There was a masquerade ball at the Elysee-Montmartre that evening.
It was the 'Mi-Careme', and the crowds were pouring into the brightly
lighted passage which leads to the dance ball, like water flowing
through the open lock of a canal. The loud call of the orchestra,
bursting like a storm of sound, shook the rafters, swelled through the
whole neighborhood and awoke, in the streets and in the depths of the
houses, an irresistible desire to jump, to get warm, to have fun, which
slumbers within each human animal.
The patrons came from every quarter of Paris; there were people of all
classes who love noisy pleasures, a little low and tinged with debauch.
There were clerks and girls--girls of every description, some wearing
common cotton, some the finest batiste; rich girls, old and covered with
diamonds, and poor girls of sixteen, full of the desire to revel, to
belong to men, to spend money. Elegant black evening suits, in search
of fresh or faded but appetizing novelty, wandering through the excited
crowds, looking, searching, while the masqueraders seemed moved above
all by the desire for amusement. Already the far-famed quadrilles had
attracted around them a curious crowd. The moving hedge which encircled
the four dancers swayed in and out like a snake, sometimes nearer and
sometimes farther away, according to the motions of the performers. The
two women, whose lower limbs seemed to be attached to their bodies by
rubber springs, were making wonderful and surprising motions with their
legs. Their partners hopped and skipped about, waving their arms about.
One could imagine their panting breath beneath their masks.
One of them, who had taken his place in the most famous quadrille, as
substitute for an absent celebrity, the handsome “Songe-au-Gosse,”
was trying to keep up with the tireless “Arete-de-Veau” and was making
strange fancy steps which aroused the joy and sarcasm of the audience.
He was thin, dressed like a dandy, with a pretty varnished mask on his
face. It had a curly blond mustache and a wavy wig. He looked like a wax
figure from the Musee Grevin, like a strange and fantastic caricature
of the charming young man of fashion plates, and he danced with visible
effort, clumsily, with a comical impetuosity. He appeared rusty beside
the others when he tried to imitate their gambols: he seemed overcome
by rheumatism, as heavy as a great Dane playing with greyhounds. Mocking
bravos encouraged him. And he, carried away with enthusiasm, jigged
about with such frenzy that suddenly, carried away by a wild spurt, he
pitched head foremost into the living wall formed by the audience,
which opened up before him to allow him to pass, then closed around the
inanimate body of the dancer, stretched out on his face.
Some men picked him up and carried him away, calling for a doctor. A
gentleman stepped forward, young and elegant, in well-fitting evening
clothes, with large pearl studs. “I am a professor of the Faculty of
Medicine,” he said in a modest voice. He was allowed to pass, and he
entered a small room full of little cardboard boxes, where the still
lifeless dancer had been stretched cut on some chairs. The doctor at
first wished to take off the mask, and he noticed that it was attached
in a complicated manner, with a perfect network of small metal wires
which cleverly bound it to his wig and covered the whole head. Even the
neck was imprisoned in a false skin which continued the chin and was
painted the color of flesh, being attached to the collar of the shirt.
All this had to be cut with strong scissors. When the physician had slit
open this surprising arrangement, from the shoulder to the temple, he
opened this armor and found the face of an old man, worn out, thin and
wrinkled. The surprise among those who had brought in this seemingly
young dancer was so great that no one laughed, no one said a word.
All were watching this sad face as he lay on the straw chairs, his eyes
closed, his face covered with white hair, some long, falling from the
forehead over the face, others short, growing around the face and the
chin, and beside this poor head, that pretty little, neat varnished,
smiling mask.
The man regained consciousness after being inanimate for a long time,
but he still seemed to be so weak and sick that the physician feared
some dangerous complication. He asked: “Where do you live?”
The old dancer seemed to be making an effort to remember, and then he
mentioned the name of the street, which no one knew. He was asked for
more definite information about the neighborhood. He answered with a
great slowness, indecision and difficulty, which revealed his upset
state of mind. The physician continued:
“I will take you home myself.”
Curiosity had overcome him to find out who this strange dancer, this
phenomenal jumper might be. Soon the two rolled away in a cab to the
other side of Montmartre.
They stopped before a high building of poor appearance. They went up a
winding staircase. The doctor held to the banister, which was so grimy
that the hand stuck to it, and he supported the dizzy old man, whose
forces were beginning to return. They stopped at the fourth floor.
The door at which they had knocked was opened by an old woman, neat
looking, with a white nightcap enclosing a thin face with sharp
features, one of those good, rough faces of a hard-working and faithful
woman. She cried out:
“For goodness sake! What's the matter?”
He told her the whole affair in a few words. She became reassured and
even calmed the physician himself by telling him that the same thing had
happened many times. She said: “He must be put to bed, monsieur, that is
all. Let him sleep and tomorrow he will be all right.”
The doctor continued: “But he can hardly speak.”
“Oh! that's just a little drink, nothing more; he has eaten no dinner,
in order to be nimble, and then he took a few absinthes in order to work
himself up to the proper pitch. You see, drink gives strength to his
legs, but it stops his thoughts and words. He is too old to dance as he
does. Really, his lack of common sense is enough to drive one mad!”
The doctor, surprised, insisted:
“But why does he dance like that at his age?”
She shrugged her shoulders and turned red from the anger which was
slowly rising within her and she cried out:
“Ah! yes, why? So that the people will think him young under his mask;
so that the women will still take him for a young dandy and whisper
nasty things into his ears; so that he can rub up against all their
dirty skins, with their perfumes and powders and cosmetics. Ah! it's a
fine business! What a life I have had for the last forty years! But we
must first get him to bed, so that he may have no ill effects. Would
you mind helping me? When he is like that I can't do anything with him
alone.”
The old man was sitting on his bed, with a tipsy look, his long white
hair falling over his face. His companion looked at him with tender yet
indignant eyes. She continued:
“Just see the fine head he has for his age, and yet he has to go and
disguise himself in order to make people think that he is young. It's a
perfect shame! Really, he has a fine head, monsieur! Wait, I'll show it
to you before putting him to bed.”
She went to a table on which stood the washbasin a pitcher of water,
soap and a comb and brush. She took the brush, returned to the bed and
pushed back the drunkard's tangled hair. In a few seconds she made him
look like a model fit for a great painter, with his long white locks
flowing on his neck. Then she stepped back in order to observe him,
saying: “There! Isn't he fine for his age?”
“Very,” agreed the doctor, who was beginning to be highly amused.
She added: “And if you had known him when he was twenty-five! But we
must get him to bed, otherwise the drink will make him sick. Do you
mind drawing off that sleeve? Higher-like that-that's right. Now the
trousers. Wait, I will take his shoes off--that's right. Now, hold him
upright while I open the bed. There--let us put him in. If you think
that he is going to disturb himself when it is time for me to get in
you are mistaken. I have to find a little corner any place I can. That
doesn't bother him! Bah! You old pleasure seeker!”
As soon as he felt himself stretched out in his sheets the old man
closed his eyes, opened them closed them again, and over his whole face
appeared an energetic resolve to sleep. The doctor examined him with an
ever-increasing interest and asked: “Does he go to all the fancy balls
and try to be a young man?” “To all of them, monsieur, and he comes back
to me in the morning in a deplorable condition. You see, it's regret
that leads him on and that makes him put a pasteboard face over his own.
Yes, the regret of no longer being what he was and of no longer making
any conquests!”
He was sleeping now and beginning to snore. She looked at him with a
pitying expression and continued: “Oh! how many conquests that man
has made! More than one could believe, monsieur, more than the finest
gentlemen of the world, than all the tenors and all the generals.”
“Really? What did he do?”
“Oh! it will surprise you at first, as you did not know him in his palmy
days. When I met him it was also at a ball, for he has always frequented
them. As soon as I saw him I was caught--caught like a fish on a hook.
Ah! how pretty he was, monsieur, with his curly raven locks and black
eyes as large as saucers! Indeed, he was good looking! He took me away
that evening and I never have left him since, never, not even for a day,
no matter what he did to me! Oh! he has often made it hard for me!”
The doctor asked: “Are you married?”
She answered simply: “Yes, monsieur, otherwise he would have dropped me
as he did the others. I have been his wife and his servant, everything,
everything that he wished. How he has made me cry--tears which I did
not show him; for he would tell all his adventures to me--to me,
monsieur--without understanding how it hurt me to listen.”
“But what was his business?”
“That's so. I forgot to tell you. He was the foreman at Martel's--a
foreman such as they never had had--an artist who averaged ten francs an
hour.”
“Martel?--who is Martel?”
“The hairdresser, monsieur, the great hairdresser of the Opera, who had
all the actresses for customers. Yes, sir, all the smartest actresses
had their hair dressed by Ambrose and they would give him tips that made
a fortune for him. Ah! monsieur, all the women are alike, yes, all of
them. When a man pleases their fancy they offer themselves to him. It
is so easy--and it hurt me so to hear about it. For he would tell me
everything--he simply could not hold his tongue--it was impossible.
Those things please the men so much! They seem to get even more
enjoyment out of telling than doing.
“When I would see him coming in the evening, a little pale, with a
pleased look and a bright eye, would say to myself: 'One more. I am sure
that he has caught one more.' Then I felt a wild desire to question him
and then, again, not to know, to stop his talking if he should begin.
And we would look at each other.
“I knew that he would not keep still, that he would come to the point. I
could feel that from his manner, which seemed to laugh and say: 'I had a
fine adventure to-day, Madeleine.' I would pretend to notice nothing,
to guess nothing; I would set the table, bring on the soup and sit down
opposite him.
“At those times, monsieur, it was as if my friendship for him had been
crushed in my body as with a stone. It hurt. But he did not understand;
he did not know; he felt a need to tell all those things to some one, to
boast, to show how much he was loved, and I was the only one he had to
whom he could talk-the only one. And I would have to listen and drink it
in, like poison.
“He would begin to take his soup and then he would say: 'One more,
Madeleine.'
“And I would think: 'Here it comes! Goodness! what a man! Why did I ever
meet him?'
“Then he would begin: 'One more! And a beauty, too.' And it would be
some little one from the Vaudeville or else from the Varietes, and some
of the big ones, too, some of the most famous. He would tell me their
names, how their apartments were furnished, everything, everything,
monsieur. Heartbreaking details. And he would go over them and tell his
story over again from beginning to end, so pleased with himself that I
would pretend to laugh so that he would not get angry with me.
“Everything may not have been true! He liked to glorify himself and was
quite capable of inventing such things! They may perhaps also have been
true! On those evenings he would pretend to be tired and wish to go to
bed after supper. We would take supper at eleven, monsieur, for he could
never get back from work earlier.
“When he had finished telling about his adventure he would walk round
the room and smoke cigarettes, and he was so handsome, with his mustache
and curly hair, that I would think: 'It's true, just the same, what
he is telling. Since I myself am crazy about that man, why should not
others be the same?' Then I would feel like crying, shrieking, running
away and jumping out of the window while I was clearing the table and
he was smoking. He would yawn in order to show how tired he was, and he
would say two or three times before going to bed: 'Ah! how well I shall
sleep this evening!'
“I bear him no ill will, because he did not know how he was hurting
me. No, he could not know! He loved to boast about the women just as a
peacock loves to show his feathers. He got to the point where he thought
that all of them looked at him and desired him.
“It was hard when he grew old. Oh, monsieur, when I saw his first white
hair I felt a terrible shock and then a great joy--a wicked joy--but
so great, so great! I said to myself: 'It's the end-it's the end.' It
seemed as if I were about to be released from prison. At last I could
have him to myself, all to myself, when the others would no longer want
him.
“It was one morning in bed. He was still sleeping and I leaned over
him to wake him up with a kiss, when I noticed in his curls, over his
temple, a little thread which shone like silver. What a surprise! I
should not have thought it possible! At first I thought of tearing it
out so that he would not see it, but as I looked carefully I noticed
another farther up. White hair! He was going to have white hair! My
heart began to thump and perspiration stood out all over me, but away
down at the bottom I was happy.
“It was mean to feel thus, but I did my housework with a light heart
that morning, without waking him up, and, as soon as he opened his eyes
of his own accord, I said to him: 'Do you know what I discovered while
you were asleep?'
“'No.'
“'I found white hairs.'
“He started up as if I had tickled him and said angrily: 'It's not
true!'
“'Yes, it is. There are four of them over your left temple.'
“He jumped out of bed and ran over to the mirror. He could not find
them. Then I showed him the first one, the lowest, the little curly one,
and I said: 'It's no wonder, after the life that you have been leading.
In two years all will be over for you.'
“Well, monsieur, I had spoken true; two years later one could not
recognize him. How quickly a man changes! He was still handsome, but he
had lost his freshness, and the women no longer ran after him. Ah! what
a life I led at that time! How he treated me! Nothing suited him. He
left his trade to go into the hat business, in which he ate up all his
money. Then he unsuccessfully tried to be an actor, and finally he began
to frequent public balls. Fortunately, he had had common sense enough to
save a little something on which we now live. It is sufficient, but it
is not enormous. And to think that at one time he had almost a fortune.
“Now you see what he does. This habit holds him like a frenzy. He has to
be young; he has to dance with women who smell of perfume and cosmetics.
You poor old darling!”
She was looking at her old snoring husband fondly, ready to cry. Then,
gently tiptoeing up to him, she kissed his hair. The physician had risen
and was getting ready to leave, finding nothing to say to this strange
couple. Just as he was leaving she asked:
“Would you mind giving me your address? If he should grow worse, I could
go and get you.”