_Which treats of a Harmless Riot amongst such as Dwell on Mount
Parnassus_
Horace descended from Mount Parnassus in a whirlwind. Indeed, he had a
keen sense for the becomingness of things. He was the poor student to
the end. He departed from Bohemia in the tattered habit of Bohemia and
after the fashion of Bohemia--indeed, it was splendid poverty.
The courtyard swarmed with students, and Gaston Latour stood solemnly
directing the devilries, his pale face more than usually tricked with
gloom, his dreamy poetic eyes dark with melancholy, his lips sounding
blood-curdling ear-splitting blares upon his hunting-horn, regardless
of all the municipal laws against the use of the same except at public
festivals. The place was astir with chatter and laughter and fool’s
play and the coming and going of feet.
In the midst of the ferment, Horace and others were securing his
baggage to a handcart, the embarrassed porter standing to one side, his
hands itching to do the roping.
A loud blare from Latour’s hunting-horn--and there was silence.
Horace strode up to the fat concierge, who stood on the steps with her
three small children, the better to see the sights. He lifted each of
the little ones, gave them a hug, and setting them down on the steps
again, slipped a large silver piece into the small fingers. He took
off his hat, and kissed the jolly old woman upon the cheek before them
all, and slipped a hundred-franc note into her rough toil-worn hand.
The little ones began to cry, and the concierge, the tears in her eyes,
told them not to be stupid.
Horace patted them on the head:
“I’m coming back to play with you, you lazy little rascals,” said he;
and putting on his hat, he pulled it well over his eyes.
He strode over to the handcart, and at a sign from him, they seized
the porter and hove his expostulating bulk a-top of the baggage, where
he was compelled to sit for the remainder of the journey across Paris
to the railway-station of the north, in embarrassed discomfort; and
Horace getting between the shafts, a bevy of students set the light
rattling affair moving on clattering wheels, and the noisy party,
pushing, pulling, and hauling and bawling, marched out of the courtyard
in escort amidst the waving of handkerchiefs from windows and the last
farewells.
A fussy burgess, put to the wall with some indignity by the stream of
careless students, went up to a group of police and reminded them that
the hunting-horn was not allowed to be blown in Paris except on certain
high festivals.
His venom was wasted.
The police shrugged amused shoulders:
“It is true,” said they--“but it is only the students....”
As they came into the Boule Miche, singing the National Anthem, the
landlords of the taverns and cafés and the white-aproned waiters came
out to their doors, and greeted the noisy crew--indeed, Horace was well
known, and his genial ways and amiable personality robbed him of all
enemies.
Horace, amid handshakings down the street, foreseeing that the catching
of the train was becoming a nice question and thinking Babette looked
pale, took advantage of a moment’s breathing-space to whisper to the
girl that she had better drive off to warn his man Jonkin that they
might be late; and Babette was glad to get into a passing fiacre and
slip away. Her heart was too full for jesting that had tears in the
jest.
The noisy crew got the handcart on the run as soon as they crossed the
river, the jolted porter a-top, but rattled up the Rue la Fayette in
none too good time; as they dashed into the great station the bustle of
departure that comes before the leaving of the boat-train was at its
noisy height.
The officials were quite unable to cope with the students, who,
chaffing them, rushed and swarmed over the barriers and took possession
of the platform.
The man at the barrier laughed, shrugged shoulders:
“It is only the students,” he said.
Gaston Latour, gloomily dancing the _danse de ventre_ on the platform,
was assailed by a pompous fussy little man in uniformed authority, who
alone displayed sufficient lack of tact to interfere with the young
bloods. Gaston stooped down; solemnly stroked the official protruding
paunch, and putting his ear thereto, said “Cough!”
The sulky fellow growled threats:
“My God,” said Gaston--“he is wasting away!”
The surly fellow made as if to go.
Gaston Latour grabbed him and listened at his stomach again:
“He has a bad heart,” he said; flung his arms round his neck, and
crying over his shoulder hysterically, he wailed melancholy sobs down
the great hunting-horn. He had a grotesque mind....
And thus, amidst frantic foolings and warm hand-grippings and promises
of early return, the train steamed slowly out of the huge station,
taking Horace away from the days of his youth--for he had realized
during the night that was gone that manhood was come upon him.