a stake in the country, discovered that he was an altered man. He
repented of his foul deed, and his base purloining of the
_restaurateur's_ plate. "O honesty!" he cried, "how unworthy is an
action like this of a man who has a property like mine!" So he went
back to the pawnbroker with the gloomiest face imaginable. "My
friend," said he, "I have sinned against all that I hold most sacred:
I have forgotten my family and my religion. Here is thy money. In the
name of heaven, restore me the plate which I have wrongfully sold
thee!"
But the pawnbroker grinned, and said, "Nay, Mr. Gambouge, I will sell
that plate for a thousand francs to you, or I will never sell it at
all."
"Well," cried Gambouge, "thou art an inexorable ruffian, Troisboules;
but I will give thee all I am worth." And here he produced a billet of
five hundred francs. "Look," said he, "this money is all I own; it is
the payment of two years' lodging. To raise it, I have toiled for many
months; and, failing, I have been a criminal. O heaven! I _stole_ that
plate that I might pay my debt, and keep my dear wife from wandering
houseless. But I cannot bear this load of ignominy--I cannot suffer
the thought of this crime. I will go to the person to whom I did
wrong. I will starve, I will confess; but I will, I _will_ do right!"
The broker was alarmed. "Give me thy note," he cried; "here is the
plate."
"Give me an acquittal first," cried Simon, almost broken-hearted;
"sign me a paper, and the money is yours." So Troisboules wrote
according to Gambouge's dictation: "Received, for thirteen ounces of
plate, twenty pounds."
"Monster of iniquity!" cried the painter, "fiend of wickedness! thou
art caught in thine own snares. Hast thou not sold me five pounds'
worth of plate for twenty? Have I it not in my pocket? Art thou not a
convicted dealer in stolen goods? Yield, scoundrel, yield thy money,
or I will bring thee to justice!"
The frightened pawnbroker bullied and battled for a while; but he gave
up his money at last, and the dispute ended. Thus it will be seen that
Diabolus had rather a hard bargain in the wily Gambouge. He had taken
a victim prisoner, but he had assuredly caught a Tartar. Simon now
returned home, and, to do him justice, paid the bill for his dinner,
and restored the plate.
* * * * *
And now I may add (and the reader should ponder upon this, as a
profound picture of human life), that Gambouge, since he had grown
rich, grew likewise abundantly moral. He was a most exemplary father.
He fed the poor, and was loved by them. He scorned a base action. And
I have no doubt that Mr. Thurtell, or the late lamented Mr. Greenacre,
in similar circumstances, would have acted like the worthy Simon
Gambouge.
There was but one blot upon his character--he hated Mrs. Gam. worse
than ever. As he grew more benevolent, she grew more virulent: when he
went to plays, she went to Bible societies, and _vice versâ_: in fact,
she led him such a life as Xantippe led Socrates, or as a dog leads a
cat in the same kitchen. With all his fortune--for, as may be
supposed, Simon prospered in all worldly things--he was the most
miserable dog in the whole city of Paris. Only in the point of
drinking did he and Mrs. Simon agree; and for many years, and during a
considerable number of hours in each day, he thus dissipated,
partially, his domestic chagrin. O philosophy! we may talk of thee:
but, except at the bottom of the wine-cup, where thou liest like
truth in a well, where shall we find thee?
He lived so long, and in his worldly matters prospered so much, there
was so little sign of devilment in the accomplishment of his wishes,
and the increase of his prosperity, that Simon, at the end of six
years, began to doubt whether he had made any such bargain at all, as
that which we have described at the commencement of this history. He
had grown, as we said, very pious and moral. He went regularly to
mass, and had a confessor into the bargain. He resolved, therefore, to
consult that reverend gentleman, and to lay before him the whole
matter.
"I am inclined to think, holy sir," said Gambouge, after he had
concluded his history, and shown how, in some miraculous way, all his
desires were accomplished, "that, after all, this demon was no other
than the creation of my own brain, heated by the effects of that
bottle of wine, the cause of my crime and my prosperity."
The confessor agreed with him, and they walked out of church
comfortably together, and entered afterwards a _café_, where they sat
down to refresh themselves after the fatigues of their devotion.
A respectable old gentleman, with a number of orders at his
button-hole, presently entered the room, and sauntered up to the
marble table, before which reposed Simon and his clerical friend.
"Excuse me, gentlemen," he said, as he took a place opposite them, and
began reading the papers of the day.
"Bah!" said he, at last,--"sont-ils grands ces journaux anglais?
Look, sir," he said, handing over an immense sheet of _The Times_ to
Mr. Gambouge, "was ever anything so monstrous?"
Gambouge smiled, politely, and examined the proffered page. "It is
enormous," he said; "but I do not read English."
"Nay," said the man with the orders, "look closer at it, Signor
Gambouge; it is astonishing how easy the language is."
Wondering, Simon took the sheet of paper. He turned pale as he looked
at it, and began to curse the ices and the waiter. "Come, M. l'Abbé,"
he said; "the heat and glare of this place are intolerable."
* * * * *
The stranger rose with them. "Au plaisir de vous revoir, mon cher
monsieur," said he; "I do not mind speaking before the Abbé here, who
will be my very good friend one of these days; but I thought it
necessary to refresh your memory, concerning our little business
transaction six years since; and could not exactly talk of it _at
church_, as you may fancy."
Simon Gambouge had seen, in the double-sheeted _Times_, the paper
signed by himself, which the little Devil had pulled out of his fob.
* * * * *
There was no doubt on the subject; and Simon, who had but a year to
live, grew more pious, and more careful than ever. He had
consultations with all the doctors of the Sorbonne and all the lawyers
of the Palais. But his magnificence grew as wearisome to him as his
poverty had been before; and not one of the doctors whom he consulted
could give him a pennyworth of consolation.
Then he grew outrageous in his demands upon the Devil, and put him to
all sorts of absurd and ridiculous tasks; but they were all punctually
performed, until Simon could invent no new ones, and the Devil sat all
day with his hands in his pockets doing nothing.
One day, Simon's confessor came bounding into the room, with the
greatest glee. "My friend," said he, "I have it! Eureka!--I have found
it. Send the Pope a hundred thousand crowns, build a new Jesuit
college at Rome, give a hundred gold candlesticks to St. Peter's; and
tell his Holiness you will double all if he will give you absolution!"
Gambouge caught at the notion, and hurried off a courier to Rome
_ventre à terre_. His Holiness agreed to the request of the petition,
and sent him an absolution, written out with his own fist, and all in
due form.
"Now," said he, "foul fiend, I defy you! arise. Diabolus! your
contract is not worth a jot: the Pope has absolved me, and I am safe
on the road to salvation." In a fervour of gratitude he clasped the
hand of his confessor, and embraced him: tears of joy ran down the
cheeks of these good men.
They heard an inordinate roar of laughter, and there was Diabolus
sitting opposite to them holding his sides, and lashing his tail
about, as if he would have gone mad with glee.
"Why," said he, "what nonsense is this! do you suppose I care about
_that_?" and he tossed the Pope's missive into a corner. "M. l'Abbé
knows," he said, bowing and grinning, "that though the Pope's paper
may pass current _here_, it is not worth twopence in our country. What
do I care about the Pope's absolution? You might just as well be
absolved by your under butler."
"Egad," said the Abbé, "the rogue is right--I quite forgot the fact,
which he points out clearly enough."
"No, no, Gambouge," continued Diabolus, with horrid familiarity, "go
thy ways, old fellow, that _cock won't fight_." And he retired up the
chimney, chuckling at his wit and his triumph. Gambouge heard his tail
scuttling all the way up, as if he had been a sweeper by profession.
Simon was left in that condition of grief in which, according to the
newspapers, cities and nations are found when a murder is committed,
or a lord ill of the gout--a situation, we say, more easy to imagine
than to describe.
To add to his woes, Mrs. Gambouge, who was now first made acquainted
with his compact, and its probable consequences, raised such a storm
about his ears, as made him wish almost that his seven years were
expired. She screamed, she scolded, she swore, she wept, she went into
such fits of hysterics, that poor Gambouge, who had completely knocked
under to her, was worn out of his life. He was allowed no rest, night
or day: he moped about his fine house, solitary and wretched, and
cursed his stars that he ever had married the butcher's daughter.
It wanted six months of the time.
A sudden and desperate resolution seemed all at once to have taken
possession of Simon Gambouge. He called his family and his friends
together--he gave one of the greatest feasts that ever was known in
the city of Paris--he gaily presided at one end of his table, while
Mrs. Gam., splendidly arrayed, gave herself airs at the other
extremity.
After dinner, using the customary formula, he called upon Diabolus to
appear. The old ladies screamed and hoped he would not appear naked;
the young ones tittered, and longed to see the monster: everybody was
pale with expectation and affright.
A very quiet, gentlemanly man, neatly dressed in black, made his
appearance, to the surprise of all present, and bowed all round to the
company. "I will not show my _credentials_," he said, blushing, and
pointing to his hoofs, which were cleverly hidden by his pumps and
shoe-buckles, "unless the ladies absolutely wish it; but I am the
person you want, Mr. Gambouge; pray tell me what is your will."
"You know," said that gentleman, in a stately and determined voice,
"that you are bound to me, according to our agreement, for six months
to come."
"I am," replied the new comer.
"You are to do all that I ask, whatsoever it may be, or you forfeit
the bond which I gave you?"
"It is true."
"You declare this before the present company?"
"Upon my honour, as a gentleman," said Diabolus, bowing, and laying
his hand upon his waistcoat.
A whisper of applause ran round the room: all were charmed with the
bland manners of the fascinating stranger.
"My love," continued Gambouge, mildly addressing his lady, "will you
be so polite as to step this way? You know I must go soon, and I am
anxious, before this noble company, to make a provision for one who,
in sickness as in health, in poverty as in riches, has been my truest
and fondest companion."
Gambouge mopped his eyes with his handkerchief--all the company did
likewise. Diabolus sobbed audibly, and Mrs. Gambouge sidled up to her
husband's side, and took him tenderly by the hand. "Simon!" said she,
"is it true? and do you really love your Griskinissa?"
Simon continued solemnly: "Come hither, Diabolus; you are bound to
obey me in all things for the six months during which our contract has
to run; take, then, Griskinissa Gambouge, live alone with her for half
a year, never leave her from morning till night, obey all her
caprices, follow all her whims, and listen to all the abuse which
falls from her infernal tongue. Do this, and I ask no more of you; I
will deliver myself up at the appointed time."
Not Lord G----, when flogged by Lord B----, in the House,--not Mr.
Cartlitch, of Astley's Amphitheatre, in his most pathetic passages,
could look more crestfallen, and howl more hideously, than Diabolus
did now. "Take another year, Gambouge," screamed he; "two more--ten
more--a century; roast me on Lawrence's gridiron, boil me in holy
water, but don't ask that: don't, don't bid me live with Mrs.
Gambouge!"
Simon smiled sternly. "I have said it," he cried; "do this, or our
contract is at an end."
The Devil, at this, grinned so horribly that every drop of beer in the
house turned sour: he gnashed his teeth so frightfully that every
person in the company wellnigh fainted with the cholic. He slapped
down the great parchment upon the floor, trampled upon it madly, and
lashed it with his hoofs and his tail: at last, spreading out a mighty
pair of wings as wide as from here to Regent Street, he slapped
Gambouge with his tail over one eye, and vanished, abruptly, through
the keyhole.
* * * * *
Gambouge screamed with pain and started up. "You drunken, lazy
scoundrel!" cried a shrill and well-known voice, "you have been asleep
these two hours:" and here he received another terrific box on the
ear.
It was too true, he had fallen asleep at his work; and the beautiful
vision had been dispelled by the thumps of the tipsy Griskinissa.
Nothing remained to corroborate his story, except the bladder of lake,
and this was spirted all over his waistcoat and breeches.
"I wish," said the poor fellow, rubbing his tingling cheeks, "that
dreams were true;" and he went to work again at his portrait.
* * * * *
My last accounts of Gambouge are, that he has left the arts, and is
footman in a small family. Mrs. Gam. takes in washing; and it is said
that her continual dealings with soap-suds and hot water have been the
only things in life which have kept her from spontaneous combustion.
BON-BON
BY EDGAR ALLAN POE
Quand un bon vin meuble mon estomac,
Je suis plus savant que Balzac--
Plus sage que Pibrac;
Mon bras seul faisant l'attaque
De la nation cossaque,
La mettroit au sac;
De Charon je passerois le lac
En dormant dans son bac;
J'irois au fier Eac,
Sans que mon coeur fit tic ni tac,
Presenter du tabac.
--_French Vaudeville._
That Pierre Bon-Bon was a _restaurateur_ of uncommon qualifications,
no man who, during the reign of ----, frequented the little _café_ in
the _cul-de-sac_ Le Febvre at Rouen, will, I imagine, feel himself at
liberty to dispute. That Pierre Bon-Bon was, in an equal degree,
skilled in the philosophy of that period is, I presume, still more
especially undeniable. His _pâtés à la fois_ were beyond doubt
immaculate; but what pen can do justice to his essays _sur la
Nature_--his thoughts _sur l'Ame_--his observations _sur l'Esprit_? If
his _omelettes_--if his _fricandeaux_ were inestimable, what
_littérateur_ of that day would not have given twice as much for an
"_Idée de Bon-Bon_" as for all the trash of all the "_Idées_" of all
the rest of the _savants_? Bon-Bon had ransacked libraries which no
other man had ransacked--had read more than any other would have
entertained a notion of reading--had understood more than any other
would have conceived the possibility of understanding; and although,
while he flourished, there were not wanting some authors at Rouen to
assert "that his _dicta_ evinced neither the purity of the Academy,
nor the depth of the Lyceum"--although, mark me, his doctrines were by
no means very generally comprehended, still it did not follow that
they were difficult of comprehension. It was, I think, on account of
their self-evidency that many persons were led to consider them
abstruse. It is to Bon-Bon--but let this go no further--it is to
Bon-Bon that Kant himself is mainly indebted for his metaphysics. The
former was indeed not a Platonist, nor strictly speaking an
Aristotelian--nor did he, like the modern Leibnitz, waste those
precious hours which might be employed in the invention of a
_fricassée_ or, _facili gradu_, the analysis of a sensation, in
frivolous attempts at reconciling the obstinate oils and waters of
ethical discussion. Not at all. Bon-Bon was Ionic--Bon-Bon was equally
Italic. He reasoned _a priori_--He reasoned _a posteriori_. His ideas
were innate--or otherwise. He believed in George of Trebizond--he
believed in Bossarion. Bon-Bon was emphatically a--Bon-Bonist.
I have spoken of the philosopher in his capacity of _restaurateur_. I
would not, however, have any friend of mine imagine that, in
fulfilling his hereditary duties in that line, our hero wanted a
proper estimation of their dignity and importance. Far from it. It
was impossible to say in which branch of his profession he took the
greater pride. In his opinion the powers of the intellect held
intimate connection with the capabilities of the stomach. I am not
sure, indeed, that he greatly disagreed with the Chinese, who hold
that the soul lies in the abdomen. The Greeks at all events were
right, he thought, who employed the same word for the mind and the
diaphragm.[13] By this I do not mean to insinuate a charge of
gluttony, or indeed any other serious charge to the prejudice of the
metaphysician. If Pierre Bon-Bon had his failings--and what great man
has not a thousand?--if Pierre Bon-Bon, I say, had his failings, they
were failings of very little importance--faults indeed which, in other
tempers, have often been looked upon rather in the light of virtues.
As regards one of these foibles, I should not even have mentioned it
in this history but for the remarkable prominency--the extreme _alto
relievo_--in which it jutted out from the plane of his general
disposition. He could never let slip an opportunity of making a
bargain.
[13] [Greek: Phrenes].
Not that he was avaricious--no. It was by no means necessary to the
satisfaction of the philosopher, that the bargain should be to his own
proper advantage. Provided a trade could be effected--a trade of any
kind, upon any terms, or under any circumstances--a triumphant smile
was seen for many days thereafter to enlighten his countenance, and a
knowing wink of the eye to give evidence of his sagacity.
At any epoch it would not be very wonderful if a humour so peculiar
as the one I have just mentioned, should elicit attention and remark.
At the epoch of our narrative, had this peculiarity _not_ attracted
observation, there would have been room for wonder indeed. It was soon
reported that, upon all occasions of the kind, the smile of Bon-Bon
was found to differ widely from the downright grin with which he would
laugh at his own jokes, or welcome an acquaintance. Hints were thrown
out of an exciting nature; stories were told of perilous bargains made
in a hurry and repented of at leisure; and instances were adduced of
unaccountable capacities, vague longings, and unnatural inclinations
implanted by the author of all evil for wise purposes of his own.
The philosopher had other weaknesses--but they are scarcely worthy our
serious examination. For example, there are few men of extraordinary
profundity who are found wanting in an inclination for the bottle.
Whether this inclination be an exciting cause, or rather a valid
proof, of such profundity, it is a nice thing to say. Bon-Bon, as far
as I can learn, did not think the subject adapted to minute
investigation;--nor do I. Yet in the indulgence of a propensity so
truly classical, it is not to be supposed that the _restaurateur_
would lose sight of that intuitive discrimination which was wont to
characterize, at one and the same time, his _essais_ and his
_omelettes_. In his seclusions the Vin de Bourgogne had its allotted
hour, and there were appropriate moments for the Côtes du Rhône. With
him Sauternes was to Médoc what Catullus was to Homer. He would sport
with a syllogism in sipping St. Péray, but unravel an argument over
Clos-Vougeot, and upset a theory in a torrent of Chambertin. Well had
it been if the same quick sense of propriety had attended him in the
peddling propensity to which I have formerly alluded--but this was by
no means the case. Indeed to say the truth, _that_ trait of mind in
the philosophic Bon-Bon _did_ begin at length to assume a character of
strange intensity and mysticism, and appeared deeply tinctured with
the _diablerie_ of his favourite German studies.
To enter the little _café_ in the _cul-de-sac_ Le Febvre was, at the
period of our tale, to enter the _sanctum_ of a man of genius. Bon-Bon
was a man of genius. There was not a _sous-cuisinier_ in Rouen who
could not have told you that Bon-Bon was a man of genius. His very cat
knew it, and forbore to whisk her tail in the presence of the man of
genius. His large water-dog was acquainted with the fact, and upon the
approach of his master, betrayed his sense of inferiority by a
sanctity of deportment, a debasement of the ears, and a dropping of
the lower jaw not altogether unworthy of a dog. It is, however, true
that much of this habitual respect might have been attributed to the
personal appearance of the metaphysician. A distinguished exterior
will, I am constrained to say, have its way even with a beast; and I
am willing to allow much in the outward man of the _restaurateur_
calculated to impress the imagination of the quadruped. There is a
peculiar majesty about the atmosphere of the little great--if I may be
permitted so equivocal an expression--which mere physical bulk alone
will be found at all times inefficient in creating. If, however,
Bon-Bon was barely three feet in height, and if his head was
diminutively small, still it was impossible to behold the rotundity
of his stomach without a sense of magnificence nearly bordering upon
the sublime. In its size both dogs and men must have seen a type of
his acquirements--in its immensity a fitting habitation for his
immortal soul.
I might here--if it so pleased me--dilate upon the matter of
habiliment, and other mere circumstances of the external
metaphysician. I might hint that the hair of our hero was worn short,
combed smoothly over his forehead, and surmounted by a conical-shaped
white flannel cap and tassels--that his pea-green jerkin was not after
the fashion of those worn by the common class of _restaurateurs_ at
that day--that the sleeves were something fuller than the reigning
costume permitted--that the cuffs were turned up, not as usual in that
barbarous period, with cloth of the same quality and colour as the
garment, but faced in a more fanciful manner with the particoloured
velvet of Genoa--that his slippers were of bright purple, curiously
filigreed, and might have been manufactured in Japan, but for the
exquisite pointing of the toes, and the brilliant tints of the binding
and embroidery--that his breeches were of the yellow satin-like
material called _aimable_--that his sky-blue cloak, resembling in form
a dressing-wrapper, and richly bestudded all over with crimson
devices, floated cavaliery upon his shoulders like a mist of the
morning--and that his _tout ensemble_ gave rise to the remarkable
words of Benevenuta, the Improvisatrice of Florence, "that it was
difficult to say whether Pierre Bon-Bon was indeed a bird of Paradise,
or the rather a very Paradise of perfection." I might, I say,
expatiate upon all these points if I pleased,--but I forbear; merely
personal details may be left to historical novelists,--they are
beneath the moral dignity of matter-of-fact.
I have said that "to enter the _café_ in the _cul-de-sac_ Le Febvre
was to enter the _sanctum_ of a man of genius"--but then it was only
the man of genius who could duly estimate the merits of the _sanctum_.
A sign, consisting of a vast folio, swung before the entrance. On one
side of the volume was painted a bottle; on the reverse a _pâté_. On
the back were visible in large letters _Oeuvres de Bon-Bon_. Thus was
delicately shadowed forth the twofold occupation of the proprietor.
Upon stepping over the threshold, the whole interior of the building
presented itself to view. A long, low-pitched room, of antique
construction, was indeed all the accommodation afforded by the _café_.
In a corner of the apartment stood the bed of the metaphysician. An
array of curtains, together with a canopy _à la grecque_, gave it an
air at once classic and comfortable. In the corner diagonally
opposite, appeared, in direct family communion, the properties of the
kitchen and the _bibliothèque_. A dish of polemics stood peacefully
upon the dresser. Here lay an ovenful of the latest ethics--there a
kettle of duodecimo _mélanges_. Volumes of German morality were hand
and glove with the gridiron--a toasting-fork might be discovered by
the side of Eusebius--Plato reclined at his ease in the
frying-pan--and contemporary manuscripts were filed away upon the
spit.