AN EVENING PARTY AMONG THE PETIT-BOURGEOISIE.
Madame Marotte, as I have already mentioned more than once, lived in the
Rue du Faubourg St. Denis; which, as all the world knows, is a
prolongation of the Rue St. Denis--just as the Rue St. Denis was, in my
time, a transpontine continuation of the old Rue de la Harpe. Beginning
at the Place du Châtelet as the Rue St. Denis, opening at its farther
end on the Boulevart St. Denis and passing under the triumphal arch of
Louis le Grand (called the Porte St. Denis), it there becomes first the
Rue du Faubourg St. Denis, and then the interminable Grande Route du St.
Denis which drags its slow length along all the way to the famous Abbey
outside Paris.
The Rue du Faubourg St. Denis is a changed street now, and widens out,
prim, white, and glittering, towards the new barrier and the new Rond
Point. But in the dear old days of which I tell, it was the sloppiest,
worst-paved, worst-lighted, noisiest, narrowest, and most crowded of all
the great Paris thoroughfares north of the Seine. All the country
traffic from Chantilly and Compiégne came lumbering this way into the
city; diligences, omnibuses, wagons, fiacres, water-carts, and all kinds
of vehicles thronged and blocked the street perpetually; and the sound
of wheels ceased neither by night nor by day. The foot-pavements of the
Rue du Faubourg St. Denis, too, were always muddy, be the weather what
it might; and the gutters were always full of stagnant pools. An
ever-changing, never-failing stream of rustics from the country,
workpeople from the factories of the _banlieu,_ grisettes, commercial
travellers, porters, commissionaires, and _gamins_ of all ages here
flowed to and fro. Itinerant venders of cakes, lemonade, cocoa,
chickweed, _allumettes_, pincushions, six-bladed penknives, and
never-pointed pencils filled the air with their cries, and made both day
and night hideous. You could not walk a dozen yards at any time without
falling down a yawning cellar-trap, or being run over by a porter with a
huge load upon his head, or getting splashed from head to foot by the
sudden pulling-up of some cart in the gutter beside you.
It was among the peculiarities of the Rue du Faubourg St. Denis that
everybody was always in a hurry, and that nobody was ever seen to look
in at the shop-windows. The shops, indeed, might as well have had no
windows, since there were no loungers to profit by them. Every house,
nevertheless, was a shop, and every shop had its window. These windows,
however, were for the most part of that kind before which the passer-by
rarely cares to linger; for the commerce of the Rue du Faubourg St.
Denis was of that steady, unpretending, money-making sort that despises
mere shop-front attractions. Grocers, stationers, corn-chandlers,
printers, cutlers, leather-sellers, and such other inelegant trades,
here most did congregate; and to the wearied wayfarer toiling along the
dead level of this dreary pavé, it was quite a relief to come upon even
an artistically-arranged _Magasin de Charcuterie_, with its rows of
glazed tongues, mighty Lyons sausages, yellow _terrines_ of Strasbourg
pies, fantastically shaped pickle-jars, and pyramids of silvery
sardine boxes.
It was at number One Hundred and Two in this agreeable thoroughfare that
my friend's innamorata resided with her maternal aunt, the worthy relict
of Monsieur Jacques Marotte, umbrella-maker, deceased. Thither,
accordingly, we wended our miry way, Müller and I, after dining together
at one of our accustomed haunts on the evening following the events
related in my last chapter. The day had been dull and drizzly, and the
evening had turned out duller and more drizzly still. We had not had
rain for some time, and the weather had been (as it often is in Paris in
October) oppressively hot; and now that the rain had come, it did not
seem to cool the air at all, but rather to load it with vapors, and make
the heat less endurable than before.
Having toiled all the way up from the Rue de la Harpe on the farther
bank of the Seine, and having forded the passage of the Arch of Louis le
Grand, we were very wet and muddy indeed, very much out of breath, and
very melancholy objects to behold.
"It's dreadful to think of going into any house in this condition,
Müller," said I, glancing down ruefully at the state of my boots, and
having just received a copious spattering of mud all down the left side
of my person. "What is to be done?"
"We've only to go to a boot-cleaning and brushing-up shop," replied
Müller. "There's sure to be one close by somewhere."
"A boot-cleaning and brushing-up shop!" I echoed.
"What--didn't you know there were lots of them, all over Paris? Have you
never noticed places that look like shops, with ground glass windows
instead of shop-fronts, on which are painted up the words, '_cirage des
bottes?_'"
"Never, that I can remember."
"Then be grateful to me for a piece of very useful information! Suppose
we turn down this by-street--it's mostly to the seclusion of by-streets
and passages that our bashful sex retires to renovate its boots and its
broadcloth."
I followed him, and in the course of a few minutes we found the sort of
place of which we were in search. It consisted of one large, long room,
like a shop without goods, counters, or shelves. A single narrow bench
ran all round the walls, raised on a sort of wooden platform about three
feet in width and three feet from the ground. Seated upon this bench,
somewhat uncomfortably, as it seemed, with their backs against the wall,
sat some ten or a dozen men and boys, each with an attendant shoeblack
kneeling before him, brushing away vigorously. Two or three other
customers, standing up in the middle of the shop, like horses in the
hands of the groom, were having their coats brushed instead of their
boots. Of those present, some looked like young shopmen, some were of
the _ouvrier_ class, and one or two looked like respectable small
tradesmen and fathers of families. The younger men were evidently
smartening up for an hour or two at some cheap ball or Café-Concert, now
that the warehouse was closed, and the day's work was over.
Our boots being presently brought up to the highest degree of polish,
and our garments cleansed of every disfiguring speck, we paid a few sous
apiece and turned out again into the streets. Happily, we had not far to
go. A short cut brought us into the midst of the Rue de Faubourg St.
Denis, and within a few yards of a gloomy-looking little shop with the
words "_Veuve Marotte_" painted up over the window, and a huge red and
white umbrella dangling over the door. A small boy in a shiny black
apron was at that moment putting up the shutters; the windows of the
front room over the shop were brightly lit from within; and a little old
gentleman in goloshes and a large blue cloak with a curly collar, was
just going in at the private door. We meekly followed him, and hung up
our hats and overcoats, as he did, in the passage.
"After you, Messieurs," said the little old gentleman, skipping politely
back, and flourishing his hand in the direction of the stairs.
"After you!"
We protested vehemently against this arrangement, and fought quite a
skirmish of civilities at the foot of the stairs.
"I am at home here, Messieurs," said the little old gentleman, who, now
that he was divested of hat, cloak, and goloshes, appeared in a flaxen
_toupet_, an antiquated blue coat with brass buttons, a profusely
frilled shirt, and low-cut shoes with silver buckles. "I am an old
friend of the family--a friend of fifty years. I hold myself privileged
to do the honors, Messieurs;--a friend of fifty years may claim to have
his privileges."
With this he smirked, bowed, and backed against the wall, so that we
were obliged to precede him. When we reached the landing, however, he
(being evidently an old gentleman of uncommon politeness and agility)
sprang forward, held open the door for us, and insisted on ushering
us in.
It was a narrow, long-shaped room, the size of the shop, with two
windows looking upon the street; a tiny square of carpet in the middle
of the floor; boards highly waxed and polished; a tea-table squeezed up
in one corner; a somewhat ancient-looking, spindle-legged cottage piano
behind the door; a mirror and an ornamental clock over the mantelpiece;
and a few French lithographs, colored in imitation of crayon drawings,
hanging against the walls.
Madame Marotte, very deaf and fussy, in a cap with white ribbons, came
forward to receive us. Mademoiselle Marie, sitting between two other
young women of her own age, hung her head, and took no notice of
our arrival.
The rest of the party consisted of a gentleman and two old ladies. The
gentleman (a plump, black-whiskered elderly Cupid, with a vast expanse
of shirt-front like an immense white ace of hearts, and a rose in his
button-hole) was standing on the hearth-rug in a graceful attitude, with
one hand resting on his hip, and the other under his coat-tails. Of the
two old ladies, who seemed as if expressly created by nature to serve as
foils to one another, one was very fat and rosy, in a red silk gown and
a kind of black velvet hat trimmed with white marabout feathers and
Roman pearls; while the other was tall, gaunt, and pale, with a long
nose, a long upper lip, and supernaturally long yellow teeth. She wore a
black gown, black cotton gloves, and a black velvet band across her
forehead, fastened in the centre with a black and gold clasp containing
a ghastly representation of a human eye, apparently purblind--which gave
this lady the air of a serious Cyclops.
Madame Marotte was profuse of thanks, welcomes, apologies, and curtseys.
It was so good of these gentlemen to come so far--and in such unpleasant
weather, too! But would not these Messieurs give themselves the trouble
to be seated? And would they prefer tea or coffee--for both were on the
table? And where was Marie? Marie, whose _fête_-day it was, and who
should have come forward to welcome these gentlemen, and thank them for
the honor of their company!
Thus summoned, Mademoiselle Marie emerged from between the two young
women, and curtsied demurely.
In the meanwhile, the little old gentleman who had ushered as in was
bustling about the room, shaking hands with every one, and complimenting
the ladies.
"Ah, Madame Desjardins," he said, addressing the stout lady in the hat,
"enchanted to see you back from the sea-side!--you and your charming
daughter. I do not know which looks the more young and blooming."
Then, turning to the grim lady in black:--
"And I am charmed to pay my homage to Madame de Montparnasse. I had the
pleasure of being present at the brilliant _début_ of Madame's gifted
daughter the other evening at the private performance of the pupils of
the Conservatoire. Mademoiselle Honoria inherits the _grand air_,
Madame, from yourself."
Then, to the plump gentleman with the shirt-front:--
"And Monsieur Philomène!--this is indeed a privilege and a pleasure. Bad
weather, Monsieur Philomène, for the voice!"
Then, to the two girls:--
"Mesdemoiselles--Achille Dorinet prostrates himself at the feet of
youth, beauty, and talent! Mademoiselle Honoria, I salute in you the
future Empress of the tragic stage. Mademoiselle Rosalie, modesty
forbids me to extol the acquired graces of even my most promising pupil;
but I may be permitted to adore in you the graces of nature."
While I was listening to these scraps of salutation, Müller was
murmuring tender nothings in the ear of the fair Marie, and Madame
Marotte was pouring out the coffee.
Monsieur Achille Dorinet, having gone the round of the company, next
addressed himself to me.
"Permit me, Monsieur," he said, bringing his heels together and
punctuating his sentences with little bows, "permit me, in the absence
of a master of the ceremonies, to introduce myself--Achille Dorinet,
Achille Dorinet, whose name may not, perhaps, be wholly unknown to you
in connection with the past glories of the classical ballet. Achille
Dorinet, formerly _premier sujet_ of the Opéra Français--now principal
choreographic professor at the Conservatoire Impériale de Musique. I
have had the honor, Monsieur, of dancing at Erfurth before their
Imperial Majesties the Emperors Napoleon and Alexander, and a host of
minor sovereigns. Those, Monsieur, were the high and palmy days of the
art. We performed a ballet descriptive of the siege of Troy, and I
undertook the part of a river god--the god Scamander, _en effet_. The
great ladies of the court, Monsieur, were graciously pleased to admire
my proportions as the god Scamander. I wore a girdle of sedges, a wreath
of water-lilies, and a scarf of blue and silver. I have reason to
believe that the costume became me."
"Sir," I replied gravely, "I do not doubt it."
"It is a noble art, Monsieur, _l'art de la dame_" said the former
_premier sujet_, with a sigh; "but it is on the decline. Of the grand
style of fifty years ago, only myself and tradition remain."
"Monsieur was, doubtless, a contemporary of Vestris, the famous dancer,"
I said.
"The illustrious Vestris, Monsieur," said the little old gentleman,
"was, next to Louis the Fourteenth, the greatest of Frenchmen. I am
proud to own myself his disciple, as well as his contemporary."
"Why next to Louis the Fourteenth, Monsieur Dorinet?" I asked, keeping
my countenance with difficulty. "Why not next to Napoleon the First, who
was a still greater conqueror?"
"But no dancer, Monsieur!" replied the ex-god Scamander, with a kind of
half pirouette; "whereas the Grand Monarque was the finest dancer of
his epoch."
Madame Marotte had by this time supplied all her guests with tea and
coffee, while Monsieur Philomène went round with the cakes and bread and
butter. Madame Desjardins spread her pocket-handkerchief on her lap--a
pocket-handkerchief the size of a small table-cloth. Madame de
Montparnasse, more mindful of her gentility, removed to a corner of the
tea-table, and ate her bread and butter in her black cotton gloves.
"We hope we have another bachelor by-and-by," said Madame Marotte,
addressing herself to the young ladies, who looked down and giggled. "A
charming man, mesdemoiselles, and quite the gentleman--our _locataire_,
M'sieur Lenoir. You know him, M'sieur Dorinet--pray tell these
demoiselles what a charming man M'sieur Lenoir is!"
The little dancing-master bowed, coughed, smiled, and looked somewhat
embarrassed.
"Monsieur Lenoir is no doubt a man of much information," he said,
hesitatingly; "a traveller--a reader--a gentleman--oh! yes, certainly a
gentleman. But to say that he is a--a charming man ... well, perhaps the
ladies are the best judges of such nice questions. What says
Mam'selle Marie?"
Thus applied to, the fair Marie became suddenly crimson, and had not a
word to reply with. Monsieur Dorinet stared. The young ladies tittered.
Madame Marotte, deaf as a post and serenely unconscious, smiled, nodded,
and said "Ah, yes, yes--didn't I tell you so?"
"Monsieur Dorinet has, I fear, asked an indiscreet question," said
Müller, boiling over with jealousy.
"I--I have not observed Monsieur Lenoir sufficiently to--to form an
opinion," faltered Marie, ready to cry with vexation.
Müller glared at her reproachfully, turned on his heel, and came over to
where I was standing.
"You saw how she blushed?" he said in a fierce whisper. "_Sacredie_!
I'll bet my head she's an arrant flirt. Who, in the name of all the
fiends, is this lodger she's been carrying on with? A lodger, too--oh!
the artful puss!"
At this awkward moment, Monsieur Dorinet, with considerable tact, asked
Monsieur Philomène for a song; and Monsieur Philomène (who as I
afterwards learned was a favorite tenor at fifth-rate concerts) was
graciously pleased to comply.
Not, however, without a little preliminary coquetry, after the manner of
tenors. First he feared he was hoarse; then struck a note or two on the
piano, and tried his falsetto; then asked for a glass of water; and
finally begged that one of the young ladies would be so amiable as to
accompany him.
Mademoiselle Honoria, inheriting rigidity from the maternal Cyclops,
drew herself up and declined stiffly; but the other, whom the
dancing-master had called Rosalie, got up directly and said she would
do her best.
"Only," she added, blushing, "I play so badly!"
Monsieur Philomène was provided with two copies of his song--one for the
accompanyist and one for himself; then, standing well away from the
piano with his face to the audience, he balanced his music in his hand,
made his little professional bow, coughed, ran his fingers through his
hair, and assumed an expression of tender melancholy.
"One--two--three," began Mdlle. Rosalie, her little fat fingers
staggering helplessly among the first cadenzas of the symphony.
"One--two--three. One" ...
Monsieur Philomène interrupted with a wave of the hand, as if conducting
an orchestra.
"Pardon, Mademoiselle," he said, "not quite so fast, if you please!
Andantino--andantino--one--two--three ... Just so! A thousand thanks!"
Again Mdlle. Rosalie attacked the symphony. Again Monsieur Philomène
cleared his voice, and suffered a pensive languor to cloud his
manly brow.
"_Revenez, revenez, beaux jours de mon enfance,_"
he began, in a small, tremulous, fluty voice.
"They'll have a long road to travel back, _parbleu_!" muttered Müller.
"_De votre aspect riant charmer ma souvenance_!"
Here Mdlle. Rosalie struck a wrong chord, became involved in hopeless
difficulties, and gasped audibly.
Monsieur Philomène darted a withering glance at her, and went on:--
"_Mon coeur; mon pauvre coeur_" ...
More wrong chords, and a smothered "_mille pardons_!" from Mdlle.
Rosalie.
"_Mon coeur, mon pauvre coeur a la tristesse en proie,
En fouillant le passé"...._
A dead stop on the part of Mdlle. Rosalie.
_"En fouillant le passé_"....
repeated the tenor, with the utmost severity of emphasis.
"_Mais, mon Dieu_, Rosalie! what are you doing?" cried Madame
Desjardins, angrily. "Why don't you go on?"
Mdlle. Rosalie burst into a flood of tears.
"I--I can't!" she sobbed. "It's so--so very difficult--and"...
Madame Desjardins flung up her hands in despair.
"_Ciel_!" she cried, "and I have been paying three francs a lesson for
you, Mademoiselle, twice a week for the last six years!"
"_Mais, maman_"....
"_Fi done_, Mademoiselle! I am ashamed of you. Make a curtsey to
Monsieur Philomène this moment, and beg his pardon; for you have spoiled
his beautiful song!"
But Monsieur Philomène would hear of no such expiation. His soul, to
use his own eloquent language, recoiled from it with horror! The
accompaniment, _à vrai dire_, was not easy, and _la bien aimable_
Mam'selle Rosalie had most kindly done her best with it. _Allons
donc!_--on condition that no more should be said on the subject,
Monsieur Philomène would volunteer to sing a little unaccompanied
romance of his own composition--a mere _bagatelle_; but a tribute to
"_les beaux yeux de ces chères dames_!"
So Mam'selle Rosalie wiped away her tears, and Madame Desjardins
smoothed her ruffled feathers, and Monsieur Philomène warbled a
plaintive little ditty in which "_coeur_" rhymed to "_peur_" and
"_amours_" to "_toujours_" and "_le sort_" to "_la mort_" in quite the
usual way; so giving great satisfaction to all present, but most,
perhaps, to himself.
And now, hospitably anxious that each of her guests should have a chance
of achieving distinction, Madame Marotte invited Mdlle. Honoria to favor
the company with a dramatic recitation.
Mdlle. Honoria hesitated; exchanged glances with the Cyclops; and, in
order to enhance the value of her performance, began raising all kinds
of difficulties. There was no stage, for instance; and there were no
footlights; but M. Dorinet met these objections by proposing to range
all the seats at one end of the room, and to divide the stage off by a
row of lighted candles.
"But it is so difficult to render a dramatic scene without an
interlocutor!" said the young lady.
"What is it you require, _ma chère demoiselle?_" asked Madame Marotte.
"I have no interlocutor," said Mdlle. Honoria.
"No what, my love?"
"No interlocutor," repeated Mdlle. Honoria, at the top of her voice.
"Dear! dear! what a pity! Can't we send the boy for it? Marie, my child,
bid Jacques run to Madame de Montparnasse's _appartement_ in the
Rue" ...
But Madame Marotte's voice was lost in the confusion; for Monsieur
Dorinet was already deep in the arrangement of the room, and we were all
helping to move the furniture. As for Mademoiselle's last difficulty,
the little dancing-master met that by offering to read whatever was
necessary to carry on the scene.
And now, the stage being cleared, the audience placed, and Monsieur
Dorinet provided with a volume of Corneille, Mademoiselle Honoria
proceeded to drape herself in an old red shawl belonging to
Madame Marotte.
The scene selected is the fifth of the fourth act of Horace, where
Camille, meeting her only surviving brother, upbraids him with the death
of Curiace.
Mam'selle Honoria, as Camille, with clasped hands and tragic expression,
stalks in a slow and stately manner towards the footlights.
(Breathless suspense of the audience.)
M. Dorinet, who should begin by vaunting his victory over the Curiatii,
stops to put on his glasses, finds it difficult to read with all the
candles on the ground, and mutters something about the smallness of
the type.
Mdlle. Honoria, not to keep the audience waiting, surveys the ex-god
Seamander with a countenance expressive of horror; starts; and takes a
turn across the stage.
"_Ma soeur,_" begins M. Dorinet, holding the book very much on one side,
so as to catch the light upon the page, "_ma soeur, voici le bras_"....
"Ah, Heaven! my dear Mademoiselle, take care of the candles!" cries
Madame Marotte in a shrill whisper.
... "_le bras qui venge nos deux frères,
Le bras qui rompt le cours de nos destins contraires,
Qui nous rend"_...
Here he lost his place; stammered; and recovered it with difficulty.
_"Qui nous rend maîtres d'Albe"_....
Madame Marotte groans aloud in an agony of apprehension
"_Ah, mon Dieu!_" she exclaims, gaspingly, "if they didn't flare so, it
wouldn't be half so dangerous!"
Here M. Dorinet dropped his book, and stooping to pick up the book,
dropped his spectacles.
"I think," said Mdlle. Honoria, indignantly, "we had better begin again.
Monsieur Dorinet, pray read with the help of a candle _this_ time!"
And, with an angry toss of her head, Mdlle. Honoria went up the stage,
put on her tragedy face again, and prepared once more to stalk down to
the footlights.
Monsieur Dorinet, in the meanwhile, had snatched up a candle, readjusted
his spectacles, and found his place.
"_Ma soeur_" he began again, holding the book close to his eyes and the
candle just under his nose, and nodding vehemently with every
emphasis:--
"_Ma soeur, voici le bras qui venge nos deux frères,
Le bras qui rompt le cours de nos destins contraires,
Qui nous rend maîtres d'Albe_" ...
A piercing scream from Madame Marotte, a general cry on the part of the
audience, and a strong smell of burning, brought the dancing-master to a
sudden stop. He looked round, bewildered.
"Your wig! Your wig's on fire!" cried every one at once.
Monsieur Dorinet clapped his hand to his head, which was now adorned
with a rapidly-spreading glory; burned his fingers; and cut a
frantic caper.
"Save him! save him!" yelled Madame Marotte.
But almost before the words were out of her mouth, Müller, clearing the
candles at a bound, had rushed to the rescue, scalped Monsieur Dorinet
by a _tour de main_, cast the blazing wig upon the floor, and trampled
out the fire.
Then followed a roar of "inextinguishable laughter," in which, however,
neither the tragic Camille nor the luckless Horace joined.
"Heavens and earth!" murmured the little dancing-master, ruefully
surveying the ruins of his blonde peruke. And then he put his hand to
his head, which was as bald as an egg.
In the meanwhile Mdlle. Honoria, who had not yet succeeded in uttering a
syllable of her part, took no pains to dissemble her annoyance; and was
only pacified at last by a happy proposal on the part of Monsieur
Philomène, who suggested that "this gifted demoiselle" should be
entreated to favor the society with a soliloquy.
Thus invited, she draped herself again, stalked down to the footlights
for the third time, and in a high, shrill voice, with every variety of
artificial emphasis and studied gesture, recited Voltaire's famous
"Death of Coligny," from the _Henriade_.
In the midst of this performance, just at that point when the assassins
are described as falling upon their knees before their victim, the door
of the room was softly opened, and another guest slipped in unseen
behind us. Slipped in, indeed, so quietly that (the backs of the
audience being turned that way) no one seemed to hear, and no one looked
round but myself.
Brief as was that glance, and all in the shade as he stood, I recognised
him instantly.
It was the mysterious stranger of the Café Procope.