Les Dimanches d’Un Bourgeois
I
Preparing for Excursions
Monsieur Patissot, born in Paris, having failed in his studies at the Collège Henri IV, obtained employment in a government department through the influence of one of his aunts, who kept a cigar store where a chief clerk of the department bought his supply of tobacco. He advanced very slowly and would perhaps have died a fourth-class clerk, had it not been for the benevolent Providence that watches over us all.
When he was about fifty-two years old, he had only begun to explore, as a tourist, that region of France which lies between the fortifications of Paris and the provinces proper. The history of his promotion may be of use to a great many clerks, just as the description of his outings may help a number of Parisians to plan their own trips, thus being able to avoid certain mishaps which befell him.
In 1854, M. Patissot was making only eighteen hundred francs a year. His peculiar disposition rendered him unpopular with his superiors, who let him linger in an eternal and hopeless expectation of the clerk’s ideal, an increase of salary.
Though he worked conscientiously, he did not know how to push, being, he said, too proud to do it. His pride consisted in refusing to bow and scrape before his superiors, after the manner of some of his fellow-workers whom he declined to name. He used to add that his bluntness embarrassed many persons, for, like all the rest, he criticised injustice and the favoritism that was shown to outsiders, strangers to the department. But his indignant voice never passed the door of the little box in which he worked.
First as a clerk, then as a Frenchman, and finally as a man of order, he adhered from principle to all established forms of the government, having a religious reverence for power when it belonged to others than his own chiefs.
Every time he found the chance, he would stand where he could see the Emperor pass, that he might have the honor of raising his hat, and he would depart very proud at having bowed to the Chief of the State.
After repeatedly contemplating the sovereign, he followed the example of a great many of his fellow-citizens: he copied the cut of his Majesty’s beard, of his coat, his style of wearing his hair, his walk, even his mannerisms—how many men in every country seem reproductions of the reigning sovereign! Indeed, he did resemble Napoleon III slightly, but his own hair was black, so he dyed it. The likeness then was striking, and when he chanced to see in the street a man who also resembled the imperial person, he would feel jealous and eye him disdainfully!
This desire of aping some distinguished person grew to be a mania with him, and having heard an usher of the Tuileries imitate the Emperor’s speech, he, too, gradually adopted the intonation and studied slowness of his Majesty’s voice.
He became so identified with his model that they could easily have been mistaken for each other; many persons in the department, even high officials, began to notice the likeness, and regarded it as unseemly and even vulgar. They spoke of it to the minister, who summoned the clerk before him. But when he laid eyes on the Emperor’s counterpart he burst out laughing and repeated several times: “This is funny, really, very funny!” His words were noised around, and the following day Patissot’s immediate chief proposed his subordinate for an increase in salary of three hundred francs, which was immediately granted. From that time, he was promoted regularly, thanks to his simian faculty of imitation. His chiefs even went so far as to imagine that some high honor would come to him one day, and addressed him with deference.
But when the Republic was proclaimed it brought disaster. He felt absolutely crushed and lost his head; he stopped dyeing his hair, shaved off his imperial and had his hair cropped close, thus acquiring an inoffensive and benevolent expression that was most uncompromising.
Then his chiefs sought revenge for the long time he had imposed on them, and, having become Republicans through the instinct of self-preservation, they persecuted him and delayed his promotion. He, too, changed his political faith, but as the Republic was not a living being to whom one might bear a likeness and as its presidents followed one another in rapid succession, he found himself in a predicament, and felt thwarted in his instinct of imitation, because his attempt to copy his latest ideal, M. Thiers, had utterly failed. His peculiar fancy, however, led him to seek continually a new manifestation. He reflected long and earnestly, and one morning appeared at the office with a new hat, the right side of which was decorated with a tiny tricolor rosette. His colleagues were astonished and laughed over it for days. But the gravity of his bearing finally awed them, and again his chiefs felt worried. What mystery lay behind this rosette? Was it only a manifestation of patriotism, the confirmation of his adherence to the Republic, or was it the secret sign of some powerful association?
As he wore it so persistently, his colleagues thought he must have some occult and powerful protection. They decided that at all events it was wise to be on guard, especially as the unruffled calmness with which he received their pleasantries increased their apprehensions. They treated him with great regard, and thus his sham courage saved him, for on the first day of January, 1880, he was appointed head-clerk.
His whole life had been spent indoors. He had remained single for love of tranquillity, as he hated noise and motion. He spent his Sundays reading tales of adventure and ruling blotters, which he used to present to his colleagues. In his whole life he had taken but three vacations of a week each, in order to move to new quarters. Once in a while, on a holiday, he would take an excursion-train to Havre or to Dieppe, to expand and elevate his soul by contemplation of the ocean.
He was full of that common sense which borders on stupidity. For a long time he had been living quietly and economically, temperate out of prudence, continent by temperament, when suddenly he was seized with a sickening apprehension. One evening in the street he had an attack of dizziness that made him fear a stroke of apoplexy. He betook himself to a doctor, and received for five francs the following diagnosis:
“Mr. Patissot, fifty-two years old, a clerk, single. Full-blooded temperament, threatened with apoplexy. Appications of cold water, a moderate diet, plenty of exercise.
Patissot almost collapsed, and during the whole of the following month he worked in his office with a wet towel wrapped around his head like a turban, from which drops of water fell frequently on his work, compelling him to begin it all over again. Every little while he would read over the prescription in the hope of discovering some hidden meaning, and tried to fix upon the kind of exercise that would insure him against apoplexy.
He consulted his friends, to whom he showed the fatal paper. One of them suggested boxing. He at once hunted up an instructor, and received the very first day an uppercut which disgusted him forever with this healthful form of exercise. Fencing stiffened him so that he could not sleep for two nights, and the exertion of singlestick almost killed him. Suddenly he had an inspiration. It was to take long walks on Sundays in the suburbs of Paris and in those parts of the city that were unknown to him.
The thought of the means of procuring a proper outfit for these trips filled his mind during a whole week. And on Sunday, the last day of May, he began his preparations. After reading all the queer advertisements that are distributed in the streets by a lot of poor, half-blind, or limping creatures, he went to various shops just to look around, intending to purchase some time later. He first entered a so-called American shoe-shop and asked to see some thick walking shoes. The clerk brought out some contrivances that looked like ironclad battleships, bristling all over with nails, and explained that they were manufactured from the hide of the Rocky Mountain bisons. He was so carried away with them that he would gladly have bought two pairs. But one sufficed and he laid down the money and departed, carrying the bundle under his arm, which grew lame from the exertion.
He bought a pair of corduroy trousers such as carpenters wear, and also heavy linen gaiters that reached to his knees. He still needed a knapsack in which to carry his provisions, a field glass to reconnoiter distant villages perched on the slope of the hills, and an ordnance map for reference, so that he would not have to question the peasants working in the fields.
Then, to be able to endure the heat, he resolved to buy a light alpaca coat, advertised by the well-known firm of Raminau, at the bargain price of six francs fifty.
He went to the shop, and a tall young man with rosy fingernails, bushy hair, and a pleasant smile, showed him the desired garment. It did not conform to the statements of the advertisement. Patissot inquired hesitatingly: “Will it really wear well?”
The young man simulated perfectly the embarrassment of an honest salesman who does not wish to deceive a customer and, lowering his voice in a confidential manner, he said: “Dear me! Monsieur, you must understand that for six francs and a half we are unable to furnish an article like this, for instance,” and he held up a coat very much better than the other.
After looking it over, Patissot asked the price: Twelve francs fifty. It was a temptation. But before making up his mind, he again questioned the clerk, who was watching him narrowly: “Then you guarantee this one? Is it really good?” “Yes, it’s quite good, but of course it mustn’t get wet! If you want good quality you have it right here, but, there are coats and coats. It is first-rate for the price. Twelve francs fifty, of course, is very little. Naturally, a coat for twenty-five francs would be much better. For this amount you get a very superior article, just as strong as cloth and more durable. After a wetting, a little pressing will make it come out like new; it never fades and is warmer yet lighter than cloth.” And he held up the goods, crumpling, shaking, and stretching it, to show its excellent quality. He spoke convincingly, dispelling the customer’s doubts with word and gesture. Patissot bought the coat, and the pleasant salesman tied the bundle, still lauding the value of the acquisition. When the package was paid for he suddenly stopped talking, and with a superior smile, bowing pleasantly while holding the door, he watched his customer depart, Monsieur Patissot, laden with bundles, trying in vain to raise his hat.
At home Patissot studied his map and tried on his ironclad boots which felt as heavy as skates. He slipped and fell, and vowed he would be more careful in the future. Then he laid out his purchases on a chair and contemplated them a long while, finally retiring to his bed, pondering: “How strange I never thought of taking outings before!”
II
Patissot’s First Outing
Monsieur Patissot worked listlessly during the whole week, dreaming of the outing he had planned for the following Sunday. He was seized with a sudden longing for the country, for green trees, and the desire for rustic scenes that comes to every Parisian in the springtime took possession of his whole being.
He retired early on Saturday night, and was up with the dawn.
His window opened on a dark and narrow courtyard, a sort of shaft, through which floated up all the different odors of the needy families below.
He immediately glanced at the small square of sky that appeared between the roofs, and saw that it was of a deep blue and filled with sunshine.
Swallows darted through it continually, but their flight could be watched only for a second. He thought that from such a height they surely were able to see the country, the green foliage of the wooded hills, and great stretches of horizon.
An insane longing came to him to wander among the cool leaves. So he dressed himself quickly, drew on his heavy boots, and spent a great deal of time lacing the leggings, which were new and strange to him. After strapping his knapsack to his back (it was filled with meat, cheese, and bottles of wine, for the unaccustomed exercise was sure to sharpen his appetite), he started, a stick in his hand. He adopted a well-marked gait (like a soldier’s, he thought), whistling lively airs that lightened his step. People turned around to gaze after him, a dog barked at him, and a cabman called out: “Good luck, Monsieur Dumolet.” But he paid no attention to them, and marched along briskly, proudly swinging his stick.
The city was awakening in the sunlight and the warmth of a fine spring day. The fronts of the houses shone brightly, canaries warbled in their cages, and a joyousness filled the air, lighting up the faces of the passersby with an expression of universal contentment with all things.
He walked toward the Seine to take the boat for Saint-Cloud. Amid the staring curiosity of the passersby, he followed the Rue de la Chaussée d’Antin, the boulevard, and the Rue Royale, mentally comparing himself to the Wandering Jew. In crossing a gutter he slipped on the nails of his shoes and fell to the ground with a terrible rattling in his knapsack. A passerby helped him to his feet and he resumed his walk at a slower pace. When he reached the river he waited for a boat.
He watched it approach under the bridges, looking very small at first, then larger, till it finally assumed in his mind the proportions of an ocean steamer, coming to take him for a long trip across the seas, to visit unknown nations and to see unfamiliar sights. The boat came alongside the landing, and he went aboard. Women in their Sunday clothes, with big red faces, were seated everywhere, arrayed in gorgeous gowns and gay ribbons.
Patissot walked to the bow and stood there, with legs apart, like a sailor, to create the impression that he was used to steamers. But as he feared the pitching of the boat, he rested on his stick, so as to be sure of keeping his equilibrium.
After passing the Pont-du-Jour, the river widened, flowing calmly under the dazzling sunlight; then, after passing between two islands, the boat turned a wooded hill where a great many little white houses peeped through the foliage. A voice shouted Bas-Meudon, Sèvres, Saint-Cloud, and Patissot landed.
On the quay, he reopened his map, in order to avoid making any possible mistakes. Everything was quite clear, however. He had only to follow a road that would take him to Celle, where he would turn first to the left, then a little to the right, and afterward would reach Versailles just in time to visit the park before dinner.
The road was hilly, and Patissot puffed and blew, crushed by the weight of his provisions, his legs sore from his gaiters, and his thick shoes feeling as heavy as cast-iron. Suddenly he stopped with a gesture of despair! in the flurry of his departure he had forgotten the field glass!
At last he reached the woods. Then, notwithstanding the terrific heat, and his perspiring brow, and the weight of his harness and the jerkings of his knapsack, he started on a run or rather on a trot toward the green trees, like some old, worn-out nag.
He entered the deliciously cool shade and gazed tenderly at the thousands of little flowers that grew by the wayside; they looked very delicate on their long stems and were all different, some yellow, some blue, some lavender. Insects of various colorings and shapes, long, short, of wonderful build, monsters both tiny and fearful, were ascending with difficulty the blades of grass, which bent under their weight. And Patissot began to admire creation sincerely. But being exhausted he sat down.
He wanted to take a bite. But on examining his provisions, he was amazed at their condition. One of the bottles had been broken in his fall and the contents, unable to find an outlet through the oilcloth, had made a wine soup of his food.
However, he managed to eat a slice of cold leg of mutton, carefully wiped off, a slice of ham, several crusts of bread, soaked and red, and he quenched his thirst with some fermented claret that was covered with an unappetizing pink foam.
After resting nearly two hours, he again consulted his map and went on his way.
In time, he found himself at an entirely unexpected crossroad. He looked at the sun, tried to locate himself, reflected, studied the multitude of fine crosslines on his map that represented the roads, and finally reached the conclusion that he was lost.
Before him lay a most alluring path, specked with drops of sunshine that illuminated the white daisies hidden in the grass. It seemed endless, and was quite still and deserted.
A solitary bumblebee frolicked around, now and then lighting on a flower, to leave it almost immediately for a new resting-place. Its fat body, supported by tiny transparent wings, looked like brown velvet streaked with yellow. Patissot was watching it with keen interest, when something stirred at his feet. At first he was frightened and jumped aside, but stooping carefully, he saw that it was a frog no larger than a nut, which was making gigantic leaps.
He bent down to catch it, but it slid between his fingers. Then, with infinite precautions, he crawled toward it on his hands and knees, advancing very slowly, and looking like a tremendous waddling turtle, with his knapsack on his back. When he was near enough to the little creature, he prepared his attack, threw out both hands, fell flat on his nose in the grass, and picked himself up, clutching two handfuls of dirt but no frog. He looked for it a long time, but in vain.
As soon as he was on his feet, he perceived, at a great distance, two figures coming toward him and making signs. A woman was waving a parasol and a man in shirtsleeves was carrying a coat over his arm. Then the woman began to run, calling out: “Monsieur! Monsieur!” He wiped his brow and replied: “Madame!”
“Monsieur, we are lost, positively lost,” said the lady, as she approached him.
A feeling of shame prevented him from making a similar confession and he gravely asserted: “You are on the road to Versailles.”
“What, on the road to Versailles? Why, we are going to Rueil,” said she.
He was taken aback, but nevertheless replied calmly: “Madame, I will prove to you with my map that you are really on the road to Versailles.”
The husband approached. He wore a hopeless, distracted expression. His wife, a young and pretty brunette, grew furious as soon as he drew near. “Now see what you’ve done! Here we are at Versailles. Please look at the map that Monsieur is kind enough to show you. Are you able to read? Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! how stupid some people are! Didn’t I tell you to take to the right? But you wouldn’t listen, no, you think you know everything!”
The poor fellow seemed exceedingly distressed, and replied: “But, my dear, it is you—”
She refused to let him continue and began to reproach him with all the misfortunes of all their life, from their marriage to that moment. But he kept casting despairing glances toward the woods, anxiously scanning the path and uttering from time to time a piercing sound something like a single word, Tuit. This did not appear to disturb his wife, but it filled Patissot with astonishment.
Suddenly the young woman, turning with a smile to the chief clerk, remarked: “If Monsieur will permit us, we will accompany him, so as to keep from getting lost and being obliged to sleep in the woods.”
As Patissot could not very well refuse, he bowed with a heavy heart, tortured with apprehension, and not knowing where he could lead them.
They walked a long while; the man was continually crying: Tuit; and at last darkness settled. The veil of mist that hovers over the country at dusk slowly descended and the delightful coolness which fills the woods at nightfall lent a peculiar charm to the atmosphere. The young wife had taken Patissot’s arm, and her red lips addressed continual reproaches to her husband, who made no reply but kept on calling: Tuit louder and louder. At last the fat clerk inquired: “What is that call for?”
The man, with tears in his eyes, replied:
“I’ve lost my poor dog!”
“What, you’ve lost your dog?”
“Yes, we brought him up in Paris and he had never been in the country before. When he saw the leaves he acted like a mad thing. He ran into the woods and I haven’t seen him since. He will surely starve to death there.”
The young wife shrugged her shoulders: “When a person is as stupid as you are, he cannot keep dogs.”
But he had suddenly stopped, and began to feel himself all over. She watched him a moment, and then asked:
“Well, what has happened now?”
“I didn’t notice that I had my coat on my arm. I have lost my purse, with my money in it!”
At this turn of affairs the woman choked with rage. Finally she said:
“Well, then go back at once and look for it.”
Gently he answered: “Yes, my dear, but where shall I find you?”
Patissot replied boldly: “At Versailles.” And he mentioned the Hotel des Réservoirs, having heard people speak of it.
The husband turned back, anxiously scanning the ground as he walked away, and shouting Tuit every minute. It was some time before he disappeared; at last he was lost in the darkness, but his voice still sounded at a great distance uttering its lamentable Tuit, the call growing sharper and sharper as the path grew darker and his hope became more faint.
Patissot felt delightfully moved when he found himself alone in the woods, at the mysterious hour of dusk, with this little strange woman clinging to his arm. For the first time in all his egotistical life, he had an inkling of poetical love, of the charm of sweet surrender, and of nature’s participation in our affections. He racked his brain in vain for some appropriate and gallant expression. But they were nearing a village road, and saw some houses at the right; then a man passed them. Patissot tremblingly inquired the name of the place. The man said it was Bougival.
“What, Bougival? Are you sure?”
“I should think so! I live here.”
The young woman was laughing uproariously. The idea that her husband was lost filled her with mirth. Patissot found a rustic restaurant near the water, and there they dined. The lady was charming, vivacious, full of amusing stories that turned the head of her companion. When it was time to leave, she exclaimed: “Why, now that I think of it, I haven’t a cent of change; you know my husband lost his purse.”
Patissot immediately offered her his own, and pulled out a louis, thinking he couldn’t lend her less. She said nothing, but held out her hand and took it, uttering a dignified, “Thank you, Monsieur,” followed by a pretty smile. Then she tied her bonnet-strings in front of the mirror, refused to let him accompany her, now that she knew her way, and departed like a vanishing bird, leaving Patissot to add up mournfully the expenses of his outing.
He stayed at home the next day on account of a sick-headache.
III
A Visit
During a whole week Patissot related his adventure to everyone that would listen to him, describing poeticaly the places he had visited, and growing indignant at the little enthusiasm he aroused among his colleagues. Only Monsieur Boivin, an old clerk nicknamed “Boileau,” lent him undivided attention. He lived in the country and had a small garden on which he lavished a great deal of care; he was content with little and was said to be perfectly happy. Patissot was now able to understand him, and the similarity of their tastes made them fast friends. To seal this budding friendship, Père Boivin invited him to breakfast the following Sunday at his little house in Colombes.
Patissot took the eight o’clock train, and after looking a long while discovered in the very heart of the town, an obscure street, a sort of filthy passageway enclosed by two high walls. At the end appeared a moldy door fastened with a string wound around two nails. He opened it and was confronted by an indescribable creature, apparently a woman. The upper part of her body was wrapped in a dirty shawl, a ragged skirt hung around her hips, and her frowsy hair was filled with pigeon feathers. Her little gray eyes scanned the visitor inhospitably; after a pause she inquired: “What do you wish?”
“Monsieur Boivin.”
“He lives here. What do you want of Monsieur Boivin?”
Patissot was embarrassed, and hesitated.
“Why—he expects me.”
Her manner became fiercer and she replied: “Oh! you’re the one, are you, who is coming for breakfast?”
He stammered a trembling “Yes.” Turning toward the house she yelled:
“Boivin, here’s the man!”
Boivin instantly appeared in the doorway of a sort of plaster structure, covered with tin, that looked something like a chaufferette. He wore a pair of soiled white trousers and a dirty straw hat. He shook hands with Patissot and carried him off to what he proudly termed his garden; it was a little piece of ground about as big as a handkerchief, surrounded by houses. The sun shone on it only two or three hours every day; pansies, carnations, and a few rosebushes vegetated in this dark well, heated like a furnace by the radiation of the sun on the roofs. “We have no trees,” he said, “but the high walls are just as good, and it is as shady here as in the woods.”
Then, laying his hand on Patissot’s arm, he said: “Will you do me a favor? You’ve seen the old woman—she isn’t very easy, is she? But you haven’t heard all, wait till breakfast. Just think, to keep me at home, she locks up my office suit and lets me have only clothes that are too soiled to wear in the city. Today I’m dressed decently because I told her that you were coming. That’s understood. But I cannot water the flowers for fear of soiling my trousers, and if I do that I’m lost! I thought you might do it for me.”
Patissot consented, took off his coat, rolled up his sleeves, and began to work the pump, that wheezed and blew like a consumptive and gave out a stream of water about as big as his little finger. It took ten minutes to fill the watering-can. Patissot was dripping with perspiration. Boivin directed his efforts. “Here, water this plant—a little more. That’s enough! Now to this one.”
The can leaked, and Patissot’s feet got more water than the flowers, so that the edges of his trousers were soaked with mud. Twenty times at least he went to and fro, wetting his feet, and perspiring violently whenever he worked the pump handle; and when he was exhausted and wished to stop, old Boivin would pull him by the sleeve, and plead: “Just one more can, just one, and that will be enough.”
As a reward, he gave him a full-blown rose which lost all its petals as soon as it came in contact with Patissot’s coat, leaving in his buttonhole a sort of greenish pear, that caused him great surprise. He didn’t care to make any comment, however, out of politeness, and Boivin did not appear to notice it.
Suddenly Madame Boivin’s voice rang out: “Well! are you coming? How many times shall I tell you that it’s ready?”
They walked toward the chaufferette, trembling like two culprits.
If the garden was shady the house was not, and the heat of the rooms was worse than that of an oven.
Three plates, flanked with greasy forks and knives, had been laid on a dirty wooden table, in the middle of which stood a dish filled with soup-meat and potatoes floating around in some sort of liquid. They sat down and began to eat.
A large decanter filled with pinkish water attracted Patissot’s eye. Boivin, slightly embarrassed, mentioned it to his wife saying: “Dear, couldn’t you give us today a little pure wine?”
She eyed him furiously, then burst out:
“So that you can both get drunk, I suppose, and carouse here all day? No, thank you!” He said no more. After the ragout the woman brought in another dish of potatoes prepared with rancid lard, and when, still silent, they had finished, she declared:
“That’s all there is. Now get out.”
Boivin stared at her in amazement.
“What has happened to the pigeon you were picking this morning?” he inquired.
She put her hands on her hips.
“You haven’t had enough, I suppose? Is it a reason, because you bring people here, to eat up everything there is in the house? What do you think I’ll have to eat tonight, sir?”
The two men arose and stood in the doorway. Boivin whispered in Patissot’s ear:
“Wait for me a minute, and we’ll set out.” He went into the next room to finish dressing, and Patissot overheard the following dialogue:
“Give me twenty sous, dear.”
“What do you want them for?”
“Why, I don’t know what may happen; it is always safer to have some money.”
She screamed so as to be heard outside: “No, sir, I shan’t give it to you. After this man has breakfasted here, the least he can do is to pay your expenses.”
Boivin joined Patissot; the latter, wishing to be polite, bowed to the mistress of the house, stammering:
“Madame—delightful time—many thanks—”
She answered:
“That’s all right, but don’t you bring him home intoxicated, or you will be sorry!”
And they set out.
They walked to the Seine and stopped in front of an island covered with poplar-trees.
Boivin looked at the river tenderly and squeezed his friend’s arm.
“In a week we’ll be there, Monsieur Patissot.”
“Where shall we be, Monsieur Boivin?”
“Why, at the beginning of the fishing season: it opens on the fifteenth.”
Patissot felt a slight tremor pass over him, like the commotion which is felt on seeing for the first time the woman who is to be one’s fate. He replied:
“Ah! so you fish, Monsieur Boivin?”
“Do I fish, Monsieur? Why, it’s my only delight!”
Patissot then questioned him closely. Boivin named all the fish that frolicked in that dirty water. And Patissot believed that he saw them. Boivin designated the various baits, the hooks, the places and the time favorable to catching each species. And Patissot felt that he knew more about fishing than Boivin himself. They agreed to meet for the overture on the following Sunday, for Patissot’s special benefit. He was delighted to have found such an experienced initiator.
They dined in a sort of dark hovel patronized by the fishermen and the rabble of the place. At the door Boivin thought fit to remark:
“It doesn’t look like much, but it’s very nice inside.”
They seated themselves at a table. After the second glass of claret Patissot knew why Madame Boivin gave her spouse reddened water; the little man was losing his head; he talked at random, got up, wanted to play tricks, acted as peacemaker in a drunken quarrel, and would have been killed, as well as Patissot, had not the owner of the place interfered. After the coffee he was so intoxicated that he could not stand, despite his friend’s efforts to keep him from drinking; and when they departed Patissot had to guide his faltering steps.
They walked across the meadows, and after wandering around for a long time in the dark, lost their way. Suddenly they found themselves amid a thicket of tall sticks that reached to their noses.
It was a vineyard. They felt around a long time, unsteady, maudlin, and unable to find a way out. At last Boivin fell over a stick that scratched his face, and he sat down on the ground yelling at the top of his voice with a drunkard’s obstinacy, while Patissot, distracted, shouted for assistance.
A belated peasant went to their rescue and put them on the right road.
But as they approached Boivin’s home Patissot became timorous. At last they arrived at the door; it was suddenly flung open and Madame Boivin, like the furies of old, appeared with a light in her hand. As soon as she saw her husband she jumped at Patissot, screaming:
“Ohl you scoundrel! I knew that you would get him drunk.”
The poor fellow was seized with an insane terror, and, dropping his friend in the slimy gutter of the passageway, he ran as fast as his legs would carry him toward the railway station.
IV
Fishing
The day before he was to throw a bait into the river for the first time in his life, Monsieur Patissot bought for eighty centimes a pamphlet entitled, “The Perfect Fisherman.”
Besides gleaning from it much useful information, he was greatly impressed with the style, and learned by heart the following excerpt:
In a word, if you wish to succeed, and be able to fish right and left, up or down stream, without care or precautions of any kind, and with that conquering air that admits of no defeat, then fish before, during, and after a thunderstorm, when the sky opens and is streaked with lightning and the earth echoes with the rolling of thunder; it is then that the fish, either from terror or avidity, forget their habits in a sort of universal and turbulent flight.
In the confusion resulting, you may follow or neglect all the signs that indicate favorable conditions, for you are sure of marching to victory.
In order to be able to catch fish of different sizes, he bought three poles so constructed as to simulate walking-sticks in the city; on the river, a slight jerk would transform them into fishing-rods. He purchased the smaller hooks for fry and with sizes 12 and 15 he hoped to fill his basket with carp and flounders. He refrained from buying groundworms, because he knew that he could find them everywhere, but he secured a provision of sandworms.
In the evening, at home, he gazed at them with interest. The hideous creatures swarmed in their bran bath as in putrefied meat. Patissot began to practice fastening them to the hooks. He took one out with disgust, but had hardly laid it on the sharp end of the curved steel before it burst and spilled its insides. He tried to bait a hook at least twenty times without success, and probably would have continued all night had he not feared to exhaust his supply.
He started next morning on the first train. The station was crowded with people armed with fishing-rods, some, like Patissot’s, looking like walking-sticks, while others, all in one piece, pointed their slender ends toward heaven, forming as it were, a forest of reeds that clashed and mingled like swords, or swayed like masts above an ocean of broad-brimmed straw hats.
When the locomotive pulled out of the station fishing-rods were sticking out of every window of the train, which looked like a huge spiked caterpillar unrolling itself through the fields.
The passengers got out at Courbevoie, and almost fought to get seats in the diligence for Bezons. A crowd of fishermen swung themselves on top of the omnibus, and as they were holding their rods in their hands, the conveyance suddenly took on the appearance of a large porcupine.
All along the road men were going in one direction, looking like pilgrims on the way to an unknown Jerusalem. They walked hurriedly carrying tin boxes fastened on their backs—their swaying rods resembling the staffs of the ancient knights on their way back from Palestine.
At Bezons the river could be seen. The banks were lined with people, many men in frock-coats and others in blouses, women, children, and even young girls; they were all fishing.
Patissot immediately started for the dam where his friend Boivin was waiting. The latter greeted him rather coldly. He had just become acquainted with a big, fat man about fifty years old, having a sunburned countenance, who seemed very well informed on all fishing matters. The three men hired a boat and settled themselves almost under the fall of the dam, where the largest number of fish is generally found. Boivin was ready at once, and having baited his hook he threw it in the river and watched, motionless, with rapt attention, the bobbing of the tiny buoy. Occasionally he would pull the line out of the water and throw it in again further away. The fat man, after throwing his well-baited hooks, laid the rod by his side, filled his pipe and lighted it, folded his arms, and, without glancing once at the cork, dreamily fell to watching the water. Patissot tried to fasten his baits to the hooks, but they burst every time. After a few minutes he hailed Boivin: “Monsieur Boivin, would you be kind enough to put these creatures on the hooks? I have tried, but cannot succeed.” Boivin lifted his head. “I would request you not to interrupt me, Monsieur Patissot; we are not here for pleasure.” He baited the line, however, and Patissot threw it into the river, carefully imitating his friend’s motions.
The boat pitched recklessly, shaken by the waves and spun around like a top by the current, though it was anchored at both ends; and Patissot, absorbed in the sport, felt vaguely uncomfortable and dizzy.
They had taken nothing as yet; Père Boivin was getting very nervous and was shaking his head despairingly, and Patissot was very greatly affected thereby; only the fat man sat motionless and continued to smoke quietly, without paying the slightest attention to his line. At last, Patissot, becoming quite downhearted, turned to him and remarked sadly:
“They don’t bite, do they?”
He simply replied:
“No, they don’t!”
Patissot considered him with surprise.
“Do you sometimes make a good haul?”
“Never!”
“What! never?”
The fat man, smoking like a factory chimney, let out the following words which filled his neighbor with consternation:
“You see, I wouldn’t like it a bit if they did bite. I don’t come here to fish, but merely because I like the spot; you get a good shaking up, as you do on the sea. If I take a rod along, I only do it to appear like the rest of them.”
Monsieur Patissot quite to the contrary, was feeling miserable. His discomfort, at first ill defined, was increasing and taking on a definite form. He felt indeed, as if he were on the ocean and decidedly seasick.
After the first attack had passed off, he proposed that they should leave, but Boivin became furious at this suggestion and almost annihilated him. The fat man, however, moved by pity, insisted on returning, and when Patissot’s dizziness was dispelled they bethought themselves of breakfast.
Two restaurants were near at hand. One was quite small and looked like a beer-garden, being patronized by the poorer class of fishermen. The other, called Le Châlet des Tilleuls, looked like a cottage, and drew the élite of the sportsmen. The two hosts, born enemies, watched each other with keen hatred across a field that separated them, on which the house of the dam-keeper and garde-pêche was built. Of these two officials, one was in favor of the beer-garden and the other of the cottage, and the dissensions of those isolated houses reproduced the history of the entire human race.
Boivin, who patronized the beer-garden, wished to go there, saying: “The service is excellent and it’s cheap; you will see. Anyway, Monsieur Patissot, don’t hope to get me intoxicated, as you did last Sunday; my wife was furious, and swears that she will never forgive you!”
The fat man declared that Les Tilleuls was the only place for him, because, he said, it was a fine house where the cooking was as good as in the best Paris restaurants. “As you please,” replied Boivin, “I’m going where I always go.” And he departed. Vexed at his friend, Patissot followed the fat man.
They breakfasted together, exchanged their views on various subjects, communicated their impressions, and discovered that they were made for each other.
After breakfast everyone went back to fish, but the two new friends started to walk along the bank and stopped near the railway bridge. They threw out their lines and began to talk. The fish still refused to bite, but Patissot had become resigned.
A family came up. The father wore a beard and carried an immensely long rod; three boys of different sizes were carrying poles of various lengths, according to age; and the portly mother gracefully held a charming rod decorated at the handle with a ribbon. The father bowed.
“Is this spot favorable, gentlemen?” he inquired.
Patissot was going to speak when his friend answered:
“Fine!”
The whole family smiled and settled around the two fishermen. Patissot felt then an overpowering desire to catch something, just one fish of any kind, if only as big as a fly, so as to win the consideration of these people; and he began to handle his rod as he had seen Boivin handle his that morning. He would let the cork follow the stream to the end of the line, then gave a jerk and pulled the hook out of the river; then describing a large circle in the air, he would throw it in a little farther away.
He was thinking he had mastered the trick of throwing the line gracefully, when suddenly the rod that he had just jerked with a rapid wrist motion caught somewhere behind him. He pulled; a scream rent the air, and he beheld fastened to one of the hooks and traveling through the sky like a meteor, a magnificent bonnet, trimmed with flowers, which he landed in the middle of the river.
He turned around wildly and let go of his line; it followed the bonnet that was being carried down the river, while the fat man lay on his back and roared with laughter. The lady disheveled and amazed, choked with rage; her husband also grew angry and demanded the price of the bonnet, for which Patissot paid at least three times its value.
Then the whole family departed with much dignity.
Patissot took another rod and sat bathing sandworms until night. His neighbor slept soundly on the grass, and awoke about seven o’clock.
“Let’s leave,” said he.
So Patissot pulled in his line, but gave a cry and sat down hard in his astonishment. A tiny fish was wriggling at the end of the string. On examining it they found that it was pierced through the middle; the hook had caught in it when being drawn out of the water.
It gave Patissot triumphant, unbounded joy. He wanted it fried for himself alone.
During dinner the intimacy of the two friends increased. Patissot learned that the big man lived in Argenteuil and had sailed boats for thirty years without discouragement. He agreed to breakfast with him the following Sunday, and to take a sail in his clipper, the Plongeon.
He was so interested in the conversation that he forgot all about his catch. After the coffee it recurred to him and he insisted that it should be served.
It looked like a yellow and twisted match dropped in the middle of the plate. But he ate it with pride, and going home on the omnibus he told his fellow-passengers that he had caught fourteen pounds of fry that day.
V
Two Famous Men
Monsieur Patissot had promised his friend, the boating man, that he would spend the following Sunday with him. An unforeseen circumstance interfered with his plans. He met one of his cousins whom he very seldom saw. He was an amiable journalist, standing very well in all the various social sets, and he offered his assistance to Patissot to show him all sorts of interesting things.
“What are you going to do next Sunday, for instance?” he inquired.
“I am going to Argenteuil to have some boating.”
“Oh, come, now! That’s a bore, your boating; there is no variety in it. I’ll take you with me. I will introduce you to two celebrated men, and we’ll visit the homes of two artists.”
“But I am ordered to go to the country.”
“I’ll make a call on Meissonier, on the way, at his place at Poissy. Then we’ll walk to Medan, where Zola lives. I have a commission to secure his next novel for our journal.”
Patissot, wild with joy, accepted the invitation.
He even bought a new frock-coat, that he might make a good appearance, his old one being a little worn, and he was horribly afraid lest he should say foolish things, either to the painter or the man of letters, as most persons do when they speak about an art which they have never practised.
He told his fears to his cousin, who began to laugh, saying to him: “Bah! Only pay compliments, nothing but compliments, always compliments, that carries off the foolish things, if you happen to say any. You know Meissonier’s pictures?”
“I should think so!”
“You have read the Rougon-Macquart series?”
“From beginning to end.”
“That suffices. Mention a picture from time to time, speak of a novel occasionally, and add ‘Superb! Extraordinary!! Delicious execution!! Wonderfully powerful!’ That is the way to get along. I know that those two men are fearfully surfeited with everything: but you see praises always please an artist.”
Sunday morning they set out for Poissy.
They found Meissonier’s place a few steps from the station at the end of the church square. Passing through a low gate painted red, which led into a magnificent arbor of vines, the journalist stopped, and turning toward his companion, asked:
“What do you think Meissonier is like?”
Patissot hesitated. Finally he replied:
“A small man, very well groomed, shaven, and with a military air.” The other man smiled and said:
“That is good. Come.”
An odd structure built like a chalet appeared at the left, and at the right, almost opposite a little tower, was the main house. It was a singular looking building, with a little of all styles of architecture about it—the Gothic fortress, the manor, the villa, the cottage, the residence, the cathedral, the mosque, the pyramid, with a strange mingling of Oriental and Occidental methods of building. It was certainly of a most wonderfully complicated style, enough to drive a classical architect crazy; nevertheless, there was something fantastic and beautiful about it, and it had been planned by the painter and executed under his orders.
They entered: a collection of trunks filled a little parlor. A small man appeared clad in a jacket. The most striking thing about him was his beard; it was a prophet’s beard, of incredible size, a river, a flood, a Niagara of a beard. He greeted the journalist:
“Pardon me, my dear Monsieur, but I arrived only yesterday, and everything is still at sixes and sevens in the house. Sit down.”
The other refused, excusing himself:
“My dear master, I, came only to present my homage, as I was passing by.” Patissot, very much embarrassed, kept bowing at each of his friend’s words, as if by an automatic movement, and he murmured, stammering a little: “What a su‑su‑superb place!” The painter, flattered, smiled pleasantly, and offered to show it to them.
He led them first to a little pavilion of feudal aspect, in which was his former studio, looking out on a terrace. Then they passed through a drawing room, a dining room, a vestibule full of marvelous works of art, of adorable Beauvais, and hung with Gobelin and Flanders tapestries. But the strange luxury of ornamentation of the exterior became, on the inside, a luxury of prodigious stairways. It was a magnificent stairway of honor, a hidden stairway in one tower, and one for the servants in another; stairways everywhere! There Patissot by chance opened a door and retreated stupefied. It was a veritable temple, this place, the name of which respectable people pronounce only in English; an original and charming sanctuary, fitted up in exquisite taste, adorned like a pagoda, the decoration of which had surely cost great efforts of thought!
They next visited the park, which was complex, varied, tortuous with many fine old trees. But the journalist insisted on going away, and with many thanks he left the master.
They met a gardener as they were departing. Patissot asked him: “Has Monsieur Meissonier owned this place long?”
The old man replied: “Oh! Monsieur, I must explain. He bought the land in 1846, but the house—he has torn it down and rebuilt it five or six times. I am sure he has spent two millions on it, Monsieur!”
And Patissot, as he went away, was filled with an immense consideration for the artist, not so much on account of his great success, his fame, and his genius, but because he spent so much money for a fancy, while ordinary bourgeois deprived themselves of the gratifying of all fancies in order to hoard money.
After passing through Poissy, they set out on foot along the road to Medan. The highway at first follows the Seine, which is dotted with charming islands at this place. They climbed a hill to pass through the pretty village of Villaines, descended a bit, and finally reached the section of the country where dwelt the author of the Rougon-Macquart novels.
An old and pretty church, flanked by two little towers, stood on the left. They took a few steps further, and a passing peasant showed them the door of the great writer of romance.
Before entering, they examined the house. It was a great structure, square and new and very tall, and appeared to have given birth, like the mountain and the mouse in the fable, to a tiny white house, nestling at its base. The small house was the original residence, and had been built by the former proprietor. The tower had been erected by M. Zola.
They rang. A huge dog, a cross between a St. Bernard and a Newfoundland, began to growl so fiercely that Patissot felt a vague desire to retrace his steps. But a servant, running forward, quieted the animal, calling it Bertrand, opened the door, and took the journalist’s card to carry it to his master.
“If he will only receive us!” murmured Patissot: “I should be very sorry to come so far without seeing him.”
His companion smiled:
“Never fear,” said he, “I have my own idea about getting in.”
But the domestic, returning, simply asked them to follow him.
They entered the new building, and Patissot, greatly moved, puffed as he climbed a stairway of ancient form, leading to the second floor.
He tried at the same time to picture to himself this man, whose glorious name resounded at that moment in all the corners of the world, amid the exasperated hatred of some, the real or feigned indignation of the “upper circles” of society, the envious dislike of certain compeers, the respect of a multitude of readers, and the frantic admiration of a great many: and he expected to see a sort of bearded giant, of terrible aspect, appear, with a resounding voice, and at first not very prepossessing.
The door opened into an extremely large and high room, fully lighted by a window looking out on the plain. Ancient tapestries covered the walls; on the left of the entrance, a monumental fireplace flanked by two stone men, could have burned a hundred-year-old oak-tree in a day; and an immense table, upon which were books, papers, and journals, occupied the middle of this apartment, which was so vast and grand that it at once engrossed the eye, and the attention was only afterward directed to its occupant, who was stretched out, as they entered, upon an Oriental divan on which twenty persons could have slept.
He took a few steps toward them, bowed, pointed to two seats, and sat down again upon his divan, with one leg bent under him. A book lay at his side, and with his right hand he played with an ivory paper-cutter, the tip of which he looked at from time to time, with one eye only, shutting the other with the habit of the nearsighted.
While the journalist was explaining the object of his visit, and the writer was listening without yet replying, looking fixedly at him, at certain moments, Patissot, more and more ill at ease, gazed at this celebrity.
Hardly forty years of age, he was of medium stature, rather stout, and of pleasing appearance. His head, like those found in many Italian paintings of the sixteenth century, without being handsome in the sculptor’s sense of the word, conveyed an impression that he possessed great power and intelligence. The short hair stood up on the well-developed head, above a thick black mustache; and the whole chin was covered with a beard trimmed close to the skin. The dark glance, often ironical, was penetrating; giving the impression that behind it an active brain was always working, piercing through persons, interpreting words, analyzing gestures, laying bare the heart. That strong, round head was very like his name, quick and short, with two syllables, bounding in the resonance of the two vowels.
When the journalist had made his proposition, the writer answered that he could not make any definite engagement, that he would see about it later; that as yet his plans were not sufficiently decided. Then he was silent. It was a dismissal, and the two men, a little confused, rose. But a desire seized Patissot; he desired that this personage, so well known, should say a word to him, any word whatsoever, which he could repeat to his friends; and summoning up courage, he stammered: “Oh! Monsieur, if you knew how much I appreciate your works!” The other bowed, but did not reply. Patissot became bold. He continued:
“It is a very great honor for me to speak to you today.”
The writer bowed again, but with a stiff and impatient air. Patissot perceived this, and losing his head, he added:
“What a su‑su‑su‑superb place!”
Then the spirit of the proprietor awaked in the indifferent heart of the man of letters, and smiling, he opened the window to show them the extent of the view.
There was an extensive view in all directions, including Triel, Pisse-Fontaine, Chanteloup, all the heights of Hautrie, and the Seine, as far as the eye could reach.
The two visitors, delighted, congratulated the great writer; and immediately the house was open to them. They saw everything, even to the fine kitchen, the walls of which, inlaid with tiles in blue designs, excited the wonder of the peasants.
“How did you happen to buy this place?” asked the journalist. And the romancer said that, in looking for a house to hire for a summer, he had found the little house, recently built, which was for sale at a few thousand francs, a trifle, almost nothing. He had bought it on the spot.
“But everything you have added must have cost you dear?”
The writer smiled, saying:
“Yes, considerable.”
And the two men went away.
The journalist, taking Patissot’s arm, philosophized in a slow voice: “Every general has his Waterloo,” said he. “Every Balzac has his foible, and every artist residing in the country has a desire to be a landed proprietor.”
They took the train at the station of Villaines, and in the car, Patissot mentioned in a loud voice the names of the illustrious painter and famous romancer, as if they were his friends. He even forced himself to believe that he had breakfasted with one and dined with the other.
VI
Before the Festival
The festival was approaching and the quiverings of it were already running through the streets, as ripples pass over the surface of the water when a storm is rising. The shops, adorned with flags, displayed a gaiety of dyes, and the merchants cheated about the three colors as grocers do over their candles. Hearts were wrought up, little by little. Citizens spoke in the streets, after dinner, about the festival and exchanged ideas regarding it.
“What a festival it will be, my friends, what a festival!”
“You didn’t know? All the sovereigns will come incognito, as bourgeois, to see it.”
“It seems that the Emperor of Russia has arrived; he intends to go everywhere with the Prince of Wales.”
“Oh! What a festival it will be!”
It would be a festival, certainly, what Monsieur Patissot called a great occasion; one of those indescribable tumults that for fifteen hours roll from one end of the city to another all the populace, bedizened with tinsel, a wave of perspiring people, where, side by side are tossed the stout gossip with tricolored ribbons, puffing and panting, who has grown stout behind her counter; the rickety employee, towing his wife and brat; the workingman, carrying his youngster astride his neck; the bewildered provincial, with his stupefied, idiotic physiognomy, the lightly-shaved groom still smelling of the stable. And the strangers dressed like monkeys, the English women, like giraffes, the shining-faced water-carrier, and the innumerable phalanx of little bourgeois, inoffensive citizens, amused at everything. O topsy-turvyness, backbreaking fatigue, sweat and dust, vociferations, eddies of human flesh, extermination of corns, bewilderment of all thought, frightful odors, breaths of the multitudes, wafts of garlic, give, oh, give to Monsieur Patissot all the joy his heart can contain!
Our worthy friend made his preparations for the festival after reading the proclamation of the mayor on the walls of the district.
This notice ran:
It is principally to the private decorations that I wish to call your attention. Decorate your homes, illuminate your windows, unite, club together, to give your houses and your streets a more brilliant and more artistic appearance than that of the neighboring houses and streets.
Monsieur Patissot pondered deeply over what artistic appearance he could give his own house.
A serious obstacle presented itself. His only window looked upon a court, a dark court, narrow and deep, where only the rats would see his Venetian lanterns.
He must have a public opening. He found one. On the first floor of his house lived a rich man, a noble and a royalist, whose coachman, also a reactionist, occupied a room on the sixth floor, facing the street. Monsieur Patissot supposed that, for a certain price, any conscience could be bought, and he offered five francs to this wielder of the whip to give up to him his room, from noon to midnight. The offer was accepted at once.
Then he began to busy himself about the decorations. Were three flags and four Chinese lanterns enough to give to this snuffbox an artistic physiognomy and to express all the exaltation of his soul? No, decidedly not! But, in spite of long researches and nocturnal meditations, Monsieur Patissot could not think of anything else. He consulted his neighbors, who were astounded at his inquiry. He questioned his colleagues. Everybody had purchased lanterns and flags, attaching to them tricolored decorations for the day.
Then he began to seek for an original idea. He haunted cafés, approaching the customers, but they were lacking in imagination. Then one morning he climbed to the top of an omnibus. A gentleman of respectable aspect was smoking a cigar at his side; a workingman further off puffed at his reversed pipe; two street-boys were near the coachman; and employees of all sorts were going to business for the price of three sous.
Before the shops bundles of flags were resplendent under the rising sun. Patissot turned toward his neighbor.
“This will be a fine festival,” said he. The gentleman gave a side glance and replied with an arrogant air: “It’s all the same to me!”
“You are not going to take part in it?” Patissot asked, surprised.
The other disdainfully shook his head.
“They make me sick with their festival! What is it the festival of? The government? I don’t recognize this government, Monsieur.”
But Patissot, himself an employee of the government, sternly answered:
“The government, Monsieur, is the Republic.”
His neighbor was not disconcerted, and, quietly putting his hands into his pockets, replied:
“Well, what of it? I don’t object. Republic or anything else, I don’t care about it. What I want, Monsieur, is to know my government. I have seen Charles X and I stood by him; I have seen Louis Philippe and I stood by him; I have seen Napoleon III, and I stood by him; but I have never seen the Republic.”
Patissot, still serious, replied:
“It is represented by its President.”
“Well, let them show him to me,” the other grunted.
Patissot shrugged his shoulders.
“Everybody can see him—he is not concealed in a wardrobe.”
But suddenly the stout man grew angry:
“Pardon me, Monsieur, he cannot be seen. I have tried more than a hundred times, Monsieur. I have posted myself near the Élysée; he did not come out. A passerby told me that he was playing billiards in the café opposite. I went into the café opposite. He was not there. They promised me that he would go to Melan for the meeting. I went to Melan and I did not see him. I got tired finally. I have never seen Gambetta, either, and I don’t know a single deputy.”
He became excited.
“A government, Monsieur, ought to show itself. It is made for that, for nothing else. People ought to know that on a certain day, at a certain hour, the government will pass through a certain street. In that way people can see it and be satisfied.”
Patissot, quieted, rather liked these statements.
“It is true,” said he, “that people would prefer to know those who govern them.”
The gentleman replied in a softer tone:
“Do you know how I should manage the festival myself? Well, Monsieur, I should have a procession with gilded cars, like the sacred chariots of kings, and I should take the members of the government, from the President down to the deputies, through Paris in them, all day long. In that way everybody would know by sight at least, the persons of the State.”
But one of the street-boys near the coachman turned around, saying:
“And the fat ox, where would you put him?”
A laugh ran through the two benches. Patissot understood the objection, and murmured:
“That, perhaps, would not be dignified.”
The gentleman, after reflecting, agreed.
“Well, then,” said he, “I should place them on view somewhere so that everybody could see them without putting themselves out; on the Triumphal Arc de l’Étoile, for instance, and I should make the whole population file before them. That would lend great character to the event.”
But the boy again turned around and asked:
“Would it need a telescope to see their faces?”
The gentleman did not reply; he continued:
“It is like the distribution of flags! There ought to be some pretext, some organization, perhaps a little war; and then the standards could be presented to the troops as a recompense. I had an idea of which I wrote to the minister; but he has not deigned to reply to me. As they have chosen the date of the taking of the Bastile, an imitation of that might be made; they ought to have built a Bastile in cardboard, painted by a scene-painter, and concealing the whole Column of July within the walls. Then, Monsieur, the troop should make an assault and capture the citadel. That would have been a fine spectacle, and a lesson at the same time, to see the army itself overthrow the ramparts of tyranny. Then they ought to set the sham Bastile on fire; and amid the flames should appear the column, with the Genius of Liberty, symbol of a new order and of the freedom of the people.”
Everybody on the omnibus top listened this time, finding these ideas excellent. An old man said:
“That is a great thought, Monsieur, and one which does you honor. It is to be regretted that the government has not adopted it.”
A young man declared that they ought to have the poems of Barbier recited by actors in the streets, to teach the people art and liberty simultaneously.
This proposition excited great enthusiasm. Everybody wished to talk; their brains were exalted. A street-organ passing by droned out a bar of the “Marseillaise”; a workingman chanted the words, and everyone in chorus shouted the refrain. The lofty nature of the song and its stirring rhythm fired the coachman, whose flogged horses were galloping. Monsieur Patissot bawled at the top of his lungs, slapping his thighs, and the inside passengers, terrified, wondered what kind of tempest had burst over their heads.
They stopped singing after a time, and Monsieur Patissot, judging his neighbor to be a man well able to take the initiative, consulted him on the preparations which he expected to make.
“Lanterns and flags are all very well,” said Patissot, “but I would like something better.”
The other reflected a long time, but found nothing to suggest. So Monsieur Patissot, in despair of finding any novelty, bought three flags and four lanterns.
VII
A Sad Story
To recover from the fatigues of the celebration, Monsieur Patissot conceived the plan of passing the following Sunday tranquilly ensconced somewhere in communication with nature.
Desiring a fine view, he chose the terrace of Saint-Germain. He set out after breakfast and, when he had visited the museum of prehistoric curiosities—as a matter of duty, for he understood nothing about them—he stood struck with admiration before that great promenade, from which in the distance are seen Paris, the surrounding region, all the plains, villages, woods, ponds, towns even, and that great bluish serpent with innumerable undulations, that gentle and adorable river which touches the heel of France—the Seine!
In the background, made blue by light mists, he distinguished, at an incredible distance, little places like white spots, on the slopes of the green hills. And musing that on these almost invisible points men like himself lived, suffered, and toiled, he reflected for the first time on the smallness of the world. He said to himself that, in space, other points still more imperceptible, systems greater than our world, perhaps, bear races more nearly perfect. But a vertigo seized him at the extent of the possibility, and he stopped thinking of these things, as they bothered his head. Then he followed the terrace at a slow pace, through its whole breadth, a little wearied, as if fatigued by too heavy reflections.
When he reached the end, he sat down on a bench. A gentleman happened to be there with his hands crossed over his cane and his chin resting on his hands, in an attitude of profound meditation. But Patissot belonged to the race of those who cannot pass three seconds at the side of a fellow-being without speaking to him. He first looked at his neighbor, hemmed, then suddenly said:
“Could you tell me, Monsieur, the name of the village that I see down there?”
The gentleman raised his head and in a sad voice replied:
“It is Sartrouville.”
Then he was silent. Patissot, contemplating the immense perspective of the terrace, shaded with trees a century old, feeling in his lungs the great breath of the forest which rustled behind him, rejoiced by the springtime odors of the woods and great fields, gave an abrupt little laugh and, with a keen eye, remarked:
“There are some fine nooks for lovers here.”
His neighbor turned toward him with a disconsolate air, and replied:
“If I were in love, Monsieur, I would throw myself into the river.”
Patissot not being of the same mind, protested.
“Hey! hey! you speak of it with great unconcern; and why so?”
“Because it has already cost me too dear for me to wish to begin it again.”
Patissot gave a grin of joy as he replied:
“Well, if you have been guilty of follies, they always cost dear.”
But the other sighed in a melancholy way, and said sadly:
“No, Monsieur, I have not perpetrated any follies; I have been betrayed by events, that is all.”
Patissot, who scented a good story, continued:
“For all that, we cannot dislike the curés; it is not in nature.”
Then the man lifted his eyes sorrowfully to heaven.
“That is true, Monsieur, but if the priests were men like others, my misfortune would not have happened. I am an enemy to ecclesiastical celibacy, Monsieur, and I have my reasons for it.”
“Would it be indiscreet to ask you?”
“Not at all. This is my story: I am a Norman, Monsieur. My father was a miller at Darnétal, near Rouen; and when he died we were left mere children, my brother and I, in the charge of our uncle, a good stout curé of Caux.
“He brought us up, gave us our education; and then sent us both to Paris to find suitable situations.
“My brother was twenty-one years old and I was twenty-two.
“We lodged together from economy, and we were living quietly when the adventure occurred which I am going to tell you.
“One evening as I was going home, I happened to meet on the sidewalk a young lady who pleased me very much. She answered to all my tastes; she was rather tall, Monsieur, and had a pleasant air. I dared not speak to her, of course, but I gave her a penetrating glance. The next morning I found her at the same place; then, as I was timid, I only bowed. She replied with a little smile, and the day after I approached her and spoke to her.
“Her name was Victorine, and she worked at sewing in a dressmaker’s establishment. I felt very soon that my heart was taken.
“I said to her: ‘Mademoiselle, it seems to me that I cannot live away from you.’ She lowered her eyes without answering. Then I seized her hand and I felt her press mine in return. I was captured, Monsieur: but I did not know what to do on account of my brother. My faith! I was just deciding to tell him everything when he opened his mouth first: He also was in love. Then it was agreed that we should take another lodging, but that we should not breathe a word of it to our good uncle, who should keep on addressing his letters in care of my domestic. So it was done; and a week later Victorine joined me in my home. We gave a little dinner, to which my brother brought his sweetheart, and in the evening, when everything was put in order, we definitely took possession of our lodging.
“We had been asleep for an hour, perhaps, when a violent ringing of the bell awaked me. I looked at the clock, it was three in the morning. I slipped on my trousers and hurried toward the door, saying to myself, ‘it is some misfortune, surely—’
“It was my uncle, Monsieur, he had on his traveling coat, and carried his valise in his hand.
“ ‘Yes, it is I, my boy, I have come to surprise you, and to spend several days in Paris. Monseigneur has given me leave of absence.’
“He kissed me on both cheeks, entered, and shut the door. I was more dead than alive, Monsieur. But as he was about to penetrate into my bedroom, I almost grasped him by the collar.
“ ‘No, not that way, uncle, this way, this way.’
“And I made him go into the dining room. You see my situation—what was I to do? He said to me:
“ ‘And your brother, is he asleep? Go and wake him up.’
“I stammered:
“ ‘No, uncle, he has been obliged to pass the night at the office for an urgent order.’
“My uncle rubbed his hands.
“ ‘Business is all right, then?’
“An idea occurred to me.
“ ‘You must be hungry, uncle, after your journey.’
“ ‘My faith! that’s true, I could nibble a little crust.’
“I rushed to the cupboard, where I had put the remains of the dinner. He was a great eater, my uncle, a true Norman curé, capable of eating twelve hours at a sitting. I brought out a bit of beef, to make the time longer, for I knew that he did not care for it; then after he had eaten enough of it, I presented the remnant of a chicken, a paté almost whole, a potato salad, three pots of cream, and some good wine that I had laid aside for the next day.
“Ah, Monsieur, how he did gorge!
“ ‘For heaven’s sake!’ said I to myself, ‘what a storeroom!’ And I stuffed him, Monsieur, I stuffed him. He did not resist, either.
“When he had devoured everything, it was five in the morning. I was on pins and needles. I drew him along another hour still, with the coffee and all the rinsings; but finally he rose.
“ ‘Let me see your lodging,’ said he.
“I was lost, and I followed, thinking of throwing myself out of the window. As I entered the bedroom ready to faint, waiting for something to occur, a last hope made my heart leap.
“The brave girl had closed the bed-curtains. Ah, if he only should not open them! But alas! Monsieut, he approached the bed immediately, with a candle in his hand, and suddenly he raised the curtains of the bed. It was warm, we had drawn down the bedclothes, and there was left only the sheet, which she had pulled up over her head; but her outlines, Monsieur, her outlines could be seen! I trembled in all my limbs, with my throat compressed, choking. Then my uncle turned toward me, laughing heartily, so that I almost jumped to the ceiling from astonishment.
“ ‘Ah! you joker, you did not want to wake up your brother. Well, you’ll see how I shall awake him.’
“And I saw his peasant’s hand rising; and while he was choking with laughter, his hand fell like a thunderbolt on—on—well—on the outlines that could be seen, Monsieur.
“There was a terrible cry in the bed; and then something like a tempest under the sheet. The form moved. She could not disentangle herself. Finally, almost at one jump, she appeared, with eyes like lanterns, and she stared at my uncle, who backed out, his mouth gaping, and puffing, Monsieur, as if he were going to be ill!
“Then I lost my head and fled. I wandered about for six days not daring to go back to my quarters. Finally, when I did pluck up courage to return, nobody was there.”
Patissot, shaking with laughter, said: “I should think not!” which made his neighbor stop talking.
But in a second, the man resumed:
“I never saw my uncle again. He disinherited me, persuaded that I took advantage of the absence of my brother to play my tricks.
“I never saw Victorine again, either. All my family turned their backs upon me; and my brother himself, who had profited by the situation, as he inherited one hundred thousand francs at the death of my uncle, seems to consider me an old libertine. And yet, Monsieur, I swear to you that never since that moment, never, never!—There are, you see, minutes that a man never forgets.”
“And what are you doing here?” asked Patissot.
The other swept the horizon with a glance, as if he feared to be overheard by some unseen ear; then he murmured, with a sound of terror in his voice:
“I am flying from the women, Monsieur!”
VIII
A Trial of Love
Many poets think that nature is not complete without woman, and from that idea, without doubt, came all the flowery comparisons in their songs, which make in turn of our natural companion a rose, a violet, a tulip, and other charming objects.
The need of tenderness that overcomes us at the hour of twilight, when the mist of evening begins to float over the hillsides, and when all the perfumes of the earth intoxicate us, overflows into lyric invocations; and Monsieur Patissot, like others, was seized with a longing for tenderness, for soft kisses, given along paths where the sunshine falls, with hands clasped, and plump figures pliant to his embrace.
He began by regarding love as a delectation without limits, and in his hours of reverie, he thanked the great Unknown for placing so much charm in the caresses of humanity. He felt that he must have a companion, but did not know where to find her.
Upon the advice of a friend, he went to the Folies-Bergères. He saw a complete assortment there, and became greatly perplexed to choose between them, for the desires of his heart sprang, above all, from poetic impulses, and a love of poetic things did not seem exactly the principal attribute of the young ladies with blackened eyelashes who cast disturbing smiles at him, showing the enamel of their false teeth.
Finally his choice rested upon a young débutante, who appeared poor and timid, and whose unhappy look seemed to announce a nature that might be easily poetized.
He agreed to meet her on the following day at the Saint-Lazare station.
She did not keep the appointment, but she had the grace to send a friend in her stead.
The friend was a tall, red-haired girl, dressed patriotically in three colors, and covered with an immense tunnel-hat, of which her head occupied the center. Monsieur Patissot was a little disappointed, but courteously accepted the substitute. And they started for Maisons-Laffitte, where regattas and a grand Venetian festival had been announced.
As soon as they were in the car, already occupied by two gentlemen who wore decorations, and their ladies, who must at least have been marquises, so dignified did they appear, the tall, red-haired girl, who answered to the name of Octavie, announced to Patissot, with the voice of a parrot, that she was a very good girl, fond of joking, and that she adored the country because one could pluck flowers and eat fried fish there. She laughed with a shrillness that threatened to break the windows, calling her companion, familiarly, “My big wolf.”
A sense of shame came over Patissot, upon whom his title of government employee imposed a certain reserve. After a time, however, Octavie became silent, looking sidewise at her neighbors, and felt herself seized with the strong desire that haunts all women of a certain class to make the acquaintance of respectable women. At the end of five minutes she thought she had hit upon a capital plan, and, drawing a copy of the Gil-Blas from her pocket, she offered it to one of the ladies, who was astonished at her freedom, and refused the journal with a shake of her head. Then the tall, red-haired girl, hurt, began a tirade of words of a double meaning, speaking of women who play their own games without being any better than certain other women; and at times she said things so broad that they had the effect of a bomb bursting amid the glacial dignity of the travelers.
Finally they arrived at their destination. Patissot at once wished to seek the shady corners of the park, hoping that the melancholy of the forest would quiet the irritated feelings of his companion. But quite another effect was produced than that which he hoped. As soon as she was among the leaves and saw the grass, she began to sing at the top of her lungs, bits of operas that remained in her giddy pate, trilling and warbling, passing from Robert le diable to Musette, fancying above all a sentimental song whose stanzas she sang with a sound as piercing as a gimlet.
Suddenly she announced that she was hungry and wished to return. Patissot, who was awaiting the hoped-for tenderness, tried in vain to detain her. Then she grew angry.
“I did not come here to bore myself, did I?” she snapped.
And he had to seek the Petit-Havre restaurant, near the place where the regattas were about to be held.
She ordered a tremendous breakfast, with a succession of dishes enough to feed a regiment. Then, not being able to wait while they were prepared, she demanded the relishes. A box of sardines was brought. She attacked it as if she were about to eat the tin box itself; but after she had consumed two or three of the little oily fish, she declared that she was no longer hungry, and desired to go to see the preparations for the regatta.
Patissot, in despair, and seized with hunger in his turn, absolutely refused to budge. She went away alone, promising to return for the dessert, and he began to eat by himself, not knowing how to bring this rebellious nature to the idealization of his dream. As she did not return, he went to search for her. She had met some friends, a band of boating men, half naked, red to the tips of their ears, and gesticulating, who were settling in shouts all the details of the race, in front of the house of the Constructor Fournaise.
Two gentlemen of respectable aspect, doubtless judges, listened attentively to them. As soon as she perceived Patissot, Octavie, hanging on the tanned arm of a tall devil, who certainly possessed more biceps than brains, whispered a few words in his ear.
The other answered:
“Agreed.”
And she went back quite joyfully to her former escort, with a lively and almost caressing expression.
“I want to go out in a boat,” said she.
Happy to see her in so charming a mood, he consented to this new desire, and engaged a craft.
But she obstinately refused to view the regattas, in spite of Patissot’s wish.
“I would rather be alone with you, my wolf,” said she.
His heart trembled. At last!
He took off his frock-coat and began to ply the oars furiously.
A monumental old mill, whose worm-eaten arms hung over the water, bestrode with its two arches a little inlet of the river. They passed swiftly beneath, and when they were on the other side they perceived in front of them an adorable bit of river, shaded by great trees that formed a sort of vault above. The little inlet wound, turned, and zigzagged to the left and to the right, continually revealing new horizons, large meadows on one side, and on the other a hillside all covered with chalets. They passed in front of a bathing establishment, almost buried in verdure, a charming rural nook, where gentlemen in fresh gloves, with ladies wreathed in flowers, displayed all the awkwardness of elegant folk in the country.
She uttered a cry of joy:
“We’ll have a bath there, presently.”
Then, further on in a sort of bay, she wished to stop.
“Come here, big one, near to me,” she said, coaxingly.
She put her arm around his neck, and with her head resting on his shoulder, she murmured:
“How happy I am! how delightful it is on the water!”
Patissot, in a word, was swimming in happiness; and he thought of those stupid boating men, who, without ever feeling the penetrating charm of the shores and the frail grace of the rose-trees, always go about panting, sweating, and brutalized by exercise, from the tavern where they breakfast to the tavern where they dine.
After a time the soothing influences about him sent him to sleep. When he awaked he was all alone! He called at first; nobody answered. Feeling very anxious, he climbed up the bank, fearing lest some misfortune had happened.
Then, far in the distance and coming toward him, he saw a long, slender wherry, which appeared to fly like an arrow. It was rowed by four oarsmen black as Negroes with the sun. They appeared to be skimming over the water; a woman held the tiller. Heavens! It seemed—It was she! To regulate the playing of the oars, she was singing in her shrill voice a boating song, which she interrupted a moment when they came in front of Patissot. Then, throwing him a kiss, she shouted to him:
“Get along, you big canary!”
IX
A Dinner and Some Ideas
On the occasion of the national celebration, Monsieur Antoine Perdrix, head of Monsieur Patissot’s bureau, was made Chevalier of the Legion of Honor. He had been in the service thirty years under preceding governments and ten years under the present. His employees, although they murmured a little at being thus rewarded in the person of their chief, judged it proper to offer him a cross adorned with paste diamonds; and the new Chevalier, not wishing to be behind, invited them all to a dinner for the following Sunday at his place at Asnières.
The house, decorated with Moorish ornaments, had the effect of a café concert-hall, but its location gave it great value because the line of the railway, skirting the garden for its whole length, passed within twenty meters of the steps.
Within the circle of incumbent turf stood a basin of Roman cement containing goldfish, and a fountain of water, with a stream not much larger than that of a syringe, at times threw into the air microscopic rainbows at which visitors marveled.
The feeding of this irrigator was the constant occupation of Monsieur Perdrix, who frequently rose at five o’clock in the morning in order to fill the reservoir. In his shirtsleeves, his big stomach protruding, he pumped with desperation, so that on his return from the office he might have the satisfaction of seeing the fountain play, and imagining that a coolness and freshness spread from it over the garden. On the evening of the official dinner, all the guests, one after the other, went into ecstasies over the situation of the domain, and every time they heard a train coming in the distance, Monsieur Perdrix announced its destination to them: Saint-Germain, Havre, Cherbourg, or Dieppe, and they made playful signs to travelers who were looking out of the car-windows.
The entire office staff arrived first. There was Monsieur Capitaine, subchief; Monsieur Patissot, chief clerk: then Messieurs de Sombreterre and Vallin, elegant young employees, who came to the office only at their own hours; finally Monsieur Rade, celebrated throughout the whole ministry for the absurd doctrines he upheld; and the copying clerk, Monsieur Boivin.
Monsieur Rade passed for a type. Some persons treated him as a fanatic or an idealist, others as a revolutionist. All agreed that he was an awkward fellow. Already old, thin and small, with a lively eye and long thin locks, he had all his life professed the most profound contempt for the administrative duties. He was a rummager of books and a great reader, with a nature always revolting against everything, a seeker of truth and despiser of popular prejudices. He had a neat and paradoxical fashion of expressing his opinions which closed the mouths of self-satisfied imbeciles and of those who were discontented without knowing why. People said: “That old fool, Rade,” or perhaps, “That harebrained Rade,” and the slowness of his advancement seemed to bear out the successful mediocrities charged against him. The independence of his speech often made his colleagues tremble, and they sometimes wondered how he had been able to keep his place. As soon as they were at table, Monsieur Perdrix, in a well-turned little speech, thanked his collaborators, promised them his protection, the more efficacious as his power increased, and finished with an emotional peroration in which he thanked and glorified the liberal and just government that knew how to seek merit among the humble.
Monsieur Capitaine, subchief, replied in the name of the bureau, felicitated, congratulated, greeted, exalted, sang the praises of everybody; and frantic applause followed these two morsels of eloquence. After this the guests applied themselves seriously to eating.
All went well throughout the dinner, the poverty of the conversation not worrying anybody. But at the dessert a discussion arose suddenly, whereupon Monsieur Rade let himself loose, and began to pass the limits of discretion in his speech.
They were speaking of love naturally, and, a breath of chivalry intoxicating this roomful of bureaucrats, they were praising with exaltation the superior beauty of woman, her delicacy of soul, her aptitude for exquisite things, the correctness of her judgment, and the refinement of her sentiments. Monsieur Rade began to protest energetically, refusing to the so-called fair sex all the qualities attributed to it; and then in the presence of the general indignation, he quoted some authors.
“Schopenhauer, Messieurs, Schopenhauer, a great philosopher whom Germany venerates. This is what he says: ‘The intelligence of man must have been very much obscured by love to make him call beautiful that short-figured sex with narrow shoulders, large hips, and crooked legs. Its whole beauty, really, rests in the instinct of love. Instead of calling it the fair sex, it would have been more correct to call it the unaesthetic sex. Women have neither the sentiment nor the intelligence of music, any more than of poetry or of the plastic arts; among them there is only pure mimicry, pure pretense, pure affectation, cultivated from their desire to please.’ ”
“The man that said that is an imbecile!” declared Monsieur de Sombreterre.
Monsieur Rade, smiling, continued: “And Rousseau, Messieurs? Here is his opinion: ‘Women in general love no art, are skilled in none, and have no genius.’ ”
Monsieur de Sombreterre disdainfully shrugged his shoulders.
“Rousseau is as stupid as the other one, that’s all,” said he.
Monsieur Rade, still smiling, rejoined: “And Lord Byron, who nevertheless loved women, said this: ‘They ought to be well fed and well clad, but they ought not to mingle in society. They should also be instructed in religion, but should be unacquainted with poetry and politics, and read only books of piety and cooking.’ You see, Messieurs,” continued Monsieur Rade, “they all study painting and music, and yet there is not one of them who has painted a good picture, or composed a remarkable opera! Why, Messieurs? Simply because they are the sexus sequior, the second sex in all respects, made to be kept apart, and on the second plane.”
Monsieur Patissot grew angry.
“And Madame Sand, Monsieur?”
“An exception, Monsieur, an exception. I will quote to you still another passage, from the great English philosopher, Herbert Spencer. Here it is: ‘Each sex is capable, under the influence of special stimulants, of manifesting the faculties ordinarily reserved for the other. Thus, to take an extreme case, a special excitation may cause the breasts of men to give milk; in time of famine little children deprived of their mother have been known to be saved in this way. Nevertheless, we shall not place this faculty of giving milk among the attributes of the male. So also, the feminine intelligence, which in certain cases will give superior products, should not be considered in an estimate of the feminine nature as a social factor.’ ”
Monsieur Patissot, wounded in all his natively chivalric instincts, declared:
“You are not a Frenchman, Monsieur. French gallantry is one of the forms of patriotism.”
Monsieur Rade retorted: “I have very little patriotism, Monsieur, the least possible.”
At this a coolness spread throughout the company, but he tranquilly continued:
“Admit with me that war is a monstrous thing; that this custom of official slaughtering of the people constitutes a permanent state of savagery. It is odious, since the only real good is life, to see the government, whose duty it is to protect the existence of its subjects, persistently seeking methods to destroy them. That is so, isn’t it? And, if war is a terrible thing is not patriotism also, since it is the mother idea which supports it? When an assassin kills, he has usually some design, that of robbing; but when a brave man with a bayonet-thrust kills another honest man, the father of a family, or a great artist, perhaps, what thought does he obey?”
Everyone felt deeply hurt.
“When a man thinks of such things he does not often mention them in society,” added Monsieur Rade.
Monsieur Patissot rejoined: “There are nevertheless, Monsieur, certain principles that all honest men recognize.”
“What are they?” asked Monsieur Rade.
“Morality, Monsieur,” solemnly replied Monsieur Patissot.
Monsieur Rade beamed.
“Let me give you a single example,” he said, “one little example, Monsieur. What opinion have you of certain men who live at the expense of women? Well, only a hundred years ago it was considered quite the thing to live at a woman’s expense, and even to devour her whole property. So you see that the principles of morality are not fixed, and thus—”
Monsieur Perdrix, visibly embarrassed, stopped him.
“You would sap the foundation of society, Monsieur Rade. There must always be moral principles as public safeguards. Thus in politics, Monsieur de Sombreterre is Legitimist, Monsieur Vallin, Orléanist, Monsieur Patissot and I are Republicans, we all have very different principles, and yet we get along very well, because we have principles of some kind.”
But Monsieur Rade cried: “I have principles too, Messieurs—very decided ones.”
Monsieur Patissot raised his head and coldly replied:
“I should be happy to hear them, Monsieur.”
Monsieur Rade did not wait to be urged.
“Here they are, Monsieur: First principle—that government by one man is a monstrosity. Second principle—Restricted suffrage is an injustice. Thid principle—Universal suffrage is a piece of stupidity. To deliver up millions of men, choice minds, learned men, geniuses even, to the caprice or will of a being who, in a moment of gaiety, madness, intoxication, or love, will not hesitate to sacrifice everything for his excited fancy, will squander the riches of the country, painfully gathered by all, will cut to pieces thousands of men on battlefields, seems to me, a mere logician, to be a monstrous aberration.
“But, admitting that a country ought to govern itself, to exclude from suffrage, under some always debatable pretext, a part of the citizens, is an injustice so flagrant that it seems to me useless to discuss it further.
“There remains universal suffrage. You will admit with me that men of genius are rare, will you not? To be generous, let us agree that there are five in France today. Let us add, still to be within our estimate, two hundred men of great talent, a thousand others possessing various talents, and two thousand men who are superior in some way. There you have a staff of three thousand two hundred and five minds. After which you have the army of mediocrities, followed by the multitudes of imbeciles. As the mediocrities and the imbeciles always form the immense majority, it is inadmissible that they can erect an intelligent government.
“To be just, I will add that, logically, universal suffrage seems to me the only admissible principle, but I assert that it is inapplicable and I will show you the reason why.
“To make all the living forces of a country cooperate in the government, to represent all interests, and conserve all rights, is an ideal dream, but not practical, because the only force that can be measured is just that which ought to be most neglected—the brute force of numbers. According to your method, unintelligent numbers lead genius, learning, all the acquired knowledge, wealth, and industry. When you are able to give to a member of the Institute ten thousand votes against a ragman’s one vote, a hundred votes to a great landed proprietor, against ten to his farmer, you will have nearly established an equilibrium between the forces and obtained a national representation that will truly represent all the powers of the nation. But I defy you to do it.
“Here are my conclusions: Formerly when a man could not succeed at anything else, he became a photographer; now he becomes a deputy. A power thus composed will always be lamentably incapable, but incapable of doing evil as well as incapable of doing good. A despot, on the contrary, if he is stupid, may do much evil, and if he is intelligent, which very rarely happens, he may accomplish much good.
“Between these forms of government I do not pretend to decide; and I declare myself an anarchist—I mean a partisan of the power the most effaced, the most imperceptible, yet the most liberal, in the widest sense of the word, and revolutionary at the same time; that is to say, revolutionary against its eternal enemy, which can be nothing but absolutely defective, under present conditions.”
Cries of indignation rose about the table, and all the guests—Legitimists, Orléanists, and Republicans—grew red with anger. Monsieur Patissot especially, was choking with rage, and turning toward Monsieur Rade, he said:
“Then, Monsieur, you don’t believe in anything.”
“No, Monsieur,” the other replied, simply.
The anger roused in all the guests at this reply, prevented Monsieur Rade from continuing, and Monsieur Perdrix, reassuming his prerogative as chief, closed the discussion.
“Enough, Messieurs—we each have our opinions and we are not likely to change them,” he said, with dignity.
The first statement was approved, but Monsieur Rade, always in revolt, was determined to have the last word.
“I have a moral principle, nevertheless,” said he. It may be formulated in a phrase: ‘Never do anything to another, which you would not have him do to you.’ I defy you to find fault with that, while in three discussions I will undertake to demolish the most sacred of your principles.”
This time nobody answered. But as they were going home in the evening, two by two, each man said to his companion: “Truly, Monsieur Rade goes much too far. His head certainly is affected. He ought to be appointed chief of the Charenton Asylum!”
X
A Public Meeting
At each side of a door, above which, in staring letters, appeared the word “Ball,” large posters of a flaring red announced that on this Sunday this place of popular amusement would be devoted to another purpose.
Monsieur Patissot, sauntering about like a good bourgeois while digesting his dinner, and strolling leisurely toward the station, stopped, his attention being attracted by this bit of scarlet color, and he read as follows:
General International Association for the Vindication of the Rights of Women. Central Committee sitting at Paris.
Great Public Meeting.
Under the presidency of the freethinking citizeness, Zoé Lamour, and of the Russian nihilist citizeness, Eva Schourine, with the assistance of a delegation of citizenesses of the free circle of Independent Thought, and of a group of citizen adherents, Citizeness Césarine Brau and Citizen Sapience Cornut, returned from exile, will speak.
Price of admission, one franc.
An old woman wearing spectacles, seated at a table covered with a cloth, took the money.
Monsieur Patissot entered.
In the hall, already nearly full, floated an odor like that of a wet dog, mingled with the suspicious perfumes of public balls.
Monsieur Patissot, looking about, found a seat in the second row beside a little woman, dressed like a working-girl, with an exalted expression, but having a swelling on one cheek.
The whole staff was present. Citizeness Zoé Lamour, a good-looking, stout, dark woman, wearing red flowers in her black hair, shared the presidency with a thin little Russian nihilist citizeness, Eva Schourine.
Just below them, illustrious citizeness Césarine Brau, called the “down-caster of men,” a pretty woman also, was seated at the side of citizen Sapience Cornut, returned from exile. The latter was a solid old man with flowing locks and a ferocious appearance, who gazed about the hall as a cat looks at a flock of birds, his closed fists resting on his knees.
On the right, a delegation of antique citizenesses, severed from their husbands, dried up in celibacy and exasperated with waiting, sat opposite a group of citizen “reformers of humanity,” who had never cut their beards nor their hair, no doubt to indicate the infinitude of their aspirations.
The general public was scattered throughout the hall. It was a mixed gathering.
Women were in the majority, belonging to the rank of concierges and of shopkeepers who close their shops on Sunday. The type of inconsolable old maid appeared everywhere, between the red faces of the women of the bourgeois.
Three college students were whispering in a corner, having come there to be among a crowd of women. A few families had entered the place out of curiosity.
In the front row a Negro, clad in yellow ticking, curly-haired and magnificent, stared at the presiding officers, and grinned from ear to ear with a silent, restrained laugh, that showed his white teeth gleaming out his black face. He laughed without a movement of the body, like a man who was delighted, transported with joy. Why was he there? Mystery. Had he thought he was coming to a show? Or did he say to himself, in his woolly African pate: “Truly, they are very funny, these jokers; we don’t find anything like that under the equator.”
Citizeness Zoé Lamour opened the meeting with a little speech.
She recalled the servitude of woman since the beginning of the world; her obscure, but always heroic position, her constant devotion to all great ideas. She compared her to the people of other times, the people of kings, and of the aristocrats, calling her the eternal martyr for whom every man is a master; and in a great lyric outburst she cried: “The people had its ’eighty-nine—let us have ours! Oppressed man made his Revolution; the captive broke his chain, the outraged slave revolted! Women! let us imitate our despots! Let us revolt! Let us break the ancient chain of marriage and of servitude; let us march to the conquest of our rights, let us, also, make our revolution!”
She sat down amid thunders of applause; and the Negro, wild with joy, knocked his head against his knees, uttering shrill cries.
The Russian nihilist citizeness, Eva Schourine, arose, and, in a piercing and ferocious voice, said:
“I am a Russian. I have raised the standard of revolt; this hand of mine has struck the oppressors of my country, and I declare to you, French women now listening to me, I am ready, under all skies, in all parts of the universe, to strike at the tyranny of man, to avenge everywhere women who are so odiously oppressed!”
A great tumult of approbation rose, and citizen Sapience Cornut, himself, standing up, gallantly rubbed his tawny beard against this avenging hand.
Then the ceremonies took on a truly international character. The citizenesses delegated by foreign powers arose, one after another, offering the adhesion of their respective countries. A German woman spoke first. Obese, with a growth of tow hair on her head, she sputtered in a thick voice, and with an atrocious accent:
“I want to tell you all the joy that filled the daughter of Germany when she heard of the great movement of the Parisian women.”
An Italian woman, a Spanish woman, and a Swedish woman each said almost the same thing in queer dialects, and finally, an inordinately tall English woman, whose teeth resembled garden implements, expressed herself in these terms:
“I also wish to assure you of the support of the women of Free England offered to the picturesque feminine population of France, for the final and entire emancipation of the female sex! Hip, hip, hurrah!”
At this the Negro began to utter cries of such enthusiasm, with such immoderate gestures of delight, throwing his legs over the back of the seats, and slapping his legs with fury, that the two custodians of the meeting were obliged to calm him.
Patissot’s neighbor murmured: “Hysterical women! All hysterical women!”
Patissot thinking that he was addressed, replied: “What is it?”
The gentleman made excuses. “Pardon me, I was not speaking to you. I simply said that all these women are hysterical.”
Monsieur Patissot, prodigiously surprised, inquired:
“You know them, then?”
“Well, rather, Monsieur. Zoé Lamour took her novitiate to become a nun. That’s one. Eva Schourine has been punished as an incendiary, and decided to be crazy. That’s two. Césarine Brau is a mere intriguer, who wishes to get herself spoken of. I see three others there who passed through my hands at the hospital of X⸺. As for all the old jailbirds who surround us, I need not speak of them.”
A loud “hush” came from all sides. Citizen Sapience Cornut, returned from exile, arose. He first rolled his terrible eyes, then, in a hollow voice that sounded like the roaring of the wind in a cavern, he began:
“There are words as great as principles, luminous as suns, resounding as bursts of thunder: Liberty! Equality! Fraternity! They are the banners of the people; under their folds we bravely marched to the assault of tyrannies. It is your turn, O women! to brandish them as weapons, to march to the conquest of independence. Be free, free in love, in the home, in the fatherland. Become our equals at the hearth, our equals in the street, our equals especially in politics and before the law. Fraternity! Be our sisters, the confidants of our grand projects, our valiant companions. Become truly a half of humanity, instead of being only a small part of it.”
And he plunged into transcendental politics, developing plans as large as the world, speaking of the soul of society, predicting the Universal Republic built upon these three indestructible bases: Liberty, equality, fraternity.
When he ceased talking the hall was almost shaken down with the salvos of applause. Monsieur Patissot, amazed, turned toward his neighbor, asking:
“Isn’t he a little crazy?”
The old gentleman replied: “No, Monsieur, there are millions like him. It is a result of education.”
Patissot did not understand.
“Of education?” he asked.
“Yes, now that they know how to read and to write, their latent foolishness comes out.”
“Then, Monsieur, you believe that education—”
“Pardon, Monsieur, I am a Liberal. I only mean to say this: You have a watch, haven’t you? Well, break a spring and take it to this citizen Cornut, begging him to mend it. He will answer you, with an oath, that he is not a watchmaker. But if there is anything wrong in that infinitely complicated machine known as France, he believes himself the most capable of men to repair it at a sitting. And forty thousand brawlers of his kind think the same and proclaim it without ceasing. I say, Monsieur, that we lack here new governing classes; that, as men born of fathers having held power, brought up in that idea, especially educated for that purpose—just as young men are taught who are intended for the Polytechnic—”
Numerous cries of “Hush!” interrupted him again. A young man with a melancholy air took the platform.
He began: “Mesdames, I have asked to be permitted to speak in order to combat your theories. To demand for women civil rights, equal to those exercised by men, is equivalent to demanding the end of your power. The exterior aspect alone of women reveals that she is not destined for hard physical labor nor prolonged intellectual efforts. Her sphere is another, but not less beautiful one. She puts poetry into life. By the power of her grace, the glance of her eye, the charm of her smile, she dominates man, who dominates the world. Man has strength, which you cannot take from him; but you have seductiveness, which captivates his strength. Of what do you complain? Since the world began, you have been queens and rulers. Nothing is done without you. It is for you that all fine works are accomplished.
“But the day on which you become our equals, civilly and politically, you will become our rivals. Take care, then, that the charm that constitutes your whole strength shall not be broken. For then, as we are incontestably the more vigorous and the better equipped for the sciences and the arts, your inferiority will appear, and you will become truly oppressed.
“You have a fine role to play, Mesdames, since for us you represent the whole seductiveness of life, the illimitable illusion, the eternal reward of our efforts. Do not seek to change this. Besides, you will never succeed in doing so.”
Hisses interrupted him, and he stepped down.
Patissot’s neighbor, arising, remarked:
“A little romantic, that young man, but with good sense for all that. Will you come and have a bock, Monsieur?”
“With pleasure,” Patissot replied.
They went away while citizeness Césarine Brau was preparing to respond.