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Brother Jacques (Novels of Paul de Kock, Volume XVII)

by Paul de Kock · English · Gutenberg #40913 · 677,438 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Brother Jacques (Novels of Paul de Kock, Volume XVII)

Author: Paul de Kock


        
Release date: October 2, 2012 [eBook #40913]

Language: English

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Credits: Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BROTHER JACQUES (NOVELS OF PAUL DE KOCK, VOLUME XVII) ***




Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images available at The Internet Archive)








[Illustration]

_THE REPENTANT HUSBAND_


_Jacques no longer had the strength to spurn him; Edouard approached
Adeline and threw himself at her feet, placing his head against the
ground, and sobbing piteously._




NOVELS

BY

Paul de Kock

VOLUME XVII

BROTHER JACQUES

[Illustration: PRINTED BY ARRANGEMENT WITH
GEORGE BARRIE’S SONS]

THE JEFFERSON PRESS

BOSTON NEW YORK




I

A WEDDING PARTY AT THE CADRAN-BLEU.--THE MURVILLE FAMILY


It is midnight; whence come these joyful shouts, these bursts of
laughter, these outcries, this music, this singing, this uproar? Pause a
moment on the boulevard, in front of the Cadran-Bleu; follow the example
of those folk who look on at all the wedding parties, all the banquets,
which take place at the restaurants on Boulevard du Temple, by walking
in front of the windows, or in the roadway, and who enjoy comfortably
the spectacle of a ladies’ chain, a waltz, or a chocolate cream,--at the
risk, however, of being jostled by passers-by, splashed by carriages and
insulted by drivers. But at midnight the idlers, the loiterers, or the
loungers--whichever you may choose to call them--have returned home;
nothing remains in front of the door of the Cadran-Bleu except cabs or
private carriages, according as the guests choose to assume an air of
greater or less importance; but that is the hour at which the tableau
becomes more interesting, more varied, more animated; for not until then
do the guests begin to become really acquainted.

But, you will ask me, what is the occasion of this assemblage at the
Cadran-Bleu? Is it a birthday party, an anniversary, or a banquet of
some society? Better than any of these; it is a wedding party.

A wedding party! What a world of reflections those words arouse! To how
many thoughts, hopes, and memories they give rise! How fast they make
the young girl’s heart beat, who sighs for the moment to come when she
will be the heroine of that great day, when she will carry that pretty
white bouquet, that wreath of orange blossoms, the symbols of modesty
and of maidenhood, which have unhappily lied to more than one husband
who has never boasted about it, and for a good reason! But how the
thought of that ceremony saddens the young wife, but a few years
married, who already has ceased to know happiness except in her memory!
She trembles for the lot of the poor child who is pledging herself! She
remembers the day of her own wedding, the ardor and zealous attentions
of her husband; she compares that day with those that have followed, and
realizes how much confidence can be placed in the vows of man.

But let us leave such reflections. Let us enter the Cadran-Bleu, and
make the acquaintance of the principal persons at this function, whom,
probably, we shall have occasion to see more than once in the course of
this narrative, unless it happens that this chapter has no connection
with the plot, which is quite possible; we read many chapters of that
sort.

Edouard Murville was twenty-five years of age; he was of medium stature
but well-proportioned; his face was attractive, his voice soft, his
manners distinguished. He had all the social talents, played moderately
well on the violin, sang with expression, and danced gracefully; his
language was well-chosen, he was accustomed to society, and he knew how
to enter and leave a salon, which, be it said in passing, is not so easy
as one might think. What! I hear my readers say, does this fellow
suppose that we do not know how to walk, to enter a room, and to bow
gracefully? God forbid that I should express such a judgment upon the
nation which dances best! But there are degrees in everything, and it is
upon those degrees that I base my judgment. A very clever, but slightly
sarcastic woman, beside whom I was sitting not long ago, in the salon of
a banker, favored me with some of her observations, which in general are
very just.

“Come,” she said, “let us examine together the people who come into this
salon; I will wager that I can guess their dispositions, their humor, by
the way in which they enter.--See that tall lady passing through the
crowd, not deigning to notice anybody with even so much as a nod! Now
she is sitting down in front of the fireplace, she places her feet upon
the screen, and installs herself in the best place, without looking to
see whether she is in the way of the people behind her or not. What do
you think of that woman?”

“That she is very pretentious and desires to display her fine dress.”

“That is not all,--add that she is a fool. A clever woman has a thousand
ways of attracting attention without assuming ridiculous airs; and when
she desires to create a sensation, she goes about it skilfully at least,
and does not look with disdain upon people who are dressed in an
old-fashioned way, or whose toilet is slightly careless.--But what is
that noise in the reception room? Has some virtuoso arrived? Has a
sideboard been knocked over? The master of the house is hurrying in that
direction, and we shall soon know what the matter is. Ah! I recognize
that voice. It is Monsieur J----. Listen; you can easily hear him from
here.”

“Ah! my dear friend! I am terribly distressed to arrive so late! Upon my
honor, I am covered with confusion! I don’t know whether I ought to
come in! I am dressed like a thief! I must hide in some corner!”

“Well,” said my neighbor to me, “what do you think of this gentleman,
who does not want to be seen, and who so declares in such a loud voice
that he makes everybody in the salon turn his head?--Ah! he has made up
his mind to come in, nevertheless.”

I expected to see a young dandy, but I saw a man of between forty and
fifty, with a light wig, come forward with a mincing step, bowing to
right and to left and smiling almost agreeably.

“Who on earth is this man?” I asked my neighbor.

“Monsieur J---- is the universal man; he knows all Paris, he belongs to
all the clubs, especially those where they have music. He plays three or
four instruments; there is no amateur concert where he does not take
part; nor is there an artiste who does not know him. You have had an
opportunity of judging, by his method of entering this room, that his
happiness consists in making a sensation; I do not draw from that fact a
very favorable augury of his talents; for, as you know, merit is not in
the habit of seeking a brilliant light. Mediocrity, on the contrary,
makes a great deal of noise, thrusts itself forward, insists upon
pervading everything, and always succeeds in dazzling fools.

“But I see a new face, that of a young man; he at least makes no noise;
he comes in so softly that one can hardly hear him, he half bows, stands
near the door, then creeps along the wall, and finally seizes a chair,
upon which he seats himself very quickly, and from which he will not
stir throughout the evening, I promise you. Poor fellow, he twists his
mouth, winks and blinks, and does not know what to do with his hands. I
will wager that he thinks that all the women are looking at him and
discussing him. I have noticed, that as a general rule, timidity, yes,
even awkwardness, often results from excessive self-consciousness: the
fear of seeming ridiculous, or of not wearing a sufficiently fascinating
expression, imparts that embarrassment to the bearing, that almost
comical expression to the face; if you wish to convince yourself of it,
examine on the stage some _jeune premier_ who is rather good-looking,
and who would act well, perhaps, if he were not engrossed entirely by
his wig, his cravat, his attitude, and the effect which his face is
likely to produce in the hall.”

My neighbor continued her observations; and I would gladly communicate
them to you, reader, were it not that I am beginning to notice that you
opened this volume, not to hear me talk with her, but to learn of the
adventures of Brother Jacques.--A thousand pardons for taking you to a
banker’s salon. I return to the Cadran-Bleu.

You know now that the marriage of Edouard Murville is being celebrated
there, that the bridegroom is twenty-five years old and a very
good-looking fellow. But you do not yet know his wife, and I must hasten
to repair my neglect in that respect; for she is lovely, sweet,
attractive, and virtuous; it would be impossible to make her
acquaintance too soon.

Adeline Germeuil was eighteen years old, and she possessed all those
qualities which charm at first sight and attach one thereafter:
beautiful eyes, fine teeth, graceful manners, a fresh complexion, wit
unsullied by ill-temper, gaiety without coquetry, charm without
affectation, modesty without timidity. She knew that she was pretty, but
did not think that for that reason all men ought to do homage to her;
she loved pleasure but did not make that her sole occupation. In short,
she was a woman such as it is very pleasant to meet, especially when
one is a bachelor.

Adeline was devoted to Edouard, to whom she had given preference over
several much more advantageous offers, for Edouard’s only fortune was
the place which he occupied in one of the government departments, while
Adeline had about fifteen thousand francs a year. But Mademoiselle
Germeuil had no ambition, she considered happiness to consist in
delights of the heart, and not in more or less wealth. Moreover, with
fifteen thousand francs a year, one can live without privation,
especially when one is the wife of a man of orderly habits, who knows
how to regulate his household expenses. Now Murville seemed such a man,
he seemed to have all the estimable qualities, and he carried the day.

Mademoiselle Germeuil had no parent but her mother, a most estimable
woman, who adored her daughter and was never willing to thwart her
desires. However, it was her duty to look after Adeline’s future
welfare; and so, as soon as she discovered her daughter’s love for
Edouard Murville, she made haste to seek information concerning the
young man’s moral character, and concerning his family.

She found that he was born of well-to-do parents; that his father had
followed the profession of the law with honor, but that several
successive failures had reduced the family to the strict necessaries of
life. Edouard and Jacques were Monsieur Murville’s only children.
Jacques was a year younger than Edouard; but Madame Murville had not
divided her affections equally between her two sons. Edouard was the
favorite. A circumstance, apparently most trivial, had influenced Madame
Murville’s sentiments; she had little intellect and a great deal of
vanity; so that she was certain to set great store by all the petty,
puerile things which are of such great weight in society. When she first
became enceinte, she put her mind on the rack, to think what name she
should give to her child. Her desire was to find a name which should be
at once graceful, pleasant to the ear and distinguished; after long
discussions and profound reflections, she decided upon Edouard for a
boy, or Célénie for a girl, Monsieur Murville having left her entirely
free to decide that question.

The first-born was a boy, and he received the name of Edouard, with all
his mother’s affection. When she became enceinte again, she did not
doubt for an instant that she should bring into the world a pretty
little Célénie; the birth of a daughter would have filled her cup to
overflowing. But after long suffering, she brought into the world a
bouncing boy.

It will be understood that this one was not so warmly received as the
first. Moreover, they had not had the slightest expectation of a boy,
and they had not decided what name he should bear. But this time any
previous deliberation upon that subject would have been wasted, for
Monsieur Murville informed his wife that a friend of his desired to be
his son’s godfather. This friend was very rich and they were under some
obligation to him, so that they could not refuse him as godfather. So he
held the child at the altar, and to the great scandal of Madame
Murville, gave him the name of Jacques.

In truth, although Jacques is as good a name as another, it is not very
melodious, and it offended the delicate ear of Madame Murville, who
maintained that it was a name fit for a footman, a Savoyard, a
messenger, and that it was a shame to call her son by it. In vain did
her husband try to make her listen to reason, and recite to her again
and again the history of Scotland, where the throne had been occupied
by many Jacqueses. Madame Murville could never pronounce that name
without a sigh.

However, there was no way to change it, for the godfather, who was
naturally called Jacques also, and who came often to see his godson,
would have been deeply offended to hear him called by any other name.

So the little fellow remained Jacques, to the great distress of Madame
Murville. As for Edouard, whether from a spirit of mischief on his part,
or because the name pleased him, he called Brother Jacques every moment
during the day; and when he had done anything naughty, he always shifted
it to Brother Jacques’s shoulders.

The two brothers were entirely different in disposition; Edouard placid,
well-behaved, obliging, was glad to pass his day by his mother’s side;
Jacques, noisy, boisterous, quick-tempered, could not keep still, and
never went anywhere without turning everything upside down.

Edouard learned readily what was told him; Jacques would throw his books
and pens into the fire, and make a hoop or a wooden sword.

Finally, at sixteen, Edouard went into company with his parents; he had
already learned to listen to conversation and to smile pleasantly at a
pretty woman. At fifteen, Jacques left his parents’ roof, and
disappeared, leaving no letter behind, nothing to indicate his plans, or
the purpose of his departure. They made all possible investigation and
search; they put his description in the newspapers, but they never
learned what had become of him; they waited for news of him, but none
ever came.

Monsieur Murville was deeply grieved at the flight of the hare-brained
young man; even Madame Murville herself realized that she was a mother,
and that a boy might be named Jacques and still be her son; she repented
of her unjust prejudice, she reproached herself for it, but it was too
late. The unfortunate name had had its effect; it had closed to Jacques
his mother’s heart; it drew upon him the mockery of his brother; and
perhaps all these causes combined had driven the young man from the home
of his parents. Who knows? There is so much tossing to and fro in life!

“I caught the measles recently,” said a young man to me yesterday,
“because a man who makes shoes for a young lady friend of mine broke his
spectacles.”

“What connection is there?” said I, “between your measles and a
shoemaker’s spectacles?”

“It was like this, my dear fellow; the lady in question had given me her
word to sing with me that evening at the house of one of our
acquaintances. But she expected some pretty cherry slippers in the
morning, to wear with a dress of that color; the shoemaker in question
had broken his spectacles on the day that he took her measure, so that
he brought her some slippers, which, though they were lovely, were too
small. However, she could not resist the desire to try them on; they
hurt a great deal, but the shoemaker assured her that they would be all
right after she had worn them a while. Ladies think a great deal about
having a small foot. She limped a little when she left the house; when
she was on the boulevard, in the presence of some of her acquaintances,
she did not wish to seem to be limping, so she exerted herself to walk
lightly; but the foot became inflamed and swollen; she suffered
horribly, and was obliged to return home. There she threw the infernal
slippers aside, and examined her feet; they were raw and swollen, and
she could not hope to go out for a week. I, knowing nothing about this,
went to our rendezvous, expecting to employ my evening singing. I did
not find the lady; the mistress of the house was alone; she is very
agreeable, but she is forty years old. The time dragged terribly, I
became impatient, and after waiting for an hour, I went out, having no
idea where I should go. I passed a theatre, went in mechanically, and
solely to kill time, for I knew the plays by heart. I saw a pretty face,
and instinctively took a seat beside it; I said a few words and she
answered; she seemed fond of talking, and I was very glad to find an
opportunity to amuse myself. At last the play came to an end and I
offered my pretty talker my arm. After some slight parley she accepted;
I escorted my fair conquest to her home and did not leave her until I
had obtained permission to call upon her. I did not fail to do so the
next day. In a word, I soon became an intimate friend, and in one of my
visits I caught the measles, which the lady had, unknown to me. So you
see, if the shoemaker hadn’t broken his spectacles, it wouldn’t have
happened.”

My young friend was right: the most important events are often caused by
the most simple distractions, the most trivial circumstances. As for my
hero, there is no doubt that his baptismal name exerted an influence
over his whole destiny. How many men have owed to the splendors of a
famous name, which their ancestors have transmitted to them, a degree of
consideration which would never have been accorded their individuality!
Happy is the man who is able to make his own name famous, and to
transmit it to posterity with glory. But happier perhaps is he who lives
unknown, and whose name will never arouse hatred or envy!

Now you know the Murville family; it remains for me to tell you of the
death of Edouard’s father and mother, who followed each other to the
tomb after a short interval, carrying with them their regret as to the
fate of their son Jacques; and they enjoined upon Edouard to forgive
him his escapade in their name, if he should ever find him.

Edouard was left master of his actions. He was twenty-two years old, and
had a place worth two thousand francs a year; he could live respectably
by behaving himself. He loved pleasure; but society, music, the theatre,
offered him pleasures which cost him little; it never occurred to him to
gamble. He was fond of ladies’ society; but he was not bad-looking and
had no reason to complain of their severity. He allowed himself to be
led astray easily, and had not sufficient strength of character; but
luckily for him, he was not intimate with men of dissolute habits. In a
word, he could not be cited as a model to be followed, but on the other
hand, he had no very great faults.

So that Madame Germeuil readily decided to give her Adeline to Edouard
Murville.

“This young man will make my daughter happy,” she said to herself; “he
has not much strength of character; very good! then my dear child will
be the mistress, and households where the wives rule are often the best
conducted.”

And that is why there was a wedding party at the Cadran-Bleu.




II

GREAT EVENTS CAUSED BY A JIG AND A SNUFF BOX


“How pretty she is! What a fine figure she has! What charm and
freshness!” said the young men, and even the fathers, to one another, as
they watched the bride and followed her every motion when she danced.
“Ah! what a lucky fellow that Edouard is!”

Such was the general opinion.

Edouard heard all this; he was in fact as happy as a man can be when he
is on the point of becoming entirely happy. To conceal his desires, his
impatience, he skipped and danced about, and did not keep still one
minute. From time to time he went into the corridor to consult his
watch; it was still too early--not for him! but he must spare his wife’s
blushes; and what would the company say; what would his wife’s mother
say? Well! he must wait; oh! how long that day had been! Poor husband
and wife! It is the brightest day in all your lives, and yet you wish
that it were already passed! Man is never content.

“The bridegroom looks to be very much in love!” said all the married
ladies; the unmarried ones did not say so, but they thought it.

“Ah! Monsieur Volenville, that is the way you looked at me twenty-two
years ago,” said, with a sigh, to her husband, a lady of forty-five,
overladen with rouge, flowers, laces and ribbons, who sat in a corner of
the ball-room, where she had been waiting in vain since dinner for a
partner to present himself. Monsieur Volenville, formerly a frequent
attendant at the balls at Sceaux, and now an auctioneer in the Marais,
did not answer his wife, but took a pinch of snuff and went into the
next room to watch a game of écarté.

Madame Volenville testily changed her place, which she had done already
several times. She placed herself between two young women, hoping
apparently that that side of the room would be invited in a body, and
that she would thus be included in the dancers. But her hope was
disappointed once more; she saw young men coming toward her, she nodded
her head gracefully, smiled, and put out her foot, which was not
unshapely. They approached; but oh, woe! they addressed themselves to
her right or to her left, and seemed to pay no attention to her and her
soft glances and her pretty foot.

It is really most unpleasant to be a wall-flower, and Madame Volenville,
not knowing what method to employ to attract a partner, deliberated
whether to show the lower part of her leg; it had formerly performed
miracles, and it would be as well to try its power, as the foot produced
no effect.

She decided to do it; the lower part of the calf was about to be shown
as modestly as possible, when suddenly there was a loud call for a
fourth couple to fill up a quadrille. There were no more ladies
remaining; some had left the party, and all the rest were on the floor.
A young man, well-curled and well-perfumed, glanced about the ball-room;
he spied the auctioneer’s wife, resigned himself to his fate, and walked
gravely toward her to ask her to dance. Madame Volenville did not give
the young man time to finish his invitation; she rose, darted toward
him, seized his hand, and squeezed it so that she almost made him cry
out. Our dandy jumped back; he concluded that the poor woman was subject
to hysterical attacks; he gazed at her uneasily, not knowing what course
to pursue; but Madame Volenville gave him little time for reflection:
she dragged him roughly away toward the incomplete quadrille; she took
her place, bowed to her partner, and led him through the cat’s tail and
the ladies’ chain, before he had recovered from his bewilderment.

The heroic and free-and-easy manner of Madame Volenville’s dancing
created a sensation; a confused murmur ran through the salon and the
young men left the card-table for the place where our auctioneeress was
performing. She considered this eagerness to watch her very flattering,
and was enchanted by it; she danced with redoubled fire and animation,
and tried to electrify her partner, who did not seem to share her
vivacity; flushing with rage when he saw the circle which had formed
about him, and heard the sarcastic compliments which the young men
addressed to him, and the spiteful remarks of the young women, he bit
his lips, clenched his fists, and would have given all that he possessed
to have the quadrille come to a close. But Madame Volenville left him
but little time to himself; she was almost always in the air; she
insisted upon balancing, or going forward and back, all the time,
despite the remonstrances of her partner, who said to her until he was
hoarse:

“It isn’t our turn, madame; in a minute; that figure is finished; pray
stop!”

But Madame Volenville was started, and she was determined to make up to
herself for five hours of waiting; and when by chance she did pause for
a second, her glance rested complacently upon the large crowd which
surrounded her; and as with her handkerchief she wiped away the drops
of perspiration which stood on her brow, her eyes seemed to say to the
throng:

“You didn’t expect to see such dancing as this, eh? Another time,
perhaps you will ask me!”

Meanwhile the torture of Belcour--that was the name of Madame
Volenville’s partner--was approaching its end; the quadrille was almost
finished; already they had thrice performed the famous _chassez les
huit_; once more, and all would have been over, when a young notary’s
clerk, a mischievous joker, who loved a laugh, like most of his fellows,
conceived the idea of running to the orchestra, and asking for a jig in
the name of the whole company. The musicians at a wedding party never
refuse any request, and they began to play a jig at the moment that
Belcour bowed to Madame Volenville and attempted to slink away.

The voice of Orpheus imploring the gods of the infernal regions did not
produce so much effect upon Pluto as the strains of the violins and the
air of the jig produced upon Madame Volenville.

“Monsieur! monsieur! it isn’t over yet,” she cried to Belcour, who was
walking away. He pretended not to hear, and was already near the door of
the salon, when Madame Volenville ran after him, caught him and arrested
his steps.

“Monsieur, what are you doing? Don’t you hear the violins? Ah! what a
pretty tune! it’s a jig; come quickly!”

“A thousand pardons, madame, but I thought----”

“It is a jig, monsieur, and I love that dance to madness!”

“Madame, I do not feel very well, and----”

“You shall see my English steps; it was while dancing the jig that I
used to make so many conquests.”

“Madame, I would like a breath of fresh air----”

“And indeed that I fascinated--I attracted my husband, at the ball at
Sceaux.”

“But, madame----”

In vain did Belcour seek to resist; Madame Volenville would not let him
go, but dragged him toward the dance, paying no heed to his excuses.
Seeing that a longer discussion would intensify the absurdity of his
position, he yielded at last and returned to the quadrille. The crowd of
curious onlookers hastily stood aside to make room for the couple upon
whom all eyes were fixed.

The signal was given and everyone started off, the men to the right,
then the ladies, Madame Volenville among the first. With what ardor she
ran to the other men and swung them round as on a pivot! The
perspiration rolled down her cheeks, and streaked her rouge; two of her
_mouches_ fell from her temple to a spot below the ear; her curls became
loosened, her wreath of roses was detached and took the place of a
collar; but none of those things was capable of stopping her: in an
instant she had made the circuit of the quadrille and had returned to
her place. Belcour was no longer there. He had taken advantage of the
confusion occasioned by the figure, to steal away. But Madame Volenville
must have a partner, and she took the first one who came to hand; it was
an old attorney in a hammer wig, who happened to be standing opposite
her. The excellent man had joined the crowd, impelled by curiosity; he
had forced his way to the front and was gazing enviously at a pretty
little breast of twenty years, as white and fresh and solid as a rock,
that belonged to a pretty dancer. The old attorney remarked, with the
lecherous gaze of a connoisseur, that the exertion of dancing scarcely
shook the two lovely globes; he was amazed thereat, because it was a
long while since he had seen anything of the sort at a ball, whether
fancy dress, public, in fashionable or middle-class society, or even at
open air fêtes. Overjoyed by his discovery, and to manifest his
satisfaction to the pretty dancer, he displayed the tip of his tongue
and smiled pleasantly; a method adopted by old rakes to declare their
passion without words.

But the pretty dancer paid no heed to the attorney and his grimaces, and
he, tired of showing his tongue without obtaining a glance, was
deliberating whether, during a moment of crowding and confusion, he
might venture to take her hand, when Madame Volenville, with the
rapidity of a bomb, arrived between him and the young lady he was
admiring, and began to execute her English steps, accompanied by an
alluring simper.

The old libertine gazed with a bewildered air at the flushed, disfigured
face, the disordered headdress and the limp form of Madame Volenville;
he tried to retreat; but she took both his hands, whirled him about and
made him jump into the air.

“Madame, I don’t know this!” cried the attorney, struggling to free
himself.

“Come on, all the same, monsieur! I must have a partner!”

“Stop this, madame; I never waltzed in my life!”

“This isn’t a waltz, monsieur; it’s a jig.”

“Stop, madame, I beg! I am dizzy; I shall fall!”

“You dance like an angel!”

Madame Volenville was a very devil; she considered herself still as
fascinating as at twenty; she was persuaded that her steps, her graces,
her vivacity and her little mincing ways were calculated to fascinate
everybody; she did not realize that years entirely change the aspect of
things. That which is charming at twenty becomes affectation at forty;
the frivolity natural to youth seems folly in maturer years, and the
little simpering expressions which we forgive on a childish face, later
are mere absurdities and sometimes downright grimaces.

It is possible, nevertheless, for a woman of mature years to please; but
she does not succeed in so doing by aping the manners of youth. Nothing
can be more agreeable to the eye, more calculated to attract favorable
notice, than a mother dancing without any affectation of youthful
graces, opposite her daughter; nothing more absurd than an old coquette,
with her hair dressed as if she were sixteen, trying to rival girls of
that age in agility.

Madame Volenville was, as you see, an indefatigable dancer; she strove
to infect her partner with the ardor that animated her; but the old
attorney, red as a cherry, rolled his eyes wildly, unable to distinguish
objects; everything about him was going round and round; the jig, the
heat and his wrath combined to make him helplessly dizzy. He held his
face as far from his partner’s as possible; but, to put the finishing
touch to his discomfiture, his wig came off, fell to the floor, where it
was trampled under foot by the dancers, and the attorney’s head was
revealed to the eyes of the guests, as bare as one’s hand.

This last mishap, adding tenfold to the old fellow’s rage, gave him the
strength to break loose from his partner; he pushed her away with great
force. Madame Volenville fell into the lap of a stout clerk, who was
sitting peacefully on a bench at the end of the room, running over in
his mind with keen enjoyment the names of all the dishes he had eaten at
dinner.

The corpulent party uttered a sharp exclamation when Madame Volenville
landed on him; he swore that he was being suffocated; but she did not
stir, because no woman in good society ought to fall upon anyone
without swooning. Monsieur Tourte--that was the clerk’s name--called for
help, while Monsieur Robineau--our attorney--loudly demanded his wig,
which he sought in vain in every corner of the room, but could not find,
because the young notary’s clerk had obtained possession of it first and
had thrown it out of the window onto the boulevard, where it fell on the
nose of a cab-driver, who was looking at the sky to see if it was likely
to rain the next day.

Meanwhile Edouard and Madame Germeuil strove to restore tranquillity and
to bring order out of chaos. Adeline, for her part, could not help
laughing, with all the other young women, at Madame Volenville’s
attitude, Monsieur Tourte’s face and Monsieur Robineau’s fury.

Monsieur Volenville finally left his game of écarté, went to get a
carafe of water, and approached his wife, whom he did not recognize, so
great was the havoc wrought upon her dress and her face. After taking
his pinch of snuff, he relieved his wife of her wreath of roses and
began to slap her hands, while Madame Germeuil held a phial of salts
under her nose. But nothing availed, nothing had any effect on the
benumbed senses of the formidable dancer. Madame Germeuil was at her
wit’s end. Monsieur Tourte swore that he would bite Madame Volenville in
the arm or somewhere else, if somebody did not instantly remove the
burden that was suffocating him, and the auctioneer resorted to his
snuff-box in quest of ideas.

At that moment Monsieur Robineau was rushing about the ball-room in the
guise of a cherub, and feeling angrily under the furniture and even
under people’s feet, in search of his wig. He drew near the group
surrounding the auctioneer’s unconscious wife; he spied something gray
under the bench that supported his late partner and the stout clerk.
Instantly he darted forward, pushed aside Monsieur Volenville, who was
in front of him, threw himself on his hands and knees, and put his hand
between the auctioneer’s legs to grasp the object which he believed to
be his dear wig.

Monsieur Robineau’s manœuvre was executed so suddenly that Monsieur
Volenville lost his balance; as he was stooping forward, he fell almost
upon his wife, and the snuff-box, which he had just opened, emptied
itself entirely into his loving better half’s nose and mouth.

This accident recalled Madame Volenville to life; she sneezed five times
in rapid succession, rubbed her eyes, opened her mouth, swallowed a
large quantity of snuff, made such horrible faces that they put to
flight her husband and all the other persons who were near her, squirmed
about and spat violently into the face of Monsieur Robineau, who at that
moment withdrew his hand from under the bench and rose, swearing like
the damned--who swear a great deal in this world, to say nothing of what
they will do when they are roasting in hell like pork pies.

And why did Monsieur Robineau swear? Why, reader? Because, instead of
putting his hand on his wig, which, as you know, was reposing on the
boulevard, the unlucky attorney had seized the tail of a cat, which,
vexed at being pulled so violently by a sensitive part, had, in
accordance with the custom of its kind, buried its claws in the cruel
hand that had grasped it.

“It is very unpleasant to be unlucky!” said a worthy bourgeois of the
Marais the other evening at a performance of _La Pie Voleuse_, as he
wept over the misfortunes of Palaiseau’s little maid-servant. To
interpret what I presume to be that gentleman’s meaning, I will say that
it is very painful to experience so many misfortunes as Monsieur
Robineau did in one evening. When one has danced against one’s will and
has lost one’s wig; when one has been clawed on the hands and has been
spat upon, one is quite justified in being angry. The poor attorney was
so angry that he turned yellow, red and white, almost at the same
instant; in his frenzy, he had no idea what he was doing, and,
regardless of sex, was about to assault Madame Volenville, when some of
the guests interposed between him and the person whom he justly regarded
as the cause of all his misfortunes.

They had much difficulty in pacifying Monsieur Robineau and in making
him understand that madame had expectorated without malicious intent.
Edouard succeeded at last in calming him a little; and while he wiped
his face, the young bridegroom took from his pocket a dainty silk
handkerchief, which he offered the attorney to put over his head.
Monsieur Robineau accepted it, covered his head with the handkerchief,
and placed his round hat on top; which gave him the appearance of a
Spanish rebel, or a bandolero, or a guerilla, or battueca; or, if you
prefer, of one of those little dogs, dressed in human garb, which ride
majestically along the boulevard in baskets borne by a learned donkey.

The attorney left the salon without paying his respects to the ladies,
and without kissing the bride; he hurried from the Cadran-Bleu, but as
he passed the waiters and scullions from the restaurant he could not
help hearing their laughter and jests. He did not take a cab, because he
lived on Rue du Perche; and when he reached home, he went to bed,
cursing waltzes and jigs, and calculating what a new wig would cost him.

As for Madame Volenville, of whom Monsieur Tourte finally succeeded in
ridding himself, it was most essential to induce her to leave the
ball-room, for the snuff which she had swallowed produced a most
unpleasant effect on her stomach. The expectoration became more
frequent, and began to change to hiccoughs and symptoms of nausea, that
presaged an accident which one is never desirous to witness, and which,
moreover, it is prudent to avert in a room where people are dancing.

So the poor woman was taken away, almost carried, from the scene of her
exploits. When she passed a mirror, she thought that she would die of
chagrin, or swoon again; in truth, her snuff-besmeared face, her
dishevelled hair, her disordered clothing, were well adapted to drive to
despair a woman with pretensions; and we have seen that Madame
Volenville possessed rather a large supply for her years.

They looked for her husband, and had some difficulty in inducing him to
go to his wife, upon whom he insisted that someone had put a mask. At
last they were placed in a cab, which took them home, where, if you
please, we will leave them, to return to the newly-married pair.

Terpsichore had banished cruel Discord, who, since the nuptials of
Peleus and Thetis, to which, foolishly enough, she was not bidden, has
adopted the habit of coming unexpectedly to sow confusion in marriage
festivities; that was the reason, I presume, that she deigned to attend
the bourgeois wedding at the Cadran-Bleu; for it is said that a couple
can never escape a visit from the ill-omened goddess; and if she does
not appear on the first day, she makes up for it during the year.

But let us leave Terpsichore, Discord and all mythology; let us abandon
metaphors and figures of speech; let us leave to the authors of octavo
romances, flowers, cascades, the moon, the stars, and above all, those
poetical inversions of language which tell you at the end of a sentence
what the hero meant to say at the beginning; those delightful détours,
whereby a father will say: “At last toward me stepped forth my
daughter;” instead of saying simply: “My daughter stepped toward me;”
which, in my judgment, would be much more clear, but which would
resemble the ordinary way of talking in the world, in society; a vulgar
jargon, which should not be employed by persons who live in underground
dungeons without breaking their necks, or who constantly scale
perpendicular cliffs without being tired when they reach the top.

Moreover, will our lovely women, our _petites-maîtresses_ extol a novel
to the clouds, if the hero does not speak another language than that of
their husbands and lovers?--”Bah! that is a book for the servants’
hall!” they will say, as they disdainfully cast aside a novel which is
neither English, nor German, nor romantic! “It is an insufferable sort
of work! forbidden words are used in it! I find the word _cuckold_
there! Mon Dieu! it is shocking! But our newspaper critic will belabor
that author soundly for us!”

And in fact the critic reads the work and considers it revoltingly
immoral! The author’s cynicism, his obscenity are beyond words! he uses
the word _cuckold_ when he finds it necessary! Did anyone ever hear of
such indecency?--To be sure, Molière often used the same word, and some
others even stronger, in several of his works; but what a difference!
one must be very careful not to print in a novel what one may say on the
stage before a large audience!--Make your inversions, ye novelists; go
back to the Syntax; adopt a style _ad usum tyronum linguæ Latinæ_;
monopolize mythology, astronomy, mineralogy, ornithology, zoology, aye,
even conchology; mingle with it all a little ancient and sacred history,
much about dreams and ghosts, minstrels, druids, or hermits, according
to the scene of your plot; indulge in sonorous phrases, which used to be
called fustian, and you will surely have a fashionable success! Some
ladies will faint when they are reading you, others after they read you;
there will even be some who will not understand you; but you will appear
all the nobler to them! To be unintelligible is to be sublime in your
kind. Great geniuses wrap themselves in mystery.--Ask Cagliostro
rather,--he ought not to be dead, as he was a sorcerer,--or Lord Byron,
or Mademoiselle Lenormand.

As for you, young authors, who claim to be simple and natural, who seek
to arouse laughter or interest with events which may happen any day
before our eyes, and who describe them for us in such wise as to be
readily understood, away with you to oblivion! or go to see _George
Dandin_ and _Le Malade Imaginaire_; those plays are worthy of you; but
you will never be read by our vaporish ladies, and you will not cause
the hundred mouths of Renown to sound.

Despite all this, we have the unfortunate habit of writing as we should
speak, and we shall continue so to do; you are at liberty, reader, to
drop us here and now if our method does not suit you.

So the dancing continued at the Cadran-Bleu; but the fête drew toward
its close, to the great satisfaction of Edouard, and doubtless of
Adeline, who blushed and smiled whenever her fond husband glanced at
her.

At last the clock struck the hour to retire; Madame Germeuil herself
took her daughter away; they entered a carriage, drove off, and in due
time arrived at Boulevard Montmartre, where the young couple were to
live, and with them the dear mamma, who did not wish to part from her
Adeline, who, she hoped, would close her eyes.

A dainty apartment was all arranged. Madame Germeuil embraced her
daughter lovingly, then went to her own room, not without a sigh. That
was quite natural; the rights of a mother cease when those of a husband
begin! But what do rights matter when hearts remain the same? Nature and
love easily find lodgment in a sensitive heart, and have no power over a
cold and selfish one. Men make the laws, but the feelings are not to be
commanded.

Luckily for Edouard, the charming Adeline loved him because he pleased
her, and not simply because the Church ordered her to love him. That is
why, when she was alone with her husband, she threw herself into his
arms without a tear; that is why she did not make a great fuss about
allowing herself to be undressed, and why she was so soon in bed; and
lastly, that is why we shall say no more about it.




III

DUFRESNE


While our young husband and wife abandoned themselves to the
unrestrained enjoyment of their mutual love and indulged the legitimate
passion they felt; while Adeline readily yielded to her new situation,
as young wives do, let us leave them and make the acquaintance of a
person whom we shall meet again in the course of this narrative.

Among the crowd which had surrounded Madame Volenville and Monsieur
Robineau, and had laughed at the misfortunes of the auctioneer’s wife
and the attorney, there was one man who had remained indifferent to the
pranks of the other guests and had taken no part in the jests of the
young clerk and the tricks resorted to in order to prolong the famous
quadrille.

This man seemed to be not more than twenty-eight or thirty years old; he
was tall and well-shaped; his features were regular, and would have been
handsome if his eyes had been less shifty; but his vague glance, to
which he sought to give an expression of benevolence, inspired neither
friendship nor confidence; and the smile which sometimes played about
his lips seemed rather bitter than amiable.

Dufresne--such was this young man’s name--had been brought to Edouard
Murville’s wedding by a stout lady with three daughters, who had for a
long time been in the habit of taking half a dozen young men to all the
parties which she attended with her young ladies. Madame Devaux liked to
entertain a great deal of company, especially young men; and her motive
was easily divined: when one has three daughters, and no dowry to give
them, one does not find husbands for them by keeping them always in
their room; they must be introduced into society, and must wait until
chance inspires a very sincere little passion which ends in marriage.

Unfortunately, sincere passions are more infrequent in society than in
English novels; and often, in their search for husbands, the young
ladies meet gay deceivers instead, who are strong on the passions, but
weak in virtue! But still, something must be risked in order to catch a
husband.

So it was that Madame Devaux had received Dufresne, who had been
introduced to her by a friend of one of her neighbors; and as he was
young and rather good-looking, she had included him in the list of the
men whom she proposed to take to Edouard’s wedding, in order that her
young ladies might not lack partners.

Dufresne knew neither the bridegroom nor his wife; but it often happens
at a large party that one does not know the host; and now that our
French receptions are adopting the style of English _routs_, and are
becoming mere mobs, no one pays any heed to his neighbor, and it not
infrequently happens that you leave those noisy functions without even
saluting the host or the hostess.

Madame Devaux had made a mistake, however, in relying upon Dufresne to
dance with her daughters. He cared little for dancing; he made haste to
pay his debt by inviting each of the Devaux girls to dance once; but
after that, he contented himself with the rôle of simple spectator,
taking the precaution to go into the card room when the quadrilles were
not full. He cast his eyes over all the guests in the salons, but they
rested most frequently upon Edouard and Adeline; the sight of the
husband and wife seemed to attract all his attention; he followed their
movements; watched their slightest actions, and seemed to be trying to
read the inmost thoughts of their hearts. When Adeline smiled fondly at
her husband, Dufresne, standing a few steps away, observed that smile,
and his eyes eagerly followed its development.

“Really, mamma,” said Cleopatra, the oldest of the daughters, to Madame
Devaux, “we won’t take Monsieur Dufresne to a ball again; just see how
he acts! he doesn’t dance! he looks like a bear!”

“That is true, my child! If he would only come and sit down by us and
talk and pretend to be polite!”

“Oh, yes! why, he doesn’t pay the slightest attention to us! I should
like to know what he is doing in that corner, near Madame Germeuil!”

“He certainly is not agreeable, and I shall not take him to Monsieur
Verdure’s the day after to-morrow, where there is to be music, and
perhaps a collation. I will take little Godard; he is rather stupid, but
at all events he will dance as long as anybody wants him to.”

“Yes, and he is always on hand to give us something to drink.”

“By the way, Cleopatra, who will go home with us to-night?”

“Why, I don’t know. Two of our gentlemen have gone away already; one had
a headache, and the other wanted to go to bed early because he had an
appointment for to-morrow morning. But we must have someone.”

“Never fear, I will hide Monsieur Dufresne’s hat, and he won’t go away
without us, I promise you; that would be too much,--to be taken to a
party by ladies, and let them go home alone!”

“You know very well, mamma, that it wouldn’t be the first time that such
a thing had happened to us.”

“Never mind, Cleopatra, it won’t be so to-night, and Monsieur Dufresne
will pay for the cab.”

While the ladies were conversing, Dufresne continued his observations.
He had noticed that Madame Germeuil was on very intimate terms with a
young widow named Madame Dolban; thereafter this Madame Dolban became
the object of Dufresne’s attentions, and he easily succeeded in making
her acquaintance; for the widow was not at all pretty, and the homage of
an attractive man was certain to seem all the more flattering to her
because she rarely received anything of the sort.

When Dufresne wished to go, he fell into the trap which Madame Devaux
had set for him: he did not find his hat until the moment when the
mother and her three daughters were ready to go. It was impossible for
him to avoid the duty. Moreover, Madame Dolban had refused his escort;
but she had given him permission to call and pay her his respects, and
that was all that he wanted. So the young man performed with sufficient
good grace the service which was expected of him; he packed the Devaux
family into a cab, seated himself on the front seat between Cleopatra
and Césarine, and they started for Rue des Martyrs.

On the way, Dufresne was compelled to undergo a constant fire of
epigrams discharged by the three girls against men who are not
attentive, who do not do as other men do, who have wretched taste, who
speak to ugly women and neglect pretty ones; and a thousand other
sarcasms inspired by the irritation which it had caused them to see him
devote himself to Madame Dolban.

Dufresne listened to all this very calmly, or, to speak more accurately,
I believe that he did not listen to it at all; but he cared very little
what the people thought who were chattering by his side, and his mind
was too much preoccupied to heed the prattling of the three young women.

At last they reached the Rue des Martyrs. Dufresne left the Devaux
family at their door; he received with a bow the curtsy of the mother,
the cold salutation of Cleopatra, the curt good-evening of Césarine and
the stifled sigh of Cornélie.




IV

PROJECTS OF BLISS


Adeline woke in Edouard’s arms; the young wife felt like an entirely
different person by her husband’s side; one night of love is enough to
establish a pleasing confidence, a loving intimacy, and to banish that
feeling of awe, of timidity which naught but sensual enjoyment can
dispel.

What delightful plans for the future, what a charming existence of
unbroken happiness one devises, when, in the arms of the object of one’s
affection, one abandons oneself without reserve to all the illusions
which embellish the imagination of two young lovers.

Adeline, sweet, sensitive, and loving, was certain that she would always
be happy so long as her Edouard loved her, and that her Edouard would
always love her; she had no doubt of it, nor had he. It is not when a
man has experienced for the first time all the joys of love in the arms
of his wife, that he thinks upon the possibility of changing. Then he is
sincere, he really feels all that he says, and doubtless he would keep
all his promises, if the same joys could always cause the same
pleasures.

It seems, in those moments of expansiveness which follow the
manifestations of love, that the husband and wife were really born for
each other. They have the same tastes, the same thoughts, the same
desires; what one does, the other approves; the husband was just about
to propose what the young wife has planned, they mutually divine each
other’s thoughts, and it seems to them perfectly natural that they
should have but one mind and but one will. Blessed concord! you would
bestow the most perfect happiness, if you might only last forever!

“And so, my dear love,” said Edouard, kissing his wife’s pretty little
hands, “we will pass the winter in Paris, and four months of warm
weather in the country.”

“Yes, my dear, that is agreed.”

“But shall I keep my place in the department? That would prevent me from
leaving the city.”

“You must not keep it! What is the use? We have fifteen thousand francs
a year; is that not enough to be happy?”

“Oh! it is more than we need.”

“Besides, your place would keep you away from me all day and I don’t
want that!”

“Dear Adeline, but your mother--what will she say if I give up my
place?”

“Mamma has but one desire--to make me happy; she will approve our plans,
for she has no more ambition than we have.”

“All right, then it is decided; I send in my resignation to-morrow.”

“Yes, dear.”

“And we will buy a small country house, simple, but in good taste, where
we will live with your mother. Where shall we buy?”

“Where you please, my dear.”

“No, it is for you to decide.”

“You know that I am always of your opinion.”

“Very well, then we will visit the suburbs, we will read the
advertisements, we will consult mamma.”

“That is right, my dear.”

“Shall we entertain much?”

“As you please, my dear.”

“My dear love, that is for you to decide.”

“Very well! then we will receive very few people, for company would
prevent us from being together, from going to walk and to drive alone;
and I feel that that would annoy me terribly!”

“How sweet you are!”

“We will receive just a few friends; mamma’s, for example.”

“Exactly. In the morning we will walk in the garden--for we must have a
garden, mustn’t we?”

“Oh! yes, my dear! A big garden, with lots of shade,--and thickets!”

“Ah! you are already thinking of the thickets!”

“Does that offend you, monsieur?”

Edouard’s only reply was to kiss his wife, press her to his heart,
receive her soft caresses, and--the conversation was interrupted for
several minutes.

“So we will have a big garden with dense thickets,” said Edouard when
they renewed the conversation.

“Yes, my dear,” replied Adeline, smiling, and lowering her eyes, still
glistening with pleasure. “In the evening, we will walk about the
neighborhood, and dance with the village people; or, if the weather is
bad, we will play cards with some of the neighbors. Do you like that
prospect?”

“Yes, my dear love, very much.”

The doting Adeline was always of her husband’s opinion; Edouard refused
to have a will of his own; and they were so in accord that they vied
with each other in seeing who should not be the master, and should not
rule the house.

The young people had reached a very interesting article in the matter of
conjugal happiness: they were thinking of the children they would have,
of the education they would give them and of the professions which they
would advise them to embrace, when there was a gentle tap at the door of
their chamber. It was Madame Germeuil, come to embrace her daughter and
to enjoy the happiness which she read in her eyes. A pleasant sight for
a mother,--which reminded her of the same period in her own life.

Adeline blushed as she kissed her mother; the good woman informed them
that breakfast was awaiting them, and breakfast is a very essential
affair. The bride ate little; she was too preoccupied to have any
appetite; the new ideas which thronged through her brain were enough to
banish every other thought; but it was very different with the groom--he
did not eat, he devoured! An additional proof this that men are less
affectionate than women, since the same cause does not produce the same
result.

During breakfast, the young people spoke to Madame Germeuil of their
plans. The mother made a slight grimace when they told her that Edouard
proposed to give up his place. She attempted to make some objections;
she essayed to prove what a mistake that would be for Murville, who
hoped to be promoted and to become a chief of bureau some day. The young
man said nothing; perhaps he felt in his inmost heart that his
mother-in-law was right; but Adeline entreated her mother with such
grace, she kissed her so lovingly, and drew such a touching picture of
the happiness they would all three enjoy, if they need never part; she
praised so adroitly the pleasures of the country, their scheme of life,
and all the attractions with which they would embellish her existence,
that Madame Germeuil had not the courage to resist her daughter’s
entreaties, and the plan was adopted.

“But,” said Madame Germeuil, “Edouard cannot remain idle. Idleness is a
very dangerous business, and one which often leads us to do foolish
things, which would never have occurred to us if we had been occupied.”

“Oh! never fear, mamma! Edouard will always have occupation! I myself
will undertake to provide him with it! In the first place, all the
details of our affairs;--he will have to look after the management of
our little fortune; and then the care of our little country house, the
time in my company and the walks we shall take----”

“But, my dear love, one cannot walk all the time.”

“Of course not! but then we will rest, or work in the garden. And our
children, to whom you do not give a thought; shall we not have to bring
them up, to look after their education, to guide their first steps?”

“Ah! you are thinking already of your children?”

“Yes, mamma; they come into our plans.”

“What a mad creature you are, my dear Adeline!”

“No, mamma; on the contrary, you will see that I shall be very sensible,
and my husband too.”

Madame Germeuil did not seem altogether convinced of the wisdom of her
daughter’s plans; but she proposed to keep constant watch upon the
conduct of her two children, and she knew that Adeline, always given to
building castles in Spain, would be the first to abandon her errors, if
she should ever commit any. As to Edouard, he would do whatever they
wished, so that it was only a question of giving him good advice, and of
not following the example of his wife, who always agreed with him.

After breakfast they discussed the question where they would live. They
had sent out for a copy of the _Petites-Affiches_; Adeline passed the
paper to her husband, and Madame Germeuil was trying to remember in
which direction the air was likely to be most healthy, when Murville
uttered a cry of surprise and jumped up from his chair.

“What is it, my dear?” asked Adeline, amazed by her husband’s
excitement.

“It is the very place,” said Edouard, still reading the paper; “at
Villeneuve-Saint-Georges, the house looking on the fields, two floors, a
large garden, a summer-house, a courtyard, an iron fence----”

“Well, my dear, is that what nearly made you upset the breakfast table?”

“Oh! my dear love! oh! my dear mamma--that house----”

“Do you know it?”

“Do I know it! It belonged to my father, and I passed a great part of my
youth there.”

“Is it possible?”

“Misfortune compelled us to sell it, but I have always regretted it.”

“Why, my dear, you never mentioned it to us.”

“I didn’t know that it was for sale now.”

“It is settled, my dear, let us not look any farther; we have found what
we want, the house where you passed a large part of your childhood! Dear
Edouard! Oh! how we shall enjoy living there!--You agree, mamma, do you
not?”

“Why, my child, if the house is not too dear----”

“Oh! it can’t be too dear; it is Edouard’s house; we shall be so happy
there!”

“Villeneuve-Saint-Georges--yes, I believe that the air is very good
there!”

“Certainly it’s delicious; let us start at once, dear.”

“But it is already late, my child, for you did not get up early; and if
we should wait until to-morrow----”

“To-morrow! and suppose the house should be sold to-day? Ah! I should
never get over it; nor Edouard either; he says nothing, but he too is
crazy to start.”

“Very well, my children, since it will give you so much pleasure; but it
is four leagues from here!”

“We have a good country cabriolet, and the horse has been resting for a
fortnight; he will take us there very fast.”

“Where shall we dine?”

“At Villeneuve-Saint-Georges; there are some very good restaurants
there, aren’t there, my dear?”

“Why, yes. Oh! we shall have no difficulty about getting dinner there.”

“And it will be dark when we come back.--You know, Adeline, that I don’t
like to drive after dark.”

“Oh! Edouard will drive, mamma; you know what a prudent driver he is.
Besides, the road is magnificent; isn’t it, my dear?”

“Why, yes; at all events, it was ten years ago.”

“You see, mamma, that there is no danger. Oh! say that you will go!”

“I must do whatever you want!”

“How good you are! I will run and put on my hat.”

Adeline ran to her dressing-room, Edouard told old Raymond, their
servant, to put the horse in the cabriolet. Madame Germeuil prepared for
the drive, and Marie, the maid-servant of the new household, was grieved
to learn that they would not taste the dainty dinner which she had
prepared for the day after the wedding.

The young wife was ready first; a woman takes little time over her
toilet when she is certain to please; doubtless that is why old
coquettes pass two hours in front of the mirror. Adeline wore a simple
muslin dress, with a belt about the shapeliest waist imaginable; a straw
hat, not overladen with feathers and flowers, and a light shawl thrown
carelessly over her shoulders; in that unpretentious costume Adeline was
charming; everything about her was attractive; every feature was
instinct with love and happiness; and pleasure makes a pretty woman even
prettier.

Edouard gazed at his wife in rapture, and Madame Germeuil looked upon
her daughter with pride; Adeline kissed them both and took her mother’s
hand to make her go downstairs at once; the young woman was eager to be
gone, and to see the country house where her Edouard was brought up. He
was no less desirous to revisit the scenes which had witnessed his
childish sports. At last the mother was seated on the back seat of the
carriage, with Adeline by her side; Edouard took the reins, and they
started for Villeneuve-Saint-Georges.




V

THE FACE WITH MOUSTACHES


Edouard drove the horse at a fast pace, and they reached the village in
a short time. When they had passed through the main street, and turned
in the direction of the country, they discovered the house which they
were anxious to see; thereupon Adeline leaped for joy, and took off her
hat so that she could see better; Edouard urged the horse more eagerly,
and Madame Germeuil shrieked, saying that they would be overturned.

At last the cabriolet stopped in front of the gate which gave admission
to the courtyard.

“This is the place, this is the very place,” said Edouard, leaping to
the ground; “oh! there is no mistake. I recognize the gate, the
courtyard, and even this bell. It’s the same one that was here in my
time. And there is the sign saying that the house is for sale.”

While he was examining with emotion the outside of the house, Adeline
assisted her mother from the carriage; they fastened the horse, and then
entered the courtyard, for the gate was not locked.

“Oh! how I shall enjoy myself here!” said Adeline, glancing about with a
satisfied expression; “isn’t this house fascinating, mamma?”

“But, one moment, my child; we have seen nothing as yet.”

A tall peasant came out of a room on the ground floor, followed by an
enormous dog.

“What do you want?” he said, scrutinizing them surlily enough.

“We want to see this house,” Edouard replied.

“All right,” muttered the concierge between his teeth; “come with me,
and I will take you to my master.”

Edouard, with his wife and Madame Germeuil, followed their conductor,
who ascended a staircase and showed them into a dining-room on the first
floor, where he left them, to go to summon his master.

Soon a shrill little voice arose in the room which the concierge had
entered, and our travellers heard this colloquy:

“What do you want of me, Pierre?”

“Some one has come to buy the house, monsieur.”

“Have you come again to disturb me to no purpose, and to bring me some
boorish fellow, as you did just now?”

“Oh! no, monsieur! these folks look like swells!”

“That devilish fellow put me into a terrible temper! I shall be sick, I
am sure!”

“I tell you, monsieur, that these folks have a cabriolet.”

“Oh! that’s different! I’ll go and speak to them.”

Madame Germeuil and her children were wondering what they should think
of what they had heard, when the door of the adjoining room opened, and
a short, thin, yellow, wrinkled man, in dressing gown and nightcap
appeared and saluted his visitors with an air which he tried in vain to
make amiable.

“We wish to examine this house,” said Edouard; “not that I do not know
it very well; but these ladies would be very glad to see it.”

“It is very strange,” said the little man, glancing at the concierge;
“everybody knows my house!--And is it your purpose to buy it?”

“Why, to be sure, if the price suits us.”

“In that case, I will show you around myself.”

“What an original creature!” whispered Adeline to her husband; “I will
bet that it is some old money-lender, who went into retirement here, and
can’t resist the desire to do business in the capital again.”

They went over the house from the ground floor to the attic; the little
man spared them nothing, and Edouard, who was very glad to see his
former home once more, listened patiently to all the details which the
old fellow gave them concerning the advantages of his abode.

From time to time, our young man glanced at his wife and smiled.

“Yes,” he said as he entered each room, “I recognize this room, this
closet, these wardrobes.”

Thereupon the old gentleman would glance at his servant and smile in his
turn: they seemed to understand each other.

“So you used to live here, did you, monsieur?” the master of the house
asked him.

“Yes, monsieur, yes, I passed a large part of my youth here.”

“This is mighty queer!” muttered the concierge.

“This is surprising!” said the little proprietor to himself.

Madame Germeuil considered the house convenient and the air good.
Adeline was enchanted. Edouard asked permission to inspect the garden;
the little man apologized for not accompanying them, for he was tired
already; he asked them to follow the concierge, and the young people
were not at all sorry to be rid of him for a moment.

The peasant walked ahead; Madame Germeuil followed him, and Adeline and
Edouard brought up the rear, hand in hand. Edouard called his wife’s
attention to all the spots which reminded him of some period of his
life.

“This is the place,” said Edouard, “where I used to read with my father;
it was on this path that my Brother Jacques used to like to run about
and climb these fine apricot trees.”

“Poor Brother Jacques! you have never heard from him?”

“No! Oh! he died in some foreign country! Otherwise he would have
returned, he would have tried to see our parents again.”

“That,” said Madame Germeuil, “is what comes of not watching over
children! Perhaps he came to a bad end.”

Edouard made no reply; the memory of his brother always made him sad and
thoughtful; he was almost persuaded that poor Brother Jacques was no
more, and perhaps his self-esteem preferred to nourish that idea, in
order to banish those which suggested that Jacques might be wandering
about, wretched and debased. It was especially since his marriage with
Adeline that Edouard had often thought with dread of meeting his brother
amid the multitude of unfortunate wretches; he thought that that might
injure him in the estimation of Madame Germeuil; and whenever a beggar
of about his brother’s age stopped in front of Edouard, he felt the
blood rise to his cheeks and he walked rapidly away, without glancing at
the poor devil who begged of him, for fear of recognizing his Brother
Jacques in him. And yet Edouard was not heartless; he would have shrunk
from turning his back upon his brother, and he dreaded to find him in a
degraded condition. That is how men are constituted; their infernal
self-esteem often stifles the most generous sentiments; a man blushes
for his brother, or his sister! Indeed, there are some who blush for
their father or mother; such people apparently think that they are not
sufficiently estimable in themselves to do without a genealogical tree.

But let us return to our young bride and groom, who investigated every
nook and corner of the garden, and smiled and squeezed each other’s
hands as they passed a dark grotto, or a dense clump of shrubbery. The
concierge stopped for a moment to buckle his dog’s collar; Madame
Germeuil and her children walked on. They reached the end of the garden,
on that side which adjoined the open country and was surrounded by a
very high wall; but an opening had been made for the convenience of the
tenants, and the gate which closed that opening was covered with boards,
so that people who were passing could not look into the garden.

But these boards were half rotten and had fallen away in places; and
when the visitors passed the gate, they saw a man’s face against the
iron bars, gazing earnestly into the garden, through a place where the
boards were broken.

Madame Germeuil could not restrain a cry of surprise; Adeline was
conscious of a secret thrill of emotion, and Edouard himself was moved
at the sight of that face which he did not expect to find there.

The features of the man who was gazing into the garden were in fact
calculated to cause a sort of terror at a first glance; black eyes, an
olive-brown complexion, heavy moustaches, and a scar which started from
the left eyebrow and extended across the forehead, all these imparted to
the face a savage aspect which did not prepossess one in favor of the
man who bore it.

“Ah! mon Dieu! what on earth is that?” said Madame Germeuil, suddenly
stopping.

“Why, it is a man who is amusing himself looking through this gate,”
replied Edouard, gazing at the stranger, who did not move but continued
to examine the garden.

“I am almost afraid,” said Adeline under her breath.

“Almost, my dear child! you are very lucky! For my own part, I admit
that I do not feel comfortable yet.”

As Madame Germeuil spoke, she walked away from the gate and moved closer
to her son-in-law.

“What children you are, mesdames! What is there surprising in the fact
that a man as he passes a garden which looks like a fine one should
amuse himself by examining it for a moment? We have done that twenty
times!”

“Yes, no doubt. But we haven’t faces with moustaches like that, well
calculated to make any one shudder! Just look! he doesn’t move in the
least! He doesn’t seem to pay the slightest attention to us.”

At that moment the concierge joined the party. As he approached the gate
opening into the fields, he saw the face which had frightened the
ladies. Thereupon he made a very pronounced grimace, and muttered:

“Still here! so that infernal man won’t go away, it seems!”

The stranger looked up at the concierge, and the ladies read in the
glance that he cast at the peasant an expression of wrath and contempt.
Then, after examining for a moment the other persons in the garden, he
drew back his head from the bars and disappeared.

“I would like right well to know who that man is,” said Adeline, looking
at her husband.

“Faith! I augur no good for him,” said Madame Germeuil, who breathed
more freely since the face had withdrawn from the gate.

“That man looked as if he had evil intentions, did he not, Edouard?”

“Oh! my dear mamma, I don’t go as far as you do! If we had seen the
whole man, perhaps his face would have seemed less strange than it did
above those old boards.”

“My husband is right, mamma; I think that the way in which we look at
things depends upon the situation in which they strike our eyes at
first. A man clothed in rags often arouses our suspicions; if he should
appear before us well-dressed, we should have no feeling of dread at his
aspect. Darkness, silence, moonlight, and the shadows thrown upon
objects, all these conditions change our way of seeing things and make
our imagination work very rapidly.”

“You may say whatever you please, my dear girl, but that face was not
the face of a man looking into a garden from mere curiosity.”

“That may be, but I should have liked to see this stranger’s figure.”

“Parbleu!” said the concierge, “you wouldn’t have seen anything very
fine, I assure you.”

“Do you know that man?” asked Adeline quickly.

“I don’t know him, but I have seen him once before this morning; he
looks to me like a scamp who is prowling round about the village to
commit some deviltry. But he better not come back here, or I will set my
dog on him!”

“And you don’t know what he wants in the village?”

“Faith! I don’t care. So long as he don’t come to the house, that’s all
I ask.”

As they were in front of the house at that moment, and as the proprietor
was waiting for them in his doorway, Adeline did not prolong her
conversation with the concierge.

“Well! what do you think of these gardens?” the old man asked Adeline.

“Oh! they are very pretty, monsieur; and they will suit us, will they
not, mamma?”

“Yes, yes, perhaps they will suit us.”

Since Mamma Germeuil had seen at the end of the garden that face which
seemed to her of ill augury, she did not find so many attractions about
the house, and seemed less delighted with its situation. But as her
children were so intensely eager to purchase it, and as she realized how
childish her own repugnance was, she did not oppose the conclusion of
the bargain.

The little man tried at first to impose upon the strangers; but when
they proposed to pay cash, he consented to take off something from the
price, and the bargain was concluded. In his delight, the proprietor
invited the ladies to come in and rest, and even went so far as to
offer them a glass of wine and water. But they had no desire to become
better acquainted with the old miser; moreover, the ladies were hungry,
and they had only time to go to the notary’s office before dinner.

The little old man did not insist upon their stopping at his house; he
took off his nightcap, sent the concierge to fetch an old, shabby, felt
hat, which he carried under his arm in order to preserve it longer; he
put on a coat once nut-colored, but of which no one could possibly
divine the color now, and did not forget the bill-headed cane, upon
which he leaned the more heavily, because he thought that by using a
support for part of his weight, he would save the soles of his shoes.

They went to the office of the local notary; he received the details of
the bargain, and promised to have the deed ready in due form in
twenty-four hours. Edouard agreed to return to the village on the
following day with the purchase money, and Monsieur Renâré,--such was
the proprietor’s name,--agreed to be punctual and to turn over the keys
of the house. Everything being settled, they separated, each party well
pleased with his bargain.




VI

A DINNER PARTY IN THE COUNTRY


“Now let us think about dinner,” said Edouard, as he and the ladies left
the notary’s, “and let us try to find the best restaurant in the place.”

“We ought to have asked Monsieur Renâré that, my dear.”

“No indeed! I am sure that the old miser goes to the vilest wine-shop,
in order to dine the cheaper. But I see yonder a very good-looking
house--it is a wine-shop and restaurant,--the _Epée Couronnée_, ‘wedding
and other parties.’--What do you say to that, mesdames?”

“Very good; let us go to the Epée Couronnée.”

They entered the country restaurant; the outer walls were adorned with
hams, pies, turkeys, chickens, game, and bunches of asparagus; but as a
rule the kitchen of a village restaurant never contains more than one
fourth of what is painted on the front wall; and even so, the ovens are
often cold.

When our Parisians entered the common room of the Epée Couronnée, the
proprietor, who was also chief cook, was occupied in shaving, his little
scullion was playing with a cup-and-ball, the mistress of the house was
knitting, and the two girls who did the heavy work were washing and
ironing.

“The deuce!” said Edouard in an undertone, “this doesn’t indicate a very
well-heated oven! However, in war we must do as soldiers do!”

“Yes, my dear; besides, appetite is a very good cook.”

At sight of two fashionably-dressed ladies, escorted by a fine
gentleman, and of a cabriolet in front of the door, everybody in the
restaurant was up in arms. The proprietor threw razor and shaving-mug
aside; he partly wiped his face, and came forward, half shaved, to meet
the newcomers, to whom he made repeated bows. His wife hastily dropped
her knitting and rolled it up, as she made a curtsy, and placed it on a
table on which the girls were ironing; whereupon Goton, one of the
servants, who then had in her hand a very hot iron, looked up to examine
the fine ladies who were coming in, and placed the iron on her
mistress’s hand, thinking that she was ironing an apron.

Her mistress uttered a piercing cry when she felt the burn; she jumped
back and overturned the tub; the little scullion, in his fright,
concealed his cup-and-ball in a saucepan, and the ladies recoiled, in
order not to walk in soap-suds, with which the floor was flooded.

The host confounded himself in apologies, trying at the same time to
pacify his wife.

“A thousand pardons, mesdames and monsieur; pray walk in.--Hush, wife!
it won’t amount to anything; I do much worse things to myself every
day.--We have everything that you can possibly desire, mesdames; the
kitchen is well stocked.--It was that idiot of a Goton, who never looks
to see what she is doing. Put some potato on it, wife.--But step in,
mesdames, and select a bedroom or a private dining-room, whichever you
please.”

The ladies were in no hurry to enter, because they did not want to wet
their feet. At last one of the maids brought a long board, which they
used as a bridge to pass into another room; they made the passage,
laughing heartily, and looked forward to much enjoyment at an inn where
their arrival had already caused such a sensation.

“Well, monsieur le traiteur, what can you give us?” Murville asked the
cook, who followed them, boasting of his talent in serving a dinner
promptly.

“Why, monsieur, I can give you a rabbit stew which will please you.”

“Parbleu! Rabbit stew is never missing in these places! But we don’t
care much for it; have you any cutlets?”

“Yes, monsieur, I can easily get some.”

“And a fowl?”

“I have one which should be excellent.”

“Fresh eggs?”

“Oh! as to eggs, I don’t have any but fresh ones.”

“Well, that is all that we want; with lettuce and some of your best wine
we shall dine very well, shall we not, mesdames?”

“Yes, but don’t keep us waiting, for we are positively starving.”

“Never fear, mesdames, it will take but a moment.”

Master Bonneau returned to his staff.

“Look alive,” he said, tying his handkerchief around his waist, which he
only did on great occasions; “look alive, wife and girls, we have swells
to feed, and we have nothing except the regulation rabbit stew, which
unfortunately they don’t want, and that infernal fowl which I roasted a
week ago for a Jew who ate nothing but fresh pork, and which I haven’t
been able to do anything with since; I hope that it is going to be eaten
at last. Goton, put it on the spit again; that will be the fifth time, I
believe; but never mind, I will make a gravy with the juice of that beef
_à la mode_, and it will be delicious.”

“Mon Dieu! what a horrible burn! This is the seventh potato that I have
scraped on it.”

“Parbleu! you give me a happy idea: these grated potatoes are all
cooked, put ’em aside, wife, and I will make a soufflé for our guests.
You, Fanfan, run to the butcher and get some cutlets, and you, Marianne,
go and buy some eggs, and come back and pick some lettuce. By the way,
light me a candle, as quick as possible, and give me some wax, so that I
can put seals on my bottles; that makes people think that the wine is
better.”

Everyone set about executing Master Bonneau’s orders, while he lighted
his fires and turned up his sleeves with an important air, in order to
heat water for the eggs; Goton put the unlucky fowl on the spit, praying
heaven that it might be the last time; Marianne brought eggs and went
out into the garden to pluck lettuce; and Madame Bonneau grated potato
after potato, which she placed upon her burn, and then carefully
collected in a plate, as her husband had directed, because a clever cook
makes use of everything.

But Fanfan returned from the butcher’s with sad news: “there were no
cutlets, because the mayor had bought the last that morning; but if they
could wait a while, the shop-boy, who had gone to sharpen his knives,
would come back, and they would kill a sheep.”

“The devil! this is mighty unpleasant,” said Master Bonneau, as he put
his eggs in the water; “well, I must go and consult with the company.”

The host entered the room where the ladies and the young man were
beginning to get impatient for their dinner, while they laughed over the
scene which their unexpected arrival had caused.

“Well, are we going to dine?” said Edouard when he caught sight of their
host.

“Instantly, monsieur.”

“Your instants are very long, monsieur le traiteur.”

“I came to get your opinion on the cutlets.”

“What’s that?”

“There aren’t any just now at the butcher’s; but the man is coming back,
and he is going to kill a sheep; so if you will take a turn in the
garden until they are cooked----”

“Parbleu! we should have to wait a long while! A pleasant suggestion
that! We didn’t come here to inspect your bed of lettuce.”

“Come, come, my dear, don’t get excited,” said Adeline, laughing at the
placidity of their host, and the irritation of Edouard, “we will do
without cutlets.”

“May I replace that dish with an excellent rabbit stew?”

“Give us whatever you please, but give us something at least.”

“You shall be served instantly.”

Master Bonneau was well pleased to give them rabbit stew; it was the
dish in which he most excelled, for he had had twenty years’ practice in
making good ones. He seized the saucepan containing the remnants of two
rabbits, and placed it over the fire; then after covering it, he
instructed Fanfan to watch it, and went to carry the fresh eggs to his
guests.

“You see, mesdames, that I am prompt,” he said as he gracefully placed
the eggs on the table. “By the way, I thought that a soufflé of potatoes
and orange blossoms would not displease the company.”

“What, monsieur, do you make soufflés at the Epée Couronnée?”

“Yes, monsieur, and a good sort too, I flatter myself.”

“Then you are an expert?”

“Why, monsieur, when one has learned the profession at Paris, at the
Boisseau Fleuri, one is equal to anything.”

“Oho! that makes a difference! If you are a graduate of the Boisseau
Fleuri, we are surprised at nothing, and we await your soufflés with
confidence.”

Bonneau retired, all puffed up with the compliments they had paid him.
The ladies tried to crumble their bread into their eggs, but it was
impossible; they were cooked so hard that they had to make up their
minds to remove the shells and eat them from their hands. Adeline
shouted with laughter, Madame Germeuil shook her head, and Edouard
announced that to cap the climax the eggs smelled of straw.

“This does not give me a very pleasant anticipation of the soufflés,”
said the mother, placing her egg on the table.

“Well, madame, let us still hope! Great men, you know, pay no heed to
small matters, and the pupil of the Boisseau Fleuri may well not know
how to cook eggs.”

Bonneau entered the room, carrying in his two hands an enormous dish of
rabbit stew, which he placed in front of Edouard.

“Monsieur le traiteur, for a man equal to anything, you made rather a
failure of our eggs; they are boiled hard and smell of straw.”

“As for the straw, monsieur, you must know that I don’t make the eggs
myself, that depends entirely on the hens; as for the way they were
cooked, that is entirely the fault of the water; I leave the eggs in the
water five minutes; if the watch loses time while the eggs are in the
water, the best cook might be deceived.”

“True, you are right; luckily there are no eggs in a rabbit stew, and it
isn’t cooked by the minute.”

“So you must tell me what you think of it; I will go now and make sure
that your fowl is cooked to a turn.”

Bonneau left the room, carrying his hard boiled eggs, which no one had
touched, and which he proceeded to cut up and place on the salad, so
that they would be paid for twice over; that was a clear gain; and in
order that there might not be any further complaint of their smelling of
the straw, the host took from his sideboard a certain oil, the taste of
which was bound to predominate.

“Well,” said Edouard, as he prepared to serve the ladies, “as we
absolutely must eat rabbit stew, let us see if this one does our host
credit. But what the deuce is there in it? It is a string. Can it be
that the pupil of the Boisseau Fleuri puts whole rabbits into his stew?
This is attached to something, and I don’t see the end of it. Parbleu!
we shall get the pieces that are tied, later. But what is this I see?
Look, mesdames--is it a thigh, or a head? These rabbits are most
peculiarly constructed.”

“Oh! bless my soul!” said Adeline, examining what Edouard had on his
fork, “it’s a cup-and-ball!”

The young woman dropped her fork, laughing like mad; Edouard did the
same, and even Madame Germeuil could not keep a straight face, at sight
of the toy which her son-in-law had found in the stew.

The reader will remember that at the time of the arrival of the
fashionable guests from Paris, everything was in confusion in the
restaurant; the scullion was playing with a cup-and-ball; when his
mistress burned herself and upset the tub of water, Fanfan was alarmed,
and fearing to be scolded by his master and mistress, had thrust his
cup-and-ball into the first saucepan that he saw. It happened to be the
one containing the rabbit stew, into which the scullion had put his toy.
When Master Bonneau took the saucepan later, he covered it without
looking in; then the little fellow had watched and stirred the stew,
without a suspicion of what was in it; he was very far from thinking
that he was cooking his own cup-and-ball.

“Aha!” said the host, “it seems that our friends are satisfied; I was
sure that that rabbit stew would restore their good humor. So much the
better! the result will be that the fowl will pass the more readily. We
must make haste and serve it with the salad. Goton, give me the bottle
of oil. That’s it. Have you put the eggs on yet? on the top of the
salad? Good! that’s very good. This meal will bring us in enough to last
a week.”

Our man returned to the dining-room, where they had made up their minds
to laugh instead of dining. He placed the fowl on the table and stood
silent, with the air of a man who expects a compliment.

“On my word, monsieur le traiteur,” said Edouard, trying to keep a sober
face, “you treat us very strangely! What kind of a thing is a fricassée
of cup-and-ball?”

“What do you mean, monsieur?”

“That we never had such a thing before, Monsieur Bonneau, and that we
don’t like it.”

“But what does it mean?”

“Look, monsieur, is this rabbit?”

Master Bonneau was thunderstruck when he saw the cup-and-ball covered
with gravy.

“Here,” said Adeline, “take away your rabbit stew; what we found in it
has taken away all desire to taste it.”

“Madame, I am really distressed at what I see! But you must realize that
it is not my fault. If rabbits eat cups-and-balls----”

“Ah! this is too much; and if your fowl is no better than the rest, we
shall have to go elsewhere to dine.”

The host left the room, without waiting to hear any more; he rushed back
to the kitchen, crimson with rage, and began to pull Fanfan’s ears, to
teach him to put cups-and-balls in his stews.

“What on earth is the matter, my dear?” Madame Bonneau asked her
husband, as she brought him the plate containing the remedy for burns.

“What’s the matter? What’s the matter? This little scamp is forever
doing foolish things! He stuffs all sorts of trash into my stews; the
other day I found two corks in a chowder; luckily it was for drunkards
who took them for mushrooms; but to-day we have some people who are very
particular, and he is responsible for their not tasting my rabbit stew;
and that too, just at the moment when I carried them that unlucky fowl!
The little scamp is as dirty as if he were employed in some low
cook-shop! Wife, scrape your burn carefully, you still have some potato
on it. Well! I must repair my reputation with the soufflé.”

While Bonneau labored over the soufflé, Edouard was trying to carve the
fowl, and Madame Germeuil seasoned the salad. But in vain did the young
man turn and return the old turkey; it was all dried up, because it had
been on the fire so much, and the knife was powerless to pierce it.

“I must give it up,” said Edouard, pushing the dish away.

“It is impossible to eat this oil,” said Madame Germeuil, who had just
tasted the salad.

“Evidently we shan’t dine to-day,” said Adeline.

“Faith, mesdames,” said Edouard, rising from the table, “I don’t think
it worth while to wait for the potato soufflé, in which we should
undoubtedly find pieces of fish. Put on your shawls and bonnets while I
go and say a word to the restaurant keeper, who really seems to have
intended to make sport of us.”

“But pray don’t lose your temper, my dear! Remember that the wisest way
is to laugh at everything that has happened; is it not, mamma?”

“Yes, my daughter; but still we ought not to pay for such a dinner as
this.”

Edouard left the room and went toward the kitchen. As he was about to
enter the common room, the voice of one of the servants reached his ear;
he heard the word soufflé, and stopped by the glass door, curious to
learn the subject of their discussion; there he overheard the following
conversation:

“I tell you, Marianne, I wouldn’t eat that stuff that our master’s
making now, not even if he would pay me for doing it.”

“Then you’re very hard to suit! That’s a delicacy that he’s making.”

“A pretty kind of delicacy! and it will taste nice!”

“Oh! you mustn’t be so particular as that! If you should see the bread
now, why that’s different! They often have the dough in other places
than in their hands! But it cooks all the same! And the wine! Bless my
soul! An uncle of mine is a wine dresser, and he has boils on his rump,
but that don’t prevent him from getting into the vats as naked as God
made him, and his wine is good, too.”

“You can say whatever you please, Goton, I don’t see wine made nor bread
either; but I did see the potatoes grated on the mistress’s hands, and
she don’t wash them every day; and I say that a cake made with them
wouldn’t take my fancy at all.”

Edouard knew enough; he entered the room abruptly; the two servants were
struck dumb, and allowed him to go on to the kitchen, where he found
Master Bonneau thickening his soufflé with molasses.

Our young man gave the portable oven a kick and sent the entremets into
the garden for the pigeons to eat. The proprietor stared at him with an
air of dismay.

“What is the matter with monsieur? Why is he so angry?”

“Ah! you miserable pothouse keeper! You make soufflé of potatoes that
have been put on your wife’s burned hands!”

“What do you mean, monsieur?”

“You understand me perfectly; you deserve to have me give you a
thrashing.”

“Monsieur, I haven’t an idea----”

“We are going now, but I shall return to this neighborhood; and I shall
remember Master Bonneau, pupil of the Boisseau Fleuri, who supplies
wedding and other parties at the Epée Couronnée.”

With that, Edouard left his host and rejoined the ladies, who were
prepared to leave the dining-room.

“Let us go, mesdames,” said Edouard, “let us leave this house at once!
and consider yourselves fortunate that you did not eat the soufflé.”

“Why, what was the matter with it?”

“I will tell you about it later; the most important thing now is to
leave the house of this infernal poisoner.”

Edouard took Adeline’s hand, Madame Germeuil followed them, and they
were about to leave the inn, when the proprietor ran after them and
stopped them.

“One moment, mesdames and monsieur,” said Master Bonneau, pushing his
cotton cap to the back of his head, “one moment, if you please; it seems
to me that before leaving a restaurant you ought to pay for your
dinner.”

“Our dinner! Parbleu! monsieur le traiteur, you will be decidedly clever
if you prove to us that we have dined!”

“I served all that you ordered, monsieur; if you didn’t eat it, that’s
none of my business!”

“You are laughing at us, Monsieur Bonneau, when you say that you served
all that we ordered; we ordered soft boiled eggs, you gave them to us
hard; we ordered cutlets, you served us a rabbit stew with a
cup-and-ball in it; for wine you gave us vinegar, lamp oil to dress the
salad, a fowl which I would defy an Englishman to carve, and a soufflé
made of--Ah! take my advice, monsieur le traiteur, and don’t be ugly, or
I will have you punished for a dangerous man, and have your restaurant
closed.”

“My restaurant!” said Bonneau, bursting with rage; “indeed! we will see
about that! Pay me at once the amount of this bill, forty francs and
fifteen centimes, or I will take you before the mayor.”

Edouard’s only reply was to take the bill and throw it into the
wine-dealer’s face. Thereupon he made a terrible uproar and the whole
village flocked to the spot.

“These folks from Paris refuse to pay for their dinner,” said the
rabble, always ready to take sides against people from the city; “they
come in a cabriolet, and they haven’t got a sou in their pockets!”

Our young bride and groom laughed at what they heard and made ready to
go before the mayor. Mamma Germeuil followed them into the cabriolet;
all the peasants surrounded Master Bonneau, who marched at their head,
with Fanfan beside him, carrying the famous fowl on a platter, because
Edouard had insisted that it should be submitted to the examination of
experts. The procession passed through the village thus, and on its way
to the mayor’s office, was momentarily increased by the curious folk of
the village, to whom that event was a piece of good fortune.

At last they reached the mayor’s house and requested to speak with him.

“He hasn’t time to listen to you now,” said the servant; “he is just
going to sit down to dinner.”

“But he must judge our dispute,” said Bonneau.

“And he must judge this fowl,” said Edouard with a laugh.

“Oho! there’s a fowl in it, is there?” said the servant; “oh, well! that
makes a difference; I will go and tell monsieur that it is about a fowl,
and that he must attend to it.”

The servant went to her master, and explained the matter so fully that
the mayor, understanding nothing about it, decided at last to leave his
guests for a moment, and to go to his audience room.

In those days, the mayor of the village was not a genius; he had just
had a summer-house built at the foot of his garden; and as he was
delighted with that little building, the idea of which he himself had
conceived, and which he seemed to fear that people would think that he
had seen somewhere else, he had caused to be written over the door:
“This Summer-House was Built Here.”

Profound silence reigned in the assemblage when the mayor appeared.

“Where is the fowl which is the subject of dispute?” he asked gravely.

“Monsieur le maire, it isn’t a fowl simply, it is a dinner that they
refuse to pay me for,” said Master Bonneau, stepping forward.

“A dinner! That’s a matter of some consequence! Did they eat it?”

“No, monsieur,” said Edouard, “and you see in this fowl a specimen of
it.”

“Examine the bill, monsieur le maire, and you will see that it is
perfectly fair.”

“Let us see the bill--fresh eggs----”

“They were hard.”

“Never mind, he who breaks the glasses pays for them; consequently he
who breaks the eggs ought to pay for them.”

“Rabbit stew----”

“We found a cup-and-ball in it.”

“That doesn’t concern the rabbits. Besides, cup-and-ball isn’t capable
of turning the sauce sour.--Let us go on: a capon----”

“Here it is, monsieur le maire; just feel it and smell it.”

The mayor motioned to Fanfan to approach; but the little scullion,
abashed at the sight of so many people, held the plate forward with a
trembling hand, and the fowl rolled on the floor.

The so-called capon made a sound like that of a child’s drum when it
falls to the ground.

“Oho! it seems a little dry,” said the mayor, examining it.

“That’s because it was brought here in the sun,” said Bonneau; “that
burned it just a bit.”

“Pardieu! I have my friend the notary here, who is a connoisseur in
capons, so his wife tells me. I will get him to give me his opinion.”

The mayor opened the door, and called the notary, who was dining with
him, to come and pass judgment on the capon. Edouard and his wife were
beginning to lose patience; they divined from what the judge had already
said to them that they would have to pay the rascally inn-keeper; and
that worthy also anticipated a victory; he stared at them insolently,
then turned with a smile toward the peasants, who were eagerly awaiting
the moment when they could make sport of the fine gentleman and fine
ladies from Paris, which is a great source of enjoyment to peasants.

But the notary appeared; he looked at Edouard and his wife, and
recognized them as the purchasers of Monsieur Renâré’s house; and
instead of looking at the fowl which Bonneau thrust under his nose, he
saluted Murville and his companion most humbly.

“What! do you know monsieur and madame?” asked the mayor in amazement.

“I have that honor; monsieur has bought my neighbor Renâré’s estate, and
pays cash for it. The deeds are being made in my office.”

The notary’s words changed the whole aspect of the affair. The mayor
became extremely polite to Edouard and his wife; he begged them to come
into his salon a moment and rest; and then, turning with a stern
expression toward Master Bonneau, who did not know which way to turn, he
cried angrily:

“You are a scoundrel! You are a knave! You dare to demand payment for a
dinner which was not eaten! You serve dried-up fowls, rotten eggs, and
ask forty francs for them.”

“But, monsieur le maire----”

“Hold your tongue, or I will make you pay a fine; I know that you mix
drugs with your wine, and that you steal all the cats to make rabbit
stew; but take care, Master Bonneau,--you will be held responsible for
the first plump cat that disappears.”

The inn-keeper retired, covered with confusion, and storming under his
breath at the arrival of the notary, who had made the mayor turn about
like a weathercock. He drove Fanfan before him, returned to the inn
with the wretched fowl in his hand, and in order that everyone might
share his ill-humor, he announced that they would have the capon for
supper.

The mayor, learning that Edouard and his wife had not dined, absolutely
insisted that they should dine with him; he, himself, offered to fetch
Madame Germeuil, who had remained in the cabriolet; but the young people
declined, declaring that they were expected in Paris early and that they
could not delay their departure any longer.

So they separated, the mayor protesting that he should have great
pleasure in becoming better acquainted with his constituents, and our
young people thanking him for the zeal he had shown in their behalf
after the notary’s arrival.

The peasants were still in front of the mayor’s house when Edouard and
Adeline came out; they stood aside to let them pass; some even ran to
the carriage to tell Madame Germeuil; and one and all bowed most humbly
when they drove away. And yet they were the very same persons upon whom
the clowns had heaped insolent epithets, and at whom they had been
poking fun a moment before; but they did not know then that the mayor
would treat them courteously. Men are the same everywhere.




VII

IN WHICH WE SEE THE MAN WITH MOUSTACHES ONCE MORE


They reached Paris famished, as you may imagine. They ordered dinner at
once. The servants made all possible haste, jostled one another in order
to move faster, and by jostling and colliding with one another, took one
thing instead of something else, overturned the sauces, let one dish
burn, and served another cold; in a word, they did everything wrong,
which often happens when people try to make too much haste.

The servants had ceased to expect their masters to dinner; old Raymond
could not understand why they returned hungry; it gave him a very bad
impression of the place where they had been, and the cook was very sorry
that she had not divined their condition. But our travellers found
everything delicious; Master Bonneau’s cooking was still foremost in
their thoughts.

On the day following this memorable excursion, Adeline was too tired to
accompany Edouard to Villeneuve-Saint-Georges, and as they had given
their word to Monsieur Renâré, the young wife was obliged to consent to
let her husband go alone.

Murville promised to be absent only a short time; he intended to return
to dinner.

“Take care,” said Madame Germeuil, “and don’t have any unpleasant
experiences.”

“I will wager, mamma, that you are still thinking of that face with the
moustaches that we saw at the end of the garden.”

“Yes, I don’t deny it; indeed I will confess, my children, that I
dreamed of it all night.”

“That is not surprising; when something has excited us intensely during
the day, our imagination sees the same thing in a dream. But that does
not mean that we should conceive dismal presentiments from the fact.”

“Really, mamma, you will make me unhappy,” said Adeline; “I begin to
wish already that Edouard were home again.”

“And yet one must be very childish to be afraid without any reason!
Come, off with you, my dear, and return quickly; above all things, do
not dine at the Epée Couronnée!”

Edouard kissed Madame Germeuil’s hand; he embraced his wife, as people
embrace on the day after their wedding, when they have found the first
night all that they hoped, or when they think that they have found it
so, which is the same thing, and which happens to many people who know
nothing about it, and who consider themselves very shrewd.

He arrived in Villeneuve-Saint-Georges, and alighted from the carriage
in front of the house which was soon to belong to him.

“Is Monsieur Renâré in?” he asked the concierge.

“He is already at the notary’s, monsieur.”

“The deuce! what promptitude! I must not keep him waiting.”

Murville left the cabriolet in the courtyard, and walked to the
notary’s. The deeds were ready, and Monsieur Renâré was impatiently
awaiting the arrival of the purchaser; for, having learned the night
before of the episode at the Epée Couronnée, he had begun to feel some
anxiety concerning the bargain; but Edouard’s presence, and especially
the sight of a wallet stuffed with good bank notes, restored all his
tranquillity.

The deeds were signed, the price paid, and Monsieur Renâré smilingly
presented the keys of the house to Edouard.

“You are the owner now, monsieur; from this moment you can do as you
please with your house and everything that it contains, as I have sold
it to you furnished.”

“I thank you, monsieur, but you may take all the time that you please to
make your preparations for departure. I do not wish to embarrass you in
any way.”

“Oh! my preparations will very soon be made, monsieur. I simply have a
little bundle to pack, and I can carry it under my arm.”

“Then you already have another house in view?”

“Why,” said the notary, “Monsieur Renâré has six houses in Paris, and
three more in the suburbs; so he is not likely to be at a loss.”

“Six houses in Paris,” thought Edouard, “and he wears a patched coat and
a broken hat! And he is a bachelor, too! and he has no heirs! Does the
man think that he is never going to die?”

Our young man bowed to the old miser and left the notary’s office. He
returned to his newly-acquired property. The concierge was waiting in
the courtyard, and seemed to have some question to ask him. Edouard
guessed the cause of his embarrassment.

“This house is now mine,” he said to the peasant; “here is the deed
stating that I am the owner of it. However, Monsieur Renâré will soon
inform you of it himself.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it, monsieur.”

“Are you attached to Monsieur Renâré?”

“No, monsieur, I ain’t attached to anything but the house, and if
monsieur doesn’t keep me, I shall be out of work.”

“Very well, I will keep you! I do not mean to discharge anybody; from
this moment you are in my employ.”

“Very good, monsieur, I will try to satisfy you.”

Edouard was not greatly pleased with the peasant. He seemed brusque and
rough, and had lived so long with Renâré that he had acquired an air of
distrust, that made itself manifest in all his acts. But Edouard did not
desire, on returning to occupy the home of his parents, to create a bad
impression on the people in the village.

As it was still early, and Edouard had finished his business at the
notary’s sooner than he expected, he could not resist the temptation to
inspect his property; he ordered the concierge to give him the key of
the gate at the end of the garden, and left him beside his cabriolet.

When we know that an estate belongs to us, we are likely to scrutinize
every part of it closely. Edouard noticed that Monsieur Renâré had
planted cabbages and lettuces in all the beds intended for flowers; he
had cut down the beautiful acacias, which, to be sure, produced nothing
but shade, and had replaced them by fruit trees. Instead of box as a
border for the paths, he had planted parsley and nasturtiums; and as he
entered a clump of shrubbery, which formerly was bright with lilacs and
roses, Edouard smelled nothing but the odor of chevril and onion.

“We shall have to make many changes,” said Edouard to himself, laughing
at the former owner’s parsimony; “but in a week everything will be as it
was, with the exception of the acacias, on which I used to have a
swing; but I have passed the age when I could enjoy it so much.”

He was then at the end of the garden; he approached the gate, saying to
himself:

“It seems that that appalling face which frightened the ladies so does
not show itself every day;” and he was on the point of putting the key
into the lock, when the face with moustaches appeared above the broken
plank, exactly on a level with the eyes.

Edouard stopped; he felt that his heart was beating violently; but he
soon recovered himself.

“What do you want?” he asked the stranger; “and why are you continually
behind this gate, with your eyes fixed upon the garden?”

“I want nothing,” the stranger replied, in a loud voice and with an
abrupt manner. “I am looking at this garden because I choose to, and I
look at it through this gate, because they would not permit me to walk
about inside.”

“If that is what you wish, you may gratify yourself now. Come in,
monsieur; there is nothing now to prevent you.”

As he spoke, Edouard, who was curious to see the whole of the stranger’s
face, opened the gate leading into the fields.

The stranger seemed surprised at Edouard’s invitation; however, as soon
as the gate was opened, he did not wait to be asked a second time, but
entered the garden. Murville was then able to contemplate him at his
ease. He saw a man of tall stature, dressed in an old blue frock-coat,
buttoned to the chin, who wore black gaiters and a dilapidated
three-cornered hat, which he carried in his hand.

As he examined this singular individual, whose pale face, long beard and
neglected dress seemed to indicate misfortune and want, Edouard
remembered his mother-in-law’s suspicions, and a feeling of distrust
entered his mind.

The stranger walked about the garden, pausing from time to time in front
of a clump of shrubs or an old tree, and apparently forgetting that
there was some one with him.

“Parbleu!” said Edouard to himself, “I propose to have something to show
for my good-nature; I must find out who this man is, and why he planted
himself behind the little gate. I must take the first step, and as he
says nothing, I must begin the conversation; he will have to answer me.”

The stranger had seated himself upon a mound of turf, from which the
front of the house could be seen. Edouard approached and sat down beside
him.

“Oh! I beg your pardon, monsieur,” said the stranger, as if suddenly
arousing himself from his abstraction, “I have not thought yet to thank
you for your kindness. But I was in such a hurry to see this place
again!”

“Oh! there is no harm done.”

“Are you the son of the owner of this house?”

“No.”

“So much the better for you.”

“Why so?”

“Because he is an old money-lender, an impertinent fellow; and so is his
concierge, to whom I was strongly tempted to administer a thrashing, in
order to teach him how to behave!”

“What have they done to you?”

“I came to this village for the express purpose of seeing this house. I
arrived here yesterday, utterly tired out; I entered the courtyard, and
sat down on a stone bench to rest. The concierge came to me, and asked
me what I was there for. I told him that I wanted to see the garden. He
asked me if I intended to buy the house. That question was an
impertinence in itself, for I don’t look like a person with money to
invest.”

“That is true,” thought Edouard.

“When he learned that I had come here for another reason, he ordered me
to leave; I asked him again to let me walk about this garden for a
moment; he called his master; an old Jew appeared, and the two together
tried to turn me out! Ten thousand thunders! Turn me out! me--a--But,
no! I forgot that I am one no longer! All the same, if it hadn’t been
that my memories restrained me, I would have thrashed master and
servant. I didn’t do it, however, and as I was able only to look at the
place from a distance, I took my stand behind that gate where you saw me
yesterday.”

“I am very glad that I have been able to atone for the discourtesy of
the concierge, and that I found you again to-day at the same place.”

“Faith! it’s a mere chance! If I were not waiting for a comrade, whom I
agreed to meet in this village, I certainly should not have stayed
here.”

“Ah! you are waiting for a comrade?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

Edouard was silent for a moment; he seemed to be reflecting upon what
the stranger had said; the latter resumed the conversation.

“Excuse me, monsieur, if I question you in my turn; but how does it
happen that the old villain of a proprietor has intrusted the keys of
his garden to you?”

“This house no longer belongs to Monsieur Renâré; he has sold it to me
this very day.”

“Sold it! Pardieu! I am delighted to hear that. I was distressed to see
this house in the clutches of that Arab!”

“You seem to be very fond of this house?”

“I well may be, as I passed a large part of my youth here.”

“You?”

“I.”

Edouard looked more closely at the stranger; vague suspicions, a secret
presentiment made his heart leap. He observed that the stranger was
young and that it seemed to be fatigue simply that had wasted his
sun-burned features; he desired, yet dreaded to learn more.

“Yes, monsieur,” continued the stranger after a moment’s silence, “I
have lived in this house. Indeed I was partly brought up here. At that
time I was with my parents, and the future looked very bright to me. I
had a kind father, I had a brother! I left them all! And I well deserve
what is happening to me now!”

“Are your parents dead?” asked Edouard in a broken voice, gazing at the
man whom he already feared that he recognized.

“Yes, monsieur, they are dead,--perhaps of the sorrow that I caused
them! My mother did not love me very much; but my father was devoted to
me! And I shall never see him again! Oh! this accursed temper of mine,
that has made me do so many foolish things!”

“And your brother?”

“My brother is still alive, so I learned at Paris; he has just married,
I was told. The person who told me was not then able to give me his
address, but is to give it to me to-morrow; then I shall go to see him.
Poor Edouard, he will be greatly surprised to see me! I will bet that he
thinks that I am dead!”

Edouard did not reply; he lowered his eyes, uncertain as to what course
he ought to adopt, and not daring to admit to himself that it was his
brother whom he had found.

Jacques,--for it was he in very truth,--Jacques had relapsed into
meditation; with one hand he fondled his long moustaches, and with the
other rubbed his forehead as if he wished to clear up his ideas. Edouard
stood motionless and silent; his eyes turned sometimes upon the friend
of his childhood, but the shabby coat, the old gaiters, and above all,
the long beard, checked the impulse of his heart which bade him throw
himself into his brother’s arms without stopping to consider his dress,
or without wondering what his position might be.

Suddenly an idea seemed to strike Jacques’s mind, and he turned to
Edouard, and said abruptly:

“It isn’t impossible that you may know my brother; you seem to belong to
fashionable society, and you usually live in Paris, do you not?”

“I do.”

“Perhaps you may have heard of Edouard Murville?”

“Yes--I--I know him.”

“You know my brother?”

“I am Edouard Murville.”

Edouard said these words in such a low tone that no one but Jacques
could have heard them; but he was listening closely, and before his
brother had finished his sentence, he had thrown himself on his neck,
and pressed him in his arms.

Edouard submitted to the embrace with very good grace; but the infernal
moustaches still disturbed him; he did not feel at his ease, and he did
not know whether he ought to rejoice or to be sorry that he had found
his brother.

“I say, why didn’t you tell me your name sooner?” said Jacques, after
embracing Edouard again; “didn’t you guess who I was?”

“Yes, but I wanted to be certain.”

“And you--you seem to be rich and happy?”

“I--yes.”

“You are married; and where is your wife? I shall be delighted to know
her.”

“My wife----”

Edouard paused; the thought of Adeline, of Madame Germeuil, the
suspicions which the latter had conceived the night before, when she saw
the face with moustaches; the brusque manners, and the more than
careless garb of Jacques, which was in such striking contrast to his
own, all this tormented the spirit of the young bridegroom, who, at the
best weak and irresolute, tried in vain to harmonize his self-esteem and
the sentiments which the sight of his brother awoke in him.

“What the devil are you thinking about?” asked Jacques, taking Edouard’s
arm.

“Oh! I was reflecting; it is late, and I must go back to Paris.
Important business demands my presence there.”

Jacques made no reply, but his brow darkened, and he walked a few steps
away from his brother.

“What are you doing now, Jacques?”

“Nothing,” said Jacques, as he scrutinized Edouard with more attention.

“Nothing? Then what are your means of existence?”

“Up to this time I have never asked anyone for anything.”

“However, you do not seem to be very well off.”

“I am not, that is a fact!”

“What an idea, to wear such moustaches! You don’t expect to see my wife,
with those on your face, I fancy?”

“My moustaches will stay where they are; if your wife is a prude and the
sight of me frightens her, never fear! she won’t see me very often!”

“You misunderstand me, that isn’t what I meant. But I must leave you; I
am expected in Paris; I do not ask you to come with me now--indeed you
are expecting to meet someone in this village, I believe.”

“Yes, I am expecting a comrade, a _friend_.”

Jacques emphasized the last word and cast a meaning glance at his
brother.

“Well, I must leave you,” said Edouard, after a moment’s hesitation; “we
shall meet again soon, I hope. Meanwhile, here, take this.”

As he spoke, Edouard drew from his pocket his purse, which contained
about ten louis, and offered it with a trembling hand to his brother;
but Jacques proudly pushed Edouard’s hand away, pulled his hat over his
eyes, put his hand quickly to the collar of his coat, and seemed to
contemplate baring his breast; but he checked himself and said to
Edouard in a cold tone:

“Keep your money; I didn’t come here to ask alms of you, and I do not
propose to become an object of your compassion; I thought that I had
found a brother, but I made a mistake. I do not seem to you worthy to be
received into your house; my dress and my face frighten you; that is
enough; adieu, you will see me no more.”

Jacques cast an angry glance at his brother, and strode from the garden
through the little barred gate, that had remained open.

Edouard, like all irresolute people, stood for a moment without moving,
with his eyes fixed upon the gate through which his brother had left the
garden. At last his natural feelings carried the day, he ran to the
gate, went into the fields, and shouted at the top of his voice:

“Jacques, Brother Jacques!”

But it was too late; Jacques had disappeared, he was already far away,
and his brother’s shouts did not reach his ears.

Edouard returned sadly to the garden; he paused in the gateway, and
looked out into the fields once more, and as he could see no one,
decided at last to close the gate.

“Oh! he will come again,” he said to himself; “he is a hot-headed
fellow, who loses his temper in an instant. However, I didn’t mean to
insult him; I offered him money, because he seemed in great need of it,
and I don’t see why he took offence at that. I gave him to understand
that his dress, his aspect, would be out of place in a salon. Was I so
very wrong? Can I conscientiously present to my wife and my
mother-in-law a man who looks like an escaped convict, at the best? It
would be enough to make a man die of shame--and that too on the very
morrow of my marriage! With the money I offered him he might have
dressed decently; but no! he will not shave his moustaches! Faith, he
may do as he pleases; I did what it was my duty to do.”

Edouard strove to convince himself that he had not done wrong; he did
not admit that his cold and constrained manner might well have
humiliated his brother; but a secret voice arose in the depths of his
heart and reproached him for his unkindness. Dissatisfied with himself
and disturbed concerning the outcome of that adventure, Edouard returned
to his cabriolet and drove away from the village, without giving the
concierge any orders.

When he entered Paris, he was still uncertain as to what he should do.
At last he decided not to mention the encounter to his wife and his
mother-in-law, thinking that it would be time enough to introduce them
to his brother when he should call. When he arrived, his Adeline ran to
meet him, scolded him fondly because he had been away so long, and asked
him about his journey.

“It is all finished,” said Edouard; “the deeds are passed and the pretty
house is ours now.”

“And you had no unpleasant meetings?” asked Adeline with a smile.

“I--no--as you see.”

“And you did not see that terrible face with the moustaches again?”
asked Madame Germeuil.

“No, I did not see him again.”

“I am glad of it, for that man really looked like the leader of a band
of robbers, and for my part I have no sort of desire to see him again, I
assure you.”

Edouard blushed; his brother had the appearance of a highwayman! That
thought troubled him; he believed that they would guess his secret, and
he dared not raise his eyes. But his wife’s caresses dispelled his
disquietude to some extent.

“What on earth is the matter, my dear?” asked Adeline; “you seem very
pensive and preoccupied to-night.”

“Nothing is the matter, my dear love; the bore of being away from you so
long has been my only unhappiness.”

“Dear Edouard! May you always think the same, for then you will never
leave me.--By the way, when do we start for our country house?”

“Oh! in a week.”

“A week! That is a very long while!”

“We must give the former owner time to pack up.”

“Ah, yes! that is true, my dear.”

Edouard did not tell the truth; another reason caused him to delay his
return to Villeneuve-Saint-Georges. That reason he dared not
communicate to Adeline; and after forty-eight hours of married life,
after their mutual promises of absolute and reciprocal confidence,
behold he already had a secret from his wife!




VIII

WE MUST NOT JUDGE BY APPEARANCES


Let us leave Edouard and his wife for awhile, and return to Brother
Jacques, with whom we must become better acquainted.

After his abrupt departure from the garden, Jacques had struck across
the fields, and had walked for a long while without paying any heed to
the road he was following; his only object was to get away from his
brother, whose manners and language had wounded him to the heart. From
time to time Jacques muttered a few words; he raised his eyes, stamped
violently on the ground and seemed intensely excited. Having arrived in
a lovely valley, shaded by ancient walnut trees, Jacques felt the need
of rest; he looked about him as if to make sure that no one was
following him; everything was calm and peaceful. The peasants working in
the fields were the only living things that enlivened the landscape.
Jacques lay down at the foot of a tree, and reviewed in his memory the
conversation which he had just had with Edouard.

“Because I look as if I were unfortunate, he treats me with contempt!
Because I wear moustaches, he dares not introduce me to his wife! He
offers me money, and does not ask me to live with him! Is that the way a
man should treat his brother? Why that contemptuous air? Have I
dishonored my father’s name? If my manners are rough, my speech is frank
and my conscience clear. I may be poor and unfortunate, but never, no,
never, will I commit an action for which I would need to blush. I have
done foolish things,--youthful escapades, it is true; but I have no
shameful offences to reproach myself with, and this that I have here, on
my breast, should guarantee me against all reproach, by commanding me
never to deserve it.”

Thereupon Jacques opened his coat and gazed proudly at the cross of the
Legion of Honor, pinned to an old military jacket which he wore
underneath. That reward of his valor was his sole consolation; and yet
Jacques had concealed the decoration, because he had been for several
days past forced to seek hospitality from peasants, who were not always
hospitable, and Jacques did not wish to show his cross at the risk of
humiliation. He was right; a man who wears a symbol of merit should not
be an object of compassion to other people.

Jacques had his eyes fixed upon his decoration; he was thinking of the
day when his colonel had pinned it on his breast; he remembered the
battles in which he had taken part, his mind returned to the
battlefield, and he saw himself surrounded by his comrades, and marching
eagerly against the enemy; the memory of those glorious days revived his
depressed spirit, and he forgot his sorrows and his brother’s coldness.

At that moment, a young man, dressed very much like Jacques, but whose
bright and animated face denoted neither depression nor poverty, came
down a hill leading into the valley, whistling a military march, and
marking time with a switch on the gooseberry bushes and lilacs which
lined the road.

On arriving in the valley, the traveller stopped and looked about in all
directions.

“What the deuce! not an inn! not a poor little wine-shop even! I wonder
if I have gone astray? I don’t see any sign of a village, and I’m as
thirsty as one possessed. But no matter! Forward!”

And he began to sing:

    “I saw Jeanneton
     And her pretty little foot
     I even saw her----”

“Ah! there’s someone at last. I say, my friend!”

The traveller’s words were addressed to Jacques, who raised his eyes and
recognized his faithful comrade; he ran toward him, exclaiming:

“Ah! it is you, is it, my dear Sans-Souci?”

“Why, it’s comrade Jacques! Pardieu! I couldn’t have better luck; wait
till I lie down beside you in the shade of your walnut; I would rather
be in the shade of a cask of burgundy; but however, one must accommodate
oneself to everything.”

“Still the same, Sans-Souci! still cheerful, and fond of good living!”

“Oh! as for that, I shan’t change; cheerfulness is the wealth of poor
devils like us. You know that I used to sing when we were going into
battle! They--let me see--what do they call that?”

“Disbanded.”

“Yes, that’s it,--they disbanded us; and instead of being soldiers, here
we are civilians again! Well, we must make the best of it; besides, we
have always behaved well, and if there is any need to defend the country
again some day, why then, forward march!”

“Yes, but how are we to live meanwhile?”

“Like other people, by working.”

“My poor Sans-Souci! there are some people that live on the fat of the
land without ever turning their hand; and others, with the best will in
the world to work, can’t find any way to earn their living.”

“Bah! you always look at the dark side. Didn’t your journey turn out
well? You came into this region for some purpose.”

“Oh! I found more than I expected.”

“And you are not satisfied?”

“I have no reason to be. I just saw my brother, and he received me like
a beggar.”

“Your brother is a wild Indian, whom I would beat with the flat of my
sword if I still had one.”

“My dress, my face, and my long moustaches--he didn’t like any of them.”

“That’s a great pity! Didn’t he see that token of your valor?”

“No, it was out of sight, and I am very glad of it; my brother isn’t
capable of appreciating what I have here, and I propose to make him
blush for his treatment of me some day.”

“So your brother is a rich man?”

“Yes, yes.”

“A swell?”

“Yes.”

“So you have a family, have you?”

“To be sure.”

“Ah! that’s something I haven’t got. I never knew father or mother. I am
a natural child; and it doesn’t prevent me from going my way with my
head up, because my ancestors’ brats don’t look at me; and besides that,
in the days of our first parents, there wasn’t any notaries, and that
doesn’t prevent the descendants of Cain from being very well thought of
in the world. In fact our sergeant, who could talk very well when he
wasn’t tight, told me that love children made their way better than
other children; and on that subject quoted a long list of names that I
won’t undertake to repeat, because I’ve forgotten them.--But let’s
return to your business. You never mentioned your family or your
adventures to me; we knew each other in the regiment, and we made
several campaigns together; we both had the jaundice in Spain, and
frozen feet in Russia; and I say that such things are very good at
cementing friendship; you won the cross and I didn’t--that’s the only
difference between us; but you well earned it; you saved the colonel’s
life. But, the excellent man! that didn’t prevent his being killed the
next day; it was unlucky that you couldn’t always be on hand.--Well,
after a great many things had happened, they disbanded us! That’s a
pity, for perhaps we might have become marshals of France. In order to
comfort each other, we stayed together, except that you came alone to
this village, while I went to a place nearby to look after a little
brunette, whom I courted long ago and who swore a bullet-proof fidelity
to me!”

“Well, did you find your brunette?”

“Pardieu, yes! Oh! I tell you that there’s some analogy between our
destinies: while your brother was receiving you so cordially, my
sweetheart came to me with three children she had had during my absence,
and another half way along. You can imagine that there was nothing to
say to that. My first impulse was to give her a good thrashing, but I
reflected that the poor child might well have thought me dead and that
calmed me down. I kissed my faithless one, and while her children were
splashing in the mud with the ducks, and her husband cutting wood, we
made peace; in fact, we did better than that, for I mean to have
something to do with the fourth, which she began while waiting for me;
so we parted good friends and I came off!”

“Poor Sans-Souci! Women are no better than men, but men are simply less
skilful at concealing their falseness! I have learned to know the world,
I tell you, and I ought to have guessed what sort of welcome my brother
would have given me. But one always hopes, and that is where one makes a
mistake.”

“Come, tell me your adventures; we are in the open air, no one can hear
us, and no one will disturb us; and while I listen to you, I will rest
and smoke a cigar.”

“Well! all right; I will tell you what has happened to me since I was
fifteen years old, for that was the time that I began my cruising.”

Jacques unbuttoned his coat, leaned back against the tree and made ready
to relate his adventures to his comrade; while he, having taken a flint
and steel from his pocket and lighted a cigar, gravely placed it in his
mouth, in order to listen to his companion’s narrative with twofold
enjoyment.




IX

BROTHER JACQUES’S ADVENTURES


I left my father’s house at fifteen. My mother did not seem to care much
for me, and she never mentioned my name except with repugnance. But I
remember a stout old fellow with a pleasant face, who used to come to
our house sometimes and who always called me Jacques with all the
strength of his lungs. I believe indeed, that that old fellow was my
godfather and that his name too was Jacques. This much is certain, that
he seemed to be very fond of me and that whenever he came to see me he
gave me toys or bonbons. But in spite of my godfather’s kindness, my
father’s caresses and my love for my brother, I was horribly bored at
home. I could not keep still a minute. I had no taste for study, and as
I thought of nothing but travelling round the world and fighting, I did
not see the necessity of learning Latin and mathematics. Ah! my dear
Sans-Souci, I have paid already for those errors of my youth, and I have
learned at my own expense that education is always of great service, no
matter in what situation we may find ourselves. If I had had some
education I should not have remained a simple private; and even if my
good conduct had raised me to the rank of captain, it is always
disagreeable when one goes into the society of one’s superiors never to
be able to open one’s mouth without the fear of making some horrible
slip, and of setting other people laughing at you. But let us return to
our subject: I started off one fine morning without trumpet or drum, or
without thinking in which direction I should go. I had one louis in my
pocket, which I had received a few days before from my godfather, and I
imagined that such a sum would never be exhausted.

After walking for a very long time, I stopped in a village in front of a
wine shop. I went in and ordered dinner, with the assurance of a
government messenger. I was well treated; I had an open, honest face,
and I jingled my money as I hopped about the kitchen and uncovered all
the dishes in order to select what I wanted. The host watched me
laughingly and let me do as I chose. He served a good dinner and gave me
white wine and red wine. A little hunchback, who was dining at a table
near me, examined me closely. He tried to enter into conversation with
me and find out where I came from and where I was going; but as I have
never liked inquisitive people and as the little hunchback’s remarks
displeased me, I looked at him without answering, or whistled and sang
while he was talking.

When I was well filled, I asked the host how much he wanted; the rascal
asked me fifteen francs for my dinner. I made a wry face; but I paid the
bill and left the inn, reflecting that my louis, which was to last
forever, would not suffice to pay for a second meal, if I chose to
continue to play the nobleman.

The place where I had dined and which I had taken for a village was
Saint-Germain; I asked the way to the forest and resumed my journey,
stopping only to jump ditches, and to belabor donkeys that I happened to
pass.

As I was entering Poissy, I heard a horse trotting behind me; I stopped
and recognized my hunchback, who was riding a raw-boned little horse,
which he was obliged to strike constantly with the spur and the whip;
else the animal would have stopped every few steps. He ceased to crack
his whip when he was beside me, and contented himself with a walk, in
order to remain at my side. He tried to enter into conversation, and as
I was beginning to be tired then, and the croup of a horse, however thin
the beast might be, seemed to me a very agreeable seat, I displayed less
pride, and talked with the hunchback.

“Where are you going at this rate, my dear boy?” he asked me.

“Why, I don’t exactly know. I mean to travel, to see the country and
enjoy myself.”

“Have you no parents?”

“Oh, yes! But they are in Paris and want me to pass my time in reading
and writing; I got tired of that and I came away.”

“I understand; a piece of folly! a youthful escapade! Oh! I know what it
is. That’s about all one sees now.--But have you much money for your
travels?”

“I have nine francs.”

“Nine francs! Hum! you’ll have to eat wild cow.”[A]

[A] _Manger de la vache enragée: i.e._, to endure hunger and privation.

“What do you mean with your cow? I ate chicken and eels and pigeons and
ducks.”

“Yes, but you spent fifteen francs, and with the nine you’ve left, you
can’t eat three more meals like that.”

I made no reply, but I realized that the hunchback was right; and yet,
as I had a will of my own, and as I was accustomed to make up my mind
quickly, I looked at the little man with a decided air, and said to him
after a moment:

“All right! I will eat cow.”

“I see that you have pluck,” he said; “but still, when a man can find a
chance to live well while travelling, it isn’t to be despised; and I
can supply you with the means.”

“You can?”

“Yes, myself.”

“How so?”

“I will tell you. But so that you can listen to me at your ease and not
get more tired, wouldn’t you like to get up here behind me?”

“Oh! I ask nothing better.”

Delighted by my new travelling companion’s proposition, I jumped
recklessly on the poor horse’s back; I slipped, grasped the little man’s
hump, fell, and dragged him with me, and we both rolled in the road; but
luckily his placid steed did not stir.

My new acquaintance rose good-humoredly enough, and simply advised me to
be less eager in the future, because we might not always fall so softly.
I promised. My hunchback put his foot in the stirrup. I too mounted, but
with more precaution; and when we were firmly seated on our saddle and
he had, by dint of blows, induced his nag to walk on, he resumed his
discourse, which I had interrupted so abruptly.

“My dear boy, everyone in this world tries to make money and earn a
fortune, that is, unless he is born rich; and still, we see millionaires
thinking of nothing but speculation, capitalists engaged in large
undertakings in order to double their wealth; and nobles seeking
alliances which may add to the splendor of their family. I, who am
neither a noble nor a capitalist nor even a merchant, and have no hope
of becoming any one of them, I tried for a long time to think of some
means by which I could, if not make a fortune, at least live at my ease.
I soon found that means. With intelligence one soon learns to know men.
I travelled; I studied men’s tastes and characters. I saw that, with a
little address, poor mortals are easily deceived; all that is necessary
is to take them on their weak side, which one can easily divine when one
has tact and penetration, as I have.”

“Ah! so you have tact and penetration?” I said to my companion, as I
buried in the flanks of our steed some pins which I had discovered on
the portmanteau that was between us.

“Yes, my dear boy, I flatter myself that I have.”

“Then, why is your horse going so fast now?”

“Because I keep my whip snapping, and he knows that he is soon going to
have his supper.”

“That is true; I see that you have tact.--Well, go on, I am listening.”

“So then, it was by flattering men’s passions that I found a way to live
at my ease; moreover, I instructed myself in botany, medicine,
chemistry, and even in anatomy too; and with my knowledge I have not
only composed remedies for all diseases but also philters to arouse
love, hatred, jealousy, and to make well people sick; it is in this last
art that I am particularly proficient.”

“Ah! I understand now. No doubt you sell vulneraries too, like that
tall, red man that I used to see in Paris on the squares and
street-corners. People called him a charlatan, I believe.”

At the name charlatan, my companion leaped in the saddle in such a way
that he nearly threw us both off; luckily I clung firmly to him, and we
got off with merely a fright.

“My dear boy,” he said when he had become a little calmer, “I forgive
you the name of charlatan. You don’t know me yet; indeed I admit that
there is a little charlatanism in my business, and that three-quarters
of my remedies and my philters do not produce the effect that is
expected of them; but we make mistakes in medicine as we do in
everything else. We take cathartics and make ourselves sick; we have a
toothache, and we take an elixir which spoils all our teeth; we try to
obtain a position which we are not able to fill; we go into maritime
speculations which a sudden storm destroys; we think that we have
intelligence when we have not the intelligence to succeed, which is the
most important of all; we determine to be prudent and we make fools of
ourselves; we desire happiness, and we marry and have a wife and
children who often cause us untold anxiety!--In short, my little man,
people have made mistakes in all lines, and it is great luck when things
turn out as we had anticipated, or hoped.”

“Look here, monsieur,” I said to my little hunchback, whose chatter was
beginning to weary me, “what do you expect to do with me, after all is
said and done?”

“This: when I stop in a village or small town, I cannot make myself
sufficiently well known alone; I need an assistant, to go about the town
to deliver prospectuses, and to answer for me when I am busy, and make a
memorandum of the questions that people want to ask me.”

“But I don’t choose to be your assistant, as I don’t want to learn
anything.”

“I understand that very well, my friend. Oh! I don’t propose to drive
you crazy with fatiguing work. I will have you make pills, that’s all.”

“Pills?”

“Yes, pills of all sizes and of all colors. Never fear, it won’t be
hard; but that isn’t all.”

“What else shall I do?”

“You must be able to sleep when you choose, and to play the sleep-walker
when you please.”

“Oh! as to sleeping, I can do that all right!”

“When you are asleep, you must answer the questions that are asked you.”

“How do you expect me to answer questions when I am asleep?”

“Why, you will pretend to be asleep, my boy; I will explain all that to
you. Oh! that is one of the principal branches of my business.”

“When you put people to sleep?”

“No, but when I make sleep-walkers talk, and when I make them give
remedies to sick people.”

“One moment; I am willing to sleep, but I am not willing to give
remedies or take them.--Indeed, I have been whipped at home for
refusing.”

“Oh! you don’t understand; when I say remedies, I mean medicines to
take----”

“Yes, with a syringe; I know all about that!”

“I tell you that you don’t know what I am talking about. You will talk
while pretending to be asleep; I will teach you your lesson beforehand,
and you will answer the questions asked by invalids or curiosity
seekers.”

“Well, I don’t understand at all.”

“Pardieu! I can believe that; nor do those people who question the
somnambulists; and that is just wherein the charm of it lies; if they
knew what to think about it, it would no longer be possible to earn
one’s living with magnetism and somnambulism. But will you be my
assistant and help me with my business, or not? I will feed you well, I
will dress you suitably, and you will see the country, for I never stay
long in the same place.”

“And all I shall have to do for that is to make pills and sleep?”

“Not another thing!”

“Then, it’s agreed, I will go with you.”

So I became the little hunchback’s assistant. We reached a village that
night. My patron went to the best inn, and ordered a very good supper.
It seemed to me very pleasant to travel on horseback, without having to
worry about my meals. Moreover, I was always at liberty to leave my
companion when I chose, and that reason was enough to make me enjoy
myself with him; the certainty of being free gives a charm to existence
and makes the most trivial incidents enjoyable; bondage, on the
contrary, throws a tinge of gloom over all our actions; it causes us to
shun pleasure; it takes away all the joy of love, it deprives the heart
of all its strength and the imagination of all its vivacity.

This that I am saying, Sans-Souci, is not my own; it is a sentence which
my godfather repeated to me often, and which I remembered easily because
it harmonized with my taste.

When I awoke the next morning, my hunchback, whose name was
Graograicus--a name which he had probably manufactured for himself, and
which no one could pronounce without making a wry face, which made it
altogether impressive--my little hunchback, as I said, suggested giving
me a lesson in somnambulism, which we were to practise in the first
place of any importance in which we might stop. I accepted his
proposition. He made me sit down, told me to stare at vacancy as if I
were looking at nothing, and taught me to sleep with my eyes open; but,
as that tired my eyes, he allowed me to close them when we only had
peasants or poor devils to cure.

Then came the matter of philters; my companion was out of them, and it
was necessary to prepare more. While I was cleaning a dozen or more
four-ounce phials, which were to contain the charms, Master Graograicus
went out to purchase plants, roots, and such other ingredients as he
needed in the manufacture of the philters. He lighted a fire, and
borrowed from our host all the bowls that he had; and our bedroom, where
everything was turned topsy-turvy, began, in my companion’s language, to
be a workshop of chemistry and magic.

“Look here,” I said to my hunchback, while he was pulverizing burdock,
and I was rolling cinnamon, “what are you going to use these things for
that you are making? I am willing to be your assistant, but only on
condition that you teach me your mysteries.”

“You shall know, my boy; we must not have any secrets from each other. I
am now making a philter to arouse love; it is not very difficult to
make, for all I need is tonics, alcohol and stimulants. I boil cinnamon,
cloves, vanilla, pepper, sugar and brandy together. When a person has
swallowed that mixture, that person becomes very amorous; and as soon as
he or she who has administered my philter is with the object of his or
her love, he finds that the charm operates and has no doubt that I am a
magician. Furthermore, this little drug has the property of ruining the
teeth; teeth are not ruined without pain, and as the toothache is
commonly called love-sickness, as soon as it is known that the person
who takes the philter has pains in his teeth, it is presumed that he has
fallen in love. I sell a great deal of this philter, especially to
ladies; we will lay in a good stock of it.

“Let us go on to the next one, which arouses jealousy. Ah! I confess
that it cost me long study and profound reflection, but I believe that I
have solved the problem successfully. In the first place, what gives
rise to jealousy? The suspicions which one conceives concerning the
fidelity of the object of one’s love. Now, these suspicions have a
cause, for there is no effect without a cause; to be sure, a person is
sometimes jealous without cause, but much more frequently with a cause;
so I said to myself:

“‘By making one lover unfaithful, I shall necessarily make the other one
jealous; but how am I to make unfaithful the one who does not take my
drugs?’--Ah! that, my little man, was where a stroke of genius was
required. That is something a fool would never have discovered, and
which I did discover, without the help of any treatises upon medicine. I
compounded this philter of corrosive sublimate and herbs that have an
effect upon the skin. This compound has the property of making the eyes
dull, the complexion leaden and the nose drawn; it brings out a humor,
and the skin is covered with pimples and pustules of all sizes,--while
it makes the breath fit to kill flies at ten yards. So you see that the
man or woman who frequents the person who has taken my philter readily
becomes unfaithful, while the one who has taken it becomes as jealous as
a demon; and the effect lasts through life; for, let him do what he
pleases, he can never again succeed in making himself attractive and in
inspiring love.--Well! what do you say to that? What deep thought, what
a thorough acquaintance with the passions and their effects! But see
what the world is: I sell much less of this philter than of the others;
indeed it rarely happens that the same person takes it twice.

“As for this last, for which I am pulverizing this burdock, it serves to
arouse anger, hatred, ill-humor, and it never fails to produce its
effect; it is a compound of manna, rhubarb, vinegar, turpentine, and
cacao, to which I add this burdock to form a syrup. This little charm,
at once emollient and astringent, produces the colic and sick headache;
now, when one has a pain in the head and the stomach at the same time,
he is certain not to be in a good humor; he easily loses his temper,
and feels a grudge against the whole world, especially when the pains
are constantly on the increase. It seems to me that that is rather
prettily reasoned out, and that nothing less than my tact and my
penetration would have sufficed to find the means of arousing so many
different passions.”

I listened to my companion with attention, and when he had finished, I
asked him if he expected to try his philters upon me; he said that he
had no such purpose, and that assurance restored my good humor, for I
would not have consented at any price to taste Master Graograicus’s
charms.

“It only remains for me now,” he said, “to teach you to make pills; that
is very easy; I make them with the soft part of bread, and roll them in
different powders to give them different colors.”

“And what are they used for?”

“To cure all diseases.”

“What! you cure diseases with bread?”

“I sometimes cure them, for many diseases exist in the imagination only,
and when the patient believes that he is taking an infallible remedy, he
is easily persuaded that it is doing him good, and it is that persuasion
that cures him, and not my pills. But at all events they can’t do any
harm and that is always something. I sell large quantities of them to
nurses and old women.”




X

A LESSON IN MAGNETISM


Thus I was made acquainted with all my companion’s secrets; he required
me to promise not to betray him, and I solemnly swore. But I did not
swear that I would not amuse myself at the expense of the idiots who
might consult him; and that was what I secretly determined to do; for,
although I was only fifteen years old, I was resolute, courageous,
stubborn and reasonably mischievous.

The village in which we passed the night seemed unlikely to afford my
hunchback an opportunity to put forth his talents and sell his drugs, so
we prepared to leave it. But my crafty companion succeeded none the less
in inducing our host’s wife to purchase secretly a box of pills to
prevent her hair from turning white and her teeth from turning black.

We set out on our travels once more, carrying our fortune tied to our
saddle. The weather was not propitious. We encountered a furious storm
and when we reached the small town which was destined to ring with the
fame of our talents, we were in such a pitiable condition that we were
more likely to be taken for wretched mountebanks than for learned
doctors.

However, we betook ourselves to the best inn in the place. At first the
inn-keeper paid no attention to us, and did not put himself out to
receive us; but when my companion ordered one of the finest suites and a
splendid repast, he scrutinized us with a hesitating expression which
was eloquent of his doubts concerning the state of our finances. My
crafty hunchback tossed a number of crowns on the table, and requested
the host to take out a week’s rent of the apartment in advance.

This method of beginning operations completely changed the ideas of the
inn-keeper, who concluded that he had to deal with noblemen travelling
incognito. We were given rooms on the first floor and served on the
minute.

“Monsieur l’aubergiste,” said my companion to our host, as we took our
seats at the table, “you don’t know who I am; I am going to make myself
known to you for the good of this town. Be good enough to inform the
inhabitants that they have the privilege of entertaining within their
walls, but for only a week, the celebrated Graograicus,
physician-in-chief to the Emperor of China, magnetizer to the favorite
sultana of the Sultan of Damascus, physician by letters patent to the
court of the King of Morocco, chemist to the Grand Vizier of
Constantinople, and astrologer to the Hetman of the Cossacks. Tell them
also that I have with me temporarily the little somnambulist, the most
famous, the most extraordinary that has ever appeared on the face of the
globe. He is a young man of thirty years, who looks less than fifteen,
because he has passed half of his life asleep. This strange young man,
born on the banks of the Indus, knows all languages--not to speak them,
it is true, but he understands them better than you and I do. In his
sleep he discovers your disease, its cause, its effects, the pains that
you feel, the periods of recurrence, and points out the remedies you
should take, even for future sicknesses. He has had the honor of putting
himself to sleep before counts, marquises, dukes, and even royal
highnesses. He has effected, sleeping all the while, cures that would
have passed for miracles under the reign of the great Solomon, and even
under that of King Dagobert. He has cured an Englishman of the spleen, a
German baroness of a cutaneous disease, and her husband of the gout; a
young dancer of hatred for men, and an old woman of her love for her
dog; a courtier of the habit of bending his back, and a courtesan of a
peculiar habit of wriggling; an annuitant of a weakness of the stomach,
and a Prussian of indigestion; an author of a buzzing in his ears, and a
musician of a weakness in his legs; a bailiff of rheumatism in the loins
and an attorney of itching fingers; a lawyer of a defect in his speech,
and a singer of defective respiration; a coquette of her vapors, and an
old libertine of his asthma; a pacha with three tails, of his inability
to secure offspring, and a muleteer of his too bountiful gifts in this
direction; a dissolute husband of the habit of sowing good grain on
stony ground, and an Italian of the habit of whipping small boys; and
many other people, whom I will not name, because it would take too long,
and also because we are not mere charlatans, who simply try to throw
dust in people’s eyes.--This little prospectus, which I will beg you to
distribute, will suffice to give the inhabitants of this town an idea of
our learning. Here, monsieur l’aubergiste, take these, and believe.”

The host listened with wide-open eyes to this harangue of the little
hunchback, delivered with extraordinary emphasis and assurance; he took
the prospectuses with a respectful bow, assured us of his devotion,
tried to pronounce my companion’s name, failed, made a grimace, took off
his cap, and backed out of our room.

When he had gone, I asked my companion if I was the somnambulist, thirty
years old, who had cured so many people.

“Yes, my dear boy,” he replied; “don’t be surprised at anything; I will
answer for everything. You told me to call you Jacques, but that name is
too far within the reach of everybody; when we have visitors, I shall
call you nothing but Tatouos--don’t forget.--I am going to take a walk
about the town and make a few memoranda; while I am gone, amuse yourself
arranging my philters in this cupboard, and making a few boxes of pills;
I will return very soon.”

I was left alone, but, instead of making pills, I amused myself eating
the cacao, cinnamon and other ingredients used in compounding the
so-called charms. I also inspected the valise, which my companion had
left open; I found a long, black gown, a false nose, a scratch wig and a
flaxen beard. I was busily engaged in the examination of these different
objects, when someone tapped softly at our door.

“Come in,” I said, without moving. The door opened very gently and a
young brunette of some twenty years entered our apartment. She was one
of the servants of the inn, and, like most of her class, she was very
inquisitive and passably wanton. She had heard her master exclaim on
leaving our room that he had as guests in his inn the two most
extraordinary men in the universe: a scholar, who treated Frenchmen like
the Chinese, and a somnambulist thirty years old, who looked like a
child of twelve, and who could put the widest awake people to sleep.
When she heard that, Clairette had resolved to be the first one to be
put to sleep, to see what effect it would produce on her; and, presuming
that when we became well known, it would be more difficult to obtain an
audience, she had made haste to come up to our room, on the pretext of
asking whether we wanted anything.

The girl came forward on tiptoe, like a person moved by fear and
curiosity at the same time. She stopped within two steps of me and
looked at me with close attention. I looked at her in my turn, and found
her most attractive. I had never yet thought about women; indeed, I had
never before been alone with a young girl. The presence of that one, her
close scrutiny of me, and the pleasant expression of her face,--all
those things excited me greatly, and I was conscious of a feeling which
I had never known before.

We were both silent for some time; Clairette broke the silence:

“What, monsieur!” she said, staring with all her eyes, “what! are you
thirty years old?”

“Yes, mademoiselle,” I replied at once, recalling what my companion had
told me, and thinking that that falsehood might lead to some amusing
adventures. Moreover, as you must know, a young man of fifteen is always
well pleased to appear older and more mature than he is; whereas at
thirty, he regrets that he is not fifteen still.

“Bless my soul! why, I can’t get over it! Thirty years old! You don’t
look half of it!”

And Clairette examined me more closely; I made no objection and tried to
play the exquisite.

“You must have some secret, monsieur, to keep you from growing old?”

“Yes, mademoiselle; and I have many others too.”

“Oh! if you could only tell me that one, monsieur! I’d be so pleased, so
happy--to look young forever! Ah! how delightful that would be! I
promise you that I won’t tell your secret. You see, I wouldn’t want the
other girls in town to stay young too! ’twould take away all the
pleasure.--Monsieur, will you be kind enough to--I say--if you will, you
can ask me for all you choose!”

The young servant seemed, in very truth, predisposed in my favor; I
already felt innumerable desires surging in my heart; but I dared not
make them known as yet; I was very green, but I felt a longing to cease
to be, and I wished to receive my first instructions from Clairette.

However, when you pretend to be thirty years old, you don’t want to
appear to be an ignoramus; and, in order to avoid talking and acting
awkwardly, I held my peace and did nothing but look at Clairette.

The girl, amazed by my silence, was afraid that she had said too much;
however, the desire to remain young tormented her so that she soon
renewed her questions.

“They say you’re a somnambulist, monsieur?”

“Yes, I am.”

“And that you put everybody to sleep?”

“I put those people to sleep who believe in my skill.”

“Oh! I believe in it absolutely, monsieur! and if you would put me to
sleep--Perhaps that is what gives the young look?”

“Why, yes, that’s the beginning of it.”

“Oh! begin me, monsieur, please! it will be so much done! Please, while
we’re alone and you’ve got time----”

“What do you want?”

“To be put to sleep, monsieur. See, I’m all ready.”

I was terribly embarrassed; I didn’t know how to go to work to play the
sorcerer, and I bitterly regretted that I had not asked my little
hunchback for fuller details as to that matter. However, as I did not
desire to be cruel any longer to young Clairette, who appeared to me in
such charming fashion, I said to myself: “Parbleu! I’m not any more
stupid than my hunchback; he hasn’t taught me his way of putting people
to sleep, so I’ll invent a way of my own, and perhaps mine will be just
as good as his.”

“All right, I consent,” I said to Clairette, “I’ll give you a lesson;
but it will only be just to give you a little bit of an idea; we’ll do
more another time.”

“Oh! just as you say, monsieur.”

The young woman was so pleased with what I had agreed to do for her,
that she jumped about the room like a mad girl.

“First of all, sit down,” I said, trying to assume a very serious
expression.

“Where shall I sit, monsieur?”

“Why, here--on a chair by my side.”

“Here I am, monsieur.”

“Give me your hand.”

“Oh! both of ’em, if you want.”

I took both her hands and squeezed them hard; I felt a pleasant warmth
run through my whole being; I was so happy that I dared not stir for
fear of breaking the charm that intoxicated my senses; my eyes were
fixed on Clairette’s, and their tender languor aroused my first love.
Instead of giving the girl a lesson, I felt that she could teach me a
thousand things. I trembled, I blushed and turned pale in quick
succession; never was a sorcerer so timid; but I had forgotten my rôle,
and Clairette had unconsciously assumed it.

“It’s mighty funny,” said the girl when I had been squeezing her hand
for five minutes, “it don’t make me a bit sleepy.”

“Wait, wait. It doesn’t work at once. Now you must shut your eyes.”

“Bless me! shut ’em tight?”

“Yes, that is absolutely necessary.”

“All right--now I can’t see a thing.”

As Clairette was no longer looking at me, I became less timid, and after
contemplating at leisure a lovely bosom, from which I had put the
neckerchief partly aside, I ventured to steal a kiss from the lips of my
pretty pupil. Instantly an unknown flame set my heart on fire, I found
in those kisses an unfamiliar sensation of bliss, I could not take
enough of them, and Clairette made no objection, but murmured brokenly:

“Ah! why--this is funny--it don’t make me sleepy--a single bit.”

I don’t know how that first lesson would have ended, had not my
companion suddenly entered the room, just as I embraced Clairette. His
presence confused me so that I reached the other end of the room in one
bound. Clairette seemed less embarrassed than I was; she remained in her
chair, glancing from me to the little hunchback, like a person awaiting
the result of an experiment.

“What are you doing, my dear Tatouos?” said the crafty hunchback with a
smile, for he easily guessed the cause of my confusion.

“Why, I--I was trying to put this girl to sleep.”

“Ah! you were going on to that, were you?--But, as you know, there are
some indispensable preliminaries, and besides this is not a propitious
hour. Take my advice, and postpone your lesson in magnetism until
another time.”

As he said this, my companion made signs to me which I understood
perfectly; then he went to Clairette, who was still sitting quietly in
her chair.

“My dear child, I am glad to see that you desire to obtain instruction,
and that you have faith in our skill. Never fear, we will teach you much
more than you imagine--especially Signor Tatouos, who is extremely well
versed in his art, and whose one aim is to make proselytes. But the
moment has not arrived. Your master wants you in the kitchen; your
fricassees may burn; our supper would be the worse for it, and I should
be very sorry; for I have a good appetite, and I don’t like curdled
sauces and overdone meat. Go, my dear girl,--to-morrow we shall begin
our grand experiments! And if you are the sort of person that I hope you
shall be initiated into our mysteries! In a word, to-morrow you shall
sleep and you shall see the light.”

I am not sure that Clairette fully understood my companion’s meaning,
but she made a profound reverence and left the room. As she passed me,
she shot a glance at me that completely turned my head. Unable longer to
resist my feeling for her, and heedless of what my companion might say,
I followed her into the corridor.

“If you want me to teach you all I know,” I said to her in an undertone,
“tell me where your room is; I will come to see you to-night.”

“Oh! I don’t ask anything better. Look--you go up these stairs, and up
at the very top, the small door to the right; anyway, I’ll leave it open
a little.”

“Good!”

“But you will show me how to keep young?”

“Never fear.”

Clairette left me and I returned to my companion. As you see, love had
already made me inventive; I was determined to leave no stone unturned
to possess Clairette, and yet I was only fifteen and a few months; but a
resolute will, an ardent temperament and robust health impelled me to
embark upon an adventurous career before the usual age.




XI

JACQUES PUTS CLAIRETTE TO SLEEP AND ACCOMPLISHES MARVELS


When I returned to my travelling companion, I expected a severe
reprimand for my inconsiderate conduct with the young maid-servant, and
I had determined to reply that I would remain with him only on condition
of doing as I chose; but I was agreeably surprised to see him laugh and
come forward gayly to meet me.

“It seems to me, my young friend,” he said slyly, “that you are already
disposed to work on your own account. Peste! you are beginning rather
young! However, I do not propose to interfere with you in anything;
indeed, I am neither your father nor your guardian, and you wouldn’t
listen to me if I should preach virtue to you. Allow me simply to give
you some advice dictated by prudence and by our mutual interest.”

“I am listening.”

“I am a man of great tact; and I believe that you are in love with the
girl who was here just now.”

“Indeed? you didn’t need any great tact to discover that.”

“But it’s essential to find out whether she likes you.”

“Why shouldn’t she?”

“You are so young!”

“She thinks I am thirty.”

“True! I had forgotten that. Then you must try to enlist her in our
interest; you understand, my dear Jacques, that to have a great success
in a town, I must make, or find, accomplices.”

“What! can’t you do without them? You are not very clever, so far as I
can see.”

“My little Jacques, you are just beginning your pranks and your travels;
you don’t know the world as yet; if you had studied it as I have, you
would know that even the most cunning people often require the help of
others to succeed; and that is what I call complicity. The tradesmen
enter into agreements with one another, in order to get better prices
for their wares; the steward makes a bargain with the tradesmen about
paying their bills; the courtiers put their heads together to flatter
the prince and conceal the truth from him; the young dandy plots with a
dancer at the Opéra to ruin a farmer-general; the doctor has an
understanding with the druggist, the tailor with the dealer in cloth,
the dressmaker with the lady’s maid, the author with the _claqueurs_,
who also have an understanding with one another about selling the
tickets they receive for applauding; stockbrokers make agreements to
raise and lower quotations, cabals to ruin the sale of a work by a man
who is not of their coteries, musicians to play badly the music of a
confrère, actors to prevent the production of a play in which they do
not act; and wives have a most excellent understanding with their
husbands’ friends. All this, my dear boy, is complicity. Need you be
surprised then, that a sleight-of-hand man, a manipulator of goblets,
requires accomplices?--So much the worse for the idiots who allow
themselves to be tricked! or rather, so much the better; for if there
were no illusion, there would be very little enjoyment.--As for myself,
I require to know beforehand who the people are who come to consult me;
for you understand that I am no more of a sorcerer than other men. In
order that you, while playing the somnambulist, may divine the pains
that people are feeling, as well as those that they have felt, I must
teach you your lesson in advance. That won’t prevent our making cures,
please God! but we must impose on the multitude; and men are so
constituted that the marvelous delights and always will delight them.
Now then, this little servant seems to me very sly and very wide awake,
and we must make her our accomplice; you will give her love, and I
money. With the two, we shall be very unlucky or very bungling if we do
not enlist her in our cause.”

I was overjoyed by my companion’s proposition; to give love to Clairette
was my only thought, my only desire! But, as the little hunchback
constantly enjoined prudence upon me, and requested me to do nothing
without consulting him, I did not mention my appointment with the young
servant; he might have considered it too abrupt, too sudden, and not for
anything in the world would I have missed my first rendezvous.

Master Graograicus proceeded to tell me the result of his walk about the
town; he was already familiar with the gossip, the intrigues, recent
events, the appointments about to be made, the diseases most in vogue,
the persons to be treated with consideration, the marriages soon to take
place and those which were broken off,--in a word, everything of present
interest to the bigwigs of the place. Give me a small town for a place
to learn all the news in a short time! to be informed, all one needs to
do is to stop a moment at the baker’s, the hair-dresser’s and the
fruit-woman’s.

My companion had a great knack at remembering everything that could
possibly be useful to him; his memory was almost always accurate; it
supplied the place of learning, as in many people it supplies the place
of wit.

Our supper was served. The host came first himself, to lay the cloth and
take our orders. Clairette appeared finally; she seemed less confident
than on the occasion of her first visit; she kept her eyes on the floor,
and paid no heed to my meaning glances and the little hunchback’s sly
smile. I was on pins and needles; I was afraid that she had changed her
mind and her determination. I was a novice in amorous intrigue, and I
did not know that a woman never conceals her wishes so effectively as at
the moment that they are about to be fulfilled.

She left the room, and I did what I could to hasten the supper; but my
companion, who was not in love, abandoned himself with keen delight to
the pleasures of the table. I had no choice but to watch him linger over
each dish, and to listen to his jests concerning my lack of appetite. He
was very far, however, from suspecting the real cause of my
preoccupation.

The supper came to an end at last, and we went into our bedroom, where
there were two beds side by side. I made haste to jump into mine,
placing my trousers at my feet, that I might find them more readily.
After making the tour of the room a dozen times, and arranging his
philters and pill boxes, until my nerves fairly tingled with impatience,
my companion finally decided to go to bed. I awaited that moment as the
signal for my happiness, for I knew that he would be sound asleep as
soon as he was in bed.

At last that instant so ardently desired arrived. My comrade was in bed;
I made certain that he was snoring. I rose, slipped into my trousers,
and, not taking the time to put on my shoes, I hurried to the door,
opened it very softly, and stood on the landing.

I felt my way upstairs, making no noise, in my bare feet, and holding my
breath, I was so afraid of giving the alarm to the people in the house,
and of seeing that unfamiliar felicity which I burned to know elude my
grasp. At last I reached the appointed place at the top of the stairs; I
heard a faint cough and my heart told me that I was near Clairette. I
found a door ajar, and by the light of a night lamp, I saw the little
servant awaiting me.

The girl wore nothing but a short petticoat and a jacket, evidently
assuming that an elaborate toilet was not necessary in the mysteries of
somnambulism; but no woman had ever seemed to me so bewitching, nor had
I ever seen a woman look at me in such an expressive fashion.

“I was waiting for you,” she said; “let’s go right on with the lesson
your companion interrupted so unpleasantly; I am anxious to know how you
are going to make me young!”

“You don’t need to be made young,” I said; “all you need is to stay just
as you are now.”

“Yes, that’s what I meant. Let’s make haste. See, I’ll sit down and shut
my eyes as I did before.”

And without waiting for my reply, Clairette sat down on the foot of her
bed, doubtless because the only chair in the room did not seem to her
strong enough to stand our experiment in magnetism. I was careful not to
urge my pupil to do otherwise, and I went at once and took my place by
her side. I was too excited then to be timid; and Clairette, with her
eyes still closed, contented herself with saying:

“Oh! is that the way? is that what makes a person young? Why, Pierre and
Jérôme have taught me as much already!”

I had repeated my experiment several times and had fallen asleep in
Clairette’s arms, when a great noise woke us both. The uproar seemed to
come from the room beneath; we distinguished a confused murmur of
voices, among others that of the inn-keeper, calling Clairette and
shouting for a light.

What was I to do? If the inn-keeper himself should come upstairs, where
was I to hide? There was nothing in Clairette’s room large enough to
hide me from her master’s eyes. The young woman pushed me from the room
and begged me to save her from the anger of her employer, who did not
propose that the servants in his inn should have weaknesses for others
than himself.

While she blew out her lamp and made a pretence of striking a light, I
went downstairs with no very clear idea what I was going to say. I had
no sooner reached the floor below than someone came to me, grasped my
arm and whispered in my ear:

“Play the sleep-walker; I had an attack of indigestion, I took our
host’s bedroom for the cabinet, and a tureen containing soup-stock for a
night vessel. Don’t be alarmed, I will get you out of the scrape.”

I recognized the voice of my companion, and I at once recovered my
courage. The inn-keeper, irritated because no light was brought, went up
himself to Clairette’s room, where she was still striking the flint
without using tinder--an infallible method of striking fire without
striking a light. At last our host came down again with two lighted
candles; he was on the point of entering his room, when he saw me
walking about the corridor, in my shirt, with solemn tread, carrying my
trousers under my arm, as I had not had time to put them on.

“What does this mean?” he demanded, gazing at me with an expression of
surprise mingled with alarm; “what are you doing here, monsieur? who are
you looking for, at this time of night? Was it you who came into my room
and woke me up, with a dull noise that sounded like a drum, and filled
the room with an infernal smell? Answer me!”

I was careful not to reply and continued to walk slowly along the
corridor; the inn-keeper followed me with his two candles, and Pierre
and Jérôme, the two men-servants, attracted by the noise, awaited with
curiosity the upshot of the adventure. At last a groan came from the
inn-keeper’s bedroom.

“Ah! there’s someone in my room!” he cried, turning pale; “come here,
you fellows, and go on ahead.”

He pushed Pierre and Jérôme before him, and they entered the room where
my companion was, leaving me in the corridor. Soon I heard our host’s
voice, who seemed very wroth with Master Graograicus. I concluded that
it was time to make peace between them, and with that end in view I
stalked solemnly into the room where they were quarrelling.

At my appearance the hubbub ceased.

“Hush! silence! attention!” said my companion in a low tone; “it’s
Tatouos, in a somnambulistic state. I will put him in communication with
myself, and you’ll see that he will tell you all I have done to-night.”

The little hunchback came to me at once. He passed his hands in front of
my face several times, put his forefinger on the end of my nose, in
order, he said, to establish communication, and began his questions:

“What have I had to-night?”

“Pains in the stomach.”

“And then?”

“Nausea.”

“And then?”

“Colic.”

“There! what did I tell you just now?” cried my companion, turning
toward the stupefied audience. “But let’s go on; this is nothing; I’ll
wager that he will tell you everything I did.--What caused my trouble?”

“Indigestion.”

“And the indigestion?”

“From eating too much supper.”

“Surprising! prodigious!” said the host, crowding between his two
servants.

“Hush!” said my companion; “don’t break the spell.--Then what did I do?”

“You got up.”

“With what purpose?”

“With the purpose of going to a certain place.”

“Did I take a light?”

“No, you had none.”

“How did I walk?”

“Feeling your way.”

“You hear him, messieurs; I felt my way because I had no light; he
doesn’t make a mistake as to a single detail.--Let’s go on: where did I
go?”

“Out into the corridor; you forgot that you had been told that it was
the door at the left; you turned to the right and came into this room.”

“Exactly,--and then?”

“You found a soup-tureen, and you used it for----”

“Better and better!”

“The noise woke our host; he yelled and went out to get out a light, and
meanwhile you hid the tureen under the bed.”

“Exactly. Look and see if he is mistaken in a single point!”

The servants did in fact find the tureen, which they soon returned to
its place, holding their noses. The host was stupefied; but his spoiled
soup-stock made him rather sulky, for he expected to make soup with it
for a whole week. My companion, seeing what disturbed him, came back to
me.

“What has it been my intention to do, since I discovered my mistake?”

“To give our host twelve francs as compensation for this accident.”

“Parbleu! exactly! Twelve francs! I told you so a moment ago, my dear
host, to appease your wrath.”

“No, monsieur, I assure you that you never mentioned it.”

“No? Well, I had it on the tip of my tongue. Now you are satisfied, I
hope, and I can wake our young man.”

He came to me and pinched the end of my little finger. I shook my head
and rubbed my eyes, like a person just waking, and naturally asked what
I was doing there.

My companion glanced at the people of the inn; they were so surprised by
all that they had seen and heard, that they stared at me as at a
supernatural being.

“Now let’s go back to bed,” said the crafty hunchback. “Until to-morrow,
messieurs; I promise you that you will see many more wonderful things,
if you allow us to make our experiments in peace.”

My companion took my arm and we returned to our room, leaving the
inn-keeper and his servants assuring one another that all that they had
just seen had really happened.




XII

MARVELOUS EXPERIMENTS OF THE LITTLE HUNCHBACK


When we were closeted in our room, my companion threw himself into my
arms and embraced me joyfully.

“My boy, I am delighted with you,” he said; “you played your rôle like
an angel! You are an invaluable fellow, and our fortune is made.
To-night’s adventure will create a sensation.”

We went to bed well pleased with the way in which we had extricated
ourselves from a bad scrape. I fell asleep thinking of Clairette, of her
charms, of the pleasure I owed to her, of those I hoped still to enjoy;
and my companion, reckoning what his first séance would be worth to him
in a town where his reputation had obtained such a favorable start.

The little hunchback was not mistaken in his belief that the adventure
of the night would bring us a crowd of curiosity seekers. The servants
of the inn had risen early, in order to lose no time in telling all that
they had seen and heard. The hair-dressers, the bakers, the grocers were
the first to be informed; but that was quite enough to make it certain
that the whole town would soon know what we were capable of doing. An
adventure becomes so magnified by passing from mouth to mouth that we
sometimes have difficulty in recognizing things that have happened to
ourselves, when we hear others tell them. Everyone takes delight in
adding some strange or marvelous detail, in outbidding his neighbor;
thus it is that a brook becomes a rushing torrent, that a child who
recites a complimentary poem without a mistake is a prodigy, that a
juggler is a magician, that a man who has a soprano voice is a eunuch,
that the man whose love is all for his country is a suspicious person in
the eyes of him who loves only his own interest, and that a comet
announces the end of the world.

The maid-servant, when she went to buy her ounce of coffee, learned from
the grocer’s clerk that there were two most extraordinary men at the
Tête-Noire inn, who were endowed with the power to tell you what you had
done and what you meant to do.

“Pardieu! I must go and tell my mistress that,” said the maid as she
left the shop; “she went to walk with her cousin the other night, and
she don’t want her husband to know it; I’ll tell her not to go and let
those sorcerers get scent of it.”

“What’s the news?” the old bachelor asked the barber, as he took his
seat in the chair and put on his towel.

“What news, Monsieur Sauvageon! Peste! we have some very peculiar, very
interesting people in town!”

“Tell me about them, my friend; go on!”

“Those two strangers, those doctors who arrived at the Tête-Noire last
night, have been making experiments already.”

“Indeed?”

“It’s an absolute fact; I got it from Jérôme, the servant at the inn,
who saw it and heard it.”

“The devil.”

“The somnambulist began his nocturnal expeditions last night.”

“Nocturnal expeditions at night! Are these somnambulists nyctalopes?”

“Yes, monsieur, they’re nycta--What do you call it, Monsieur Sauvageon?”

“Nyctalopes, my friend.”

“They’re nyctalopes, for sure.--What does nyctalopes mean?”

“It means that they see in the dark.”

“Oh! I understand! they’re like cats; in fact, somnambulists are as
smart as cats in the dark.--But to return to this one at the Tête-Noire,
you must know that he tells everything anybody’s done; and last night he
discovered something that was hidden from all eyes!”

“I understand! he discovered some intrigue.”[B]

[B] _Le pot aux roses_; lit. the jar of roses.

“Well, not exactly that! His companion had a pain in the night--he was
doubled up with colic caused by his supper.”

“And perhaps by some badly prepared dish, or a half-scoured saucepan;
for the entertainment is not first-class at the Tête-Noire; I once ate a
_fricandeau_ there that lay on my stomach three days, because it was
seasoned with nutmeg, which always makes me ill. Nutmeg in a fricandeau!
You must agree that that is perfectly horrible!”

“True, that inn doesn’t deserve its reputation; for at my sister’s
wedding party, which was held there----”

“Your sister? which one, pray?”

“The one who married Lagripe, the sub-prefect’s indoor man--you know?
the little man with blue eyes and a red nose?”

“Oh, yes! the father of the child the little sempstress opposite had.”

“Oh! as to that, I don’t believe a word of it! It’s all made up by
evil-tongued gossips.”

“Look out, my friend, you are cutting me.”

“That’s nothing; it was a bit of straw on your cheek, that caught the
razor.--You must know that if Lagripe had got the sempstress with child,
my sister wouldn’t have married him.”

“Why not, pray? Between ourselves, my good fellow, your sister----”

“What’s that? what do you mean, Monsieur Sauvageon?”

“All right, my friend. Give me a bit of powder, and let us return to the
somnambulist.--You were saying that he cured his companion’s colic last
night?”

“I don’t say that he cured him; but I tell you that he discovered the
most hidden things, among others a soup-tureen that was under the
landlord’s bed.”

“And which someone had probably stolen and hidden there until the time
came to carry it away.”

“That is quite possible; but this much is certain, that he told
everything that was in the tureen!”

“Peste! that is rather strong! Did Jérôme tell you what the tureen
contained?”

“Certainly; it contained the supper of the magician, the doctor, the
hunchback one.”

“That is beyond me! To pilfer a supper, and then have it found in its
natural state, after eating it--I confess that that is a most remarkable
trick!”

“But, Monsieur Sauvageon, I didn’t say that the supper was in its
natural state; on the contrary, it was the result of the colic that was
found!”

“Morbleu! my man, why didn’t you say so? You keep me here two hours
about the--Put on a little _pommade à la vanille_.”

And, as our old bachelor was shaved and combed, the hair-dresser left
him, to repeat his story to another of his customers, taking care to
change it or add something to it. It is delightful to many people to
have a piece of news to tell, and to make comments thereon.

But, talking of anecdotes, master author, you are terribly loquacious,
and you seem to take pleasure in listening to all the tittle-tattle of a
small town. Surely Brother Jacques did not repeat to Sans-Souci the old
bachelor’s conversation with his barber, or the maid-servant’s with the
grocer’s clerk. How could he have known about them?

True, reader; I plead guilty; I will try not to intrude my own remarks
again in our soldier’s narrative of his adventures; and to begin with, I
will allow him to resume at once.

We had no sooner risen and rung for our breakfast, than the host entered
our room, holding in his hand a large sheet of paper, which he presented
to my companion.

“Messieurs,” he said, bowing to the ground, “here is a list of the
people who wish to consult you this evening, and who have entered their
names here.”

“Very well--give it to me. Have you written the names, titles, age and
occupation of each one?”

“They are all there, monsieur.”

“Very good. Leave us, and send your servant Clairette to us for a
moment; I have some orders to give her relative to my séance this
evening.”

The host bowed with the respect of a Chinaman passing a mandarin, and
left the room, promising to send the girl to us at once.

My companion scanned the list; it was quite long and promised numerous
proselytes. The little hunchback was reading it aloud and indulging in
preliminary conjectures concerning the names, when Clairette entered the
room.

The girl seemed rather embarrassed. She kept her eyes on the floor and
her hands wrapped in her apron. For my part, I was as red as fire, and I
did not know what to say. Clairette’s presence caused a revolution in my
whole being; I was honestly in love with her; I felt a genuine passion
for her; and after the proofs of affection which she had given me during
the night, I believed that she loved me sincerely. I think that if I had
been told then that I must marry the little servant, or else give her up
forever, I should not have hesitated to give her my hand! And what I
felt, I will wager that many young men have felt like me. One loves so
earnestly the first time!--Ah! my dear Sans-Souci, I was very young then
and very green! But I have learned since that the more experience one
acquires, the less pleasure one has.

My companion locked the door. No curious person must overhear our
conversation with Clairette. Then he returned to us and opened the
interview with a roar of laughter, which made me open my eyes in
amazement, while Clairette dropped the corners of her apron.

“My friends, you are still rather unsophisticated,” he said at last;
“you, my dear Jacques, who are in love with a girl who will have
forgotten you to-morrow; and you, my little Clairette, who believe in
witchcraft, and imagine that a person can look young all her life. We
are no more magicians than other men are, my dear girl; but you must
help us to impose on the fools who contend for the pleasure of
consulting us. You must do whatever we want, first, because that will
give you an opportunity to make fun of lots of people, which is always
pleasant; and secondly, because we will pay you handsomely--I with
money, and this young man with love; and if you should refuse to help
us, you would deprive yourself of a large number of little perquisites
that are not often to be had in a small town.”

This speech put us all at our ease. Clairette, who saw that the little
hunchback was acquainted with everything, smilingly accepted a double
louis which he slipped into her hand, and asked nothing better than to
act as our confederate. Everything being arranged, Master Graograicus
took up his list, requested me to write down the girl’s replies, so that
we might not make any mistakes, and began his examination, to which
Clairette replied as well as she could.

“Annette-Suzanne-Estelle Guignard, thirty-six years of age?”

“She lies; she’s forty-five at least. She’s an old maid, who’d like to
be married on any terms; but no one will have her; in the first place,
because she’s lame; and then because she chews tobacco.”

“Enough.--Antoine-Nicolas La Giraudière, forty years of age, clerk in
the mayor’s office?”

“He’s a fat fellow, as round as a ball; they say that he’s not likely to
set the North River on fire; perhaps he wants to consult you about
giving him a little wit.”

“Impossible! People always think that they have enough.”

“Oh! wait a minute: his wife has already had four girls, and she’s
furious because she hasn’t got any boys.”

“That’s it; I understand. He wants me to tell him a way to make
boys.--Next. Romuald-César-Hercule de La Souche, Marquis de
Vieux-Buissons, seventy-five years old, former Grand Huntsman, former
light horseman, former page, former--Parbleu! he needn’t have taken the
trouble to put ‘former’ before all his titles! I presume that he doesn’t
ride or hunt any more. What can he want of me?”

“He has just bought a small estate in the suburbs; he is having a
dispute with his vassals; he claims that they’re rabbits----”

“Rabbits! his vassals?”

“No--wait a minute; I made a mistake, it’s stags--_cerfs_.”

“Ah! very good, I understand what you mean--serfs.”

“And then, whenever there’s a marriage among ’em, he insists on having
the bride come and pass an hour alone with him, and bless me! the
peasants don’t take to that! The result is he’s always quarrelling with
’em.”

“That’s all right; I know enough about him.--Angélique Prudhomme, Madame
Jolicœur, thirty-two years of age, laundress to all the notables of the
town. The deuce! what an honor!”

“Ah! she’s a hussy, I tell you, is Madame Jolicœur! She keeps the town
talking about her. She launders for the officers in the garrison and
goes to balls with ’em.”

“Is she pretty?”

“Oh! so-so.--A saucy face, and a bold way--like a cuirassier! She’s
already been the means of setting more than twelve people by the ears,
and only a little while ago, on the town holiday, she waltzed with the
drum-major, who quarrelled with a sapper because she’d made an
appointment with the sapper to take a walk in the labyrinth. That would
have been a serious matter, if Monsieur Jolicœur hadn’t turned up! But
he’s good-natured; he made peace between the drum-major and the sapper,
swearing to the latter that his wife didn’t intend to break her word to
him, and that it was pure forgetfulness on her part.”

“That husband knows how to live.--Let’s go on. Cunégonde-Aline
Trouillard, forty-four years old and keeps a very popular café.”

“Ah! that’s the lemonade woman! She’s always having the vapors and sick
headaches and--in short, she always thinks she’s sick and passes her
time taking medicine instead of staying at her desk.”

“She must be a very valuable woman to the druggists!”

“Her husband tries to be smart, to play the chemist; he makes coffee out
of asparagus seed and sugar out of turnips. I’m sure that he’ll come to
consult you too.”

I continued to make memoranda of Clairette’s answers, and we had almost
exhausted the list, when there was a knock at our door. I answered the
knock; it was our landlord, who had come to inform us that the mayor
wished to see us, and that he expected us at his office. We could not
decline that invitation. My companion donned his best coat and lent me a
pair of black silk knee-breeches that reached to my heels, the little
hunchback having purchased them at secondhand from a great poet, who had
them from an actor at one of the boulevard theatres, who had them from a
member of the Academy who was paying court to a ballet dancer, at whose
rooms he had left them.

We started, somewhat disturbed concerning the results of our visit.
However, my companion, who was very quick-witted, hoped to find a way
out of the dilemma. We arrived at the mayor’s abode and were ushered
into his study. We saw a short, lean man, whose eyes sparkled with
intelligence and animation. From the first questions that he asked us,
my companion saw that he had to do with a redoubtable party. The mayor
was a scholar; he was thoroughly acquainted with several abstract
sciences, among others, medicine, chemistry, botany and astronomy. In
his presence, my poor little hunchback lost his loquacity and his
presumption. The mayor, perceiving our embarrassment, chose to put an
end to it.

“I have no intention of preventing you from earning your living,” he
said, with a smile; “far from it! You practise magnetism, I understand,
and cure all diseases by its means; that is very well. I sincerely
desire the welfare of my constituents, I am especially earnest in trying
to cure them of those absurd prejudices, those ancient superstitions, to
which men are only too much inclined. Magic, witchcraft, magnetism,
somnambulism are certain to present many attractions to lovers of the
marvelous. I know that it is vain to combat the opinions of mankind;
there is but one means to cure them, and that is to allow them to be
duped themselves. That is why I am glad to have charlatans come to this
town. It is always an additional lesson to the inhabitants, for
sorcerers never leave a place without making dupes. So I give you
permission to magnetize my people.”

The mayor’s remarks were not complimentary to us; however, my companion
bowed low as he thanked him for his kindness.

“Doubtless,” said the mayor, “you have some remedy that you sell
_gratis_--as the custom is. Let me see what it is.”

The hunchback immediately handed him one of his boxes of pills. The
mayor took one and threw it into a small vessel, where it was
decomposed. He scrutinized the bread for a moment, then returned the box
and said with a smile:

“Go, messieurs, and sell lots of them; they are not dangerous.”

Thus ended that visit. We returned to our inn, well pleased that we had
not shown monsieur le maire our philters and charms.

At last the hour for our public séance arrived. My companion had given
me all necessary instructions, and made me rehearse my part several
times. He assumed the regulation costume: the black gown, which makes
thin persons taller, and adds to the deformities of the misshapen, and
in which the little hunchback looked exactly like a sorcerer or
magician, who should never be built like an ordinary mortal; in
addition, the venerable beard and the conventional tall cap--such was
the costume of Master Graograicus.

As for me, he dressed me in a sort of red tunic studded with yellow
stars, which he had made out of an old coverlet bought at the Temple in
Paris; which tunic was supposed to have come to me from the Great Mogul.
He also insisted upon putting on my head a turban of his own make; but
as I considered it unbecoming, and as Clairette was to see me in my
grand costume, I refused to wear the turban, and my colleague was
obliged to consent to let me brush my hair back _à la_ Charles XII; that
did not go very well with the tunic, but great geniuses do not bother
about such trifles.

The salon of our suite was prepared for the mysterious things which were
about to take place before everybody. A tub filled with water, an iron
ring, a wand of the same metal, easy-chairs for the clients, plain
chairs for the aspirants, benches for the mere onlookers, and a single
lamp, which diffused only a dim light through the room; such were our
arrangements.

As soon as my companion had told the host that the people might come in,
a crowd rushed into the room. Some came forward confidently, others with
a frightened air, the great majority impelled by curiosity; but at all
events we had a large number, and that was the essential thing.

When they had all entered and had taken such places as they could find;
when the first whisperings had subsided and we had been stared at
sufficiently, Master Graograicus saluted the assemblage with much
dignity, and, having no low bench, he mounted a foot-warmer in order
that everybody might see him; then he began the usual harangue.

“Messieurs, mesdames and mesdemoiselles--that is, if there are any in
the room--you know, or do not know, that there is in nature a material
principle thus far unknown, which acts upon the nerves. If you know it,
I am telling you nothing new; if you do not know it, I will proceed to
explain. We say then that there is a principle, and we start from that;
by means of this principle, and in accordance with special mechanical
laws, there is a reciprocal influence between animate bodies, the earth,
and the heavenly bodies; consequently there are manifested in
animals--observe this, messieurs,--in animals, and especially in man,
properties analogous to those of the magnet. It is this animal magnetism
which I have discovered the secret of applying to diseases, and it is by
this method that I claim to cure them all. The magnetic influence may be
transmitted and propagated by other bodies. That subtle matter
penetrates walls, doors, glass, metals, without losing any perceptible
portion of its power; it may be accumulated, concentrated, and
transmitted through water; it is also propagated, communicated and
intensified by bran; in short, its power has no limits; and all this
that I am telling you, I did not invent; I am simply repeating what such
learned men as Mesmer, Derlon and others would say now if they were not
dead.”

The audience listened in the most profound silence; the young men stared
with all their eyes, the young ladies smiled, the old men shook their
heads, the matrons exchanged glances, and no one dared to tell his
neighbor that he did not understand a word of the new thaumaturgist’s
explanation. He noticed this, and continued:

“I see, messieurs and mesdames, that I have convinced you; therefore I
will develop my arguments no farther. I must add, however, before
beginning my experiments, that there are bodies which are not sensitive
to animal magnetism, and which even have a property diametrically
opposed thereto, by means of which they destroy its efficiency in other
bodies. I flatter myself that we shall find none of those unfortunate
persons here; but I thought it my duty to warn you, in case it should
happen. Raise your minds, if possible, to the level of the sublime
discovery which now occupies our attention. This is no charlatanism; it
is evidence, it is power, it is the secret influence at work; it is----”

At this point in his harangue, the foot-warmer broke, and the orator
measured his length on the floor; but he instantly sprang to his feet
and cried, addressing his hearers with renewed vigor:

“Messieurs, I thought that I should conclude with an experiment; while
talking to you just now, I magnetized this foot-warmer with my left
foot, and I was certain of reducing it to powder! As you see, I have
succeeded!”

A tempest of applause burst forth from all parts of the room.

“You see,” whispered my companion to me, “the man of intellect turns
everything to account, by never losing his head.”

The time for the experiments to begin had arrived; and as effrontery is
more readily imparted than magnetism, I was awaiting impatiently, in my
easy-chair, an opportunity to display my skill.

Madame Jolicœur came first, despite the representations of the Marquis
de Vieux-Buissons, who maintained that a man of his rank should take
precedence over everybody else. But the laundress was not the woman to
give way to anyone; moreover, she was young and pretty, the marquis old,
ugly and crabbed; so that Madame Jolicœur had the first chance.

The great magnetizer took her by the hand and led her around the tub,
then made her sit down, and magnetized her with the end of his wand. The
young woman did not seem inclined to sleep.

“I will put you in communication with my somnambulist,” he said. The
laundress looked at me and smiled; she did not seem to dislike the idea
of being put in communication with me.

I knew my rôle; I had taken notes concerning Madame Jolicœur.

“We must take the bull by the horns,” my companion whispered to me, “for
this woman is quite capable of making fun of us.”

The laundress was seated facing me; she was enjoined to be silent and to
allow herself to be touched, which she did with much good humor; but she
laughed slyly while I held her hand, and I heard her mutter while
pretending to be asleep:

“Oh! mon Dieu! how stupid this is! The sapper told me that they’d try
some flim-flam game on me!”

I at once proclaimed aloud all that Clairette had told us concerning the
laundress’s love-affairs. I forgot nothing, neither the drum-major, nor
the waltz, nor the assignation, nor its consequences. At my first words,
the company began to laugh, Madame Jolicœur was covered with confusion,
and before I had finished my speech, the laundress had left her seat,
elbowed her way through the crowd and rushed from the inn, swearing
that we were sorcerers.

This first experiment left no doubt in anyone’s mind concerning the
virtue of magnetism; so that Monsieur le Marquis de Vieux-Buissons
stalked solemnly toward us, and, in an almost courteous tone, requested
my confrère to put him in communication with me at once.

The usual preliminaries concluded, the following dialogue took place
between us two:

“Who am I?”

“A most high and mighty seigneur in your ancient château, of which but
one wing remains; that is why you have recently purchased another small
seigniory in the neighborhood.”

“That is true; but what do I wish to do now?”

“You wish that your vassals should be submissive, trembling and fearful
in your presence, like lambs before a lion; you wish to be the master of
their destinies; you wish that they should give you their fairest and
best--what they have earned by the sweat of their brow; and in addition
to all that, you wish that they should pay you.”

“That is very true.”

“You would that maidens should not change their state without your
permission.”

“That is the truth.”

“And as you are no longer capable of effecting this, you would, on the
wedding day, put your old bare leg into the bed of the young virgin, who
will shriek and weep at the sight of her lord’s calf, a result which
will do great honor to him, as he is very glad now to frighten his
vassals with that, since he can arouse no other sentiment. In short, you
wish to revive the rights of _jambage_, _cuissage_, _marquette_ and
_prélibation_, as they existed in the good old

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