MAÎTRE PICARD PROSECUTES A SUCCESSFUL CRUSADE AGAINST THE STUDENTS
There are very few portions of Paris which have retained their
physiognomy of the _moyen âge_ with less change than the Quartier
Latin. The narrow tortuous streets have undergone little alteration
since they were first built; few new thoroughfares have intersected
the dense cluster of tall gloomy houses that bound them; in fact, as
far as the line of the Rue des Fosses, whereon the ramparts were still
partly situated at the time of this romance, everything has remained
nearly in the same state for centuries. The humble nature of the
articles exposed for sale in the different shop windows, and the small
prices attached thereunto, were the same formerly as now. For the
denizens of this learned _pays_ have been, time out of mind, the
members of the different schools; and poverty and clerkship ever
wandered hand-in-hand together about its venerable streets, or
ruminated in its cloistered quietudes.
Yet have not the livelier parts of the city, most known to passing
sojourners, a fiftieth part of the interest which is attached to the
dirty old _quartier_ wherein our scene now passes, although money has
ever been the scarcest article to be found within its limits, since
the days when the ‘Cloistre St. Benoyt’ and ‘Hostel de Clugny’ were
newly erected buildings. We ourselves have lived merrily therein, in
small cabins at the extreme summits of houses, where carnival
irregularities drove us to restrict our expenses, literally to a few
sous a-day--when three hard eggs, some bread, and a cruet of wine
formed a jovial dinner; and a pair of bright eyes could sometimes be
found to laugh in company over such an humble meal as this, and desire
none better. Certainly if such a thing as disinterested affection
exists in the world--which at times we feel inclined to doubt--it is
to be found in the Quartier Latin. And then its associations! It
conjures up no visions of English parvenus, vulgar tourists, and
Meurice’s Table d’Hôte; you would not find a _Galignani’s Messenger_,
or a cake of Windsor soap throughout its entire range. No; all your
thoughts would be of doublets and pointed shoes--of rapiers and
scholars of Cluny; of anything, in fact, the reverse to what would
suggest itself on the other side of the river.
But our hobby is fairly running away with us over a course we have
before traversed; we must return once more to that which has long
past. In 1665 there stood at the corner of the Rue des Mathurins and
Rue de la Harpe, in the very heart of this venerable division of
Paris, the shop of ‘Maître Picard, chapelier.’ It was a modest
edifice, with one large window, in which were displayed hats and caps
of every age and style. For the students then, as now, held prevalent
fashions in great contempt, and dressed according to their whims and
finances, or in whatever they contrived to capture in night skirmishes
from the persons of the bourgeoisie.
To advertise his calling Maître Picard had erected a sign in front of
his house, over and above the intimation just mentioned. It was a huge
hat of red tin, gaily adorned with gilt edges, from which, on certain
festivals, bright ribbons floated in the draughts of wind that whisked
round the corner of the streets, to the great admiration of the
passers-by in general, coupled with wonder that it had remained so
long unmolested in such a precarious locality as the neighbourhood of
the Hôtel Dieu and Sorbonne. But this was because it was a little too
high up for them to clutch it; a few feet lower, and long ago, Maître
Picard would have been horrified some fine morning at perceiving his
sign had vanished: for, as we have seen, the rotund little patrol was
one of the marching watch; and the same _antipathie vouée_ which the
student of the Quartier Latin at the present time exhibits towards the
Sergent de ville, existed quite as forcibly two hundred years ago
between the scholar of Cluny and the Garde Bourgeois.
Since the rude treatment which Maître Picard had received from the
hands of his sworn persecutors at the ‘Lanterne,’ in the Rue
Mouffetard, he had neglected no opportunity of interfering with their
enjoyments, and various had been the schemes which Camille Theria and
Phillipe Glazer had planned for revenge. But they had all failed;
especially every enterprise against the hat, to which their designs
were principally directed. For they knew that the gigantic metal sign
was the pride of Maître Picard’s heart, and the glory of the Rue des
Mathurins--that its abstraction would crush his public spirit; and
that as such, no stone should be left unturned in effecting its
destruction. And indeed, as far as that went, they tried to carry out
their intentions in a very literal spirit, as the broken state of the
rude pavement below, and several large dents in the enormous hat
above, fully testified.
At last, by what appeared to be a fortunate chance for the marauders,
Jean Blacquart, the Gascon, took a lodging on the upper floor of the
house; being principally led to such a step by a feeling of gratitude
for the timely intercession of Maître Picard, when his
fellow-students were about to hang him. The instant this became known,
it was resolved that advantage should be taken of his occupancy to
carry off the hat. Blacquart, at first, plumply refused to assist in
such an irregular proceeding; but after Theria had assured him that in
the event of his non-compliance he would be dropped in the Bièvre, or
slowly roasted before the fire of the cabaret in the Rue Mouffetard,
the Gascon assented. A particular night was fixed upon for the
attempt, and a meeting of the ‘Gens de la Courte Epée’ called at a
tavern in the Rue des Cordeliers--the site of the present Rue de
l’École de Médecine--to effect this object.
That night Maître Picard, not being on guard, resolved upon indulging
in potent drinks and toothsome viands in his little parlour behind the
shop. He had closed his wareroom at an early hour; and having invited
Jean Blacquart to join him--for the Gascon was not of the marauding
party, although he had an indirect part to perform in the outrage--was
discussing hot wine with his lodger a little after curfew, and
listening to his rhodomontades connected with his profession and deeds
and actions generally.
Jean had told a great many narratives about encounters he had won
(which had never taken place) and enemies he had killed (who were
still alive), increasing the marvels of each with each cup of wine,
until the fulness of his heart, coupled with his fear of being mixed
up in the affair, led him to inform Maître Picard of the intended
attempt upon his hat to be made that very evening. The apartment
occupied by the Gascon was at the top of the house; it had formerly
been a granary--such as may still be seen in Paris--and outside a
small but strong wooden crane was fixed, hanging over the doomed sign.
To the rope of this a loop was to be made, and then Camille Theria,
who had taken the danger and the glory of the enterprise to himself,
was to be hauled up until he came within reach of the hat, which he
was to take from its fixings and bear off in triumph.
The first feelings inspired in the breast of Maître Picard, as he
heard this bold scheme unfolded, were those of fright; the next
partook largely of revenge.
‘How many will there be?’ he asked.
‘Oh! a hundred,’ replied Blacquart. It was the ‘Gascon’ for twenty.
‘Bless me!’ said Maître Picard; ‘a great number--an awful number. You
have told me to-night that you once fought a score yourself; but I
don’t think you could face so many.’
‘I don’t think I could,’ said Blacquart. ‘I will try, if you please;
only if my courage led me into any rash attack, I might be fatally
wounded, and then what a scrape you would get into.’
‘True--true,’ said Maître Picard, wiping his face, and taking a long
draught of wine; ‘and it is the same with me. My frame is rather round
than large; but there is a great spirit at work within it, which I
cannot always command. I will call together the Garde Bourgeois.’
‘Will not their assembling alarm the others,’ said Blacquart.
‘Not at all--not at all,’ returned the _chapelier_. ‘We will have them
come by twos and threes, and hide in my shop.’
‘Excellent!’ said the Gascon.
‘Will you summons them, then?’ asked Maître Picard.
‘I think not,’ said Blacquart; ‘although they know me as a daring and
gallant coadjutor. My appearance in the streets might provoke
suspicion with any of the students I might meet.’
To the joy of the Gascon, who thought inside the house the safest
position with such an event about to come off, Maître Picard rose,
with some trouble, from his settle, and, puffing and blowing, started
out to summons his brother-guards. The Gascon remained to finish the
wine; which, having done, he felt so nerved that he sang bold and
warlike songs to himself, and then drawing his sword fought imaginary
duels with nobody, and slaughtered many chimerical adversaries,
concluding from mere want of breath, in high good humour with himself
and his prowess. He was yet panting from his late courageous
exertions, when his landlord returned with a few of his brethren in
the guard, and these were speedily followed by others, who were
stationed in the shop and parlour. Their presence increased the
Gascon’s valour to such a pitch that, when he saw they had all
arrived, he even offered to go and fight the students himself. And had
it not been for one of the guard, who, from sheer wickedness,
recommended Jean to do so, to his extreme terror, there is no knowing
to what lengths he might have gone, or what wonderful actions he might
have committed.
The curfew sounded; the lights disappeared in the Quartier Latin, as
the shops were closed, and the glimmer of the lanterns alone illumined
the thoroughfares. Maître Picard disposed the Garde Bourgeois for a
proper sortie, and then went up to Blacquart’s room, accompanied by
the student, whom he placed to keep a look out at the window.
‘I think I hear them coming,’ said Jean, after he had been a short
time at his post.
‘They are marching in order,’ observed Maître Picard, with breathless
attention; ‘the students have mustered strongly.’
‘No; it is the Guet Royal,’ returned the Gascon, as the night-patrol
came round the corner of the Rue de la Harpe.
‘I think we had better call them in, too,’ said the affrighted little
hatter.
‘No--no,’ answered Jean; ‘the disturbance and the clank of their arms
will alarm the others. Beside, is there not enough to protect you? You
have me.’
‘Very true,’ said Maître Picard. But he said it as if he did not
think it was. However, he was resigned to his fate, and the Guet Royal
passed along the Rue des Mathurins, turning off towards the Sorbonne.
‘They will not be back for half an hour,’ murmured Maître Picard, as
the last cresset disappeared round the corner.
‘Then they will be too late for our gentlemen,’ said the Gascon; ‘for
I hear them now coming in reality.’
In effect he was right. The students had evidently waited until the
patrol had passed, knowing they would thus be for a certain time
uninterrupted, and they now came quietly in front of the house. One of
them, whom Blacquart knew to be Camille Theria, clapped his hands, and
the Gascon replied to the signal.
‘They wanted to hang me the other night,’ said he; ‘but I mean to
succeed better with them than they did with me. And yet,’ he added as
he looked below, ‘there seems to be a great many of them.’
‘What are you waiting for?’ asked the _chapelier_.
‘Me? oh! nothing--nothing,’ said the Gascon. His blood was ebbing down
rapidly every instant. ‘Only I was thinking if you were to make a
speech from the window, and forgive them, how they would esteem you;
and perhaps it would save bloodshed.’
Theria, who was below, repeated the signal.
‘Lower down your rope,’ said Maître Picard, who was peeping over the
parapet.
‘Upon my honour, I don’t much like to do so,’ said Blacquart, as his
last atom of heroism evaporated.
‘If you don’t let the line down immediately, I will give you into
custody below as an accomplice,’ said the bourgeois, in wrathful
accents.
Another impatient signal from Theria was heard; and poor Jean, in a
terrible fright, proceeded to unwind the cord from its winch; whilst
the hatter kept looking just over the parapet to see what was going
on.
‘It is almost close to the ground,’ he said. ‘Now it touches it; and
that rascal Theria has got hold of the end. He puts his foot in it.
Huzza! huzza! now wind away; he is ours.’
And the rotund little man delivered himself up to the performance of
such joyful gymnastics, that at last his hat fell off and tumbled into
the street. A student, who saw it fall, thought it was Theria’s, and
cramming his _casquette_ into his cloak-pocket, put it on, until the
other should come down.
‘Now, stop! for your life!’ said Maître Picard to the Gascon, who
kept winding away in great trepidation, but saying through it all that
he was easily accomplishing the work of six men. ‘Now stop! he is on a
level with the sign; let him remain there.’
Jean implicitly obeyed; the catch fell into the toothed wheel, and he
came to the window, whilst Maître Picard hurried down stairs very
rapidly, by reason of his gravity, and told his fellow police that it
was time to make their charge. They accordingly rushed into the
street, and were face to face with the students.
‘Trapped!’ ejaculated Theria, as he felt his progress stopped, and saw
the tumult below. ‘Oh, Master Blacquart, you shall pay for this.’
A terrible riot ensued. What the students wanted in numbers, they made
up in strength and daring. They wrested the partisans from their
opponents to turn against them, and in all probability would have come
off the conquerors, had not Maître Picard opened one of his upper
windows and discharged a blunderbus therefrom--not to injure his
enemies, but to give the alarm by the report of this novel weapon, not
long imported from Holland.[9] It had the desired effect, and in a
few minutes brought back the Guet Royal.
Some of the students fled at once as they saw the night-patrol
advance, for they were men with whom there was no trifling. Those who
remained, being a small number, were now captured by the bourgeois;
and then Maître Picard emerged from his house, and Theria was let
down and seized.
‘Huzza!’ cried the little _chapelier_, giving way to fresh antics. ‘We
have caught you--eh? Take him away; to the guard-house with such a
brawler. Stop--no--the glory shall be with me. Gentlemen of the Guet
Royal, march on with your other prisoners; the Garde Bourgeois will
take charge of the ringleader. _Mauvais sujet_--ugh!’
Camille took no notice of Maître Picard’s address. He was, however,
chafing with anger inwardly at being thus caught.
‘To the guard-house!’ continued Maître Picard, ‘without loss of time.
I have rid Paris of a brigand--a cut-purse. _En avant!_’
Drawing his sword as well as his short arms and fat little body
permitted, Maître Picard placed himself before the prisoner, and two
of the others followed. In this state they started off, the hatter
leaving Blacquart in charge of his shop, and proceeded towards the
nearest _corps du garde_. But, as they were passing down the Rue de la
Harpe, Camille, who had been watching his opportunity, suddenly
tripped up the _chapelier_, and sent him rolling into the kennel that
rushed down the middle of the street, before he had time to save
himself. He then as rapidly dealt a couple of heavy blows to his
followers, and whilst they were aghast at the unexpected attack,
rushed down the Rue du Foin, in the obscurity of which he was
immediately lost. But we must follow him along it, leaving the two
guards, first to recover themselves and then to pick up Maître
Picard, in as sorry a plight as might well be.
Flying along the narrow thoroughfare, a few minutes brought Camille to
his abode in the Place Maubert. He went directly to the apartment of
Philippe Glazer, who was at home, and briefly told him what had
happened.
‘It will not stop here,’ said Theria. ‘That wretched bourgeois can
make a nasty business of it if he likes, and I must leave Paris at
once.’
‘Immediately?’ asked Glazer.
‘Directly. My studies, such as they have been, are nearly finished,
and Liège will do for me to settle at as well as anywhere else.
Besides, it is my home.’
‘Can I assist you in anything?’ asked Philippe.
‘In one thing only--a little money, for I am quite cleaned out by _mes
camarades_. In return, Philippe, I leave you everything--my books, my
rapier, and my Estelle--poor Estelle! Don’t ever part with my rapier
whatever you do.’
Glazer smiled at his friend’s speech, as he collected what little
money he had by him, and gave to the other.
‘Ten thousand thanks, Philippe,’ said Camille, ‘it shall be repaid
some day; we do not cheat one another.’
‘I will trust you,’ said Glazer; ‘is there anything else I can do for
you?’
‘One thing,’ said Camille, more seriously. ‘I am not one to boast of
favours bestowed, or even hint at them, but you will find a packet of
love-letters in my old _escriban_. Burn them all--they are from Madame
de Brinvilliers.’
Glazer uttered an exclamation of mingled incredulity and surprise.
‘It is true,’ said Camille; ‘she wrote them to me, telling me that I
was the only one she ever loved--that all the other attachments had
been madness--folly. Pshaw! each avowal was stereotyped, and did for
others as well as it will again do for the next. Burn them all. Adieu!
and tell Estelle to console herself.’
And, warmly shaking his friend by the hand, Theria flew down stairs,
leaving Glazer almost bewildered at the rapidity of the interview and
the avowal he had just heard.