DAVID AND GOLIATH.
After walking the whole length of the village, they stopped before an
imposing looking house at the junction of the roads leading to Longpré
and Haramont. As they neared the house--the little host, with all the
gallantry of a “preux chevalier” went on ahead, mounted the flight of
five or six steps with an agility which one could not have expected,
and, by dint of standing on tip-toe, managed to reach the bell with the
tips of his fingers. It should be added, that having once got hold of
it, he gave it a pull which unmistakeably announced the return of the
master. It was, in short, no ordinary return, but a triumphal one, for
the Bailiff was bringing home a guest.
A maid, neatly dressed in her best clothes, opened the door. The Bailiff
gave her an order in a low voice, and Thibault, whose adoration of
beautiful women did not prevent him from liking a good dinner, gathered
that these few whispered words referred to the menu which Perrine was to
prepare. Then turning round, his host addressed Thibault:
“Welcome, my dear guest, to the house of Bailiff Népomucène Magloire.”
Thibault politely allowed Madame to pass in before him, and was then
introduced into the drawing-room.
But the shoe-maker now made a slip. Unaccustomed as yet to luxury, the
man of the forest was not adroit enough to hide the admiration which he
felt on beholding the bailiff’s home. For the first time in his life he
found himself in the midst of damask curtains and gilt armchairs; he had
not imagined that any one save the King, or at least his Highness the
Duke of Orleans, had curtains and armchairs of this magnificence. He was
unconscious that all the while Madame Magloire was closely watching him,
and that his simple astonishment and delight did not escape her
detective eye. However, she appeared now, after mature reflexion, to
look with greater favour on the guest whom her husband had imposed upon
her, and endeavoured to soften for him the glances of her dark eyes. But
her affability did not go so far as to lead her to comply with the
request of Monsieur Magloire, who begged her to add to the flavour and
bouquet of the champagne by pouring it out herself for her guest.
Notwithstanding the entreaties of her august husband, the Bailiff’s wife
refused, and under the pretext of fatigue from her walk, she retired to
her own room. Before leaving the room, however, she expressed a hope to
Thibault, that, as she owed him some expiation, he would not forget the
way to Erneville, ending her speech with a smile which displayed a row
of charming teeth. Thibault responded with so much lively pleasure in
his voice that it rendered any roughness of speech less noticeable,
swearing that he would sooner lose the power to eat and drink than the
remembrance of a lady who was as courteous as she was beautiful.
Madame Magloire gave him a curtsey which would have made her known as
the Bailiff’s wife a mile off, and left the room.
She had hardly closed the door behind her, when Monsieur Magloire went
through a pirouette in her honour, which though less light, was not less
significant than the caper a school-boy executes when once he has got
rid of his master.
“Ah! my dear friend,” he said, “now that we are no longer hampered by a
woman’s presence, we will have a good go at the wine! Those women, they
are delightful at mass or at a ball; but at table, heaven defend me,
there is nobody like the men! What do you say, old fellow?”
Perrine now came in to receive her master’s orders as to what wine she
was to bring up. But the gay little man was far too fastidious a judge
of wines to trust a woman with such a commission as this. Indeed, women
never show that reverential respect for certain old bottles which is
their due, nor that delicacy of touch with which they love to be
handled. He drew Perrine down as if to whisper something in her ear;
instead of which he gave a good sound kiss to the cheek which was still
young and fresh, and which did not blush sufficiently to lead to the
belief that the kiss was a novelty to it.
“Well, sir,” said the girl laughing, “What is it?”
“This is it, Perrinette, my love,” said the Bailiff, “that I alone know
the good brands, and as they are many in number, you might get lost
among them, and so I am going to the cellar myself.” And the good man
disappeared trundling off on his little legs, cheerful, alert and
fantastic as those Nuremberg toys mounted on a stand, which you wind up
with a key, and which, once set going, turn round and round, or go first
one way and then the other, till the spring has run down; the only
difference being, that this dear little man seemed wound up by the hand
of God himself, and gave no sign of ever coming to a standstill.
Thibault was left alone. He rubbed his hands together, congratulating
himself on having chanced upon such a well-to-do house, with such a
beautiful wife, and such an amiable husband for host and hostess. Five
minutes later the door again opened, and in came the bailiff, with a
bottle in either hand, and one under each arm. The two under his arms
were bottles of sparkling Sillery, of the first quality, which, not
being injured by shaking, were safe to be carried in a horizontal
position. The two which he carried in his hands, and which he held with
a respectful care which was a pleasure to behold, were, one a bottle of
very old Chambertin, the other a bottle of Hermitage.
The supper hour had now come; for it must be remembered, that at the
period of which we are writing, dinner was at mid-day, and supper at
six. Moreover, it had already been dark for some time before six
o’clock, in this month of January, and whether it be six, or twelve
o’clock at night, if one has to eat one’s meal by candle or lamp-light,
it always seems to one like supper.
The Bailiff put the bottles tenderly down on the table and rang the
bell. Perrinette came in.
“When will the table be ready for us, my pretty?” asked Magloire.
“Whenever Monsieur pleases,” replied Perrine. “I know Monsieur does not
like waiting; so I always have everything ready in good time.”
“Go and ask Madame, then, if she is not coming; tell her, Perrine, that
we do not wish to sit down without her.”
Perrine left the room.
“We may as well go into the dining-room to wait,” said the little host;
“you must be hungry, my dear friend, and when I am hungry, I like to
feed my eyes before I feed my stomach.”
“You seem to me to be a fine gourmand, you,” said Thibault.
“Epicure, epicure, not gourmand--you must not confuse the two things. I
go first, but only in order to show you the way.”
And so saying, Monsieur Magloire led his guest into the dining-room.
“Ah!” he exclaimed gaily as he went in, patting his corporation, “tell
me now, do you not think this girl of mine is a capital cook, fit to
serve a Cardinal? Just look now at this little supper she has spread
for us; quite a simple one, and yet it pleases me more, I am sure, than
would have Belshazzar’s feast.”
“On my honour, Bailiff,” said Thibault, “you are right; it is a sight to
rejoice one’s heart.” And Thibault’s eyes began to shine like
carbuncles.
And yet it was, as the Bailiff described it, quite an unpretentious
little supper, but withal so appetising to look upon, that it was quite
surprising. At one end of the table was a fine carp, boiled in vinegar
and herbs, with the roe served on either side of it on a layer of
parsley, dotted about with cut carrots. The opposite end was occupied by
a boar-ham, mellow-flavoured, and deliciously reposing on a dish of
spinach, which lay like a green islet surrounded by an ocean of gravy.
A delicate game-pie, made of two partridges only, of which the heads
appeared above the upper crust, as if ready to attack one another with
their beaks, was placed in the middle of the table; while the
intervening spaces were covered with side-dishes holding slices of Arles
sausage, pieces of tunny-fish, swimming in beautiful green oil from
Provence, anchovies sliced and arranged in all kinds of strange and
fantastic patterns on a white and yellow bed of chopped eggs, and pats
of butter that could only have been churned that very day. As
accessories to these were two or three sorts of cheese, chosen from
among those of which the chief quality is to provoke thirst, some Reims
biscuits, of delightful crispness, and pears just fit to eat, showing
that the master himself had taken the trouble to preserve them, and to
turn them about on the store-room shelf.
Thibault was so taken up in the contemplation of this little amateur
supper, that he scarcely heard the message which Perrine brought back
from her mistress, who sent word that she had a sick-headache, and
begged to make her excuses to her guest, with the hope that she might
have the pleasure of entertaining him when he next came.
The little man gave visible signs of rejoicing on hearing his wife’s
answer, breathed loudly and clapped his hands, exclaiming:
“She has a headache! she has a headache! Come along then, sit down! sit
down!” And thereupon, besides the two bottles of old Mâcon, which had
already been respectively placed within reach of the host and guest, as
vin ordinaire, between the _Hors-d’œuvres_ and the dessert plates, he
introduced the four other bottles which he had just brought up from the
cellar.
Madame Magloire had, I think, acted not unwisely in refusing to sup with
these stalwart champions of the table, for such was their hunger and
thirst, that half the carp and the two bottles of wine disappeared
without a word passing between them except such exclamations as:
“Good fish! isn’t it?”
“Capital!”
“Fine wine! isn’t it?”
“Excellent!”
The carp and the Mâcon being consumed, they passed on to the game pie
and the Chambertin, and now their tongues began to be unloosed,
especially the Bailiff’s.
By the time half the game pie, and the first bottle of Chambertin were
finished, Thibault knew the history of Népomucène Magloire; not a very
complicated one, it must be confessed.
Monsieur Magloire was son to a church ornament manufacturer who had
worked for the chapel belonging to his Highness the Duke of Orleans, the
latter, in his religious zeal having a burning desire to obtain pictures
by Albano and Titian for the sum of four to five thousand francs.
Chrysostom Magloire had placed his son Népomucène Magloire, as head-cook
with Louis’ son, his Highness the Duke of Orleans.
The young man had, from infancy almost, manifested a decided taste for
cooking; he had been especially attached to the Castle at
Villers-Cotterets, and for thirty years presided over his Highness’s
dinners, the latter introducing him to his friends as a thorough artist,
and from time to time, sending for him to come upstairs to talk over
culinary matters with Marshal Richelieu.
When fifty-five years of age, Magloire found himself so rounded in bulk,
that it was only with some difficulty he could get through the narrow
doors of the passages and offices. Fearing to be caught some day like
the weasel of the fable, he asked permission to resign his post.
The Duke consented, not without regret, but with less regret than he
would have felt at any other time, for he had just married Madame de
Montesson, and it was only rarely now that he visited his castle at
Villers-Cotterets.
His Highness had fine old-fashioned ideas as regards superannuated
retainers. He, therefore, sent for Magloire, and asked him how much he
had been able to save while in his service. Magloire replied that he was
happily able to retire with a competence; the Prince, however, insisted
upon knowing the exact amount of his little fortune, and Magloire
confessed to an income of nine thousand livres.
“A man who has provided me with such a good table for thirty years,”
said the Prince, “should have enough to live well upon himself for the
remainder of his life.” And he made up the income to twelve thousand, so
that Magloire might have a thousand livres a month to spend. Added to
this, he allowed him to choose furniture for the whole of his house from
his own old lumber-room; and thence came the damask curtains and gilt
arm chairs, which, although just a little bit faded and worn, had
nevertheless preserved that appearance of grandeur which had made such
an impression on Thibault.
By the time the whole of the first partridge was finished, and half the
second bottle had been drunk, Thibault knew that Madame Magloire was the
host’s fourth wife, a fact which seemed in his own eyes to add a good
foot or two to his height.
He had also ascertained that he had married her not for her fortune, but
for her beauty, having always had as great a predilection for pretty
faces and beautiful statues, as for good wines and appetising victuals,
and Monsieur Magloire further stated, with no sign of faltering, that,
old as he was, if his wife were to die, he should have no fear in
entering on a fifth marriage.
As he now passed from the Chambertin to the Hermitage, which he
alternated with the Sillery, Monsieur Magloire began to speak of his
wife’s qualities. She was not the personification of docility, no, quite
the reverse; she was somewhat opposed to her husband’s admiration for
the various wines of France, and did everything she could, even using
physical force, to prevent his too frequent visits to the cellar; while,
for one who believed in living without ceremony, she on her part was too
fond of dress, too much given to elaborate head-gears, English laces,
and such like gewgaws, which women make part of their arsenal; she would
gladly have turned the twelve hogsheads of wine, which formed the staple
of her husband’s cellar, into lace for her arms, and ribands for her
throat, if Monsieur Magloire had been the man to allow this
metamorphosis. But, with this exception, there was not a virtue which
Suzanne did not possess, and these virtues of hers, if the Bailiff was
to be believed, were carried on so perfectly shaped a pair of legs,
that, if by any misfortune she were to lose one, it would be quite
impossible throughout the district to find another that would match the
leg that remained. The good man was like a regular whale, blowing out
self-satisfaction from all his air-holes, as the former does sea-water.
But even before all these hidden perfections of his wife had been
revealed to him by the Bailiff, like a modern King Candaules ready to
confide in a modern Gyges, her beauty had already made such a deep
impression on the shoe-maker, that, as we have seen, he could do nothing
but think of it in silence as he walked beside her, and since he had
been at table, he had continued to dream about it, listening to his
host,--eating the while of course,--without answering, as Monsieur
Magloire, delighted to have such an accommodating audience, poured forth
his tales, linked one to another like a necklace of beads.
But the worthy Bailiff, having made a second excursion to the cellar,
and this second excursion having produced, as the saying is, a little
knot at the tip of his tongue, he began to be rather less appreciative
of the rare quality which was required in his disciples by Pythagons.
He, therefore, gave Thibault to understand that he had now said all that
he wished to tell him concerning himself and his wife, and that it was
Thibault’s turn to give him some information as regards his own
circumstances, the amiable little man adding that wishing often to visit
him, he wished to know more about him. Thibault felt that it was very
necessary to disguise the truth; and accordingly gave himself out as a
man living at ease in the country, on the revenues of two farms and of a
hundred acres of land, situated near Vertefeuille.
There was, he continued, a splendid warren on these hundred acres, with
a wonderful supply of red and fallow deer, boars, partridges, pheasants
and hares, of which the bailiff should have some to taste. The bailiff
was astonished and delighted. As we have seen, by the menu for his
table, he was fond of venison, and he was carried away with joy at the
thought of obtaining his game without having recourse to the poachers,
and through the channel of this new friendship.
And now, the last drop of the seventh bottle having been scrupulously
divided between the two glasses, they decided that it was time to stop.
The rosy champagne--prime vintage of Aï, and the last bottle
emptied--had brought Népomucène Magloire’s habitual good nature to the
level of tender affection. He was charmed with his new friend, who
tossed off his bottle in almost as good style as he did himself; he
addressed him as his bosom friend, he embraced him, he made him promise
that there should be a morrow to their pleasant entertainment; he stood
a second time on tiptoe to give him a parting hug as he accompanied him
to the door, which Thibault on his part, bending down, received with the
best grace in the world.
The church clock of Erneville was striking midnight as the door closed
behind the shoe-maker. The fumes of the heady wine he had been drinking
had begun to give him a feeling of oppression before leaving the house,
but it was worse when he got into the open air. He staggered, overcome
with giddiness, and went and leant with his back against a wall. What
followed next was as vague and mysterious to him as the phantasmagoria
of a dream. Above his head, about six or eight feet from the ground, was
a window, which, as he moved to lean against the wall, had appeared to
him to be lighted, although the light was shaded by double curtains. He
had hardly taken up his position against the wall when he thought he
heard it open. It was, he imagined, the worthy bailiff, unwilling to
part with him without sending him a last farewell, and he tried to step
forward so as to do honour to this gracious intention, but his attempt
was unavailing. At first he thought he was stuck to the wall like a
branch of ivy, but he was soon disabused of this idea. He felt a heavy
weight planted first on the right shoulder and then on the left, which
made his knees give way so that he slid down the wall as if to seat
himself. This manœuvre on Thibault’s part appeared to be just what
the individual who was making use of him as a ladder wished him to do,
for we can no longer hide the fact that the weight so felt was that of a
man. As Thibault made his forced genuflexion, the man was also lowered;
“That’s right, l’Eveillé! that’s right!” he said, “So!” and with this
last word, he jumped to the ground, while overhead was heard the sound
of a window being shut.
Thibault had sense enough to understand two things: first, that he was
mistaken for someone called l’Eveillé, who was probably asleep somewhere
about the premises; secondly, that his shoulders had just served some
lover as a climbing ladder; both of which things caused Thibault an
undefined sense of humiliation.
Accordingly, he seized hold mechanically of some floating piece of stuff
which he took to be the lover’s cloak, and, with the persistency of a
drunken man, continued to hang on to it.
“What are you doing that for, you scoundrel?” asked a voice, which did
not seem altogether unfamiliar to the shoe-maker. “One would think you
were afraid of losing me.”
“Most certainly I am afraid of losing you,” replied Thibault, “because I
wish to know who it is has the impertinence to use my shoulders for a
ladder.”
“Phew!” said the unknown, “it’s not you then, l’Eveillé?”
“No, it is not,” replied Thibault.
“Well, whether it is you or not you, I thank you.”
“How, thank you? Ah! I dare say! thank you, indeed! You think the matter
is going to rest like that, do you?”
“I had counted upon it being so, certainly.”
“Then you counted without your host.”
“Now, you blackguard, leave go of me! you are drunk!”
“Drunk! What do you mean? We only drank seven bottles between us, and
the Bailiff had a good four to his share.”
“Leave go of me, you drunkard, do you hear!”
“Drunkard! you call me a drunkard, a drunkard for having drunk three
bottles of wine!”
“I don’t call you a drunkard because you drank three bottles of wine,
but because you let yourself get tipsy over those three unfortunate
bottles.”
And, with a gesture of commiseration, and trying for the third time to
release his cloak, the unknown continued:
“Now then, are you going to let go my cloak or not, you idiot?”
Thibault was at all times touchy as to the way people addressed him, but
in his present state of mind his susceptibility amounted to extreme
irritation.
“By the devil!” he exclaimed, “let me tell you, my fine sir, that the
only idiot here is the man who gives insults in return for the services
of which he has made use, and seeing that is so, I do not know what
prevents me planting my fist in the middle of your face.”
This menace was scarcely out of his mouth, when, as instantly as a
cannon goes off once the flame of the match has touched the powder, the
blow with which Thibault had threatened his unknown adversary, came full
against his own cheek.
“Take that, you beast,” said the voice, which brought back to Thibault
certain recollections in connection with the blow he received. “I am a
good Jew, you see, and pay you back your money before weighing your
coin.”
Thibault’s answer was a blow in the chest; it was well directed, and
Thibault felt inwardly pleased with it himself. But it had no more
effect on his antagonist than the fillip from a child’s finger would
have on an oak tree. It was returned by a second blow of the fist which
so far exceeded the former in the force with which it was delivered,
that Thibault felt certain if the giant’s strength went on increasing in
the same ratio, that a third of the kind would level him with the
ground.
But the very violence of his blow brought disaster on Thibault’s unknown
assailant. The former had fallen on to one knee, and so doing, his hand,
touching the ground, came in contact with a stone. Rising in fury to his
feet again, with the stone in his hand, he flung it at his enemy’s head.
The colossal figure uttered a sound like the bellowing of an ox, turned
round on himself, and then, like an oak tree cut off by the roots, fell
his whole length on the ground, and lay there insensible.
Not knowing whether he had killed, or only wounded his adversary,
Thibault took to his heels and fled, not even turning to look behind
him.