In 1816, Joseph obtained his mother's permission to convert the garret
which adjoined his attic room into an atelier, and Madame Descoings
gave him a little money for the indispensable requirements of the
painter's trade;--in the minds of the two widows, the art of painting
was nothing but a trade. With the feeling and ardor of his vocation,
the lad himself arranged his humble atelier. Madame Descoings
persuaded the owner of the house to put a skylight in the roof. The
garret was turned into a vast hall painted in chocolate-color by
Joseph himself. On the walls he hung a few sketches. Agathe
contributed, not without reluctance, an iron stove; so that her son
might be able to work at home, without, however, abandoning the studio
of Gros, nor that of Schinner.
The constitutional party, supported chiefly by officers on half-pay
and the Bonapartists, were at this time inciting "emeutes" around the
Chamber of Deputies, on behalf of the Charter, though no one actually
wanted it. Several conspiracies were brewing. Philippe, who dabbled in
them, was arrested, and then released for want of proof; but the
minister of war cut short his half-pay by putting him on the active
list,--a step which might be called a form of discipline. France was
no longer safe; Philippe was liable to fall into some trap laid for
him by spies,--provocative agents, as they were called, being much
talked of in those days.
While Philippe played billiards in disaffected cafes, losing his time
and acquiring the habit of wetting his whistle with "little glasses"
of all sorts of liquors. Agathe lived in mortal terror for the safety
of the great man of the family. The Grecian sages were too much
accustomed to wend their nightly way up Madame Bridau's staircase,
finding the two widows ready and waiting, and hearing from them all
the news of their day, ever to break up the habit of coming to the
green salon for their game of cards. The ministry of the interior,
though purged of its former _employes_ in 1816, had retained Claparon,
one of those cautious men, who whisper the news of the "Moniteur,"
adding invariably, "Don't quote me." Desroches, who had retired from
active service some time after old Du Bruel, was still battling for
his pension. The three friends, who were witnesses of Agathe's
distress, advised her to send the colonel to travel in foreign
countries.
"They talk about conspiracies, and your son, with his disposition,
will be certain to fall a victim in some of them; there is plenty of
treachery in these days."
"Philippe is cut from the wood the Emperor made into marshals," said
Du Bruel, in a low voice, looking cautiously about him; "and he
mustn't give up his profession. Let him serve in the East, in India--"
"Think of his health," said Agathe.
"Why doesn't he get some place, or business?" said old Desroches;
"there are plenty of private offices to be had. I am going as head of
a bureau in an insurance company, as soon as I have got my pension."
"Philippe is a soldier; he would not like to be any thing else," said
the warlike Agathe.
"Then he ought to have the sense to ask for employment--"
"And serve _these others_!" cried the widow. "Oh! I will never give
him that advice."
"You are wrong," said Du Bruel. "My son has just got an appointment
through the Duc de Navarreins. The Bourbons are very good to those who
are sincere in rallying to them. Your son could be appointed
lieutenant-colonel to a regiment."
"They only appoint nobles in the cavalry. Philippe would never rise to
be a colonel," said Madame Descoings.
Agathe, much alarmed, entreated Philippe to travel abroad, and put
himself at the service of some foreign power who, she thought, would
gladly welcome a staff officer of the Emperor.
"Serve a foreign nation!" cried Philippe, with horror.
Agathe kissed her son with enthusiasm.
"His father all over!" she exclaimed.
"He is right," said Joseph. "France is too proud of her heroes to let
them be heroic elsewhere. Napoleon may return once more."
However, to satisfy his mother, Philippe took up the dazzling idea of
joining General Lallemand in the United States, and helping him to
found what was called the Champ d'Asile, one of the most disastrous
swindles that ever appeared under the name of national subscription.
Agathe gave ten thousand francs to start her son, and she went to
Havre to see him off. By the end of 1817, she had accustomed herself
to live on the six hundred francs a year which remained to her from
her property in the Funds; then, by a lucky chance, she made a good
investment of the ten thousand francs she still kept of her savings,
from which she obtained an interest of seven per cent. Joseph wished
to emulate his mother's devotion. He dressed like a bailiff; wore the
commonest shoes and blue stockings; denied himself gloves, and burned
charcoal; he lived on bread and milk and Brie cheese. The poor lad got
no sympathy, except from Madame Descoings, and from Bixiou, his
student-friend and comrade, who was then making those admirable
caricatures of his, and filling a small office in the ministry.
"With what joy I welcomed the summer of 1818!" said Joseph Bridau in
after-years, relating his troubles; "the sun saved me the cost of
charcoal."
As good a colorist by this time as Gros himself, Joseph now went to
his master for consultation only. He was already meditating a tilt
against classical traditions, and Grecian conventionalities, in short,
against the leading-strings which held down an art to which Nature _as
she is_ belongs, in the omnipotence of her creations and her imagery.
Joseph made ready for a struggle which, from the day when he first
exhibited in the Salon, has never ceased. It was a terrible year.
Roguin, the notary of Madame Descoings and Madame Bridau, absconded
with the moneys held back for seven years from Madame Descoings's
annuity, which by that time were producing two thousand francs a year.
Three days after this disaster, a bill of exchange for a thousand
francs, drawn by Philippe upon his mother, arrived from New York. The
poor fellow, misled like so many others, had lost his all in the Champ
d'Asile. A letter, which accompanied the bill, drove Agathe, Joseph,
and the Descoings to tears, and told of debts contracted in New York,
where his comrades in misfortunes had indorsed for him.
"It was I who made him go!" cried the poor mother, eager to divert the
blame from Philippe.
"I advise you not to send him on many such journeys," said the old
Descoings to her niece.
Madame Descoings was heroic. She continued to give the three thousand
francs a year to Madame Bridau, but she still paid the dues on her
trey which had never turned up since the year 1799. About this time,
she began to doubt the honesty of the government, and declared it was
capable of keeping the three numbers in the urn, so as to excite the
shareholders to put in enormous stakes. After a rapid survey of all
their resources, it seemed to the two women impossible to raise the
thousand francs without selling out the little that remained in the
Funds. They talked of pawning their silver and part of the linen, and
even the needless pieces of furniture. Joseph, alarmed at these
suggestions, went to see Gerard and told him their circumstances. The
great painter obtained an order from the household of the king for two
copies of a portrait of Louis XVIII., at five hundred francs each.
Though not naturally generous, Gros took his pupil to an
artist-furnishing house and fitted him out with the necessary materials.
But the thousand francs could not be had till the copies were delivered,
so Joseph painted four panels in ten days, sold them to the dealers
and brought his mother the thousand francs with which to meet the bill
of exchange when it fell due. Eight days later, came a letter from the
colonel, informing his mother that he was about to return to France on
board a packet from New York, whose captain had trusted him for the
passage-money. Philippe announced that he should need at least a
thousand francs on his arrival at Havre.
"Good," said Joseph to his mother, "I shall have finished my copies by
that time, and you can carry him the money."
"Dear Joseph!" cried Agathe in tears, kissing her son, "God will bless
you. You do love him, then, poor persecuted fellow? He is indeed our
glory and our hope for the future. So young, so brave, so unfortunate!
everything is against him; we three must always stand by him."
"You see now that painting is good for something," cried Joseph,
overjoyed to have won his mother's permission to be a great artist.
Madame Bridau rushed to meet her beloved son, Colonel Philippe, at
Havre. Once there, she walked every day beyond the round tower built
by Francois I., to look out for the American packet, enduring the
keenest anxieties. Mothers alone know how such sufferings quicken
maternal love. The vessel arrived on a fine morning in October, 1819,
without delay, and having met with no mishap. The sight of a mother
and the air of one's native land produces a certain affect on the
coarsest nature, especially after the miseries of a sea-voyage.
Philippe gave way to a rush of feeling, which made Agathe think to
herself, "Ah! how he loves me!" Alas, the hero loved but one person in
the world, and that person was Colonel Philippe. His misfortunes in
Texas, his stay in New York,--a place where speculation and
individualism are carried to the highest pitch, where the brutality of
self-interest attains to cynicism, where man, essentially isolated, is
compelled to push his way for himself and by himself, where politeness
does not exist,--in fact, even the minor events of Philippe's journey
had developed in him the worst traits of an old campaigner: he had
grown brutal, selfish, rude; he drank and smoked to excess; physical
hardships and poverty had depraved him. Moreover, he considered
himself persecuted; and the effect of that idea is to make persons who
are unintelligent persecutors and bigots themselves. To Philippe's
conception of life, the universe began at his head and ended at his
feet, and the sun shone for him alone. The things he had seen in New
York, interpreted by his practical nature, carried away his last
scruples on the score of morality. For such beings, there are but two
ways of existence. Either they believe, or they do not believe; they
have the virtues of honest men, or they give themselves up to the
demands of necessity; in which case they proceed to turn their
slightest interests and each passing impulse of their passions into
necessities.
Such a system of life carries a man a long way. It was only in
appearance that Colonel Philippe retained the frankness,
plain-dealing, and easy-going freedom of a soldier. This made him,
in reality, very dangerous; he seemed as guileless as a child, but,
thinking only of himself, he never did anything without reflecting
what he had better do,--like a wily lawyer planning some trick "a la
Maitre Gonin"; words cost him nothing, and he said as many as he could
to get people to believe. If, unfortunately, some one refused to
accept the explanations with which he justified the contradictions
between his conduct and his professions, the colonel, who was a good
shot and could defy the most adroit fencing-master, and possessed the
coolness of one to whom life is indifferent, was quite ready to demand
satisfaction for the first sharp word; and when a man shows himself
prepared for violence there is little more to be said. His imposing
stature had taken on a certain rotundity, his face was bronzed from
exposure in Texas, he was still succinct in speech, and had acquired
the decisive tone of a man obliged to make himself feared among the
populations of a new world. Thus developed, plainly dressed, his body
trained to endurance by his recent hardships, Philippe in the eyes of
his mother was a hero; in point of fact, he had simply become what
people (not to mince matters) call a blackguard.
Shocked at the destitution of her cherished son, Madame Bridau bought
him a complete outfit of clothes at Havre. After listening to the tale
of his woes, she had not the heart to stop his drinking and eating and
amusing himself as a man just returned from the Champ d'Asile was
likely to eat and drink and divert himself. It was certainly a fine
conception,--that of conquering Texas with the remains of the imperial
army. The failure was less in the idea than in the men who conceived
it; for Texas is to-day a republic, with a future full of promise.
This scheme of Liberalism under the Restoration distinctly proves that
the interests of the party were purely selfish and not national,
seeking power and nothing else. Neither men, nor occasion, nor cause,
nor devotion were lacking; only the money and the support of the
hypocritical party at home who dispensed enormous sums, but gave
nothing when it came to recovering empire. Household managers like
Agathe have a plain common-sense which enables them to perceive such
political chicane: the poor woman saw the truth through the lines of
her son's tale; for she had read, in the exile's interests, all the
pompous editorials of the constitutional journals, and watched the
management of the famous subscription, which produced barely one
hundred and fifty thousand francs when it ought to have yielded five
or six millions. The Liberal leaders soon found out that they were
playing into the hands of Louis XVIII. by exporting the glorious
remnants of our grand army, and they promptly abandoned to their fate
the most devoted, the most ardent, the most enthusiastic of its
heroes,--those, in short, who had gone in the advance. Agathe was
never able, however, to make her son see that he was more duped than
persecuted. With blind belief in her idol, she supposed herself
ignorant, and deplored, as Philippe did, the evil times which had done
him such wrong. Up to this time he was, to her mind, throughout his
misfortunes, less faulty than victimized by his noble nature, his
energy, the fall of the Emperor, the duplicity of the Liberals, and
the rancor of the Bourbons against the Bonapartists. During the week
at Havre, a week which was horribly costly, she dared not ask him to
make terms with the royal government and apply to the minister of war.
She had hard work to get him away from Havre, where living is very
expensive, and to bring him back to Paris before her money gave out.
Madame Descoings and Joseph, who were awaiting their arrival in the
courtyard of the coach-office of the Messageries Royales, were struck
with the change in Agathe's face.
"Your mother has aged ten years in two months," whispered the
Descoings to Joseph, as they all embraced, and the two trunks were
being handed down.
"How do you do, mere Descoings?" was the cool greeting the colonel
bestowed on the old woman whom Joseph was in the habit of calling
"maman Descoings."
"I have no money to pay for a hackney-coach," said Agathe, in a sad
voice.
"I have," replied the young painter. "What a splendid color Philippe
has turned!" he cried, looking at his brother.
"Yes, I've browned like a pipe," said Philippe. "But as for you,
you're not a bit changed, little man."
Joseph, who was now twenty-one, and much thought of by the friends who
had stood by him in his days of trial, felt his own strength and was
aware of his talent; he represented the art of painting in a circle of
young men whose lives were devoted to science, letters, politics, and
philosophy. Consequently, he was wounded by his brother's contempt,
which Philippe still further emphasized with a gesture, pulling his
ears as if he were still a child. Agathe noticed the coolness which
succeeded the first glow of tenderness on the part of Joseph and
Madame Descoings; but she hastened to tell them of Philippe's
sufferings in exile, and so lessened it. Madame Descoings, wishing to
make a festival of the return of the prodigal, as she called him under
her breath, had prepared one of her good dinners, to which old
Claparon and the elder Desroches were invited. All the family friends
were to come, and did come, in the evening. Joseph had invited Leon
Giraud, d'Arthez, Michel Chrestien, Fulgence Ridal, and Horace
Bianchon, his friends of the fraternity. Madame Descoings had promised
Bixiou, her so-called step-son, that the young people should play at
ecarte. Desroches the younger, who had now taken, under his father's
stern rule, his degree at law, was also of the party. Du Bruel,
Claparon, Desroches, and the Abbe Loraux carefully observed the
returned exile, whose manners and coarse features, and voice roughened
by the abuse of liquors, together with his vulgar glance and
phraseology, alarmed them not a little. While Joseph was placing the
card-tables, the more intimate of the family friends surrounded Agathe
and asked,--
"What do you intend to make of Philippe?"
"I don't know," she answered, "but he is determined not to serve the
Bourbons."
"Then it will be very difficult for you to find him a place in France.
If he won't re-enter the army, he can't be readily got into government
employ," said old Du Bruel. "And you have only to listen to him to see
he could never, like my son, make his fortune by writing plays."
The motion of Agathe's eyes, with which alone she replied to this
speech, showed how anxious Philippe's future made her; they all kept
silence. The exile himself, Bixiou, and the younger Desroches were
playing at ecarte, a game which was then the rage.
"Maman Descoings, my brother has no money to play with," whispered
Joseph in the good woman's ear.
The devotee of the Royal Lottery fetched twenty francs and gave them
to the artist, who slipped them secretly into his brother's hand. All
the company were now assembled. There were two tables of boston; and
the party grew lively. Philippe proved a bad player: after winning for
awhile, he began to lose; and by eleven o'clock he owed fifty francs
to young Desroches and to Bixiou. The racket and the disputes at the
ecarte table resounded more than once in the ears of the more peaceful
boston players, who were watching Philippe surreptitiously. The exile
showed such signs of bad temper that in his final dispute with the
younger Desroches, who was none too amiable himself, the elder
Desroches joined in, and though his son was decidedly in the right, he
declared he was in the wrong, and forbade him to play any more. Madame
Descoings did the same with her grandson, who was beginning to let fly
certain witticisms; and although Philippe, so far, had not understood
him, there was always a chance that one of the barbed arrows might
piece the colonel's thick skull and put the sharp jester in peril.
"You must be tired," whispered Agathe in Philippe's ear; "come to
bed."
"Travel educates youth," said Bixiou, grinning, when Madame Bridau and
the colonel had disappeared.
Joseph, who got up at dawn and went to bed early, did not see the end
of the party. The next morning Agathe and Madame Descoings, while
preparing breakfast, could not help remarking that soires would be
terribly expensive if Philippe were to go on playing that sort of
game, as the Descoings phrased it. The worthy old woman, then
seventy-six years of age, proposed to sell her furniture, give up her
_appartement_ on the second floor (which the owner was only too glad to
occupy), and take Agathe's parlor for her chamber, making the other
room a sitting-room and dining-room for the family. In this way they
could save seven hundred francs a year; which would enable them to
give Philippe fifty francs a month until he could find something to
do. Agathe accepted the sacrifice. When the colonel came down and his
mother had asked how he liked his little bedroom, the two widows
explained to him the situation of the family. Madame Descoings and
Agathe possessed, by putting all their resources together, an income
of five thousand three hundred francs, four thousand of which belonged
to Madame Descoings and were merely a life annuity. The Descoings made
an allowance of six hundred a year to Bixiou, whom she had
acknowledged as her grandson during the last few months, also six
hundred to Joseph; the rest of her income, together with that of
Agathe, was spent for the household wants. All their savings were by
this time eaten up.
"Make yourselves easy," said the lieutenant-colonel. "I'll find a
situation and put you to no expense; all I need for the present is
board and lodging."
Agathe kissed her son, and Madame Descoings slipped a hundred francs
into his hand to pay for his losses of the night before. In ten days
the furniture was sold, the _appartement_ given up, and the change in
Agathe's domestic arrangements accomplished with a celerity seldom
seen outside of Paris. During those ten days, Philippe regularly
decamped after breakfast, came back for dinner, was off again for the
evening, and only got home about midnight to go to bed. He contracted
certain habits half mechanically, and they soon became rooted in him;
he got his boots blacked on the Pont Neuf for the two sous it would
have cost him to go by the Pont des Arts to the Palais-Royal, where he
consumed regularly two glasses of brandy while reading the newspapers,
--an occupation which employed him till midday; after that he
sauntered along the rue Vivienne to the cafe Minerve, where the
Liberals congregated, and where he played at billiards with a number
of old comrades. While winning and losing, Philippe swallowed four or
five more glasses of divers liquors, and smoked ten or a dozen cigars
in going and coming, and idling along the streets. In the evening,
after consuming a few pipes at the Hollandais smoking-rooms, he would
go to some gambling-place towards ten o'clock at night. The waiter
handed him a card and a pin; he always inquired of certain
well-seasoned players about the chances of the red or the black, and
staked ten francs when the lucky moment seemed to come; never playing
more than three times, win or lose. If he won, which usually happened,
he drank a tumbler of punch and went home to his garret; but by that
time he talked of smashing the ultras and the Bourbon body-guard, and
trolled out, as he mounted the staircase, "We watch to save the
Empire!" His poor mother, hearing him, used to think "How gay Philippe
is to-night!" and then she would creep up and kiss him, without
complaining of the fetid odors of the punch, and the brandy, and the
pipes.
"You ought to be satisfied with me, my dear mother," he said, towards
the end of January; "I lead the most regular of lives."
The colonel had dined five times at a restaurant with some of his army
comrades. These old soldiers were quite frank with each other on the
state of their own affairs, all the while talking of certain hopes
which they based on the building of a submarine vessel, expected to
bring about the deliverance of the Emperor. Among these former
comrades, Philippe particularly liked an old captain of the dragoons
of the Guard, named Giroudeau, in whose company he had seen his first
service. This friendship with the late dragoon led Philippe into
completing what Rabelais called "the devil's equipage"; and he added
to his drams, and his tobacco, and his play, a "fourth wheel."
One evening at the beginning of February, Giroudeau took Philippe
after dinner to the Gaite, occupying a free box sent to a theatrical
journal belonging to his nephew Finot, in whose office Giroudeau was
cashier and secretary. Both were dressed after the fashion of the
Bonapartist officers who now belonged to the Constitutional
Opposition; they wore ample overcoats with square collars, buttoned to
the chin and coming down to their heels, and decorated with the
rosette of the Legion of honor; and they carried malacca canes with
loaded knobs, which they held by strings of braided leather. The late
troopers had just (to use one of their own expressions) "made a bout
of it," and were mutually unbosoming their hearts as they entered the
box. Through the fumes of a certain number of bottles and various
glasses of various liquors, Giroudeau pointed out to Philippe a plump
and agile little ballet-girl whom he called Florentine, whose good
graces and affection, together with the box, belonged to him as the
representative of an all-powerful journal.
"But," said Philippe, "I should like to know how far her good graces
go for such an iron-gray old trooper as you."
"Thank God," replied Giroudeau, "I've stuck to the traditions of our
glorious uniform. I have never wasted a farthing upon a woman in my
life."
"What's that?" said Philippe, putting a finger on his left eye.
"That is so," answered Giroudeau. "But, between ourselves, the
newspaper counts for a good deal. To-morrow, in a couple of lines, we
shall advise the managers to let Mademoiselle Florentine dance a
particular step, and so forth. Faith, my dear boy, I'm uncommonly
lucky!"
"Well!" thought Philippe; "if this worthy Giroudeau, with a skull as
polished as my knee, forty-eight years, a big stomach, a face like a
ploughman, and a nose like a potato, can get a ballet-girl, I ought to
be the lover of the first actress in Paris. Where does one find such
luck?" he said aloud.
"I'll show you Florentine's place to-night. My Dulcinea only earns
fifty francs a month at the theatre," added Giroudeau, "but she is
very prettily set up, thanks to an old silk dealer named Cardot, who
gives her five hundred francs a month."
"Well, but--?" exclaimed the jealous Philippe.
"Bah!" said Giroudeau; "true love is blind."
When the play was over Giroudeau took Philippe to Mademoiselle
Florentine's _appartement_, which was close to the theatre, in the rue
de Crussol.
"We must behave ourselves," said Giroudeau. "Florentine's mother is
here. You see, I haven't the means to pay for one, so the worthy woman
is really her own mother. She used to be a concierge, but she's not
without intelligence. Call her Madame; she makes a point of it."
Florentine happened that night to have a friend with her,--a certain
Marie Godeschal, beautiful as an angel, cold as a danseuse, and a
pupil of Vestris, who foretold for her a great choregraphic destiny.
Mademoiselle Godeschal, anxious to make her first appearance at the
Panorama-Dramatique under the name of Mariette, based her hopes on the
protection and influence of a first gentleman of the bedchamber, to
whom Vestris had promised to introduce her. Vestris, still green
himself at this period, did not think his pupil sufficiently trained
to risk the introduction. The ambitious girl did, in the end, make her
pseudonym of Mariette famous; and the motive of her ambition, it must
be said, was praiseworthy. She had a brother, a clerk in Derville's
law office. Left orphans and very poor, and devoted to each other, the
brother and sister had seen life such as it is in Paris. The one
wished to be a lawyer that he might support his sister, and he lived
on ten sous a day; the other had coldly resolved to be a dancer, and
to profit by her beauty as much as by her legs that she might buy a
practice for her brother. Outside of their feeling for each other, and
of their mutual life and interests, everything was to them, as it once
was to the Romans and the Hebrews, barbaric, outlandish, and hostile.
This generous affection, which nothing ever lessened, explained
Mariette to those who knew her intimately.
The brother and sister were living at this time on the eighth floor of
a house in the Vieille rue du Temple. Mariette had begun her studies
when she was ten years old; she was now just sixteen. Alas! for want
of becoming clothes, her beauty, hidden under a coarse shawl, dressed
in calico, and ill-kept, could only be guessed by those Parisians who
devote themselves to hunting grisettes and the quest of beauty in
misfortune, as she trotted past them with mincing step, mounted on
iron pattens. Philippe fell in love with Mariette. To Mariette,
Philippe was commander of the dragoons of the Guard, a staff-officer
of the Emperor, a young man of twenty-seven, and above all, the means
of proving herself superior to Florentine by the evident superiority
of Philippe over Giroudeau. Florentine and Giroudeau, the one to
promote his comrade's happiness, the other to get a protector for her
friend, pushed Philippe and Mariette into a "mariage en detrempe,"--a
Parisian term which is equivalent to "morganatic marriage," as applied
to royal personages. Philippe when they left the house revealed his
poverty to Giroudeau, but the old roue reassured him.
"I'll speak to my nephew Finot," he said. "You see, Philippe, the
reign of phrases and quill-drivers is upon us; we may as well submit.
To-day, scribblers are paramount. Ink has ousted gunpowder, and talk
takes the place of shot. After all, these little toads of editors are
pretty good fellows, and very clever. Come and see me to-morrow at the
newspaper office; by that time I shall have said a word for you to my
nephew. Before long you'll have a place on some journal or other.
Mariette, who is taking you at this moment (don't deceive yourself)
because she literally has nothing, no engagement, no chance of
appearing on the stage, and I have told her that you are going on a
newspaper like myself,--Mariette will try to make you believe she is
loving you for yourself; and you will believe her! Do as I do,--keep
her as long as you can. I was so much in love with Florentine that I
begged Finot to write her up and help her to a debut; but my nephew
replied, 'You say she has talent; well, the day after her first
appearance she will turn her back on you.' Oh, that's Finot all over!
You'll find him a knowing one."
The next day, about four o'clock, Philippe went to the rue de Sentier,
where he found Giroudeau in the entresol,--caged like a wild beast in
a sort of hen-coop with a sliding panel; in which was a little stove,
a little table, two little chairs, and some little logs of wood. This
establishment bore the magic words, SUBSCRIPTION OFFICE, painted on
the door in black letters, and the word "Cashier," written by hand and
fastened to the grating of the cage. Along the wall that lay opposite
to the cage, was a bench, where, at this moment, a one-armed man was
breakfasting, who was called Coloquinte by Giroudeau, doubtless from
the Egyptian colors of his skin.
"A pretty hole!" exclaimed Philippe, looking round the room. "In the
name of thunder! what are you doing here, you who charged with poor
Colonel Chabert at Eylau? You--a gallant officer!"
"Well, yes! broum! broum!--a gallant officer keeping the accounts of a
little newspaper," said Giroudeau, settling his black silk skull-cap.
"Moreover, I'm the working editor of all that rubbish," he added,
pointing to the newspaper itself.
"And I, who went to Egypt, I'm obliged to stamp it," said the
one-armed man.
"Hold your tongue, Coloquinte," said Giroudeau. "You are in presence
of a hero who carried the Emperor's orders at the battle of
Montereau."
Coloquinte saluted. "That's were I lost my missing arm!" he said.
"Coloquinte, look after the den. I'm going up to see my nephew."
The two soldiers mounted to the fourth floor, where, in an attic room
at the end of a passage, they found a young man with a cold light eye,
lying on a dirty sofa. The representative of the press did not stir,
though he offered cigars to his uncle and his uncle's friend.
"My good fellow," said Giroudeau in a soothing and humble tone, "this
is the gallant cavalry officer of the Imperial Guard of whom I spoke
to you."
"Eh! well?" said Finot, eyeing Philippe, who, like Giroudeau, lost all
his assurance before the diplomatist of the press.
"My dear boy," said Giroudeau, trying to pose as an uncle, "the
colonel has just returned from Texas."
"Ah! you were taken in by that affair of the Champ d'Asile, were you?
Seems to me you were rather young to turn into a Soldier-laborer."
The bitterness of this jest will only be understood by those who
remember the deluge of engravings, screens, clocks, bronzes, and
plaster-casts produced by the idea of the Soldier-laborer, a splendid
image of Napoleon and his heroes, which afterwards made its appearance
on the stage in vaudevilles. That idea, however, obtained a national
subscription; and we still find, in the depths of the provinces, old
wall-papers which bear the effigy of the Soldier-laborer. If this
young man had not been Giroudeau's nephew, Philippe would have boxed
his ears.
"Yes, I was taken in by it; I lost my time, and twelve thousand francs
to boot," answered Philippe, trying to force a grin.
"You are still fond of the Emperor?" asked Finot.
"He is my god," answered Philippe Bridau.
"You are a Liberal?"
"I shall always belong to the Constitutional Opposition. Oh Foy! oh
Manuel! oh Laffitte! what men they are! They'll rid us of these
others,--these wretches, who came back to France at the heels of the
enemy."
"Well," said Finot coldly, "you ought to make something out of your
misfortunes; for you are the victim of the Liberals, my good fellow.
Stay a Liberal, if you really value your opinions, but threaten the
party with the follies in Texas which you are ready to show up. You
never got a farthing of the national subscription, did you? Well, then
you hold a fine position: demand an account of that subscription. I'll
tell you how you can do it. A new Opposition journal is just starting,
under the auspices of the deputies of the Left; you shall be the
cashier, with a salary of three thousand francs. A permanent place.
All you want is some one to go security for you in twenty thousand
francs; find that, and you shall be installed within a week. I'll
advise the Liberals to silence you by giving you the place. Meantime,
talk, threaten,--threaten loudly."
Giroudeau let Philippe, who was profuse in his thanks, go down a few
steps before him, and then he turned back to say to his nephew, "Well,
you are a queer fellow! you keep me here on twelve hundred francs--"
"That journal won't live a year," said Finot. "I've got something
better for you."
"Thunder!" cried Philippe to Giroudeau. "He's no fool, that nephew of
yours. I never once thought of making something, as he calls it, out
of my position."
That night at the cafe Lemblin and the cafe Minerve Colonel Philippe
fulminated against the Liberal party, which had raised subscriptions,
sent heroes to Texas, talked hypocritically of Soldier-laborers, and
left them to starve, after taking the money they had put into it, and
keeping them in exile for two years.
"I am going to demand an account of the moneys collected by the
subscription for the Champ d'Asile," he said to one of the frequenters
of the cafe, who repeated it to the journalists of the Left.
Philippe did not go back to the rue Mazarin; he went to Mariette and
told her of his forthcoming appointment on a newspaper with ten
thousand subscribers, in which her choregraphic claims should be
warmly advanced.
Agathe and Madame Descoings waited up for Philippe in fear and
trembling, for the Duc de Berry had just been assassinated. The
colonel came home a few minutes after breakfast; and when his mother
showed her uneasiness at his absence, he grew angry and asked if he
were not of age.
"In the name of thunder, what's all this! here have I brought you some
good news, and you both look like tombstones. The Duc de Berry is
dead, is he?--well, so much the better! that's one the less, at any
rate. As for me, I am to be cashier of a newspaper, with a salary of
three thousand francs, and there you are, out of all your anxieties on
my account."
"Is it possible?" cried Agathe.
"Yes; provided you can go security for me in twenty thousand francs;
you need only deposit your shares in the Funds, you will draw the
interest all the same."
The two widows, who for nearly two months had been desperately anxious
to find out what Philippe was about, and how he could be provided for,
were so overjoyed at this prospect that they gave no thought to their
other catastrophes. That evening, the Grecian sages, old Du Bruel,
Claparon, whose health was failing, and the inflexible Desroches were
unanimous; they all advised Madame Bridau to go security for her son.
The new journal, which fortunately was started before the
assassination of the Duc de Berry, just escaped the blow which
Monsieur Decazes then launched at the press. Madame Bridau's shares in
the Funds, representing thirteen hundred francs' interest, were
transferred as security for Philippe, who was then appointed cashier.
That good son at once promised to pay one hundred francs every month
to the two widows, for his board and lodging, and was declared by both
to be the best of sons. Those who had thought ill of him now
congratulated Agathe.
"We were unjust to him," they said.
Poor Joseph, not to be behind his brother in generosity, resolved to
pay for his own support, and succeeded.