of him--a long way ahead of him--when I saw the little creature, and I
said: 'He hasn't got any master,' and I picked him up. If he was his,
why didn't he say: 'That's my dog.' But he let me pick him up, and it
wasn't till madame overtook him that he began to run after me and yell:
'Stop thief!'--What is there to prove that the dog belongs to them and
not to me?"
The magistrate, having weighed these depositions in his mind, said to
the boy in a grave tone:
"Put the dog on the floor, and let both of these ladies call him; I will
give him to the one he follows."
François placed the little creature on the floor. The two women began to
call him, lavishing the most affectionate words on him. The dog did not
stir, and the affair became complicated. The two women recommenced
their billingsgate, the boy stuttered, the soldiers laughed, and the dog
howled. Suddenly the thin woman began to take off her dress to show the
marks of the pinching she had received; but the corpulent woman,
divining her purpose, instantly raised her skirt, and, fearlessly
exhibiting her leg above the garter, cried triumphantly:
"Look, monsieur le commissaire, look! it's blue, it's all blue, and
it'll be all black to-morrow!"
It was blue, in fact; to be sure, the rest of the leg seemed to be about
the same color; but the magistrate, who did not care to see any more,
said to the other woman:
"That seems to be authentic; if you can't show as much, it's of no use
for you to unbutton your dress."
The thin woman decided not to disrobe, but began to weep, mumbling:
"Let her keep the dog, for all I care! Mon Dieu! let her keep him! I
don't want him! But she's a saucy slut, all the same; a person ain't to
be called a thief because she picks up a dog in the street that has no
owner!"
The cause was decided, and the magistrate rendered judgment. He awarded
the dog to the stout woman, who took him in her arms and waddled
triumphantly away with François, followed by her antagonist, muttering:
"Never mind! you shall pay me for this, dearer than you think!"
Sans-Cravate and Jean Ficelle stepped forward, but the magistrate
motioned to them to sit down and wait, for he had many other cases to
hear. In the office of a Parisian police magistrate the stage is seldom
unoccupied.
Other soldiers, with a short, thickset woman at their head, who seemed
disposed to command them, although they also had a corporal with them,
brought in a small boy of ten or twelve years, wretchedly clad, or, to
speak more accurately, hardly clad at all. Ragged trousers revealed his
bare legs, and a linen jacket, devoid of buttons, made no pretence of
concealing a torn shirt, black with dirt, and a body blacker still. The
little wretch, who, despite his miserable aspect, was stout and strong,
had a mean face, and a hangdog glance, which seemed never to have looked
at the sky.
This young thief, for the boy had previously been convicted of larceny,
was now under arrest charged with stealing a loaf of bread; the thickset
woman had the loaf under her arm; she explained to the magistrate that
she was a fruit seller and dealt also in soldiers' bread, which she kept
at the door of her shop; that the boy crept up to a table on which the
bread was, and that another urchin, probably in league with the thief,
ran against her and fell almost between her legs; while she helped him
get up, his comrade seized a loaf and ran away with it. But she saw him
in time; she ran after the little villain and caught him with the stolen
loaf still in his possession; so that he could not deny his crime.
"Why did you steal this loaf?" the magistrate sternly asked the little
thief, who had listened to the fruit seller's declaration as if it did
not concern him, drumming on the clerk's desk with his fingers. He
swayed from right to left, just like a bear, stuck out his lips, hung
his head lower than ever, and at last mumbled something which could not
be taken for words.
"Why did you steal this bread?" repeated the magistrate, more severely
than before. "Come, answer; and speak up so that you can be heard."
Thereupon a low, drawling voice replied:
"'Cos I was hungry! I ain't had nothing to eat for two days."
"That is not true; you haven't the face of one who is starving; at all
events, if you were hungry, you should have gone to a baker's shop and
asked for bread; you wouldn't have been refused. But we know your ways;
you stole this loaf of bread to sell again, and get three or four sous
to gamble with on the boulevard or at the barrier; isn't that the
truth?"
The little fellow again began to sway back and forth. He made a grimace
which seemed to be intended for a smile, and said nothing.
"Are your parents living?" continued the magistrate.
"I dunno."
"What! you don't know whether you have a father and mother?"
"I ain't got no father, I don't think."
"And your mother?"
"She sells fried potatoes."
"Isn't she able to pay for your apprenticeship to some trade?"
"I don't want to work."
"You prefer to steal! you hope to be imprisoned with other little
rascals of your sort, with whom you will become hopelessly bad. Where
does your mother live?"
The little vagabond made no reply. The magistrate repeated his question.
"I won't tell you; I don't want her to claim me; I won't go back to
her!"
"Then you will be taken to the préfecture, and from there to a house
where you'll have to work."
Nothing that the magistrate could say seemed to move the young thief in
the slightest degree; but when the secretary took his pen to write the
report for the préfecture, the little rascal began to laugh, and
muttered:
"_V'là le griffon qui prend une voltigeante pour broder sur du
mince._"[F]
The soldiers led the offender away, and the fruit seller went off with
her bread. This scene depressed Sans-Cravate; he glanced at his comrade,
who seemed utterly unmoved by what he had seen and heard.
A well-dressed man, and of gentlemanly aspect, came forward and informed
the magistrate that at No. 19 in the next street, on the third floor, at
the rear of the courtyard, a gambling hell was being carried on
clandestinely, under cover of a so-called reading-room. The gamblers
were admitted by a secret door, and opening out of the reading-room was
another room, in which roulette and _trente-et-un_ were played. The
magistrate was invited to visit the place, with his inspectors, about
ten o'clock at night, when he would be sure to find the games in full
operation; his informant would come to fetch him and act as his guide;
he had succeeded in obtaining admission as a gambler.
This well-dressed, well-mannered man was simply a spy.
Next came a rather attractive young girl, of modest aspect, who was very
near weeping as she asked the magistrate why he had summoned her to his
office.
"Because you persist in keeping flower pots on your window ledge,
mademoiselle, despite the municipal ordinance; and because, very lately,
you spattered water on a lady who was passing. I shall be obliged to
fine you."
"Mon Dieu! monsieur le commissaire, it's very strange that I could have
spattered anybody, watering a small pot of pansies; for I'm always very
careful when I water my flowers. Probably some neighbor below me threw
the water out into the street, then the lady looked up and saw a flower
pot at my window, and so thought it came from there."
"Still, mademoiselle, your flower pots may cause a serious accident."
"Oh! monsieur le commissaire, just a little pot of pansies!"
"If it should fall on anybody's head, mademoiselle, a pot of pansies
might do as much damage as one of poppies. If you are so fond of
flowers, why don't you put your pansies on something inside your room?
You would enjoy them just as much--yes, more; and there would be no
danger to your health, for the pansy has no odor."
The girl lowered her eyes, as she replied:
"That wouldn't be the same thing; if it was inside my room, he wouldn't
see it!"
"_He_ wouldn't see it? Ah! I understand: that pot of pansies is a signal
to your lover, is it?"
"Yes, monsieur," faltered the girl, with a smile; "when it's on the
ledge, he may come up; and if I happen to have company, I take it away,
and he don't come up."
"Very good; he is able to come up very often, I judge, as the pot of
pansies seems to be always in evidence; and thus the most innocent of
flowers is made to serve the intrigues of lovers!"
"Oh! monsieur, my lover will marry me; I am perfectly sure of it."
"I trust so, mademoiselle; but you must put a wooden bar across your
window, so that passers-by will not be in danger; only on that condition
can I sanction the flower pot which you use to telegraph to your lover."
"What, monsieur! if I put a wooden rail, a bar, across, you will allow
me to keep flowers at my window?"
"Yes; if you do that, you may keep as many there as you choose."
The girl fairly jumped for joy.
"Oh! what fun! I will put a rosebush and carnations with my pansies!"
"Mon Dieu! mademoiselle! will each of the three be a signal to a lover?"
"I'll put up a bar right away; and I'll keep three flower pots there,
monsieur le commissaire; three flower pots!"
The girl left the office in a very joyous frame of mind. After her, came
a woman who charged her husband with striking her with a skimmer; then a
husband who wanted a separation from his wife, because she gave him
nothing but onion soup for dinner every day; then a tenant who
complained of his concierge, because he made him pass the night in the
street, on the ground that it was after midnight when he came home; then
a peddler whose tray had been upset; a milkwoman whose donkey had been
wounded by a cabriolet; a cab that refused to move; a shop which did not
close at midnight; a man who had tried to drown himself; a girl who was
found dying of suffocation. Sometimes this sort of thing goes on from
morning till night; and it not infrequently happens that the magistrate
is roused from his sleep. A man needs to be made of iron to fill that
post in Paris.
At length, having dismissed the last of the crowd that besieged him, the
magistrate motioned to the messengers to follow him into his private
office. Having closed his door, to ensure them against interruption, he
seated himself at his desk, and addressed Sans-Cravate first.
"Are you the man called Sans-Cravate?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"This is the first time that you have been summoned to my office?"
"That is true, monsieur le commissaire."
"But you have the reputation, in the quarter, of being a noisy,
quarrelsome fellow, and of drinking rather hard, too."
"Faith! monsieur le commissaire, it's possible that I like to enjoy
myself, that I'm a little hot-headed, that I fight sometimes! It's in my
blood, and I can't make myself over. But all that don't prevent a man
from being honest, and I defy anyone to say that Sans-Cravate ever did
him an injury."
"I know that you are an honest man, that your head alone is a little
unruly; and because I am convinced of that, I wanted to speak to you
privately, to give you some good advice. This is the first time you have
been to my office, and I like to think that, if you follow my advice, it
will be the last."
Jean Ficelle turned his head away, and muttered:
"On my word! a moral lecture! I should think we was at
_Quart-d'OEil's_ school!"
But Sans-Cravate listened humbly enough to the magistrate, who
continued:
"The quickest, the most impulsive people are usually the easiest to
lead. Beware of evil associates, Sans-Cravate, that's all; the man who
obeys the first suggestions of his anger generally has a weak will; and
there are rascals, who, by flattering your passions, sometimes lead you
into bad ways."--As he said this, the magistrate glanced at Jean
Ficelle, who affected to whistle through his teeth.--"Sans-Cravate, you
were at the same table, last night, in a wine shop, with one Laboussole;
where did you make that man's acquaintance?"
"Faith! monsieur le commissaire, I know him only by having met him at
the Petit Bacchus, and, as Jean Ficelle called him his friend, I invited
him to have a drink with us."
"I!" cried Jean Ficelle; "I didn't know him any more'n you did; just
from meeting him at the wine shop. I called him _old fellow;_ that's a
term men often use to each other when they're drinking together; but I
don't know him."
"You lie!" said the magistrate, gazing sternly at the messenger; "you do
know that man; you know that he ran a game of chance, a _biribi_, under
Pont d'Austerlitz; and you are suspected of having been his
confederate."
"I, monsieur le commissaire! on my word! what a slander!"
"If I were certain of it, you would have ceased to be a messenger before
this; for you would be likely to betray the confidence of the
public.--As for you, Sans-Cravate, you see how dangerous it is to form
intimacies with people you don't know. This Laboussole, in addition to
the punishment he has earned for conducting games of chance, is also
involved in a serious case of larceny; if you were often seen with such
men, your reputation for honesty would suffer. That is what I wanted to
say to you. We have too many rascals in Paris now, and it is almost
always by frequenting their society that others are ruined. As you know
nothing more about Laboussole, you may go."
"But, monsieur le commissaire," said Jean Ficelle, in a fawning tone,
"we wasn't the only ones with Laboussole in the wine shop; our mate was
there, too--Paul, a messenger who has a stand where we do; why don't you
examine him too?"
"If we do not summon that young man before us, it is presumably because
we do not deem it necessary. Our purpose in summoning Sans-Cravate was
principally to give him some good advice, and to urge him to distrust
evil acquaintances. As for your young comrade, such advice to him is
unnecessary. He is neither a drinking man, nor a quarrelsome man, nor a
frequenter of wine shops; the best thing you could do would be to take
him for a model. You may go now."
The two messengers left the magistrate's office. Sans-Cravate was
pensive; he seemed to be reflecting upon what had been said to him; but
his comrade, who feared the result of his reflections, exclaimed:
"Who ever heard of a magistrate having the cheek to give advice! For
God's sake, ain't we old enough to know how to behave? what's all this
talk about liberty, anyway? He'd better attend to making cabs move on,
and leave us alone!"
"He seems to have a high opinion of Paul," said Sans-Cravate.
Jean Ficelle pursed up his lips, cast a sidelong glance at his
companion, and rejoined:
"Do you know, that gives me a curious idea?"
"What is it?"
"That Paul may be a spy; and that it was him who had Laboussole arrested
last night."
"Shut up, Jean Ficelle! don't insult our mate. It's an infernal shame
for you to say that!"
"I may not be wrong; ain't there something queer in the way Paul acts?
Didn't Laboussole say he'd met him all dressed up--like a regular
swell?"
"You dare to tell me what Laboussole said--a thief!"
"What does that prove? A man may steal, and still have good eyes;
indeed, he's all the more likely to; and then, one day, in the Marais, I
thought myself that I recognized Paul in a man dressed like a rich
bourgeois; I'm sure now that I wasn't mistaken. If he disguises himself
like that, he must have more trades than one. He's a sham messenger, and
I go back to my idea: he's a spy!"
"Once more, Jean Ficelle, I forbid you to say such things!"
"But you can't keep me from thinking 'em; ideas are free, like
opinions;--a man can't be prevented from having his own opinions and
ideas!"
Sans-Cravate made no further reply. They arrived at their stand, but
Paul was not there.
Jean Ficelle cast a bantering glance at his comrade, saying:
"He seems to be having a famous spree to-day, does the magistrate's
pet!"
Again Sans-Cravate made no reply; but he clenched his fists, and it was
evident that he had difficulty in restraining the feelings which
agitated him.
More than an hour had passed, when Bastringuette appeared on the
boulevard. She had no tray, and was dressed in her best clothes: cap
with broad ribbons, merino shawl, and black silk apron. She glanced at
the messengers out of the corner of her eye as she passed. Sans-Cravate
quickly turned his head and walked away. But Jean Ficelle ran after the
flower girl and accosted her:
"Ah! bless my soul! how natty we are! Where can we be going in such a
rig? to a wedding, at the very least! it can't be less than that."
"_Dame!_ perhaps that's what it is," retorted Bastringuette, assuming a
very sportive air. "Perhaps I'm going to be married myself, nobody
knows! Husbands are always on hand!"
She walked on without another word. Jean Ficelle returned to
Sans-Cravate, glanced at him, and said nothing.
But Sans-Cravate could not contain himself; a moment later, he cried:
"What did she say? Where's she going? Why don't you speak?"
"She seemed to be as gay as a lark. She said that perhaps she was going
to be married. You understand the riddle? She'll be married in the
thirteenth arrondissement."[G]
Sans-Cravate hesitated a moment; then, having made up his mind what to
do, he said:
"I mean to find out where she's going--to follow her. Are you coming
with me?"
"To be sure! As if I would desert a friend! Besides, I don't feel like
working to-day. Forward, guide left, march!"
The two messengers followed the boulevard in the direction taken by
Bastringuette; they walked very fast, one looking to the right, the
other to the left, but they did not see the person they desired to
follow.
"Where the devil can she have gone?" said Sans-Cravate.
"It's very strange," rejoined Jean Ficelle, "unless she turned off the
boulevard. Here we are at Porte Saint-Denis."
"Let's go on," said Sans-Cravate. "Bastringuette has a cousin who lives
Rue Barbette way; perhaps she's gone to see her."
"In the Marais; ah! she has a cousin who lives in the Marais? How that
fits in!"
"What's that? what do you mean?"
"Oh! nothing."
"I don't like hints, Jean Ficelle; speak out, sacrebleu!"
"Well, I mean that the Marais is where Paul's always seen when he's
disguised as a swell; and Bastringuette comes along, dressed in tiptop
style, and goes in that direction. _Dame!_ if a fellow had an evil
tongue, he might say that your mistress and our so-called comrade made
assignations there--perhaps at the cousin's, who knows? There's such
things as obliging cousins."
Sans-Cravate did not say a word, but he strode along the boulevards at
such a pace that his companion was breathless with trying to keep up
with him. Jean Ficelle suggested a brief halt, but, instead of
complying, Sans-Cravate began to run.
"I think I see her over yonder," he shouted; "she turned into Rue du
Temple; I must overtake her."
"Thunder and guns!" muttered Jean Ficelle, as he followed on; "my
liver'll bust by the time we catch her."
XII
FATHER AND SON
In a very handsome house on Rue Caumartin, the windows of an apartment
on the second floor were still brightly lighted, although it was after
three o'clock in the morning.
In that fashionable quarter, it was a fair presumption that anybody who
was still out of bed at that hour would be indulging in the pleasures of
card playing, music, or dancing; that an evening party had been
prolonged until that hour, and that the master or mistress of the house
took pride in having the dawn find their guests still under their roof.
But such a presumption would have been false in this instance. In a
luxurious salon, where several candles were still burning, a man sat,
alone, on the corner of a couch, his head bent forward; and, to judge by
the expression of his features, by the melancholy look in his eyes, he
had not passed the night in merrymaking.
He was a man of some forty-six years, of medium height and distinguished
bearing. His grave, dignified face had been very handsome. His great
blue eyes were still instinct with charm when he smiled; but that
happened very rarely. His habitual pallor, the numerous lines on his
forehead, were eloquent of sorrow, ennui, and heartache--of all those
sentiments which bring premature old age to those who have come into the
world with a sensitive soul, and of which selfish egotists have no
knowledge; wherefore, they are able to retain their youth, freshness,
and health much longer than the others. Heaven has done everything for
the selfish man!
The man who sat there so late at night, alone, was Monsieur Vermoncey,
Albert's father.
His eyes turned frequently toward a clock on the mantel. After every
glance, he listened, as if hoping to hear the rumbling of a carriage or
the sound of footsteps in the street, then threw his head back, saying
to himself:
"He is enjoying himself, no doubt, with his friends--or his mistress.
But he is using up his life too fast, he is ruining his health. Mon
Dieu! and I have no one left but him--no one else! all my other children
have followed their mother to the grave. If I should lose Albert, what
would become of me? what can a man do on earth, when he has no one left
to love?"
Monsieur Vermoncey seemed utterly overwhelmed; profound grief was
depicted in his eyes, which he kept on the floor for a long while, as if
melancholy memories of the past were blended with his present anxieties.
He sighed at intervals, as he murmured:
"My wife, whom I loved so passionately! my children, whom I idolized!
Ah! how men change! when I was Albert's age, how far I was from thinking
that the most delicious joys are those that one knows in his own family,
with his wife and children! But at twenty-two the heart is not as yet
open to all sentiments; at that age, a man does not know what he wants,
or whom he loves! He treats lightly the most serious things, and repents
afterward--sometimes, when it is too late."
He rose and walked about the room a few times, then continued:
"I am foolish to be anxious. Albert is enjoying himself, that's all. I
ought to have gone to bed long ago; but it is useless for me to try to
sleep, when I know that he has not come in. His conduct for some time
past has been very reprehensible. He spends his money foolishly, he
makes undesirable acquaintances; but his heart is sound at bottom; he
will become reasonable in time; I must not forget that I was young
once."
As he made this reflection, Monsieur Vermoncey fixed his eyes on the
floor again, his brow became clouded, and he put his hand to it several
times as if he sought to brush away some painful memory.
Meanwhile, the sun had risen: he heard the rumbling of the milkwomen's
carts, the heavy tread of the peasants returning from selling their
vegetables at the market, the song of the early workman going to his
work, and the dialogues between the concierges as they swept their
doorsteps.
Monsieur Vermoncey rang; in a few seconds a servant appeared, whose red
face, half-closed eyes, and sluggish gait proved that he had not
followed his master's example, and that he had with difficulty roused
himself from sleep.
"Has my son come in, Florent?" inquired Monsieur Vermoncey, as if
anxious to be convinced that he had not listened intently all night.
The servant replied, rubbing his eyes:
"I think not, monsieur; but I will go to his room and see; sometimes he
doesn't wake me when he comes in."
"Ah, no! he has not come in!" said Monsieur Vermoncey to himself,
nervously pacing the floor. "And it's after five o'clock. He doesn't
usually pass the whole night away from home, without telling me.
Probably some card party which lasted till morning.--Yes, I know that I
am foolish to worry, but I cannot help it. A man endangers his life so
recklessly sometimes! Intrigues with women are often dangerous! All
husbands are not disposed to allow themselves to be betrayed, and say
nothing. But it seems that the more obstacles there are to making a
woman's acquaintance, the more determined we are to possess her."
"Monsieur Albert has not come home since yesterday," the servant
reported.
"Very well, Florent. I am going to my room; but come and tell me as soon
as my son comes in."
Monsieur Vermoncey went to his bedroom, where there were portraits of
his wife, of Albert, and of the three children he had lost. He stood a
long while in front of the picture of his wife. She had died when she
was still young and lovely, and she was so represented in the portrait.
It would be a consolation to those who die when they are still in life's
summertime to know that when we think of them we shall always recall
them as being young and fair; and regret that they could not have
enjoyed a long life, in which we fancy them growing old in years,
perhaps, but never in appearance.