ISRAEL IS INITIATED INTO THE MYSTERIES OF LODGING-HOUSES IN THE LATIN
QUARTER.
Closing the door upon himself, Israel advanced to the middle of the
chamber, and looked curiously round him.
A dark tessellated floor, but without a rug; two mahogany chairs, with
embroidered seats, rather the worse for wear; one mahogany bed, with a
gay but tarnished counterpane; a marble wash-stand, cracked, with a
china vessel of water, minus the handle. The apartment was very large;
this part of the house, which was a very extensive one, embracing the
four sides of a quadrangle, having, in a former age, been the hotel of
a nobleman. The magnitude of the chamber made its stinted furniture
look meagre enough.
But in Israel’s eyes, the marble mantel (a comparatively recent
addition) and its appurtenances, not only redeemed the rest, but looked
quite magnificent and hospitable in the extreme. Because, in the first
place, the mantel was graced with an enormous old-fashioned square
mirror, of heavy plate glass, set fast, like a tablet, into the wall.
And in this mirror was genially reflected the following delicate
articles:—first, two boquets of flowers inserted in pretty vases of
porcelain; second, one cake of white soap; third, one cake of
rose-colored soap (both cakes very fragrant); fourth, one wax candle;
fifth, one china tinder-box; sixth, one bottle of Eau de Cologne;
seventh, one paper of loaf sugar, nicely broken into sugar-bowl size;
eighth, one silver teaspoon; ninth, one glass tumbler; tenth, one glass
decanter of cool pure water; eleventh, one sealed bottle containing a
richly hued liquid, and marked “Otard.”
“I wonder now what O-t-a-r-d is?” soliloquised Israel, slowly spelling
the word. “I have a good mind to step in and ask Dr. Franklin. He knows
everything. Let me smell it. No, it’s sealed; smell is locked in. Those
are pretty flowers. Let’s smell them: no smell again. Ah, I see—sort of
flowers in women’s bonnets—sort of calico flowers. Beautiful soap. This
smells anyhow—regular soap-roses—a white rose and a red one. That
long-necked bottle there looks like a crane. I wonder what’s in that?
Hallo! E-a-u—d-e—C-o-l-o-g-n-e. I wonder if Dr. Franklin understands
that? It looks like his white wine. This is nice sugar. Let’s taste.
Yes, this is very nice sugar, sweet as—yes, it’s sweet as sugar; better
than maple sugar, such as they make at home. But I’m crunching it too
loud, the Doctor will hear me. But here’s a teaspoon. What’s this for?
There’s no tea, nor tea-cup; but here’s a tumbler, and here’s drinking
water. Let me see. Seems to me, putting this and that and the other
thing together, it’s a sort of alphabet that spells something. Spoon,
tumbler, water, sugar,—brandy—that’s it. O-t-a-r-d is brandy. Who put
these things here? What does it all mean? Don’t put sugar here for
show, don’t put a spoon here for ornament, nor a jug of water. There is
only one meaning to it, and that is a very polite invitation from some
invisible person to help myself, if I like, to a glass of brandy and
sugar, and if I don’t like, let it alone. That’s my reading. I have a
good mind to ask Doctor Franklin about it, though, for there’s just a
chance I may be mistaken, and these things here be some other person’s
private property, not at all meant for me to help myself from. Cologne,
what’s that—never mind. Soap: soap’s to wash with. I want to use soap,
anyway. Let me see—no, there’s no soap on the wash-stand. I see, soap
is not given gratis here in Paris, to boarders. But if you want it,
take it from the marble, and it will be charged in the bill. If you
don’t want it let it alone, and no charge. Well, that’s fair, anyway.
But then to a man who could not afford to use soap, such beautiful
cakes as these lying before his eyes all the time, would be a strong
temptation. And now that I think of it, the O-t-a-r-d looks rather
tempting too. But if I don’t like it now, I can let it alone. I’ve a
good mind to try it. But it’s sealed. I wonder now if I am right in my
understanding of this alphabet? Who knows? I’ll venture one little sip,
anyhow. Come, cork. Hark!”
There was a rapid knock at the door.
Clapping down the bottle, Israel said, “Come in.”
It was the man of wisdom.
“My honest friend,” said the Doctor, stepping with venerable briskness
into the room, “I was so busy during your visit to the Pont Neuf, that
I did not have time to see that your room was all right. I merely gave
the order, and heard that it had been fulfilled. But it just occurred
to me, that as the landladies of Paris have some curious customs which
might puzzle an entire stranger, my presence here for a moment might
explain any little obscurity. Yes, it is as I thought,” glancing
towards the mantel.
“Oh, Doctor, that reminds me; what is O-t-a-r-d, pray?”
“Otard is poison.”
“Shocking.”
“Yes, and I think I had best remove it from the room forthwith,”
replied the sage, in a business-like manner putting the bottle under
his arm; “I hope you never use Cologne, do you?”
“What—what is that, Doctor?”
“I see. You never heard of the senseless luxury—a wise ignorance. You
smelt flowers upon your mountains. You won’t want this, either;” and
the Cologne bottle was put under the other arm. “Candle—you’ll want
that. Soap—you want soap. Use the white cake.”
“Is that cheaper, Doctor?”
“Yes, but just as good as the other. You don’t ever munch sugar, do
you? It’s bad for the teeth. I’ll take the sugar.” So the paper of
sugar was likewise dropped into one of the capacious coat pockets.
“Oh, you better take the whole furniture, Doctor Franklin. Here, I’ll
help you drag out the bedstead.” “My honest friend,” said the wise man,
pausing solemnly, with the two bottles, like swimmer’s bladders, under
his arm-pits; “my honest friend, the bedstead you will want; what I
propose to remove you will not want.”
“Oh, I was only joking, Doctor.”
“I knew that. It’s a bad habit, except at the proper time, and with the
proper person. The things left on the mantel were there placed by the
landlady to be used if wanted; if not, to be left untouched. To-morrow
morning, upon the chambermaid’s coming in to make your bed, all such
articles as remained obviously untouched would have been removed, the
rest would have been charged in the bill, whether you used them up
completely or not.”
“Just as I thought. Then why not let the bottles stay, Doctor, and save
yourself all this trouble?”
“Ah! why indeed. My honest friend, are you not my guest? It were
unhandsome in me to permit a third person superfluously to entertain
you under what, for the time being, is my own roof.”
These words came from the wise man in the most graciously bland and
flowing tones. As he ended, he made a sort of conciliatory half bow
towards Israel.
Charmed with his condescending affability, Israel, without another
word, suffered him to march from the room, bottles and all. Not till
the first impression of the venerable envoy’s suavity had left him, did
Israel begin to surmise the mild superiority of successful strategy
which lurked beneath this highly ingratiating air.
“Ah,” pondered Israel, sitting gloomily before the rifled mantel, with
the empty tumbler and teaspoon in his hand, “it’s sad business to have
a Doctor Franklin lodging in the next room. I wonder if he sees to all
the boarders this way. How the O-t-a-r-d merchants must hate him, and
the pastry-cooks too. I wish I had a good pie to pass the time. I
wonder if they ever make pumpkin pies in Paris? So I’ve got to stay in
this room all the time. Somehow I’m bound to be a prisoner, one way or
another. Never mind, I’m an ambassador; that’s satisfaction. Hark! The
Doctor again.—Come in.”
No venerable doctor, but in tripped a young French lass, bloom on her
cheek, pink ribbons in her cap, liveliness in all her air, grace in the
very tips of her elbows. The most bewitching little chambermaid in
Paris. All art, but the picture of artlessness.
“Monsieur! pardon!”
“Oh, I pardon ye freely,” said Israel. “Come to call on the
Ambassador?”
“Monsieur, is de—de—” but, breaking down at the very threshold in her
English, she poured out a long ribbon of sparkling French, the purpose
of which was to convey a profusion of fine compliments to the stranger,
with many tender inquiries as to whether he was comfortably roomed, and
whether there might not be something, however trifling, wanting to his
complete accommodation. But Israel understood nothing, at the time, but
the exceeding grace, and trim, bewitching figure of the girl.
She stood eyeing him for a few moments more, with a look of pretty
theatrical despair, and, after vaguely lingering a while, with another
shower of incomprehensible compliments and apologies, tripped like a
fairy from the chamber. Directly she was gone Israel pondered upon a
singular glance of the girl. It seemed to him that he had, by his
reception, in some way, unaccountably disappointed his beautiful
visitor. It struck him very strangely that she had entered all
sweetness and friendliness, but had retired as if slighted, with a sort
of disdainful and sarcastic levity, all the more stinging from its
apparent politeness.
Not long had she disappeared, when a noise in the passage apprised him
that, in her hurried retreat, the girl must have stumbled against
something. The next moment he heard a chair scraping in the adjacent
apartment, and there was another knock at the door.
It was the man of wisdom this time.
“My honest friend, did you not have a visitor, just now?”
“Yes, Doctor, a very pretty girl called upon me.”
“Well, I just stopped in to tell you of another strange custom of
Paris. That girl is the chambermaid, but she does not confine herself
altogether to one vocation. You must beware of the chambermaids of
Paris, my honest friend. Shall I tell the girl, from you, that,
unwilling to give her the fatigue of going up and down so many flights
of stairs, you will for the future waive her visits of ceremony?”
“Why, Doctor Franklin, she is a very sweet little girl.”
“I know it, my honest friend; the sweeter the more dangerous. Arsenic
is sweeter than sugar. I know you are a very sensible young man, not to
be taken in by an artful Ammonite, and so I think I had better convey
your message to the girl forthwith.”
So saying, the sage withdrew, leaving Israel once more gloomily seated
before the rifled mantel, whose mirror was not again to reflect the
form of the charming chambermaid.
“Every time he comes in he robs me,” soliloquised Israel, dolefully;
“with an air all the time, too, as if he were making me presents. If he
thinks me such a very sensible young man, why not let me take care of
myself?”
It was growing dusk, and Israel, lighting the wax candle, proceeded to
read in his Guide-book.
“This is poor sight-seeing,” muttered he at last, “sitting here all by
myself, with no company but an empty tumbler, reading about the fine
things in Paris, and I myself a prisoner in Paris. I wish something
extraordinary would turn up now; for instance, a man come in and give
me ten thousand pounds. But here’s ‘Poor Richard;’ I am a poor fellow
myself; so let’s see what comfort he has for a comrade.”
Opening the little pamphlet, at random, Israel’s eyes fell on the
following passages: he read them aloud—
“‘_So what signifies waiting and hoping for better times? We may make
these times better, if we bestir ourselves. Industry need not wish, and
he that lives upon hope will die fasting, as Poor Richard says. There
are no gains, without pains. Then help hands, for I have no lands, as
Poor Richard says._’ Oh, confound all this wisdom! It’s a sort of
insulting to talk wisdom to a man like me. It’s wisdom that’s cheap,
and it’s fortune that’s dear. That ain’t in Poor Richard; but it ought
to be,” concluded Israel, suddenly slamming down the pamphlet.
He walked across the room, looked at the artificial flowers, and the
rose-colored soap, and again went to the table and took up the two
books.
“So here is the ‘Way to Wealth,’ and here is the ‘Guide to Paris.’
Wonder now whether Paris lies on the Way to Wealth? if so, I am on the
road. More likely though, it’s a parting-of-the-ways. I shouldn’t be
surprised if the Doctor meant something sly by putting these two books
in my hand. Somehow, the old gentleman has an amazing sly look—a sort
of wild slyness—about him, seems to me. His wisdom seems a sort of sly,
too. But all in honor, though. I rather think he’s one of those old
gentlemen who say a vast deal of sense, but hint a world more. Depend
upon it, he’s sly, sly, sly. Ah, what’s this Poor Richard says: ‘God
helps them that help themselves:’ Let’s consider that. Poor Richard
ain’t a Dunker, that’s certain, though he has lived in Pennsylvania.
‘God helps them that help themselves.’ I’ll just mark that saw, and
leave the pamphlet open to refer to it again—Ah!”
At this point, the Doctor knocked, summoning Israel to his own
apartment. Here, after a cup of weak tea, and a little toast, the two
had a long, familiar talk together; during which, Israel was delighted
with the unpretending talkativeness, serene insight, and benign
amiability of the sage. But, for all this, he could hardly forgive him
for the Cologne and Otard depredations.
Discovering that, in early life, Israel had been employed on a farm,
the man of wisdom at length turned the conversation in that direction;
among other things, mentioning to his guest a plan of his (the
Doctor’s) for yoking oxen, with a yoke to go by a spring instead of a
bolt; thus greatly facilitating the operation of hitching on the team
to the cart. Israel was very much struck with the improvement; and
thought that, if he were home, upon his mountains, he would immediately
introduce it among the farmers.