"Boulevard Rochechouart," said Berthe, the young asylum nurse, to the
conductor as she sprang into the tram just as it was starting.
It was a September afternoon, one of the last fine days of the now
fast-dying summer, and the girl had just got her fortnightly leave for
forty-eight hours. She had gone off duty at noon, and now had until noon
on the next day but one to resume her own personality and shake off the
anxieties that beset all those who are charged with the constant care of
the insane, the most distressing kind of patients that exists. As a
general rule Berthe spent her fortnightly holidays with her old
grand-parents in their cottage outside Paris, but on this occasion she
had elected to remain in the city, influenced thereto by the long
conversation she had had with the patient confided to her particular
care, No. 25, Mme. Rambert. Since that first talk with her, on the day
of Professor Swelding's visit to the asylum, she had had others, and
Berthe had now elaborated a plan to enable the supposed lunatic to
escape, and had decided to spend her short holiday in bringing the plan
to a point.
At the boulevard Rochechouart Berthe got out of the tram, looked around
to get her bearings in the somewhat unfamiliar neighbourhood, and then
turned into the rue Clignancourt and stood on the left-hand side of the
street, looking at the shops. The third one was a wine shop, only the
first of many in the street.
Berthe pushed the door of this establishment a little way open and
looked at the rather rowdy company gathered round the zinc counter, all
with flushed faces and all talking loudly. She did not venture inside,
but in a clear voice asked, "Is M. Geoffroy here?" No definite answer
was forthcoming, but the men turned round, hearing her enquiry, and
seeing her pretty figure began to nudge one another and jest and laugh
coarsely. "Come in, missy," said one of them, but already Berthe had
quickly closed the door and lightly gone on her way.
A few yards further on there was another bar, and into this, also,
Berthe peeped and once more asked, "Is M. Geoffroy here?" adding by way
of further explanation, "Hogshead Geoffroy, I mean." This time a roar of
laughter followed, and the girl fled, flushed with indignation.
Yet she did not desist from her strange search, and at last, at the
sixth shop, her question was answered by a deep bass voice from the far
end of a smoke-clouded den. "Hogshead Geoffroy? Here!" and heaving a
sigh of relief Berthe went inside the shop.
* * * * *
When you want to see M. "Hogshead" Geoffroy, your procedure is
simplicity itself. As he has no known address, all you have to do is to
start at the bottom of the rue Clignancourt on the left-hand side, look
into every wineshop, and ask, in tones loud enough to be heard above the
clatter of conversation, whether Hogshead Geoffroy is there, and it will
be mighty bad luck if, at one or other of the bars, you do not hear the
answer, "Hogshead Geoffroy? Here," followed immediately by that
gentleman's order to the _patronne_: "Half a pint, please: the gentleman
will pay!" It is a safe order; the _patronne_ knows from past experience
that she can serve the half-pint without anxiety: Hogshead Geoffroy
rapidly drains it, and then holds out a huge and hairy hand to the
visitor and enquires, "Well, what is it?"
If, as often happens, the Hogshead finds himself confronted by a
stranger, he feels no surprise; he knows his own popularity, and is a
modest soul, so he calls his visitor by his Christian name at once, taps
him amicably on the shoulder, and calls him "old boy," and invites him
to stand a drink. The Hogshead is an artist in his line; he hires
himself out to public halls to announce in his powerful voice,
reinforced by a trumpet, the various items on the programme or the
results of performances achieved. He also harangues the crowd on behalf
of showmen, or hurls threats at too excited demonstrators at public
demonstrations. Between whiles he rolls hogsheads down into cellars, or
bottles wine, and even drinks it when he is among friends who have money
to pay withal.
* * * * *
At sight of Berthe, Hogshead Geoffroy so far departed from custom as not
to give an order to the _patronne_ at the bar; instead, he rose and went
towards the girl and unceremoniously embraced her.
"Ah-ha, little sister, there you are! Why, I was just that moment
thinking of you!" He drew her to the back of the shop, towards a bunch
of sturdy, square-shouldered fellows drinking there, to whom he
introduced her. "Now then, mates, try to behave yourselves; I'm bringing
a charming young lady to see you, my sister Berthe, little
Bob--Bobinette, as we called her when we lived with the old folks." The
girl blushed, a little uneasy at finding herself in such a mixed
company, but Hogshead Geoffroy put every one at ease; he put his great
hand under Berthe's chin and tilted her head back. "Don't you think she
is pretty, this little sister of mine? She's the very spit of her
brother!" There was a general roar of laughter. The contrast between the
two figures was so great that it seemed impossible there could be any
relationship between them: the graceful, slender, tiny _Parisienne_
looking tinier still beside the huge colossus of a man six feet high,
with the chest of a bull and the shoulders of an athlete. "We don't seem
to be built on quite the same lines," M. Geoffroy admitted, "but all the
same there is a family likeness!"
The men made room for the girl, and after she had yielded to the general
insistence and accepted a glass of white wine, Geoffroy bent forward and
spoke in a lower tone.
"Well, what do you want with me?"
"I want to talk to you about something which will interest you, I'm
sure," Berthe answered.
"Anything to be got out of it?" was the giant's next enquiry.
Berthe smiled.
"I expect so, or I wouldn't have troubled you."
"Whenever there's any money to be picked up the Hogshead's always on,"
he replied: "especially just now when things aren't any too bright,
though I may tell you I think there's going to be an alteration in that
respect."
"Have you got a situation?" Berthe asked in some surprise.
Hogshead Geoffroy laid a finger on his lip.
"It's still a secret," he said, "but there's no harm in talking it over,
for everybody here knows all about it," and at interminable length, and
with many a pause for libations, he explained that he was a candidate
for an appointment as Market Porter. He had been cramming for a
fortnight past, in order to emerge triumphantly from the examination to
which candidates were always subjected, and that very morning he had sat
in the Hôtel de Ville wrestling with nothing less than a problem in
arithmetic. In proof, he produced from his pocket a crumpled, greasy and
wine-stained sheet of paper scrawled all over with childish writing and
figures, and showed it to his sister, immensely proud of the effect he
was producing on her. "A problem," he repeated. "See here: two taps fill
a tank at the rate of twenty litres a minute, and a third tap empties it
at the rate of fifteen hundred litres an hour. How long will it take for
the tank to get full?"
A friend of Geoffroy's broke in: it was Mealy Benoît, his most
formidable competitor for the appointment.
"And how long will it take for you to get full?" he asked with a great
laugh.
Hogshead Geoffroy banged his fist on the table.
"This is a serious conversation," he said, and turned again to his
sister, who wanted to know if he had succeeded in finding the answer to
the problem. "Maybe," he replied. "I worked by rule of thumb, for, as
you know, arithmetic and all those devil's funniments aren't in my line.
To sit for an hour, writing at a table in the great hall of the Hôtel de
Ville--not much! It made me sweat more than carrying four
hundredweight!"
But the company was preparing to make a move. Time was getting on, and
at six o'clock the second part of the examination, the physical test,
was to be held in the Fish Market. Mealy Benoît had paid his score
already, and Hogshead Geoffroy's deferent escort of friends was getting
restless. Berthe won fresh favour in her brother's eyes by paying for
their refreshments with a ten franc piece and leaving the change to be
placed to his credit, and then with him she left the wineshop.
* * * * *
The annual competition for an appointment as Market Porter is held at
the end of September. It is a great event. There are generally many
candidates, but only two or three, and sometimes less, of the best are
picked. The posts are few and good, for the number of porters is
limited. The examination is in two parts: one purely intellectual,
consisting of some simple problem and a little dictation, the other
physical, in which the candidates have to carry a sack of meal weighing
three hundredweight a distance of two hundred yards in the shortest
time.
At six o'clock punctually the market women were all in their places
along the pavement by their respective stalls. The hall was decorated
with flags; the salesmen and regular shopmen were provided with chairs,
and their assistants were behind them, with the sweepers and criers; at
the back stood three or four rows of the general public, all eager to
witness the impressive display.
The two-hundred-yard course was carefully cleared, every obstacle having
been scrupulously swept off the asphalte, especially pieces of
orange-peel, lettuce leaves and bits of rotten vegetable matter, which
might have caused a competitor to slip when trying to break the record
for carrying the sack. A high official of the Hôtel de Ville and three
of the senior Market Porters formed the jury, and there were also two
officials of the Cyclists' Union, expert in the use of stop watches,
armed with tested chronometers and deputed to take the exact time of
each performance.
The crowd of onlookers was as odd, and eclectic, and keen, as can
possibly be imagined. Berthe, who knew that false modesty is quite out
of place in popular gatherings, mingled freely in the general
conversation. Among other picturesque types she had noticed one
particularly extraordinary individual who, although he was in the last
row of all, overtopped the rest by quite half of his body, being perched
on an antiquated tricycle, which provoked the hilarity of the mob.
"What ho, Bouzille!" somebody called out, for the man was a well-known
and popular figure, and everybody knew his name. "Is that Methuselah's
tricycle that you have pinched?" and to some of the sallies the fellow
replied with a smile that was almost lost in his matted beard, and to
others with a jest uttered in the purest dialect of Auvergne.
Someone spoke softly in Berthe's ear and she turned and saw a sturdy
fellow of about twenty-five, wearing a blue blouse, a red handkerchief
round his neck, and a drover's cap; he was a well-built, powerful man,
and in spite of his humble dress, had an intelligent face and an almost
distinguished manner. Berthe responded amiably, and a few commonplace
remarks were exchanged between the two.
"In case you care to know, my name's Julot," said the man.
And Berthe replied frankly, but without otherwise compromising herself.
"And I am Bob, or Bobinette, whichever you like. I am Hogshead
Geoffroy's sister," she added with a little touch of pride.
A murmur ran round the crowd. Mealy Benoît was going through his trial.
The great fellow came along with rapid, rhythmical step, with supple
limbs and chest hunched forward. Surely balanced on his broad shoulders
and the nape of his neck was an enormous sack of meal, accurately
weighed to scale three hundredweight. Without the least hesitation or
slackening of pace, he covered the two hundred yards, reaching the goal
perfectly fresh and fit; he stood for a moment or two in front of the
judges, displaying the mighty muscles of his naked chest, over which the
perspiration was running, and evincing genuine delight in not freeing
himself from his heavy burden at the earliest possible moment. The
applause was enthusiastic and immediate, but silence quickly fell again
and all eyes turned towards the starting-post. It was Hogshead
Geoffroy's turn.
The giant was really a splendid sight. Instead of walking as his rival
had done, he began to step like a gymnast, and the crowd yelled their
delight. It seemed that he must beat his rival's time easily, but all at
once the great sack on his shoulders was seen to shake, and Geoffroy
almost stopped, uttering a heavy groan before he got going again. The
crowd looked on in surprise: where he had just set his feet there was a
wet mark upon the asphalte: Geoffroy had slipped on a piece of
orange-peel. But he managed to restore the equilibrium of the sack, and,
taught caution by the risk he had just run, he finished the course with
measured steps.
* * * * *
Two hours later the result of the competition was announced. Hogshead
Geoffroy and Mealy Benoît were bracketed equal, having taken exactly the
same time to cover the course; upon the result of the written
examination would depend the final issue, and the matter was all the
more important because this year there was but one vacancy for a Market
Porter.
Berthe, or Bobinette, was vehemently discussing with her neighbours the
mishap that had befallen Geoffroy during his trial. A man dressed in a
shabby black overcoat buttoned up to the chin, and wearing a kind of
jockey cap on his greasy hair, was watching her intently, seeming to
agree with all she said while really interested in something else.
Berthe, who was very intent upon the matter in hand, did not notice this
individual's manner; it was Julot, her faithful squire for the last two
hours, who got her away.
"Come," he said, taking her by the sleeve, "you know your brother is
waiting for you," and as she yielded to his insistence he whispered in
her ear, "That chap's a dirty-looking rascal: I don't think much of
him!"
"He certainly is uncommonly ugly," the girl admitted, and then like the
trained nurse that she was, she added, "and did you notice his
complexion? The man must be ill: he is absolutely green!"