THE CAROUSE.
The Bacchanal Queen, having Sleepinbuff and Rose-Pompon opposite her, and
Ninny Moulin on her right hand, presided at the repast, called a
reveille-matin (wake-morning), generously offered by Jacques to his
companions in pleasure.
Both young men and girls seemed to have forgotten the fatigues of a ball,
begun at eleven o'clock in the evening, and finished at six in the
morning; and all these couples, joyous as they were amorous and
indefatigable, laughed, ate, and drank, with youthful and Pantagruelian
ardor, so that, during the first part of the feast, there was less
chatter than clatter of plates and glasses.
The Bacchanal Queen's countenance was less gay, but much more animated
than usual; her flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes announced a feverish
excitement; she wished to drown reflection, cost what it might. Her
conversation with her sister often recurred to her, and she tried to
escape from such sad remembrances.
Jacques regarded Cephyse from time to time with passionate adoration;
for, thanks to the singular conformity of character, mind, and taste
between him and the Bacchanal Queen, their attachment had deeper and
stronger roots than generally belong to ephemeral connections founded
upon pleasure. Cephyse and Jacques were themselves not aware of all the
power of a passion which till now had been surrounded only by joys and
festivities, and not yet been tried by any untoward event.
Little Rose-Pompon, left a widow a few days before by a student, who, in
order to end the carnival in style, had gone into the country to raise
supplies from his family, under one of those fabulous pretences which
tradition carefully preserves in colleges of law and medicine--Rose
Pompon, we repeat, an example of rare fidelity, determined not to
compromise herself, had taken for a chaperon the inoffensive Ninny
Moulin.
This latter, having doffed his helmet, exhibited a bald head, encircled
by a border of black, curling hair, pretty long at the back of the head.
By a remarkable Bacchic phenomenon, in proportion as intoxication gained
upon him, a sort of zone, as purple as his jovial face, crept by degrees
over his brow, till it obscured even the shining whiteness of his crown.
Rose-Pompon, who knew the meaning of this symptom, pointed it out to the
company, and exclaimed with a loud burst of laughter: "Take care, Ninny
Moulin! the tide of the wine is coming in."
"When it rises above his head he will be drowned," added the Bacchanal
Queen.
"Oh, Queen! don't disturb me; I am meditating, answered Dumoulin, who was
getting tipsy. He held in his hand, in the fashion of an antique goblet,
a punch-bowl filled with wine, for he despised the ordinary glasses,
because of their small size.
"Meditating," echoed Rose-Pompon, "Ninny Moulin is meditating. Be
attentive!"
"He is meditating; he must be ill then!"
"What is he meditating? an illegal dance?"
"A forbidden Anacreontic attitude?"
"Yes, I am meditating," returned Dumoulin, gravely; "I am meditating upon
wine, generally and in particular--wine, of which the immortal
Bossuet"--Dumoulin had the very bad habit of quoting Bossuet when he was
drunk--"of which the immortal Bossuet says (and he was a judge of good
liquor): 'In wine is courage, strength joy, and spiritual fervor'--when
one has any brains," added Ninny Moulin, by way of parenthesis.
"Oh, my! how I adore your Bossuet!" said Rose-Pompon.
"As for my particular meditation, it concerns the question, whether the
wine at the marriage of Cana was red or white. Sometimes I incline to one
side, sometimes to the other--and sometimes to both at once."
"That is going to the bottom of the question," said Sleepinbuff.
"And, above all, to the bottom of the bottles," added the Bacchanal
Queen.
"As your majesty is pleased to observe; and already, by dint of
reflection and research, I have made a great discovery--namely, that, if
the wine at the marriage of Cana was red--"
"It couldn't 'a' been white," said Rose-Pompon, judiciously.
"And if I had arrived at the conviction that it was neither white nor
red?" asked Dumoulin, with a magisterial air.
"That could only be when you had drunk till all was blue," observed
Sleepinbuff.
"The partner of the Queen says well. One may be too athirst for science;
but never mind! From all my studies on this question, to which I have
devoted my life--I shall await the end of my respectable career with the
sense of having emptied tuns with a historical--theological--and
archeological tone!"
It is impossible to describe the jovial grimace and tone with which
Dumoulin pronounced and accentuated these last words, which provoked a
general laugh.
"Archieolopically?" said Rose-Pompon. "What sawnee is that? Has he a
tail? does he live in the water?"
"Never mind," observed the Bacchanal Queen; "these are words of wise men
and conjurers; they are like horsehair bustles--they serve for filling
out--that's all. I like better to drink; so fill the glasses, Ninny
Moulin; some champagne, Rose-Pompon; here's to the health of your
Philemon and his speedy return!"
"And to the success of his plant upon his stupid and stingy family!"
added Rose-Pompon.
The toast was received with unanimous applause.
"With the permission of her majesty and her court," said Dumoulin, "I
propose a toast to the success of a project which greatly interests me,
and has some resemblance to Philemon's jockeying. I fancy that the toast
will bring me luck."
"Let's have it, by all means!"
"Well, then--success to my marriage!" said Dumoulin, rising.
These words provoked an explosion of shouts, applause, and laughter.
Ninny Moulin shouted, applauded, laughed even louder than the rest,
opening wide his enormous mouth, and adding to the stunning noise the
harsh springing of his rattle, which he had taken up from under his
chair.
When the storm had somewhat subsided, the Bacchanal Queen rose and said:
"I drink to the health of the future Madame Ninny Moulin."
"Oh, Queen! your courtesy touches me so sensibly that I must allow you to
read in the depths of my heart the name of my future spouse," exclaimed
Dumoulin. "She is called Madame Honoree-Modeste-Messaline-Angele de la
Sainte-Colombe, widow."
"Bravo! bravo!"
"She is sixty years old, and has more thousands of francs-a-year than she
has hair in her gray moustache or wrinkles on her face; she is so
superbly fat that one of her gowns would serve as a tent for this
honorable company. I hope to present my future spouse to you on Shrove
Tuesday, in the costume of a shepherdess that has just devoured her
flock. Some of them wish to convert her--but I have undertaken to divert
her, which she will like better. You must help me to plunge her headlong
into all sorts of skylarking jollity."
"We will plunge her into anything you please."
"She shall dance like sixty!" said Rose-Pompon, humming a popular tune.
"She will overawe the police."
"We can say to them: 'Respect this lady; your mother will perhaps be as
old some day!'"
Suddenly, the Bacchanal Queen rose; her countenance wore a singular
expression of bitter and sardonic delight. In one hand she held a glass
full to the brim. "I hear the Cholera is approaching in his seven-league
boots," she cried. "I drink luck to the Cholera!" And she emptied the
bumper.
Notwithstanding the general gayety, these words made a gloomy impression;
a sort of electric shudder ran through the assemblage, and nearly every
countenance became suddenly serious.
"Oh, Cephyse!" said Jacques, in a tone of reproach.
"Luck to the Cholera," repeated the Queen, fearlessly. "Let him spare
those who wish to live, and kill together those who dread to part!"
Jacques and Cephyse exchanged a rapid glance, unnoticed by their joyous
companions, and for some time the Bacchanal Queen remained silent and
thoughtful.
"If you put it that way, it is different," cried Rose-Pompon, boldly. "To
the Cholera! may none but good fellows be left on earth!"
In spite of this variation, the impression was still painfully
impressive. Dumoulin, wishing to cut short this gloomy subject,
exclaimed: "Devil take the dead, and long live the living! And, talking
of chaps who both live and live well, I ask you to drink a health most
dear to our joyous queen, the health of our Amphitryon. Unfortunately, I
do not know his respectable name, having only had the advantage of making
his acquaintance this night; he will excuse me, then, if I confine myself
to proposing the health of Sleepinbuff--a name by no means offensive to
my modesty, as Adam never slept in any other manner. I drink to
Sleepinbuff."
"Thanks, old son!" said Jacques, gayly; "were I to forget your name, I
should call you 'Have-a-sip?' and I am sure that you would answer: 'I
will.'"
"I will directly!" said Dumoulin, making the military salute with one
hand, and holding out the bowl with the other.
"As we have drunk together," resumed Sleepinbuff, cordially, "we ought to
know each other thoroughly. I am Jacques Rennepont?"
"Rennepont!" cried Dumoulin, who appeared struck by the name, in spite of
his half-drunkenness; "you are Rennepont?"
"Rennepont in the fullest sense of the word. Does that astonish you?"
"There is a very ancient family of that name--the Counts of Rennepont."
"The deuce there is!" said the other, laughing.
"The Counts of Rennepont are also Dukes of Cardoville," added Dumoulin.
"Now, come, old fellow! do I look as if I belonged to such a family?--I,
a workman out for a spree?"
"You a workman? why, we are getting into the Arabian Nights!" cried
Dumoulin, more and more surprised. "You give us a Belshazzar's banquet,
with accompaniment of carriages and four, and yet are a workman? Only
tell me your trade, and I will join you, leaving the Vine of the Divine
to take care of itself."
"Come, I say! don't think that I am a printer of flimsies, and a
smasher!" replied Jacques, laughing.
"Oh, comrade! no such suspicion--"
"It would be excusable, seeing the rigs I run. But I'll make you easy on
that point. I am spending an inheritance."
"Eating and drinking an uncle, no doubt?" said Dumoulin, benevolently.
"Faith, I don't know."
"What! you don't know whom you are eating and drinking?"
"Why, you see, in the first place, my father was a bone-grubber."
"The devil he was!" said Dumoulin, somewhat out of countenance, though in
general not over-scrupulous in the choice of his bottle-companions: but,
after the first surprise, he resumed, with the most charming amenity:
"There are some rag-pickers very high by scent--I mean descent!"
"To be sure! you may think to laugh at me," said Jacques, "but you are
right in this respect, for my father was a man of very great merit. He
spoke Greek and Latin like a scholar, and often told me that he had not
his equal in mathematics; besides, he had travelled a good deal."
"Well, then," resumed Dumoulin, whom surprise had partly sobered, "you
may belong to the family of the Counts of Rennepont, after all."
"In which case," said Rose-Pompon, laughing, "your father was not a
gutter-snipe by trade, but only for the honor of the thing."
"No, no--worse luck! it was to earn his living," replied Jacques; "but,
in his youth, he had been well off. By what appeared, or rather by what
did not appear, he had applied to some rich relation, and the rich
relation had said to him: 'Much obliged! try the work'us.' Then he wished
to make use of his Greek, and Latin, and mathematics. Impossible to do
anything--Paris, it seems, being choke-full of learned men--so my father
had to look for his bread at the end of a hooked stick, and there, too,
he must have found it, for I ate of it during two years, when I came to
live with him after the death of an aunt, with whom I had been staying in
the country."
"Your respectable father must have been a sort of philosopher," said
Dumoulin; "but, unless he found an inheritance in a dustbin, I don't see
how you came into your property."
"Wait for the end of the song. At twelve years of age I was an apprentice
at the factory of M. Tripeaud; two years afterwards, my father died of an
accident, leaving me the furniture of our garret--a mattress, a chair,
and a table--and, moreover, in an old Eau de Cologne box, some papers
(written, it seems, in English), and a bronze medal, worth about ten
sous, chain and all. He had never spoken to me of these papers, so, not
knowing if they were good for anything, I left them at the bottom of an
old trunk, instead of burning them--which was well for me, since it is
upon these papers that I have had money advanced."
"What a godsend!" said Dumoulin. "But somebody must have known that you
had them?"
"Yes; one of those people that are always looking out for old debts came
to Cephyse, who told me all about it; and, after he had read the papers,
he said that the affair was doubtful, but that he would lend me ten
thousand francs on it, if I liked. Ten thousand francs was a large sum,
so I snapped him up!"
"But you must have supposed that these old papers were of great value."
"Faith, no! since my father, who ought to have known their value, had
never realized on them--and then, you see, ten thousand francs in good,
bright coin, falling as it were from the clouds, are not to be sneezed
at--so I took them--only the man made me do a bit of stiff as guarantee,
or something of that kind."
"Did you sign it?"
"Of course--what did I care about it? The man told me it was only a
matter of form. He spoke the truth, for the bill fell due a fortnight
ago, and I have heard nothing of it. I have still about a thousand francs
in his hands, for I have taken him for my banker. And that's the way, old
pal, that I'm able to flourish and be jolly all day long, as pleased as
Punch to have left my old grinder of a master, M. Tripeaud."
As he pronounced this name, the joyous countenance of Jacques became
suddenly overcast. Cephyse, no longer under the influence of the painful
impression she had felt for a moment, looked uneasily at Jacques, for she
knew the irritation which the name of M. Tripeaud produced within him.
"M. Tripeaud," resumed Sleepinbuff, "is one that would make the good bad,
and the bad worse. They say that a good rider makes a good horse; they
ought to say that a good master makes a good workman. Zounds! when I
think of that fellow!" cried Sleepinbuff, striking his hand violently on
the table.
"Come, Jacques--think of something else!" said the Bacchanal Queen. "Make
him laugh, Rose-Pompon."
"I am not in a humor to laugh," replied Jacques, abruptly, for he was
getting excited from the effects of the wine; "it is more than I can bear
to think of that man. It exasperates me! it drives me mad! You should
have heard him saying: 'Beggarly workmen! rascally workmen! they grumble
that they have no food in their bellies; well, then, we'll give them
bayonets to stop their hunger.'[11] And there's the children in his
factory--you should see them, poor little creatures!--working as long as
the men--wasting away, and dying by the dozen--what odds? as soon as they
were dead plenty of others came to take their places--not like horses,
which can only be replaced with money."
"Well, it is clear, that you do not like your old master," said Dumoulin,
more and more surprised at his Amphitryon's gloomy and thoughtful air,
and, regretting that the conversation had taken this serious turn, he
whispered a few words in the ear of the Bacchanal Queen, who answered by
a sign of intelligence.
"I don't like M. Tripeaud!" exclaimed Jacques. "I hate him--and shall I
tell you why? Because it is as much his fault as mine, that I have become
a good-for-nothing loafer. I don't say it to screen myself; but it is the
truth. When I was 'prenticed to him as a lad, I was all heart and ardor,
and so bent upon work, that I used to take my shirt off to my task,
which, by the way, was the reason that I was first called Sleepinbuff.
Well! I might have toiled myself to death; not one word of encouragement
did I receive. I came first to my work, and was the last to leave off;
what matter? it was not even noticed. One day, I was injured by the
machinery. I was taken to the hospital. When I came out, weak as I was, I
went straight to my work; I was not to be frightened; the others, who
knew their master well, would often say to me: 'What a muff you must be,
little one! What good will you get by working so hard?'--still I went on.
But, one day, a worthy old man, called Father Arsene, who had worked in
the house many years, and was a model of good conduct, was suddenly
turned away, because he was getting too feeble. It was a death-blow to
him; his wife was infirm, and, at his age, he could not get another
place. When the foreman told him he was dismissed, he could not believe
it, and he began to cry for grief. At that moment, M. Tripeaud passes;
Father Arsene begs him with clasped hands to keep him at half-wages.
'What!' says M. Tripeaud, shrugging his shoulders; 'do you think that I
will turn my factory into a house of invalids? You are no longer able to
work--so be off!' 'But I have worked forty years of my life; what is to
become of me?' cried poor Father Arsene. 'That is not my business,'
answered M. Tripeaud; and, addressing his clerk, he added: 'Pay what is
due for the week, and let him cut his stick.' Father Arsene did cut his
stick; that evening, he and his old wife suffocated themselves with
charcoal. Now, you see, I was then a lad; but that story of Father Arsene
taught me, that, however hard you might work, it would only profit your
master, who would not even thank you for it, and leave you to die on the
flags in your old age. So all my fire was damped, and I said to myself:
'What's the use of doing more than I just need? If I gain heaps of gold
for M. Tripeaud, shall I get an atom of it?' Therefore, finding neither
pride nor profit in my work, I took a disgust for it--just did barely
enough to earn my wages--became an idler and a rake--and said to myself:
'When I get too tired of labor, I can always follow the example of Father
Arsene and his wife."'
Whilst Jacques resigned himself to the current of these bitter thoughts,
the other guests, incited by the expressive pantomime of Dumoulin and the
Bacchanal Queen, had tacitly agreed together; and, on a signal from the
Queen, who leaped upon the table, and threw down the bottles and glasses
with her foot, all rose and shouted, with the accompaniment of Ninny
Moulin's rattle "The storm blown Tulip! the quadrille of the Storm-blown
Tulip!"
At these joyous cries, which burst suddenly, like shell, Jacques started;
then gazing with astonishment at his guests, he drew his hand across his
brow, as if to chase away the painful ideas that oppressed him, and
exclaimed: "You are right. Forward the first couple! Let us be merry!"
In a moment, the table, lifted by vigorous arms, was removed to the
extremity of the banqueting-room; the spectators, mounted upon chairs,
benches, and window-ledges, began to sing in chorus the well-known air of
les Etudiants, so as to serve instead of orchestra, and accompany the
quadrille formed by Sleepinbuff, the Queen, Ninny Moulin, and Rose
Pompon.
Dumoulin, having entrusted his rattle to one of the guests, resumed his
extravagant Roman helmet and plume; he had taken off his great-coat at
the commencement of the feast, so that he now appeared in all the
splendor of his costume. His cuirass of bright scales ended in a tunic of
feathers, not unlike those worn by the savages, who form the oxen's
escort on Mardi Gras. Ninny Moulin had a huge paunch and thin legs, so
that the latter moved about at pleasure in the gaping mouths of his large
top boots.
Little Rose-Pompon, with her pinched-up cocked-hat stuck on one side, her
hands in the pockets of her trousers, her bust a little inclined forward,
and undulating from right to left, advanced to meet Ninny-Moulin; the
latter danced, or rather leaped towards her, his left leg bent under him,
his right leg stretched forward, with the toe raised, and the heel
gliding on the floor; moreover, he struck his neck with his left hand,
and by a simultaneous movement, stretched forth his right, as if he would
have thrown dust in the eyes of his opposite partner.
This first figure met with great success, and the applause was
vociferous, though it was only the innocent prelude to the step of the
Storm-blown Tulip--when suddenly the door opened, and one of the waiters,
after looking about for an instant, in search of Sleepinbuff, ran to him,
and whispered some words in his ear.
"Me!" cried Jacques, laughing; "here's a go!"
The waiter added a few more words, when Sleepinbuff's face assumed an
expression of uneasiness, as he answered. "Very well! I come
directly,"--and he made a step towards the door.
"What's the matter, Jacques?" asked the Bacchanal Queen, in some
surprise.
"I'll be back immediately. Some one take my place. Go on with the dance,"
said Sleepinbuff, as he hastily left the room.
"Something, that was not put down in the bill," said Dumoulin; "he will
soon be back."
"That's it," said Cephyse. "Now cavalier suel!" she added, as she took
Jacques's place, and the dance continued.
Ninny Moulin had just taken hold of Rose Pompon with his right hand, and
of the Queen with his left, in order to advance between the two, in which
figure he showed off his buffoonery to the utmost extent, when the door
again opened, and the same waiter, who had called out Jacques, approached
Cephyse with an air of consternation, and whispered in her ear, as he had
before done to Sleepinbuff.
The Bacchanal Queen grew pale, uttered a piercing scream, and rushed out
of the room without a word, leaving her guests in stupefaction.
[11] These atrocious words were actually spoken during the Lyons Riots.