On all sides could be heard the remark: "It is very funny, this cellar;
very pretty, too."
George knew it well, this vault. He recalled the morning he had passed
there on the eve of his duel, alone in front of the little white carton
target that had glared at him from the depths of the inner cellar like a
huge and terrible eye.
The voice of Jacques Rival sounded from the staircase: "Just about to
begin, ladies." And six gentlemen, in very tight-fitting clothes, to set
off their chests, mounted the platform, and took their seats on the
chairs reserved for the judges. Their names flew about. General de
Reynaldi, the president, a short man, with heavy moustaches; the
painter, Josephin Roudet, a tall, ball-headed man, with a long beard;
Mattheo de Ujar, Simon Ramoncel, Pierre de Carvin, three
fashionable-looking young fellows; and Gaspard Merleron, a master. Two
placards were hung up on the two sides of the vault. That on the right
was inscribed "M. Crevecoeur," and that on the left "M. Plumeau."
They were two professors, two good second-class masters. They made their
appearance, both sparely built, with military air and somewhat stiff
movements. Having gone through the salute with automatic action, they
began to attack one another, resembling in their white costumes of
leather and duck, two soldier pierrots fighting for fun. From time to
time the word "Touched" was heard, and the six judges nodded with the
air of connoisseurs. The public saw nothing but two living marionettes
moving about and extending their arms; they understood nothing, but they
were satisfied. These two men seemed to them, however, not over
graceful, and vaguely ridiculous. They reminded them of the wooden
wrestlers sold on the boulevards at the New Year's Fair.
The first couple of fencers were succeeded by Monsieur Planton and
Monsieur Carapin, a civilian master and a military one. Monsieur Planton
was very little, and Monsieur Carapin immensely stout. One would have
thought that the first thrust would have reduced his volume like that of
a balloon. People laughed. Monsieur Planton skipped about like a monkey:
Monsieur Carapin, only moved his arm, the rest of his frame being
paralyzed by fat. He lunged every five minutes with such heaviness and
such effort that it seemed to need the most energetic resolution on his
part to accomplish it, and then had great difficulty in recovering
himself. The connoisseurs pronounced his play very steady and close, and
the confiding public appreciated it as such.
Then came Monsieur Porion and Monsieur Lapalme, a master and an amateur,
who gave way to exaggerated gymnastics; charging furiously at one
another, obliging the judges to scuttle off with their chairs, crossing
and re-crossing from one end of the platform to the other, one advancing
and the other retreating, with vigorous and comic leaps and bounds. They
indulged in little jumps backwards that made the ladies laugh, and long
springs forward that caused them some emotion. This galloping assault
was aptly criticized by some young rascal, who sang out: "Don't burst
yourselves over it; it is a time job!" The spectators, shocked at this
want of taste, cried "Ssh!" The judgment of the experts was passed
around. The fencers had shown much vigor, and played somewhat loosely.
The first half of the entertainment was concluded by a very fine bout
between Jacques Rival and the celebrated Belgian professor, Lebegue.
Rival greatly pleased the ladies. He was really a handsome fellow, well
made, supple, agile, and more graceful than any of those who had
preceded him. He brought, even into his way of standing on guard and
lunging, a certain fashionable elegance which pleased people, and
contrasted with the energetic, but more commonplace style of his
adversary. "One can perceive the well-bred man at once," was the remark.
He scored the last hit, and was applauded.
But for some minutes past a singular noise on the floor above had
disturbed the spectators. It was a loud trampling, accompanied by noisy
laughter. The two hundred guests who had not been able to get down into
the cellar were no doubt amusing themselves in their own way. On the
narrow, winding staircase fifty men were packed. The heat down below was
getting terrible. Cries of "More air," "Something to drink," were heard.
The same joker kept on yelping in a shrill tone that rose above the
murmur of conversation, "Orgeat, lemonade, beer." Rival made his
appearance, very flushed, and still in his fencing costume. "I will have
some refreshments brought," said he, and made his way to the staircase.
But all communication with the ground floor was cut off. It would have
been as easy to have pierced the ceiling as to have traversed the human
wall piled up on the stairs.
Rival called out: "Send down some ices for the ladies." Fifty voices
called out: "Some ices!" A tray at length made its appearance. But it
only bore empty glasses, the refreshments having been snatched on the
way.
A loud voice shouted: "We are suffocating down here. Get it over and let
us be off." Another cried out: "The collection." And the whole of the
public, gasping, but good-humored all the same, repeated: "The
collection, the collection."
Six ladies began to pass along between the seats, and the sound of money
falling into the collecting-bags could be heard.
Du Roy pointed out the celebrities to Madame Walter. There were men of
fashion and journalists, those attached to the great newspapers, the
old-established newspapers, which looked down upon the _Vie Francaise_
with a certain reserve, the fruit of their experience. They had
witnessed the death of so many of these politico-financial sheets,
offspring of a suspicious partnership, and crushed by the fall of a
ministry. There were also painters and sculptors, who are generally men
with a taste for sport; a poet who was also a member of the Academy, and
who was pointed out generally, and a number of distinguished foreigners.
Someone called out: "Good-day, my dear fellow." It was the Count de
Vaudrec. Making his excuses to the ladies, Du Roy hastened to shake
hands with him. On returning, he remarked: "What a charming fellow
Vaudrec is! How thoroughly blood tells in him."
Madame Walter did not reply. She was somewhat fatigued, and her bosom
rose with an effort every time she drew breath, which caught the eye of
Du Roy. From time to time he caught her glance, a troubled, hesitating
glance, which lighted upon him, and was at once averted, and he said to
himself: "Eh! what! Have I caught her, too?"
The ladies who had been collecting passed to their seats, their bags
full of gold and silver, and a fresh placard was hung in front of the
platform, announcing a "surprising novelty." The judges resumed their
seats, and the public waited expectantly.
Two women appeared, foil in hand and in fencing costume; dark tights, a
very short petticoat half-way to the knee, and a plastron so padded
above the bosom that it obliged them to keep their heads well up. They
were both young and pretty. They smiled as they saluted the spectators,
and were loudly applauded. They fell on guard, amidst murmured
gallantries and whispered jokes. An amiable smile graced the lips of the
judges, who approved the hits with a low "bravo." The public warmly
appreciated this bout, and testified this much to the two combatants,
who kindled desire among the men and awakened among the women the native
taste of the Parisian for graceful indecency, naughty elegance, music
hall singers, and couplets from operettas. Every time that one of the
fencers lunged a thrill of pleasure ran through the public. The one who
turned her back to the seats, a plump back, caused eyes and mouths to
open, and it was not the play of her wrist that was most closely
scanned. They were frantically applauded.
A bout with swords followed, but no one looked at it, for the attention
of all was occupied by what was going on overhead. For some minutes they
had heard the noise of furniture being dragged across the floor, as
though moving was in progress. Then all at once the notes of a piano
were heard, and the rhythmic beat of feet moving in cadence was
distinctly audible. The people above had treated themselves to a dance
to make up for not being able to see anything. A loud laugh broke out at
first among the public in the fencing saloon, and then a wish for a
dance being aroused among the ladies, they ceased to pay attention to
what was taking place on the platform, and began to chatter out loud.
This notion of a ball got up by the late-comers struck them as comical.
They must be amusing themselves nicely, and it must be much better up
there.
But two new combatants had saluted each other and fell on guard in such
masterly style that all eyes followed their movements. They lunged and
recovered themselves with such easy grace, such measured strength, such
certainty, such sobriety in action, such correctness in attitude, such
measure in their play, that even the ignorant were surprised and
charmed. Their calm promptness, their skilled suppleness, their rapid
motions, so nicely timed that they appeared slow, attracted and
captivated the eye by their power of perfection. The public felt that
they were looking at something good and rare; that two great artists in
their own profession were showing them their best, all of skill,
cunning, thought-out science and physical ability that it was possible
for two masters to put forth. No one spoke now, so closely were they
watched. Then, when they shook hands after the last hit, shouts of
bravoes broke out. People stamped and yelled. Everyone knew their
names--they were Sergent and Ravignac.
The excitable grew quarrelsome. Men looked at their neighbors with
longings for a row. They would have challenged one another on account of
a smile. Those who had never held a foil in their hand sketched attacks
and parries with their canes.
But by degrees the crowd worked up the little staircase. At last they
would be able to get something to drink. There was an outburst of
indignation when they found that those who had got up the ball had
stripped the refreshment buffet, and had then gone away declaring that
it was very impolite to bring together two hundred people and not show
them anything. There was not a cake, not a drop of champagne, syrup, or
beer left; not a sweetmeat, not a fruit--nothing. They had sacked,
pillaged, swept away everything. These details were related by the
servants, who pulled long faces to hide their impulse to laugh right
out. "The ladies were worse than the gentlemen," they asserted, "and
ate and drank enough to make themselves ill." It was like the story of
the survivors after the sack of a captured town.
There was nothing left but to depart. Gentlemen openly regretted the
twenty francs given at the collection; they were indignant that those
upstairs should have feasted without paying anything. The lady
patronesses had collected upwards of three thousand francs. All expenses
paid, there remained two hundred and twenty for the orphans of the Sixth
Arrondissement.
Du Roy, escorting the Walter family, waited for his landau. As he drove
back with them, seated in face of Madame Walter, he again caught her
caressing and fugitive glance, which seemed uneasy. He thought: "Hang it
all! I fancy she is nibbling," and smiled to recognize that he was
really very lucky as regarded women, for Madame de Marelle, since the
recommencement of their amour, seemed frantically in love with him.
He returned home joyously. Madeleine was waiting for him in the
drawing-room.
"I have some news," said she. "The Morocco business is getting into a
complication. France may very likely send out an expeditionary force
within a few months. At all events, the opportunity will be taken of it
to upset the Ministry, and Laroche-Mathieu will profit by this to get
hold of the portfolio of foreign affairs."
Du Roy, to tease his wife, pretended not to believe anything of the
kind. They would never be mad enough to recommence the Tunisian bungle
over again. But she shrugged her shoulders impatiently, saying: "But I
tell you yes, I tell you yes. You don't understand that it is a matter
of money. Now-a-days, in political complications we must not ask: 'Who
is the woman?' but 'What is the business?'"
He murmured "Bah!" in a contemptuous tone, in order to excite her, and
she, growing irritated, exclaimed: "You are just as stupid as
Forestier."
She wished to wound him, and expected an outburst of anger. But he
smiled, and replied: "As that cuckold of a Forestier?"