surprise.
“Anger, threats, entreaties, had no effect,” resumed Dagobert; “to
everything she answered as mildly as a saint: ‘I can tell you nothing!’
Now, sir, I maintain that my wife has no interest to take away these
children; she is under the absolute dominion of her confessor; she has
acted by his orders and for his purposes; he is the guilty party.”
Whilst Dagobert spoke, the commissary looked more and more attentively
at Frances, who, supported by the hunchback, continued to weep bitterly.
After a moment’s reflection, the magistrate advanced towards Dagobert’s
wife, and said to her: “Madame, you have heard what your husband has
just declared.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What have you to say in your justification?”
“But, sir,” cried Dagobert, “it is not my wife that I accuse--I do not
mean that; it is her confessor.”
“Sir, you have applied to a magistrate; and the magistrate must act as
he thinks best for the discovery of the truth. Once more, madame,”
he resumed, addressing Frances, “what have you to say in your
justification?”
“Alas! nothing, sir.”
“Is it true that your husband left these young girls in your charge when
he went out?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is it true that, on his return, they were no longer to be found?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is it true that, when he asked you where they were, you told him that
you could give him no information on the subject?”
The commissary appeared to wait for Frances’ reply with kind of anxious
curiosity.
“Yes, sir,” said she, with the utmost simplicity, “that was the answer I
made my husband.”
“What, madame!” said the magistrate, with an air of painful
astonishment; “that was your only answer to all the prayers and commands
of your husband? What! you refused to give him the least information? It
is neither probable nor possible.”
“It is the truth, sir.”
“Well, but, after all, madame, what have you done with the young ladies
that were entrusted to your care?”
“I can tell you nothing about it, sir. If I would not answer my poor
husband, I certainly will not answer any one else.”
“Well, sir,” resumed Dagobert, “was I wrong? An honest, excellent woman
like that, who was always full of good sense and affection, to talk in
this way--is it natural? I repeat to you, sir that it is the work of her
confessor; act against him promptly and decidedly, we shall soon know
all, and my poor children will be restored to me.”
“Madame,” continued the commissary, without being able to repress a
certain degree of emotion, “I am about to speak to you very severely.
My duty obliges me to do so. This affair becomes so serious and
complicated, that I must instantly commence judicial proceedings on the
subject. You acknowledge that these young ladies have been left in your
charge, and that you cannot produce them. Now, listen to me: if you
refuse to give any explanation in the matter, it is you alone that will
be accused of their disappearance. I shall be obliged, though with great
regret, to take you into custody.”
“Me!” cried Frances, with the utmost alarm.
“Her!” exclaimed Dagobert; “never! It is her confessor that I accuse,
not my poor wife. Take her into custody, indeed!” He ran towards her, as
if he would protect her.
“It is too late, sir,” said the commissary. “You have made your charge
for the abduction of these two young ladies. According to your wife’s
own declaration, she alone is compromised up to this point. I must
take her before the Public Prosecutor, who will decide what course to
pursue.”
“And I say, sir,” cried Dagobert, in a menacing tone, “that my wife
shall not stir from this room.”
“Sir,” said the commissary coolly, “I can appreciate your feelings; but,
in the interest of justice, I would beg you not to oppose a necessary
measure--a measure which, moreover, in ten minutes it would be quite
impossible for you to prevent.”
These words, spoken with calmness, recalled the soldier to himself.
“But, sir,” said he, “I do not accuse my wife.”’
“Never mind, my dear--do not think of me!” said Frances, with the
angelic resignation of a martyr. “The Lord is still pleased to try me
sorely; but I am His unworthy servant, and must gratefully resign myself
to His will. Let them arrest me, if they choose; I will say no more in
prison than I have said already on the subject of those poor children.”
“But, sir,” cried Dagobert, “you see that my wife is out of her head.
You cannot arrest her.”
“There is no charge, proof, or indication against the other person whom
you accuse, and whose character should be his protection. If I take
your wife, she may perhaps be restored to you after a preliminary
examination. I regret,” added the commissary, in a tone of pity, “to
have to execute such a mission, at the very moment when your son’s
arrest--”
“What!” cried Dagobert, looking with speechless astonishment at his wife
and Mother Bunch; “what does he say? my son?”
“You were not then aware of it? Oh, sir, a thousand pardons!” said the
magistrate, with painful emotion. “It is distressing to make you such a
communication.”
“My son!” repeated Dagobert, pressing his two hands to his forehead. “My
son! arrested!”
“For a political offence of no great moment,” said the commissary.
“Oh! this is too much. All comes on me at once!” cried the soldier,
falling overpowered into a chair, and hiding his face with his hands.
After a touching farewell, during which, in spite of her terror, Frances
remained faithful to the vow she had made to the Abbe Dubois--Dagobert,
who had refused to give evidence against his wife, was left leaning
upon a table, exhausted by contending emotions, and could not help
explaining: “Yesterday, I had with me my wife, my son, my two poor
orphans--and now--I am alone--alone!”
The moment he pronounced these words, in a despairing tone, a mild sad
voice was heard close behind him, saying timidly: “M. Dagobert, I am
here; if you will allow me, I will remain and wait upon you.”
It was Mother Bunch!
Trusting that the reader’s sympathy is with the old soldier thus left
desolate, with Agricola in his prison, Adrienne in hers, the madhouse,
and Rose and Blanche Simon in theirs, the nunnery; we hasten to assure
him (or her, as the case may be), that not only will their future steps
be traced, but the dark machinations of the Jesuits, and the thrilling
scenes in which new characters will perform their varied parts, pervaded
by the watching spirit of the Wandering Jew, will be revealed in Part
Second of this work, entitled: THE CHASTISEMENT.
BOOK IV.
PART SECOND.--THE CHASTISEMENT.
PROLOGUE.--THE BIRD’S-EYE VIEW OF TWO WORLDS.
I. The Masquerade II. The Contrast III. The Carouse IV. The
Farewell V. The Florine VI. Mother Sainte-Perpetue VII. The
Temptation VIII. Mother Bunch and Mdlle. De Cardoville IX.
The Encounters--The Meeting XI. Discoveries XII. The Penal
Code XIII. Burglary
As the eagle, perched upon the cliff, commands an all-comprehensive
view--not only of what happens on the plains and in the woodlands, but
of matters occurring upon the heights, which its aerie overlooks, so may
the reader have sights pointed out to him, which lie below the level of
the unassisted eye.
In the year 1831, the powerful Order of the Jesuits saw fit to begin
to act upon information which had for some time been digesting in their
hands.
As it related to a sum estimated at no less than thirty or forty
millions of francs, it is no wonder that they should redouble all
exertions to obtain it from the rightful owners.
These were, presumably, the descendants of Marius, Count of Rennepont,
in the reign of Louis XIV. of France.
They were distinguished from other men by a simple token, which all, in
the year above named, had in their hands.
It was a bronze medal, bearing these legends on reverse and obverse:
VICTIM
of
L. C. D. J.
Pray for me!
PARIS,
February the 13th, 1682.
IN PARIS
Rue St Francois, No. 3,
In a century and a half
you will be.
February the 13th, 1832.
PRAY FOR ME!
Those who had this token were descendants of a family whom, a hundred
and fifty years ago, persecution scattered through the world, in
emigration and exile; in changes of religion, fortune and name. For this
family--what grandeur, what reverses, what obscurity, what lustre, what
penury, what glory! How many crimes sullied, how many virtues honored
it! The history of this single family is the history of humanity!
Passing through many generations, throbbing in the veins of the poor
and the rich, the sovereign and the bandit, the wise and the simple, the
coward and the brave, the saint and the atheist, the blood flowed on to
the year we have named.
Seven representatives summed up the virtue, courage, degradation,
splendor, and poverty of the race. Seven: two orphan twin daughters of
exiled parents, a dethroned prince, a humble missionary priest, a man
of the middle class, a young lady of high name and large fortune, and a
working man.
Fate scattered them in Russia, India, France, and America.
The orphans, Rose and Blanche Simon, had left their dead mother’s grave
in Siberia, under charge of a trooper named Francis Baudoin, alias
Dagobert, who was as much attached to them as he had been devoted to
their father, his commanding general.
On the road to France, this little party had met the first check, in the
only tavern of Mockern village. Not only had a wild beast showman, known
as Morok the lion-tamer, sought to pick a quarrel with the inoffensive
veteran, but that failing, had let a panther of his menagerie loose
upon the soldier’s horse. That horse had carried Dagobert, under General
Simon’s and the Great Napoleon’s eyes, through many battles; had borne
the General’s wife (a Polish lady under the Czar’s ban) to her home of
exile in Siberia, and their children now across Russia and Germany, but
only to perish thus cruelly. An unseen hand appeared in a manifestation
of spite otherwise unaccountable. Dagobert, denounced as a French spy,
and his fair young companions accused of being adventuresses to help his
designs, had so kindled at the insult, not less to him than to his old
commander’s daughters, that he had taught the pompous burgomaster of
Mockern a lesson, which, however, resulted in the imprisonment of the
three in Leipsic jail.
General Simon, who had vainly sought to share his master’s St. Helena
captivity, had gone to fight the English in India. But notwithstanding
his drilling of Radja-sings sepoys, they had been beaten by the troops
taught by Clive, and not only was the old king of Mundi slain, and the
realm added to the Company’s land, but his son, Prince Djalma, taken
prisoner. However, at length released, he had gone to Batavia, with
General Simon. The prince’s mother was a Frenchwoman, and among the
property she left him in the capital of Java, the general was delighted
to find just such another medal as he knew was in his wife’s possession.
The unseen hand of enmity had reached to him, for letters miscarried,
and he did not know either his wife’s decease or that he had twin
daughters.
By a trick, on the eve of the steamship leaving Batavia for the Isthmus
of Suez, Djalma was separated from his friend, and sailing for Europe
alone, the latter had to follow in another vessel.
The missionary priest trod the war trails of the wilderness, with that
faith and fearlessness which true soldiers of the cross should evince.
In one of these heroic undertakings, Indians had captured him, and
dragging him to their village under the shadow of the Rocky Mountains,
they had nailed him in derision to a cross, and prepared to scalp him.
But if an unseen hand of a foe smote or stabbed at the sons of
Rennepont, a visible interpositor had often shielded them, in various
parts of the globe.
A man, seeming of thirty years of age, very tall, with a countenance
as lofty as mournful, marked by the black eyebrows meeting, had thrown
himself--during a battle’s height--between a gun of a park which General
Simon was charging and that officer. The cannon vomited its hail of
death, but when the flame and smoke had passed, the tall man stood erect
as before, smiling pityingly on the gunner, who fell on his knees as
frightened as if he beheld Satan himself. Again, as General Simon lay
upon the lost field of Waterloo, raging with his wounds, eager to die
after such a defeat, this same man staunched his hurts, and bade him
live for his wife’s sake.
Years after, wearing the same unalterable look, this man accosted
Dagobert in Siberia, and gave him for General Simon’s wife, the diary
and letters of her husband, written in India, in little hope of them
ever reaching her hands. And at the year our story opens, this man
unbarred the cell-door of Leipsic jail, and let Dagobert and the orphans
out, free to continue their way into France.
On the other hand, when the scalping-knife had traced its mark around
the head of Gabriel the missionary, and when only the dexterous turn and
tug would have removed the trophy, a sudden apparition had terrified
the superstitious savages. It was a woman of thirty, whose brown
tresses formed a rich frame around a royal face, toned down by endless
sorrowing. The red-skins shrank from her steady advance, and when her
hand was stretched out between them and their young victim, they uttered
a howl of alarm, and fled as if a host of their foemen were on their
track. Gabriel was saved, but all his life he was doomed to bear that
halo of martyrdom, the circling sweep of the scalper’s knife.
He was a Jesuit. By the orders of his society he embarked for Europe. We
should say here, that he, though owning a medal of the seven described,
was unaware that he should have worn it. His vessel was driven by storms
to refit at the Azores, where he had changed ship into the same as was
bearing Prince Djalma to France, via Portsmouth.
But the gales followed him, and sated their fury by wrecking the “Black
Eagle” on the Picardy coast. This was at the same point as were a
disabled Hamburg steamer, among whose passengers where Dagobert and his
two charges, was destroyed the same night. Happily the tempest did not
annihilate them all. There were saved, Prince Djalma and a countryman
of his, one Faringhea, a Thuggee chief, hunted out of British India;
Dagobert, and Rose and Blanche Simon, whom Gabriel had rescued. These
survivors had recovered, thanks to the care they had received in
Cardoville House, a country mansion which had sheltered them, and except
the prince and the Strangler chief, the others were speedily able to go
on to Paris.
The old grenadier and the orphans--until General Simon should be
heard from--dwelt in the former’s house. His son had kept it, from his
mother’s love for the life-long home. It was such a mean habitation as
a workman like Agricola Baudoin could afford to pay the rent of, and far
from the fit abode of the daughters of the Duke de Ligny and Marshal of
France, which Napoleon had created General Simon, though the rank had
only recently been approved by the restoration.
But in Paris the unknown hostile hand showed itself more malignant than
ever.
The young lady of high name and large fortune was Adrienne de
Cardoville, whose aunt, the Princess de Saint-Dizier, was a Jesuit.
Through her and her accomplices’ machinations, the young lady’s forward
yet virtuous, wildly aspiring but sensible, romantic but just, character
was twisted into a passable reason for her immurement in a mad-house.
This asylum adjoined St. Mary’s Convent, into which Rose and Blanche
Simon were deceitfully conducted. To secure their removal, Dagobert had
been decoyed into the country, under pretence of showing some of General
Simon’s document’s to a lawyer; his son Agricola arrested for treason,
on account of some idle verses the blacksmith poet was guilty of, and
his wife rendered powerless, or, rather, a passive assistant, by the
influence of the confessional! When Dagobert hurried back from his wild
goose chase, he found the orphans gone: Mother Bunch (a fellow-tenant of
the house, who had been brought up in the family) ignorant, and his wife
stubbornly refusing to break the promise she had given her confessor,
and acquaint a single soul where she had permitted the girls to be
taken. In his rage, the soldier rashly accused that confessor, but
instead of arresting the Abbe Dubois, it was Mrs. Baudoin whom the
magistrate felt compelled to arrest, as the person whom alone
he ventured to commit for examination in regard to the orphans’
disappearance. Thus triumphs, for the time being, the unseen foe.
The orphans in a nunnery; the dethroned prince a poor castaway in a
foreign land; the noble young lady in a madhouse; the missionary priest
under the thumb of his superiors.
As for the man of the middle class, and the working man, who concluded
the list of this family, we are to read of them, as well as of the
others, in the pages which now succeed these.
CHAPTER I. THE MASQUERADE.
The following day to that on which Dagobert’s wife (arrested for not
accounting for the disappearance of General Simon’s daughters) was led
away before a magistrate, a noisy and animated scene was transpiring
on the Place du Chatelet, in front of a building whose first floor and
basement were used as the tap-rooms of the “Sucking Calf” public-house.
A carnival night was dying out.
Quite a number of maskers, grotesquely and shabbily bedecked, had rushed
out of the low dance-houses in the Guildhall Ward, and were roaring out
staves of songs as they crossed the square. But on catching sight of a
second troop of mummers running about the water-side, the first party
stopped to wait for the others to come up, rejoicing, with many a shout,
in hopes of one of those verbal battles of slang and smutty talk which
made Vade so illustrious.
This mob--nearly all its members half seas over, soon swollen by the
many people who have to be up early to follow their crafts--suddenly
concentrated in one of the corners of the square, so that a pale,
deformed girl, who was going that way, was caught in the human tide.
This was Mother Bunch. Up with the lark, she was hurrying to receive
some work from her employer. Remembering how a mob had treated her when
she had been arrested in the streets only the day before, by mistake,
the poor work-girl’s fears may be imagined when she was now surrounded
by the revellers against her will. But, spite of all her efforts--very
feeble, alas!--she could not stir a step, for the band of merry-makers,
newly arriving, had rushed in among the others, shoving some of them
aside, pushing far into the mass, and sweeping Mother Bunch--who was in
their way--clear over to the crowd around the public-house.
The new-comers were much finer rigged out than the others, for they
belonged to the gay, turbulent class which goes frequently to the
Chaumiere, the Prado, the Colisee, and other more or less rowdyish
haunts of waltzers, made up generally of students, shop-girls, and
counter skippers, clerks, unfortunates, etc., etc.
This set, while retorting to the chaff of the other party, seemed to be
very impatiently expecting some singularly desired person to put in her
appearance.
The following snatches of conversation, passing between clowns and
columbines, pantaloons and fairies, Turks and sultans, debardeurs and
debardeuses, paired off more or less properly, will give an idea of the
importance of the wished-for personage.
“They ordered the spread to be for seven in the morning, so their
carriages ought to have come up afore now.”
“Werry like, but the Bacchanal Queen has got to lead off the last dance
in the Prado.”
“I wish to thunder I’d ‘a known that, and I’d ‘a stayed there to see
her--my beloved Queen!”
“Gobinet; if you call her your beloved Queen again, I’ll scratch you!
Here’s a pinch for you, anyhow!”
“Ow, wow, Celeste! hands off! You are black-spotting the be-yutiful
white satin jacket my mamma gave me when I first came out as Don
Pasqually!”
“Why did you call the Bacchanal Queen your beloved, then? What am I, I’d
like to know?”
“You are my beloved, but not my Queen, for there is only one moon in
the nights of nature, and only one Bacchanal Queen in the nights at the
Prado.”
“That’s a bit from a valentine! You can’t come over me with such
rubbish.”
“Gobinet’s right! the Queen was an out-and-outer tonight!”
“In prime feather!”
“I never saw her more on the go!”
“And, my eyes! wasn’t her dress stunning?”
“Took your breath away!”
“Crushing!”
“Heavy!”
“Im-mense!”
“The last kick!”
“No one but she can get up such dresses.”
“And, then, the dance!”
“Oh, yes! it was at once bounding waving, twisting! There is not such
another bayadere under the night-cap of the sky!”
“Gobinet, give me back my shawl directly. You have already spoilt it
by rolling it round your great body. I don’t choose to have my things
ruined for hulking beasts who call other women bayaderes!”
“Celeste, simmer down. I am disguised as a Turk, and, when I talk of
bayaderes, I am only in character.”
“Your Celeste is like them all, Gobinet; she’s jealous of the Bacchanal
Queen.”
“Jealous!--do you think me jealous? Well now! that’s too bad. If I chose
to be as showy as she is they would talk of me as much. After all, it’s
only a nickname that makes her reputation! nickname!”
“In that you have nothing to envy her--since you are called Celeste!”
“You know well enough, Gobinet, that Celeste is my real name.”
“Yes; but it’s fancied a nickname--when one looks in your face.”
“Gobinet, I will put that down to your account.”
“And Oscar will help you to add it up, eh?”
“Yes; and you shall see the total. When I carry one, the remainder will
not be you.”
“Celeste, you make me cry! I only meant to say that your celestial name
does not go well with your charming little face, which is still more
mischievous than that of the Bacchanal Queen.”
“That’s right; wheedle me now, wretch!”
“I swear by the accursed head of my landlord, that, if you liked, you
could spread yourself as much as the Bacchanal Queen--which is saying a
great deal.”
“The fact is, that the Bacchanal had cheek enough, in all conscience.”
“Not to speak of her fascinating the bobbies!”
“And magnetizing the beaks.”
“They may get as angry as they please; she always finishes by making
them laugh.”
“And they all call her: Queen!”
“Last night she charmed a slop (as modest as a country girl) whose
purity took up arms against the famous dance of the Storm-blown Tulip.”
“What a quadrille! Sleepinbuff and the Bacchanal Queen, having opposite
to them Rose-Pompon and Ninny Moulin!”
“And all four making tulips as full-blown as could be!”
“By-the-bye, is it true what they say of Ninny Moulin?”
“What?”
“Why that he is a writer, and scribbles pamphlets on religion.”
“Yes, it is true. I have often seen him at my employer’s, with whom he
deals; a bad paymaster, but a jolly fellow!”
“And pretends to be devout, eh?”
“I believe you, my boy--when it is necessary; then he is my Lord
Dumoulin, as large as life. He rolls his eyes, walks with his head on
one side, and his toes turned in; but, when the piece is played out, he
slips away to the balls of which he is so fond. The girls christened him
Ninny Moulin. Add, that he drinks like a fish, and you have the photo
of the cove. All this doesn’t prevent his writing for the religious
newspapers; and the saints, whom he lets in even oftener than himself,
are ready to swear by him. You should see his articles and his
tracts--only see, not read!--every page is full of the devil and
his horns, and the desperate fryings which await your impious
revolutionists--and then the authority of the bishops, the power of the
Pope--hang it! how could I know it all? This toper, Ninny Moulin, gives
good measure enough for their money!”
“The fact is, that he is both a heavy drinker and a heavy swell. How
he rattled on with little Rose-Pompon in the dance and the full-blown
tulip!”
“And what a rum chap he looked in his Roman helmet and top-boots.”
“Rose-Pompon dances divinely, too; she has the poetic twist.”
“And don’t show her heels a bit!”
“Yes; but the Bacchanal Queen is six thousand feet above the level of
any common leg-shaker. I always come back to her step last night in the
full-blown tulip.”
“It was huge!”
“It was serene!”
“If I were father of a family, I would entrust her with the education of
my sons!”
“It was that step, however, which offended the bobby’s modesty.”
“The fact is, it was a little free.”
“Free as air--so the policeman comes up to her, and says: ‘Well,
my Queen, is your foot to keep on a-goin’ up forever?’ ‘No, modest
warrior!’ replies the Queen; ‘I practice the step only once every
evening, to be able to dance it when I am old. I made a vow of it, that
you might become an inspector.’”
“What a comic card!”
“I don’t believe she will remain always with Sleepinbuff.”
“Because he has been a workman?”
“What nonsense! it would preciously become us, students and shop-boys,
to give ourselves airs! No; but I am astonished at the Queen’s
fidelity.”
“Yes--they’ve been a team for three or four good months.”
“She’s wild upon him, and he on her.”
“They must lead a gay life.”
“Sometimes I ask myself where the devil Sleepinbuff gets all the money
he spends. It appears that he pays all last night’s expenses, three
coaches-and-four, and a breakfast this morning for twenty, at ten francs
a-head.”
“They say he has come into some property. That’s why Ninny Moulin, who
has a good nose for eating and drinking, made acquaintance with him last
night--leaving out of the question that he may have some designs on the
Bacchanal Queen.”
“He! In a lot! He’s rather too ugly. The girls like to dance with him
because he makes people laugh--but that’s all. Little Rose-Pompon, who
is such a pretty creature, has taken him as a harmless chap-her-own, in
the absence of her student.”
“The coaches! the coaches!” exclaimed the crowd, all with one voice.
Forced to stop in the midst of the maskers, Mother Bunch had not lost
a word of this conversation, which was deeply painful to her, as it
concerned her sister, whom she had not seen for a long time. Not that
the Bacchanal Queen had a bad heart; but the sight of the wretched
poverty of Mother Bunch--a poverty which she had herself shared, but
which she had not had the strength of mind to bear any longer--caused
such bitter grief to the gay, thoughtless girl, that she would no more
expose herself to it, after she had in vain tried to induce her sister
to accept assistance, which the latter always refused, knowing that its
source could not be honorable.
“The coaches! the coaches!” once more exclaimed the crowd, as they
pressed forward with enthusiasm, so that Mother Bunch, carried on
against her will, was thrust into the foremost rank of the people
assembled to see the show.
It was, indeed, a curious sight. A man on horseback, disguised as a
postilion, his blue jacket embroidered with silver, and enormous tail
from which the powder escaped in puffs, and a hat adorned with long
ribbons, preceded the first carriage, cracking his whip, and crying with
all his might: “Make way for the Bacchanal Queen and her court!”
In an open carriage, drawn by four lean horses, on which rode two old
postilions dressed as devils, was raised a downright pyramid of men and
women, sitting, standing, leaning, in every possible variety of odd,
extravagant, and grotesque costume; altogether an indescribable mass of
bright colors, flowers, ribbons, tinsel and spangles. Amid this heap of
strange forms and dresses appeared wild or graceful countenances, ugly
or handsome features--but all animated by the feverish excitement of
a jovial frenzy--all turned with an expression of fanatical admiration
towards the second carriage, in which the Queen was enthroned, whilst
they united with the multitude in reiterated shouts of “Long live the
Bacchanal Queen.”
This second carriage, open like the first, contained only the four
dancers of the famous step of the Storm-blown Tulip--Ninny Moulin, Rose
Pompon, Sleepinbuff, and the Bacchanal Queen.
Dumoulin, the religious writer, who wished to dispute possession of Mme.
de la Sainte-Colombe with his patron, M. Rodin--Dumoulin, surnamed
Ninny Moulin, standing on the front cushions, would have presented a
magnificent study for Callot or Gavarni, that eminent artist, who
unites with the biting strength and marvellous fancy of an illustrious
caricaturist, the grace, the poetry, and the depth of Hogarth.
Ninny Moulin, who was about thirty-five years of age, wore very much
back upon his head a Roman helmet of silver paper. A voluminous plume of
black feathers, rising from a red wood holder, was stuck on one side
of this headgear, breaking the too classic regularity of its outline.
Beneath this casque, shone forth the most rubicund and jovial face, that
ever was purpled by the fumes of generous wine. A prominent nose, with
its primitive shape modestly concealed beneath a luxuriant growth of
pimples, half red, half violet, gave a funny expression to a perfectly
beardless face; while a large mouth, with thick lips turning their
insides outwards, added to the air of mirth and jollity which beamed
from his large gray eyes, set flat in his head.
On seeing this joyous fellow, with a paunch like Silenus, one could not
help asking how it was, that he had not drowned in wine, a hundred times
over, the gall, bile, and venom which flowed from his pamphlets against
the enemies of Ultramontanism, and how his Catholic beliefs could float
upwards in the midst of these mad excesses of drink and dancing. The
question would have appeared insoluble, if one had not remembered how
many actors, who play the blackest and most hateful first robbers on the
stage, are, when off it, the best fellow in the world.
The weather being cold, Ninny Moulin wore a kind of box-coat, which,
being half-open, displayed his cuirass of scales, and his flesh-colored
pantaloons, finishing just below the calf in a pair of yellow tops to
his boots. Leaning forward in front of the carriage, he uttered wild
shouts of delight, mingled with the words: “Long live the Bacchanal
Queen!”--after which, he shook and whirled the enormous rattle he held
in his hand. Standing beside him, Sleepinbuff waved on high a banner
of white silk, on which were the words: “Love and joy to the Bacchanal
Queen!”
Sleepinbuff was about twenty-five years of age. His countenance was gay
and intelligent, surrounded by a collar of chestnut-colored whiskers;
but worn with late hours and excesses, it expressed a singular mixture
of carelessness and hardihood, recklessness and mockery; still, no base
or wicked passion had yet stamped there its fatal impress. He was the
perfect type of the Parisian, as the term is generally applied, whether
in the army, in the provinces, on board a king’s ship, or a merchantman.
It is not a compliment, and yet it is far from being an insult; it is an
epithet which partakes at once of blame, admiration, and fear; for if,
in this sense, the Parisian is often idle and rebellious, he is also
quick at his work, resolute in danger, and always terribly satirical and
fond of practical jokes.
He was dressed in a very flashy style. He wore a black velvet jacket
with silver buttons, a scarlet waistcoat, trousers with broad blue
stripes, a Cashmere shawl for a girdle with ends loosely floating, and
a chimney-pot hat covered with flowers and streamers. This disguise set
off his light, easy figure to great advantage.
At the back of the carriage, standing up on the cushions, were Rose
Pompon and the Bacchanal Queen.
Rose-Pompon, formerly a fringe-maker, was about seventeen years old, and
had the prettiest and most winning little face imaginable. She was gayly
dressed in debardeur costume. Her powdered wig, over which was smartly
cocked on one side an orange and green cap laced with silver, increased
the effect of her bright black eyes, and of her round, carnation cheeks.
She wore about her neck an orange-colored cravat, of the same material
as her loose sash. Her tight jacket and narrow vest of light green
velvet, with silver ornaments, displayed to the best advantage a
charming figure, the pliancy of which must have well suited the
evolutions of the Storm blown Tulip. Her large trousers, of the same
stuff and color as the jacket, were not calculated to hide any of her
attractions.
The Bacchanal Queen, being at the least a head taller, leaned with one
hand on the shoulder of Rose-Pompon. Mother Bunch’s sister ruled, like
a true monarch, over this mad revelry, which her very presence seemed
to inspire, such influence had her own mirth and animation over all that
surrounded her.
She was a tall girl of about twenty years of age, light and graceful,
with regular features, and a merry, racketing air. Like her sister, she
had magnificent chestnut hair, and large blue eyes; but instead of being
soft and timid, like those of the young sempstress, the latter shone
with indefatigable ardor in the pursuit of pleasure. Such was the energy
of her vivacious constitution, that, notwithstanding many nights and
days passed in one continued revel, her complexion was as pure, her
cheeks as rosy, her neck as fresh and fair, as if she had that morning
issued from some peaceful home. Her costume, though singular
and fantastic, suited her admirably. It was composed of a tight,
long-waisted bodice in cloth of gold, trimmed with great bunches of
scarlet ribbon, the ends of which streamed over her naked arms, and
a short petticoat of scarlet velvet, ornamented with golden beads and
spangles. This petticoat reached half way down a leg, at once trim and
strong, in a white silk stocking, and red buskin with brass heel.
Never had any Spanish dancer a more supple, elastic, and tempting form,
than this singular girl, who seemed possessed with the spirit of dancing
and perpetual motion, for, almost every moment, a slight undulation of
head, hips, and shoulders seemed to follow the music of an invisible
orchestra; while the tip of her right foot, placed on the carriage door
in the most alluring manner, continued to beat time--for the Bacchanal
Queen stood proudly erect upon the cushions.
A sort of gilt diadem, the emblem of her noisy sovereignty, hung with
little bells, adorned her forehead. Her long hair, in two thick braids,
was drawn back from her rosy cheeks, and twisted behind her head. Her
left hand rested on little Rose-Pompon’s shoulder, and in her right she
held an enormous nosegay, which she waved to the crowd, accompanying
each salute with bursts of laughter.
It would be difficult to give a complete idea of this noisily animated
and fantastic scene, which included also a third carriage, filled, like
the first, with a pyramid of grotesque and extravagant masks. Amongst
the delighted crowd, one person alone contemplated the picture with deep
sorrow. It was Mother Bunch, who was still kept, in spite of herself, in
the first rank of spectators.
Separated from her sister for a long time, she now beheld her in all the
pomp of her singular triumph, in the midst of the cries of joy, and
the applause of her companions in pleasure. Yet the eyes of the young
sempstress grew dim with tears; for, though the Bacchanal Queen seemed
to share in the stunning gayety of all around her--though her face was
radiant with smiles, and she appeared fully to enjoy the splendors
of her temporary elevation--yet she had the sincere pity of the poor
workwoman, almost in rags, who was seeking, with the first dawn of
morning, the means of earning her daily bread.
Mother Bunch had forgotten the crowd, to look only at her sister,
whom she tenderly loved--only the more tenderly, that she thought her
situation to be pitied. With her eyes fixed on the joyous and beautiful
girl, her pale and gentle countenance expressed the most touching and
painful interest.
All at once, as the brilliant glance of the Bacchanal Queen travelled
along the crowd, it lighted on the sad features of Mother Bunch.
“My sister!” exclaimed Cephyse--such was the name of the Bacchanal
Queen--“My sister!”--and with one bound, light as a ballet-dancer, she
sprang from her movable throne (which fortunately just happened to
be stopping), and, rushing up to the hunchback, embraced her
affectionately.
All this had passed so rapidly, that the companions of the Bacchanal
Queen, still stupefied by the boldness of her perilous leap, knew not
how to account for it; whilst the masks who surrounded Mother Bunch drew
back in surprise, and the latter, absorbed in the delight of embracing
her sister, whose caresses she returned, did not even think of the
singular contrast between them, which was sure to soon excite the
astonishment and hilarity of the crowd.
Cephyse was the first to think of this, and wishing to save her sister
at least one humiliation, she turned towards the carriage, and said:
“Rose Pompon, throw me down my cloak; and, Ninny Moulin, open the door
directly!”
Having received the cloak, the Bacchanal Queen hastily wrapped it round
her sister, before the latter could speak or move. Then, taking her by
the hand, she said to her: “Come! come!”
“I!” cried Mother Bunch, in alarm. “Do not think of it!”
“I must speak with you. I will get a private room, where we shall be
alone. So make haste, dear little sister! Do not resist before all these
people--but come!”
The fear of becoming a public sight decided Mother Bunch, who, confused
moreover with the adventure, trembling and frightened, followed her
sister almost mechanically, and was dragged by her into the carriage, of
which Ninny Moulin had just opened the door. And so, with the cloak of
the Bacchanal Queen covering Mother Bunch’s poor garments and deformed
figure, the crowd had nothing to laugh at, and only wondered what this
meeting could mean, while the coaches pursued their way to the eating
house in the Place du Chatelet.
CHAPTER II. THE CONTRAST.
Some minutes after the meeting of Mother Bunch with the Bacchanal Queen,
the two sisters were alone together in a small room in the tavern.
“Let me kiss you again,” said Cephyse to the young sempstress; “at least
now we are alone, you will not be afraid?”
In the effort of the Bacchanal Queen to clasp Mother Bunch in her arms,
the cloak fell from the form of the latter. At sight of those miserable
garments, which she had hardly had time to observe on the Place du
Chatelet, in the midst of the crowd, Cephyse clasped her hands, and
could not repress an exclamation of painful surprise. Then, approaching
her sister, that she might contemplate her more closely, she took her
thin, icy palms between her own plump hands, and examined for some
minutes, with increasing grief, the suffering, pale, unhappy creature,
ground down by watching and privations, and half-clothed in a poor,
patched cotton gown.
“Oh, sister! to see you thus!” Unable to articulate another word, the
Bacchanal Queen threw herself on the other’s neck, and burst into tears.
Then, in the midst of her sobs, she added: “Pardon! pardon!”
“What is the matter, my dear Cephyse?” said the young sewing-girl,
deeply moved, and gently disengaging herself from the embrace of her
sister. “Why do you ask my pardon?”
“Why?” resumed Cephyse, raising her countenance, bathed in tears, and
purple with shame; “is it not shameful of me to be dressed in all this
frippery, and throwing away so much money in follies, while you are thus
miserably clad, and in need of everything--perhaps dying of want, for I
have never seen your poor face look so pale and worn.”
“Be at ease, dear sister! I am not ill. I was up rather late last night,
and that makes me a little pale--but pray do not cry--it grieves me.”
The Bacchanal Queen had but just arrived, radiant in the midst of the
intoxicated crowd, and yet it was Mother Bunch who was now employed in
consoling her!
An incident occurred, which made the contrast still more striking.
Joyous cries were heard suddenly in the next apartment, and these words
were repeated with enthusiasm: “Long live the Bacchanal Queen!”
Mother Bunch trembled, and her eyes filled with tears, as she saw her
sister with her face buried in her hands, as if overwhelmed with shame.
“Cephyse,” she said, “I entreat you not to grieve so. You will make me
regret the delight of this meeting, which is indeed happiness to me! It
is so long since I saw you! But tell me--what ails you?”
“You despise me perhaps--you are right,” said the Bacchanal Queen,
drying her tears.
“Despise you? for what?”
“Because I lead the life I do, instead of having the courage to support
misery along with you.”
The grief of Cephyse was so heart-breaking, that Mother Bunch, always
good and indulgent, wishing to console her, and raise her a little in
her own estimation, said to her tenderly: “In supporting it bravely for
a whole year, my good Cephyse, you have had more merit and courage than
I should have in bearing with it my whole life.”
“Oh, sister! do not say that.”
“In simple truth,” returned Mother Bunch, “to what temptations is a
creature like me exposed? Do I not naturally seek solitude, even as
you seek a noisy life of pleasure? What wants have I? A very little
suffices.”
“But you have not always that little?”
“No--but, weak and sickly as I seem, I can endure some privations better
than you could. Thus hunger produces in me a sort of numbness, which
leaves me very feeble--but for you, robust and full of life, hunger is
fury, is madness. Alas! you must remember how many times I have seen
you suffering from those painful attacks, when work failed us in our
wretched garret, and we could not even earn our four francs a week--so
that we had nothing--absolutely nothing to eat--for our pride prevented
us from applying to the neighbors.”
“You have preserved the right to that honest pride.”
“And you as well! Did you not struggle as much as a human creature
could? But strength fails at last--I know you well, Cephyse--it was
hunger that conquered you; and the painful necessity of constant labor,
which was yet insufficient to supply our common wants.”
“But you could endure those privations--you endure them still.”
“Can you compare me with yourself? Look,” said Mother Bunch, taking her
sister by the hand, and leading her to a mirror placed above a couch,
“look!--Dost think that God made you so beautiful, endowed you with such
quick and ardent blood, with so joyous, animated, grasping a nature
and with such taste and fondness for pleasure, that your youth might be
spent in a freezing garret, hid from the sun, nailed constantly to your
chair, clad almost in rags, and working without rest and without hope?
No! for He has given us other wants than those of eating and drinking.
Even in our humble condition, does not beauty require some little
ornament? Does not youth require some movement, pleasure, gayety? Do not
all ages call for relaxation and rest? Had you gained sufficient wages
to satisfy hunger, to have a day or so’s amusement in the week, after
working every other day for twelve or fifteen hours, and to procure
the neat and modest dress which so charming a face might naturally
claim--you would never have asked for more, I am sure of it--you have
told me as much a hundred times. You have yielded, therefore, to an
irresistible necessity, because your wants are greater than mine.”
“It is true,” replied the Bacchanal Queen, with a pensive air; “if I
could but have gained eighteenpence a day, my life would have been quite
different; for, in the beginning, sister, I felt cruelly humiliated to
live at a man’s expense.”
“Yes, yes--it was inevitable, my dear Cephyse; I must pity, but cannot
blame you. You did not choose your destiny; but, like me, you have
submitted to it.”
“Poor sister!” said Cephyse, embracing the speaker tenderly; “you can
encourage and console me in the midst of your own misfortunes, when I
ought to be pitying you.”
“Be satisfied!” said Mother Bunch; “God is just and good. If He has
denied me many advantages, He has given me my joys, as you have yours.”
“Joys?”
“Yes, and great ones--without which life would be too burdensome, and I
should not have the courage to go through with it.”
“I understand you,” said Cephyse, with emotion; “you still know how to
devote yourself for others, and that lightens your own sorrows.”
“I do what I can, but, alas! it is very little; yet when I succeed,”
added Mother Bunch, with a faint smile, “I am as proud and happy as a
poor little ant, who, after a great deal of trouble, has brought a big
straw to the common nest. But do not let us talk any more of me.”
“Yes, but I must, even at the risk of making you angry,” resumed the
Bacchanal Queen, timidly; “I have something to propose to you which you
once before refused. Jacques Rennepont has still, I think, some money
left--we are spending it in follies--now and then giving a little to
poor people we may happen to meet--I beg of you, let me come to your
assistance--I see in your poor face, you cannot conceal it from me, that
you are wearing yourself out with toil.”
“Thanks, my dear Cephyse, I know your good heart; but I am not in want
of anything. The little I gain is sufficient for me.”
“You refuse me,” said the Bacchanal Queen, sadly, “because you know
that my claim to this money is not honorable--be it so--I respect your
scruples. But you will not refuse a service from Jacques; he has been a
workman, like ourselves, and comrades should help each other. Accept it
I beseech you, or I shall think you despise me.”
“And I shall think you despise me, if you insist any more upon it, my
dear Cephyse,” said Mother Bunch, in a tone at once so mild and firm
that the Bacchanal Queen saw that all persuasion would be in vain. She
hung her head sorrowfully, and a tear again trickled down her cheek.
“My refusal grieves you,” said the other, taking her hand; “I am truly
sorry--but reflect--and you will understand me.”
“You are right,” said the Bacchanal Queen, bitterly, after a moment’s
silence; “you cannot accept assistance from my lover--it was an insult
to propose it to you. There are positions in life so humiliating, that
they soil even the good one wishes to do.”
“Cephyse, I did not mean to hurt you--you know it well.”
“Oh! believe me,” replied the Bacchanal Queen, “gay and giddy as I am,
I have sometimes moments of reflection, even in the midst of my maddest
joy. Happily, such moments are rare.”
“And what do you think of, then?”
“Why, that the life I lead is hardly the thing; then resolve to ask
Jacques for a small sum of money, just enough to subsist on for a year,
and form the plan of joining you, and gradually getting to work again.”
“The idea is a good one; why not act upon it?”
“Because, when about to execute this project, I examined myself
sincerely, and my courage failed. I feel that I could never resume the
habit of labor, and renounce this mode of life, sometimes rich, as
to day, sometimes precarious,--but at least free and full of leisure,
joyous and without care, and at worst a thousand times preferable to
living upon four francs a week. Not that interest has guided me. Many
times have I refused to exchange a lover, who had little or nothing,
for a rich man, that I did not like. Nor have I ever asked anything for
myself. Jacques has spent perhaps ten thousand francs the last three
or four months, yet we only occupy two half-furnished rooms, because
we always live out of doors, like the birds: fortunately, when I first
loved him, he had nothing at all, and I had just sold some jewels
that had been given me, for a hundred francs, and put this sum in the
lottery. As mad people and fools are always lucky, I gained a prize of
four thousand francs. Jacques was as gay, and light-headed, and full of
fun as myself, so we said: ‘We love each other very much, and, as long
as this money lasts, we will keep up the racket; when we have no more,
one of two things will happen--either we shall be tired of one another,
and so part--or else we shall love each other still, and then, to remain
together, we shall try and get work again; and, if we cannot do so, and
yet will not part--a bushel of charcoal will do our business!’”
“Good heaven!” cried Mother Bunch, turning pale.
“Be satisfied! we have not come to that. We had still something left,
when a kind of agent, who had paid court to me, but who was so ugly that
I could not bear him for all his riches, knowing that I was living
with Jacques asked me to--But why should I trouble you with all these
details? In one word, he lent Jacques money, on some sort of a doubtful
claim he had, as was thought, to inherit some property. It is with this
money that we are amusing ourselves--as long as its lasts.”
“But, my dear Cephyse, instead of spending this money so foolishly, why
not put it out to interest, and marry Jacques, since you love him?”
“Oh! in the first place,” replied the Bacchanal Queen, laughing, as her
gay and thoughtless character resumed its ascendancy, “to put money out
to interest gives one no pleasure. All the amusement one has is to look
at a little bit of paper, which one gets in exchange for the nice little
pieces of gold, with which one can purchase a thousand pleasures. As for
marrying, I certainly like Jacques better than I ever liked any one;
but it seems to me, that, if we were married, all our happiness would
end--for while he is only my lover, he cannot reproach me with what has
passed--but, as my husband, he would be stare to upbraid me, sooner or
later, and if my conduct deserves blame, I prefer giving it to myself,
because I shall do it more tenderly.”
“Mad girl that you are! But this money will not last forever. What is to
be done next?”
“Afterwards!--Oh! that’s all in the moon. To-morrow seems to me as if it
would not come for a hundred years. If we were always saying: ‘We must
die one day or the other’--would life be worth having?”
The conversation between Cephyse and her sister was here again
interrupted by a terrible uproar, above which sounded the sharp, shrill
noise of Ninny Moulin’s rattle. To this tumult succeeded a chorus of
barbarous cries, in the midst of which were distinguishable these words,
which shook the very windows: “The Queen! the Bacchanal Queen!”
Mother Bunch started at this sudden noise.
“It is only my court, who are getting impatient,” said Cephyse--and this
time she could laugh.
“Heavens!” cried the sewing-girl, in alarm; “if they were to come here
in search of you?”
“No, no--never fear.”
“But listen! do you not hear those steps? they are coming along the
passage--they are approaching. Pray, sister, let me go out alone,
without being seen by all these people.”
That moment the door was opened, and Cephyse, ran towards it. She saw in
the passage a deputation headed by Ninny Moulin, who was armed with his
formidable rattle, and followed by Rose-Pompon and Sleepinbuff.
“The Bacchanal Queen! or I poison myself with a glass of water;” cried
Ninny Moulin.
“The Bacchanal Queen! or I publish my banns of marriage with Ninny
Moulin!” cried little Rose-Pompon, with a determined air.
“The Bacchanal Queen! or the court will rise in arms, and carry her off
by force!” said another voice.
“Yes, yes--let us carry her off!” repeated a formidable chorus.
“Jacques, enter alone!” said the Bacchanal Queen, notwithstanding these
pressing summonses; then, addressing her court in a majestic tone, she
added: “In ten minutes, I shall be at your service--and then for a--of a
time!”
“Long live the Bacchanal Queen,” cried Dumoulin, shaking his rattle as
he retired, followed by the deputation, whilst Sleepinbuff entered the
room alone.
“Jacques,” said Cephyse, “this is my good sister.”
“Enchanted to see you,” said Jacques, cordially; “the more so as you
will give me some news of my friend Agricola. Since I began to play the
rich man, we have not seen each other, but I like him as much as ever,
and think him a good and worthy fellow. You live in the same house. How
is he?”
“Alas, sir! he and his family have had many misfortunes. He is in
prison.”
“In prison!” cried Cephyse.
“Agricola in prison! what for?” said Sleepinbuff.
“For a trifling political offence. We had hoped to get him out on bail.”
“Certainly; for five hundred francs it could be done,” said Sleepinbuff.
“Unfortunately, we have not been able; the person upon whom we relied--”
The Bacchanal Queen interrupted the speaker by saying to her lover: “Do
you hear, Jacques? Agricola in prison, for want of five hundred francs!”
“To be sure! I hear and understand all about it. No need of your
winking. Poor fellow! he was the support of his mother.”
“Alas! yes, sir--and it is the more distressing, as his father has but
just returned from Russia, and his mother--”
“Here,” said Sleepinbuff, interrupting, and giving Mother Bunch a purse;
“take this--all the expenses here have been paid beforehand--this is
what remains of my last bag. You will find here some twenty-five or
thirty Napoleons, and I cannot make a better use of them than to serve
a comrade in distress. Give them to Agricola’s father; he will take the
necessary steps, and to-morrow Agricola will be at his forge, where I
had much rather he should be than myself.”
“Jacques, give me a kiss!” said the Bacchanal Queen.
“Now, and afterwards, and again and again!” said Jacques, joyously
embracing the queen.
Mother Bunch hesitated for a moment; but reflecting that, after all,
this sum of money, which was about to be spent in follies, would restore
life and happiness to the family of Agricola, and that hereafter these
very five hundred francs, when returned to Jacques, might be of the
greatest use to him, she resolved to accept this offer. She took the
purse, and with tearful eyes, said to him: “I will not refuse your
kindness M. Jacques; you are so good and generous, Agricola’s father
will thus at least have one consolation, in the midst of heavy sorrows.
Thanks! many thanks!”
“There is no need to thank me; money was made for others as well as
ourselves.”
Here, without, the noise recommenced more furiously than ever, and Ninny
Moulin’s rattle sent forth the most doleful sounds.
“Cephyse,” said Sleepinbuff, “they will break everything to pieces,
if you do not return to them, and I have nothing left to pay for the
damage. Excuse us,” added he, laughing, “but you see that royalty has
its duties.”
Cephyse deeply moved, extended her arms to Mother Bunch, who threw
herself into them, shedding sweet tears.
“And now,” said she, to her sister, “when shall I see you again?”
“Soon--though nothing grieves me more than to see you in want, out of
which I am not allowed to help you.”
“You will come, then, to see me? It is a promise?”
“I promise you in her name,” said Jacques; “we will pay a visit to you
and your neighbor Agricola.”
“Return to the company, Cephyse, and amuse yourself with a light heart,
for M. Jacques has made a whole family happy.”
So saying, and after Sleepinbuff had ascertained that she could go down
without being seen by his noisy and joyous companions, Mother Bunch
quietly withdrew, eager to carry one piece of good news at least to
Dagobert; but intending, first of all, to go to the Rue de Babylone, to
the garden-house formerly occupied by Adrienne de Cardoville. We shall
explain hereafter the cause of this determination.
As the girl quitted the eating-house, three men plainly and comfortably
dressed, were watching before it, and talking in a low voice. Soon
after, they were joined by a fourth person, who rapidly descended the
stairs of the tavern.
“Well?” said the three first, with anxiety.
“He is there.”
“Are you sure of it?”
“Are there two Sleepers-in-buff on earth?” replied the other. “I have
just seen him; he is togged out like one of the swell mob. They will be
at table for three hours at least.”
“Then wait for me, you others. Keep as quiet as possible. I will go and
fetch the captain, and the game is bagged.” So saying, one of the three
men walked off quickly, and disappeared in a street leading from the
square.
At this same instant the Bacchanal Queen entered the banqueting-room,
accompanied by Jacques, and was received with the most frenzied
acclamations from all sides.
“Now then,” cried Cephyse, with a sort of feverish excitement, as if she
wished to stun herself; “now then, friends--noise and tumult, hurricane
and tempest, thunder and earthquake--as much as you please!” Then,
holding out her glass to Ninny Moulin, she added: “Pour out! pour out!”
“Long live the Queen!” cried they all, with one voice.
CHAPTER III. THE CAROUSE.
The Bacchanal Queen, having Sleepinbuff and Rose-Pompon opposite her,
and Ninny Moulin on her right hand, presided at the repast, called a
reveille-matin (wake-morning), generously offered by Jacques to his
companions in pleasure.
Both young men and girls seemed to have forgotten the fatigues of a
ball, begun at eleven o’clock in the evening, and finished at six in
the morning; and all these couples, joyous as they were amorous and
indefatigable, laughed, ate, and drank, with youthful and Pantagruelian
ardor, so that, during the first part of the feast, there was less
chatter than clatter of plates and glasses.
The Bacchanal Queen’s countenance was less gay, but much more animated
than usual; her flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes announced a feverish
excitement; she wished to drown reflection, cost what it might. Her
conversation with her sister often recurred to her, and she tried to
escape from such sad remembrances.
Jacques regarded Cephyse from time to time with passionate adoration;
for, thanks to the singular conformity of character, mind, and taste
between him and the Bacchanal Queen, their attachment had deeper and
stronger roots than generally belong to ephemeral connections founded
upon pleasure. Cephyse and Jacques were themselves not aware of all the
power of a passion which till now had been surrounded only by joys and
festivities, and not yet been tried by any untoward event.
Little Rose-Pompon, left a widow a few days before by a student, who, in
order to end the carnival in style, had gone into the country to raise
supplies from his family, under one of those fabulous pretences which
tradition carefully preserves in colleges of law and medicine--Rose
Pompon, we repeat, an example of rare fidelity, determined not to
compromise herself, had taken for a chaperon the inoffensive Ninny
Moulin.
This latter, having doffed his helmet, exhibited a bald head, encircled
by a border of black, curling hair, pretty long at the back of the head.
By a remarkable Bacchic phenomenon, in proportion as intoxication gained
upon him, a sort of zone, as purple as his jovial face, crept by degrees
over his brow, till it obscured even the shining whiteness of his crown.
Rose-Pompon, who knew the meaning of this symptom, pointed it out to the
company, and exclaimed with a loud burst of laughter: “Take care, Ninny
Moulin! the tide of the wine is coming in.”
“When it rises above his head he will be drowned,” added the Bacchanal
Queen.
“Oh, Queen! don’t disturb me; I am meditating, answered Dumoulin, who
was getting tipsy. He held in his hand, in the fashion of an antique
goblet, a punch-bowl filled with wine, for he despised the ordinary
glasses, because of their small size.
“Meditating,” echoed Rose-Pompon, “Ninny Moulin is meditating. Be
attentive!”
“He is meditating; he must be ill then!”
“What is he meditating? an illegal dance?”
“A forbidden Anacreontic attitude?”
“Yes, I am meditating,” returned Dumoulin, gravely; “I am meditating
upon wine, generally and in particular--wine, of which the immortal
Bossuet”--Dumoulin had the very bad habit of quoting Bossuet when he was
drunk--“of which the immortal Bossuet says (and he was a judge of good
liquor): ‘In wine is courage, strength joy, and spiritual fervor’--when
one has any brains,” added Ninny Moulin, by way of parenthesis.
“Oh, my! how I adore your Bossuet!” said Rose-Pompon.
“As for my particular meditation, it concerns the question, whether the
wine at the marriage of Cana was red or white. Sometimes I incline to
one side, sometimes to the other--and sometimes to both at once.”
“That is going to the bottom of the question,” said Sleepinbuff.
“And, above all, to the bottom of the bottles,” added the Bacchanal
Queen.
“As your majesty is pleased to observe; and already, by dint of
reflection and research, I have made a great discovery--namely, that, if
the wine at the marriage of Cana was red--”
“It couldn’t ‘a’ been white,” said Rose-Pompon, judiciously.
“And if I had arrived at the conviction that it was neither white nor
red?” asked Dumoulin, with a magisterial air.
“That could only be when you had drunk till all was blue,” observed
Sleepinbuff.
“The partner of the Queen says well. One may be too athirst for science;
but never mind! From all my studies on this question, to which I have
devoted my life--I shall await the end of my respectable career with
the sense of having emptied tuns with a historical--theological--and
archeological tone!”
It is impossible to describe the jovial grimace and tone with which
Dumoulin pronounced and accentuated these last words, which provoked a
general laugh.
“Archieolopically?” said Rose-Pompon. “What sawnee is that? Has he a
tail? does he live in the water?”
“Never mind,” observed the Bacchanal Queen; “these are words of wise men
and conjurers; they are like horsehair bustles--they serve for filling
out--that’s all. I like better to drink; so fill the glasses, Ninny
Moulin; some champagne, Rose-Pompon; here’s to the health of your
Philemon and his speedy return!”
“And to the success of his plant upon his stupid and stingy family!”
added Rose-Pompon.
The toast was received with unanimous applause.
“With the permission of her majesty and her court,” said Dumoulin, “I
propose a toast to the success of a project which greatly interests me,
and has some resemblance to Philemon’s jockeying. I fancy that the toast
will bring me luck.”
“Let’s have it, by all means!”
“Well, then--success to my marriage!” said Dumoulin, rising.
These words provoked an explosion of shouts, applause, and laughter.
Ninny Moulin shouted, applauded, laughed even louder than the rest,
opening wide his enormous mouth, and adding to the stunning noise the
harsh springing of his rattle, which he had taken up from under his
chair.
When the storm had somewhat subsided, the Bacchanal Queen rose and said:
“I drink to the health of the future Madame Ninny Moulin.”
“Oh, Queen! your courtesy touches me so sensibly that I must
allow you to read in the depths of my heart the name of my
future spouse,” exclaimed Dumoulin. “She is called Madame
Honoree-Modeste-Messaline-Angele de la Sainte-Colombe, widow.”
“Bravo! bravo!”
“She is sixty years old, and has more thousands of francs-a-year than
she has hair in her gray moustache or wrinkles on her face; she is
so superbly fat that one of her gowns would serve as a tent for this
honorable company. I hope to present my future spouse to you on Shrove
Tuesday, in the costume of a shepherdess that has just devoured her
flock. Some of them wish to convert her--but I have undertaken to divert
her, which she will like better. You must help me to plunge her headlong
into all sorts of skylarking jollity.”
“We will plunge her into anything you please.”
“She shall dance like sixty!” said Rose-Pompon, humming a popular tune.
“She will overawe the police.”
“We can say to them: ‘Respect this lady; your mother will perhaps be as
old some day!’”
Suddenly, the Bacchanal Queen rose; her countenance wore a singular
expression of bitter and sardonic delight. In one hand she held a glass
full to the brim. “I hear the Cholera is approaching in his seven-league
boots,” she cried. “I drink luck to the Cholera!” And she emptied the
bumper.
Notwithstanding the general gayety, these words made a gloomy
impression; a sort of electric shudder ran through the assemblage, and
nearly every countenance became suddenly serious.
“Oh, Cephyse!” said Jacques, in a tone of reproach.
“Luck to the Cholera,” repeated the Queen, fearlessly. “Let him spare
those who wish to live, and kill together those who dread to part!”
Jacques and Cephyse exchanged a rapid glance, unnoticed by their joyous
companions, and for some time the Bacchanal Queen remained silent and
thoughtful.
“If you put it that way, it is different,” cried Rose-Pompon, boldly.
“To the Cholera! may none but good fellows be left on earth!”
In spite of this variation, the impression was still painfully
impressive. Dumoulin, wishing to cut short this gloomy subject,
exclaimed: “Devil take the dead, and long live the living! And, talking
of chaps who both live and live well, I ask you to drink a health most
dear to our joyous queen, the health of our Amphitryon. Unfortunately,
I do not know his respectable name, having only had the advantage
of making his acquaintance this night; he will excuse me, then, if I
confine myself to proposing the health of Sleepinbuff--a name by no
means offensive to my modesty, as Adam never slept in any other manner.
I drink to Sleepinbuff.”
“Thanks, old son!” said Jacques, gayly; “were I to forget your name, I
should call you ‘Have-a-sip?’ and I am sure that you would answer: ‘I
will.’”
“I will directly!” said Dumoulin, making the military salute with one
hand, and holding out the bowl with the other.
“As we have drunk together,” resumed Sleepinbuff, cordially, “we ought
to know each other thoroughly. I am Jacques Rennepont?”
“Rennepont!” cried Dumoulin, who appeared struck by the name, in spite
of his half-drunkenness; “you are Rennepont?”
“Rennepont in the fullest sense of the word. Does that astonish you?”
“There is a very ancient family of that name--the Counts of Rennepont.”
“The deuce there is!” said the other, laughing.
“The Counts of Rennepont are also Dukes of Cardoville,” added Dumoulin.
“Now, come, old fellow! do I look as if I belonged to such a family?--I,
a workman out for a spree?”
“You a workman? why, we are getting into the Arabian Nights!” cried
Dumoulin, more and more surprised. “You give us a Belshazzar’s banquet,
with accompaniment of carriages and four, and yet are a workman? Only
tell me your trade, and I will join you, leaving the Vine of the Divine
to take care of itself.”
“Come, I say! don’t think that I am a printer of flimsies, and a
smasher!” replied Jacques, laughing.
“Oh, comrade! no such suspicion--”
“It would be excusable, seeing the rigs I run. But I’ll make you easy on
that point. I am spending an inheritance.”
“Eating and drinking an uncle, no doubt?” said Dumoulin, benevolently.
“Faith, I don’t know.”
“What! you don’t know whom you are eating and drinking?”
“Why, you see, in the first place, my father was a bone-grubber.”
“The devil he was!” said Dumoulin, somewhat out of countenance, though
in general not over-scrupulous in the choice of his bottle-companions:
but, after the first surprise, he resumed, with the most charming
amenity: “There are some rag-pickers very high by scent--I mean
descent!”
“To be sure! you may think to laugh at me,” said Jacques, “but you are
right in this respect, for my father was a man of very great merit. He
spoke Greek and Latin like a scholar, and often told me that he had not
his equal in mathematics; besides, he had travelled a good deal.”
“Well, then,” resumed Dumoulin, whom surprise had partly sobered, “you
may belong to the family of the Counts of Rennepont, after all.”
“In which case,” said Rose-Pompon, laughing, “your father was not a
gutter-snipe by trade, but only for the honor of the thing.”
“No, no--worse luck! it was to earn his living,” replied Jacques; “but,
in his youth, he had been well off. By what appeared, or rather by
what did not appear, he had applied to some rich relation, and the
rich relation had said to him: ‘Much obliged! try the work’us.’ Then he
wished to make use of his Greek, and Latin, and mathematics. Impossible
to do anything--Paris, it seems, being choke-full of learned men--so
my father had to look for his bread at the end of a hooked stick, and
there, too, he must have found it, for I ate of it during two years,
when I came to live with him after the death of an aunt, with whom I had
been staying in the country.”
“Your respectable father must have been a sort of philosopher,” said
Dumoulin; “but, unless he found an inheritance in a dustbin, I don’t see
how you came into your property.”
“Wait for the end of the song. At twelve years of age I was an
apprentice at the factory of M. Tripeaud; two years afterwards, my
father died of an accident, leaving me the furniture of our garret--a
mattress, a chair, and a table--and, moreover, in an old Eau de Cologne
box, some papers (written, it seems, in English), and a bronze medal,
worth about ten sous, chain and all. He had never spoken to me of these
papers, so, not knowing if they were good for anything, I left them at
the bottom of an old trunk, instead of burning them--which was well for
me, since it is upon these papers that I have had money advanced.”
“What a godsend!” said Dumoulin. “But somebody must have known that you
had them?”
“Yes; one of those people that are always looking out for old debts came
to Cephyse, who told me all about it; and, after he had read the papers,
he said that the affair was doubtful, but that he would lend me ten
thousand francs on it, if I liked. Ten thousand francs was a large sum,
so I snapped him up!”
“But you must have supposed that these old papers were of great value.”
“Faith, no! since my father, who ought to have known their value, had
never realized on them--and then, you see, ten thousand francs in good,
bright coin, falling as it were from the clouds, are not to be sneezed
at--so I took them--only the man made me do a bit of stiff as guarantee,
or something of that kind.”
“Did you sign it?”
“Of course--what did I care about it? The man told me it was only a
matter of form. He spoke the truth, for the bill fell due a fortnight
ago, and I have heard nothing of it. I have still about a thousand
francs in his hands, for I have taken him for my banker. And that’s the
way, old pal, that I’m able to flourish and be jolly all day long, as
pleased as Punch to have left my old grinder of a master, M. Tripeaud.”
As he pronounced this name, the joyous countenance of Jacques became
suddenly overcast. Cephyse, no longer under the influence of the painful
impression she had felt for a moment, looked uneasily at Jacques, for
she knew the irritation which the name of M. Tripeaud produced within
him.
“M. Tripeaud,” resumed Sleepinbuff, “is one that would make the good
bad, and the bad worse. They say that a good rider makes a good horse;
they ought to say that a good master makes a good workman. Zounds! when
I think of that fellow!” cried Sleepinbuff, striking his hand violently
on the table.
“Come, Jacques--think of something else!” said the Bacchanal Queen.
“Make him laugh, Rose-Pompon.”
“I am not in a humor to laugh,” replied Jacques, abruptly, for he was
getting excited from the effects of the wine; “it is more than I can
bear to think of that man. It exasperates me! it drives me mad! You
should have heard him saying: ‘Beggarly workmen! rascally workmen! they
grumble that they have no food in their bellies; well, then, we’ll give
them bayonets to stop their hunger.’(11) And there’s the children in his
factory--you should see them, poor little creatures!--working as long
as the men--wasting away, and dying by the dozen--what odds? as soon
as they were dead plenty of others came to take their places--not like
horses, which can only be replaced with money.”
“Well, it is clear, that you do not like your old master,” said
Dumoulin, more and more surprised at his Amphitryon’s gloomy and
thoughtful air, and, regretting that the conversation had taken this
serious turn, he whispered a few words in the ear of the Bacchanal
Queen, who answered by a sign of intelligence.
“I don’t like M. Tripeaud!” exclaimed Jacques. “I hate him--and shall
I tell you why? Because it is as much his fault as mine, that I have
become a good-for-nothing loafer. I don’t say it to screen myself; but
it is the truth. When I was ‘prenticed to him as a lad, I was all heart
and ardor, and so bent upon work, that I used to take my shirt off to
my task, which, by the way, was the reason that I was first called
Sleepinbuff. Well! I might have toiled myself to death; not one word of
encouragement did I receive. I came first to my work, and was the last
to leave off; what matter? it was not even noticed. One day, I was
injured by the machinery. I was taken to the hospital. When I came out,
weak as I was, I went straight to my work; I was not to be frightened;
the others, who knew their master well, would often say to me: ‘What
a muff you must be, little one! What good will you get by working so
hard?’--still I went on. But, one day, a worthy old man, called Father
Arsene, who had worked in the house many years, and was a model of good
conduct, was suddenly turned away, because he was getting too feeble. It
was a death-blow to him; his wife was infirm, and, at his age, he could
not get another place. When the foreman told him he was dismissed, he
could not believe it, and he began to cry for grief. At that moment, M.
Tripeaud passes; Father Arsene begs him with clasped hands to keep him
at half-wages. ‘What!’ says M. Tripeaud, shrugging his shoulders; ‘do
you think that I will turn my factory into a house of invalids? You are
no longer able to work--so be off!’ ‘But I have worked forty years of my
life; what is to become of me?’ cried poor Father Arsene. ‘That is not
my business,’ answered M. Tripeaud; and, addressing his clerk, he added:
‘Pay what is due for the week, and let him cut his stick.’ Father
Arsene did cut his stick; that evening, he and his old wife suffocated
themselves with charcoal. Now, you see, I was then a lad; but that story
of Father Arsene taught me, that, however hard you might work, it would
only profit your master, who would not even thank you for it, and leave
you to die on the flags in your old age. So all my fire was damped, and
I said to myself: ‘What’s the use of doing more than I just need? If
I gain heaps of gold for M. Tripeaud, shall I get an atom of it?’
Therefore, finding neither pride nor profit in my work, I took a disgust
for it--just did barely enough to earn my wages--became an idler and a
rake--and said to myself: ‘When I get too tired of labor, I can always
follow the example of Father Arsene and his wife.”’
Whilst Jacques resigned himself to the current of these bitter thoughts,
the other guests, incited by the expressive pantomime of Dumoulin and
the Bacchanal Queen, had tacitly agreed together; and, on a signal from
the Queen, who leaped upon the table, and threw down the bottles and
glasses with her foot, all rose and shouted, with the accompaniment
of Ninny Moulin’s rattle “The storm blown Tulip! the quadrille of the
Storm-blown Tulip!”
At these joyous cries, which burst suddenly, like shell, Jacques
started; then gazing with astonishment at his guests, he drew his hand
across his brow, as if to chase away the painful ideas that oppressed
him, and exclaimed: “You are right. Forward the first couple! Let us be
merry!”
In a moment, the table, lifted by vigorous arms, was removed to the
extremity of the banqueting-room; the spectators, mounted upon chairs,
benches, and window-ledges, began to sing in chorus the well-known air
of les Etudiants, so as to serve instead of orchestra, and accompany
the quadrille formed by Sleepinbuff, the Queen, Ninny Moulin, and Rose
Pompon.
Dumoulin, having entrusted his rattle to one of the guests, resumed his
extravagant Roman helmet and plume; he had taken off his great-coat
at the commencement of the feast, so that he now appeared in all the
splendor of his costume. His cuirass of bright scales ended in a tunic
of feathers, not unlike those worn by the savages, who form the oxen’s
escort on Mardi Gras. Ninny Moulin had a huge paunch and thin legs,
so that the latter moved about at pleasure in the gaping mouths of his
large top boots.
Little Rose-Pompon, with her pinched-up cocked-hat stuck on one side,
her hands in the pockets of her trousers, her bust a little inclined
forward, and undulating from right to left, advanced to meet
Ninny-Moulin; the latter danced, or rather leaped towards her, his
left leg bent under him, his right leg stretched forward, with the toe
raised, and the heel gliding on the floor; moreover, he struck his neck
with his left hand, and by a simultaneous movement, stretched forth
his right, as if he would have thrown dust in the eyes of his opposite
partner.
This first figure met with great success, and the applause was
vociferous, though it was only the innocent prelude to the step of
the Storm-blown Tulip--when suddenly the door opened, and one of the
waiters, after looking about for an instant, in search of Sleepinbuff,
ran to him, and whispered some words in his ear.
“Me!” cried Jacques, laughing; “here’s a go!”
The waiter added a few more words, when Sleepinbuff’s face assumed
an expression of uneasiness, as he answered. “Very well! I come
directly,”--and he made a step towards the door.
“What’s the matter, Jacques?” asked the Bacchanal Queen, in some
surprise.
“I’ll be back immediately. Some one take my place. Go on with the
dance,” said Sleepinbuff, as he hastily left the room.
“Something, that was not put down in the bill,” said Dumoulin; “he will
soon be back.”
“That’s it,” said Cephyse. “Now cavalier suel!” she added, as she took
Jacques’s place, and the dance continued.
Ninny Moulin had just taken hold of Rose Pompon with his right hand,
and of the Queen with his left, in order to advance between the two, in
which figure he showed off his buffoonery to the utmost extent, when
the door again opened, and the same waiter, who had called out Jacques,
approached Cephyse with an air of consternation, and whispered in her
ear, as he had before done to Sleepinbuff.
The Bacchanal Queen grew pale, uttered a piercing scream, and rushed out
of the room without a word, leaving her guests in stupefaction.
(11) These atrocious words were actually spoken during the Lyons Riots.
CHAPTER IV. THE FAREWELL
The Bacchanal Queen, following the waiter, arrived at the bottom of the
staircase. A coach was standing before the door of the house. In it she
saw Sleepinbuff, with one of the men who, two hours before, had been
waiting on the Place du Chatelet.
On the arrival of Cephyse, the man got down, and said to Jacques, as he
drew out his watch: “I give you a quarter of an hour; it is all that I
can do for you, my good fellow; after that we must start. Do not try to
escape, for we’ll be watching at the coach doors.”
With one spring, Cephyse was in the coach. Too much overcome to speak
before, she now exclaimed, as she took her seat by Jacques, and remarked
the paleness of his countenance: “What is it? What do they want with
you?”
“I am arrested for debt,” said Jacques, in a mournful voice.
“You!” exclaimed Cephyse, with a heart-rending sob.
“Yes, for that bill, or guarantee, they made me sign. And yet the man
said it was only a form--the rascal!”
“But you have money in his hands; let him take that on account.”
“I have not a copper; he sends me word by the bailiff, that not having
paid the bill, I shall not have the last thousand francs.”
“Then let us go to him, and entreat him to leave you at liberty. It was
he who came to propose to lend you this money. I know it well, as he
first addressed himself to me. He will have pity on you.”
“Pity?--a money broker pity? No! no!”
“Is there then no hope? none?” cried Cephyse clasping her hands in
anguish. “But there must be something done,” she resumed. “He promised
you!”
“You can see how he keeps his promises,” answered Jacques, with
bitterness. “I signed, without even knowing what I signed. The bill is
over-due; everything is in order, it would be vain to resist. They have
just explained all that to me.”
“But they cannot keep you long in prison. It is impossible.”
“Five years, if I do not pay. As I’ll never be able to do so, my fate is
certain.”
“Oh! what a misfortune! and not to be able to do anything!” said
Cephyse, hiding her face in her hands.
“Listen to me, Cephyse,” resumed Jacques, in a voice of mournful
emotion; “since I am here, I have thought only of one thing--what is to
become of you?”
“Never mind me!”
“Not mind you?--art mad? What will you do? The furniture of our two
rooms is not worth two hundred francs. We have squandered our money so
foolishly, that we have not even paid our rent. We owe three quarters,
and we must not therefore count upon the furniture. I leave you without
a coin. At least I shall be fed in prison--but how will you manage to
live?
“What is the use of grieving beforehand?”
“I ask you how you will live to-morrow?” cried Jacques.
“I will sell my costume, and some other clothes. I will send you half
the money, and keep the rest. That will last some days.”
“And afterwards?--afterwards?”
“Afterwards?--why, then--I don’t know--how can I tell you!
Afterwards--I’ll look about me.”
“Hear me, Cephyse,” resumed Jacques, with bitter agony. “It is now that
I first know how mach I love you. My heart is pressed as in a vise at
the thought of leaving you and I shudder to thinly what is to become of
you.” Then--drawing his hand across his forehead, Jacques added: “You
see we have been ruined by saying--‘To-morrow will never come!’--for to
morrow has come. When I am no longer with you, and you have spent the
last penny of the money gained by the sale of your clothes--unfit for
work as you have become--what will you do next? Must I tell you what you
will do!--you will forget me and--” Then, as if he recoiled from his own
thoughts, Jacques exclaimed, with a burst of rage and despair--“Great
Heaven! if that were to happen, I should dash my brains out against the
stones!”
Cephyse guessed the half-told meaning of Jacques, and throwing her arms
around his neck, she said to him: “I take another lover?--never! I am
like you, for I now first know how much I love you.”
“But, my poor Cephyse--how will you live?”
“Well, I shall take courage. I will go back and dwell, with my sister,
as in old times; we will work together, and so earn our bread. I’ll
never go out, except to visit you. In a few days your creditor will
reflect, that, as you can’t pay him ten thousand francs, he may as well
set you free. By that time I shall have once more acquired the habit of
working. You shall see, you shall see!--and you also will again acquire
this habit. We shall live poor, but content. After all, we have had
plenty of amusement for six month, while so many others have never known
pleasure all their lives. And believe me, my dear Jacques, when I say
to you--I shall profit by this lesson. If you love me, do not feel the
least uneasiness; I tell you, that I would rather die a hundred times,
than have another lover.”
“Kiss me,” said Jacques, with eyes full of tears. “I believe you--yes,
I believe you--and you give me back my courage, both for now and
hereafter. You are right; we must try and get to work again, or else
nothing remains but Father Arsene’s bushel of charcoal; for, my girl,”
added Jacques, in a low and trembling voice, “I have been like a drunken
man these six months, and now I am getting sober, and see whither we are
going. Our means once exhausted, I might perhaps have become a robber,
and you--”
“Oh, Jacques! don’t talk so--it is frightful,” interrupted Cephyse; “I
swear to you that I will return to my sister--that I will work--that I
will have courage!”
Thus saying, the Bacchanal Queen was very sincere; she fully intended
to keep her word, for her heart was not yet completely corrupted. Misery
and want had been with her, as with so many others, the cause and the
excuse of her worst errors. Until now, she had at least followed the
instincts of her heart, without regard to any base or venal motive. The
cruel position in which she beheld Jacques had so far exalted her love,
that she believed herself capable of resuming, along with Mother Bunch,
that life of sterile and incessant toil, full of painful sacrifices and
privations, which once had been impossible for her to bear, and which
the habits of a life of leisure and dissipation would now render still
more difficult.
Still, the assurances which she had just given Jacques calmed his grief
and anxiety a little; he had sense and feeling enough to perceive that
the fatal track which he had hitherto so blindly followed was leading
both him and Cephyse directly to infamy.
One of the bailiffs, having knocked at the coach-door, said to Jacques:
“My lad, you have only five minutes left--so make haste.”
“So, courage, my girl--courage!” said Jacques.
“I will; you may rely upon me.”
“Are you going upstairs again?”
“No--oh no!” said Cephyse. “I have now a horror of this festivity.”
“Everything is paid for, and the waiter will tell them not to expect us
back. They will be much astonished,” continued Jacques, “but it’s all
the same now.”
“If you could only go with me to our lodging,” said Cephyse, “this
man would perhaps permit it, so as not to enter Sainte-Pelagie in that
dress.”
“Oh! he will not forbid you to accompany me; but, as he will be with
us in the coach, we shall not be able to talk freely in his presence.
Therefore, let me speak reason to you for the first time in my life.
Remember what I say, my dear Cephyse--and the counsel will apply to
me as well as to yourself,” continued Jacques, in a grave and feeling
tone--“resume from to-day the habit of labor. It may be painful,
unprofitable--never mind--do not hesitate, for too soon will the
influence of this lesson be forgotten. By-and-bye it will be too late,
and then you will end like so many unfortunate creatures--”
“I understand,” said Cephyse, blushing; “but I will rather die than lead
such a life.”
“And there you will do well--for in that case,” added Jacques, in a deep
and hollow voice, “I will myself show you how to die.”
“I count upon you, Jacques,” answered Cephyse, embracing her lover
with excited feeling; then she added, sorrowfully: “It was a kind of
presentiment, when just now I felt so sad, without knowing why, in the
midst of all our gayety--and drank to the Cholera, so that we might die
together.”
“Well! perhaps the Cholera will come,” resumed Jacques, with a gloomy
air; “that would save us the charcoal, which we may not even be able to
buy.”
“I can only tell you one thing, Jacques, that to live and die together,
you will always find me ready.”
“Come, dry your eyes,” said he, with profound emotion. “Do not let us
play the children before these men.”
Some minutes after, the coach took the direction to Jacques’s lodging,
where he was to change his clothes, before proceeding to the debtors’
prison.
Let us repeat, with regard to the hunchback’s sister--for there are
things which cannot be too often repeated--that one of the most fatal
consequences of the Inorganization of Labor is the Insufficiency of
Wages.
The insufficiency of wages forces inevitably the greater number of
young girls, thus badly paid, to seek their means of subsistence in
connections which deprave them.
Sometimes they receive a small allowance from their lovers, which,
joined to the produce of their labor, enables them to live. Sometimes
like the sempstress’s sister, they throw aside their work altogether,
and take up their abode with the man of their choice, should he be
able to support the expense. It is during this season of pleasure and
idleness that the incurable leprosy of sloth takes lasting possession of
these unfortunate creatures.
This is the first phase of degradation that the guilty carelessness of
Society imposes on an immense number of workwomen, born with instincts
of modesty, and honesty, and uprightness.
After a certain time they are deserted by their seducers--perhaps when
they are mothers. Or, it may be, that foolish extravagance consigns
the imprudent lover to prison, and the young girl finds herself alone,
abandoned, without the means of subsistence.
Those who have still preserved courage and energy go back to their
work--but the examples are very rare. The others, impelled by misery,
and by habits of indolence, fall into the lowest depths.
And yet we must pity, rather than blame them, for the first and virtual
cause of their fall has been the insufficient remuneration of labor and
sudden reduction of pay.
Another deplorable consequence of this inorganization is the
disgust which workmen feel for their employment, in addition to the
insufficiency of their wages. And this is quite conceivable, for
nothing is done to render their labor attractive, either by variety
of occupations, or by honorary rewards, or by proper care, or by
remuneration proportionate to the benefits which their toil provides, or
by the hope of rest after long years of industry. No--the country thinks
not, cares not, either for their wants or their rights.
And yet, to take only one example, machinists and workers in foundries,
exposed to boiler explosions, and the contact of formidable engines,
run every day greater dangers than soldiers in time of war, display rare
practical sagacity, and render to industry--and, consequently, to their
country--the most incontestable service, during a long and honorable
career, if they do not perish by the bursting of a boiler, or have not
their limbs crushed by the iron teeth of a machine.
In this last case, does the workman receive a recompense equal to that
which awaits the soldier’s praiseworthy, but sterile courage--a place in
an asylum for invalids? No.
What does the country care about it? And if the master should happen to
be ungrateful, the mutilated workman, incapable of further service, may
die of want in some corner.
Finally, in our pompous festivals of commerce, do we ever assemble any
of the skillful workmen who alone have woven those admirable stuffs,
forged and damascened those shining weapons, chiselled those goblets of
gold and silver, carved the wood and ivory of that costly furniture, and
set those dazzling jewels with such exquisite art? No.
In the obscurity of their garrets, in the midst of a miserable and
starving family, hardly able to subsist on their scanty wages, these
workmen have contributed, at least, one half to bestow those wonders
upon their country, which make its wealth, its glory, and its pride.
A minister of commerce, who had the least intelligence of his high
functions and duties, would require of every factory that exhibits
on these occasions, the selection by vote of a certain number of
candidates, amongst whom the manufacturer would point out the one that
appeared most worthy to represent the working classes in these great
industrial solemnities.
Would it not be a noble and encouraging example to see the master
propose for public recompense and distinction the workman, deputed by
his peers, as amongst the most honest, laborious, and intelligent of his
profession? Then one most grievous injustice would disappear, and the
virtues of the workman would be stimulated by a generous and noble
ambition--he would have an interest in doing well.
Doubtless, the manufacturer himself, because of the intelligence he
displays, the capital he risks, the establishment he founds, and the
good he sometimes does, has a legitimate right to the prizes bestowed
upon him. But why is the workman to be rigorously excluded from these
rewards, which have so powerful an influence upon the people? Are
generals and officers the only ones that receive rewards in the army?
And when we have remunerated the captains of this great and powerful
army of industry, why should we neglect the privates?
Why for them is there no sign of public gratitude? no kind or consoling
word from august lips? Why do we not see in France, a single workman
wearing a medal as a reward for his courageous industry, his long and
laborious career? The token and the little pension attached to it, would
be to him a double recompense, justly deserved. But, no! for humble
labor that sustains the State, there is only forgetfulness, injustice,
indifference, and disdain!
By this neglect of the public, often aggravated by individual
selfishness and ingratitude, our workmen are placed in a deplorable
situation.
Some of them, notwithstanding their incessant toil, lead a life of
privations, and die before their time cursing the social system that
rides over them. Others find a temporary oblivion of their ills in
destructive intoxication. Others again--in great number--having no
interest, no advantage, no moral or physical inducement to do more or
better, confine themselves strictly to just that amount of labor which
will suffice to earn their wages. Nothing attaches them to their work,
because nothing elevates, honors, glorifies it in their eyes. They have
no defence against the reductions of indolence; and if, by some chance,
they find means of living awhile in repose, they give way by degrees to
habits of laziness and debauchery, and sometimes the worst passions soil
forever natures originally willing, healthy and honest--and all for
want of that protecting and equitable superintendence which should have
sustained, encouraged, and recompensed their first worthy and laborious
tendencies.
We now follow Mother Bunch, who after seeking for work from the person
that usually employed her, went to the Rue de Babylone, to the lodge
lately occupied by Adrienne de Cardoville.
CHAPTER V. FLORINE.
While the Bacchanal Queen and Sleepinbuff terminated so sadly the most
joyous portion of their existence, the sempstress arrived at the door of
the summer-house in the Rue de Babylone.
Before ringing she dried her tears; a new grief weighed upon her
spirits. On quitting the tavern, she had gone to the house of the person
who usually found her in work; but she was told that she could not have
any because it could be done a third more cheaply by women in prison.
Mother Bunch, rather than lose her last resource, offered to take it at
the third less; but the linen had been already sent out; and the
girl could not hope for employment for a fortnight to come, even if
submitting to this reduction of wages. One may conceive the anguish of
the poor creature; the prospect before her was to die of hunger, if
she would not beg or steal. As for her visit to the lodge in the Rue de
Babylone, it will be explained presently.
She rang the bell timidly; a few minutes after, Florine opened the door
to her. The waiting-maid was no longer adorned after the charming taste
of Adrienne; on the contrary, she was dressed with an affectation of
austere simplicity. She wore a high-necked dress of a dark color, made
full enough to conceal the light elegance of her figure. Her bands of
jet-black hair were hardly visible beneath the flat border of a starched
white cap, very much resembling the head-dress of a nun. Yet, in spite
of this unornamental costume, Florine’s pale countenance was still
admirably beautiful.
We have said that, placed by former misconduct at the mercy of Rodin
and M. d’Aigrigny, Florine had served them as a spy upon her mistress,
notwithstanding the marks of kindness and confidence she had received
from her. Yet Florine was not entirely corrupted; and she often suffered
painful, but vain, remorse at the thought of the infamous part she was
thus obliged to perform.
At the sight of Mother Bunch, whom she recognized--for she had told
her, the day before, of Agricola’s arrest and Mdlle. de Cardoville’s
madness--Florine recoiled a step, so much was she moved with pity at the
appearance of the young sempstress. In fact, the idea of being thrown
out of work, in the midst of so many other painful circumstances, had
made a terrible impression upon the young workwoman, the traces of
recent tears furrowed her cheeks--without her knowing it, her features
expressed the deepest despair--and she appeared so exhausted, so weak,
so overcome, that Florine offered her arm to support her, and said to
her kindly: “Pray walk in and rest yourself; you are very pale, and seem
to be ill and fatigued.”
So saying, Florine led her into a small room; with fireplace and carpet,
and made her sit down in a tapestried armchair by the side of a good
fire. Georgette and Hebe had been dismissed, and Florine was left alone
in care of the house.
When her guest was seated, Florine said to her with an air of interest:
“Will you not take anything? A little orange flower-water and sugar,
warm.”
“I thank you, mademoiselle,” said Mother Bunch, with emotion, so easily
was her gratitude excited by the least mark of kindness; she felt, too,
a pleasing surprise, that her poor garments had not been the cause of
repugnance or disdain on the part of Florine.
“I thank you, mademoiselle,” said she, “but I only require a little
rest, for I come from a great distance. If you will permit me--”
“Pray rest yourself as long as you like, mademoiselle; I am alone in
this pavilion since the departure of my poor mistress,”--here Florine
blushed and sighed;--“so, pray make yourself quite at home. Draw near
the fire--you wilt be more comfortable--and, gracious! how wet your feet
are!--place them upon this stool.”
The cordial reception given by Florine, her handsome face and agreeable
manners, which were not those of an ordinary waiting-maid, forcibly
struck Mother Bunch, who, notwithstanding her humble condition, was
peculiarly susceptible to the influence of everything graceful
and delicate. Yielding, therefore, to these attractions, the young
sempstress, generally so timid and sensitive, felt herself almost at her
ease with Florine.
“How obliging you are, mademoiselle!” said she in a grateful tone. “I am
quite confused with your kindness.”
“I wish I could do you some greater service than offer you a place at
the fire, mademoiselle. Your appearance is so good and interesting.”
“Oh, mademoiselle!” said the other, with simplicity, almost in spite
of herself; “it does one so much good to sit by a warm fire!” Then,
fearing, in her extreme delicacy, that she might be thought capable of
abusing the hospitality of her entertainer, by unreasonably prolonging
her visit, she added: “the motive that has brought me here is this.
Yesterday, you informed me that a young workman, named Agricola Baudoin,
had been arrested in this house.”
“Alas! yes, mademoiselle. At the moment, too, when my poor mistress was
about to render him assistance.”
“I am Agricola’s adopted sister,” resumed Mother Bunch, with a slight
blush; “he wrote to me yesterday evening from prison. He begged me to
tell his father to come here as soon as possible, in order to inform
Mdlle. de Cardoville that he, Agricola, had important matters to
communicate to her, or to any person that she might send; but that he
could not venture to mention them in a letter, as he did not know if
the correspondence of prisoners might not be read by the governor of the
prison.”
“What!” said Florine, with surprise; “to my mistress, M. Agricola has
something of importance to communicate?”
“Yes, mademoiselle; for, up to this time, Agricola is ignorant of the
great calamity that has befallen Mdlle. de Cardoville.”
“True; the attack was indeed so sudden,” said Florine, casting down her
eyes, “that no one could have foreseen it.”
“It must have been so,” answered Mother Bunch; “for, when Agricola saw
Mdlle. de Cardoville for the first time, he returned home, struck with
her grace, and delicacy, and goodness.”
“As were all who approached my mistress,” said Florine, sorrowfully.
“This morning,” resumed the sewing-girl, “when, according to Agricola’s
instructions, I wished to speak to his father on the subject, I found
him already gone out, for he also is a prey to great anxieties; but
my adopted brother’s letter appeared to me so pressing, and to involve
something of such consequence to Mdlle. de Cardoville, who had shown
herself so generous towards him, that I came here immediately.”
“Unfortunately, as you already know, my mistress is no longer here.”
“But is there no member of her family to whom, if I could not speak
myself, I might at least send word by you, that Agricola has something
to communicate of importance to this young lady?”
“It is strange!” said Florine, reflecting, and without replying. Then,
turning towards the sempstress, she added: “You are quite ignorant of
the nature of these revelations?”
“Completely so, mademoiselle; but I know Agricola. He is all honor and
truth, and you may believe whatever he affirms. Besides, he would have
no interest--”
“Good gracious!” interrupted Florine, suddenly, as if struck with a
sadden light; “I have just remembered something. When he was arrested
in a hiding-place where my mistress had concealed him, I happened to
be close at hand, and M. Agricola said to me, in a quick whisper: ‘Tell
your generous mistress that her goodness to me will not go unrewarded,
and that my stay in that hiding-place may not be useless to her.’
That was all he could say to me, for they hurried him off instantly. I
confess that I saw in those words only the expression of his gratitude,
and his hope of proving it one day to my mistress; but now that I
connect them with the letter he has written you--” said Florine,
reflecting.
“Indeed!” remarked Mother Bunch, “there is certainly some connection
between his hiding-place here and the important secrets which he wishes
to communicate to your mistress, or one of her family.”
“The hiding-place had neither been inhabited nor visited for some time,”
said Florine, with a thoughtful air; “M. Agricola may have found therein
something of interest to my mistress.”
“If his letter had not appeared to me so pressing,” resumed the other,
“I should not have come hither; but have left him to do so himself, on
his release from prison, which now, thanks to the generosity of one of
his old fellow-workmen, cannot be very distant. But, not knowing if
bail would be accepted to-day, I have wished faithfully to perform his
instructions. The generous kindness of your mistress made it my first
duty.”
Like all persons whose better instincts are still roused from time to
time, Florine felt a sort of consolation in doing good whenever she
could with impunity--that is to say, without exposing herself to the
inexorable resentments of those on whom she depended. Thanks to Mother
Bunch, she might now have an opportunity of rendering a great service to
her mistress. She knew enough of the Princess de Saint-Dizier’s hatred
of her niece, to feel certain that Agricola’s communication could not,
from its very importance, be made with safety to any but Mdlle. de
Cardoville herself. She therefore said very gravely: “Listen to me,
mademoiselle! I will give you a piece of advice which will, I think, be
useful to my poor mistress--but which would be very fatal to me if you
did not attend to my recommendations.”
“How so, mademoiselle?” said the hunchback, looking at Florine with
extreme surprise.
“For the sake of my mistress, M. Agricola must confide to no one, except
herself, the important things he has to communicate.”
“But, if he cannot see Mdlle. Adrienne, may he not address himself to
some of her family?”
“It is from her family, above all, that he must conceal whatever he
knows. Mdlle. Adrienne may recover, and then M. Agricola can speak to
her. But should she never get well again, tell your adopted brother that
it is better for him to keep his secret than to place it (which would
infallibly happen) at the disposal of the enemies of my mistress.”
“I understand you, mademoiselle,” said Mother Bunch, sadly. “The family
of your generous mistress do not love her, and perhaps persecute her?”
“I cannot tell you more on this subject now; and, as regards myself, let
me conjure you to obtain M. Agricola’s promise that he will not mention
to any one in the world the step you have taken, or the advice I have
given you. The happiness--no, not the happiness,” resumed Florine
bitterly, as if that were a lost hope, “not the happiness--but the peace
of my life depends upon your discretion.”
“Oh! be satisfied!” said the sewing-girl, both affected and amazed
by the sorrowful expression of Florine’s countenance; “I will not be
ungrateful. No one in the world but Agricola shall know that I have seen
you.”
“Thank you--thank you, mademoiselle,” cried Florine, with emotion.
“Do you thank me?” said the other, astonished to see the large tears
roll down her cheeks.
“Yes! I am indebted to you for a moment of pure, unmixed happiness; for
I have perhaps rendered a service to my dear mistress, without risking
the increase of the troubles that already overwhelm me.”
“You are not happy, then?”
“That astonishes you; but, believe me, whatever may be, your fate, I
would gladly change with you.”
“Alas, mademoiselle!” said the sempstress: “you appear to have too good
a heart, for me to let you entertain such a wish--particularly now.”
“What do you mean?”
“I hope sincerely, mademoiselle,” proceeded Mother Bunch, with deep
sadness, “that you may never know what it is to want work, when labor is
your only resource.”
“Are you reduced to that extremity?” cried Florine, looking anxiously
at the young sempstress, who hung her head, and made no answer. She
reproached herself, in her excessive delicacy, with having made a
communication which resembled a complaint, though it had only been wrung
from her by the thought of her dreadful situation.
“If it is so,” went on Florine, “I pity you with all my heart; and yet I
know not, if my misfortunes are not still greater than yours.”
Then, after a moment’s reflection, Florine exclaimed, suddenly: “But let
me see! If you are really in that position, I think I can procure you
some work.”
“Is it possible, mademoiselle?” cried Mother Bunch. “I should never have
dared to ask you such a service; but your generous offer commands my
confidence, and may save me from destruction. I will confess to you,
that, only this morning, I was thrown out of an employment which enabled
me to earn four francs a week.”
“Four francs a week!” exclaimed Florine, hardly able to believe what she
heard.
“It was little, doubtless,” replied the other; “but enough for me.
Unfortunately, the person who employed me, has found out where it can be
done still cheaper.”
“Four francs a week!” repeated Florine, deeply touched by so much misery
and resignation. “Well! I think I can introduce you to persons, who will
secure you wages of at least two francs a day.”
“I could earn two francs a day? Is it possible?”
“Yes, there is no doubt of it; only, you will have to go out by the day,
unless you chose to take a pace as servant.”
“In my position,” said Mother Bunch, with a mixture of timidity and
pride, “one has no right, I know, to be overnice; yet I should prefer to
go out by the day, and still more to remain at home, if possible, even
though I were to gain less.”
“To go out is unfortunately an indispensable condition,” said Florine.
“Then I must renounce this hope,” answered Mother Bunch, timidly; “not
that I refuse to go out to work--but those who do so, are expected to be
decently clad--and I confess without shame, because there is no disgrace
in honest poverty, that I have no better clothes than these.”
“If that be all,” said Florine, hastily, “they will find you the means
of dressing yourself properly.”
Mother Bunch looked at Florine with increasing surprise. These offers
were so much above what she could have hoped, and what indeed was
generally earned by needlewomen, that she could hardly credit them.
“But,” resumed she, with hesitation, “why should any one be so generous
to me, mademoiselle? How should I deserve such high wages?”
Florine started. A natural impulse of the heart, a desire to be useful
to the sempstress, whose mildness and resignation greatly interested
her, had led her to make a hasty proposition; she knew at what price
would have to be purchased the advantages she proposed, and she now
asked herself, if the hunchback would ever accept them on such terms.
But Florine had gone too far to recede, and she durst not tell all. She
resolved, therefore, to leave the future to chance and as those,
who have themselves fallen, are little disposed to believe in the
infallibility of others, Florine said to herself, that perhaps in
the desperate position in which she was, Mother Bunch would not be so
scrupulous after all. Therefore she said: “I see, mademoiselle, that you
are astonished at offers so much above what you usually gain; but I
must tell you, that I am now speaking of a pious institution, founded
to procure work for deserving young women. This establishment, which is
called St. Mary’s Society, undertakes to place them out as servants,
or by the day as needlewomen. Now this institution is managed by such
charitable persons, that they themselves undertake to supply an
outfit, when the young women, received under their protection are not
sufficiently well clothed to accept the places destined for them.”
This plausible explanation of Florine’s magnificent offers appeared to
satisfy the hearer. “I can now understand the high wages of which
you speak, mademoiselle,” resumed she; “only I have no claim to be
patronized by the charitable persons who direct this establishment.”
“You suffer--you are laborious and honest--those are sufficient claims;
only, I must tell you, they will ask if you perform regularly your
religious duties.”
“No one loves and blesses God more fervently than I do, mademoiselle,”
said the hunchback, with mild firmness; “but certain duties are an
affair of conscience, and I would rather renounce this patronage, than
be compelled--”
“Not the least in the world. Only, as I told you, there are very pious
persons at the head of this institution, and you must not be astonished
at their questions on such a subject. Make the trial, at all events;
what do you risk? If the propositions are suitable--accept them; if, on
the contrary, they should appear to touch your liberty of conscience,
you can always refuse--your position will not be the worse for it.”
Mother Bunch had nothing to object to this reasoning which left her at
perfect freedom, and disarmed her of all suspicion. “On these terms,
mademoiselle,” said she, “I accept your offer, and thank you with all my
heart. But who will introduce me?”
“I will--to-morrow, if you please.”
“But they will perhaps desire to make some inquiries about me.”
“The venerable Mother Sainte-Perpetue, Superior of St, Mary’s Convent,
where the institution is established, will, I am sure, appreciate your
good qualities without inquiry; but if otherwise, she will tell you, and
you can easily satisfy her. It is then agreed--to-morrow.”
“Shall I call upon you here, mademoiselle?”
“No; as I told you before, they must not know that you came here on the
part of M. Agricola, and a second visit might be discovered, and excite
suspicion. I will come and fetch you in a coach; where do you live?”