hasty words in consideration of my certificates of service at the
_Territoriale_ and elsewhere; and after the council meeting he said to
me with his musical accent: "Passajon, you are to stay on with us." You
can imagine whether I was happy, whether I lost myself in expressions
of gratitude. Just consider! I should have gone away with my few sous,
with no hope of ever earning any more, obliged to go and cultivate my
little vineyard at Montbars, a very narrow field for a man who has
lived among all the financial aristocracy of Paris and the bold strokes
of financiering that make fortunes. Instead of that, here I am
established all anew in a superb position, my wardrobe replenished, and
my savings, which I actually held in my hand for a whole day, intrusted
to the fostering care of the Governor, who has undertaken to make them
yield a handsome return. I rather think that he is the man who knows
how to do it. And not the slightest occasion for anxiety. All
apprehensions vanish before the word that is all the fashion at this
moment in all administrative councils, at all meetings of the
shareholders, on the Bourse, on the boulevards, everywhere: "The Nabob
is in the thing." That is to say, we are running over with cash, the
worst _combinazioni_ are in excellent shape.
That man is so rich!
Rich to such a degree that one cannot believe it. Why, he has just
loaned fifteen millions off-hand to the Bey of Tunis. Fifteen millions,
I say! That was rather a neat trick on Hemerlingue, who tried to make
trouble between him and that monarch and to cut the grass from under
his feet in those lovely Oriental countries, where it grows tall and
thick and golden-colored. It was an old Turk of my acquaintance,
Colonel Brahim, one of our council at the _Territoriale_, who arranged
the loan. Naturally the bey, who was very short of pocket money, it
seems, was greatly touched by the Nabob's zeal to accommodate him, and
he sent him by Brahim a letter of acknowledgment in which he told him
that on his next trip to Vichy he would pass two days with him at the
magnificent Château de Saint-Romans, which the former bey, this one's
brother, once honored with a visit. Just think what an honor! To
receive a reigning prince! The Hemerlingues are in a frenzy. They had
manoeuvred so skilfully, the son in Tunis, the father in Paris, to
bring the Nabob into disfavor. To be sure, fifteen millions is a large
sum of money. But do not say: "Passajon is gulling us." The person who
told me the story had in his hands the paper sent by the bey in a green
silk envelope stamped with the royal seal. His only reason for not
reading it was that it was written in Arabic; otherwise he would have
taken cognizance of it as he does of all the Nabob's correspondence.
That person is his valet de chambre, M. Noël, to whom I had the honor
to be presented last Friday at a small party of persons in service,
which he gave to some of his friends. I insert a description of that
festivity in my memoirs, as one of the most interesting things I have
seen during my four years' residence in Paris.
I supposed at first, when M. Francis, Monpavon's valet de chambre,
mentioned the affair to me, that it was to be one of the little
clandestine junkets such as they sometimes have in the attic rooms on
our boulevard, with the leavings sent up by Mademoiselle Séraphine and
the other cooks in the house, where they drink stolen wine and stuff
themselves, sitting on trunks, trembling with fear, by the light of two
candles which they put out at the slightest noise in the corridors.
Such underhand performances are repugnant to my character. But when I
received an invitation on pink paper, written in a very fine hand, as
if for a ball given by the people of the house:
_M. Noël pri M.--de se randre à sa soire du 25 couran._
_On soupra._[3]
[3] M. Noël requests the pleasure of M. ----'s company on the
evening of the 25th instant. Supper.
I saw, notwithstanding the defective orthography, that it was a
serious, authoritative function; so I arrayed myself in my newest frock
coat and my finest linen, and betook myself to Place Vendôme, to the
address indicated by the invitation.
M. Noël had selected for his party the evening of a first performance
at the Opéra, which society attended _en masse_, so that the whole
household had the bit in their teeth until midnight, and the entire
house at their disposal. Nevertheless, our host had preferred to
receive us in his room in the upper part of the house, and I strongly
approved his judgment, being therein of the opinion of the good man who
said:
Fi du plaisir
Que la crainte peut corrompre![4]
[4]
A fig for the pleasure
Which fear can destroy!
But talk to me about the attics on Place Vendôme! A thick carpet on the
floor, the bed out of sight in an alcove, Algerian curtains with red
stripes, a green marble clock, the whole lighted by patent
self-regulating lamps. Our dean, M. Chalmette, at Dijon had no better
quarters than that. I arrived about nine o'clock with Monpavon's old
Francis, and I must confess that my appearance created a sensation,
preceded as I was by the fame of my academic past, by my reputation for
refined manners and great learning. My fine bearing did the rest, for I
must say that I know how to carry myself. M. Noël, very dark skinned,
with mutton-chop whiskers, and dressed in a black coat, came forward to
meet us.
"Welcome, Monsieur Passajon," he said; and taking my cap with silver
ornaments, which, as I entered the room, I held in my right hand
according to custom, he handed it to an enormous negro in red and gold
livery.
"Here, Lakdar, take this--and this," he said, by way of jest, giving
him a kick in a certain portion of the back.
There was much laughter at that sally, and we began to converse most
amicably. An excellent fellow, that M. Noël, with his Southern accent,
his determined bearing, the frankness and simplicity of his manners. He
reminded me of the Nabob, minus his master's distinguished mien,
however. Indeed, I noticed that evening that such resemblances are of
common occurrence in valets de chambre, who, as they live on intimate
terms with their masters, by whom they are always a little dazzled, end
by adopting their peculiarities and their mannerisms. For instance, M.
Francis has a certain habit of drawing himself up and displaying his
linen shirtfront, a mania for raising his arms to pull down his cuffs,
which is Monpavon to the life. But there is one who does not resemble
his master in the least, that is Joe, Dr. Jenkins' coachman. I call him
Joe, but at the party everybody called him Jenkins; for in that circle
the stable folk among themselves call one another by their employers'
names, plain Bois-l'Héry, Monpavon and Jenkins. Is it to debase the
superiors, to exalt the servant class? Every country has its customs;
nobody but a fool ought to be astonished by them. To return to Joe
Jenkins--how can the doctor, who is such an amiable man, so perfect in
every respect, keep in his service that _gin_ and _porter_-soaked
brute, who sits silent for hours at a time, and then, the instant that
the liquor goes to his head, begins to roar and wants to box
everybody--witness the scandalous scene that had just taken place when
we arrived.
The marquis's little tiger, Tom Bois-l'Héry, as they call him here,
undertook to joke with that Irish beast, who--at some Parisian gamin's
jest--retorted by a terrible Belfast knock-down blow in the middle of
the face.
"Come on, Humpty-Dumpty! Come on, Humpty-Dumpty!" roared the coachman,
choking with rage, while they carried his innocent victim into the
adjoining room, where the ladies, young and old, were engaged in
bandaging his nose. The excitement was soon allayed, thanks to our
arrival, thanks also to the judicious words of M. Barreau, a man of
mature years, sedate and majestic, of my own type. He is the Nabob's
cook, formerly _chef_ at the Café Anglais, and M. Cardailhac, manager
of the Nouveautés, secured him for his friend. To see him in his black
coat and white cravat, with his handsome, full, clean-shaven face, you
would take him for one of the great functionaries of the Empire. To be
sure, a cook in a house where the table is set for thirty people every
morning, in addition to Madame's table, and where everyone is fed on
the best and the extra best, is no ordinary cook-shop artist. He
receives a colonel's salary, with board and lodging, and then the
perquisites! No one has any idea of what the perquisites amount to in a
place like that. So every one addressed him with great respect, with
the consideration due to a man of his importance: "Monsieur Barreau"
here, "my dear Monsieur Barreau" there. You must not imagine that the
servants in a house are all chums and social equals. Nowhere is the
hierarchy more strictly observed than among them. For instance, I
noticed at M. Noël's party that the coachmen did not fraternize with
their grooms, nor the valets de chambre with the footmen and
out-riders, any more than the steward and butler mingled with the
scullions; and when M. Barreau cracked a little joke, no matter what it
was, it was a pleasure to see how amused his underlings seemed to be. I
have no fault to find with these things. Quite the contrary. As our
dean used to say: "A society without a hierarchy is a house without a
stairway." But the fact seemed to me worth noting in these memoirs.
The party, I need not say, lacked something of its brilliancy until the
return of its fairest ornaments, the ladies who had gone to look after
little Tom; ladies' maids with glossy, well-oiled hair, housekeepers in
beribboned caps, negresses, governesses, among whom I at once acquired
much prestige, thanks to my respectable appearance and the nickname "my
uncle" which the youngest of those attractive females were pleased to
bestow upon me. I tell you there was no lack of second-hand finery,
silk and lace, even much faded velvet, eight-button gloves cleaned
several times and perfumery picked up on Madame's toilet-table; but
their faces were happy, their minds given over to gayety, and I had no
difficulty in forming a very lively little party in one corner--always
perfectly proper, of course--that goes without saying--and entirely
befitting a person in my position. But that was the general tone of the
occasion. Not until toward the close of the collation did I hear any of
the unseemly remarks, any of the scandalous anecdotes that amuse the
gentlemen of our council so highly; and it gives me pleasure to state
that Bois-l'Héry the coachman, to cite no other instance, is very
differently brought up from Bois-l'Héry the master.
M. Noël alone, by his familiar tone and the freedom of his repartees,
overstepped the limit. There's a man who does not scruple to call
things by their names. For instance, he said to M. Francis, so loud
that he could be heard from one end of the salon to the other: "I say,
Francis, your old sharper played still another trick on us last week."
And as the other threw out his chest with a dignified air, M. Noël
began to laugh. "No offence, old girl. The strong box is full. You'll
never get to the bottom of it." And it was then that he told us about
the loan of fifteen millions I mentioned above.
Meanwhile I was surprised to see no signs of preparation for the supper
mentioned on the invitations, and I expressed my anxiety in an
undertone to one of my lovely nieces, who replied:
"We are waiting for M. Louis."
"M. Louis?"
"What! Don't you know M. Louis, the Duc de Mora's valet de chambre?"
Thereupon I was enlightened on the subject of that influential
personage, whose good offices are sought by prefects, senators, even by
ministers, and who evidently makes them pay roundly for them, for, with
his salary of twelve hundred francs from the duke, he has saved enough
to have an income of twenty-five thousand francs, has his daughters at
the boarding-school of the Sacred Heart, his son at Bourdaloue College,
and a châlet in Switzerland to which the whole family go for the
vacation.
At that juncture the personage in question arrived; but there was
nothing in his appearance that would have led me to guess his position,
which has not its like in Paris. No majesty in his bearing, a waistcoat
buttoned to the chin, a mean, insolent manner, and a fashion of
speaking without opening his lips, very unpleasant to those who are
listening to him.
He saluted the company with a slight nod, offered a finger to M. Noël,
and there we sat, staring at each other, congealed by his grand
manners, when a door was thrown open at the end of the room and the
supper made its appearance--all kinds of cold meats, pyramids of fruit,
bottles of every shape, beneath the glare of two candelabra.
"Now, messieurs, escort the ladies."
In a moment we were in our places, the ladies seated, with the oldest
or most important of us men, the others standing, passing dishes,
chattering, drinking out of all the glasses, picking a mouthful from
every plate. I had M. Francis for my neighbor, and I was obliged to
listen to his spiteful remarks against M. Louis, of whom he is jealous
because he has such a fine situation in comparison with that he himself
holds in his played-out nobleman's household.
"He's a parvenu," he said to me in an undertone. "He owes his fortune
to his wife, to Madame Paul."
It seems that this Madame Paul is a housekeeper who has been twenty
years in the duke's service, and who understands, as no one else does,
how to make a certain pomade for certain infirmities that he has. Mora
cannot do without her. Remarking that fact, M. Louis paid his court to
the old woman, married her, although he is much younger than she; and,
in order not to lose his nurse _aux pommades_, His Excellency took
the husband for his valet de chambre. In my heart, notwithstanding what
I may have said to M. Francis, I considered that marriage perfectly
proper and in conformity with the healthiest morality, as both the
mayor and the curé had a hand in it. Moreover, that excellent repast,
consisting of choice and very expensive dishes which I did not even
know by name, had disposed my mind to indulgence and good humor. But
everybody was not in the same mood, for I heard M. Barreau's baritone
voice on the other side of the table, grumbling:
"Why does he meddle? Do I stick my nose into his business? In the first
place, it's a matter that concerns Bompain, not him. And what does it
amount to? What is it that he finds fault with me for? The butcher
sends me five baskets of meat every morning. I use only two and sell
the other three. Where's the chef who doesn't do that? As if he
wouldn't do better to keep an eye on the big leakage above stairs,
instead of coming and spying about my basement. When I think that the
first-floor clique has smoked twenty-eight thousand francs' worth of
cigars in three months! Twenty-eight thousand francs! Ask Noël if I
lie. And on the second floor, in Madame's apartments, there's a fine
mess of linen, dresses thrown aside after one wearing, jewels by the
handful, and pearls so thick that you crush 'em as you walk. Oh! you
just wait a bit, and I'll take a twist on that little fellow."
I understood that he was talking about M. de Géry, the Nabob's young
secretary, who often comes to the _Territoriale_, where he does
nothing but rummage among the books. Very polite certainly, but a very
proud youngster who does not know how to make the most of himself.
There was nothing but a chorus of maledictions against him around the
table. Even M. Louis delivered himself on that subject, with his high
and mighty air:
"Our cook, my dear Monsieur Barreau, has recently had an experience
similar to yours with His Excellency's chief secretary, who presumed to
indulge in some observations concerning the household expenses. The
cook ran up to the duke's study post-haste, in his professional
costume, and said, with his hand on his apron string: 'Your Excellency
may choose between Monsieur and me.' The duke did not hesitate. One can
find as many secretaries as one wants; whereas the good cooks are all
known. There are just four in Paris. I include you, my dear Barreau. We
dismissed our chief secretary, giving him a prefecture of the first
class as a consolation; but we kept our chief cook."
"Ah! that's the talk," said M. Barreau, who was delighted to hear that
anecdote. "That's what it is to be in a great nobleman's service. But
parvenus are parvenus, what do you expect?"
"And Jansoulet is nothing more than that," added M. Francis, pulling
down his cuffs. "A man who was once a porter at Marseille."
At that M. Noël bristled up.
"I say there, old Francis, you're glad enough to have the porter of La
Cannebière pay for your roastings at _bouillotte_ all the same. You
won't find many parvenus like us, who loan millions to kings, and whom
great noblemen like Mora don't blush to receive at their table."
"Oh! in the country," sneered M. Francis, showing his old fangs.
The other rose, red as fire, on the point of losing his temper, but
M. Louis made a sign with his hand that he had something to say, and
M. Noël at once sat down, putting his hand to his ear, like the rest
of us, in order to lose none of the august words.
"It is true," said the great personage, speaking with the ends of
his lips and sipping his wine slowly; "it is true that we received
the Nabob at Grandbois some weeks ago. Indeed, a very amusing
thing happened there. We have a great many mushrooms in the
second park, and His Excellency sometimes amuses himself by picking
them. At dinner a great dish of mushrooms was served. There was
What-d'ye-call-him--Thingamy--What's-his-name--Marigny, the Minister
of the Interior, Monpavon, and your master, my dear Noël. The
mushrooms made the round of the table,--they looked very inviting,
and the gentlemen filled their plates, all except Monsieur le Duc,
who can't digest them and thought that politeness required him to say
to his guests: 'Oh! it isn't that I am afraid of them, you know. They
are all right,--I picked them with my own hand.'
"'_Sapristi!_' said Monpavon, laughingly, 'in that case, my dear
Auguste, excuse me if I don't taste them,' Marigny, being less at home,
looked askance at his plate.
"'Why, Monpavon, upon my word, these mushrooms look very healthy. I am
really sorry that I am no longer hungry.'
"The duke remained perfectly serious.
"'Come, Monsieur Jansoulet, I trust that you won't insult me as they
have done. Mush-rooms selected by myself!'
"'Oh! your Excellency, the idea! Why, I would eat them with my eyes
closed.'
"I leave it to you, if that wasn't great luck for the poor Nabob, the
first time that he ate a meal with us. Duperron, who was waiting
opposite him, told us about it in the butler's pantry. It seems that it
was the most comical thing in the world to see Jansoulet stuff himself
with mushrooms, rolling his eyes in terror, while the others watched
him curiously without touching their plates. It made him sweat, poor
devil! And the best part of it was that he took a second portion; he
had the courage to take more. But he poured down bumpers of wine
between every two mouthfuls. Well! shall I tell you what I think? That
was a very shrewd move on his part, and I am no longer surprised that
that fat ox-driver has been the favorite of sovereigns. He knows how to
flatter them, in the little things that they don't talk about. In fact,
the duke has doted on him since that day."
That little story caused much hilarity, and scattered the clouds
collected by a few imprudent words. And thereupon, as the wine had
loosened all our tongues, and as we all knew one another better, we
rested our elbows on the table and began to talk about masters and
places where we had worked, and the amusing things we had seen. Ah! I
heard some fine stories and had a glimpse at some domestic scenes!
Naturally, I produced my little effect with the story of my pantry at
the _Territoriale_, of the time when I used to put my ragout in the
empty safe, which did not prevent our cashier, a great stickler for
routine, from changing the combination every two days, as if it
contained all the treasures of the Bank of France. M. Louis seemed to
enjoy my story. But the most astonishing thing was what little
Bois-l'Héry, with his Parisian street-arab's accent, told us of the
home life of his employers.
Marquis and Marquise de Bois-l'Héry, second floor, Boulevard Haussmann.
Furniture like the Tuileries, blue satin on all the walls, pictures,
mantel ornaments, curiosities, a genuine museum, I tell you!
overflowing on to the landings. Service very stylish: six servants,
chestnut-colored livery in winter, nankeen livery in summer. You see
those people everywhere,--at the small Monday parties, at the races, at
first nights, at ambassadors' balls, and their names always in the
newspapers, with remarks as to Madame's fine toilets and Monsieur's
amazing _chic_. Well! all that is nothing but flim-flam, veneer,
outside show, and if the marquis needed a hundred sous, no one would
loan them to him on his worldly possessions. The furniture is hired by
the fortnight from Fitily, the cocottes' upholsterer. The curiosities,
the pictures, belong to old Schwalbach, who sends his customers there
and makes them pay double price, because a man doesn't haggle when
he thinks he is buying from a marquis, an amateur. As for the
marchioness's dresses, the milliner and dress-maker furnish her with
them for exhibition every season, make her wear the new styles, a
little ridiculous sometimes, but instantly adopted by society, because
Madame is still a very beautiful woman, and of high repute in the
matter of fashion; she is what is called a _lanceuse_. And the
servants! Provisional like all the rest, changed every week at the
pleasure of the intelligence office, which sends them there to give
them practice before taking serious positions. They may have neither
sponsors nor certificates; they may have just come from prison or
elsewhere. Glanard, the great place-broker on Rue de la Paix, supplies
Boulevard Haussmann. The servants stay there one week, two weeks, long
enough to purchase recommendations from the marquis, who, mark you,
pays nothing and barely feeds them; for in that house the kitchen ovens
are cold most of the time, as Monsieur and Madame dine out almost every
evening, or attend balls at which supper is served. It is a positive
fact that there are people in Paris who take the buffet seriously, and
eat their first meal of the day after midnight. The Bois-l'Hérys are
well posted as to houses where there is a buffet. They will tell you
that you get a very good supper at the Austrian embassy, that the
Spanish embassy is a little careless in the matter of wines, and that
the Minister of Foreign Affairs gives you the best _chaud-froid de
volailles_. Such is the life of that curious household. Nothing of all
they have is sewn on; everything is basted or pinned. A gust of wind,
and away it all goes. But at all events they are sure of losing
nothing. That is what gives the marquis that _blagueur_, Père
Tranquille air, as he looks you in the face with both hands in his
pockets, as much as to say: "Well, what then? What can you do to me?"
And the little tiger, in the aforesaid attitude, with his prematurely
old, vicious child's face, copied his master so perfectly that it
seemed to me as if I were looking at the man himself sitting in our
administrative council, facing the Governor, and overwhelming him with
his cynical jests. After all, we must agree that Paris is a wonderful
great city, for any one to be able to live here in that way for fifteen
years, twenty years of tricks and dodges and throwing dust in people's
eyes, without everybody finding him out, and to go on making a
triumphant entry into salons in the wake of a footman shouting his name
at the top of his voice: "Monsieur le Marquis de Bois-l'Héry."
You see, you must have been to a servants' party before you can believe
all that one learns there, and what a curious thing Parisian society is
when you look at it thus from below, from the basement. For instance,
happening to be between M. Francis and M. Louis, I caught this scrap of
confidential conversation concerning Sire de Monpavon. M. Louis said:
"You are doing wrong, Francis, you are in funds just now. You ought to
take advantage of it to return that money to the Treasury."