in response
to Mademoiselle Bouchard’s pleading that he would not desert Monsieur
Bouchard at this critical moment in his career, consented to brave the
dangers of the gay Rue Bassano. But when Mademoiselle hinted at the
horrid possibility that Monsieur Bouchard might be beguiled into sowing a
late crop of wild oats, suddenly a grin flashed for a moment on Pierre’s
stolid countenance—flashed and disappeared so instantly that
Mademoiselle Bouchard was not sure he grinned at all. If he did, however,
it must have been at the notion that the staid, the correct Monsieur
Bouchard could ever sow wild oats. Mademoiselle Céleste blushed faintly
at the thought that she reckoned such a thing possible.
Pierre then backed out of the door, wiping two imaginary tears from his
eyes. Once outside with the door shut, this miscreant did a very strange
thing. He stood on one leg, whirled around with the greatest agility for his
years, and softly whispered, “Houp-là!”
That very day came the moving. The van arrived, and Monsieur Bouchard’s
books, papers and clothes were put into it by Pierre, who seemed to be in
the deepest dejection. Mademoiselle gave him minute and tearful directions
about Monsieur Paul’s diet, exercise and clothing. He was to see that
Monsieur Paul kept regular hours, and was to report in the Rue Clarisse the
smallest infraction of the rules of living which might occur in the Rue
Bassano; and Pierre promised with a fervor and glibness that would have
excited the suspicions of anyone less kindly and simple-minded than good
old Mademoiselle. He did indeed awaken a host of doubts in the mind of his
faithful Élise, who had not been married for thirty years without finding out
a few things about men. And when he wept at telling her good-bye for a
single day, she told him not to be shedding any of those crocodile tears
around her.
Pierre, mounted on the van that carried away Monsieur Bouchard’s
belongings, drove off, looking as melancholy as he could; but as soon as he
turned the corner he began whistling so merrily that the driver asked him if
his uncle hadn’t died and left him some money.
When the Rue Bassano was reached Pierre jumped down and skipped up
stairs with the agility of twenty instead of fifty. He was as charmed with
Monsieur’s new apartment as Monsieur himself had been. It was so
intensely modern. Light everywhere—all sorts of new-fashioned
conveniences—nothing in the least like the dismal old Rue Clarisse. And
the view from the windows—so very gay! And the noise—so delicious, so
intoxicatingly interesting! The sound of rag time music came from the two
music halls across the way. Pierre, dropping all pretence of work, was
inspired to do the can-can, whistling and singing meanwhile. The open
window proved so attractive that Pierre spent a good part of the time
hanging out of it, and only by fits and starts got Monsieur Bouchard’s
belongings in place. And the more he saw of the place, the more exuberant
was his delight with it, and the more determined he was to stay there. The
last tenant—the jolly young journalist named Marsac—had left, as
Monsieur Bouchard had noted, some souvenirs on the walls in the shape of
gaudy posters and brilliant chromos of ballet girls. These, Pierre might be
expected to remove when he began to hang on the walls the severely classic
pictures that constituted Monsieur Bouchard’s collection of art. But Pierre
seemed to know by clairvoyance Monsieur Bouchard’s latent tastes. He
hung “The Coliseum by Moonlight”—a very fine etching—immediately
under a red-and-gold young lady who was making a quarter past six with
her dainty, uplifted toe. “Socrates and His Pupils” were put where they
could get an admirable view of another red-and-gold young lady who was
making twelve o’clock meridian as nearly as a human being could. “Kittens
at Play”—a great favorite of Mademoiselle’s—was side by side with a
picture of Courier, who won the Grand Prix that year, and a very noble
portrait of President Loubet was placed next a cut of a celebrated English
prize fighter, stripped for the ring. The remainder of the things were neatly
arranged; the concierge, who was to supply Monsieur Bouchard’s meals,
was interviewed, and an appetizing dinner ordered. Then Pierre, taking
possession of the evening newspaper and also of a very comfortable chair
by the window, awaited Monsieur Bouchard’s arrival.
It was a charming evening in the middle of June, and still broad daylight at
seven o’clock. But Pierre, presently lighting a lamp and drawing the shades,
gave the apartment a homelike and inviting aspect.
Just as the clock struck seven Monsieur Bouchard’s step was heard on the
stair. Seven o’clock had been Monsieur Bouchard’s hour of coming home
since he was fifteen years old, and he had never varied from it three minutes
in thirty-seven years. He entered the drawing-room with a new and jovial
air, but when he saw Pierre his countenance turned as black as a thunder-
cloud.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, curtly.
“I came, Monsieur, by Mademoiselle’s orders,” civilly replied Pierre.
“Mademoiselle’s orders” was still a phrase to conjure by with Monsieur
Bouchard. When the yoke of forty years is thrown off there is still a feeling
as if it were bearing on the neck. Monsieur Bouchard threw his gloves
crossly on the table and asked for his dinner.
“It will be here in five minutes, Monsieur,” replied Pierre. “Will not
Monsieur look about the apartment and see if I have arranged things to suit
him? The pictures, for example?”
Monsieur, still sulky, rose, and the first thing his eye fell on was the prize
fighter’s portrait under President Loubet’s.
“This is intolerable!” he said, indignantly. “Why didn’t you take this prize-
fighting daub down?”
“Because,” readily responded Pierre, “the place where it was would be
marked on the wall; and besides, I did not like to take the liberty without
Monsieur’s permission.”
Monsieur Bouchard passed on to the next picture, that of the hero of the
Grand Prix. He liked horses—in pictures, that is—and really found Courier
more to his taste than “Kittens at Play.” His countenance cleared, and when
Pierre gravely directed him to the young lady poised on one toe and
reaching skyward with the other, a faint smile actually appeared on
Monsieur Bouchard’s face. Then, his eye falling on the other young lady
who was trying to make twelve o’clock meridian, every wrinkle on his
forehead smoothed out, his mouth came open like a rat trap, and he
involuntarily assumed an attitude of pleased contemplation, with his hands
under his coat tails.
Suddenly, however, it flashed on him that Mademoiselle Bouchard’s paid
detective, in the person of Pierre, was eyeing him, and with the quickness of
thought Monsieur Bouchard’s appreciative smile gave way to a portentous
frown, and turning to Pierre, he said, sternly:
“Take this thing away! It is reprehensible both in art and morals! I can’t
have it here!”
But, wonder of wonders! there stood Pierre, his mouth wide open in a silent
guffaw, his left eye nearly closed. Was it possible that he was daring to
wink at his master? Pierre, however, pretty soon solved the situation by
putting his finger on the side of his nose—a shocking familiarity—and
saying, roguishly:

“Ah, sir, I have something to say to you. I was forced, yes, actually driven,
from the decorous quiet of the Rue Clarisse and the company of
Mademoiselle Bouchard and my worthy Élise and the cats, to this gay
locality by my solicitude for Monsieur. That is to say, Mademoiselle thinks
I was. One thing is certain—I was sent here to cake care of Monsieur. Well,
it depends entirely on Monsieur how I take care of him. Do you understand,
sir?”
“N—n—not exactly.” Monsieur Bouchard was a little frightened. Having
Pierre to mount guard over him seemed destructive of the harmless liberty
and mild gaiety he had promised himself in the Rue Bassano.
“Just this, sir. My wife, I have reason to know, expects Monsieur to watch
me and report to her. Mademoiselle expects me to watch Monsieur and
report to her. Now, what prevents us from each giving a good account of
the other, and meanwhile doing as we please?”
Monsieur for a moment looked indignant at this impudent proposition,
coming, too, as it did from a servant whom he had known as the pattern of
decorum for thirty years. But only for a moment. Was it strange, after all,
that thirty years of the Rue Clarisse had bred a spirit of revolt in this
hitherto obedient husband and submissive servant?

Pierre, seeing evidences of yielding on the part of Monsieur, proceeded to

clinch the matter.
“You see, sir, I found out you were looking at this apartment. If I had told
Mademoiselle what I knew about it there’d have been a pretty kettle of fish.
I doubt if Monsieur would have got away from the Rue Clarisse alive. But I
didn’t. I concluded the Rue Bassano was a very pleasant place to live. I like
the lively tunes they play at the music halls across the street, and that
theatre round the corner is convenient. But I never should have got away if I
had showed how much I wanted to come. When Mademoiselle proposed it
to me, I lied like a trooper. I not only lied, but I cried, at the prospect of
leaving the Rue Clarisse. That settled it. A woman is like a pig. If you want
to drive her to Orleans, you must head her for Strasburg. So here we are, sir,
and if we don’t have a livelier time here than we did in the Rue Clarisse it
will be Monsieur’s fault, not mine.”
Monsieur met this outrageous speech by saying, “You are the most
impudent, scandalous, scheming, hypocritical rascal I ever met——”
Pierre just then heard sounds in the little lobby which he understood. He ran
out and returned with a tray, which he placed on the table, already laid for
one. Then, arranging the dishes with a great flourish, he invited Monsieur
Bouchard to take his place at the table. Monsieur complied. The first course
was oysters—at three francs the dozen. Then there was turtle soup; devilled
lobster, duckling à la Bordelaise—both of which were forbidden in the Rue
Clarisse, because Monsieur Bouchard at the age of seven had been made ill
by them—and a bottle of champagne, a wine that Mademoiselle had always
told her brother was poison to every member of his family.
But Monsieur Bouchard seemed to forget all about this. He ate and drank
these things as if he had forgotten all his painful experiences of forty-five
years before and as if he had been brought up on champagne.
It was rather pleasant—this first quaff of liberty—having what he liked to
eat and drink, and even to wear. He privately determined before finishing
his dinner that he would get a new tailor next day and have some clothes
made in the latest fashion.
“Have you found out the names of any persons in the house?” asked
Monsieur after dinner, lighting a cigar. It was his second; in the Rue
Clarisse he was limited to one.
“No one at all, sir,” replied that double-dyed villain, Pierre. “It isn’t
judicious to know all sorts of people. I intend to forget some I know.”
Monsieur Bouchard turned in his chair and looked at Pierre; the fellow
really seemed changed into another man from what he had been for thirty
years. But to Monsieur Bouchard the change was not displeasing. He felt a
bond between himself and Pierre, stronger in the last half-hour than in the
thirty years they had been master and man. They exchanged looks—it
might even be said winks—and Monsieur Bouchard poured out another
glass of champagne—his third. And what with the wine and the dinner, he
was in that state of exhilaration which the sense of liberty newly acquired
always brings.
“Monsieur won’t want me any more to-night?” asked Pierre.
“No,” replied Monsieur Bouchard, “but—be sure to be here at—” he meant
to say at ten o’clock that night, but changed his mind and said, “seven
o’clock to-morrow morning.”
“Certainly, sir,” answered Pierre. “I expect to be home and in bed before
three.”
And he said this with such a debonair manner that Monsieur Bouchard was
secretly charmed, and privately determined to acquire something of the
same tone.
Pierre gone, Monsieur Bouchard made himself comfortable in an easychair
and began toying with a fourth cigar. How agreeable were these modern
apartments, after all—everything furnished, every want anticipated—all a
tenant had to do was to walk in and hang up his hat. Then his thoughts
wandered to that very pretty woman who had travelled in the same train
with him that day to St. Germains, and the day before to Verneuil, whither
he had gone to look after some property of Léontine’s. Madame Vernet was
her name—it was on her travelling bag—and she was a widow—that fact
had leaked out ten seconds after he met her. But she was so very demure, so
modest, not to say bashful, that she seemed more like a nun than a widow.
And so timid—everything frightened her. She trembled when the guard
asked her for her ticket, and clung quite desperately to Monsieur
Bouchard’s arm in the station at Verneuil. She had expected her aunt and
uncle to meet her, and when they were not to be found, blushingly accepted
Monsieur Bouchard’s services in getting a cab. And that day, on stepping
into the railway carriage to go to St. Germains, there was the dear little
diffident thing again. She was charmed to see her friend of the day before,
and explained that she was to spend the day with another uncle and aunt she
had living at St. Germains. Knowing her inability to care for herself in a
crowd, Monsieur Bouchard had meant to put her into a cab, as he had done
the day before. But just as the train stopped he was seized by a couple of
snuffy old antiquarians and hustled off by them before he could even offer
to take charge of the quiet, the retiring, the clinging and helpless Madame
Vernet.
Monsieur Bouchard lay back in his chair recalling her prim but pretty gray
gown, her fleecy veil of gray gauze, that covered but did not conceal her
charming features, and her extremely natty boots. He could not for the life
of him remember whether he had mentioned to her on their first meeting
that he was going to St. Germains next day. While he was cogitating this
point he was rudely disturbed by the opening of the door, and Captain de
Meneval walked in briskly.
Now, this good-looking captain of artillery, who had married Monsieur
Bouchard’s ward, Léontine, was not exactly to Monsieur’s taste. It is true he
had never been able to find out anything to de Meneval’s discredit—and he
had looked pretty closely into the captain’s affairs at the time of Léontine’s
marriage. As for Léontine herself, she was devoted to her captain and
always represented him as being the kindest as well as the most agreeable
of husbands. True, he was always complaining about the modest income
that Papa Bouchard allowed them, but Léontine herself was ever doing that,
and urged de Meneval on in his complaints. Monsieur Bouchard was a little
annoyed at de Meneval’s entrance, especially as the artillery captain had
adopted a hail-fellow-well-met air, highly objectionable on the part of a
man toward another man who practically holds the purse-strings for number
one.
Therefore, Monsieur Bouchard rather stiffly gave Captain de Meneval three
fingers and offered him a chair.
“Changed your quarters, eh?” said de Meneval, looking about him. “Found
the Rue Clarisse rather slow, and came off here where you can be your own
man, so to speak?”
“I was not actuated by any such motive,” coldly replied Monsieur
Bouchard. “I came here because the rooms I had in the Rue Clarisse were
cramped, and I needed to have more space, as well as to be in a more
convenient quarter of Paris.”
De Meneval’s bright eyes had been travelling round the walls, and
Monsieur Bouchard remembered, with cold chills running up and down his
back, the pictures of his predecessor—that scampish young journalist,
Marsac—so indiscreetly left hanging by Pierre. A shout of laughter from de
Meneval, and a pointing of his stick toward the red-and-gold young ladies,
showed Monsieur Bouchard that his apprehensions were not unfounded.
“Is that your selection, Papa Bouchard?” cried the reprobate captain.
“Never saw them before—you must have kept them in hiding in the Rue
Clarisse. I’ll tell Léontine,” and the captain laughed loudly.
He had a great haw-haw of a laugh that had always been particularly
annoying to Monsieur Bouchard, and this thing of calling him “Papa”
Bouchard was an unwarrantable liberty. So he replied, freezingly:
“You are altogether mistaken. These extraordinary prints were left here by
my predecessor, a very wild young journalist—I believe most young
journalists are very wild—and they come down to-morrow. It would
seriously disturb me to have those ballet pictures around.”
“Well, now,” said de Meneval, with an unabashed front, “I think you are too
hard on the poor girls. I have known a good many of them in my life—
taken them to little suppers, you know—and generally they’re very hard-
working, decent girls. Some of them have a husband and children to help to
support. Others have dependent parents. They’re unconventional—very—
and like to eat and drink at somebody else’s expense, but that’s no great
harm. Plenty of other people in much higher walks of life do the same.”
“I don’t care to discuss ballet girls with you, Monsieur de Meneval,”
remarked Monsieur Bouchard, with great dignity.
“But I want to discuss them with you,” answered de Meneval, with what
Monsieur Bouchard thought most improper levity and familiarity. “That’s
what I came to you this evening about. That’s why I have been haunting the
Rue Clarisse during the last ten days, trying to see you alone.”
“Yes. I know that I have been honored with a good many cards of yours.
Also of Léontine’s.”
“Oh, Léontine! You may be sure she does not come on the errand that
brings me. While she feels the narrowness of our income as much as I do,
she manages to live within her allowance, and I don’t believe owes a franc
in the world. But, Papa Bouchard, to come to business——”
De Meneval paused. He had a good deal of courage, but the stony silence
with which his confidences were met would have disconcerted an ogre.
“Go on, Monsieur le Capitaine,” said Monsieur Bouchard, icily.
“I’m going on. You see, it is just this way—that is—” de Meneval
floundered—“as I was going to say—Léontine, you know, is perfect—it
really is touching to see how she bears our enforced but unnecessary
poverty. I wish I could do as well.”
Here de Meneval came to a dead stop, and Monsieur Bouchard, by way of
encouraging him, repeated, in the same tone:
“Go on, Monsieur le Capitaine.”
“But I can’t go on with you fixing that basilisk glare on me,” cried de
Meneval, rising and walking about excitedly. “I believe, if you say, ‘Go on,
Monsieur le Capitaine,’ to me again, I’ll do something desperate—smash
the mirror with my stick, or turn on the fire alarm. I assure you, Monsieur
Bouchard, I am still a respectable member of society. I don’t beat my wife
or cheat at cards, and I have never committed a felony in my life.”
“Glad to hear it,” was Papa Bouchard’s fatherly reception of this speech.
De Meneval, after walking once or twice up and down the room, succeeded
in mastering his indignation, and sat quietly down in the chair he had just
vacated, facing Monsieur Bouchard, and then, still floundering awkwardly,
managed to say:
“I—I—am very much in want—I am, at present—in short, I am in the most
unpleasant predicament.” And then he mumbled, “Money.”
“So I knew the moment you entered this room,” was Monsieur Bouchard’s
rejoinder.
“Then, sir,” said de Meneval, recovering his spirits now that the murder was
out, “I wish you had said so in the beginning. It would have saved me a
very bad quarter of an hour.”
“Young man,” severely replied Monsieur Bouchard, “I had not the slightest
wish to save you a bad quarter of an hour.”
“So it seems; but I will tell you just how it stands. You know I am stationed
at Melun——”
“I have known that fact ever since I knew you.”
“Very well, sir. There is a music hall at Melun—the Pigeon House—with a
garden back of it, kept by one Michaux, a rascal, if ever I saw one. Now, it’s
very dull at Melun the evenings I am on duty and can’t get back to Léontine
in Paris, and it’s a small place, and quite naturally, when one hears the
music going at the Pigeon House, and sees the lights flashing and the
people eating and drinking under the trees on the terrace garden, it’s quite
natural, I say, to drop in there for the evening.”
“Quite natural for you, sir. Go on, Monsieur le Capitaine.”
De Meneval restrained his impulse to brain Monsieur Bouchard, sitting so
sternly and primly before him, and kept on:
 And the girls are permitted to come out in their stage
costumes, to have an ice or a glass of wine.
“Then there is the garden—jolly place, with electric lights—where you can
get a pretty fair meal. It is quite unique—nothing like it in Paris or
anywhere else that I can think of, and I’ve seen a good many—” here de
Meneval hastily checked himself. “It’s quite the thing to give suppers to the
young ladies of the ballet—and some of them are not so young, either—in
the gardens. The proprietor, of course, encourages it, and the girls are
permitted to come out in their stage costumes to have an ice or a glass of
wine. All the fellows in my regiment do it; it’s considered quite the thing,
and their mothers and sisters come out to the Pigeon House to see them do
it. If it wasn’t for the support given the place by the garrison it would have
to close up, and then Melun would be duller than ever. The Pigeon House is
unconventional, but perfectly respectable.”
“Possibly,” drily replied Monsieur Bouchard, “but not probably.”
“Good heavens, sir! you are mistaken. Léontine has been teasing me for a
month past to take her out there to supper some evening, and I’ve promised
to do so this very next week. Do you think I’d take my wife to any place
that wasn’t respectable?”
De Meneval was getting warm over this, and Monsieur Bouchard was
forced to admit that he supposed the Pigeon House was respectable.
“But that doesn’t prevent these jolly little suppers to the young ladies of the
ballet, and especially those given to them by the officers. I assure you it is
mere harmless eating and drinking. The poor girls have to work hard, and
when they get through of an evening I dare say very few of them have two
francs to buy something to eat. So a number of us have got into the way of
giving these poor souls supper after the performance. Even Major Fallière
goes to these suppers, and you know his nickname in the regiment.”
“No, I know of him only as a very correct, middle-aged man. I wish you
had the same sort of reputation as Major Fallière.”
“Well, he is called by the juniors old P. M. P.—that is to say, the Pink of
Military Propriety. And Fallière is my chum, and he goes to these little
suppers.”
De Meneval brought this out with an air of triumph, but Monsieur Bouchard
remained coldly unresponsive, and then de Meneval let the cat out of the
bag.
“And I say, Monsieur Bouchard, the proprietor of the Pigeon House sent me
in my account the other day—nineteen hundred francs nineteen centimes—
and I haven’t got the money to pay it.”
De Meneval lay back and waited for the explosion. Monsieur Bouchard
started from his chair, bawling:
“Nineteen hundred francs! And you no doubt expect me to pay it out of
your wife’s income! I wonder what Léontine would say to this!”
“That’s just what I’ve been wondering, too,” replied de Meneval, somewhat
dolefully. “Léontine is the dearest girl in the world, but she is a woman,
after all. I can prove to her that I have never given a franc’s worth to any
other woman, except something to eat and drink, but all the same I’d just as
soon she would think I spent my Melun evenings sitting in my quarters,
with her picture before me and reading up on ballistics, as an artillery
officer should.”
“And would you deliberately impose on her innocence in this respect?”
asked Monsieur Bouchard, indignantly.
“My dear sir,” calmly replied de Meneval, “you have never been married. If
you had, you would not talk about a man’s imposing on his wife’s
innocence. Love is clairvoyant, and most men know what their wives wish
to believe, and gratify them accordingly. It’s a very complex subject, and
needs to be dealt with intelligently.”
“I think our standard of intelligence is not the same,” grimly responded
Monsieur Bouchard. “But when I tell Léontine about this nineteen hundred
francs due at the Pigeon House, I trust she will be able to deal with you
intelligently.”
“I am afraid she will,” replied de Meneval, with some anxiety; “but after it’s
paid I know I can persuade her that it was not the least actual harm—just a
little lark in the way of killing time.”
“And may I ask, since you speak so confidently of its being paid, whom do
you expect to pay it?”
“You, sir, of course,” replied de Meneval, taking a cigar out of Monsieur
Bouchard’s case.
Papa Bouchard jumped as if a hornet had stung him. “I, sir? Since you have
assumed this modest expectation, perhaps you anticipate that I will pay it
out of my private income?”
“Oh, no, I mean out of my wife’s income,” replied de Meneval, puffing
away at his cigar.
“You are too modest, Monsieur le Capitaine. Now let me tell you this—you
misunderstood your customer in bringing this outrageous bill to me, and it
won’t be paid. I have a sincere affection for Léontine, and I don’t intend to
let any captain of artillery in the French army, husband or no husband, make
ducks and drakes of her money.”
Papa Bouchard leaned back, folded his arms and looked the embodiment of
statuesque determination. Captain de Meneval puffed a while longer at his
cigar, and then rose. There was resolution, as if he still held a trump card to
play, written on his countenance.
“Very well, Monsieur Bouchard,” he said, readjusting the blossom in his
buttonhole. “I am sorry you are so unyielding. You didn’t ask me if I was
prepared to offer any security that the loan would be repaid. If you had I
should have given you this.”
De Meneval pulled from his pocket a glittering string of diamonds, every
stone glittering like a star.

“This is the diamond necklace I gave Léontine on our marriage. Of course, I

could not afford it, but I was in love with her—I’m more in love with her
now—and I gave her what would please her, without counting the cost.”
Papa Bouchard gasped. “And Léontine—does she know of this?”
De Meneval shook his head. “You see, when I bought this necklace for forty
thousand francs the jeweller showed me at the same time an exact copy of it
in paste—seventy-five francs. He told me when he sold a necklace like this
he usually sold a counterfeit, for emergencies—you know. I bought the
seventy-five franc necklace, too—and I didn’t mention it to Léontine. I
think all the philosophers, beginning with the Egyptian school of something
or other B. C., down through the Greeks and the Romans to Kant and
Schopenhauer, agree that it is not philosophic for a married man to tell
everything to his wife. So I never told Léontine about this imitation
necklace, but kept it for an emergency, as the jeweller—a married man—
advised me. To-night, when I saw I was in a tight place and had to come to
you, I quietly slipped the paste necklace into the case, which we keep in our
strong-box, and put the real one into my pocket. I came within an ace of
being caught by Léontine, though. The dear girl entered the room a minute
afterward and asked me to get out her diamond necklace—she was going to
the opera with some friends of hers—and off she’s gone, glittering with
paste, and as innocent as a lamb, while here is the real thing.”
Papa Bouchard was staggered for a minute or two. Then he said: “So you
expected me to turn amateur pawnbroker for your benefit?”
“Well,” replied de Meneval, stroking his moustache, “I should not have put
it in that brutally frank fashion myself, but if you don’t care to act the
amateur pawnbroker, I shall be obliged to take it to the professionals.”
“No, no, no,” cried Papa Bouchard. He really was fond of Léontine, and
didn’t mean to risk her diamonds. Nevertheless, there was a stand-and-
deliver air about the whole transaction which vexed him inexpressibly. He
sat silent for a while and so did de Meneval.
Papa Bouchard, for all that he had been hectored by a woman all his life,
was yet no fool. He saw that de Meneval had him in a trap, and reasoned
out the whole thing inside of two minutes.
“Now, Monsieur le Capitaine,” he said, presently, “I see where we stand. I
will not lend you the money out of Léontine’s income—but I will lend it to
you myself. I shall keep this necklace until the money is paid. Meanwhile, I
shall go out to see this place—the Pigeon House—and judge for myself all
these facts that you allege.”
“Do!” cried the cheerful reprobate, with a grin. “Perhaps you’ll like it and
get into the habit of going there.”
“And perhaps,” replied Papa Bouchard, “I may not like it, and you may
have your income reduced if you persist in going there. And then—when
the whole transaction is concluded and the money repaid, I shall disclose
every particular of it to Léontine.”
“By all means!” De Meneval was actually laughing in Papa Bouchard’s
face. “I’ll deny every word of it, of course, and call for proof. I’ll tell
Léontine you tried to persuade me to go out there with you and I refused.
I’ll say you gave the suppers, and I’ll bring twenty of the best fellows in the
regiment to swear to it—and you’ll see who comes out ahead in that game.”
Papa Bouchard was so horrified at the cold-blooded villainy of this that he
could hardly speak for a minute. But he refused to take the threat seriously,
and demanding the bill, which de Meneval promptly produced, said, stiffly:
“You will hear from me in a day or two.”
“And how about the advance?” asked de Meneval, “I should like about a
thousand francs in cash.”
Papa Bouchard put up his eye-glass and surveyed Captain de Meneval all
over, which scrutiny was borne with the greatest coolness by the brazen
captain of artillery.
“You see,” continued de Meneval, “the story is very liable to get into the
newspapers—extremely liable, I may say. It will be something like this—
that Monsieur Bouchard held Captain and Madame de Meneval so tight that
they were compelled to let Monsieur Bouchard have Madame’s diamond
necklace for a small loan—and the newspapers will probably make it out to
be Léontine’s wardrobe and my watch and chain besides.”
De Meneval paused—the fellow knew when to stop. Monsieur Bouchard,
swelling with rage, paused too—and then, taking out his cheque book,
angrily wrote a cheque for a thousand francs, which he handed Captain de
Meneval in exchange for a sheaf of bills produced by the captain.
“Before paying another franc, I shall go out to the Pigeon House and
investigate the whole business,” said Monsieur Bouchard, savagely.
“Ta, ta!” called out the graceless dog of a captain, picking up his hat.
“Remember, you are on your good behavior. One single indiscretion at the
Pigeon House and I’ll telegraph the whole story to Mademoiselle Bouchard,
and then——”
Papa Bouchard simply sat and swelled the more with rage at the unabashed
front of this captain of artillery—but he was galvanized into motion by a
light tap on the door and a musical voice calling:
“Are you in, Papa Bouchard?”
Although all the fulminations of Monsieur Bouchard
had failed to affect Captain de Meneval, the sound of
that voice flurried him considerably. For it was
Léontine’s, and de Meneval had no particular desire
for an interview with her under Papa Bouchard’s
basilisk eye. He turned quite pale, did this robust
captain, and muttered:
“I don’t want to be caught here.”
Papa Bouchard smiled in a superior manner—he rather
liked the notion of de Meneval being caught there—
and called out to Léontine:
“Come in.”
M. Bouchard’s hat, cape-greatcoat and umbrella lay on
a chair where he had placed them on coming in.
Without so much as saying, “By your leave,” de
Meneval slung the greatcoat round him, clapped Papa
Bouchard’s hat on his head, seized the umbrella in such a way as to hide his
face, and with his own hat under his arm opened the door to the lobby and
darted past Léontine, nearly knocking her down.
Léontine, wearing an evening gown, a long and beautiful white mantle, and
a chiffon scarf over her head, entered, somewhat discomposed by her
encounter.
“What a very rude man that was who pushed by me so suddenly!” she said,
advancing. “Some of your tiresome clients, Papa Bouchard, and I order you
not to have that creature here again.” And she ran forward and kissed Papa
Bouchard on his bald head.
Now, it was plain that this pretty Léontine took liberties with her guardian,
godfather and trustee, and also that Papa Bouchard liked these liberties. It
was in vain that he tried to assume a stern air with Léontine. She pinched
his ear when he scolded, drew caricatures of him when he frowned, and
when at last he was forced to smile, as he always was, perched herself on
the arm of his chair and declined to be evicted. And she was so very pretty!
The French have a saying that the devil himself was handsome when he was
young. Léontine de Meneval had more than the mere beauty of youth, of
form, of color. She was the embodiment of graceful gaiety. She looked like
one of those brilliant white butterflies whose lives are spent dancing in the
sun. The great and glorious dowry of love, of youth, of beauty, of health, of
happiness was hers. Her entering the room was like a breath of daffodils in
spring. She was a most beguiling creature. It was a source of wonder and
congratulation to Papa Bouchard that this charming girl did not succeed in
bamboozling all of her own income out of him and all of his as well.
Having kissed him, pinched his ear, and otherwise
agreeably maltreated her trustee, Léontine looked
round the new apartment with dancing eyes.
“Well,” she cried, laughing, “I see how it is. You
couldn’t stand the Rue Clarisse another day or hour.
Did anybody ever tell you, Papa Bouchard, that you
had a vein of—a vein of—what shall I call it?—a taste
for the wine of life in you?”
“Nobody ever did,” replied Papa Bouchard, trying to
be stern.
“Then I tell you so. And look at these pictures—oh,
oh!”
Léontine covered her face with her chiffon scarf, to
avoid the sight of the young ladies pointing skyward
with their toes.
“And I wonder what Aunt Céleste will say when she sees them,” continued
this impish Léontine.
“She won’t see them. They will be removed to-morrow,” hastily put in Papa
Bouchard.
“You’d better, you dear old thing, if you value your life. I shall have to tell
Victor about this. How he will laugh! I do all I can to make him laugh and
to amuse him when he is with me, for it is so dull for him when he is
obliged to stay at Melun. When his regimental duties are over he has
nothing to do in the evening but to sit in his quarters and study up ballistics,
as he calls it, and look at my picture by way of refreshment.”