THE WORKS OF ANATOLE FRANCE
IN AN ENGLISH TRANSLATION
EDITED BY JAMES LEWIS MAY
AND BERNARD MIALL
MONSIEUR BERGERET
IN PARIS
[Illustration]
MONSIEUR BERGERET IN PARIS
BY ANATOLE FRANCE
A TRANSLATION BY
B. DRILLIEN
[Illustration]
LONDON: JOHN LANE THE BODLEY HEAD LTD.
NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY: MCMXXII
SECOND EDITION
PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON
AND BECCLES.
MONSIEUR BERGERET IN PARIS
CHAPTER I
Monsieur Bergeret was seated at table taking his frugal evening meal.
Riquet lay at his feet on a tapestry cushion. Riquet had a religious
soul; he rendered divine honours to mankind. He regarded his master as
very good and very great. But it was chiefly when he saw him at table
that he realized the sovereign greatness and goodness of Monsieur
Bergeret.
If, to Riquet, all things pertaining to food were precious and
impressive, those pertaining to the food of man were sacred. He
venerated the dining-room as a temple, the table as an altar. During
meals he kept his place at his master’s feet, in silence and immobility.
“It’s a spring chicken,” said old Angélique as she placed the dish upon
the table.
“Good. Be kind enough to carve it, then,” said Monsieur Bergeret, who
was a poor hand with weapons and quite hopeless as a carver.
“Willingly,” said Angélique, “but carving isn’t woman’s work, it’s the
gentlemen who ought to carve poultry.”
“I don’t know how to carve.”
“Monsieur ought to know.”
This dialogue was by no means new. Angélique and her master exchanged
similar remarks every time that game or poultry came to the table. It
was not flippantly, it was certainly not to save herself trouble, that
the old servant persisted in offering her master the carving-knife as
a token of the respect which was due to him. In the peasant class from
which she had sprung and also in the little middle-class households
where she had been in service, it was a tradition that it was the
master’s duty to carve. The faithful old soul’s respect for tradition
was profound. She did not think it right that Monsieur Bergeret should
fall short of it, that he should delegate to her the performance of
so authoritative a function, that he should fail to carve at his own
table, since he was not grand enough to employ a butler to do it for
him, like the Brécés, the Bonmonts and other such folk in town or
country. She knew the obligations which honour imposes on a citizen
who dines at home, and she never failed to impress them upon Monsieur
Bergeret.
“The knife has just been sharpened; Monsieur can easily cut off a wing.
It’s not difficult to find the joint when the chicken is tender.”
“Angélique, be so good as to carve this chicken.”
Reluctantly she obeyed, and, slightly crestfallen, she carved the
chicken on a corner of the sideboard. With regard to human food she had
ideas which were more accurate but no less respectful than those of
Riquet.
Meanwhile Monsieur Bergeret revolved within himself the reasons of
the prejudice which had induced the worthy woman to believe that the
right of wielding the carving-knife belonged to the master of the
house alone. He did not look to find them in any gracious and kindly
feeling on the man’s part that he should reserve to himself a tedious
and unattractive task. It is, as a matter of fact, to be observed
that throughout the ages the more laborious and distasteful household
tasks have, by the common consent of all nations, been assigned to
women. On the contrary, he attributed the tradition cherished by old
Angélique to the ancient idea that the flesh of animals, prepared for
the sustenance of man, is a thing so precious that the master alone
may and should apportion and distribute it. And he called to mind the
godlike swine-herd Eumæus receiving Ulysses in his pig-sty. He did not
recognize him, but honoured him as a guest sent by Zeus:
“Eumæus rose to divide the portions among his guests, for he
had an equitable mind. He made seven portions, whereof he
dedicated one to the Nymphs and to Hermes, son of Maia, and of
the rest he gave one portion to each of his table companions;
but to honour his guest Ulysses he offered him the whole chine
of the pig. And the subtle Ulysses rejoiced thereat and said to
Eumæus: ‘Eumæus, mayst thou remain for ever dear to our father
Zeus for that thou hast honoured me, such as I am, by giving me
the best portion!’”
Thus Monsieur Bergeret, when in the company of his old servant,
daughter of Mother Earth, felt himself carried back to the days of
antiquity.
“Will Monsieur help himself to a little more?”
But he had not, like the divine Ulysses and the kings of Homer, an
heroic appetite; and, as he ate, he read his paper, which lay open upon
the table. This was another habit of which the servant did not approve.
“Would you like a bit of chicken, Riquet?” asked Monsieur Bergeret. “It
is very good.”
Riquet made no reply. He never asked for food as long as he lay under
the table. However good the dishes might smell he did not claim his
share of them, and, what is more, he dared not touch anything that
was offered him. He refused to eat in a human dining-room. Monsieur
Bergeret, an affectionate and kindly man, would have liked to share his
meals with his comrade. At first he had tried to smuggle down to him a
few little scraps. He had spoken to him gently, but not without that
arrogance which so often accompanies beneficence. He had said:
“Lazarus, receive the crumbs of the good rich man, since for you, at
all events, I am the good rich man.”
But Riquet had always refused. The majesty of the place over-awed him;
and perhaps in his former condition he had received a lesson that
taught him to respect the master’s food.
One day Monsieur Bergeret had been more pressing than usual. For a
long while he had held a delicious piece of meat under his friend’s
nose. Riquet had averted his head, and, emerging from beneath the
table-cloth, had gazed at his master with his beautiful, humble eyes,
full of gentleness and reproach; eyes that said: “Master, wherefore
dost thou tempt me?”
And with drooping tail and crouching legs he had dragged himself upon
his belly as a sign of humility, and had gone dejectedly to the door,
where he sat upon his haunches. He had remained there throughout the
meal. And Monsieur Bergeret had marvelled at the saintly patience of
his little black friend.
He knew, then, what Riquet’s feelings were, and that is why he did
not insist on this occasion. Moreover, he knew that Riquet, after the
dinner at which he was a reverential spectator, would presently go to
the kitchen and greedily devour his own mess under the kitchen sink,
snuffling and blowing, entirely at his ease. His mind at rest on this
point, he resumed the thread of his thoughts.
“The heroes,” he reflected, “used to make a great business of eating
and drinking. Homer does not forget to tell us that in the palace of
the fair-haired Menelaus, Eteonteus, the son of Boethus, was wont to
carve the meats and distribute the portions. A king was worthy of
praise when, at his table, every man received his due portion of the
roasted ox. Menelaus knew the customs of his times. With the aid of
her servants the white-armed Helen saw to the cooking and the great
Eteonteus carved the meats. The pride of so noble a function still
shines upon the smooth faces of our butlers and _maîtres d’hôtel_. We
are deep-rooted in the past. But I am not a hungry man: I am only a
small eater, and Angélique Borniche, primitive woman that she is, makes
that too a grievance against me. She would think far more of me had I
the appetite of a son of Atreus or a Bourbon.”
Monsieur Bergeret had just reached this stage in his reflections when
Riquet got up from his cushion and ran barking to the door.
This action was remarkable because it was unusual. Riquet never left
his cushion until his master rose from table. He had been barking for
some moments when old Angélique, putting a bewildered face in at the
door, announced that “those young ladies” had arrived.
Monsieur Bergeret understood her to allude to his sister Zoe and his
daughter Pauline, whom he had not expected so soon. He knew that his
sister Zoe was brusque and sudden in her actions. He rose from the
table; but Riquet, at the sound of footsteps, which were now heard in
the passage outside, uttered terrible cries of warning; his aboriginal
caution, unconquered by a liberal education, leading him to believe
that every stranger must of necessity be an enemy. He scented a great
danger, a hideous invasion of the dining-room, with the menace of ruin
and desolation.
Pauline flung her arms around her father’s neck. Napkin in hand,
he kissed her, and then stood back to gaze at this young girl, a
mysterious being, like all young girls, whom, after a year’s absence,
he hardly recognized. She was at once very near and almost a stranger
to him. She was his by virtue of the obscure sources of life, but she
eluded him in the dazzling energy of youth.
“How do you do, papa?”
Her very voice had changed; it was lower and less uneven.
“How you have grown, my child!”
He thought her pretty, with her dainty nose, intelligent eyes and
quizzical mouth. But this feeling was at once marred by the reflection
that there is little peace in this world of ours, and that young
people, seeking for happiness, are entering upon a difficult and
uncertain enterprise.
He gave Zoe a hasty kiss upon either cheek.
“You have not altered, Zoe, my dear. I did not expect you to-day, but I
am very glad to see you both again.”
Riquet could not understand why his master gave so warm a welcome
to strange folk. Had he violently driven them forth, he could have
understood. However, he was used to not understanding all the ways of
men. Suffering Monsieur Bergeret to do as he would, he continued to
perform his duty, barking furiously to scare the evil-doers. Then, from
the depths of his throat, he drew growls of hatred and anger; and a
frightful contraction of his lips uncovered his white teeth. Backing
away from his enemies, he hurled threats at them.
“Is that your dog, papa?”
“You were to have come on Saturday,” remarked Monsieur Bergeret.
“Didn’t you get my letter?” inquired Zoe.
“Yes,” replied Monsieur Bergeret.
“No, I mean the other one.”
“I received only one.”
“One cannot hear oneself speak here!”
It is true that Riquet was barking at the top of his voice.
“Your sideboard is dusty,” remarked Zoe, putting her muff on it.
“Doesn’t your servant ever do any dusting?”
Riquet could not bear anyone to lay hold of the sideboard like that.
Either he had conceived a special aversion for Mademoiselle Zoe or he
judged her the more important of the two, for it was to her that he
addressed his loudest barks and growls. When he saw her place a hand
upon the receptacle in which the human nutriment was stored he barked
so shrilly that the glasses upon the table rang again. Mademoiselle
Zoe, turning upon him suddenly, inquired ironically:
“Are you going to eat me up?”
Riquet fled in terror.
“Is your dog vicious, papa?”
“No, he is intelligent; he isn’t vicious.”
“I don’t think he’s particularly intelligent,” said Zoe.
“Yes, he is,” said Monsieur Bergeret. “He does not understand all our
ideas; but we don’t understand all his. No one can enter into the mind
of another.”
“You, Lucien, are no judge of persons,” said Zoe.
Monsieur Bergeret turned to Pauline.
“Come, let me have a look at you. I can hardly recognize you.”
A bright idea struck Riquet. He made up his mind to go to the kitchen,
to the kindly Angélique, and to warn her, if possible, of the
disturbance taking place in the dining-room. She was his last hope for
the restoration of order and the expulsion of the intruders.
“What have you done with Father’s portrait?” inquired Mademoiselle Zoe.
“Sit down and have something to eat,” said Monsieur Bergeret. “There
is some chicken and various other things.”
“Papa, is it really true that we are going to live in Paris?”
“Next month, my child. Are you glad?”
“Yes, but I should be just as happy in the country if I could have a
garden.”
She stopped eating her chicken and said:
“I do admire you, papa. I’m proud of you. You are a great man.”
“That is what my little dog Riquet thinks too,” replied Monsieur
Bergeret.