GUICHET THE MODEL.
To the man who lives alone and walks about with his eyes open, the mere
bricks and mortar of a great city are instinct with character. Buildings
become to him like living creatures. The streets tell him tales. For
him, the house-fronts are written over with hieroglyphics which, to the
passing crowd, are either unseen or without meaning. Fallen grandeur,
pretentious gentility, decent poverty, the infamy that wears a brazen
front, and the crime that burrows in darkness--he knows them all at a
glance. The patched window, the dingy blind, the shattered doorstep, the
pot of mignonette on the garret ledge, are to him as significant as the
lines and wrinkles on a human face. He grows to like some houses and to
dislike others, almost without knowing why--just as one grows to like
or dislike certain faces in the parks and clubs. I remember now, as well
as if it were yesterday, how, during the first weeks of my life in
Paris, I fell in love at first sight with a wee _maisonnette_ at the
corner of a certain street overlooking the Luxembourg gardens--a tiny
little house, with soft-looking blue silk window-curtains, and
cream-colored jalousies, and boxes of red and white geraniums at all the
windows. I never knew who lived in that sunny little nest; I never saw a
face at any of those windows; yet I used to go out of my way in the
summer evenings to look at it, as one might go to look at a beautiful
woman behind a stall in the market-place, or at a Madonna in a
shop-window.
At the time about which I write, there was probably no city in Europe of
which the street-scenery was so interesting as that of Paris. I have
already described the Quartier Latin, joyous, fantastic, out-at-elbows;
a world in itself and by itself; unlike anything else in Paris or
elsewhere. But there were other districts in the great city--now swept
away and forgotten--as characteristic in their way as the Quartier
Latin. There was the He de Saint Louis, for instance--a _Campo Santo_ of
decayed nobility--lonely, silent, fallen upon evil days, and haunted
here and there by ghosts of departed Marquises and Abbés of the _vieille
école_. There was the debateable land to the rear of the Invalides and
the Champ de Mars. There was the Faubourg St. Germain, fast falling into
the sere and yellow leaf, and going the way of the Ile de Saint Louis.
There was the neighborhood of the Boulevart d'Aulnay, and the Rue de la
Roquette, ghastly with the trades of death; a whole Quartier of
monumental sculptors, makers of iron crosses, weavers of funereal
chaplets, and wholesale coffin-factors. And beside and apart from all
this, there were (as in all great cities) districts of evil report and
obscure topography--lost islets of crime, round which flowed and circled
the daily tide of Paris life; flowed and circled, yet never penetrated.
A dark arch here and there--the mouth of a foul alley--a riverside vista
of gloom and squalor, marked the entrance to these Alsatias. Such an
Alsatia was the Rue Pierre Lescot, the Rue Sans Nom, and many more than
I can now remember--streets into which no sane man would venture after
nightfall without the escort of the police.
Into the border land of such a neighborhood--a certain congeries of
obscure and labyrinthine streets to the rear of the old Halles--I
accompanied Franz Müller one wintry afternoon, about an hour before
sunset, and perhaps some ten days after our evening in the Rue du
Faubourg St. Denis. We were bound on an expedition of discovery, and the
object of our journey was to find the habitat of Guichet the model.
"I am determined to get to the bottom of this Lenoir business," said
Müller, doggedly; "and if the police won't help me, I must help myself."
"You have no case for the police," I replied.
"So says the _chef de bureau_; but I am of the opposite opinion.
However, I shall make my case out clearly enough before long. This
Guichet can help me, if he will. He knows Lenoir, and he knows something
against him; that is clear. You saw how cautious he was the other day.
The difficulty will be to make him speak."
"I doubt if you will succeed."
"I don't, _mon cher_. But we shall see. Then, again, I have another line
of evidence open to me. You remember that orange-colored rosette in the
fellow's button-hole?"
"Certainly I do."
"Well, now, I happen, by the merest chance, to know what that rosette
means. It is the ribbon of the third order of the Golden Palm of
Mozambique--a Portuguese decoration. They give it to diplomatic
officials, eminent civilians, distinguished foreigners, and the like. I
know a fellow who has it, and who belongs to the Portuguese Legation
here. _Eh bien!_ I went to him the other day, and asked him about our
said friend--how he came by it, who he is, where he comes from, and so
forth. My Portuguese repeats the name--elevates his eyebrows--in short,
has never heard of such a person. Then he pulls down a big book from a
shelf in the secretary's room--turns to a page headed 'Golden Palm of
Mozambique'--runs his finger along the list of names--shakes his head,
and informs me that no Lenoir is, or ever has been, received into the
order. What do you say to that, now?"
"It is just what I should have expected; but still it is not a ease for
the police. It concerns the Portuguese minister; and the Portuguese
minister is by no means likely to take any trouble about the matter. But
why waste all this time and care? If I were you, I would let the thing
drop. It is not worth the cost."
Müller looked grave.
"I would drop it this moment," he said, "if--if it were not for the
girl."
"Who is still less worth the cost,"
"I know it," he replied, impatiently. "She has a pretty, sentimental
Madonna face; a sweet voice; a gentle manner--_et voilà tout_. I'm not
the least bit in love with her now. I might have been. I might have
committed some great folly for her sake; but that danger is past, _Dieu
merci!_ I couldn't love a girl I couldn't trust, and that girl is a
flirt. A flirt of the worst sort, too--demure, serious, conventional.
No, no; my fancy for the fair Marie has evaporated; but, for all that, I
don't relish the thought of what her fate might be if linked for life to
an unscrupulous scoundrel like Lenoir. I must do what I can, my dear
fellow--I must do what I can."
We had by this time rounded the Halles, and were threading our way
through one gloomy by-street after another. The air was chill, the sky
low and rainy; and already the yellow glow of an oil-lamp might be seen
gleaming through the inner darkness of some of the smaller shops.
Meanwhile, the dusk seemed to gather at our heels, and to thicken at
every step.
"You are sure you know your way?" I asked presently, seeing Müller look
up at the name at the corner of the street.
"Why, yes; I think I do," he answered, doubtfully.
"Why not inquire of that man just ahead?" I suggested.
He was a square-built, burly, shabby-looking fellow, and was striding
along so fast that we had to quicken our pace in order to come up with
him. All at once Müller fell back, laid his hand on my arm, and said:--
"Stop! It is Guichet himself. Let him go on, and we'll follow."
So we dropped into the rear and followed him. He turned presently to the
right, and preceded us down a long and horribly ill-favored street, full
of mean cabarets and lodging-houses of the poorest class, where, painted
in red letters on broken lamps above the doors, or printed on cards
wafered against the window-panes, one saw at almost every other house,
the words, "_Ici on loge la nuit_." At the end of this thoroughfare our
unconscious guide plunged into a still darker and fouler _impasse_, hung
across from side to side with rows of dingy linen, and ornamented in the
centre with a mound of decaying cabbage-leaves, potato-parings,
oyster-shells, and the like. Here he made for a large tumble-down house
that closed the alley at the farther end, and, still followed by
ourselves, went in at an open doorway, and up a public staircase dimly
lighted by a flickering oil-lamp at every landing. At his own door he
paused, and just as he had turned the key, Müller accosted him.
"Is that you, Guichet?" he said. "Why, you are the very man I want! If I
had come ten minutes sooner, I should have missed you."
"Is it M'sieur Müller?" said Guichet, bending his heavy brows and
staring at us in the gloom of the landing.
"Ay, and with me the friend you saw the other day. So, this is your den?
May we come in?"
He had been standing till now with his hand on the key and the closed
door at his back, evidently not intending to admit us; but thus asked,
he pushed the door open, and said, somewhat ungraciously:--
"It is just that, M'sieur Müller--a den; not fit for gentlemen like you.
But you can go in, if you please."
We did not wait for a second invitation, but went in immediately. It was
a long, low, dark room, with a pale gleam of fading daylight struggling
in through a tiny window at the farther end. We could see nothing at
first but this gleam; and it was not till Guichet had raked out the wood
ashes on the hearth, and blown them into a red glow with his breath,
that we could distinguish the form or position of anything in the room.
Then, by the flicker of the fire, we saw a low truckle-bed close under
the window; a kind of bruised and battered seaman's chest in the middle
of the room; a heap of firewood in one corner; a pile of old
packing-cases; old sail-cloth, old iron, and all kinds of rubbish in
another; a few pots and pans over the fire-place; and a dilapidated
stool or two standing about the room. Avoiding these latter, we set
ourselves down upon the edge of the chest; while Guichet, having by this
time lit a piece of candle-end in a tin sconce against the wall, stood
before us with folded arms, and stared at us in silence.
"I want to know, Guichet, if you can give me some sittings," said
Müller, by way of opening the conversation.
"Depends on when, M'sieur Müller," growled the model.
"Well--next week, for the whole week."
Guichet shook his head. He was engaged to Monsieur Flandrin _là bas_,
for the next month, from twelve to three daily, and had only his
mornings and evenings to dispose of; in proof of which he pulled out a
greasy note-book and showed where the agreement was formally entered.
Müller made a grimace of disappointment.
"That man's head takes a deal of cutting off, _mon ami_," he said.
"Aren't you tired of playing executioner so long?"
"Not I, M'sieur! It's all the same to me--executioner or victim, saint
or devil."
Müller, laughing, offered him a cigar.
"You've posed for some queer characters in your time, Guichet," said he.
"Parbleu, M'sieur!"
"But you've not been a model all your life?"
"Perhaps not, M'sieur."
"You've been a sailor once upon a time, haven't you?"
The model looked up quickly.
"How did you know that?" he said, frowning.
"By a number of little things--by this, for instance," replied Müller,
kicking his heels against the sea-chest; "by certain words you make use
of now and then; by the way you walk; by the way you tie your cravat.
_Que diable_! you look at me as if you took me for a sorcerer!"
The model shook his head.
"I don't understand it," he said, slowly.
"Nay, I could tell you more than that if I liked," said Müller, with an
air of mystery.
"About myself?"
"Ay, about yourself, and others."
Guichet, having just lighted his cigar, forgot to put it to his lips.
"What others?" he asked, with a look half of dull bewilderment and half
of apprehension.
Müller shrugged his shoulders.
"Pshaw!" said he; "I know more than you think I know, Guichet. There's
our friend, you know--he of whom I made the head t'other day ... you
remember?"
The model, still looking at him, made no answer.
"Why didn't you say at once where you had met him, and all the rest of
it, _mon vieux_? You might have been sure I should find out for myself,
sooner or later."
The model turned abruptly towards the fire-place, and, leaning his head
against the mantel-shelf, stood with his back towards us, looking down
into the fire.
"You ask me why I did not tell you at once?" he said, very slowly.
"Ay--why not?"
"Why not? Because--because when a man has begun to lead an honest life,
and has gone on leading an honest life, as I have, for years, he is glad
to put the past behind him--to forget it, and all belonging to it. How
was I to guess you knew anything about--about that place _là bas_?"
"And why should I not know about it?" replied Müller, flashing a rapid
glance at me.
Guichet was silent.
"What if I tell you that I am particularly interested in--that place _là
bas_?"
"Well, that may be. People used to come sometimes, I remember--artists
and writers, and so on."
"Naturally."
"But I don't remember to have ever seen you, M'sieur Müller."
"You did not observe me, _mon cher_--or it may have been before, or
after your time."
"Yes, that's true," replied Guichet, ponderingly. "How long ago was it,
M'sieur Müller?"
Müller glanced at me again. His game, hitherto so easy, was beginning to
grow difficult.
"Eh, _mon Dieu_!" he said, indifferently, "how can I tell? I have
knocked about too much, now here, now there, in the course of my life,
to remember in what particular year this or that event may have
happened. I am not good at dates, and never was."
"But you remember seeing me there?"
"Have I not said so?"
Guichet took a couple of turns about the room. He looked flushed and
embarrassed.
"There is one thing I should like to know," he said, abruptly. "Where
was I? What was I doing when you saw me?"
Müller was at fault now, for the first time.
"Where were you?" he repeated. "Why, there--where we said just now. _Là
bas_."
"No, no--that's not what I mean. Was I .... was I in the uniform of the
Garde Chiourme?"
The color rushed into Müller's face as, flashing a glance of exultation
at me, he replied:--
"Assuredly, _mon ami_. In that, and no other."
The model drew a deep breath.
"And Bras de Fer?" he said. "Was he working in the quarries ?"
"Bras de Fer! Was that the name he went by in those days?"
"Ay--Bras de Fer--_alias_ Coupe-gorge--_alias_ Triphot--_alias_
Lenoir--_alias_ a hundred other names. Bras de Fer was the one he went
by at Toulon--and a real devil he was in the Bagnes! He escaped three
times, and was twice caught and brought back again. The third time he
killed one sentry, injured another for life, and got clear off. That was
five years ago, and I left soon after. I suppose, if you saw him in
Paris the other day, he has kept clear of Toulon ever since."
"But was he in for life?" said Müller, eagerly.
"_Travaux forcés à perpétuité_," replied Guichet, touching his own
shoulder significantly with the thumb of his right hand.
Müller sprang to his feet.
"Enough," he said. "That is all I wanted to know. Guichet, _mon cher_, I
am your debtor for life. We will talk about the sittings when you have
more time to dispose of. Adieu."
"But, M'sieur Müller, you won't get me into trouble!" exclaimed the
model, eagerly. "You won't make any use of my words?"
"Why, supposing I went direct to the Préfecture, what trouble could I
possibly get you into, _mon ami?_" replied Müller.
The model looked down in silence.
"You are a brave man. You do not fear the vengeance of Bras de Fer, or
his friends?"
"No, M'sieur---it's not that."
"What is it, then?"
"M'sieur...."
"Pshaw, man! Speak up."
"It is not that you would get me personally into trouble, M'sieur
Müller," said Guichet, slowly. "I am no coward, I hope--a coward would
make a bad Garde Chiourme at Toulon, I fancy. And I'm not an escaped
_forçat_. But--but, you see, I've worked my way into a connection here
in Paris, and I've made myself a good name among the artists, and ...
and I hold to that good name above everything in the world."
"Naturally--rightly. But what has that to do with Lenoir?"
"Ah, M'sieur Müller, if you knew more about me, you would not need
telling how much it has to do with him! I was not always a Garde
Chiourme at Toulon. I was promoted to it after a time, for good conduct,
you know, and that sort of thing. But--but I began differently--I began
by wearing the prison dress, and working in the quarries."
"My good fellow," said Müller, gently, "I half suspected this--I am not
surprised; and I respect you for having redeemed that past in the way
you have redeemed it."
"Thank you, M'sieur Müller; but you see, redeemed or unredeemed, I'd
rather be lying at the bottom of the Seine than have it rise up
against me now,"
"We are men of honor," said Müller, "and your secret is safe with us."
"Not if you go to the Préfecture and inform against Bras de Fer on my
words," exclaimed the model, eagerly. "How can I appear against
him--Guichet the model--Guichet the Garde Chiourme--Guichet the
_forçat?_ M'sieur Müller, I could never hold my head up again. It would
be the ruin of me."
"You shall not appear against him, and it shall not be the ruin of you.
Guichet," said Müller. "That I promise you. Only assure me that what you
have said is strictly correct--that Bras de Fer and Lenoir are one and
the same person--an escaped _forçat_, condemned for life to
the galleys."
"That's as true, M'sieur Müller, as that God is in heaven," said the
model, emphatically.
"Then I can prove it without your testimony--I can prove it by simply
summoning any of the Toulon authorities to identify him."
"Or by stripping his shirt off his back, and showing the brand on his
left shoulder," said Guichet. "There you'll find it, T.F. as large as
life--and if it don't show at first, just you hit him a sharp blow with
the flat of your hand, M'sieur Müller, and it will start out as red and
fresh as if it had been done only six months ago. _Parbleu!_ I remember
the day he came in, and the look in his face when the hot iron hissed
into his flesh! They roar like bulls, for the most part; but he never
flinched or spoke. He just turned a shade paler under the tan, and
that was all."
"Do you remember what his crime was?" asked Müller
Guichet shook his head.
"Not distinctly," he said. "I only know that he was in for a good deal,
and had a lot of things proved against him on his trial. But you can
find all that out for yourself, easily enough. He was tried in Paris,
about fourteen years ago, and it's all in print, if you only know where
to look for it."
"Then I'll find it, if I have to wade through half the Bibliothèque
Nationale!" said Müller. "Adieu, Guichet--you have done me a great
service, and you may be sure I will do nothing to betray you. Let us
shake hands upon it."
The color rushed into the model's swarthy cheeks.
"_Comment_, M'sieur Müller!" he said, hesitatingly. "You offer to shake
hands with me--after what I have told you?"
"Ten times more willing than before, _mon ami_," said Müller. "Did I not
tell you just now that I respected you for having redeemed that past,
and shall I not give my hand where I give my respect?"
The model grasped his outstretched hand with a vehemence that made
Müller wince again.
"Thank you," he said, in a low, deep voice. "Thank you. Death of my
life! M'sieur Müller, I'd go to the galleys again for you, after
this--if you asked me."
"Agreed. Only when I do ask you, it shall be to pay a visit of ceremony
to Monsieur Bras de Fer, when he is safely lodged again at Toulon with a
chain round his leg, and a cannon-ball at the end of it."
And with this Müller turned away laughingly, and I followed him down the
dimly-lighted stairs.
"By Jove!" he said, "what a grip the fellow gave me! I'd as soon shake
hands with the Commendatore in Don Giovanni."