He was called Achille Meurtrier, and certainly his fierce look and tall
form seemed to warrant that name. He was a great big fellow, about forty
years old, not too much chest or shoulders, but who increased his
apparent size by wearing felt hats with wide brims, ample and short
coats, large plaid trousers, and neckties of a sanguine red under
rolling collars. He wore a full beard, long hair, and was very proud of
his hairy hands.
The chief boast of Meurtrier, otherwise the best and most amiable of
companions, was to trifle with an athletic constitution, to possess the
biceps of a prize-fighter, and, as he said himself, not to know his own
strength. He never made a gesture, even in the exercise of his peaceful
profession, that did not have for its object to convince the spectators
of his prodigious vigor. Did he have to take from its case a half-empty
pasteboard box, he advanced towards the shelf with the heavy step of a
street porter, grasped the box solidly with a tight hand, and carried it
with a stiff arm as far as the next table, with a shrugging of shoulders
and frowning of brow worthy of Milo of Crotona. He carried this manner
so far that he never used less apparent effort even to lift the lightest
objects, and one day when he held in his right hand a basket of old
papers I saw him extend his left arm horizontally as if to make a
counterpoise to the tremendous weight.
I ought to say that this robust creature inspired me with a profound
respect, for I was then, even more than to-day, physically weak and
delicate, and in consequence filled with admiration for that energetic
physique which I lacked.
The conversations of Meurtrier were not of a nature to diminish the
admiration with which he inspired me.
In the summer, above all, on Monday mornings, when we had returned to
the office after our Sunday holiday, he had an inexhaustible fund of
stories concerning his adventures and feats of strength. After taking
off his felt-hat, his coat, and his vest, and wiping the perspiration
from his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt, to indicate his sanguine
and ardent temperament, he would thrust his hands deep in the pockets of
his trousers, and, standing near me in an attitude of perpendicular
solidity, begin a monologue something as follows:
"What a Sunday, my boy! Positively no fatigue can lay me up. Think of
it: yesterday was the regatta at Joinville-le-Pont; at six o'clock in
the morning the rendezvous at Bercy, at The Mariners, for the crew of
the _Marsouin_; the sun is up; a glass of white wine and we jump into
our rowing suits, seize an oar and give way--one-two, one-two--as far as
Joinville; then overboard for a swim before breakfast--strip to swimming
drawers, a jump overboard, and look out for squalls. After my bath I
have the appetite of a tiger. Good! I seize the boat by one hand and I
call out, 'Charpentier, pass me a small ham.' Three motions in one time
and I have finished it to the bone. 'Charpentier, pass me the
brandy-flask.' Three swallows and it is empty."
[Illustration]
So the description would continue--dazzling, Homeric.
"It is the hour for the regatta--noon--the sun just overhead. The boats
draw up in line on the sparkling river, before a tent gaudy with
streamers. On the bank the mayor with his staff of office, gendarmes in
yellow shoulder-belts, and a swarm of summer dresses, open parasols, and
straw hats. Bang! the signal-gun is fired. The _Marsouin_ shoots ahead
of all her competitors and easily gains the prize--and no fatigue! We go
around Marne, and, returning, dine at Créteil. How cool the evening in
the dusky arbor, where pipes glow through the darkness, and moths singe
their wings in the flame of the _omelette au kirsch_. At the end of a
dessert, served on decorated plates, we hear from the ball-room the call
of the cornet--'Take places for the quadrille!' But already a rival
crew, beaten that same morning, has monopolized the prettiest girls. A
fight!--teeth broken, eyes blackened, ugly falls, and whacks below the
belt; in a word, a poem of physical enthusiasm, of noisy hilarity, of
animal spirits, without speaking of the return at midnight, through
crowded stations, with girls whom we lift into the cars, friends
separated calling from one end of the train to the other, and fellows
playing a horn upon the roof."
And the evenings of my astonishing companion were not less full of
adventure than his Sundays. Collar-and-elbow wrestling in a tent, under
the red light of torches, between him--simple amateur--and Du Bois, the
iron man, in person; rat-chases near the mouths of sewers, with dogs as
fierce as tigers; sanguinary encounters at night, in the most dangerous
quarters, with ruffians and nose-eaters, were the most insignificant
episodes of his nightly career. Nor do I dare relate other adventures of
a more intimate character, from which, as the writers of an earlier day
would say in noble style, a pen the least timorous would recoil with
horror.
However painful it may be to confess an unworthy sentiment, I am obliged
to say that my admiration for Meurtrier was not unmixed with regret and
bitterness. Perhaps there was mingled with it something of envy. But the
recitation of his most marvellous exploits had never awakened in me the
least feeling of incredulity, and Achille Meurtrier easily took his
place in my mind among heroes and demigods, between Roland and
Pirithous.