A TALE OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION.--THE BARBER'S STORY.
The following morning broke fine but frosty, and the members of the club
being up sufficiently early for that time of the year, they all agreed
to take a long stroll before breakfast in the adjacent wood. Indeed, the
members of our club lived so thoroughly in an atmosphere of punch and
tobacco-smoke that an outing every now and then was requisite in order
to air their brains.
They strolled out, accordingly, by twos and threes, passing over fields
glittering with hoar-frost, until they came to a stile, which having
crossed over, they found themselves immediately in a wood.
It was a fine old place--that same ancient piece of woodland, where huge
oaks and beeches were interspersed with the fir, pine and birch. The
fantastic roots that shot out from the gnarled trunks of the majestic
oaks, like giants' limbs writhing in mortal agony, were coated here and
there in broad irregular patches of dank moss and variously-tinted
lichen. Their distorted colossal branches, stripped of their leaves
and silvered at their extremities with the hoar-frost, seemed struggling
to catch the first beams of a winter sun, while the shadowy outline of
the misty purple mass of distant trees brought out in bolder relief and
more vigorous hue the foreground thickly strewed with richly-tinted
leaves of russet, scarlet and orange. The dank fungus, luxuriant in its
foul growth, emerged from the velvet moss as if to outvie in glow the
variegated richness of the dried leaves of the forest.
It was a scene to awaken the soul of a poet, to inspire a landscape
painter with increased love of his art; and as our two friends McGuilp
and Parnassus strolled arm-in-arm together through this region of
enchantment, leaving their footprints in the crisp frost, which they
traversed with the buoyant footsteps of youth, leaving the elder members
considerably in the rear, each felt himself drawn towards the other by a
bond of common sympathy. It is not necessary to record every expression
of enthusiasm that escaped the lips of our two friends, nor to follow
minutely the philosophic meditations of the more mature members of the
club who brought up the rear, as at every step the scene unfolded new
and fresh beauties to their view.
Let it suffice our reader that their morning's walk proved highly
beneficial to them all, for they returned with marvellous appetites to
the inn, where a sumptuous breakfast of eggs and bacon, coffee, hot
rolls, etc., had just been spread for them by the fair hands of our
Helen, who waited to greet them on the doorstep.
The usual merry bantering from each member of the club in turn
succeeded, as a matter of course, and was replied to on Helen's part by
a pretty rustic coyness or smart repartee. Our artist thought he had
never seen her look to such advantage as now, glowing in the full
morning light. He noticed, too, that she was more sprucely dressed than
usual. What could it mean? As he asked himself this question, the church
bells of the village began to chime. The mystery was out--it was Sunday,
and McGuilp's hopes of a sitting fell to the ground.
"How say you--Sunday again?" exclaimed Mr. Oldstone, as he sat down to
his hot coffee. "Dear me! how the week has passed away!" Then passing
his hand over his chin, he said, "I omitted to shave this morning. My
hand shook so, owing to the stiffness of my night-cap last night before
I went to roost. It will not do to appear at church with a chin like
Hamlet's 'fretful porcupine,' and as I cannot shave myself, I must
inquire if there be not someone skilled in the noble science of
barber-craft in the village. How say you, Helen, my girl, know you not
some knight of the razor, some nimble and expert mower, who will rid me
of this crop without finding it necessary to combine the art of the
leech at the same time?"
"Aye, sir," answered Helen; "there is young Master Suds, the village
barber, successor to Old Hackchin, whom folks say never was much
account. Young Suds is lately from France, where he has been improving
himself in his art. He has introduced into the village all sorts of new
modes for trimming the hair and wigs, with numerous other French
novelties. You would be sure to be pleased with him, sir."
"Humph!" muttered Mr. Oldstone, who was much too old-fashioned an
English gentleman to be over partial to our friends across the channel.
"I don't want my head frizzled, thank you, but a firm, steady, English
hand to shave me--a man that is not above his business, and who will not
bore me to death with his gossip."
"Oh, as to that, sir," replied Helen, "it is part of a barber's
profession. Many folks think it a recommendation. I am sure our
villagers are delighted with his store of news."
"No doubt, no doubt," said Oldstone, testily. "He had better cut it
short, though, with me. However, send for this young blade, and tell him
I wish to see a sample of his art. I shall be ready for him directly
after breakfast."
And off tripped our landlord's pretty daughter in obedience to the
antiquary's orders.
"'Pon my life! Crucible, this bacon is delicious," said he, helping
himself afresh. "What say you, Blackdeed?"
Both gentlemen acquiesced, as did also the other members in turn.
"And the eggs divine," said Dr. Bleedem, bolting one at a mouthful.
"Excellent," joined in McGuilp and Parnassus, filling their plates.
The meal passed off pleasantly, and the last member at table had
scarcely wiped his mouth with his napkin when Master Suds was announced.
"Here, Helen, my dear," said Oldstone, "you may clear away now, and then
you may call in your gallant. I am sure you will excuse me, gentlemen,
for making you spectators to my operation?"
"Certainly," answered the club all round.
"There, that will do, Helen; now call him in."
Helen disappeared with the breakfast things, when a timid knock at the
door was heard.
"Come in," roared sundry voices at once, and Master Suds appeared upon
the scene, with his shaving tackle in a bag, and having his hair
frizzled up in a caricature of the latest French fashion.
"Bong jour, Mounseers," he began, with a flourish.
"Don't mounseer me, you young whipper-snapper," said the antiquary; "but
learn to speak the king's English when Englishmen honour you with their
custom."
"Pardong, mounseer--that is, I mean, I beg pardon, gentlemen; but habit,
gentlemen--habit, you know--is rather difficult to get rid of, and when
one has just come from foreign parts, like myself, one is apt to----"
"Cut it short, young shaver," said Oldstone, "and bend you to your task.
Are your razors sharp?"
"Mais oui, mounseer--that is----"
"If I catch you mounseering me again, I'll make that French pate of
thine and this English fist acquainted, so mind," said the insulted
antiquary.
This terrible threat imposed temporary silence on our knight of the
lather, who soaped and sudded away for a time without a word.
During this pause the spectators of the operation, who were seated or
standing about the room, conversed together in groups in an undertone.
Mr. Blackdeed and Mr. Crucible appeared to be particularly engrossed in
conversation, but the tone they spoke in was inaudible to the ordinary
listener. Not so, however, to Mr. Oldstone, whose ears were unusually
sharp, and rendered more so on the present occasion from the position of
forced quiet that he was obliged to maintain under the barber's hands.
To judge by the tragedian's action, a looker-on might have supposed him
quoting from one of his own melodramas, and imagined him to say, "Fly
with me, dearest; leave for ever the roof of a tyrant father, and take
shelter in the heart of one who is ready to lay down his life for thy
sake." While Mr. Crucible might have been supposed to be rehearsing the
lady's part, and to say, "Oh! tempt me not, Alonso; you know him not. I
dare not fly with thee."
The ears of Mr. Oldstone, however, interpreted the gesticulations in a
very different manner. Nothing could be more plain to the ears of this
worthy than these words from the tragedian. "The political state of
France will be a great interruption to all kinds of business." He could
hardly believe his ears, or that anyone could dare to use such
treasonable words within the sacred precincts of the club, so he
listened again, and this time caught a few disconnected words in Mr.
Crucible's tone of voice, such as 'stocks,' 'bonds,' 'premiums,'
'interest,' and the like.
Suddenly the whilom president of the grand saturnalia of the Wonder Club
was observed to start violently.
"Why, you rascal, you've cut me!" he cried to the barber.
"Pardong Mounseer, mais ce n'etait pas ma faute," said the confused
barber.
"What! French again, you monkey, to my face! Would you add insult to
injury?" said the incensed antiquary.
But calming down at length, said, "Well, well, lad, I acquit you this
time, for I verily believe that those two gentlemen in the corner there
(pointing to Messrs. Blackdeed and Crucible) are more to blame than
yourself for startling me out of my self-possession by the tenor of
their conversation.
"Mr. Blackdeed, and you too, Mr. Crucible, you are both perfectly aware
that such conversation is not to be tolerated in the club. I am
surprised and grieved to be obliged to remind two such old members of
our society of their duty, and in order to put a check upon such
lamentable want of discipline, I condemn you Mr. Blackdeed to recite one
of your own tragedies at full length, and you Mr. Crucible to be ready
with a story when next called upon."
Both of the gentlemen addressed looked abashed, and muttered something
in the shape of an apology. Having conscientiously discharged his duty,
Mr. Oldstone re-settled himself on his chair, and the operation
proceeded.
Master Suds was the first to endeavour to restore equanimity.
"A fine day, sir," he said, "for this time of the year."
"Humph!" grunted the antiquary, who was soaped up to the eyes, and was
forced to keep his mouth shut to avoid having the lather rubbed down his
throat.
"Yes, sir," continued the barber, "as you say, sir, it _be_ fine weather
sure_ly_, but it be still finer t'other side of the channel, _a Paris_;
that is to say, where I have been staying for the last six months. Fine
city Paris, sir, very. _Mon Dieu_, what streets! what shops! What a
treat it be of a morning to rise early and take a promenade on the
Bullyvards!"
"On the what?" inquired his customer.
"On the Bullyvards. Ah! I see, sir, you do not understand what that
means. Well that is the name the French give to those streets as has
trees a running alongside of 'em. Ah! sir, fine people the French, in
their way--understand more of barber-craft than they do in this country.
Why, an English barber who has never been out of his own country is
quite an ignoramus alongside a French barber. But I could teach a trick
or two to some of my countrymen in the line that would astonish them,
having been over there long enough to get into the manners and customs
of the natives. But I say, sir, what a nation they be for quarrelling
amongst themselves, to be sure! There's this here revolution still going
on. What it will all end in goodness only knows. What do _you_ say,
sir?"
"I don't know, and I don't care," replied Mr. Oldstone, irritably. "They
may all go to----"
A fresh rub of the lather over his mouth prevented the antiquary from
finishing his sentence. The pertinacious barber was not to be put down.
"Ah, sir," he continued, "I could tell you some mighty strange tales
about that same revolution."
"Oh, indeed!" broke in Mr. Hardcase. "The members of this club are fond
of hearing tales, but they don't relish much anything connected with
politics. In fact the tales permitted within these walls are almost
entirely of the supernatural order."
"The supernatural!" ejaculated the barber. "Parbleu! is that still
believed in this country? I promise you our French friends don't believe
in that, or anything else, for aught I know."
"I know they don't, the infidel puppies," growled the antiquary; "but we
do. Do we not, gentlemen?"
"Ay, indeed!" answered the members of the club with one accord.
"Do you indeed, gentlemen!" exclaimed the astonished barber. "Well, it
ain't often that one finds gentlemen of your standing that will own so
much, but as you gentlemen all declare you believe in such things, I
don't mind telling you that I myself am also a believer."
"Ah!" said Mr. Oldstone, beginning to be interested.
"Yes, sir, I am indeed," replied the barber.
"Come, now," said Mr. Crucible, "if you could tell us of some experience
of yours that bordered on the supernatural, I'd answer for Mr.
Oldstone's listening to you."
By this time the antiquary was released from the clutches of the barber,
and Mr. Hardcase, wishing to profit by the occasion, took his place on
the chair, and a second edition of the lathering began.
"Well," said Oldstone, feeling himself considerably more comfortable,
and throwing himself back complacently in an easy-chair, "you
say--ahem!--that you--you, at least I have been given to understand that
you have, at some period of your life, had some experience--ahem!--of
the supernatural."
"There, I knew he was burning to hear a story," cried all the members at
once, quizzingly.
"Well, Mounseer Suds, out with it, let's hear."
Thus encouraged, the barber put on a grave and important look, and began
his story in these words.
Well then, gentlemen, since you deign to encourage me, I must next
trespass on your patience whilst I enter upon some particulars about my
family. I was born in this village some five-and-twenty years back, and
at a very early age the genius of the barber began to develop itself in
me. My father was a barber before me, and so was my grandfather and
great-grandfather, too, as I have heard my father say. In fact, from
time immemorial the Suds have been barbers. Descended from a long line
of this honourable profession, and literally reared in lather, having my
youthful imagination fired by the tales of my father and grandfather of
the great people they had shaved in their day, what wonder that, at a
precocious age, I should yearn to wield the weapon of my ancestors, and
even aspire to be more eminent in the line than any of my predecessors?
It was the height of my father's ambition--who was great in his way, and
added to the ordinary routine of business the higher branches of the
art, such as bleeding, tooth drawing, quack salving, and the like--that
I, his only son, should step into his shoes, and hand down the name of
"Suds" in all its unblemished purity.
"Joe," he would say to me, "when I am gone to my long account, who will
there be to support your poor mother unless you fix upon some honest
trade for a livelihood?"
"And what trade should I fix upon, if not yours, father?" I would reply.
"Well, Joe, my boy," he would say, "if you would be a true barber, and
uphold the honour of the family, recollect that no excellence is
achieved without constant practice. The primary rules of barber-craft
are simple. Keep your razors sharp and free from rust, your water
boiling; spare not the lather, and rub it well in before you begin to
shave; dip the razor in the boiling water, and work with a steady
hand."
I promised him that I would abide by his instructions, and although up
to a certain age I was not permitted to handle a razor, I was,
nevertheless, always in my father's shop, and watched with admiring eyes
the masterly way in which my progenitor finished off his customers. In
the case of a tooth having to be drawn, or a vein opened, I was never
missing, and great was my pride should my father call upon me now and
then to render him some trifling assistance. I might have been about
seven years old when I made my first essay.
It was about Christmas time, and my father had just killed a pig, which
he had left hung up by the legs in the yard. Being left alone for a few
minutes, a bright idea struck me. I would try my "'prentice han'" on the
carcase of the porker. So, locking all the doors so as not to be
interrupted, I mixed up a lather and, with one of my father's
well-sharpened razors, I commenced operations. Whilst thus busily
employed, I was attracted by the sound of smothered laughter, and
looking up at the window of our next-door neighbour's house, which
looked into our yard, I beheld some dozen of the neighbours, who had
been called in to witness my performance. I thought they would have died
with laughter. However, nothing daunted, I proceeded diligently with my
task, until my father, rattling at the door, demanded instant
admittance. I was forced to admit him, and when he saw what I had been
about, he quickly snatched the razor from my hand, and calling me "a
dirty young dog," administered to me a slight kick behind, although I
thought at the time, by the expression on his face, and likewise by that
on my mother's, that my parents felt inwardly proud of their son.
An interval of two years now elapsed before I again put hand to razor. I
remember that at this time I was nine years old, and it was when I was
at this tender age that my poor father caught a fever and died.
As you may suppose, gentlemen, it was a terrible blow to my poor widowed
mother, who, besides the grief she naturally felt for the loss of an
affectionate husband, found herself now alone in the world with a
growing lad to support as well as herself by the scanty proceeds of the
business.
It was some little time before I could realise the fact that my father
was actually dead. When my mother first brought me the startling news I
heard it in a sort of stupor, resembling insensibility, out of which I
did not awake until the undertaker arrived with the coffin, when the
whole extent of our calamity seemed to dawn upon me for the first time,
and I fairly howled for grief. Whilst thus indulging my sorrow, a few
neighbours dropped in to see my father laid out in his coffin before he
was nailed down. I heard my mother make something like an apology for
showing her husband's body before it had been shaved. I stopped short in
my sobbing and mused awhile. It was then the custom to shave a corpse
before consigning it to its last home. Who was to perform this duty?
Here the instinct of the barber came over me. Not a moment was to be
lost if I really intended to put my plan into practice. Yes, I myself
would shave my father's corpse, and no other. Accordingly, as my mother
was showing out the neighbours and listening to their well meant
condolences on the threshold, I quickly locked myself into the room with
the corpse, having previously procured the apparatus necessary for the
operation. I bore in my mind my father's instructions, "Keep your razor
sharp, and free from rust; let the water be boiling, and don't spare the
lather, but rub it well in before you begin." I now proceeded to put my
father's advice into practice; so, lathering well the face of the
corpse, and rubbing the suds well in, I proceeded to wield the razor
with a dexterity at first that surprised me with my own performance and
encouraged me to attempt something of that "nonchalance" of style that I
had observed my father adopt whilst shaving his customers, but which is
not looked upon as quite safe until one has undergone considerable
practice.
Now, this was only my second attempt; still, I was so elated at having
gone through the shaving of both cheeks as well as the throat, without a
single cut, that I already deemed myself a proficient in the art, and
affected that air of ease and careless grace I have just alluded to
whilst I attempted the scraping of the upper lip, when, oh, horror! the
razor gave an untimely slip, and sliced my father's nose off! I dropped
the razor in my fright, and I really wonder I did not go off in a fit
on the spot, such was the thrill of terror that seized me as I gazed on
the ghastly hideousness of my father's corpse as it lay noseless in its
coffin. I staggered and almost fell to the ground, but mustering all my
courage, I picked up the nose and clapped it on in its place. I remember
that in my eagerness and hurry I stuck it on the wrong way, with the
nostrils upwards, which gave an appearance at once fearful and ludicrous
to its ghastly features. It rolled off, however, immediately, and I
hastened to rectify my mistake, and after much care and adroitness,
succeeded in poising the feature nicely in the centre of the face, in
the hopes that it would adhere of its own accord to the spot, and
proceeded with the operation; but, alas, no sooner had I begun to meddle
with the upper lip, than off rolled the nose again, so I just let it be
this time until I had completed the operation.
Having, with the exception of this trifling accident, shaved the corpse
of my father to a nicety, I wiped off the lather, replaced the nose, and
quitted the room, carrying back my shaving tackle to the shop.
Shortly afterwards my mother entered the room, and was surprised at
finding the corpse already shaved. She had intended shaving it herself.
I was silent on the subject, and she inquired no further into the
matter, being too absorbed with her grief.
Presently the undertaker returned to nail up the coffin, and my mother
hastened to give my father one last parting kiss before he was nailed up
for ever. Suddenly I heard a shriek, and rushing into the room, found
my mother in hysterics. The cause was obvious. In approaching her lips
to those of her defunct spouse, the nose had unexpectedly rolled off,
causing a shock similar to that I experienced myself when I so
unskilfully amputated my father's nasal protuberance. When my mother
came to, I made a clean breast of my awkwardness, for which I received a
severe scolding, accompanied by sundry boxes on the ear. At length the
coffin was nailed up, and I followed it with my mother to the grave, but
for nights afterwards, my noseless father haunted me in my dreams,
carrying a basin of suds in one hand, and holding his nose between
finger and thumb with the other, as if to reproach me with my
awkwardness.
When I related these dreams to my mother, she became uneasy in her mind,
and declared that all through my awkwardness my father was unable to
find rest in the tomb. She was a great believer in dreams, visions,
omens, prophecies, and the like, and said that the dream boded no good.
Being a mere child then, I became infected with her fears, though as I
grew up I began to reason with myself that a dream of that sort might
very well be accounted for by the excited state of my brain at the time
and tendency of my waking thoughts, without jumping at once at the
conclusion that there was anything supernatural in it.
For some time after my father's death I used to pester my mother with
many of those questions that children are so fond of asking, and
mothers find so difficult to answer--viz., concerning Heaven, and a
future state after death. She used to tell me that Heaven was a place
for all good people, far, far away, high up above the stars, where good
folks lived on for ever, and never grew old, and never to die any more;
that they were very happy, and knew no more pain or sorrow, but became
as the angels, and had wings and sang praises to God all day long on a
cloud. Moreover, that it was very light and bright there, that all was
endless sunshine, and the angels were dressed in shining garments, etc.
Still, I was anxious to know more about Heaven; how long it took to get
there--being so far off; whether father wouldn't get tired flying all
that distance, and if so, where he would stop to rest on the road; what
sort of amusements there were in Heaven, and finally whether there was
any shaving there. This last question was a puzzler. I was not to be put
off by mother telling me that angels didn't require shaving, for then I
argued that if father had gone to Heaven, he would be out of employment,
and consequently miserable and not happy, for I knew what pleasure my
father took in his business. Now if my father could not be happy without
employment, the only employment he cared about being shaving, and if in
Heaven that employment were not permitted or encouraged, it followed
that my father could not be in Heaven, for who ever heard of a soul in
Heaven and not happy?
My next question was whether there were any shaving in the other place.
This was equally difficult to answer, for if my mother should admit that
there was, then I should have argued that my father must be there, which
would not have been a consoling idea, and if not, where should he be,
since he could not be in either of these places? My mother was fain to
confess that she did not know much about it, but said she would ask the
minister. Whether she did or not, I never ascertained. I began to
reflect for myself. The apostles were good men, as I had been given to
understand, and good men always went to Heaven. Yet from their effigies
upon the old stained-glass windows of the village church, they were all
represented with long beards. Therefore barber-craft could not be
encouraged in Heaven. Nothing could be more conclusive than this. My
doubts were at rest for ever, but I felt less happy than before I began
to argue on these matters.
Ever since my father's death the whole weight of the business fell upon
my mother. Even in my father's lifetime she had so profited by his
lessons as to be able to lend a helping hand occasionally when the
customers were numerous and was thought to possess no inconsiderable
skill in the art, but now that my father was no more, she had to put her
shoulder to the wheel for her very bread. As for myself, it was long
before our villagers could be induced to place any confidence in my
shaving, the report of my father's unlucky amputation having spread like
wildfire through the neighbourhood.
At length a strange gentleman passed through the village, and calling at
our shop, demanded to be shaved. My mother not being in at the time, I
offered my services, which were accepted, and acquitted myself to the
entire satisfaction of my customer. The gentleman chancing to mention to
someone that he had been shaved by a mere boy, and better than he had
ever been shaved in his life, my fame began to spread in the village,
and from that day we were in no want of customers.
Business went on swimmingly until I was twelve years old, when I had the
misfortune to lose my poor mother. I was now quite alone in the world,
so in order to instruct myself more fully in the higher branches of the
art, such as wig making, hair-cutting, etc., I offered myself as
apprentice under the late Mr. Hackchin, under whose tuition in the wig
line I vastly improved, although even from the beginning my shaving was
universally preferred to his. Lor, sirs! his razors were never sharp,
his water always lukewarm, and his hand shook as with the palsy. The
fact was, he was getting old, was my poor employer, and ought, in my
opinion, to have given up business long before he did, when he might
have retired from the field with all due honours, and handed down his
name unstained to posterity.
Well, gentlemen, not to wear out your patience, I will at once proceed
to the very heart of my story--plunge into the very thick of the lather,
as my poor father used to say--being about the time of my going abroad,
and the reason of it. It was now some time since I had begun to cast
sheep's eyes on the pretty Sally Snip, daughter of Simon Snip, the
village tailor. We met by stealth, took long walks together of a Sunday
in the green lane, danced together on the green on holidays, exchanged
tokens, breathed vows of eternal fidelity, and all the rest of it. Our
interviews were detected at length by Sally's parents, who looked on our
attachment with no favourable eyes. Old Snip was ambitious, and designed
quite another match for his daughter than a penniless young barber like
myself, and gave me plainly to understand that if I did not _sheer_ off
he would _baste_ my broadcloth for me. I was in a rage, but smothered it
for prudence sake, yet didn't I wish in that moment that I had the
shaving of him--wouldn't I have scraped him, that's all! Well, words
grew high; I protested that my intentions were strictly honourable,
etc., etc., but all to no purpose; the obstinate old parent wouldn't see
what was for his daughter's good, and I left him very much disgusted. A
few stolen interviews were attempted after this, but were all
frustrated, and I soon saw we were not destined for one another, so we
met for the last time, wept, embraced, and vowed still to love each
other to eternity.
Now, there is no knowing but I might still have sought to renew my
interviews, had not an extraordinary circumstance occurred to alter my
determination. On the very night after our parting I was tossing
restlessly on my bed, between sleeping and waking, when all of a
sudden--whether it was a dream, I know not, but I fancy that I was
awake--all at once there stood by my bedside the spirit of my father in
the habiliments of the grave, unblemished in whiteness as the suds he
used in his lifetime, and, approaching me solemnly, said,
"My son, all that has happened is for the best. Stick to thy trade, and
rival the most illustrious of thy ancestors, to which end thou must
visit Paris. I will guide thy steps. Practise incessantly. We shall meet
again."
With these words the vision vanished, and I felt myself bathed in a cold
sweat.
I slept no more that night, but rose early the following morning. My
determination was fixed, for a parent's command from the other side of
the tomb was not to be combated, so I scraped together my slender
earnings, tied up my bundle, took leave of my employer, and paid my
passage over to Paris.
Soon after my departure Sally Snip became the wife of Daniel Nimble, an
aspiring apprentice of old Simon's. This was my first love, and, like
most first loves, ended miserably. Few men there are I wot who can boast
of having loved but once, and of having lived uncrossed in that love to
the end of the chapter. But I digress.
No sooner arrived in Paris than I began searching out the names and
addresses of the most celebrated men in the hair line of the day with a
view of offering my services as assistant. The day after my arrival I
passed a large and handsome shop, evidently a first-rate business, with
a large printed card in the window. Now, although at that time I had not
the remotest knowledge of the French language, and consequently could
not possibly understand what was written on the card, yet an
indescribable I-don't-know-what, an inexplicable "_je-ne-sais-quoi_"
(perchance a spiritual dig in the ribs from my father), induced me to
interpret the words, "_A boy wanted_." I was as certain as I am of my
own existence that the proprietor was in want of an assistant and that
my services would be accepted, so I entered the shop, addressed the
proprietor in English, which, it is needless to say, was perfectly
unintelligible to him. However, by expressive signs, I told him I was an
adept, and that he couldn't do better than engage me. He smiled, the
bargain was struck, and from that day I commenced my career in a foreign
land.
My employer was one Pierre le Chauve, a hair-dresser who had an
extensive business in the Rue St. Honore, and who was especially
renowned for the neatness and elegance of his wigs. He also cut hair,
manufactured fancy soaps, hair oil, hair dye, perfumery, and the like.
He had one daughter, Mademoiselle Pauline, of some eighteen summers, as
neat a little grisette as ever trod the Champs Elysees or the Bois de
Boulogne on Sundays, and who presided at the counter and sold articles
of perfumery to the Parisian exquisites, with whom she chatted with the
most charming ease and grace and bewitching naivete.
Pauline was the thorough type of a French girl. Eyes of dark hazel, set
wide apart in her head, nez retrousee, rather wide mouth and exceptional
teeth, small hand and foot, jimp waist, and a countenance capable of
every possible shade of expression, while her voice, by nature pitched
in a high key, rose to shrillest treble when under any excitement.
Besides myself, there was another assistant, one Jacques Millefleurs, a
conceited French puppy, who fancied himself irresistible, and used to
persecute his employer's daughter with the most marked attentions
whenever her father's back was turned, and which she, it must be
confessed, did not appear to be entirely indifferent to, although, at
the same time, she gave him plainly to understand that she intended to
flirt with whomever she liked without asking _his_ permission, and that
he had no right whatever to monopolise her. Jacques was of an
exceedingly jealous temper, and could ill brook this tone from the
object of his affections; this she knew well, and often took a malicious
delight in provoking him by putting on her best airs and graces and
being doubly fascinating whenever a handsome customer came to the shop.
It was then that Jacques would grow pale, and dart vicious side glances
from the corners of his eyes; but Pauline took no notice of him
whatever, but flirted more and more, as if to aggravate him. After the
customer had departed they would have a lovers' quarrel, and then they
would make it up again, and so on from day to day.
Now, all this could be of very little interest to me, even if I had
understood their conversation, for had I not my own secret grief? Was it
to be supposed that I could forget Sally in a day? No; whilst I in
silence counted and separated the hairs destined to be woven into the
scalp of a wig, or whilst shaving a customer or cutting his hair, my
soul was in the green lane with Sally, or behind her at church, or under
her window at night, watching for a momentary glimpse of her shadow on
the window blind. In fact, whatever happened to be my employment, Sally
was ever uppermost in my thoughts, and still continued to be so, even
some time after the sad news reached me that she had married Daniel
Nimble. This shock at first was terrific, but, gradually subsiding, I
resolved at length that, as she had so soon forgotten me, not to think
of her any more, which in time I succeeded in doing. From being moody
and silent, I now became more talkative, for I had begun to pick up a
few phrases in French.
Mademoiselle Pauline encouraged me in my progress, and was pleased to
take a great interest in me, much to the disgust of her admirer, Jacques
Millefleurs, who began to look upon me as a probable rival. I daily
improved in the French language under my fair tutor, and day by day she
gained upon me, for she certainly had the most winning manners. The more
I talked with her, the less I thought of Sally, till at last she
succeeded in completely supplanting her in my heart, and I found myself,
before I was well aware of it, head over ears in love with the
fascinating grisette.
Here was a to do. Murder will out. Love and a cough are two things one
can't hide, as the proverb says.
The odious Jacques _must_ discover my passion ere long, and a quarrel
will be inevitable. Not that I feared the likes of him, gentlemen. Don't
suppose it for a moment. Why, I'd take half a dozen or so of such
fellows one off and another on, and thrash the whole lot of them as easy
as a game of ninepins. Well, but to proceed, gentlemen. What I foresaw
soon happened. One day while taking my French lesson under Mademoiselle
Pauline, and we were chatting away merrily enough without taking any
notice of Jacques, who was arranging pots of bears' grease on the
shelves in the background, our heads drew very close together, and we
were looking very fondly into each other's eyes and whispering rather
low.
Now, I knew that there was no engagement between her and Jacques,
therefore I had every right to pay her just the same attention that he
did, and I intended to let him know it. Well, my head might have touched
hers, or my locks may have intermingled with hers as we pored over the
French grammar together. However this may have been, something or other
seems to have exasperated my rival, for I heard him mutter to himself
something like _Cochon d'un Anglais_. I was getting on in my French now
and understood the words, so turning round, I said,
"Did your remark refer to me, Monsieur Jacques?"
"_Oui a vous_," he said, furiously, now losing all command over himself,
and heedless of the consequences; "and I repeat my remark."
Here he repeated his obnoxious epithet with an invective against my
countrymen in general.
"Hold there!" I cried, for I began to feel my English blood boil in my
veins, and in the best French I could muster, said,
"Retract your words. I give you one chance to apologise, and if you
refuse----"
Before I could finish my rival's legs had formed a right angle, and I
received a _savat_ in the eye. Stung by the pain, and still more by the
insult, I felt the strength of our whole line of barbers rush into my
veins, and clenching my fist convulsively I let forth so terrible a blow
in the chest of my adversary as to make him measure his length upon the
floor, and cause the back of his head to resound against it like a
cocoanut. Miss Pauline screamed, but the next moment my rival had
bounced upright upon his feet, and seized a razor. Another scream from
Pauline as he was making towards me, razor in hand, but this time I took
up a chair and with it gave him such a blow over the knuckles as made
him drop the razor and yell in agony. I laid down the chair, thinking
that the fight was now over, but the Frenchman sprang on to me again
like a hungry tiger, and so unexpected was the movement that I nearly
lost my balance, but with great adroitness I managed to trip him up, and
he fell under me.
He now began to bite and to scratch, but I seized his hair and banged
his head against the ground several times. He then clutched me anew, and
we began rolling over and over on the floor, Pauline screaming all the
while, but extricating myself at length from his grasp, I bounded to my
feet, and before he had time to rise placed one foot upon his throat. At
this moment my employer attracted by his daughter's screams, entered.
"_Mille diables!_" he cried, fiercely, "_ques-ce-que ce tappage la? Ah!
ca, Monsieur Godam_," said he, turning full upon me, "_esce que vous
etes entre chez moi pour ensegner le box a mes eleves?_"
Here Pauline broke in.
"No, I assure you, dear papa, it was not the Englishman's fault.
Millefleurs began the quarrel. I saw him kick the Englishman in the
eye."
"Ha! Monsieur Jacques, you did kick the Englishman in the eye?" inquired
my employer; "and what for did you kick the Englishman in the eye?"
"Because he used undue familiarity towards Mademoiselle," said Jacques,
doggedly.
Le Chauve glanced suspiciously first at me then at his daughter, but
Pauline, stung at Jacques' mean attempt at exposing me as well as
herself to her father's obloquy, rose in all the pride of injured
womanhood, as if to take the whole burden of defence upon herself, and
standing erect with compressed lips and white with passion, cried,
"It is false, 'tis a base lie! The Englishman never treated me otherwise
than with the greatest respect, nor have I ever received at his hands
any of those attentions that in my indulgence I have permitted from
yourself. Think not, however, Master Jacques, that this calumny will
serve your turn, or that I am blind to the paltry motives that prompted
it. Your absurd jealousy is seen through, and has met with its just
chastisement. What was it to you, I pray, even if the Englishman _had_
paid me attention? Must you be the only one to pay me attention? You
know very well that I have never granted you any right to monopolise me,
however your conceit may have deluded you. Beware, therefore, in future
how you attempt to calumniate either myself or this Englishman, for as
sure as you are born you will not succeed in your scheme, and know, once
for all, Monsieur Jacques Millefleurs, that for the future I wish all
those attentions that you have been pleased to lavish upon me so
profusely whenever my father's back was turned, to cease. Respect me as
your employer's daughter, for I vow never to be anything more to you."
She ceased; but during her harangue, Pauline's deportment was
majestic--it was sublime. No longer was she the little grisette with the
cock-nose and the wide mouth, but a tragedy queen pronouncing a
malediction. She appeared now at least half a head taller, so imposing
was her attitude. The roses and smile had deserted her countenance, and
were supplanted by a ghastly pallor, while from her dark eyes flashed a
withering scorn, under which Jacques appeared to quail like a whipped
hound, but which feeling his natural pride sought to overcome.
Rage, grief, jealousy, and confusion struggled in his breast for the
mastery, as he stood speechless, with clenched fists, teeth set, flushed
face, and straining eyeballs fixed upon the ground, to which the tears
would start spite of all his efforts to repress them. His hair
disordered and dirty, as well as his clothes, from his fall, he looked
altogether the very picture of maniacal despair.
"Ha! Jacques," said his employer, "is this true? What! have you dared to
raise your eyes to my daughter, and that, too, behind my back, without
my permission--_hein_?"
Jacques, overcome with shame and speechless, never lifted his eyes from
the ground, whilst the large tears, blinding him and overflowing, fell
heavily on the floor.
"_Prenez garde, Monsieur Jacques_," said Le Chauve, "for, _parbleu!_ if
I hear any more of these clandestine overtures with my daughter I'll
discharge you on the spot. And you, too, Ma'meselle Pauline, you, too,
were much to blame in not telling me at once of this boy's insolent
pretensions. But, tell me once more, who began this ridiculous quarrel?
Who gave the first blow?"
"Please, sir," said I, now speaking for the first time, "I was taking my
French lesson with your daughter, when Monsieur Jacques was pleased to
call me '_cochon_,' and abused my country. I demanded an apology, which
he refused, and before I was aware of it, kicked me in the eye. I gave
one straight blow with my fist, _comme ca_"--(here I imitated the blow
to show him how an Englishman could knock a Frenchman down)--"and he
fell full length upon the floor."
"Yes, it is true, papa," broke in Pauline; "the Englishman has spoken
the truth."
"_C'etait bien fait, c'etait bien fait_," said her father; "go on."
"Then," resumed I, "Millefleurs sprang again to his feet, and seized a
razor."
"Ha! he seized a razor? Is that so, Monsieur Millefleurs? Did you seize
a razor?"
Jacques was silent as before, while I proceeded, "I then seized a
chair."
"You seized a chair, _hebien_!"
"And I knocked the razor out of his hand. He fell to the ground with
pain, and yelled."
"_Encore, bien fait--apres?_"
"He jumped up again, and pounced upon me like a tiger, and nearly
knocked me over, but I tripped him up in time, and he fell to the
ground, together with myself, and then we rolled over and over each
other on the floor, till I at length succeeded in extricating myself,
and placed my foot upon his neck, when you entered, sir."
"_C'est bien vraie_," burst in Pauline again; "the Englishman has given
an exact account of the quarrel."
"Ha! is that so?" asked Le Chauve. "_Hebien!_ Monsieur Jacques, you have
refused to apologise to the Englishman for insulting him and kicking him
in the eye. Now, I command you to apologise to him, or out of my shop
you shall go at once. Do you hear?"
"Non; _mille fois non_!" cried Jacques, stamping with rage, forgetful
alike of the respect due to his master and the presence of Pauline, "I
would sooner die first."
"Then prepare at once to leave my house. Take up your bundle and walk!"
The peremptory manner in which these words were said caused Jacques to
pause and weigh matters.
"If my employer actually does send me off," he probably said to himself,
"then adieu to Pauline for ever, but if I consent to apologise, I shall
remain here, and may in time succeed in cutting out the Englishman."
This was probably his mode of reasoning, for he was too good a
politician not to know where his interests lay, so changing his tone
entirely, and gulping down with difficulty something that was rising in
his throat, and which, if he had given expression to, would probably
have resembled an ingenious French oath, he replied with great apparent
calmness,
"Monsieur Le Chauve, you have always been a good master to me, and I
have always tried to prove myself worthy of your kindness, and I should
be sorry to leave you for a trifle, therefore I will obey you, and will
demand pardon of _mon cher confrere l'anglais_, for having in a moment
of ungovernable passion kicked him in the eye, and insulted him."
This was said in turning towards me, and in all humility.
"And you, Monsieur Suds, if you forgive him, offer him your hand."
I extended my hand towards my fellow assistant, which he took in his,
and I expressed sorrow for the part I had had in the quarrel, but I
noticed that the hand of Jacques Millefleurs was icy cold.
"_Allons mes enfants_," said Le Chauve, "now don't let me hear any more
of these silly quarrels, but go in peace."
We both set about our respective duties, but I knew enough of the
Frenchman's character to be sure that his apology did not come from his
heart, but had been forced out of him from motives of policy, and I was
not at all sure that this would be the last of such quarrels, but had no
doubt that he would vent his petty spite upon me on the very next
opportunity.
I had hardly re-settled myself, and proceeded with my wig, when a
stranger of dignified appearance entered and demanded to be shaved. I
had no difficulty in recognising in him a countryman. Glad of an
opportunity of speaking English again after so long, I answered him in
his own mother tongue.
"Want to be shaved, sir? Yes, sir."
"Ah, you are English!" he said.
"Yes, sir, one of the latest imported," said I. "Only arrived here a
month ago to perfect myself in the art of barber-craft amongst these
foreigners. Served under Mr. Hackchin in the village of D----, in
----shire, where I have learnt to shave, cut hair, make wigs, mix hair
grease, and all the rest of it, and as for tooth drawing, bleeding, and
quack salving, you won't find the likes of me in all the countryside. My
name is Suds, sir, at your service. Maybe you have heard tell of my
father or my grandfather. The Suds have been barbers from time
immemorial."
"Oh, indeed?" said the stranger. Then muttered to himself,
"Suds--Suds--I fancy I have heard the name before."
And I should just think he had, gentlemen. Why, my grandfather once
shaved His Majesty King George I., or George II., or Queen Anne, or one
of that lot, I forget which, as my father used to tell me.
Well, gentlemen, when I had got my countryman fairly lathered, and had
commenced operations, I noticed that he glanced half-quizzingly at my
eye, which was now black and swollen from the kick I had received from
my adversary.
"You seem to have a bad cold in your eye, Mr. Suds," he remarked, with
an ill-repressed smile.
"No, sir," I replied, "it is not exactly that."
"Not a cold!" exclaimed he, feigning astonishment. "Dear me! it's very
like one. Then if I might venture to guess, I should say you had been
in a fight, and got the worst of it."
"Well, not exactly, sir," said I; "not the worst of it; no, not the
worst of it. It is true I had a slight difference of opinion this
morning with a young man of the shop, a mere trifle--an affair of
jealousy, that's all, sir."
"And I presume that that neat little baggage in the corner of the shop
with the jimp waist and well starched cap was the fair cause of this
trifling jealousy--am I right?"
"Well, really, sir, your penetration is such that it serves not to deny
it," said I. "If you had only arrived five minutes earlier, you would
have caught me at it tooth and nail. Oh! it _was_ fine, sir. He caught
me a kick in the eye unawares--French fashion you know, sir. Englishmen
don't like that sort of game, it takes them by surprise; but you should
have seen how I floored him with a good English blow in the chest that
made him measure his length upon the ground. You should have heard what
a whack his head came against the floor. It sounded for all the world
like an empty cask. It will ache for him this next fortnight to come,
I'll warrant."
"Oh! then England _wasn't_ thrashed after all?" said he.
"Not a bit of it," said I, proudly.
"Well, you seem a smart lad," said he. "I don't mind giving you a job to
do every morning during my stay in Paris. Suppose you come every morning
to my hotel to shave me."
"With pleasure, sir," said I.
"Here is my address," said he, handing me a card.
I read the name Lord Goldborough, Hotel ----, Rue ----, No. 25 _au
premier_. I fell into a sort of stupor at the discovery that I had been
shaving a real live lord, without knowing it. So taken aback was I, that
I forgot to stuff his pockets with bears' grease, tooth powder, fancy
soaps, hair dye, tooth and nail brushes, etc.
Before I had well recovered, he was out of the shop. He had left an
English paper behind him by mistake, and a letter, the former of which I
perused, while the latter I placed in my pocket, to return to him on the
morrow at his hotel.
No sooner had my countryman left the shop than Pauline asked me if he
wasn't an Englishman.
"Yes," I replied, glad of an opportunity of making myself big in her
eyes and of inspiring my rival with awe and respect for me; "his name is
Lord Goldborough, _un grand milord_, who has known me many years, and
all my family. In fact," said I, "he is distantly connected with
us."--(I did not say on account of our both being descended from Adam).
I told them in the shop that he had engaged my services every morning at
his hotel to shave him, for old acquaintance sake, and finally that he
had called on me on purpose, under the excuse of being shaved, to lend
me that paper to read, where there was a long account of the great
political deeds of a celebrated English minister related to us both; in
fact, no less a man than the renowned William Pitt. There's no harm in
making yourself as big as you can when you are sure of not being found
out--eh, gentlemen?--and when you do come out with a lie, tell a good
'un whilst you're about it--that's my morality.
Pauline raised her eyebrows and looked at me archly, half incredulously.
Jacques, who had been sulkily combing out some bunches of hair for
wig-making behind the counter, looked up for a moment, his mouth wide
open with astonishment, then resumed his work.
I little knew at the time how dearly I should have to pay for a few idle
words. These are dangerous times to jest in, gentlemen, especially
t'other side of the water, and if you happen to have an enemy. I was
inexperienced in these matters then, but I have bought my experience
since, and dearly enough I had to pay for it.
On the following morning I hastened to keep my appointment with my noble
countryman. I found him very affable and condescending, and he was
pleased to compliment me on my skill in barber-craft. He talked to me
much about England and my family, of politics, of the French, etc., and
asked me how I liked foreign parts. I naturally felt flattered at the
interest he seemed to take in me, but I knew how to keep my place,
always styling him "my lord" and "your lordship." In fact, we got on
capitally together. When I returned to the shop I bragged of the
intimacy between my patron and myself, not always sticking literally to
the truth, but colouring my reception a little highly to excite envy
and respect in my rival and interest in Pauline.
After this I went regularly every day to his lordship, and came back
after every visit with an extravagantly coloured account of my noble
customer's bounty and friendship for me, as well as the unlimited share
of his confidence that I enjoyed. Pauline's smiles grew daily more
winning, and Jacques scowled more and more savagely from behind the
counter.
One morning, as I was preparing as usual to start for my noble patron's
hotel, an ugly-looking ruffian, dressed in the preposterous fashion of
the "incroyables," entered the shop, and strutting up to my employer,
who was hard at work on a new wig, said, "Citoyen, you harbour a
'_suspect_.'"
"Not I, my friend, I assure you," said Le Chauve. "It is a mistake; I
have no one in the house but my wife and daughter and two
apprentices--one an Englishman lately arrived."
"Just so, an Englishman, a spy of the English Government; a most
dangerous character, and on the most intimate terms with Lord Goldboro',
who is himself a spy."
"It cannot possibly be my assistant Suds," muttered my employer to
himself.
"_Oui, Suds, c'est bien lui, le voici_," and he showed a warrant for my
immediate arrest.
"_Mais c'est impossible, monchere, ce pauvre garcon, si jeune, si
innocent_," pleaded my kind employer.
"Nevertheless, I have my orders. If he is innocent, he will be proved
so. I come not to dispute whether he be innocent or guilty, but to
arrest him," said the incroyable. "_Allons, ou est-il?_"
Now, concealment I knew to be impossible, resistance futile. The only
thing to be done was to face the matter out boldly and trust to
Providence. (Of course, I made no doubt as to whom I had to thank for my
arrest.) So walking bravely into the shop, without any show of fear, I
thus accosted the incroyable, "So, citoyen, it appears you have orders
to arrest me. I will not dispute your authority, although I know myself
to be innocent of the charges brought against me. I can pretty well
guess _which_ of my kind friends has been so considerate as to procure
for me a safe night's lodging free from expense, and his motive in doing
so."
Here I darted a withering glance at Jacques, who cowered beneath my
gaze, and another pleading one at Pauline, as if I would say, "You see
how I am betrayed, and by whom."
Pauline stood pale as death--or rather, leant against the wall for
support. She seemed unable to utter a word, and yet seemed struggling
with herself to defend me. As if spell-bound, she looked on in mute
horror, until the guard entered the shop, and I had barely time to say,
"_Au revoir, Monsieur le Chauve; adieu, Mademoiselle Pauline._ I am
innocent, whatever my enemies may try and make me out, and doubt not but
I shall be able to prove my innocence. Await my speedy return. _En
evant, gards_," and off I was conducted by the soldiers.
I was hardly out of the shop when a piercing female shriek reached my
ears, and poor Pauline had fallen fainting to the ground. I saw and
heard no more, for though I was outwardly calm, my brain was racked with
the direst apprehensions.
Here I was being led openly through the streets of Paris like a
felon--whither? To prison--to the Bastille, to be tried; possibly, nay
probably, to be condemned to death. What for? What had I done? "Nothing;
I am innocent," I said to myself. "No matter, so have others been that
have likewise perished by the guillotine," I thought I heard a voice
inwardly say. "Executions are now of daily occurrence, and not
individuals, but hundreds of individuals, perish for they know not what.
Marat, from out his obscure lodgings, and seated up to the neck in his
warm bath, doth complacently issue forth his bloody orders, from which
not even innocence itself is free. Oh, the malignity of human nature!"
thought I. "Base, base Jacques Millefleurs! for who else could have
betrayed me? And Pauline, poor girl! what would become her?"
Then came another thought forcing its way through my brain, despite my
efforts to crush it. Pauline for the present, it is true, was disgusted
with Millefleurs, especially for this last dastardly act of his, but
women are proverbially fickle--the whole French nation is volatile--and
after my death, and she had shed a few transient tears belike to my
memory, Jacques _might_ work himself into her good graces again, and
even _marry_ her--the thought was agony. The mere fear of death itself
was perhaps the last thought that occupied me, for I felt I had no
parents to regret me; on the contrary, I felt consoled in the thought
that I should see them again in the other world. No; it was not mere
death that I feared so much; but then, to leave Pauline, to be cut short
in my brilliant career, before I had established my fame!
These were thoughts that galled me. Nevertheless, I tried to console
myself. Perhaps things might not be so black as my imagination had
painted them, and even if they should be--even if I should die by the
guillotine for an imagined State offence--it was not like being gibbeted
alive in my own country for a highway robbery or murder. No; there was
something aristocratic in the idea of being guillotined, for did not the
scaffold reek with noble blood?
Amid such reflections as these I was conducted by the guard to the gates
of the Bastille, and before I was well aware of it, found myself in a
spacious cell, and heard the lock turned upon me. Here a singular and
never-to-be-forgotten scene was presented to my view. The prison was
crowded with men and women of all ranks and ages, many of whom were to
die on the morrow, yet most of them appeared to have no fear of death
whatever. Here and there were knots of friends who seemed determined to
make the most of their short stay in this world, and to enjoy life to
the utmost. Here was dicing and card playing, laughing, joking, and
swearing, as if they thought it prime fun to die in company. Surely
these men, thought I, must be accustomed to death, as they say eels are
to skinning, that they no longer mind it.
There were, however, prisoners of another cast, persons who preferred
spending their last moments on earth in prayer and pious meditation.
Parents took leave of their children, children of their parents, friends
parted from friends, lovers from lovers. Tears flowed on all sides.
Profane mirth and ribald jests mingled discordantly with pious oraisons
and tearful farewells. Others again were sullenly awaiting their doom
with crossed arms and heads drooping on their breasts, keeping apart
from the others, being too proud to pray, and yet indifferent to the
amusements of the more light-hearted.
Well, days, weeks, passed by, I suppose, for I do not recollect what
time elapsed during my incarceration, as I kept no count, being in a
kind of mental stupor all the time, nor could I bring myself to believe
that the scene before me was real, and not a dream. All the events from
the time of my arrest, flitted through my mind like a vast
phantasmagoria.
Since my imprisonment, I had been tried, found guilty, and condemned to
death. The day had been fixed, and yet it weighed but lightly upon me,
being nothing more that what I had expected and prepared myself for.
Each day brought new arrests, and each day some of my companions were
led forth to execution. It is wonderfully consoling to find that others
are about to share a like fate as one's self. This I found by
experience, for, engrossed as I was, with my own selfish thoughts, I
still found time to be touched with the misfortunes of others, and on
several occasions I offered consolation, and received consolation from
many of my fellow prisoners. In some instances I had struck up quite a
warm friendship with the inmates of my cell, but alas! our intimacy
lasted but long enough for us to know, love, and esteem each other. No
sooner had I begun to feel for my fellow sufferer as a friend and
brother, than the following day he was certain to be torn from me, and
led off to execution. One of these friendships formed in prison,
especially dwells upon me; perhaps because it was one of the longest.
My friend was a young man of my own years, and of noble family, as he
said. He told me also his name, but I have forgotten it. He was
imprisoned because it was thought he entertained aristocratic opinions,
and was a devout Catholic. He was in love, but the idol of his
affections belonged to an atheistical family. It had been the dream of
his ambition to eradicate the heretical opinions she had imbibed and
convert her to the Catholic faith. He was looked upon with suspicion by
her family, who, disapproving of the match, were instrumental in placing
him in the Bastille. I ventured to condole with him, though he needed
not my consolation, as his comfort was in his religion. Of all my
companions in prison, I found him the most resigned.
When I had learnt his tale, I told him mine, saying that I was a poor
_perruquier-barbier_ who had left his country for a while to complete
his art studies, and who, happening to fall in love with his employer's
daughter, had, through the jealousy and malice of a rival, who had
falsely accused him, found himself imprisoned in the Bastille, and
condemned to death. He was touched with my tale as I had been with his,
for our histories had something in common. We were both in love, in
prison, and condemned to death. We wept together, we embraced, we kissed
(Frenchmen always kiss); and though he was a gentleman of noble family,
and I only a lowly barber, yet, on the brink of the grave, all
distinctions are levelled, so we embraced, and called ourselves brothers
in adversity. How I prayed and longed that our lives might be spared,
that we might the longer enjoy each other's friendship, or that we might
quit this world in each other's company! But fate willed it otherwise.
On the morrow, he whom I had learnt to love as a brother was torn from
me and led to the scaffold. My life seemed now a blank. Whilst my friend
lived in his troubles, I forgot my own; now that he was no more I began
to realise all the horrors of my situation.
At length the eve of my execution arrived. I tried to give myself up
wholly to pious meditation, so throwing myself down in the corner of my
cell, I endeavoured to recall all my past life, to repent of my sins,
and pray for a speedy and peaceful end; but then the guillotine rose up
before me in all its terrors, and bodily fear would usurp the place of
holier thoughts. The nearer the hour drew, the more vividly everything
painted itself to my mind's eye. I must leave Pauline without a word of
farewell. The heartless turnkey, inured to scenes of death and misery,
would witness me depart to execution without a tear. Then the insolence
of the brutal guard, the gaping crowd, the scaffold, and surly
executioner, the cold steel close to my neck, one terrible shock and
then--then--eternity--a vast blank--an unexpected world--doubt,
suspense, _perhaps_, total annihilation.
"Merciful God!" I exclaimed in agony, "is there no hope? I ask not for
length of days, but only time to repent. Let me not be ushered into Thy
awful presence unprepared. Help me to my salvation, and fit me for my
end." Here I shut my eyes and prayed long and fervently, after which I
felt more resigned. I heard the clock toll forth the hour of midnight,
and most of the inmates of my cell were fast asleep. I now felt a chilly
sensation creep over me, an indescribable awe, as if in the presence of
something more than mortal. I opened my eyes and was aware of a vaporous
form or column of luminous ether standing beside me, which gradually
growing more distinct, shaped itself into the bearing and lineaments of
my father. My breath forsook me. My eyeballs straining from their
sockets, fixed the cloudy image without my having the power to remove
them, and I was unable to utter a word.
Presently a low, though distant, voice (whether it proceeded from the
figure or not, I cannot say, for it seemed to come from a distance and
to sing through my head) uttered these words: "My son, it has pleased
Heaven for once that the innocent shall be spared and the wicked
punished. Fear not, for I am sent to protect you. Another has been
provided to take your place at the scaffold. In another minute he will
be here. When you hear the key turn in the lock and see the door open
wide, be ready to fly with me."
"Fly with you, father!" I mentally cried. To which the spectre answered,
"I will envelop you in my essence, and being invisible myself to others,
will make you likewise invisible. Thus, as the new prisoner enters, we
will pass unseen by the turnkey through the open door, and so on, past
the guard, till we find ourselves outside. Once past all danger, I will
conduct you to the seashore, where a vessel awaits you to carry you back
to England."
Each word was uttered slowly and distinctly, and whilst he was yet
speaking I heard the key grate against the lock, and the door of my
prison being flung open, a fresh prisoner entered, accompanied by the
jailor. What was my surprise when, by the light of the jailor's
lanthorn, I recognised my old rival, Jacques Millefleurs!
I had no time to speculate on the "how" or the "wherefore" of his
arrest, but in obedience to my father's orders I passed fearlessly
through the open door, which was immediately closed after me. I passed
the guards, not without a certain tremor, yet no one appeared to see me
or impede my course. I hurried past the outer gate, and quickening my
pace, soon left the Bastille and its terrors far behind me.
Morning at length dawned, and as I passed through the streets I observed
that nobody looked me in the face, but rather looked through me into
space, as if I were air. I was thus aware that I was still invisible, so
entering a diligence, arrived in due time at Calais.
"This is the vessel," said the voice, in my ear. "Embark--the wind is
fair. Farewell," and I found myself once more alone and visible, for
sundry passers-by stared at me in surprise, no doubt wondering how I had
made my appearance there all of a sudden, not having been on the spot a
moment ago.
I hastened to take my place on board, and having set sail, arrived,
after a good passage, at Dover. How the dear old white cliffs and the
grand old castle seemed to welcome me back to my native land! How
thankful I felt for my recent miraculous preservation! How joyfully I
leapt ashore, and with what buoyancy I trod my native land again! It was
as if I had never breathed the air of liberty till now.
Once more in the land of the free, after a hearty meal, I took the
stage, and travelled until I reached my native village; and here I am,
gentlemen.
* * * * *
"Upon my word, Mr. Suds," broke in Dr. Bleedem as the barber concluded
his story, "if you have many more tales of that sort you'll soon rival
the members of the club. What do you say, Mr. Oldstone. Was not that
story worthy of a member?"
Mr. Oldstone could not go so far as to admit that any one member of the
club had ever been equalled in story telling by a barber, and that, too,
a Frenchified barber, but he condescended to give a complacent look of
approval at the young man without directly answering the question put to
him, and then addressing him said, as he pulled out his watch, "I don't
know if you are aware of it, Mr. Suds, but the absorbing interest that
you have forced us to take in your narrative has made us quite forget
church time, and it now wants but a quarter to one o'clock."
"You don't say so," cried several voices at once. "Sure enough," said
another, "here are all the people coming out of church."
"What!" cried our late story teller, in alarm, "have I really, through
my talk, prevented your honours from exhibiting your chins at divine
service, as a sample of my art? This is indeed a sin my soul must
answer."
"Well, gentlemen," said Mr. Oldstone, "time past cannot be recalled, all
we can do is, to try to make up for it by going to church this
afternoon."
"Stop! stop! Mr. Suds, whither away so fast," he cried, as he saw the
young man making towards the door with his tackle in his hand. "You
have not told us what became of Pauline. You finished your story rather
too abruptly; it requires a sequel. Come, let's hear it."
The youth returned, after closing the door, and resting the tips of his
fingers against the back of a chair, proceeded gravely thus: "Little
more remains to be told, gentlemen. I heard from Pauline not long since.
Her letter runs as nearly as I can recollect in these words:
"Dear Mr. Suds, I write to you for the first and last time. Perhaps I
should not have written to you at all. If I have erred from maiden
modesty in so doing, I hope you will excuse me. I really could not let
so great a friend pass from me without a word. I heard of your escape by
chance, and you may imagine my extreme delight and thankfulness at the
joyful news, though I never could learn in what manner you effected it.
Enough for me that you are safe in your own free country, far from the
broils of civil discord and intestine misery.
"Alas! my friend, if I may be allowed to call you by that name, I have
suffered much since we parted; so much, indeed, that were you to see me
now, you would not know me again for the gay capricious Pauline of
former times, whose eyes and complexion you were once wont to praise.
Forgive me, my friend, forgive me, Mr. Suds, if I have already said too
much, and bear with me still, while I yet disburden my heart of more.
The words tremble on my pen, my hand refuses to write what my heart
dictates, for fear of incurring your displeasure and contempt, rather
than brook which I would that my hand would paralyse, that I might never
touch pen more; that my lips were sealed that I might never more express
the feelings that rise and crave for utterance, ay that my heart itself
would cease to beat. I can no longer restrain my pen. My eyes fill with
tears as I write. Pardon my temerity. I feel I must speak or die.
"Dear Mr. Suds, did you ever imagine that from the very first moment
that you introduced yourself at my father's shop that my heart was no
longer my own? Did you know that the attentions of the odious Jacques
Millefleurs which my vanity only induced me to encourage, from that time
became loathsome to me, and my heart told me too truly the reason why?
"Oh! my dearest friend, if you knew how hard it has been to me to
persist in dissimulation for so long, to hide from my father and from
Millefleurs that which was passing in my bosom!
"Oh! if you knew the shock I received when I witnessed your arrest and
the deadly hatred that I bore towards Jacques Millefleurs for being the
cause, oh, then my love! then, I say, you would pardon me all, ay, even
the hideous crime I perpetrated for your sake. Know then, my loved one,
that it was I--I,--your Pauline, who accused Jacques to the government
for conspiring against it, even as he had falsely accused you, and
caused him to be arrested and condemned! Know you that whilst your bark
was peacefully crossing the channel that Jacques Millefleurs was taking
your place at the scaffold? You are avenged, and through me, though I
know your noble nature must recoil at such retaliation. Enough, he is
judged; peace be to his soul.
"But, alas, evil though he may have been, will his crimes help to wash
out one iota of the stain of my guilt? Shall I ever feel the stings of
remorse less keenly because I committed the rash and mean act in the
very torrent of passion?
"Oh! my friend, I feel I have merited your contempt and scorn for having
given way thus to the promptings of my evil nature. I fancy I see you
start and shrink back whilst reading these lines, and saying to
yourself, 'Can Pauline have been guilty of so black a crime?' No wonder
you shrink back in horror and loathing; yet, loathe me as you will, you
cannot loathe me as much as I loathe myself. I thought revenge would be
sweet, but now the bitterness of remorse has filled my heart. The
remembrance of my crime is intolerable to me; it haunts me night and
day. I feel that nothing short of the sacrifice of my whole life can do
aught towards atoning for so black a deed.
"Yes, my friend, many and bitter have been the tears of remorse that I
have shed, very bitter the reproaches I have launched against myself.
But to what purpose all this? What should your young and innocent soul
know of the torments I bear within? Enough, my resolution is fixed never
to be changed.
"Start not, friend, when I tell you that I have renounced the world and
its vanities, and intend to retire into a convent, there to atone by a
lifetime of fasting and prayer for the fell crime that harrows my soul.
I was once vain enough to dream of becoming your bride, but now I am
called upon to be the bride of Heaven. Shortly after you receive this I
shall have taken the veil. Think no more of one unworthy to find a place
in your thoughts. Forgive me if you can. Farewell, yours, Pauline."
"These, gentlemen, are the words of her letter, as well as I can
recollect. The letter bears no date or address, but it bore the
post-mark, 'Brussels.' As the letter did not appear to crave an answer,
I wrote none and thus the matter dropped."
"Poor girl!" broke in Parnassus, with a sigh; "her crime was great, no
doubt; but done in the very heat of passion; and then, her repentance is
extremely touching."
"Yes," said Mr. Blackdeed, "she winds up in a manner quite dramatic."
The members of the club then expressed, severally, their approbation of
the barber's narrative, upon which the young man bowed and scraped, and
hoped he should be able to satisfy the honourable members as well on a
future occasion, if his services should be required, and then quitted
the inn. In the afternoon our members attended divine service, to a man;
and, after a stroll in the wood, returned home in the evening, which
they spent in their usual jovial manner.
* * * * *
Transcriber's note:
Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note.
Although not present in the original publication, a list of
contents has been provided for the reader's convenience.