"JEAN BOUCHON
MORT SUR LE CHAMP DE GLOIRE
1870
DULCE ET DECORUM EST PRO PATRIA MORI."
"Why!" objected I, "he died from falling a cropper in the back passage,
not on the field of glory."
"Monsieur! all Orléans is a field of glory. Under S. Aignan did we not
repel Attila and his Huns in 451? Under Jeanne d'Arc did we not repulse
the English--monsieur will excuse the allusion--in 1429. Did we not
recapture Orléans from the Germans in November, 1870?"
"That is all very true," I broke in. "But Jean Bouchon neither fought
against Attila nor with la Pucelle, nor against the Prussians. Then
'_Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori_' is rather strong, considering
the facts."
"How? Does not monsieur see that the sentiment is patriotic and
magnificent?"
"I admit that, but dispute the application."
"Then why apply it? The sentiment is all right."
"But by implication it refers to Jean Bouchon, who died, not for his
country, but in a sordid coffee-house brawl. Then, again, the date is
wrong. Jean Bouchon died in 1869, not in 1870."
"That is only out by a year."
"Yes, but with this mistake of a year, and with the quotation from
Horace, and with the attitude given to the figure, anyone would suppose
that Jean Bouchon had fallen in the retaking of Orléans from the
Prussians."
"Ah! monsieur, who looks on a monument and expects to find thereon the
literal truth relative to the deceased?"
"This is something of a sacrifice to truth," I demurred.
"Sacrifice is superb!" said the waiter. "There is nothing more noble,
more heroic than sacrifice."
"But not the sacrifice of truth."
"Sacrifice is always sacrifice."
"Well," said I, unwilling further to dispute, "this is certainly a great
creation out of nothing."
"Not out of nothing; out of the coppers that Jean Bouchon had filched
from us, and which choked up his coffin."
"Jean Bouchon has been seen no more?"
"No, monsieur. And yet--yes, once, when the statue was unveiled. Our
_patron_ did that. The café was crowded. All our _habitués_ were there.
The _patron_ made a magnificent oration; he drew a superb picture of the
moral, intellectual, social, and political merits of Jean Bouchon. There
was not a dry eye among the audience, and the speaker choked with
emotion. Then, as we stood in a ring, not too near, we saw--I was there
and I distinctly saw, so did the others--Jean Bouchon standing with his
back to us, looking intently at the statue of himself. Monsieur, as he
thus stood I could discern his black mutton-chop whiskers projecting
upon each side of his head. Well, sir, not one word was spoken. A dead
silence fell upon all. Our _patron_ ceased to speak, and wiped his eyes
and blew his nose. A sort of holy awe possessed us all. Then, after the
lapse of some minutes, Jean Bouchon turned himself about, and we all saw
his puffy pale cheeks, his thick sensual lips, his broken nose, his
little pig's eyes. He was very unlike his idealised portrait in the
statue; but what matters that? It gratified the deceased, and it injured
no one. Well, monsieur, Jean Bouchon stood facing us, and he turned his
head from one side to another, and gave us all what I may term a greasy
smile. Then he lifted up his hands as though invoking a blessing on us
all, and vanished. Since then he has not been seen."