Hope in Laffitte--A false hope--New projects--M. Lecornier--How and
on what conditions I clothe myself anew--Bamps, tailor, 12 rue du
Helder--Bamps at Villers-Cotterets--I visit our estate along with
him--Pyramus follows a butcher lad--An Englishman who loved gluttonous
dogs--I sell Pyramus--My first hundred francs--The use to which they
are put--Bamps departs for Paris--Open credit
Although I had told my mother that my return was only a provisional
one, to use M. Lefèvre's expression, she had very little doubt at heart
that it was really final. Her doubt turned to certainty when she saw
Sunday, Monday, Tuesday pass by without my speaking of returning to
Crespy; but, poor mother! she never said a word to me concerning this
catastrophe: it had cost her so much to part with me, that, since God
had sent me back to her, she opened her maternal heart, arms and door
to me. I had some hope left me: Adolphe had promised to make overtures
to M. Laffitte, the banker, on my behalf; if M. Laffitte made me an
opening in his office, where they worked from ten to four, there would
be the whole of the evening and early morning to oneself for other
work. Besides, it was time I should earn something. The most important
thing was to get to Paris, to light our poor candles at that universal,
vast and dazzling fireside, which was a light to the whole world.
A fortnight after my return from Crespy, I received a letter from
Adolphe. His request had come to nothing, for M. Laffitte's offices
were over full of clerks as it was: they were talking of clearing
some out. So I decided to put in action at the first opportunity a
plan I had settled upon during the last sleepless night I had spent
at M. Lefèvre's. This project was perfectly simple and, by its very
simplicity, seemed likely to succeed.
I would select, from my father's desk, a dozen letters from Marshal
Jourdan, Marshal Victor, Marshal Sébastiani, from all the marshals
still living, in fact, with whom my father had had dealings. I would
collect a small sum of money and I would start for Paris. I would
approach these old friends of my father; they would do what they
could, and it would be a strange thing if four or five marshals of
France, one of whom was Minister for War, could not by their combined
influence find a situation at 1200 francs for the son of their old
comrade-in-arms. But although this plan looked as simple and artless,
at the first glance, as a pastoral by Florian, it was very difficult to
put in execution. Small though the sum was, it was not an easy thing
to raise it; moreover, an expenditure I had foolishly made at Crespy
complicated matters.
I had become connected at Crespy with a young man who had lived in
Paris: his name was Lecornier. He was brother of that gracious person
to whom I gave a name in one of my preceding chapters--you will
recollect it, although it was only mentioned once--the charming name
of Athénaïs, or, in other words, Athena, Minerva, Pallas, although the
bearer of it was quite unaware of this fact. Well, ashamed of moving
in the aristocratic world of Crespy in my old-fashioned clothes of
Villers-Cotterets, I had asked Lecornier, as my build was exactly his,
to write to his tailor to make me a coat, a waistcoat and a pair of
trousers. Lecornier wrote: I sent my twenty francs as a remittance on
account, and, fifteen days later, the tailor forwarded me the goods,
enclosing a bill for a hundred and fifty-five francs, from which he had
deducted the twenty francs I had sent him on account. It was arranged
that the rest of the bill should be liquidated at the rate of twenty
francs a month. The tailor's name was Bamps, and he lived in the rue du
Helder, No. 12. It will be seen, from his charges, that although Bamps
lived in a fashionable quarter, he was neither a Chevreuil nor a Staub;
no, he was a journeyman who charged fancy prices, who had drifted from
the Latin quarter, where he should always have remained. But for the
very reason that his business was small, Bamps had all the more need of
the profits it produced.
Although I exercised the greatest economy possible, I had not been able
to put aside the promised twenty francs when the next month's payment
became due. Not having them, of course I could not send them. This
first infraction of our treaty made Bamps very uneasy. Nevertheless,
Bamps knew that Lecornier belonged to a family well to do, although
not wealthy; Lecornier kept his engagements with him with scrupulous
punctuality; so he decided to wait, before giving signs of his anxiety.
The second month came. With it came the same impossibility on my
part, and, consequently, redoubled uneasiness on the part of Bamps.
Meanwhile, I had left Crespy--under the circumstances related--and I
had returned to Villers-Cotterets. Five or six days after my departure,
Bamps, becoming more and more uncomfortable, had written to Lecornier.
Lecornier had replied, giving him my fresh address. It therefore came
about that one day--about the beginning of the third month after
receiving the clothes--as I was lounging on our threshold, the town
clock struck one, the diligence from Paris drew up in the square, and
a traveller got down from it who asked the conductor two or three
questions, took his bearings and came straight to me. I guessed half
the truth. Bamps was walking with his knees out like Duguesclin, and
nobody but a soldier or a tailor could walk thus. I was not mistaken:
the stranger came straight to me and introduced himself; it was Bamps.
It was necessary to play something like the scene between Don Juan
and M. Dimanche; this was all the more difficult as I had never read
_Don Juan._ However, instinct made up for ignorance. I gave Bamps
a most cordial reception; I introduced him to my mother, to whom,
fortunately, I had said a few words about this my first debt; I offered
him refreshment, and I asked him to sit down, or, if he preferred so to
do, to visit our estate. Under the circumstances, Bamps' choice was a
foregone conclusion: he preferred to visit _our estate._
Now, what was this property of which the reader has already heard me
speak, but which he will assuredly have forgotten? Our estate was the
house of M. Harlay on which my mother had been paying a life-annuity
for something like forty years; M. Harlay had died during my stay with
Maître Lefèvre; but, just as though he had made a wager, he died on
the anniversary of his birth, triumphantly terminating his ninetieth
year!... Unfortunately, his death had not been much advantage to us.
My mother had borrowed, on house and garden, almost as much as house
and garden were worth; so that we were neither richer nor poorer by
this inheritance; though, as there were certain duties to pay, I may
venture to state we were poorer rather than richer. But Bamps knew
none of these details. I therefore offered, as I have said, to take
him over our estate. He accepted. I unchained Pryamus, and we set off.
After going fifty yards, Pyramus left us to follow a butcher boy who
went by with a piece of mutton on his shoulder. I give this detail,
although, at first glance, it may appear very trivial; for it was not
without influence upon my future. For what would have happened to me
and to Bamps if this butcher boy, whose name was Valtat, had not passed
by, and if Pyramus had not followed him? We went on our way, without
thinking of Pyramus. Man jostles up against great events, every moment
of his life, without seeing them and without being conscious of them.
We soon arrived. M. Harlay's house, now our own, was situated in the
place de la Fontaine, perhaps a couple of hundred steps from the house
we lived in. I had taken the keys: I opened the doors, and we began
by looking over the interior of the house. It was not so clean as to
inspire great confidence: everything had grown old along with the
worthy man who had just died in it, and who had taken great care not
to undertake a single repair in it; "for," said he, "it will last as
long as I shall." It had lasted as long as he had, true; but, all the
same, it was time he died. If he had lingered on merely another year
or two with the same intention in his head, he would have out-lasted
the house. The inside of our poor property, then, afforded the most
melancholy sight of complete neglect and dilapidation. The floors were
broken through, the wall-papers torn off, the bricks broken. Bamps
shook his head, and said, in his half Alsacian and half French dialect,
"Ach! My vord! my vord! it is in a fery pad stade."
Most surely would I have offered Bamps the house, in exchange for his
bill, if he would have taken it. When the house had been surveyed, I
said to Bamps--
"Now let us go and see the garden."
"Is de garten in zo pad a stade as de house?" he asked. "Well ... it
has been rather neglected, but now it belongs to us...."
"It vill take much money to restore dis old tumbledown place," Bamps
discreetly observed.
"Bah! we shall find it," I replied: "if it is not in our own pockets,
it will be in someone else's."
"Goot! if you can vind it, zo much de better."
We crossed the yard and entered the garden. It was at the beginning of
April; we had had two or three lovely days--days one knows so well,
on which the year, like a faithful servant, seems to fold up Winter's
white garment, and unfold the green robe of Spring.
Now, although the garden was as neglected as the house, it was
pursuing its work of life, in opposition to the work of death going
on in the house. The house grew older year by year; year by year the
garden renewed its youth. It looked as though the trees had powdered
themselves for a forest ball: apples and pears in white, and peaches
and almonds in pink. You could not imagine anything younger, fresher
or more full of life, than was this garden of death. Everything was
waking up with Nature, as she herself woke up: the birds had begun to
sing, and three or four butterflies, deceived by the flowers and by the
first rays of sunshine, were flying about still somewhat benumbed; poor
ephemera, born in the morning, but to die by night!
"Well," I asked Bamps, "what do you say to the garden?" "Oh! dat is
fery bretty: it is a bity it is not in de rue de Rifoli."
"There will be more than a hundred crowns' worth of fruit in this
garden, you take my word for it."
"Yess, if no pad frosts come."
O Bamps! you Jew, my friend, you tailor, my creditor, you have probably
not read those fine lines of Hugo, which, by the way, were not then
written:--
"Il faut que l'eau s'épuise à courir les valines;
Il faut que l'éclair brille, et brille peu d'instants;
Il faut qu'avril jaloux brûle de ses gelées
Le beau pommier trop fier de ses fleurs etoilées,
Neige odorante du printemps."
We walked round the garden; then, when I fancied satisfaction carried
the day against dissatisfaction, I took Bamps back home. Dinner
was waiting for us. I believe the dinner caused Bamps to go from
satisfaction back to dissatisfaction.
"Ah, veil," he said to me, when he had taken his cup of coffee and his
cognac, "we must now have a liddle talk about business."
"Why not, my dear Bamps? Willingly."
My mother heaved a sigh.
"Veil, then," continued Bamps, "the bill is for a huntred and
vifty-vive francs."
"Towards which I have given you twenty."
"Towards vhich you haf gifen me tventy: so dere is a palance of a
huntred and thirdy-vive. Towards dese huntred and thirdy-vive, you said
you would gif me tventy per month. Two months haf gone py: so dat makes
forty you owe me."
"Exactly forty, my dear sir--you reckon like Barême."
"Veil, I can reckon all right."
The situation was growing embarrassing. Had we opened my poor mother's
banking account and scratched together every farthing, we should
certainly not have been able to find the forty francs demanded. Just at
that moment the door opened.
"Is M. Dumas in?" asked a hoarse, raucous voice.
"Yes, M. Dumas is here," I replied in a bad temper. "What do you want
with him?"
"I don't want him."
"Who does, then?"
"An Englishman at M. Cartier's."
"An Englishman?" I repeated.
"Yes, an Englishman, who is very anxious to see you."
That was my own state of mind too! The Englishman could not be more
anxious to see me than I was to get away from Bamps.
"My dear Bamps," I said to him, "wait for me; I will come back. We will
settle up our account on my return."
"Be qvick back; I must depard dis efening."
"Set your mind at rest about that: I shall be back in an instant."
I took up my cap and followed the stable lad, who had told my mother,
to her great surprise, that he had orders not to go back without me.
Cartier, at whose house was the Englishman who demanded to see me,
was an old friend of our family, the proprietor of the _Boule d'or,_
a hotel situated at the extreme east of the town, on the road to
Soissons. The diligences stopped at his house. There was therefore
nothing surprising that the Englishman who was asking for me should be
staying there: what did astonish me was that this Englishman should
want me. When I appeared in the kitchen, old Cartier, who was warming
himself, according to his usual habit, in the chimney corner, came up
to me.
"Look sharp," he said: "I believe I am going to pull off a good thing
for you."
"Come now, that would be very welcome," I replied; "I was never in
greater need of a lucky windfall."
"Well, follow me."
And Cartier, walking in front of me, led me to a little parlour where
travellers dined. Just as we opened the door, we heard a voice saying,
with a strong English accent--
"Take care, mine host: the dog does not know me, and will run out."
"Never fear, milord," replied Cartier: "I am bringing his master."
Every innkeeper considers an Englishman has the right to the title of
milord; so they use the title unsparingly: true, it usually pays them
to do so.
"Ah! come in, sir," said the Englishman, trying to rise, by leaning
both his elbows on the arms of his chair. He could not succeed. Seeing
this, I hastened to say to him--
"Pray do not disturb yourself, monsieur."
"Oh, I will not disturb myself," said the Englishman, falling back in
his arm-chair with a sigh. The time he took in getting up and falling
back in his chair, with the rising and falling movement suggestive
of an omelette soufflée which has fallen flat, was occupied by me in
quickly glancing at him and his surroundings. He was a man of between
forty and forty-five years of age, of sandy complexion, with his hair
clipped short and his whiskers cut _en collier_; he wore a blue coat
with metal buttons, a chamois leather waistcoat, breeches of grey
woollen material with gaiters to match, after the fashion of grooms. He
was seated before the table where he had just dined. The table bore the
debris of a meal sufficient for six people. He must have weighed from
three hundred to three hundred and fifty pounds. Pyramus was seated on
the parquetry floor, looking very melancholy; round Pyramus were placed
ten or twelve shiny plates, licked clean with that thoroughness I knew
he was capable of in the matter of dirty plates. On the last plate,
however, were some scraps still unconsumed. These unconsumed scraps
were the cause of Pyramus's depressed spirits.
"Please come and speak to me, monsieur," said the Englishman.
I drew near him. Pyramus recognised me, yawned to notify the fact,
stretched himself full length on his stomach so as to get as near to me
as possible, his paws stretched out on the floor, his nose laid on his
paws.
"Yes, monsieur," I said to the Englishman.
"Now!" said he. Then, after a pause, he added--
"That dog of yours has taken my fancy."
"He is greatly honoured, monsieur."
"And they have told me you might perhaps agree to sell him to me, if I
were to pay you a good price for him."
"I shall not need very much persuasion, monsieur; I have been trying to
get rid of him, and since he pleases you ..."
"Oh yes, he pleases me."
"Well, then, take him."
"Oh, I do not want to take the dog without paying for him." Cartier
nudged my elbow.
"Monsieur," I said, "I am not a dealer in dogs: he was given to me, I
will give him to you."
"Well, but he has cost you his keep."
"Oh, the keep of a dog does not come to much."
"Never mind; if is but fair I should pay for his food.... How long have
you had him?"
"Nearly two years."
"Then I owe you for his food for two years."
Cartier continued to nudge my elbow. And it occurred to me that the
dog's keep would help admirably to pay for the master's clothes.
"Very well," said I, "we will settle it so: you shall pay me for his
keep."
"Reckon it up."
"What do you think of fifty francs per year?"
"Oh! oh!"
"Is it too much?" I asked.
"On the contrary, I do not think it is enough: the dog eats a lot."
"Yes, true, monsieur; I was intending to warn you of that." "Oh, I have
witnessed it; but I like animals and people who eat a lot: it shows
they have a good digestion, and a good digestion tends to good humour."
"Very well, then, you shall fix your own charge."
"You said, I think, that it was to be ten napoleons?"
"No, monsieur; I said five napoleons."
Cartier nudged my elbow harder and harder.
"Ah! five napoleons?... You will not take ten?"
"No, monsieur, and only that because I happen at this moment to be in
great need of five napoleons."
"Won't you take fifteen napoleons? I am sure the dog is worth fifteen
napoleons."
"No, no, no, no; give me five napoleons, and he is yours."
"What do you call him?"
"Pyramus."
"Pyramus!" exclaimed the Englishman.
Pyramus did not budge.
"Oh," continued the Englishman, "what did you say you called him?"
"I said Pyramus."
"He did not stir when I called him."
"That is because he is not yet accustomed to your pronunciation."
"Oh, he will soon get used to it."
"There is no doubt of it."
"You think so?"
"I am sure of it."
"Good! I thank you, monsieur: here are the five napoleons."
I hesitated to take them; but in the English accent with which he
pronounced the last words there was an intonation which so cruelly
reminded me of the German accent of Bamps that I decided.
"I am much obliged to you, monsieur," I said.
"On the contrary, it is I who ought to thank you," the Englishman
replied, trying to raise himself afresh--an attempt which was as
abortive as the first.
I made him a sign with my hand, as I bowed; he sank back into his
arm-chair, and I went out.
"Well, now, how did it come about that Pyramus fell into the hands of
such a master?" I asked old Cartier.
"That scamp of a dog was born with a lucky spoon in his mouth!"
"It was the simplest thing in the world. Valtat brought me a piece of
lamb; Pyramus scented the fresh meat; he followed Valtat. Valtat came
here; Pyramus came here. The Englishman got out of the carriage; he
saw your dog. He had been recommended to take shooting exercise: he
asked me if the dog was a good one; I told him it was. He asked me who
owned the dog; I told him it belonged to you. He asked me if you would
consent to sell it; I told him I would send and fetch you, and then
he could ask you himself. I sent for you ... you came ... there's the
whole story.... Pyramus is sold and you are not ill pleased?"
"Why, certainly not! The rascal is such a thief that I should have been
obliged to give him away or to break his neck.... He was ruining us!"
Cartier shrugged his shoulders, as much as to say, "That would not be a
difficult task!" Then, passing to another train of ideas, he said--
"So you have returned home?"
"That is so."
"You were sick of Crespy?"
"I am sick of every place."
"What do you want to do now?"
"Why, I want to go to Paris."
"And when do you start?"
"May be sooner than you think."
"Do not go without giving me an opportunity to pay you out."
"Never fear!"
Before I went to Crespy, I had thoroughly beaten Cartier at billiards.
"Besides," I went on, "if I go, as I shall not leave in any carriage
but one of yours, you can stop me on the step."
"Done!... But this time it must be a struggle to death." "To death!"
"Your five napoleons must be staked."
"You know I never play for money, and as for my five napoleons, they
already have their vocation."
"Well, well, well, adieu."
"_Au revoir._"
And I left Cartier, with this engagement booked. We shall see where it
led me.
When I re-entered the house, I found Bamps, who was beginning to grow
impatient. The first coach for Paris passed through Villers-Cotterets
at eight o'clock in the evening: it was now seven.
"Ah! goot!" he said, "there you are!... I did not regon I should zee
you again."
"What!" I said, imitating his jargon, "you did not regon you should zee
me again?"
Wondrous power of money! I was mocking Bamps, who, an hour before, had
made me tremble with fear. Bamps knit his eyebrows.
"We zay, den?" he said.
"We say that I owe you twenty francs per month--that two months have
gone by without payment--and that, consequently, I owe you forty
francs."
"You owe me vorty vrancs."
"All right, my dear Bamps--here you are!"
And I threw two napoleons on the table, taking care to let the three
others in the palm of my hand be visible. My poor mother looked at me
with the most profound amazement. I reassured her with a sign. The
sign allayed her fears, but not her surprise. Bamps examined the two
napoleons, rubbed them to make sure they were not false, and rolled
them, one after the other, into his pocket.
"You do not vant any more dings?" he asked.
"No, thank you, my dear Monsieur. Besides, I am expecting to leave here
for Paris in a short time."
"You will bear in mind that I have the first claim on your custom?"
"All right, my dear Bamps, for good and all! But if you mean to start
at eight o'clock ...?"
"If I mean to stard--! I should just tink so!"
"Well, then, there is no time to lose."
"The Tevil!"
"You know where the coach stops?"
"Yess."
"Very well, _bon voyage_."
"Atieu! Monsir Toumas! Atieu, Matame Toumas!... Atieu! atieu!"
And Bamps, delighted, not only at having secured forty francs, but
still further at being somewhat reassured about the rest of his
account, set off, wafting us his parting benedictions, with all the
speed his little legs could make.
My mother just waited till she had closed both doors, then she said--
"But where did you get that money, you young rogue?"
"I sold Pyramus, mother."
"For how much?"
"A hundred francs."
"So that there are sixty francs left?"
"At your service, dear mother."
"I am afraid I must take them. I have two hundred francs to pay
to-morrow to the warehouseman, and I only have a hundred and fifty
towards it."
"Here they are ... but on one condition."
"What is it?"
"That you let me have them back again as soon as I set off for Paris."
"With whom are you going?"
"That must be my business."
"Well, so be it.... I really begin to feel as though God were with you."
At this, we both went to bed, with that settled faith that has never
deserted me. And I doubt even whether my mother's faith, at any rate at
that moment, was as strong as mine.