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[Illustration: frontispiece]
THE WORKS OF
CHARLES PAUL DE KOCK
_The Barber of Paris_
TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH BY
EDITH MARY NORRIS
The C. T. Brainard
Publishing Co.
Boston New York
COPYRIGHT, 1903, BY
THE FREDERICK J. QUINBY COMPANY
_All rights reserved_
_LOUIS E. CROSSCUP
Printer
Boston, Mass., U. S. A._
CONTENTS
VOLUME I
CHAPTER I PAGE
The Barber's House 1
CHAPTER II
The Great Nobleman and the Barber 14
CHAPTER III
Blanche. A History of Sorcerers 35
CHAPTER IV
The Chevalier Chaudoreille 54
CHAPTER V
The Music Lesson 74
CHAPTER VI
The Lovers. The Gossips 87
CHAPTER VII
Intrigues Thicken 106
CHAPTER VIII
Conversation by the Fireside 129
CHAPTER IX
The Closet. The Abduction 140
CHAPTER X
The Little House. A New Game 155
CHAPTER XI
The Pont-Neuf. Tabarin 177
CHAPTER XII
A Nocturnal Adventure 189
CHAPTER XIII
The Tete-a-Tete 198
CHAPTER XIV
Ursule and the Sorcerer of Verberie 218
CHAPTER XV
Love and Innocence. A Shower of Rain and the
Talisman 239
CHAPTER XVI
How Will It End 260
VOLUME II
CHAPTER I
Who Could Have Expected It? 1
CHAPTER II
Happy Moments 23
CHAPTER III
A Day with Chaudoreille 38
CHAPTER IV
The Little Supper 54
CHAPTER V
Having Money and Power One May Dare
Everything 74
CHAPTER VI
The Rendezvous. Strokes of Fortune. The Hotel
de Bourgogne. The Sedan Chair 102
CHAPTER VII
Poor Urbain 126
CHAPTER VIII
The Chateau de Sarcus 135
CHAPTER IX
The Meeting. Projects of Revenge 164
CHAPTER X
The Little Closet Again 183
CHAPTER XI
The Storm Brews 197
CHAPTER XII
The Return to the Chateau 212
CHAPTER XIII
The Marquis Visits Blanche at Night 226
CHAPTER XIV
Urbain's Visit to the Marquis. Chaudoreille's
Last Adventure 242
CHAPTER XV
Julia's Story. What was Contained in the Portfolio 258
CHAPTER I
THE BARBER'S HOUSE
Upon a certain evening in the month of December, of the year one
thousand six hundred and thirty-two, a man walked at a rapid pace down
the Rue Saint-Honore and directed his steps towards the Rue Bourdonnais.
The individual appeared to be forty years old or thereabouts; he was
tall as to his figure and sufficiently good-looking as to his face; the
expression of the latter, however, was rather austere and at times even
melancholy; and in his black eyes might sometimes be noted an ironical
light, which belied the suspicion of a smile.
This ungenial personage, on the occasion of which we are writing, was
wrapped, one might almost say disguised, and he looked like one who
would lend his personality to disguise; he was wrapped, then, in a long
brown cloak which only came down just below his knees, and he wore,
drawn low down over his eyes, a broad-brimmed hat, which, contrary to
the fashion of the day, was ungarnished by a single feather, but which
effectually protected his face from the rain which was now beginning to
fall very heavily.
The Paris of that time was very different from the Paris of today. The
condition of the beautiful capital was then deplorable; many of the
streets were unpaved, many of them were only partly paved; heaps of
rubbish and filth accumulated here and there before the houses,
obstructing the course of the water and stopping the openings of the
drains. These waters being without outlet, overflowed on all sides,
forming puddles and filthy holes which exhaled miasmatic and foetid
odors. Then one might have alluded with truth to--
Paris, city of noise, of mud and of smoke.
The streets were unlighted. People carried lanterns, it is true; but
everybody did not have these, nor were lanterns any defence against the
robbers who existed in very large numbers, committing a thousand
excesses, a thousand disorders, even in broad daylight, being only too
well authorized in crime by the example of the pages and lackeys whose
habit it was to amuse themselves each night by insulting the passers-by,
abducting the girls, mocking at the watch, beating the sergeants,
breaking in the doors of shops, and annoying the peace of the
inhabitants in a multiplicity of ways, excesses against which parliament
had in vain promulgated statutes, which were incessantly renewed, and
just as incessantly violated with impunity.
The stealing of purses, and even of cloaks, was then a thing so common
that the witnesses of the robbery contented themselves with laughing at
the expense of the victim, without ever running after the thief. Murders
were committed in broad daylight on the squares and on the walks, the
criminals insulting their victims as they departed.
There were two kinds of thieves,--cut-purses and tire-laines. The first
nimbly cut the strings of the purse, which it was then the habit to
carry hung at the belt; the second, approaching from behind, rudely tore
the passer's cloak from his shoulders.
Vainly from time to time they executed some of these criminals. These
examples seemed to redouble the audacity of the vagabonds, the insolence
of the pages and lackeys. Justice waxed feeble, while custom allowed
each one to execute it for himself. Duels were nearly as common as
robberies; it was considered a great honor to have the power to boast of
having sent many people into the other world. Indubitably this was not
the golden age, nor the good old times so vaunted by some poets, so
regretted by those gloomy minds which admire only hoops and
farthingales.
We do not pretend to write history, but we have thought it necessary to
recall to the reader the state of Paris at the time in which our barber
lived. Undoubtedly he has already divined, by the title alone, that the
story is not of our time; for now we have in Paris many artistes in
hairdressing, many coiffeurs, and many wigmakers, but we have no longer
any barbers.
The individual whose portrait we have just drawn, having reached a
corner of the Rue des Bourdonnais, stopped before a pretty house on
which was written in big letters, "Touquet, Barber and Bathkeeper." At
that time the luxury of signs was not known, and the streets of Paris
did not offer to the consideration of loiterers a character from Greek
or Roman history at the front of each grocer's or haberdasher's shop.
The portrait of Mary Stuart did not invite one to go in and buy an ell
of calico; nor did Absalom, hung by the nape, indicate to one that he
was passing a hairdresser's parlors. We have made great progress in such
matters.
The man who had stopped before the barber's house would have had, no
doubt, much trouble in reading what was written on the front of the
shop, which was shut; for the night was dark, and, as we have already
said, there were no street lamps to aid those who ventured to be out in
the evening in the capital. However, he seized the knocker of the
smaller door, which served as an entrance, and gave a double knock
without hesitating, and as one who was not afraid of making a mistake;
in fact, it was the barber himself. In a few moments heavy steps were
heard, and a light shone against the lattice-work above the door, which
opened, and an old woman appeared, holding a candle in her hand. She
nodded, saying,--
"Good God, my dear master! you have had horrible weather. You must be
very wet. I have been praying to my patron saint that nothing should
happen to you. Oh, if one only had a secret for preserving one's self
from the rain! I'm very sure there are some people who can command the
elements."
The barber made no answer, but passed toward a passage which led to a
lower room in which there was a big fire. On entering the apartment he
began by removing his cloak and hat, from which latter escaped a mass of
black hair which fell in ringlets on his collar; he unfastened a large
dagger from his belt, it being then the custom not to venture out
without being armed. Touquet hung the dagger over the mantelpiece, then
threw himself into a wicker armchair and placed himself before the fire.
While her master rested, the old servant came and went about the room;
she placed the table beside the barber's armchair, drew from a buffet a
pewter cup, some plates, a cover. She placed on the table tankards
containing wine or brandy, and some dishes of meat which she had
prepared for the supper.
"Has anyone been here during my absence?" said the barber, after a
moment.
"Yes, monsieur; first, some pages, to know the news and adventures of
the neighborhood, to talk evil about everybody, and to mock at the poor
women who were weak enough to listen to them. Oh, the young men of
today are wicked. How they boasted of their conquests! Some bachelors
came to be shaved, then the little dandy who's delighted to wear powder,
protesting that soon everybody will wear it. Perhaps they'll powder the
hair likewise; still, that may preserve it from something worse. Ah, I
forgot; and that big, noisy and insolent lout who, because he has a
satin doublet and a velvet mantle, a hat adorned with a fine plume, and
beautiful silver points, believes that he has the right to play the
master over everything."
"Ah, you're speaking about Monbart?"
"Yes, of that same. He made a great shouting when he found you were not
here. He said that since monsieur is rich he neglects his business."
"Why should he meddle with it?"
"That's just what I thought, monsieur. M. le Chevalier Chaudoreille also
came. He fought a duel yesterday in the little Pre-aux-Clercs and killed
his adversary, and he had still another duel for this evening. Blessed
Holy Virgin! that men should kill each other like that, and often for
some mere trifle."
"Let them fight as much as they please; it's of little importance; it's
not my business. Did anybody else come?"
"Oh, the gentleman who is so droll that he makes me laugh, and whom I
have sometimes seen play in the farces which everybody runs to see at
his theatre in the Hotel de Bourgogne,--M. Henry Legrand."
"Why don't you say Turlupin?"
"Well, Turlupin, since that's the name they give him at the theatre, and
by which he's also known in the city. He does not make one melancholy.
He came with that other who plays with him, and acts, they say, the old
men, and delivers the prologues which precede the pieces."
"That's Gautier-Garguille?"
"Yes, monsieur, that's his name. He wanted to be shaved, bathed and have
his hair dressed; but as you were not here, one of them played the
barber and shaved his comrade; then the other took the comb and soapball
and rendered him the same service. I wished at first to prevent them,
but they wouldn't listen to me; if they didn't make me sit in the shop
and talk downright nonsense about scent and soap. Some people who in
passing had recognized Turlupin and his companion stopped before the
shop; presently the crowd grew dense, and when they wanted to leave they
could not find a way through; but you know Turlupin is never
embarrassed, and, having uselessly begged the curious to let them pass,
he went into the back shop and brought a bucketful of water, which he
emptied entirely upon the crowd. Then you can imagine, monsieur, the
excitement, the shouts of everybody. Turlupin and Gautier-Garguille
profited by the confusion to make their escape."
"And Blanche," said the barber, who appeared to listen impatiently to
old Marguerite's story,--"I hope that she was not downstairs when these
merry-andrews attracted such a crowd about my house."
"No, monsieur, no; you know very well that Mademoiselle Blanche seldom
comes down to the shop, and never when there is anybody there. Today, as
you were away, she did not leave her room, as you had advised her."
"That's well; that's very well," said the barber.
Then he drew near the fire, supporting one of his elbows on the table,
and appeared to fall again into reflection without listening to the
chatter of his servant, which continued as if her master were paying the
greatest attention to her.
"Mademoiselle Blanche is a charming girl; oh, yes, she is a charming
child,--pretty, very pretty. I defy all your court ladies to have more
beautiful eyes, or a fresher mouth, or whiter teeth; and such beautiful
hair, black as jet and falling below her knees. And with all that, so
sweet, so frank, without the least idea of coquetry. Ah, she is candor,
innocence, itself. Of course, she's not yet sixteen years old; but there
are many young girls at that age who already listen to lovers. What a
pity if such a treasure as that should fall into the claws of a demon!
But we shall save her from that. Yes, yes; I'm sure of it. I shall do
all that's necessary for that, for it's not enough to watch over a young
girl; the devil is so malicious, and all these bachelors, these
students, these pages, are so enterprising, without counting the young
noblemen, who make no scruple of abducting young girls and women, and
for all compensation give a stroke of the sword, or cause to be whipped
by their lackeys those who complain of their treatment. Good Saint
Marguerite! what a time we live in! One must allow one's self to be
outraged, offended, robbed even,--yes, robbed,--for if you should have
taken your man in the act, if you demand justice, they will ask you if
you yourself were a witness to it. If you say no, they will dismiss the
guilty person, and if you say yes, they will first find out if you have
the means of paying the expenses of the law, in which case you may have
the pleasure of seeing the thief flogged before your door, and that will
cost you a heap. But if it is someone with a title who has offended you,
it's necessary for you to be silent about it, unless you wish to finish
your days at the Bastile or at the Chatelet."
Marguerite was silent for some minutes, awaiting a response from her
master. Receiving none, she presumed that he tacitly approved of all she
was saying, and resumed her discourse.
"Finally, they pretend that it's always been thus. They hang the little
ones, the bigger ones save themselves, and the biggest mock at everyone.
One's ill advised to go to law now that the advocates and the attorneys
drag a lawsuit along for five or six years, receiving money from all
hands, so as to maintain their wives and their daughters in luxury,
playing the Jew to ruin their poor clients. As to the sergeants, they
run all over to find criminals; but if they arrest some thieves, they
let them go very quickly, for fear that the latter will give them some
money. Poor city! Don't we hear a frightful noise every night? And still
we're in the best neighborhood. And that does not prevent them from
committing vandalisms, robberies, murders. There are shouts, a clash of
arms; what is the use of provosts, sheriffs, sergeants, archers, if the
police do so badly? It's not the merchants I pity; they'll give
themselves to the devil for a sou; they sell their goods for four times
more than they cost; to draw customers, they allow every passer-by to go
into their shops, leaving them at leisure to chat with their women, to
take them by the chin, to talk soft nonsense, to make love to their
face,--all that to sell a collar, some rouge, a dozen of needles. It's a
shame to see everything that goes on amongst us. If I go to market to
get my provisions, I'm surrounded by thieves who amuse themselves by
stealing from the buyers and the sellers; they rummage in the creels and
baskets, then they sing in my ears indecent and obscene songs. Good
Saint Marguerite! where are we in all this? The scholars, more debauched
than ever, insulting, pillaging, doing a thousand wickednesses; the
young men of family who haunt the gambling-dens, the drinking-houses,
always armed with daggers or swords. Ah, my dear master, Satan has taken
possession of our poor city and will make us his prey."
Marguerite stopped anew and listened. The barber still kept the deepest
silence, but he was not asleep. Several times he had passed his right
hand over his forehead and pushed back his curls. For those who love to
talk, it is much the same whether they are listened to or believe
themselves to be listened to. The old servant was enjoying herself; she
did not often find so good an opportunity to talk, and she began again
after a short pause:--
"Thanks to Heaven, I am in a good house, and I can say with pride that,
during the eight years that I have lived with monsieur, nothing has
passed contrary to decency and good manners. I remember very well that
when they said to me, eight years ago, 'Marguerite, M. Touquet, the
barber-bathkeeper of the Rue des Bourdonnais, is looking for a servant
for his house,' I considered it twice. I beg your pardon, monsieur; for
bath-keepers' houses and lodging-houses don't have a very good
reputation. But they said to me, 'M. Touquet is in easy circumstances
now; he doesn't take lodgers; he is contented to exercise his calling in
the morning, and for the rest he hardly ever sees anybody at his house,
where he is carefully educating a little girl whom he's adopted.' My
faith! that decided me, and I've not had cause to repent my decision. If
there come in the morning to the shop a crowd of men of all professions,
not one of them penetrates to the interior of the house. Monsieur does
his business honorably, I am proud to say; and that which I admire above
all is the interest which he bears for the orphan he has taken under his
care, for I believe that monsieur has told me that she is an orphan.
Yes, monsieur has told me so. She surely merits all that anyone can do
for her, that dear Blanche; but I believe I have not told monsieur by
what means I preserve her from the snares that wait for innocence. Oh,
it's a secret, it's a marvellous secret, which I shall confide to
monsieur. The neighbor opposite the silk merchant told me how to make
it; it is a little skin of vellum, on which some words are written; then
one signs it, and it becomes a talisman to prevent all misfortunes.
Queen Catherine de Medicis had a similar one which she wore always; the
talisman which I have given to Mademoiselle Blanche, very far from
attracting evil spirits, should make them fly from a place and prevent
the effect of all sorceries which anyone could employ to triumph over
her virtue. Oh, the precious talisman, monsieur! Alas! if I had had one
eight years ago!--But you don't sup, monsieur; haven't you any
appetite?"
Touquet rose abruptly and went to look at a wooden timepiece which stood
at the end of the room.
"Nine o'clock," said the barber impatiently; "nine o'clock, and he has
not come."
"Why, are you waiting for someone, monsieur?" said the old servant in
surprise.
"Yes; I'm waiting for a friend. Put another drinking-cup on the table;
he will sup with me."
"I very much doubt whether he will come," said Marguerite, while
executing her master's orders; "it's late and the weather is frightful;
one must be very bold to risk himself in the streets at this hour."
At this moment somebody knocked violently at the door of the passageway,
and the barber, smiling to himself, cried,--
"It is he!"