The theatre ticket—TheCafé du Roi—Auguste Lafarge—Théaulon—Rochefort—Ferdinand Langlé—People who dine and people who don't—Canaris—First sight of Talma—Appreciation of Mars and Rachel—Why Talma has no successor—Syllaand the Censorship—Talma's box—A cab-drive after midnight—The return to Crespy—M. Lefèvre explains that a machine, in order to work well, needs all its wheels—I hand in my resignation as his third clerk
The theatre ticket—TheCafé du Roi—Auguste Lafarge—Théaulon—Rochefort—Ferdinand Langlé—People who dine and people who don't—Canaris—First sight of Talma—Appreciation of Mars and Rachel—Why Talma has no successor—Syllaand the Censorship—Talma's box—A cab-drive after midnight—The return to Crespy—M. Lefèvre explains that a machine, in order to work well, needs all its wheels—I hand in my resignation as his third clerk
I went back to de Leuven's house hugging the order in my pocket. With the possibility of procuring another by the means of it, I would not have parted with it for five hundred francs! I was filled with pride at the thought of going to the Théâtre-Français, with an order signed "Talma." We lunched.
De Leuven raised great difficulties about going to the play: he had an engagement with Scribe, a meeting with Théaulon, an appointment with I don't know how many other celebrities besides, that night. His father shrugged his shoulders, and de Leuven raised no more objections. It was arranged that we were to go to the Français together; but, as I wanted to see the Musée, the Jardin des Plantes and the Luxembourg, he arranged to meet me at theCafé du Roiat seven o'clock. TheCafé du Roiformed the corner of the rue de Richelieu and the rue Saint-Honoré. We shall have more to say about it later.
After luncheon, I set out by myself and went to the Musée. At six o'clock, I had tramped the tourists' round—that is to say, having entered the Tuileries by the gate of the rue de la Paix, I had passed under the Arch, visited the Musée, gone along the Quays, examined Nôtre-Dame inside and out, made Martin climb up his tree and, under cover of being a stranger—a title which only a blind man or an evilly disposed person could dispute—I had forced my way through the gates of the Luxembourg.
I returned at six o'clock to the hotel, where I found Paillet. Upon my word, we dined well! Our host was a conscientious man, and he gave us soup, afiletwith olives, roast beef and potatoesà la maître d'hôtel, the worth of two hares and four partridges, which we absorbed under other guises. I urged Paillet in vain to come to the Français with us: Paillet was formerly a second clerk in Paris; he had friends, or perhaps it would be more truthful to say girl-friends, of other days, to see again; he refused the offer, pressing though it was, and I set off for theCafé du Roi, not comprehending how there could be anything more vitally important than to see Talma, or, if one had already seen him, than to see him again. I reached our rendezvous some minutes before Adolphe. Paillet had foreseen that I should probably have some indispensable expenses: he had generously drawn three francs from the common purse and given them to me. After this, a total of twenty francs fifty centimes remained to us.
I went into theCafé du Roiand sat down at a table; I calculated what would cost me the least; I concluded that a small glass of brandy would give me the right to wait, and at least to look as though I was a habitué of the establishment; so I ordered one. Now, I had never managed to swallow one drop of that abominable liquor; however, although obliged to order it, I was not obliged to drink it. I had scarcely taken my seat when I saw one of the regular customers (I judged he was a regular attender, because I saw that he had nothing at all on the table before him) get up and come towards me. I uttered a cry of surprise and joy: it was Lafarge. Lafarge had gone a step lower towards poverty: he wore a coat shiny at the elbows, trousers shiny at the knees.
"Why, surely I am not mistaken, it is really you?" he said.
"It is really I. Sit down here."
"With pleasure. Ask for another glass."
"For you?"
"Yes."
"Take mine, my dear fellow. I never touch brandy."
"Then why did you ask for it?"
"Because I did not like to wait till Adolphe came in without asking for something."
"Is Adolphe coming here?"
"Yes. We are going to seeSyllatogether."
"What! you are going to see that filth?"
"Filth,Sylla? Why, it is an enormous success!"
"Yes, the success of a wig."
"The success of a wig?" I echoed, not understanding. "Certainly! Take away from Sylla his Napoleonic locks, and the piece would never be played through."
"But surely M. de Jouy is a great poet?"
"In the provinces he may be thought great, my dear boy; but here we are in Paris, and we see things differently."
"If he is not a great poet, he is at least a man of infinite resource." "Well, perhaps he might have been thought clever under the Empire; but you see, my boy, the wit of 1809 is not the wit of 1822."
"Still, I thought thatl'Ermite de la Chaussée-d'Antinwas written under the Restoration."
"Why, certainly; but do you thinkl'Ermite de la Chaussée-d'Antinwas by M. de Jouy?"
"Most certainly, since it appears under his name."
"Oh, what sweet simplicity!"
"Then who wrote it?"
"Why, Merle."
"Who is Merle?"
"Hush! he is that gentleman you see over there in a big coat and a wide-brimmed hat. He has ten times more wit than M. de Jouy."
"But if he has ten times M. de Jouy's wit, how is it he has not a quarter of his reputation?"
"Oh, because, you see, my boy, reputations, as you will find later, are not made either by wit or talents, but by coteries....Just ask for the sugar; brandy makes me ill if I drink it neat. Waiter! some sugar."
"But if brandy upsets you, why drink it?"
"What else can one do?" said Lafarge; "if one passes one's life in cafés, one must drink something."
"So you spend all your time in cafés?"
"Nearly all: I can work best so."
"In the midst of all the noise and talking?"
"I am used to that: Théaulon works thus, Francis works thus, Rochefort works thus, we all work thus. Don't we, Théaulon?"
A man of thirty to thirty-five, who had been writing rapidly, on quarto paper, something that looked like dialogue, at this interpellation lifted up his pale face—red about the cheek bones—and looked at us kindly.
"Yes," he said; "what is it? Ah! it is you, Lafarge? Good-evening." And he resumed his work.
"Is that Théaulon?" I asked.
"Yes; there's a man of ready wit for you! only he squanders and abuses his ready wit. Do you know what he is doing now?" "No."
"He is writing a comedy, in five acts, in verse."
"What! he can write poetry here, in a café?"
"In the first place, dear boy, this is not a café: it is a kind of literary club; everybody you see here is either an author or a journalist."
"Well," I said to Lafarge, "I have never seen a café where they consumed so little and wrote so much."
"The deuce, you are framing already. You almost made a witticism just then, do you know?"
"Well, then, in return for the witticism I have almost perpetrated, tell me who some of these gentlemen are."
"My dear fellow, it would be useless: you need to be a Parisian to be acquainted with reputations which are wholly Parisian."
"But I assure you, my dear Auguste, I am not so provincial in such matters as you think I am."
"Have you heard of Rochefort?"
"Yes. Has he not composed some very pretty songs and two or three successful vaudevilles?"
"Exactly so. Very well! he is that tall thin man, who is playing dominoes."
"Both players are of equal thinness."
"Ah! quite true!... He is the one whose face always plays and never wins." A way Rochefort had, gave rise to this joke on the part of his friend Lafarge. I say gave rise to, and notexcused.
"And who is his partner?"
"That is Ferdinand Langlé."
"Ah! little Fleuriet's lover?"
"Little Fleuriet's lover!... Hang it, you talk like a Parisian.... Who has primed you so well?"
"Hang it all! Adolphe ... he does not appear to hurry himself."
"You are in a hurry, then?"
"Of course I am, and naturally enough: I have never seen Talma."
"Ah, well, dear boy, hurry up and see him."
"Why do you say that?"
"Because he iswearing outhorribly."
"What do you mean bywearing out?"
"I mean he is getting old and growing rusty."
"I see! But the papers say he has never been fresher in talent or more beautiful in facial expression."
"Do you believe what the papers say?"
"Oh!"
"You may be a journalist yourself one day, my boy."
"Well, if I am?"
"Why, then, when you are, you will see how things come about."
"And ...?"
"And you will not believe what the papers say—that is all!" At this moment the door opened, and Adolphe poked his head in.
"Be quick," he said; "if we do not hurry, we shall find the curtain raised."
"Oh! it is you at last!"
I darted towards Adolphe.
"You have forgotten to pay," said Lafarge.
"Oh! so I have.... Waiter, how much?"
"One small glass, four sous; six sous of sugar, ten."
I drew ten sous from my pocket and flung them on the table, and then, the lighter by fifty centimes, I rushed out of the café.
"You were with Lafarge?" said Adolphe.
"Yes.... What is wrong with him?"
"What do you mean by what is wrong with him?"
"He told me that M. de Jouy was an idiot, and Talma a Cassandra."
"Poor Lafarge!" said Adolphe; "perhaps he had not dined."
"Not dined! Is he reduced so low as that?"
"Pretty nearly."
"Ah!" I said, "that explains many things!... MM. de Jouy and Talma dine every day, and poor Lafarge cannot forgive them for it."
Alas! I have since seen critics, besides Lafarge, who could not forgive those who dined.
I had dined so well that I had quite as much of the spirit of indulgence in my stomach as curiosity in my mind.
We went into the theatre. The hall was crowded, although it was about the eighth performance of the play. We had terrible difficulty in obtaining seats: our places were unreserved. Adolphe generously gave forty sous to the woman who showed people to their seats, and she wriggled a way in so well for us that she found us a corner in the centre of the orchestra, into which we slipped like a couple of wedges, which we must have resembled in shape and appearance. We were only just in time, as Adolphe had said. Scarcely were we seated before the curtain went up.
It is odd, is it not, that I should be talking ofSyllato the public of 1851? "What wasSylla?" a whole generation will exclaim. O Hugo! how true are your lines upon Canaris! They come back to me now, and, in spite of my will, flow from my pen:—
"Canaris! Canaris! nous t'avons oublie!Lorsque sur un héros le temps c'est replie,Quand ce sublime acteur a fait pleurer ou lire,Et qu'il a dit le mot que Dieu lui donne à dire;Quand, venus au hasard des revolutions,Les grands hommes out fait leurs grandes actions,Qu'ils ont jeté leur lustre étincelant ou sombre,Et qu'ils sont, pas à pas, redescendus dans l'ombre;Leur nom s'éteint aussi! Tout est vain, tout est vain!Et jusqu'à ce qu'un jour le poëte divin,Qui peut créer un monde avec une parole,Les prenne et leur rallume au front une auréole,Nul ne se souvient d'eux, et la foule aux cent voix,Qui, rien qu'en les voyant, hurlait d'aise autrefois,Hélas! si par hasard devant elle on les nomme,Interroge et s'étonne, et dit:'Quel est cet homme?'"
No! it is true M. de Jouy was not a hero, although he had fought bravely in India, nor a great man, although he had composedl'Ermite de la Chaussée-d'AntinandSylla; but M. de Jouy was a man of parts, or rather he possessed talent.
This was my conviction then. Thirty years have rolled by since the evening on which I first saw Talma appear on the stage. I have just re-readSyllaand it is my opinion to-day. No doubt M. de Jouy had cleverly turned to account both the historical and the physical likeness. The abdication ofSyllacalled to mind the emperor's abdication; Talma's head the cast of Napoleon's. No doubt this was the reason why the work met with such an enthusiastic reception, and ran for a hundred times. But there was something else besides the actor's looks and the allusions in the tragedy; there were fine lines, good situations, adénoûmentdaring in its simplicity. I am well aware that very often the fine lines of one periodare not the fine lines of another,—at least so people hold,—but the four lines which the poet puts into the mouth of Roscius are fine lines for all time: Roscius, the Talma of those last days of Rome, who had witnessed the fall of the Roman Republic, as Talma had witnessed the fall of the French Republic:—
"Ah! puisse la nature épargner aux RomainsCes sublimes esprits au-dessus des humains!Trop de maux, trop de pleurs attestent le passageDe ces astres brûlants nés du sein de l'orage!"
Then, again, very fine are the lines that the proscriber, who arrests with his powerful hand the proscription, which was going to include Cæsar, addresses to Ophelia when Ophelia says to him:—
"Oserais-je, à mon tour, demander à SyllaQuel pouvoir inconnu, quelle ombre protectrice,Peut dérober César à sa lente justice?Sylla.J'ai pesé comme vous ses vices, ses vertus,Et mon œil dans César voit plus d'un Marius!Je sais de quel espoir son jeune orgueil s'énivre;Mais Pompée est vivant, César aussi doit vivre.Parmi tous ces Romains à mon pouvoir soumis,Je n'ai plus de rivaux, j'ai besoin d'ennemis,D'ennemis fibres, fiers, dont la seule presenceAtteste mon génie ainsi que ma puissance;L'histoire à Marius pourrait m'associer,César aura vécu pour me justifier!"
When I saw Talma come on to the stage I uttered a cry of astonishment. Oh yes I it was indeed the impassive mask of the man I had seen pass in his carriage, his head bent low on his breast, eight days before Ligny, whom I saw return the day following Waterloo. Many have tried since, with the aid of the green uniform, the grey overcoat and the little hat, to reproduce that antique medallion, that bronze, half Greek, half Roman; but not one of them, O Talma I possessed yourlightning glance, with the calm and imperturbable countenance upon which neither the loss of a throne nor the death of thirty thousand men could imprint one single line of regret or trace of remorse. Those who have never seen Talma cannot imagine what he was: in him was the combination of three supreme qualities which I have never found elsewhere combined in one man—simplicity, power and poetry; it was impossible to be more magnificent, with the perfect grace of an actor; I mean that magnificence which has in it nothing personal attaching to the man, but which changes according to the characters of the heroes he is called upon to represent. It is impossible, I say, to find any actor so endowed with this type of magnificence as was Talma. Melancholy inOrestes, terrible inNéro, hideous inGloucester, he could adapt his voice, his looks, his gestures to each character. Mademoiselle Mars was but the perfection of the graceful; Mademoiselle Rachel was but the imperfection of the beautiful; Talma was the ideally great. Actors lament that nothing of theirs survives themselves. O Talma! I was a child when on that solemn evening I saw you for the first time, as you came upon the stage and your gestures began, before that row of senators, your clients; well, of that first scene, not one of your actions is effaced from my memory, not one of your intonations is lost.... O Talma! I can see you still, when these four lines are uttered by Catiline:—
"Sur d'obscurs criminels qu'pargne ta clémence,Je me tais; mais mon zèle eclaire ma prudence;Le nom de Clodius sur la liste est omis,C'est le plus dangereux de tous tes ennemis!"
I can see you still, Talma!—may your great spirit hear me and thrill with pleasure at not being forgotten!—I can see you still as with scornful smile upon your lips you slowly diminish the distance that separates you from your accuser; I can see and hear you still as you place your hand upon his shoulder, and, draped like one of the finest statues in Herculaneum or Pompeii, you utter these words to him, in the vibratingvoice which could penetrate to the very depths of one's being:—
"Je n'examine pas si ta haine enhardiePoursuit dans Clodius l'époux de Valérie;Et si Catiline, par cet avis fatal,Pretend servir ma cause ou punir un rival."
O Talma! your incisive and sonorous intonation took root in the hearts of all who heard you. It was indeed a fearfully ungrateful and barren soil which at that unpoetical period of the Empire was left you to cultivate, for, had you been disheartened by its sterility, there would have been nothing great, or fine, or wide-spreading, during all those thirty years in which you wore the Roman sandal or the Greek. Is it that the spirit of genius, with all its absorbing power, is mortal like that of the upas tree or the manchineel?
I should like to continue speaking of Sylla to the end of the play in order to render tribute to the prodigious talent Talma possessed, and to follow him in the twofold development of his creation of the rôle of Sylla and the details of that rôle. But what would be the good? Who is interested in these things nowadays? Who amuses himself by recalling thirty years after its extinction the intonation of an actor as he declaimed line or hemistich or word? What does it matter to M. Guizard, to M. Léon Faucher, to the President of the Republic, in what manner Talma replied to Lænas, when he was sent by the Roman populace to learn from Sylla the number of the condemned, and asked him—
"Combien en proscris-tu, Sylla?"
What matters it to those gentlemen to know how Talma uttered his
"Je ne sais pas!"
At the most, they can only remember the cadence of voice with which General Cavaignac pronounced those four words when he was asked how many people he had transporteduntried out of France. And let us remember that it is now but two years since the Dictator of 1848 uttered these four words, which richly deserve to hold a place in the annals of history beside those of Sylla. But though Talma was by turns simple, great, magnificent, it was in the abdication scene that he rose to actual sublimity. It is true that the abdication of Sylla recalled that at Fontainebleau, and, we repeat, we have no doubt that the resemblance between the modern and the ancient Dictator produced an immense impression upon the vulgar public. This opinion was held by the Censorship of 1821, which cut out these lines because they were supposed to refer in turn to Bonaparte, first consul, and Napoleon, the emperor.
These to Bonaparte:—
... C'était trop pour moi des lauriers de la guerre;Je voulais une gloire et plus rare et plus chère.Rome, en proie aux fureurs des partis triomphants,Mourante sous les coups de ses propres enfants,Invoquait à la fois mon bras et mon génie:Je me fis dictateur, je sauvai la patrie!"
These to Napoleon:—
"J'ai gouverné le monde à mes ordres soumis,Et j'impose silence à tous mes ennemis!Leur haine ne saurait atteindre ma mémoire,J'ai mis entre eux et moi l'abîme de ma gloire."
When one re-reads at the end of ten, twenty, or thirty years either the lines which the Censorship forbade, or the plays it suppressed, one is completely amazed at the stupidity of Governments. As soon as a revolution has cut off the seven heads of a literary hydra, governments make all speed to collect them again and to stick them back on the trunk that feigned death whilst taking care not to lose its hold on life. As though the Censorship had ever annihilated any of the works that have been forbidden to be played! As though the Censorship had strangledTartuffe, Mahomet, le Mariage deFigaro, Charles IX., Pinto, Marion DelormeandAntony! No, when one of these virile pieces is hounded from the theatre where it has made its mark, it waits, calm and erect, until those who have proscribed it fall or pass away, and, when they are fallen or dead, when its persecutors are hurled from their thrones, or entering their tombs, the calm and immortal daughter of Genius, omnipotent and great, enters the enclosure that the mannikins have closed against her, from whence they have disappeared, and their forgotten crowns being too small for her brow become the sport of her feet.
The curtain fell in the midst of immense applause. I was stunned, dazzled, fascinated. Adolphe proposed we should go to Talma's dressing-room to thank him. I followed him through that inextricable labyrinth of corridors which wind about the back regions of the Théâtre-Français, and which to-day unfortunately are no longer unknown regions to me. No client who ever knocked at the door of the original Sylla felt his heart beat so fast and so furiously as did mine at the door of the actor who had just personated him. De Leuven pushed open the door. The great actor's dressing-room lay before us: it was full of men whom I did not know, who were all famous or about to become famous. There was Casimir Delavigne, who had just written the last scenes ofl'École des Vieillards;there was Lucien Arnault, who had just had hisRégulusperformed; there was Soumet, still very proud of his twofold success ofSaüland ofClytemnestre; there was Népomucène Lemercier, that paralysed sulky brute, whose talents were as crooked as his body, who in his healthy moments had composedAgamemnon, Pinto,andFridegonde,and in his unhealthy hoursChristophe Colomb, la Panhypocrisiade,andCahin-Caha;there was Delrieu, who had been at work upon the revised version of hisArtaxerch,since 1809; there was Viennet, whose tragedies made a sensation for fifteen or twenty years on paper, to live and agonise and die within a week, like him whose reign lasted two hours and whose torture three days; there was, finally, the hero of the hour, M. de Jouy, with his tall figure, his fine white head, his intellectual andkindly eyes, and in the centre of them all—Talma in his simple white robe, just despoiled of its purple, his head from which he had just removed the crown and his two graceful white hands with which he had just broken the Dictator's palm. I stayed at the door, blushing vividly, and very humble.
"Talma," said Adolphe, "we have come to thank you." Talma looked round out of his eye-corners. He perceived me at the door.
"Ah! ah!" he said; "come in."
I took two steps towards him.
"Well, Mr. Poet," said he, "were you satisfied?"
"I am more than that, monsieur ... I am wonder-struck." "Very well, you must come and see me again, and ask for more seats."
"Alas! Monsieur Talma, I leave Paris to-morrow or the day after at latest."
"That is a pity! you might have seen me inRégulus.... You know I have putRéguluson the bill for the day after to-morrow, Lucien?"
"Yes," Lucien replied.
"And cannot you stop till the evening of the day after to-morrow?"
"Impossible: I have to return to the provinces."
"What do you do in the provinces?"
"I dare not tell you: lama lawyer's clerk ..."
And I heaved a deep sigh.
"Bah!" said Talma, "you must not give way to despair on that account! Corneille was clerk to a procurator!... Gentlemen, allow me to introduce you to a future Corneille."
I blushed to the eyes.
"Lay your hand on my forehead: it will bring me good luck," I said to Talma.
Talma laid his hand on my head.
"There—so be it," he said. "Alexandre Dumas, I baptize thee poet in the name of Shakespeare, of Corneille and of Schiller!... Go back to the provinces, go back to youroffice, and if you really have a vocation, the angel of Poetry will know how to find you all right wherever you be, will carry you off by the hair of your head like the prophet Habakkuk and will take you where fate determines."
I took Talma's hand and tried to kiss it.
"Why, see!" he said, "the lad has enthusiasm and will make something of himself;" and he shook me cordially by the hand.
I had nothing more to wait for there. A longer stay in that dressing-room crowded with celebrities would have been both embarrassing and ridiculous: I made a sign to Adolphe, and we took our leave. I wanted to fling my arms round Adolphe's neck in the corridor.
"Yes, indeed," I said to him, "be sure I shall return to Paris. You may depend upon that!"
We went down by the little twisting staircase, which has since been condemned; we left by the black corridor; we went along the gallery then called the galerie de Nemours, and called to-day I know not what, and we came out on the place du Palais-Royal.
"There, you know your way," said Adolphe,—"the rue Croix-des-Petits Champs, the rue Coquillière, the rue des Vieux-Augustins. Good-night; I must leave you: it is late, and it is a long way from here to the rue Pigale.... By the way, remember we lunch at ten and we dine at five."
And Adolphe turned round the corner of the rue Richelieu and disappeared. It was indeed late; all lights were out, and only a few belated people were passing across the place du Palais-Royal. Although Adolphe had told it me, I did not in the least know my way, and I was extremely scared when I found myself alone. It must be confessed I felt very uneasy at being out in the streets of Paris at such a late hour; for I had heard heaps of stories of night attacks, robberies and assassinations, and, with my fifty sous in my pocket, I trembled at the thought of being plundered. A struggle went on in my mind between courage and fear. Fear won the day. I hailed a cab. The cab came up to me and I opened the door.
"Monsieur knows it is past midnight?" said the driver.
"Of course I know it," I replied; and I added to myself, "That is the very reason I am taking a cab."
"Where is the country squire going?"
"Rue des Vieux-Augustins,Hôtel des Vieux-Augustins."
"What?" said the driver.
I repeated it.
"Is monsieur quite sure he wants to go there?"
"The deuce I do!"
"In that case, off we go!"
And lashing his horses, at the same time clicking with his tongue as do all drivers, he urged them into a canter.
Twenty seconds later, he pulled up, got down from his seat, and opened the door.
"Well ...?" I asked.
"Well, my country lad, we are at your destination, rue des Vieux-Augustins,Hôtel des Vieux-Augustins"
I raised my head, and there, beyond doubt, was the house. I then understood the driver's astonishment at seeing a great bumpkin of twenty, who seemed in no way unsound of limb, wanting to take a cab from the place du Palais-Royal to go to the rue des Vieux-Augustins. But as it would have been too absurd to avow that I did not know the distance between the two places, I said in a stout voice—
"All right—what is the fare?"
"Oh, you know the fare well enough, young fellow."
"If I knew it, I should not ask you."
"It is fifty sous, then."
"Fifty sous?" I exclaimed, horrified at having incurred such useless expense.
"Certainly, young chap, that is the tariff."
"Fifty sous to come from the Palais-Royal here!"
"I warned monsieur it was past midnight."
"There you are," I said; "take your fifty sous."
"Aren't you going to give me apourboire, young fellow?"
I made a movement to strangle the wretch; but he wasstrong and vigorous. I reflected that perhaps he would strangle me, so I stayed my hand. I rang the bell, the door was opened, and I went inside. I felt dreadfully stricken with remorse for having squandered my money, especially when I considered that even had Paillet spent nothing on his side, we only had twenty francs fifty centimes left. Paillet had been to the Opera, and had spent eight francs ten sous. Only a dozen francs were left us.
We looked at each other with some anxiety.
"Listen," he said: "you have seen Talma, I have heardla Lampe mervilleuse; this was all you wanted to see, all I wanted to hear: if you agree, let us leave to-morrow, instead of the next day."
"That is exactly what I was going to suggest to you."
"All right; do not let us lose any time. It is now one o'clock; let us get to bed as quickly as possible and sleep until six; then let us start at seven, and sleep, if we can manage it, at Manteuil."
"Good-night"
"Good-night...."
A quarter of an hour later, we were rivalling one another who could go to sleep the soundest.
Next day, or rather the same day, at eight o'clock, we had passed Villette; at three o'clock, we were dining at Dammartin, under the same conditions as we had lunched there; at seven, we were having our supper at Manteuil; and on Wednesday at one o'clock, loaded with two hares and six partridges,—the result of the economy we had exercised by our hunting of the previous night and day,—we entered Crespy, giving our last twenty sous to a poor beggar. Paillet and I parted at the entry to the large square. I went to Maître Lefèvre's by the little passage, and up to my room to change my things. I called Pierre, through the window, and asked him for news of M. Lefèvre. M. Lefèvre had returned in the night. I gave my game to the cook, went into the office and slipped into my place. My three office companions were all in their places. Nobody asked me a question. They thought I had justreturned from one of my usual excursions, only one that had lasted rather longer than usual. I enquired if M. Lefèvre had asked any questions about me. M. Lefèvre had wanted to know where I was; they had replied that they did not know, and the matter had ended there. I drew my papers from my desk and set to work. A few minutes later, M. Lefèvre appeared. He went to the head clerk, gave him some instructions, and then returned to his room, without even having seemed to notice my presence, which led me to think he had taken particular notice of my absence. Dinner-time arrived. We sat down; all went on as usual; save that, after dinner, when I was rising to go, M. Lefèvre said to me—
"Monsieur Dumas, I want a few words with you."
I knew the storm was about to burst, and I resolved to keep myself well in hand.
"Certainly, monsieur," I replied.
The head clerk and the office boy, who shared the master's table with me, discreetly withdrew. M. Lefèvre pointed to a chair opposite his own, on the other side of the fireplace. I sat down. Then M. Lefèvre lifted his head as a horse does under the martingale, a gesture which was customary with him, crossed his right leg over his left leg, held up one leg till the slipper fell, took his gold snuff-box, inhaled a pinch of snuff, drew a dignified breath, and then, in a voice all the more threatening because of its dulcet tones, he said, scratching his right foot with his left hand, his most cherished habit—
"Monsieur Dumas, have you any knowledge of mechanics?"
"Not in theory, monsieur, only in practice."
"Well, then, you will know enough to understand my illustration."
"I am listening, monsieur."
"Monsieur Dumas, in order that a machine may work properly, none of its wheels must stop."
"Of course not, monsieur."
"Very well, Monsieur Dumas; I need not say more. I am the engineer, you are one of the wheels in the machine; for two days you have stopped, and consequently for two days thegeneral action of the machine has lacked the co-operation of your individual movement."
I rose to my feet.
"Quite so, monsieur," I said.
"You will understand," added M. Lefèvre in a less dogmatic tone, "that this warning is merely provisional?"
"You are very good, monsieur, but I take it as definitive."
"Oh, then, that is better still," said M. Lefèvre. "It is now seven in the evening, night is coming on, and the weather is bad; but you may leave when you like, my dear Dumas. From the moment you cease to be third clerk here you can remain as a friend, and in that capacity the longer you stay the better I shall be pleased."
I bowed a graceful acknowledgment to M. Lefèvre and withdrew to my room. I had taken a great step, and an important career was now closed to me; henceforth my future was in Paris, and I made up my mind to move heaven and earth to leave the provinces. I spent half the night in thinking, and before I fell asleep all my plans were made.
I return to my mother's—The excuse I give concerning my return—The calf's lights—Pyramus and Cartouche—The intelligence of the fox more developed than that of the dog—Death of Cartouche—Pyramus's various gluttonous habits
I return to my mother's—The excuse I give concerning my return—The calf's lights—Pyramus and Cartouche—The intelligence of the fox more developed than that of the dog—Death of Cartouche—Pyramus's various gluttonous habits
I packed up my things next day and went. I was not without uneasiness with regard to the way my mother might receive me—my poor mother! her first expression at seeing me was always one of delight, but my leaving Maître Lefèvre's would trouble her. So the nearer I drew to Villers-Cotterets, the slower did my steps become. It generally took me two hours to walk the three and a half leagues between Crespy and Villers-Cotterets, for I used to run the last league; but now the reverse was the case, for the last league took me the longest of all to cover. I returned in shooting costume after my usual fashion. And my dog was hardly three hundred yards away before he smelt home, stopped an instant, lifted up his nose, and set off like an arrow. Five seconds after he had disappeared down the road, I saw my mother appear on the threshold. My courier had preceded me and announced my return. She met me with her usual smile; the whole tenderness of her heart welled up at my approach and shone in her face. I flung myself in her arms.
Oh! what a love is a mother's!—a love always good, always devoted, always faithful; a true diamond lost amongst all the false stones with which youth decks its happiness; a pure and limpid carbuncle, which shines in joy as in sorrow, by night asby day! My mother's first thoughts were nought but joyful ones at seeing me again; then, at last, she asked me how it was I had returned home on Thursday instead of on Saturday, to spend Sunday with her, going back on Monday as usual.
I dared not tell her of the misfortune that had befallen me. I told her that, as business was slack at the office, I had obtained a holiday for several days, which I meant to spend with her.
"But," my mother observed, "I see you are wearing your hunting-coat and breeches."
"Yes, why not?"
"How is it you have nothing in your game-bag?"
It was not indeed customary for me to return with the game-bag empty.
"I was so anxious to see you, dear mother, that instead of shooting, I came the shortest way, by the high road."
I lied. Had I spoken the truth, I should have said, "Alas! dear mother, I was so much taken up with thinking what effect my news would have upon you that I never thought of shooting, though at other times I have forgotten everything for that passion." But had I told her that, I should have had to tell her the news, and I wanted to delay it as long as possible.
An incident freed me from embarrassment and diverted my mother's thoughts for the moment. I heard my dog howl.
I ran to the door. The next house to ours was that of a butcher, called Mauprivez. In the front of the butcher's slab there was a long cross-bar of painted wood, in which at different intervals iron hooks were fixed to hold various specimens of meat. In jumping up at a calfs lights, Pyramus had got hooked like a carp on a fish-hook, and hung suspended. That was why he howled, and, as will readily be imagined, not without cause. I seized hold of him by the body, unhooked him, and he rushed into the stable, his jaws bleeding. If I ever write the history of the dogs that have belonged to me, Pyramus shall have a prominent place by the side of Milord. I may therefore be allowed to leave in suspense the interest my return naturally created, to talk a bit about Pyramus, who, in spite of his name, which indicated that all sorts of love misfortunes were beforehim, had never had, to my knowledge, any misadventures except gastronomic ones. Pyramus was a large chestnut-coloured dog, of very good French pedigree, who had been given me when quite a puppy, with a fox-cub of the same age, which the keeper who gave him me (it was poor Choron of la Maison-Neuve) had had suckled by the same mother. I often amused myself by watching the different instincts of these two animals develop, as they were placed opposite one another in the yard in two parallel recesses. For the first three or four months an almost brotherly intimacy reigned between Cartouche and Pyramus. I need not mention that Cartouche was the fox and Pyramus the dog. Nor need I mention that the name of Cartouche was given to the fox in allusion to his instincts of stealing and depredation. It was Cartouche who began to declare war on Pyramus, although he was the weaker looking; this declaration of war took place over some bones which were within Cartouche's boundary, but which Pyramus had surreptitiously tried to annex. The first time Pyramus attempted this piracy, Cartouche snarled; the second time, he showed his teeth; the third time, he bit. Cartouche was the more to be excused because he was always on the chain, while Pyramus had his hours of liberty. Cartouche, restrained to a very circumscribed walk, could not therefore, at full length of his chain, do unto Pyramus the evil deeds which Pyramus, abusing his liberty, was guilty of on his side. On account of this captivity, I was able to notice the superior intelligence of the fox over that of the dog. Both were gourmands in the highest degree, with this difference, that Pyramus was more of a glutton and Cartouche more of an epicure. When they both stretched to the full length of their chains, they could reach a distance of nearly four feet, from the opening of their recesses. Add ten inches for the length of Pyramus's head, four inches for Cartouche's pointed nose, and you will arrive at this result, that whilst Pyramus, at the length of his chain, could reach a bone at four feet ten inches from his recess, Cartouche could only perpetrate the same deed four feet four inches from his. Very well, if I placed a bone six feet off,—that is to say, out of the reach of both,—Pyramus had to contenthimself with stretching his chain with the whole strength of his sturdy shoulders, but not being able to break it, he would stand with fixed bloodshot eyes, his jaws slobbering and open, attempting from time to time, with plaintive whines, to exorcise the distance, or, by desperate efforts, to break his chain. If the bone were not either taken away or given him, he would have gone mad; but he had never succeeded, by any ingenious contrivance, to snatch the prey beyond his reach. It was another matter with Cartouche. His preliminary tactics were the same as those of Pyramus, and consequently equally fruitless. But soon he began to reflect, rubbing a paw on his nose; then, all at once, as though a sudden illumination had come into his mind, he turned himself round, adding the length of his body to the length of his chain, dragged the bone into the circle of his kingdom, by the help of one of his hind paws, turned round again, seized hold of the bone, and entered into his kennel, from which it was not rejected until it was as clean and polished as ivory. Pyramus saw Cartouche perform this trick ten times; he would howl with jealousy as he listened to his comrade's teeth grinding on the bone which he was gnawing; but, I repeat, he never had the intelligence to do the same thing himself, and to use his hind paw as a hook to draw the tit-bit within his reach. Cartouche was of superior intelligence to Pyramus in a thousand other instances such as this, although his tractability was always inferior. But it is common knowledge that with animals as with human beings, the capacity for being trained is not always, nay is scarcely ever, combined with intelligence.
The reader may ask why the injustice was perpetrated of keeping Cartouche always fastened, while Pyramus was allowed his liberty at times. This is why: Pyramus was only a glutton by need, while Cartouche was destructive by instinct. One day he broke his chain, and went from our yard into the farmyard belonging to our neighbour Mauprivez. In less than ten minutes he had strangled seventeen fowls and two cocks. Nineteen cases of homicide: it was impossible to plead extenuating circumstances: he was condemned to death and executed. So Pyramus reigned sole master of the place, which,to his shame be it said, he appreciated greatly. His appetite seemed to increase when he was left alone. This appetite was a defect at home; but, out shooting, it was a vice. Nearly always, the first game I killed under his nose, were it small game, such as partridge, young pheasant or quail, would be lost to me. His big jaws would open, and, with a rapid gulp, the piece of game disappeared down his throat. Very rarely did I arrive in time to perceive, by opening his jaws, the last feathers of the bird's tail disappearing in the depths of his gullet. Then a lash with my horse-whip, vigorously applied on the loins of the guilty sinner, would cure him for the remainder of the chase, and it was seldom he repeated the same fault; but, between one shoot and another, he generally had time to forget the previous punishment, and more expenditure of whipcord was needed. On two other occasions, however, the gluttony of Pyramus turned out badly for him.
One day de Leuven and I were shooting over the marshes of Pondron. It was a place where two harvests were gathered during the year. The first harvest was that of a small thicket of alderwood. The owner of the land, after having cut his branches, stripped the twigs off, sawed it and tied it in bundles. Then he became busy over his second harvest, which was that of hay. They were just reaping this crop. But, as it was luncheon-time, the reapers had rested their scythes, here and there, and were feeding by a small river wherein they could moisten their hard bread. One of them had placed his scythe against one of the heaps of cut wood, about two feet and a half high, placed in cubic metres or half-mètres. I put up a snipe; I fired and killed it, and it fell behind this pile of wood against which the scythe was propped. It was the first thing I had killed that day, consequently it happened to be the perquisite Pyramus was in the habit of appropriating. So, putting two and two together, he had scarcely seen the snipe, stopped in its flight, fall vertically behind the wood pile, before he darted over the stack so as to fall on the spot as soon as it did, without loss of time. As I knew beforehand that it was a head of game lost, I did not hurry myself to see the tail feathers of my snipein the depths of Pyramus's throat, but, to my great surprise, I saw no more of Pyramus than if he had tumbled down an invisible chasm, hewn out behind the pile of wood. When I had re-loaded my gun, I decided to fathom this mystery. Pyramus had fallen on the far side of the heap of wood, his neck on the point of the scythe; this point had penetrated to the right of the pharynx, behind the neck, and stuck out four inches in front. Poor Pyramus could not stir, and was bleeding' to death: the snipe, intact, was within six inches of his nose. Adolphe and I raised him up, so as to cause him the least possible hurt; we carried him to the river, and we bathed him in deep water; then I made him a compress with my handkerchief, folded in sixteen, which we bound round his neck with Adolphe's silk one. Then, seeing a peasant from Haramont passing, with a donkey carrying two baskets, we put Pyramus in one of the paniers and we had him carried to Haramont, whence next day I took him away in a small conveyance. Pyramus was a week between life and death. For a month he carried his head on one side, like Prince Tuffiakin. Finally, at the end of six weeks, he had regained his elasticity of movement, and appeared to have completely forgotten the terrible catastrophe. But whenever he saw a scythe, he made an immense detour to avoid coming in contact with it. Another day, he returned home, his body as full of holes as a sieve. He had been wandering about the forest alone, watching his opportunity, and he had leapt at the throat of a hare; the hare screamed out: a keeper, who was about a couple of hundred steps away, ran up; but before the keeper could clear the two hundred paces, the hare was half devoured. Now Pyramus, on seeing the approach of the keeper and on hearing his execrations, understood that something alarming would occur between himself and the man in blue clothes. He took to his heels and set off full tear. But, as Friday, of Robinson Crusoe memory remarked, "Small shot ran after me faster than you did!" the keeper's small shot travelled faster than Pyramus, and Pyramus returned home riddled in eight places.
I have already related what happened to him ten minutes after my return. A week later, he came in with a calf's lights in his mouth. A knife was quivering in his side. Behind him came one of the Mauprivez' sons.
"Ah!" he said, "isn't it enough that your beastly Pyramus carries away the contents of our shop, joint by joint, but he must needs carry away my knife too?"
Seeing Pyramus carry off the calfs lights, Mauprivez' boy had hurled at him the knife butchers generally wear at their girdles; but, as the knife went three or four inches into Pyramus's hide, Pyramus had carried off both meat and knife. Mauprivez recovered his implement; but the calfs lights were already devoured. Just when Pyramus's various misdeeds had incurred not merely our individual reprobation, but public reprobation still more, an advantageous occasion offered to get rid of him. But as that occasion was invested in my eyes with all the semblance of a miracle, I must be permitted to relate that miracle in its proper time and place, and not to anticipate it here.
Let us, for the moment, occupy ourselves over the unexpected return of the prodigal son to the maternal roof—a return from which Pyramus and Cartouche have incidentally diverted our attention.
Hope in Laffitte—A false hope—New projects—M. Lecornier—How and on what conditions I clothe myself anew—Bamps, tailor, 12 rue du Helder—Bamps at Villers-Cotterets—I visit our estate along with him—Pyramus follows a butcher lad—An Englishman who loved gluttonous dogs—I sell Pyramus—My first hundred francs—The use to which they are put—Bamps departs for Paris—Open credit
Hope in Laffitte—A false hope—New projects—M. Lecornier—How and on what conditions I clothe myself anew—Bamps, tailor, 12 rue du Helder—Bamps at Villers-Cotterets—I visit our estate along with him—Pyramus follows a butcher lad—An Englishman who loved gluttonous dogs—I sell Pyramus—My first hundred francs—The use to which they are put—Bamps departs for Paris—Open credit
Although I had told my mother that my return was only a provisional one, to use M. Lefèvre's expression, she had very little doubt at heart that it was really final. Her doubt turned to certainty when she saw Sunday, Monday, Tuesday pass by without my speaking of returning to Crespy; but, poor mother! she never said a word to me concerning this catastrophe: it had cost her so much to part with me, that, since God had sent me back to her, she opened her maternal heart, arms and door to me. I had some hope left me: Adolphe had promised to make overtures to M. Laffitte, the banker, on my behalf; if M. Laffitte made me an opening in his office, where they worked from ten to four, there would be the whole of the evening and early morning to oneself for other work. Besides, it was time I should earn something. The most important thing was to get to Paris, to light our poor candles at that universal, vast and dazzling fireside, which was a light to the whole world. A fortnight after my return from Crespy, I received a letter from Adolphe. His request had come to nothing, for M. Laffitte's offices were over full of clerks as it was: they were talking of clearing some out. So I decided to put in action at the first opportunity a plan I had settled upon during the last sleepless night I had spent atM. Lefèvre's. This project was perfectly simple and, by its very simplicity, seemed likely to succeed.
I would select, from my father's desk, a dozen letters from Marshal Jourdan, Marshal Victor, Marshal Sébastiani, from all the marshals still living, in fact, with whom my father had had dealings. I would collect a small sum of money and I would start for Paris. I would approach these old friends of my father; they would do what they could, and it would be a strange thing if four or five marshals of France, one of whom was Minister for War, could not by their combined influence find a situation at 1200 francs for the son of their old comrade-in-arms. But although this plan looked as simple and artless, at the first glance, as a pastoral by Florian, it was very difficult to put in execution. Small though the sum was, it was not an easy thing to raise it; moreover, an expenditure I had foolishly made at Crespy complicated matters.
I had become connected at Crespy with a young man who had lived in Paris: his name was Lecornier. He was brother of that gracious person to whom I gave a name in one of my preceding chapters—you will recollect it, although it was only mentioned once—the charming name of Athénaïs, or, in other words, Athena, Minerva, Pallas, although the bearer of it was quite unaware of this fact. Well, ashamed of moving in the aristocratic world of Crespy in my old-fashioned clothes of Villers-Cotterets, I had asked Lecornier, as my build was exactly his, to write to his tailor to make me a coat, a waistcoat and a pair of trousers. Lecornier wrote: I sent my twenty francs as a remittance on account, and, fifteen days later, the tailor forwarded me the goods, enclosing a bill for a hundred and fifty-five francs, from which he had deducted the twenty francs I had sent him on account. It was arranged that the rest of the bill should be liquidated at the rate of twenty francs a month. The tailor's name was Bamps, and he lived in the rue du Helder, No. 12. It will be seen, from his charges, that although Bamps lived in a fashionable quarter, he was neither a Chevreuil nor a Staub; no, he was a journeyman who charged fancy prices, who had drifted from the Latin quarter,where he should always have remained. But for the very reason that his business was small, Bamps had all the more need of the profits it produced.
Although I exercised the greatest economy possible, I had not been able to put aside the promised twenty francs when the next month's payment became due. Not having them, of course I could not send them. This first infraction of our treaty made Bamps very uneasy. Nevertheless, Bamps knew that Lecornier belonged to a family well to do, although not wealthy; Lecornier kept his engagements with him with scrupulous punctuality; so he decided to wait, before giving signs of his anxiety. The second month came. With it came the same impossibility on my part, and, consequently, redoubled uneasiness on the part of Bamps. Meanwhile, I had left Crespy—under the circumstances related—and I had returned to Villers-Cotterets. Five or six days after my departure, Bamps, becoming more and more uncomfortable, had written to Lecornier. Lecornier had replied, giving him my fresh address. It therefore came about that one day—about the beginning of the third month after receiving the clothes—as I was lounging on our threshold, the town clock struck one, the diligence from Paris drew up in the square, and a traveller got down from it who asked the conductor two or three questions, took his bearings and came straight to me. I guessed half the truth. Bamps was walking with his knees out like Duguesclin, and nobody but a soldier or a tailor could walk thus. I was not mistaken: the stranger came straight to me and introduced himself; it was Bamps. It was necessary to play something like the scene between Don Juan and M. Dimanche; this was all the more difficult as I had never readDon Juan.However, instinct made up for ignorance. I gave Bamps a most cordial reception; I introduced him to my mother, to whom, fortunately, I had said a few words about this my first debt; I offered him refreshment, and I asked him to sit down, or, if he preferred so to do, to visit our estate. Under the circumstances, Bamps' choice was a foregone conclusion: he preferred to visitour estate.
Now, what was this property of which the reader has already heard me speak, but which he will assuredly have forgotten? Our estate was the house of M. Harlay on which my mother had been paying a life-annuity for something like forty years; M. Harlay had died during my stay with Maître Lefèvre; but, just as though he had made a wager, he died on the anniversary of his birth, triumphantly terminating his ninetieth year!... Unfortunately, his death had not been much advantage to us. My mother had borrowed, on house and garden, almost as much as house and garden were worth; so that we were neither richer nor poorer by this inheritance; though, as there were certain duties to pay, I may venture to state we were poorer rather than richer. But Bamps knew none of these details. I therefore offered, as I have said, to take him over our estate. He accepted. I unchained Pryamus, and we set off. After going fifty yards, Pyramus left us to follow a butcher boy who went by with a piece of mutton on his shoulder. I give this detail, although, at first glance, it may appear very trivial; for it was not without influence upon my future. For what would have happened to me and to Bamps if this butcher boy, whose name was Valtat, had not passed by, and if Pyramus had not followed him? We went on our way, without thinking of Pyramus. Man jostles up against great events, every moment of his life, without seeing them and without being conscious of them.
We soon arrived. M. Harlay's house, now our own, was situated in the place de la Fontaine, perhaps a couple of hundred steps from the house we lived in. I had taken the keys: I opened the doors, and we began by looking over the interior of the house. It was not so clean as to inspire great confidence: everything had grown old along with the worthy man who had just died in it, and who had taken great care not to undertake a single repair in it; "for," said he, "it will last as long as I shall." It had lasted as long as he had, true; but, all the same, it was time he died. If he had lingered on merely another year or two with the same intention in his head, he would have out-lasted the house. The inside of our poorproperty, then, afforded the most melancholy sight of complete neglect and dilapidation. The floors were broken through, the wall-papers torn off, the bricks broken. Bamps shook his head, and said, in his half Alsacian and half French dialect, "Ach! My vord! my vord! it is in a fery pad stade."
Most surely would I have offered Bamps the house, in exchange for his bill, if he would have taken it. When the house had been surveyed, I said to Bamps—
"Now let us go and see the garden."
"Is de garten in zo pad a stade as de house?" he asked. "Well ... it has been rather neglected, but now it belongs to us...."
"It vill take much money to restore dis old tumbledown place," Bamps discreetly observed.
"Bah! we shall find it," I replied: "if it is not in our own pockets, it will be in someone else's."
"Goot! if you can vind it, zo much de better."
We crossed the yard and entered the garden. It was at the beginning of April; we had had two or three lovely days—days one knows so well, on which the year, like a faithful servant, seems to fold up Winter's white garment, and unfold the green robe of Spring.
Now, although the garden was as neglected as the house, it was pursuing its work of life, in opposition to the work of death going on in the house. The house grew older year by year; year by year the garden renewed its youth. It looked as though the trees had powdered themselves for a forest ball: apples and pears in white, and peaches and almonds in pink. You could not imagine anything younger, fresher or more full of life, than was this garden of death. Everything was waking up with Nature, as she herself woke up: the birds had begun to sing, and three or four butterflies, deceived by the flowers and by the first rays of sunshine, were flying about still somewhat benumbed; poor ephemera, born in the morning, but to die by night!
"Well," I asked Bamps, "what do you say to the garden?" "Oh! dat is fery bretty: it is a bity it is not in de rue de Rifoli."
"There will be more than a hundred crowns' worth of fruit in this garden, you take my word for it."
"Yess, if no pad frosts come."
O Bamps! you Jew, my friend, you tailor, my creditor, you have probably not read those fine lines of Hugo, which, by the way, were not then written:—
"Il faut que l'eau s'épuise à courir les valines;Il faut que l'éclair brille, et brille peu d'instants;Il faut qu'avril jaloux brûle de ses geléesLe beau pommier trop fier de ses fleurs etoilées,Neige odorante du printemps."
We walked round the garden; then, when I fancied satisfaction carried the day against dissatisfaction, I took Bamps back home. Dinner was waiting for us. I believe the dinner caused Bamps to go from satisfaction back to dissatisfaction.
"Ah, veil," he said to me, when he had taken his cup of coffee and his cognac, "we must now have a liddle talk about business."
"Why not, my dear Bamps? Willingly."
My mother heaved a sigh.
"Veil, then," continued Bamps, "the bill is for a huntred and vifty-vive francs."
"Towards which I have given you twenty."
"Towards vhich you haf gifen me tventy: so dere is a palance of a huntred and thirdy-vive. Towards dese huntred and thirdy-vive, you said you would gif me tventy per month. Two months haf gone py: so dat makes forty you owe me."
"Exactly forty, my dear sir—you reckon like Barême."
"Veil, I can reckon all right."
The situation was growing embarrassing. Had we opened my poor mother's banking account and scratched together every farthing, we should certainly not have been able to find the forty francs demanded. Just at that moment the door opened.
"Is M. Dumas in?" asked a hoarse, raucous voice.
"Yes, M. Dumas is here," I replied in a bad temper. "What do you want with him?"
"I don't want him."
"Who does, then?"
"An Englishman at M. Cartier's."
"An Englishman?" I repeated.
"Yes, an Englishman, who is very anxious to see you."
That was my own state of mind too! The Englishman could not be more anxious to see me than I was to get away from Bamps.
"My dear Bamps," I said to him, "wait for me; I will come back. We will settle up our account on my return."
"Be qvick back; I must depard dis efening."
"Set your mind at rest about that: I shall be back in an instant."
I took up my cap and followed the stable lad, who had told my mother, to her great surprise, that he had orders not to go back without me.
Cartier, at whose house was the Englishman who demanded to see me, was an old friend of our family, the proprietor of theBoule d'or,a hotel situated at the extreme east of the town, on the road to Soissons. The diligences stopped at his house. There was therefore nothing surprising that the Englishman who was asking for me should be staying there: what did astonish me was that this Englishman should want me. When I appeared in the kitchen, old Cartier, who was warming himself, according to his usual habit, in the chimney corner, came up to me.
"Look sharp," he said: "I believe I am going to pull off a good thing for you."
"Come now, that would be very welcome," I replied; "I was never in greater need of a lucky windfall."
"Well, follow me."
And Cartier, walking in front of me, led me to a little parlour where travellers dined. Just as we opened the door, we heard a voice saying, with a strong English accent—
"Take care, mine host: the dog does not know me, and will run out."
"Never fear, milord," replied Cartier: "I am bringing his master."
Every innkeeper considers an Englishman has the right to the title of milord; so they use the title unsparingly: true, it usually pays them to do so.
"Ah! come in, sir," said the Englishman, trying to rise, by leaning both his elbows on the arms of his chair. He could not succeed. Seeing this, I hastened to say to him—
"Pray do not disturb yourself, monsieur."
"Oh, I will not disturb myself," said the Englishman, falling back in his arm-chair with a sigh. The time he took in getting up and falling back in his chair, with the rising and falling movement suggestive of an omelette soufflée which has fallen flat, was occupied by me in quickly glancing at him and his surroundings. He was a man of between forty and forty-five years of age, of sandy complexion, with his hair clipped short and his whiskers cuten collier; he wore a blue coat with metal buttons, a chamois leather waistcoat, breeches of grey woollen material with gaiters to match, after the fashion of grooms. He was seated before the table where he had just dined. The table bore the debris of a meal sufficient for six people. He must have weighed from three hundred to three hundred and fifty pounds. Pyramus was seated on the parquetry floor, looking very melancholy; round Pyramus were placed ten or twelve shiny plates, licked clean with that thoroughness I knew he was capable of in the matter of dirty plates. On the last plate, however, were some scraps still unconsumed. These unconsumed scraps were the cause of Pyramus's depressed spirits.
"Please come and speak to me, monsieur," said the Englishman.
I drew near him. Pyramus recognised me, yawned to notify the fact, stretched himself full length on his stomach so as to get as near to me as possible, his paws stretched out on the floor, his nose laid on his paws.
"Yes, monsieur," I said to the Englishman.
"Now!" said he. Then, after a pause, he added—
"That dog of yours has taken my fancy."
"He is greatly honoured, monsieur."
"And they have told me you might perhaps agree to sell him to me, if I were to pay you a good price for him."
"I shall not need very much persuasion, monsieur; I have been trying to get rid of him, and since he pleases you ..."
"Oh yes, he pleases me."
"Well, then, take him."
"Oh, I do not want to take the dog without paying for him." Cartier nudged my elbow.
"Monsieur," I said, "I am not a dealer in dogs: he was given to me, I will give him to you."
"Well, but he has cost you his keep."
"Oh, the keep of a dog does not come to much."
"Never mind; if is but fair I should pay for his food.... How long have you had him?"
"Nearly two years."
"Then I owe you for his food for two years."
Cartier continued to nudge my elbow. And it occurred to me that the dog's keep would help admirably to pay for the master's clothes.
"Very well," said I, "we will settle it so: you shall pay me for his keep."
"Reckon it up."
"What do you think of fifty francs per year?"
"Oh! oh!"
"Is it too much?" I asked.
"On the contrary, I do not think it is enough: the dog eats a lot."
"Yes, true, monsieur; I was intending to warn you of that." "Oh, I have witnessed it; but I like animals and people who eat a lot: it shows they have a good digestion, and a good digestion tends to good humour."
"Very well, then, you shall fix your own charge."
"You said, I think, that it was to be ten napoleons?"
"No, monsieur; I said five napoleons."
Cartier nudged my elbow harder and harder.
"Ah! five napoleons?... You will not take ten?"