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[Illustration: _Copyright 1903 by G. Barrie & Sons_]
_LÉODGARD RETURNS TO HIS FRIENDS_
_All the young men ran to meet Léodgard, for it was really he who was
approaching. As they drew near him they were struck by his pallor and by
the sinister gleam of his eyes, which avoided theirs._
NOVELS
BY
Paul de Kock
VOLUME VII
THE BATH KEEPERS;
OR,
PARIS IN THOSE DAYS
VOL. I
PRINTED BY ARRANGEMENT WITH
[Illustration]
GEORGE BARRIE'S SONS
THE JEFFERSON PRESS
BOSTON NEW YORK
_Copyrighted, 1903-1904, by G. B. & Sons._
THE BATH KEEPERS;
OR,
PARIS IN THOSE DAYS
I
RUE COUTURE-SAINTE-CATHERINE
It was two o'clock on a cold, damp morning; the fine snow, which melted
as soon as it touched the ground, made the streets slippery and dirty,
and Rue Culture-Sainte-Catherine,--then called
Couture-Sainte-Catherine,--although it was one of the broadest streets
in Paris, was as black and gloomy as any blind alley in the Cité to-day.
But these things took place in the year one thousand six hundred and
thirty-four; and I need not tell you that in those days no such devices
for street lighting as lanterns, gas, or electric lights were known. The
man who should have discovered the last-named invention, which, in
truth, savors strongly of the magical, would surely have been subjected
to the ordinary and extraordinary torture for a recompense.
Those were the good old times!
Everything new aroused suspicion; people believed much more readily in
sorcerers, the devil, and magic, than in the results of study and
learning and the reasoning of the human intellect.
Was it that men were too modest in those days? If so, they have reformed
most effectually since then.
In those days, very few persons ventured to be out late in the streets
of Paris, where the police was most inefficient and often worse.
The young noblemen sometimes indulged in the pastime of beating the
watch; that diversion was permitted to the nobility. To-day, the
prowlers about the barriers are the only class who undertake to beat the
gendarmes from time to time; but the gendarmes are not so accommodating
as the watch of the old days.
There were not then some thirty or more theatres open every evening for
the entertainment of the people of the capital and of the strangers
drawn thither by its renown. A single one had been founded and was
patronized by Cardinal de Richelieu, who, unfortunately for his glory,
had undertaken to add to his other titles thereto the title of author.
But all great men have had their weaknesses. Alexander drank too much,
which was infinitely more reprehensible than to write wretched verses;
Frederick the Great insisted that he was a talented performer on the
flute; and Louis XIV danced in the comédies-ballets which Molière
composed for him.
The farces which were then being performed by Turlupin, Gros-Guillaume,
and Gauthier-Garguille ended with the daylight, their theatres being in
the open air. People dined at noon and supped at six o'clock; and when a
worthy bourgeois remained at a friend's house as late as nine o'clock,
he looked upon it as a genuine revel, as a youthful escapade, and
hurried home at the top of his speed, carrying a lantern, and shuddering
with terror many a time as he passed through the lanes which were then
called streets, and in which, if he should happen to meet any
evil-minded person, he was certain of obtaining no assistance from any
house or shop; for when the curfew had rung, everything must be closed,
and you might not even have a light in your house, if you wished to read
or work, or for any reason not to go to bed.
Why do we call that period "the good old time"?
That is a question I have often asked myself.
Is it because people were not entitled to go to bed, to work, to
entertain their friends, to amuse themselves when they had the desire,
the need, or the fancy so to do?
Is it because people broke their necks after dark in the streets?
because thieves, then called _Truands_, _Mauvais Garçons_, _Tireurs de
Laine_, or _Coupeurs de Bourses_, plied their trade in broad daylight on
Pont Neuf and in other localities, laughing in your face if you ventured
to remonstrate?
Was it because the shops were dark and filthy, devoid of taste and
refinement?
Was it because duels were fought on street corners, or in the public
squares, two or four or twelve a day, as unconcernedly as we go boating
to-day; and the authorities took no steps to prevent this butchery?
Was it because edicts were promulgated every day whereby such a one was
forbidden to wear silk, another to wear velvet, this woman to have a
gilt girdle, another to dress in certain colors, which were too
brilliant, too conspicuous for her walk in life?
O short-sighted politicians! O paltry critics! who anathematize luxury,
who seek to restrict refinement, who censure coquetry, and who do not
understand that by such theories you strike at our commerce, our
manufacturers, our mechanics--in a word, all our _workers_!
In heaven's name, what harm is done if a plebeian who has money dresses
fashionably, luxuriously even, if such be his taste, his caprice?
Are you afraid that he may eclipse you, who assume to belong to the beau
monde? Try to make yourself distinguished by your manners, your bearing,
your grace, your courtesy, your language; surely you must know that
those are things that cannot be bought!
For my own part, I would be glad to see all the working girls in silk
dresses, velvet bonnets, and lace-trimmed caps, and all the workingmen
in patent-leather shoes and white gloves.
Where would be the harm?
Is not the picture of refinement more attractive than that of
slovenliness, poverty, and want?
Does not the money that a man spends on his dress do him more honor than
that which he throws away at the wine shop?
But let us return to Rue Culture-Sainte-Catherine, and to the period
when the events that we are about to describe took place.
A young man came out of Rue des Francs-Bourgeois and passed the Hôtel de
Carnavalet, before which artists and admirers of sculpture always paused
to gaze at the waving lines of the great portal, and the masks and
bas-reliefs that adorned the arches of the windows--the work of the
immortal Jean Goujon.
Fortunate structure, which the genius of an artist was to make famous
forever, and to which, at a later time, a woman of intellect was to add
renewed lustre by making it her residence!
But at the period of which we write, Madame de Sévigné had not taken up
her abode at the Hôtel de Carnavalet.
The hour was not propitious for halting in front of the mansion, for it
was very near Rue des Francs-Bourgeois, which at that time extended to
Rue Culture-Sainte-Catherine; moreover, the person who came from the
first-named street did not seem to be in that frame of mind which fits
us to pass judgment on the objects of beauty we may meet on our road.
He was, as we have said, a young man. Twenty-five years was his age; he
was tall, slender, and well built; there was in his carriage and in
every movement the ease of bearing which denotes the man of the world,
and the manners which point to familiarity with cultivated society, and
which one does not lose, even in low company, when one has inherited
them from a long line of ancestors.
In addition to grace of form, this young man possessed a handsome face
and clean-cut features; his brow was lofty and proud; his black eyes
were large and bright, and surmounted by very dense eyebrows which
almost met, thus imparting at times a somewhat sombre expression to the
organs of vision below them, which flashed fire when animated by wrath,
but could, on occasion, assume an expression of gentleness and
tenderness which it was difficult to resist; a small mouth, well
supplied with teeth, and shaded by a small moustache; an oval chin
adorned by a _royale_; and a forest of black hair which fell in thick
curls over his neck and shoulders--such, physically, was Léodgard de
Marvejols.
As for his moral character, this story will instruct us sufficiently
therein.
Clad in a handsome doublet of crimson silk, slashed with white satin;
knee-breeches of the same material, held in place by a white belt with
silver fringe, to which was attached a long sword, with a hilt of the
finest steel, ornamented with fringe and bows of ribbon; the young
cavalier's feet and legs were encased in funnel-shaped top-boots of
yellow leather, with buckles at the instep; spurs affixed to those
light boots indicated that they seldom contributed to wear out the
pavements. A broad collarette, trimmed with lace, served as a cravat,
and a small velvet cloak was thrown over the shoulders and clasped on
one side. Lastly, a hat with a pointed crown and broad brim, turned up
in front, and surmounted by a long white plume attached by a steel
button, was the young man's headgear; and it must be said that it was
infinitely more graceful and refined than the hideous hats that we wear
to-day.
We must do justice to the "good old times" in this respect: the costumes
worn by men were much more graceful, more dignified, more attractive,
than they now are; for we must, before everything, be impartial, and
award praise as well as blame.
Léodgard de Marvejols walked rather quickly, but sometimes he stopped,
like a person who is very much preoccupied, and to whom it matters
little that it is two o'clock in the morning, and that the streets are
deserted.
At these times he usually thought aloud, or talked to himself--a
practice which is more common than is generally supposed; and as the
young nobleman had supped very copiously, his monologues were quite as
energetic as if he were still accompanied by boisterous revellers.
At this time Léodgard was very near the new convent of the _Annonciades
Célestes_, or _Filles Bleues_, which one of the mistresses of Henri IV,
the Marquise de Verneuil, had founded in the year 1626.
The blue girdle and cloak worn by the Annonciades had already caused
them to be styled _Filles Bleues_; which fact did not prevent those
saintlike women from being held in great veneration in their quarter; so
that, in broad daylight, people would have been terribly scandalized to
hear our young man swear roundly so near that asylum of repentance, and
exclaim, as he leaned against the wall of the convent:
"Par la mordieu! if that Jarnonville had not left the game, I should
have won twice as much, thrice as much; I was in luck; I should have won
until morning. And that D'Artigues, and Cournac--to refuse to take the
dice--when I offered them their revenge at lansquenet--that swindlers'
game! and when I was losing! God damn me! I would stake my patrimony, my
moustaches, my mistress, if anyone would give me anything on them, and
my soul, if the devil would take it.--Let me see: how much did I win
from them? five or six hundred pistoles at most; and even so, I am not
sure that their rose crowns aren't clipped or counterfeit. A noble
night's work, on my word! as if that would make up what I have lost! I
know that I may continue to win to-morrow, and the day after to-morrow;
that I may win as often as I have lost.--Ah! I will win! I must! I must
win enough to buy another _petite maison_, as I have lost mine to that
infernal De Montrevers.--Where in the devil am I to take my pretty
courtesan, Camilla, to-morrow?--This is strange; I feel dizzy; that
Jurançon wine was good, but it is heady.--Where in the devil shall I
take my new conquest to-morrow? Cournac refused to lend me his _petite
maison_, on the pretext that he was to have company there. The coxcomb!
he boasts of it, but it is a lie; I know from his esquire that when he
goes there he is always alone! However, we shall find some place of
shelter to take our belle; I am in funds now, and with a well-filled
purse one is welcomed cordially everywhere.--Apropos of my purse, let us
be sure that I haven't lost it. By hell! I am quite capable of it, I am
so dizzy!"
At that thought, the young man hastily put his hand to his belt; but his
eyes almost immediately resumed a serene expression, as he felt his
purse, which was round and full. He could not resist the desire to take
it in his hands and feel the weight of it, saying to himself:
"At last, I am not going home with an empty purse. Ten thousand devils!
it is a long time since that has happened to me!"
And Léodgard was about to restore the purse to his belt, when a person
who had drawn near to him, quietly and unperceived, caught his arm,
saying:
"It is unnecessary; don't give yourself the trouble to put it back."
II
A ROBBER
The man who had halted in front of Léodgard was tall and strong, and
seemed rather young than old; he was so strangely attired, that, after
meeting him once, it would be difficult not to remember him.
A black doublet fitted close to his body, like a silk shirt; he wore
laced half-boots; a leather belt, in which were thrust pistols and a
poniard; and a broad baldric, from which hung a short sabre--a sort of
dagger with a very broad blade. All this part of his costume was
concealed by an ample caftan of olive-green cloth, which had a hood of
the same material, and which we may compare to a modern _caban_.[A] His
head was covered with a red cap, trimmed with long wild boar's hair.
This cap was pulled down so far that one could hardly see his eyes; only
a long, thin nose could be distinguished, the lower part of the face
being completely hidden by moustaches and a heavy beard of the same
color as the hair on his cap.
[A] A thick woollen cloak, with a hood.
All these details formed a most unprepossessing whole, and gave the man
the aspect of a porcupine.
But one was taken by surprise when there came from that bearded face,
instead of a harsh and threatening voice, a soft, almost melodious
sound; there was in the bandit's speech something mellow and vibrating,
which, with a rather pronounced Italian accent, gave it a decided charm.
Léodgard raised his head and was completely taken aback when he saw this
individual standing in front of him; but, instead of complying with his
suggestion and refraining from putting his purse away, he instantly
withdrew his arm, replaced the gold in his belt, and, stepping back,
scrutinized the robber; who stood quietly in his place and submitted to
the examination, like one who was in no hurry at all and was content to
await the convenience of the traveller he proposed to plunder.
"Pardieu! I cannot be mistaken," cried Léodgard, after a moment; "you
are the famous Giovanni, the Italian robber, but lately arrived in
France, who has already filled Paris with the fame of his exploits, his
audacity, and, above all, his address!"
The man in the olive-green caftan bent his head slightly, replying in a
flute-like voice, as if highly flattered by the compliment:
"Yes, signor, I am he."
"Ah! By my faith, I do not regret the meeting! Since the beginning of
the winter, I have heard so much of you and your prowess, Master
Giovanni, that I have more than once longed to make your acquaintance.
For you are no ordinary robber--everybody does you that justice; you
are ceremonious and well-mannered, and, it is said, very agreeable to
the persons you rob. That is a decided change for us; our French thieves
are so vulgar, such pitiful wretches! Come, since chance has served me
so well to-night, let us talk a little. Have you a few moments to give
me before we decide the fate of this purse?"
"I shall be very glad to talk with you, signor; I have time enough, for
yours is the last business I shall do to-night."
"And it will not be the most profitable for you, I warn you, Giovanni;
for I am not in the mood to give up my purse to you; it is too well
filled for that!"
The robber's only reply was a satirical laugh.
Léodgard de Marvejols had found a stone, on which he seated himself;
Giovanni remained standing with arms folded, and the conversation began.
"Why did you leave your beautiful Italy to come to France? Would you not
be more at ease in the vast plains that surround Rome, or on the slopes
of the Pausilippo, or lying lazily beside the blue sea that bathes the
feet of Naples, than in this dark and filthy street, beneath this gray
sky, in this cold mist which chills us to the bone as it clings to our
garments?"
"The sky of Italy is beautiful, signor, but love of change lies deep in
the heart of man."
"That is true; I grant you that. Moreover, since the days of Queen
Catherine de' Medici, of sinister memory, it seems that all Italians
have agreed to meet in Paris. We see your compatriots everywhere--at
court, in the city, in exalted positions, in the finances. The Italians
have brought us poisons,--with the way to make use of them,--the art of
telling fortunes by cards, of reading the stars, of learning the
future.--I try in vain to think what they have given us in exchange for
all this----"
"Music, signor."
"Ah! to be sure: music! They do, in fact, sing better than we do; but,
frankly, I do not think that that makes the balance even. I should have
supposed that Concini's tragic end would have allayed to some extent the
ardor of your compatriots for living in Paris. But I see that it is not
so, and that we have not yet seen the last of the Italians."
"One finds much to entertain one in France, signor."
"That must needs be so, since everybody desires to come here!--But tell
me,--for your manners and language seem to denote a man of some
education, and that you are not such a devil as you seek to appear, with
that shocking cap, in which you probably disguise yourself for a
purpose,--what train of events has led you to adopt the hazardous
profession in which you are now so famous? Do you feel disposed to tell
me?--For my own part, I confess that I am very curious to know your
adventures, assuming that you are not resolved to keep them secret."
"Mon Dieu! signor, I am ready to gratify you: the events of my life are
very simple--like those that come to multitudes of young men in all
lands. I am the son of a most respectable physician of Florence; indeed,
my father had amassed some wealth; he desired to make me a _dottore_
like himself, but I had not the slightest calling for the medical
profession. By way of compensation, I had a decided calling for
gambling, the joys of love, and of the table. I played, and contracted
debts. At first, my father paid them; but in time he tired of paying
money for me; he besought me to abandon the sort of life I was leading.
_Que diavolo!_--it was too late, the twig was bent! I allowed myself to
be led astray by fellows to whom all means of procuring money were
justifiable. I left Florence, I changed my name, from regard for my
family, and I followed the current. One travels rapidly on that road! As
I was dexterous and fearless, I soon left behind all those whose
imitator I had been. I became famous at Naples, at Rome, at Milan,
throughout Italy. But my description was spread broadcast, and, in spite
of the care with which I concealed my features, I was obliged to leave
my native land. Then it was that I came to France, to Paris, where I
have been plying my trade for six months, in the teeth of the watch, and
despite the efforts of the police and of monsieur le cardinal's
bloodhounds. However, I will confess to you in confidence that I have as
yet found no one among all your lovely Frenchwomen comparable to the
pretty girls of Florence and Milan. I have left some tender memories in
those cities. Indeed, I would stake my head that I am not yet entirely
forgotten there; and on my own part--but, pardon me! I am too
loquacious, I abuse your patience.--That is my story, signor; as you
see, there is nothing very extraordinary in it."
While listening to the robber, Léodgard had become gloomy and pensive;
his head had fallen on his breast, and it was difficult to say whether
he was still listening or was lost in thought.
Giovanni, having for some moments refrained from disturbing the silence
of the young man to whom he had related his adventures, said at last:
"I beg pardon, signor; I have told you what you wished to know, but the
night is hastening, and I must soon think of returning to my lair. So,
give me your purse, and I will take leave of you."
"Have you any companions, any confederates?" asked Léodgard abruptly,
without answering the robber.
"No, indeed; I am no such fool! I work alone, and I am the better for so
doing. If I had had confederates, I should have been caught long ago! As
you must know, in all ranks of society, a man is never betrayed, except
by his own people. Come, my young gentleman, let us finish our business.
I know that this street abounds in memories, and that it is well worth
while to pause and consider it. A few steps from here, during the night
of June 13, 1392, the Connétable Olivier de Clisson, coming from the
Hôtel Saint-Pol, where he had supped with the king, was treacherously
assaulted and murdered by Pierre de Craon, chamberlain and favorite of
the Duc d'Orléans, brother of King Charles VI. By a most fortunate
chance, Clisson wore a coat of mail under his clothes; he received more
than sixty sword and knife thrusts which did not reach his body; but he
was finally wounded in the head and thrown from his horse; he fell
against the door of a baker's shop, which was ajar, and his assassins
took flight."
"Malpeste! Giovanni, so you know our history too!" said Léodgard,
apparently taking pleasure in listening to the brigand.
"And why not, signor? I have told you that I am the son of a
_dottore_!--And that Rue des Francs-Bourgeois, which you have just
left--I have been following you for some time, you see--that Rue des
Francs-Bourgeois will always figure in your annals. There it was that
two miserable wretches lived toward the close of the last century--two
poor brothers, beggars, in short, who possessed the talent of imitating
perfectly the baying of a pack of hounds and the notes of a number of
hunting horns. Certain leaders of the League formed the plan of using
those beggars to lead your King Henri IV into a trap, knowing his
passion for the chase. One day when the king was enjoying that sport in
the forest of Vincennes, the noise of a pack of hounds, of horns, and of
hunters, very distant at first, suddenly drew near; a black man, forcing
his way through the underbrush, appeared before Henri IV and said to him
in an awe-inspiring voice: 'Did you hear me?'--But neither the king nor
any one of his train ventured to follow that man, who, it is said, was
to have hurled a lance at the king if he had tried to come up with him.
And all this was the work of the Leaguers and of the two beggars from
Rue des Francs-Bourgeois!"
"By my faith, Master Giovanni, you have told me something that I did not
know!--Pray go on; I see that one cannot fail to profit by your
conversation."
"I am extremely sorry, my young gentleman, but I can talk no longer. As
I reminded you just now, the hastening night forces me to retire, for I
know that my description is so well known that it is impossible for me
to show myself by daylight in this costume."
"Aha! that means that you have another for the sunlight? Pardieu! you
are wise, for this one is very well known. Those persons who have had
dealings with you have not failed to draw your portrait. I have already
heard of this olive-green robe de chambre, so to speak, and of this
horrible hairy cap."
"In that case, signor, you will understand that it is time for me to
disappear."
"Very well! go! what prevents you? You have been too courteous to me for
me to seek to cause your arrest. No, no! that would be a downright
felony on my part!"
"In that case, signor, add to your complaisance the favor of handing me
your purse, and I will go at once."
"My purse!" rejoined Léodgard, with a slight contraction of his heavy
eyebrows; "you shall not have it! I told you that I would keep it. But
as I do not wish to have made you talk for nothing, I will give you two
pretty rose crowns."
"No, my young gentleman; I cannot assent to that bargain; I have told
you that I must have your purse just as it is, and have it I will!"
"Come, then, and take it!"
As he spoke, Léodgard sprang to his feet and quickly drew his sword;
then he glanced at Giovanni as if to defy him. The Italian did not show
the slightest excitement, but simply shook his head, murmuring:
"Oh! I knew that the young Comte Léodgard de Marvejols was a gallant
youth!"
"Ah! you know me, do you?"
"Per Dio! Do I not always know those whom I address? Otherwise I should
run the risk of wasting my time by attacking poor devils without a sou!"
"But you might often have found me in that condition."
"I know that too; but to-night you played lansquenet at the Sire de
Jarnonville's, and luck smiled upon you; that is why I attacked you."
"Clearly, you add to your other talents that of being a sorcerer. All
Italians smell of the stake!"
"I should regret extremely, signor, to resort to my weapons; surely you
must have been told that that is not my habit! I must always be driven
to it. But if you do not give up your purse with a good grace----"
"No, a thousand times no! Do you expect to frighten me, I wonder?"
Giovanni gave the young count hardly time to finish his sentence; he
drew his broad sword, and, leaping upon his adversary with a rapidity
and address which left him no time to attack, in a few seconds he had
sent Léodgard's gleaming rapier flying through the air; and placing the
point of his weapon against the young nobleman's breast, with his left
hand he swiftly took the purse from his belt, saying, with a slight
movement of the head:
"You see, my young gentleman, it was not worth while to go through so
many forms!"
And in an instant the brigand had vanished.
As for Léodgard, thoroughly ashamed of his discomfiture, he stood as if
stupefied, and could only mutter:
"Beaten! beaten by that Giovanni!--Ah! I will have my revenge!"
III
THE BATH KEEPERS
In the days of royal licenses, when the grocers and apothecaries formed
but a single guild, it was the same with the barbers and surgeons.
In the year 1620, forty-eight patents had been granted to
_barbiers-baigneurs-étuvistes_, who were perruquiers following the
court. Later, their number was largely increased.
The right to keep hot or cold baths was specially attached to the guild
of master perruquiers.
A fashionable bathing establishment, with both hot and cold baths, stood
on Rue Saint-Jacques, near the corner of Rue des Mathurins. From a long
distance one could see its basins, painted a light blue as the ordinance
required; and over the door were these words in huge letters:
BEARDS PROPERLY SHAVED WITHIN; HOT AND
COLD BATHS
At this time the price of a bath varied from six to twelve livres
[francs]; and when we consider that a livre then was worth almost three
times as much as to-day, we must agree that there is a vast difference
between that price and the price in our modern bathing establishments,
where one obtains five tickets for three francs. The result is a great
improvement in respect to health and cleanliness, for everybody cannot
go to the river to bathe.
What did the poor people do in those days; for six livres was an
enormous sum to them?
If, in the good old times, a bath was such an expensive luxury, on the
other hand, the houses where they were supplied bore a very bad
reputation; they were, it is said, places of assignation for lewd women,
who, because of their rank or condition, were obliged to try to cloak
their evil conduct.
Many preachers thundered from the pulpit against these places, which had
been adorned with an honest name.
Maillard, in sermons noteworthy for their power and their crudity of
expression, said, as he declaimed against the scandal caused by these
establishments:
"Mesdames, do not go to the baths, and do not do there what I need not
name!"
Sauval tells us that the baths continued their existence for a long
time; people did not cease to frequent them until the end of the
seventeenth century. They had become so common then that a person could
hardly take a step without passing one.
Let us return to our shop on Rue Saint-Jacques. It was kept by a stout
old fellow of some fifty years, as strong and bright and active as a
young man, whose name was Hugonnet. He was a red-faced _compère_, hasty
of speech and of gesture; his round, full, rubicund face exhaled health
and good humor; his little round gray eyes had a slightly mischievous
expression; his chin was beginning to become double, and his hair to
turn gray; but Master Hugonnet worried little about that; so long as his
place was well patronized, whether it was resorted to by cavaliers,
bachelors, esquires, courtiers, people from the city, or even from the
country, mattered little to him, if the customers paid promptly; for
after a profitable day, the bath keeper rarely failed to go to the
nearest wine shop, to regale and enjoy himself, whence he commonly
returned home tipsy; he called it having "a little point."
The peculiar feature of Master Hugonnet's intoxication was that it
totally changed his disposition; and instead of intensifying his
passions and his vices, as wine so generally does, it endowed him with
qualities of which no one would ever have suspected him when he was
sober, and deprived him entirely of those which distinguished him in his
normal condition.--For instance, the bath keeper was far from patient;
he lost his temper easily, was quick to quarrel, would never give way,
and was always ready to fight. To be sure, when blows had once been
exchanged, Hugonnet bore his adversary no malice, and would soon be
laughing and drinking with him. But in his cups the old fellow became as
gentle and timid as a child; disposed to do what anyone desired, he was
easily moved to compassion for the misfortunes of his neighbor; and if
anyone told him some pitiful tale, it was no uncommon thing to see him
weep, and disturb the neighborhood by his groans as he stumbled home.
That always indicated that the libations had been copious, the bumpers
frequent, and that the bath keeper was completely drunk.
Hugonnet was a widower and had but one child, a daughter, who, when our
tale opens, had just reached her eighteenth year. Ambroisine was a fine
girl, tall and strong, well set up and shapely. Her foot was not very
small, but her calf was symmetrical and of good size; her hand might
have been smaller, more tapering, but it was pink and white, and plump.
Her bearing and her gestures were somewhat brusque at times, and gave
her rather too disdainful an air; but her smile was so frank and
pleasant that it excused any possible rudeness in her manner to persons
who did not know her well.
Ambroisine was very good-looking; her hair was as black as jet; her dark
brown eyes were neither too large nor too small, and were amply fringed
by long lashes of the color of her hair; she fastened them with perfect
self-possession upon the person with whom she was speaking; but although
they did not express the ordinary shyness of a girl of her years, they
were so compassionate to the wretched, so amiable in joy, so fiery in
wrath, that they were always fine eyes.
A mouth somewhat large, but well supplied with teeth, lips a little
heavy, but ruddy and smiling, a round chin, a high, white forehead, and
eyebrows clearly marked without being too thick--such was the daughter
of Master Hugonnet, who was usually spoken of in the Quartier
Saint-Jacques as La Belle Baigneuse.
Ambroisine's charms undoubtedly had much to do with the popularity of
her father's establishment.
Master Hugonnet's house was never empty; it was the rendezvous of young
noblemen, of the king's arquebusiers and halberdiers, of lordlings, of
country squires and students, of men of the sword and men of the pen, of
law clerks of the Basoche, and sometimes of a royal princess's pages.
The ladies who came to the baths--and we have already said that there
were many of them--liked to be waited upon, cared for, and dressed by
Ambroisine, who was quick, active, skilful, and acquitted herself of her
task with a charming good humor which made it a pleasure to employ her.
It is probable that among all the young sparks and popinjays who came to
Master Hugonnet's, more than one would have been equally glad to obtain
the services of the daughter of the house; but they were obliged to do
without them, for La Belle Baigneuse naturally was at the orders of the
ladies only. Still, when there was a crowd in the barber's shop
clamoring for the good offices of his razor and his comb, Ambroisine,
who could shave a beard as surely and rapidly as her father, sometimes
consented to lend him a hand, and to attend to the needs of one of the
cavaliers who were waiting to be put in trim. The man for whom she
offered to perform that service always accepted it as a favor, and
strove to impart to his face a most seductive expression; and he never
failed thereafter to proclaim all over the city that he had been shaved
by Master Hugonnet's daughter, while everyone gazed enviously at the
chin which La Belle Baigneuse had lathered.
But such opportunities were rare. Ambroisine was too much occupied with
the baths to be often in her father's shop. And he loved his daughter
too well ever to require her to do anything against her will. In vain
did the young coxcombs, nay, even the great nobles, say to the barber:
"Shall we not see your daughter to-day, Master Hugonnet?" or: "Messire
barbier, I have been awaiting my turn a long while, pray send for the
fair Ambroisine to shave me"; or "By my sword! I would gladly pay double
to be shaved by her!"
To all these and many other like remarks, the good-natured gossip would
reply simply:
"My lords, I am in despair that I am unable to gratify you; but my
daughter is engaged with some ladies who are pleased to patronize my
baths. I have two young men there; but to wait on the fair sex I have
only my daughter, who is sufficient for the task, because she is
fortunately endowed; and because she does in a few moments the work that
would take others an hour. Oh! she is a girl in a thousand, is my
Ambroisine! And as for shaving you, I know that she would do that
perfectly, too; she is my pupil! Such a sure, light, quick hand! Never
has she cut the skin of any man's chin, and yet even I have sometimes
done that! it may happen to the most skilful. But, I tell you again,
Ambroisine is at the orders of none but the ladies of all ranks who
choose to come to my establishment to take baths; and, frankly, that is
more suitable. When I see her shaving a gentleman with the dexterity and
self-possession which distinguish her, I am proud of my pupil! But, on
the other hand, I am humiliated to see her do that work, and I say to
myself: 'By Notre-Dame de Paris! this is no place for my
daughter!'--Moreover, you have little hesitation in making gallant
speeches to her, in saying obscene things.--However, I am not disturbed!
If Ambroisine cares to laugh sometimes,--and in our profession one would
be very foolish to be too surly,--she is well able none the less to keep
in their place those who presume to take too many liberties. My daughter
is a determined wench, I tell you; she has a hand as quick and a fist as
solid as her father's! And woe to those who take the risk of having it
proved to them!"
By such harangues did Master Hugonnet reply to the young men who
displayed a too ardent desire to see his daughter. As a general rule,
the students, the country gentlemen, and the simple esquires listened to
reason; but it was not always so with the young nobles, who considered
themselves at liberty to do anything, because they were received at
court, and because the lieutenant of police closed his eyes too often to
their escapades. When one of them had taken it into his head that he
would see Ambroisine, all that the barber could say to convince him that
that might not be was of no avail, and sometimes was received in bad
part.
But although he was very glad to have noble customers, Master Hugonnet
was not of a humor to endure the impertinences of any man whatsoever;
the marquis, no less than the humble bachelor, felt the effects of his
wrath. And when a young gentleman seemed disposed to take up his abode
in his shop, saying:
"I will not go away until I have seen the fair Ambroisine!"
The barber would shout in stentorian tones:
"Well! you shall not see her, _triple savonnette_! there's no law to
compel her to be at your beck and call!"
But the sonorous voice of Master Hugonnet would reach the ears of
Ambroisine, who, divining from her father's tone that he was in a
passion, would at once leave her work and run to the shop, to put an end
to the dispute.
At sight of the girl, the person who had caused all the uproar would
begin to laugh and would exclaim, with a bantering glance at the barber:
"I told you that I would not go away without a sight of the charming
Ambroisine! I have succeeded, you see!"
Whereupon Master Hugonnet would look sheepish; but a word or two from
his daughter would speedily allay his anger, and more than one among the
witnesses of the scene would resolve to employ the same method when he
wished to see La Belle Baigneuse.
Now that we are acquainted with Master Hugonnet's house and household,
we must pay a visit to the establishment of another bath keeper, on Rue
Dauphine. That street, which had been laid out twenty years earlier, on
the site of the garden of the Augustinians and of the buildings of the
Collège Saint-Denis, was already lined by fine houses, and had an air of
refinement and a class of inhabitants in striking contrast to Quartier
Saint-Jacques.
IV
BATHILDE
The baths on Rue Dauphine were kept by one Landry. He was a man of
sixty, but still vigorous and robust, despite his gray moustache, which
he wore very long. By his soldierly bearing and the way he carried his
head, one could divine that he had seen military service. And Landry
was, in fact, an ex-soldier. He had fought under Henri IV, whose name he
never mentioned without carrying the back of his right hand to his
forehead, or without manifesting his emotion by the change in his voice.
At the great king's death, Landry, then thirty-six years of age, had
left the service. Later, although his face was scarred, his martial
set-up and his military gait had fascinated Dame Ragonde, a widow with a
small hoard. She had married Landry, and they had obtained, by purchase,
a license to keep hot and cold baths.
Landry was a tall, thin, stiff individual. He had an uncommunicative
air, and his long gray moustache tended to make his expression even less
inviting. However, Master Landry was not a bad-tempered man. He had
never been known to seek a quarrel with anyone; and when quarrels arose
among his neighbors, it was usually he who intervened to restore peace.
It is true that his voice was strong and that his moustache produced an
imposing effect on the vulgar.
He performed his duties as bath keeper and barber with the scrupulous
exactness which old soldiers retain in civil life with respect to
everything that they consider a duty. But it was not wise to speak ill
of Henri IV or of his minister Sully in the old soldier's presence. When
such a thing occurred, a sudden change would take place in the whole
aspect of the man; usually calm and cold, he would become as quick to
explode as powder; his blood would boil anew with all the fervor of his
younger days; and the unhappy wight who had presumed to utter a word
derogatory to his idols would be chastised before he had time to
apologize.
But such episodes were likely to be very infrequent, for the memory of
good King Henri was held in too great veneration by Frenchmen for anyone
to venture to impugn it.
Dame Ragonde, the bath keeper's wife, was fifteen years younger than her
husband, but she seemed almost as old as he.
She was a tall, thin, yellow-skinned woman. Had she ever been pretty?
That she had been seemed more than doubtful. Her small, pale-green eyes
were very bright, but they had an arrogant--yes, evil expression; they
were eyes of the sort that seem never to look in any direction with any
other purpose than that of finding something to blame, to reprove, or to
forbid. Her long nose, hooked at the end like a parrot's, made her
resemble in some degree a bird of prey. And her thin, bloodless, tightly
closed lips seemed destined to open only to emit harsh or bitter words.
Since the day of her marriage to Landry, her second husband, nobody
remembered having seen Dame Ragonde smile; indeed, it was not certain
that she smiled on that day.
Her voice was shrill and piercing, her words always short and sharp;
this fact, by the way, was creditable to the lady; she was no gossip and
never said a word more than she had to say.
Who would have guessed that of that union between a man who was not
handsome and a woman who was downright ugly a daughter would be born who
would prove to be a veritable model of beauty, grace, and charm?
Such, nevertheless, was Bathilde, the only child of Landry and Ragonde.
At eighteen, her beauty had reached its perfect development: she was one
of those types which painters delight to find, when they wish to paint a
virgin, an angel, or a demon of temptation.
Bathilde was blond, but the tint was not one of those dull blonds in
which there is a reflection of white; her long, thick, silky hair verged
rather on the chestnut. Her skin had that whiteness in which there is
life, and not that dull tone which imparts an aspect of inanition to a
living person. On the contrary, the lovely girl's cheeks had a rosy
tinge; and at the slightest word of reproof that was addressed to her,
they at once became a most brilliant carmine. Large, deep-blue eyes,
almond shaped, and shaded by long chestnut lashes; a small, fresh,
red-lipped mouth; irreproachable teeth of dazzling whiteness; a chin
slightly oval in shape; fine, but clearly marked eyebrows; a noble,
beautiful brow, over which thick curls seemed proud to be placed.
Such was Bathilde, who possessed, in addition, a slender, lithe, dainty
figure, a remarkably small foot, and a hand worthy to serve as a model.
But a mere enumeration of her advantages affords but a faint idea of the
fascination of that young girl, of the charm with which her whole person
was instinct, of the sweet melody of her voice, and of the pleasure that
one felt in hearing it.
Sometimes one remains unmoved before the most unexceptionable beauty;
for that which attracts and captivates us is not so much the perfection
of the features, the regularity of the outlines of a face, as its
amiable and gracious expression--a second element of beauty which many
times exerts more power than the first; but when the two are combined,
when nature has endowed a single woman with both, then it is that it is
very difficult to avoid losing one's heart and one's reason.
And that lovely, graceful, fascinating girl was the daughter of Landry
and Dame Ragonde!
Nature sometimes indulges in such strange whims. Do we not see flowers
whose perfume intoxicates us and whose gorgeous colors dazzle our eyes,
blooming upon stunted, thorny stalks?
As Bathilde's beauty would have attracted too many gallants, too many
seducers, to Master Landry's shop, the girl never appeared there, nor
did she wait upon the ladies who patronized her father's baths.
Bathilde had been brought up very strictly; almost always confined to
her bedroom, which did not look on the street, the girl never went out
except with her mother; and then a long veil, attached to her hood,
covered almost the whole of her face, leaving nothing in sight save the
end of her nose. If the sweet girl ventured to disarrange the veil and
to expose one of her pink and white cheeks to the air for a moment, Dame
Ragonde would instantly exclaim in her shrill, harsh voice:
"Your veil! your veil! Take care!"
Bathilde knew what that meant, and would hasten to swathe her lovely
face anew.
Certainly, if Master Landry had desired that his establishment should be
besieged by crowds of customers, he could easily have gratified his
wish: nothing more would have been necessary than to allow his daughter
to come to the shop now and then. Bathilde's beauty would have made a
sensation, the court and the city would have been stirred to their
depths, everyone would have desired to know that plebeian
chef-d'œuvre, and, with the inevitable vogue of his place of
business, the bath keeper's fortune would have been assured.
But in this respect Bathilde's parents proved that their own honor and
their child's virtue were to them treasures more precious than gold.
Some neighbors, knowing how strictly Bathilde had been brought up, said,
and with some show of reason, that a mother should be able to watch over
her daughter without converting her house into a prison. That to keep a
child from knowledge of the world was not the way to protect her from
the dangers that are encountered there at every step; and that it was
downright barbarity to deprive a girl of all the pleasures suited to her
years because it had pleased the Creator to endow her with all those
physical qualities which charm and fascinate.
If these or other similar remarks reached Dame Ragonde's ears, it is
probable that she paid little heed to them and that they made little
impression on her. Immovable in her determination, impassible in her
nature, rigorous in her conduct, she made no change whatever in her
methods with her daughter.
And as for Master Landry, although he loved Bathilde dearly and was very
proud of her, he looked upon his wife as the general whose duty it was
to manage the internal economy of his household. As such general, he
obeyed her promptly, reserving to himself only the command of the two
apprentices employed in his baths.
However, Landry's establishment was prosperous, as were almost all the
baths of those days, because they were very few in number.
The neighborhood of Rue Dauphine, which was less thickly populated than
Rue Saint-Jacques, already contained some noble mansions and fine
houses, occupied by magistrates, members of the Parliament, men of the
robe, and rich annuitants. Moreover, the proximity of the
Pré-aux-Clercs, which was still a favorite promenade, although some
buildings were beginning to be erected there, contributed to attract to
Master Landry's baths a more distinguished and more fashionable
clientèle, better society, in a word, than the ordinary patrons of his
confrère, Master Hugonnet.
Furthermore, although the fascinating Bathilde was concealed from prying
eyes, beauty spreads about it a perfume which causes its presence to be
divined, and which attracts connoisseurs, even though they are destined
to have nothing to show for their pains.
Despite all the precautions taken by Dame Ragonde, she could not prevent
her neighbors from talking; they repeated, to whoever chose to listen,
that Master Landry had a daughter more beautiful than the marvellous
princesses of the _Thousand and One Nights_; that her surpassing beauty
was the reason that her father and mother concealed her from all eyes,
because they feared that somebody would take her away from them; and
that they destined her for some wealthy foreign prince.
Others declared, on the contrary, that Master Landry's daughter was a
monster of ugliness and deformity, and that it was to shelter the poor
girl from the ridicule which was certain to be poured out upon her that
they were careful to keep her out of sight.
This last version, however, obtained little credence. As a general rule,
people do not take so many precautions with an ugly girl, or keep such
close watch over one who has no reason to fear the enterprises of
gallants.
Mystery always arouses curiosity, and the veil in which Dame Ragonde
swathed Bathilde's face intensified the general desire to see it.
Extremes are dangerous in everything: the man who puts too many bolts on
his door arouses a suspicion that he possesses a treasure.
Chance had brought Landry and his confrère Hugonnet together. One
evening, when the latter was returning home, as usual, after a merry
evening over the bottle at a wine shop recently opened in the Cité, at
some distance from his house, he lost his way. Alone, late at night, the
barber wandered for a long while through the dark and muddy lanes which
were then called streets, feeling his way along the walls, seeking his
own door, and cursing because he did not find it.