THE ISLE-ADAM.
A month has elapsed since the occurrence of the events we have just
narrated. We now conduct the reader into the little town of the
Isle-Adam, situated in a delightful locality on the banks of the Oise,
and at the foot of a forest.
The least things become great events in the country; and so the idlers
of Isle-Adam, who were on the morning before us walking in the square
before the church, were very anxiously bestirring themselves to learn
when the individual would arrive who had recently become the purchaser
of the most eligible premises for a butcher in that town, and which were
exactly opposite to the church.
One of those idlers, more inquisitive than his companions, went and
asked the butcher-boy, who, with a merry face and active hands, was very
busy in completing the arrangements of the shop. This lad replied that
he did not know who was the new proprietor, for he had bought the
property through an agent. At this moment two persons, who had come from
Paris in a cabriolet, alighted at the door of the shop.
The one was Murphy, quite cured of his wound, and the other the
Chourineur. At the risk of repeating a vulgar saying, we will assert
that the impression produced by dress is so powerful, that the guest of
the "cribs" of the Cité was hardly to be recognised in his present
attire. His countenance had undergone the same change; he had put off,
with his rags, his savage, coarse, and vulgar air; and to see him walk
with both his hands in the pockets of his long and warm coat of dark
broadcloth, he might have been taken for one of the most inoffensive
citizens in the world.
"'Faith, my fine fellow, the way was long and the cold excessive; were
they not?"
"Why, I really did not perceive it, M. Murphy; I am too happy, and joy
keeps one warm. Besides, when I say happy, why--"
"What?"
"Yesterday you came to seek for me at the Port St. Nicolas, where I was
unloading as hard as I could to keep myself warm. I had not seen you
since the night when the white-haired negro had put out the
Schoolmaster's eyes. By Jove! it quite shook me, that affair did. And M.
Rodolph, what a countenance!--he who looked so mild and gentle! I was
quite frightened at that moment; I was, indeed--"
"Well, what then?"
"You said to me, 'Good day, Chourineur.' 'Good day, M. Murphy,' says I.
'What, you are up again, I see! So much the better,--so much the better.
And M. Rodolph?' 'He was obliged to leave Paris some days after the
affair of the Allée des Veuves, and he forgot you, my man.' 'Well, M.
Murphy, I can only say that if M. Rodolph has forgotten me, why--I shall
be very sorry for it, that's all.' 'I meant to say, my good fellow, that
he had forgotten to recompense your services, but that he should always
remember them.' So, M. Murphy, those words cheered me up again directly.
_Tonnerre!_ I--I shall never forget him. He told me I had heart and
honour,--that's enough."
"Unfortunately, my lad, monseigneur left without giving any orders about
you. I have nothing but what monseigneur gives me, and I am unable to
repay as I could wish all that I owe you personally."
"Come, come, M. Murphy, you are jesting with me."
"But why the devil did you not come back again to the Allée des Veuves
after that fatal night? Then monseigneur would not have left without
thinking of you."
"Why, M. Rodolph did not tell me to do so, and I thought that perhaps he
had no further occasion for me."
"But you might have supposed that he would, at least, desire to express
his gratitude to you."
"Did you not tell me that M. Rodolph has not forgotten me, M. Murphy?"
"Well, well, don't let us say another word about it; only I have had a
great deal of trouble to find you out. You do not now go to the
ogress's?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Oh, from some foolish notions I have had."
"Very well. But to return to what you were telling me--"
"To what, M. Murphy?"
"You told me, I am glad I have found you, and still happy, perhaps--"
"Oh, yes, M. Murphy! Why, you see, when you came to where I was at work
at the timber-yard, you said, 'My lad, I am not rich, but I can procure
you a situation where your work will be easier than on the Quai, and
where you will gain four francs a day.' Four francs a day! Vive la
Charte! I could not believe it; 'twas the pay of an adjutant
sub-officer! I replied, 'That's the very thing for me, M. Murphy!' but
you said then that I must not look so like a beggar, as that would
frighten the employer to whom you would take me. I answered, 'I have not
the means of dressing otherwise.' You said to me, 'Come to the Temple.'
I followed you. I chose the most spicy attire that Mother Hubart
had,--you advanced me the money to pay her,--and in a quarter of an hour
I was as smart as a landlord or a dentist. You appointed me to meet you
this morning at the Porte St. Denis, at daybreak; I found you there in a
cab, and here we are."
"Well, do you find anything to regret in all this?"
"Why, I'll tell you, M. Murphy. You see, to be dressed in this way
spoils a fellow; and so, you see, when I put on again my old smock-frock
and trousers, I sha'n't like it. And then, to gain four francs a
day,--I, who never earned but two,--and that all at once! why, I seem to
have made too great a start all of a sudden, and that it cannot last. I
would rather sleep all my life on the wretched straw bed in my
cock-loft, than sleep five or six nights only in a good bed. That's my
view of the thing."
"And you are by no means peculiar in your view; but the best thing is to
sleep always in a good bed."
"And no mistake; it is better to have a bellyful of victuals every day
than to starve with hunger. Ah! here is a butchery here," said the
Chourineur, as he listened to the blows of the chopper which the boy was
using, and observed the quarters of beef through the curtains.
"Yes, my lad; it belongs to a friend of mine. Would you like to see it
whilst the horse just recovers his wind?"
"I really should, for it reminds me of my boyish days, if it was only
when I had Montfauçon for a slaughter-house and broken-down horses for
cattle. It is droll, but if I had the means, a butcher's is the trade in
which I should set up, for I like it. To go on a good nag to buy cattle
at fairs,--to return home to one's own fireside, to warm yourself if
cold, or dry yourself if wet,--to find your housekeeper, or a good,
jolly, plump wife, cheerful and pleasant, with a parcel of children to
feel in your pockets to see if you have brought them home anything! And
then, in the morning, in the slaughter-house, to seize an ox by the
horns, particularly when he's fierce,--_nom de nom!_ he must be
fierce!--then to put on the ring, to cleave him down, cut him up, dress
him,--_Tonnerre!_ that would have been my ambition, as it was the
Goualeuse's to suck barley-sugar when she was a little 'un. By the way,
that poor girl, M. Murphy,--not seeing her any more at the ogress's, I
supposed that M. Rodolph had taken her away from there. That's a good
action, M. Murphy. Poor child! she never liked to do wrong,--she was so
young! And then the habit! Ah, M. Rodolph has behaved quite right!"
"I am of your opinion. But will you come into the shop until our horse
has rested awhile?"
The Chourineur and Murphy entered the shop, and then went to see the
yard, where three splendid oxen and a score of sheep were fastened up;
they then visited the stable, the chaise-house, the slaughter-house, the
lofts, and the out-buildings of the house, which were all in excellent
order, and kept with a cleanliness and care which bespoke regularity and
easy circumstances.
When they had seen all but the up-stairs, Murphy said:
"You must own that my friend is a lucky fellow. This house and property
are his, without counting a thousand crowns in hand to carry on his
business with; and he is, besides, only thirty-eight, strong as a bull,
with an iron constitution, and very fond of his business. The
industrious and civil journeyman that you saw in the shop supplies his
place, with much capability, when he goes to the fairs to purchase
cattle. I say again, is he not a lucky fellow?"
"He is, indeed, M. Murphy. But, you see, there are lucky and unlucky
people; and when I think that I am going to gain four francs a day, and
know how many there are who only earn the half, or even less--"
"Will you come up and see the rest of the house?"
"With all my heart, M. Murphy."
"The person who is about to employ you is up-stairs."
"The person who is going to employ me?"
"Yes."
"Why, then, didn't you tell me that before?"
"I'll tell you--"
"One moment," said the Chourineur, with a downcast and embarrassed air,
taking Murphy by the arm; "listen whilst I say a word to you, which
perhaps M. Rodolph did not tell you, but which I ought not to conceal
from the master who employs me, because, if he is offended by it--why
then, you see--why, afterwards--"
"What do you mean to say?"
"I mean to say--"
"Well, what?"
"That I am a convict, who has served his time,--that I have been at the
Bagne," said Chourineur, in a low voice.
"Indeed!" replied Murphy.
"But I never did wrong to any one," exclaimed the Chourineur; "and I
would sooner die of hunger than rob; but I have done worse than rob," he
added, bending his head down; "I have killed my fellow creature in a
passion. But that is not all," he continued, after a moment's pause. "I
will tell everything to my employer; I would rather be refused at first
than detected afterwards. You know him, and if you think he would refuse
me, why, spare me the refusal, and I will go as I came."
"Come along with me," said Murphy.
The Chourineur followed Murphy up the staircase; a door opened, and they
were both in the presence of Rodolph.
"My good Murphy," said he, "leave us together awhile."