Turning from the street which follows the line of the wharves, into
Madeira Place, you leave at once an open region of docks and spars for
comparative retirement. Wagons seldom enter Madeira Place: it is too
hard to turn them in it; and then the inhabitants, for the most part,
have a convenient way of buying their coal by the basket. How much
trouble it would save, if we would all buy our coal by the basket!
A few doors up the place a passageway makes off to the right, through a
high wooden gate that is usually open; and at the upper corner of this
passage stands a brick house, whose perpetually closed blinds suggest
the owner's absence. But the householders of Madeira Place do not absent
themselves, even in summer; they could hardly get much nearer to the
sea. And if you will take the pains to seat yourself, toward the close
of day, upon an opposite doorstep, between two rows of clamorous little
girls sliding, with screams of painful joy, down the rough hammered
stone, to the improvement of their clothing, you will see that the house
is by-no means untenanted.
Every evening it is much the same thing. First, following close upon the
heels of sunset, comes a grizzly, tall, and slouching man, in the cap
and blouse of a Union soldier, bearing down with his left hand upon
a cane, and dragging his left foot heavily behind him, while with his
right hand he holds by a string a cluster of soaring toy balloons, and
also drags, by its long wooden tongue, a rude child's cart, in which is
a small hand-organ.
Next will come, most likely, a dark, bent, keen-eyed old woman, with her
parchment face shrunk into deep wrinkles. She bears a dangling placard,
stating, in letters of white upon a patent-leather background, what you
might not otherwise suspect,--that she was a soldier under the great
Napoleon, and fought with him at Waterloo. She also bears, since
music goes with war, a worn accordion. She is the old woman to whose
shrivelled, expectant countenance you sometimes offer up a copper coin,
as she kneels by the flagged crossway path of the Park.
She is succeeded, perhaps, by a couple of black-haired, short,
broad-shouldered men, leading a waddling, unconcerned bear, and talking
earnestly together in a language which you will hardly follow.
Then you will see six or eight or ten other sons and daughters of toil,
most of them with balloons.
All these people will turn, between the high, ball-topped gate-posts,
into the alley, and descend at once to the left, by a flight of three or
four steps, to a side basement door.
As they begin to flock in, you will see through the alley gate a dark,
thick-set man, of middle age, but with very little hair, come and stand
at the foot of the steps, in the doorway. It is Sorel, the master of the
house; for this is the _Maison Sorel_. Some of his guests he greets
with a Noachian deluge of swift French words and high-pitched cries of
welcome. It is thus that he receives those capitalists, the bear-leaders
from the Pyrenees; it is thus that he greets the grizzled man in the
blue cap and blouse,--Fidèle the old soldier, Fidèle the pensioner, to
whom a great government, far away, at Washington, doubtless with much
else on its mind, never forgets to send by mail, each quarter-day
morning, a special, personal communication, marked with Fidèle's own
name, enclosing the preliminaries of a remittance: “Accept” (as it
were) “this slight tribute.” “_Ah! que c'est un gouvernement! Voilà une
république!_”
Even a Frenchman may be proud to be an American!
Most of his guests, however, Sorel receives with a mere pantomime
of wide-opened eyes and extended hands and shrugged-up shoulders,
accompanied by a long-drawn “_Eh!_” by which he bodies forth a thousand
refinements of thought which language would fail to express. Does a
fresh immigrant from the Cévennes bring back at night but one or two of
the gay balloons with which she was stocked in the morning, or, better,
none; or, on the other hand, does a stalwart man just from the rich Brie
country return at sundown in abject despair, bringing back almost all
of the red and blue globes which floated like a radiant constellation
of hope about his head when he set forth in the early morning, Sorel can
express, by his “_Eh!_” and some slight movement, with subtle exactness
and with no possibility of being misapprehended, the precise shade of
feeling with which the result inspires him.
But there he stops. Nothing is said. Sorel is a philosopher: he has
indicated volumes, and he will not dilute with language. One who has
fired a little lead bullet does not need to throw after it a bushel of
mustard-seed.
The company, as they come in, one by one, wash their hands and faces,
if they see fit, at the kitchen sink, and dry them on a long
roller-towel,--a device adopted, probably, from the Americans. Then they
retire to the room behind the kitchen, and seat themselves at a long
table, at which the bear-leaders place themselves only after seeing
their animal fed, in the coalhole, where he is quartered.
At the supper-table all is joy, even with the hopeless. Fidèle beams
with good-humor, and not infrequently is called on to describe, amid a
general hush, for the benefit of some new-comer from “_la belle France_”
the quarterly receipt of the communication from Washington: how he stays
at home that day, and shaves, and waits at the door for “_la poste_;”
how the gray-uniformed letter-carrier appears, hands out a letter “as
large as that,” and nods smilingly to Fidèle: he, too, fought at “_la
Montagne du Lookout_.” The amount of the sergeant's pension astonishes
them, wonted as they are to the pecuniary treatment of soldiers in the
Old World. “_Mais_, it is a fortune! Fidèle is a _vrai rentier!_ Ah!
_une république comme ça!_”
Generally, however, Fidèle contents himself at the evening meal with
smiling good-humoredly on everybody and rapidly passing in, under his
drooping mustache, spoonfuls of soup, morsels from the long French loaf,
and draughts of lager beer; for only the rich can have wine in this
country, and in the matter of drink an exile must needs lower his
standard, as the prodigal lowered his.
While Sorel and his wife and their busy maid fly in and out with
_potage_ and _rôti_, “_t-r-r-rès succulent_,” the history of which we
must not pry too deeply into, there is much excited conversation. You
see at once that many amusing things happen to one who sells balloons
all day upon the Park. And there are varied fortunes to recount. Such
a lady actually wished to buy three for fifty cents! Such a
“police-er-mann” is to be highly commended; such another looks with an
evil eye upon all: he should truly be removed from office. There is a
rumor that a license fee is to be required by the city.
All this is food for discussion.
After supper they all sit about the kitchen or in the alley-way,
chatting, smoking. She who has been lucky in her sales basks in Sorel's
favor. The unfortunate peasant from the Brie country feels the little
bullet in his heart, and nurses a desperate resolution to redeem himself
on the morrow: one must live.
Sometimes, if you happen to pass there on a warm evening, you may see
a young woman, rather handsome, sitting sidewise on the outer basement
steps, looking absently before her, straight-backed, upright, with her
hands clasped about one knee, with her skirt sweeping away: a picture of
Alsace. I have never been able to find out who she is.
One evening there is a little flutter among this brood. A gentleman,
at the alley door, wishes to see M. Sorel. M. Sorel leads the gentleman
out, through the alley gate, to the front street-door; then, retiring
whence he came, he shortly appears from within at the front door,
which opens only after a struggle. A knot of small boys has instantly
gathered, apparently impressed with a vague, awful expectation that the
gentleman about to enter will never come out. Realizing, however, that
in that case there will be nothing to see, they slowly disperse when the
door is closed, and resume their play.
Sorel ushers the gentleman into the front parlor, which is Sorel's
bedroom, which is also the storehouse of his merchandise, which is also
the nursery. At this moment an infant is sleeping in a trundle-bed.
The gentleman takes a chair. So does Sorel.
The gentleman does not talk French. Fortunately, M. Sorel can speak the
English: he has learned it in making purchases for his table.
“I am an officer of the government,” says Mr. Fox, with a very sharp,
distinct utterance, “in the custom-house. You know 'customhouse'?”
M. Sorel does not commit himself. He is an importer of toys. One must
be on his guard.
Thereupon, a complicated explanation: this street, and that street,
and the other street, and this building, and the market, and the great
building standing here.
Ah! yes! M. Sorel identifies the building. Then he is informed that many
government officers are there. He knew it very well before.
The conversation goes a step farther.
Mr. Fox is one of those officers. The government is at present in need
of a gentleman absolutely trustworthy, for certain important duties:
perhaps to judge of silks; perhaps to oversee the weighing of sugar, of
iron, of diamonds; perhaps to taste of wines. Who can say what service
this great government may not need from its children!
With some labor, since the English is only a translucent, and not a
transparent medium to Sorel, this is made clear. Still the horizon is
dark.
Mr. Fox draws his chair nearer, facing Sorel, who looks uneasy: Sorel's
feelings, to the thousandth degree of subdivision, are always declaring
themselves in swift succession upon his face.
Mr. Fox proceeds.
“The great officer of the custom-house, the collector--”
“_Le chef?_” interrupts Sorel.
--yes, the _chef_ (Mr. Fox seizes upon the word and clings to it),--the
_chef_ has been speaking anxiously to Mr. Fox about this vacancy: Mr.
Fox is in the _chefs_ confidence.
“Ah!” from Sorel, in a tone of utter bewilderment.
“We must have,” the _chef_ had said to Mr. Fox,--“we must have for
this place a noble man, a man with a large heart” (the exact required
dimensions Mr. Fox does not give); “a man who loves his government, a
man who has showed himself ready to die for her; we must have”--here Mr.
Fox bends forward and lays his hand upon Sorel's knee, and looks him in
the eye,--“we must have--_a soldier!_”
“Ah!” says Sorel, moving his chair back a little, unconsciously, “_il
faut un soldat!_ I un-'stan',--_le chef_ 'e boun' to 'ave one sol'ier!”
Still no comprehension of the stranger's object. Curiosity, however,
prompts Sorel at this point to an inquiry: “'Ow much 'e goin' pay 'im?”
Mr. Fox suggests that he guess. M. Sorel guesses, boldly, and
high,--almost insolently high,--eight dollars a week: she is so
generous, _la République!_
Higher!
“Higher!” Sorel's eyes open. He guesses again, and recklessly: “_Dix
dollars par semaine_; you know--ten dol-lar ever-y week.”
Try again,--again,--again! He guesses,--madly now, as one risks his gold
at Baden: twelve, fourteen, sixteen, eighteen.
Yes, eighteen dollars a week, and more--a thousand dollars every year.
Sorel wipes his brow. A thousand dollars in one year! It is like a
temptation of the devil.
Sorel ventures another inquiry. The _chef_ of the customhouse, esteeming
the old sol'iers so highly, is an old sol'ier himself,--is it not so?
He has fought for his country? Doubtless he has lost an arm. And Sorel
instinctively lets his right arm hang limp, as if the sleeve were empty.
No; the _chef_ was an editor and a statesman in the time of the war. He
had greatly desired to go to fight, but his duties did not permit it.
Still, he loves the old soldier.
Another advance in the conversation, this time by Mr. Fox.
The government, it seems, has now awakened, with deep distress, to the
fact that one class of her soldiers she has hitherto forgotten. The
government--that is, the _chef_ of the customhouse--had this very
morning said to Mr. Fox that this class of old soldiers must be brought
forward, for trust and for honor. “We must choose, for this vacant
place,” the _chef_ had said,--here Mr. Fox brings his face forward in
close proximity to Sorel's astonished countenance,--“we must have, not
only an old soldier, but--_a Frenchman!_”
“Ah!”
“Such a soldier lives here,” says Mr. Fox; “is it not true? So brave, so
honest, so modest, so faithful! Ready to die for his country; worthy of
trust and worthy of reward!”
“_Mais!_” with amazement. Yes, such a sol-'ier lives here. But can it be
that monsieur refers to our Fidèle?
Precisely so!
Whereupon Sorel, hard, hairless, but French, weeps, and embraces Mr.
Fox as the representative of the great government at Washington; and,
weeping and laughing, leads him downstairs and presents him to Fidèle
and to the bear-leaders, and opens a bottle of weak vinegar.
Such an ovation as Fidèle receives! And such a generous government! To
send a special messenger to seek out the old sergeant in his retirement!
So thoughtful! But it is all of a piece with its unfailing care in the
past.
Fidèle begins, on the spot, to resume something of his former erectness
and soldierly bearing; to shake off the stoop and slouch which lameness
and the drawing about of his “_musique_” have given him. He wishes to
tell the story of Lookout Mountain.
As Mr. Fox is about to go, he recollects himself. Oh, by the way, one
thing more. It is not pleasant to mingle sadness with rejoicing. But
Mr. Fox is the reluctant bearer of a gentle reproach from the great
government at Washington. Her French children,--are they not just a
little remiss? And when she is so bountiful, so thoughtful!
“_Mais_--how you mean?” (with surprise.)
Why,--and there is a certain pathos in Mr. Fox's tone, as he stands
facing Sorel, with the gaze of a loving, reproachful friend,--why, how
many of the Frenchmen of this quarter are ever seen now at the pleasant
gatherings of the Republicans, in the wardroom? The Republic, the
Republicans,--it is all one. Is that quite kind to the Republic? Should
not her French children, on their part, show filial devotion to the fond
government?
“_Mais_,” M. Sorel swiftly explains, “they are weary of going; they
understand nothing. One sits and smokes a little while, and one talks;
then one puts a little ticket into one's hand; one is jammed into a
long file; one slips his ticket into a box; he knows not for whom he is
voting; it is like a flock of sheep. What is the use of going?”
Ah! that is the trouble? Then they are unjustly reproached. The
government has indeed neglected to guide them. But suppose that some
officer of the government--Mr. Fox himself, for instance--will be at the
meeting? Then can M. Sorel induce those good French citizens to come?
Induce them! They will be only too ready; in fact, at a word from M.
Sorel, and particularly when the news of this great honor to Fidèle
shall have spread abroad, twenty, thirty, forty will go to every
meeting,--that is, if a friend be there to guide them. At the very next
meeting, _monsieur_ shall see whether the great government's French
children are neglectful!
Whereupon the great government, in the person of Mr. Fox, then and
there falls in spirit upon the neck of her French citizen-children,
represented by Sorel and Fidèle, and full reconciliation is made.
Yes, Mr. Fox will come again. M. Sorel must introduce him to those brave
Frenchmen, his friends and neighbors; Mr. Fox must grasp them by
the hand, one by one. Sorel must take him to the _Société des
Franco-Américains_, where they gather. The government wishes to know
them better. And (this in a confidential whisper) there may be other
places to be filled. What! Suppose, now, that the government should some
day demand the services of M. Sorel himself in the custom-house; and,
since he is a business man, at a still larger salary than a thousand
dollars a year!
“Ah, _monsieur_” (in a tone of playful reproach), “_vous êtes un
flatteur, n'est ce pas?_ You know,--I guess you giv'n' me taffy.”
Such a hero as Fidèle is! No more balloons, no more carting about of
“_ma musique_;” a square room upstairs, a bottle of wine at dinner,
short hours, distinction,--in fine, all that the heart can wish.