CHAPTER XLVIII.
I MAKE MYSELF ACQUAINTED WITH THE IMPOLITE WORLD AND ITS PLACES OPUNFASHIONABLE RESORT.
Mueller and I dined merrily at the Cafe of the Trois Freres Provencaux,discussed our coffee and cigars outside the Rotonde in the Palais Royal,and then started off in search of adventures. Striking up in anorth-easterly direction through a labyrinth of narrow streets, weemerged at the Rue des Fontaines, just in front of that famoussecond-hand market yclept the Temple. It was Saturday night, and thebusiness of the place was at its height. We went in, and turning asidefrom the broad thoroughfares which intersect the market at right angles,plunged at once into a net-work of crowded side-alleys, noisy andpopulous as a cluster of beehives. Here were bargainings, hagglings,quarrellings, elbowings, slang, low wit, laughter, abuse, cheating, andchattering enough to turn the head of a neophyte like myself. Mueller,however, was in his element. He took me up one row and down another,pointed out all that was curious, had a nod for every grisette, and ananswer for every touter, and enjoyed the Babel like one to themanner born.
"Buy, messieurs, buy! What will you buy?" was the question thatassailed us on both sides, wherever we went.
"What do you sell, _mon ami ?_" was Mueller's invariable reply.
"What do you want, m'sieur?"
"Twenty thousand francs per annum, and the prettiest wife in Paris,"says my friend; a reply which is sure to evoke something _spirituel_,after the manner of the locality.
"This is the most amusing place in Paris," observes he. "Like theAlsatia of old London, it has its own peculiar _argot,_ and its ownpeculiar privileges. The activity of its commerce is amazing. If you buya pocket-handkerchief at the first stall you come to, and leave itunprotected in your coat-pocket for five minutes, you may purchase itagain at the other end of the alley before you leave. As for theresources of the market, they are inexhaustible. You may buy anythingyou please here, from a Court suit to a cargo of old rags. In this alley(which is the aristocratic quarter), are sold old jewelry, old china,old furniture, silks that have rustled at the Tuileries; fans that mayhave fluttered at the opera; gloves once fitted to tiny hands, and yetbearing a light soil where the rings were worn beneath; laces that mayhave been the property of Countesses or Cardinals; masquerade suits,epaulets, uniforms, furs, perfumes, artificial flowers, and all sorts ofelegant superfluities, most of which have descended to the merchants ofthe Temple through the hands of ladies-maids and valets. Yonder lies thedistrict called the 'Foret Noire'--a land of unpleasing atmosphereinhabited by cobblers and clothes-menders. Down to the left you seenothing but rag and bottle-shops, old iron stores, and lumber of everykind. Here you find chiefly household articles, bedding, upholstery,crockery, and so forth."
"What will you buy, Messieurs?" continued to be the cry, as we movedalong arm-in-arm, elbowing our way through the crowd, and exploring thissingular scene in all directions.
"What will you buy, messieurs?" shouts one salesman. "A carpet? Acapital carpet, neither too large nor too small. Just the sizeyou want!"
"A hat, m'sieur, better than new," cries another; "just aired by thelast owner."
"A coat that will fit you better than if it had been made for you?"
"A pair of boots? Dress-boots, dancing-boots, walking-boots,morning-boots, evening-boots, riding-boots, fishing-boots,hunting-boots. All sorts, m'sieur--all sorts!"
"A cloak, m'sieur?"
"A lace shawl to take home to Madame?"
"An umbrella, m'sieur?"
"A reading lamp?"
"A warming-pan?"
"A pair of gloves?"
"A shower bath?"
"A hand organ?"
"What! m'sieurs, do you buy nothing this evening? Hola, Antoine!monsieur keeps his hands in his pockets, for fear his money shouldfall out!"
"Bah! They've not a centime between them!"
"Go down the next turning and have the hole in your coat mended!"
"Make way there for monsieur the millionaire!"
"They are ambassadors on their way to the Court of Persia."
"_Ohe! Pane! pane! pane!_"
Thus we run the gauntlet of all the tongues in the Temple, sometimesretorting, sometimes laughing and passing on, sometimes stopping towatch the issue of a dispute or the clinching of a bargain.
"_Dame_, now! if it were only ten francs cheaper," says a voice thatstrikes my ear with a sudden sense of familiarity. Turning, I discoverthat the voice belongs to a young woman close at my elbow, and that theremark is addressed to a good-looking workman upon whose arm sheis leaning.
"What, Josephine!" I exclaim.
"_Comment_! Monsieur Basil!"
And I find myself kissed on both cheeks before I even guess what isgoing to happen to me.
"Have I not also the honor of being remembered by Mademoiselle?" saysMueller, taking off his hat with all the politeness possible; whereuponJosephine, in an ecstasy of recognition, embraces him likewise.
"_Mais, quel bonheur_!" cries she. "And to meet in the Temple, above allplaces! Emile, you heard me speak of Monsieur Basil--the gentleman whogave me that lovely shawl that I wore last Sunday to the Chateau desFleurs--_eh bien_! this is he--and here is Monsieur Mueller, his friend.Gentlemen, this is Emile, my _fiance_. We are to be married next Fridayweek, and we are buying our furniture."
The good-looking workman pulled off his cap and made his bow, and weproffered the customary congratulations.
"We have bought such sweet, pretty things," continued she, rattling onwith all her old volubility, "and we have hired the dearest little_appartement_ on the fourth story, in a street near the Jardin desPlantes. See--this looking-glass is ours; we have just bought it. Andthose maple chairs, and that chest of drawers with the marble top. Itisn't real marble, you know; but it's ever so much better thanreal:--not nearly so heavy, and so beautifully carved that it's quite awork of art. Then we have bought a carpet--the sweetest carpet! Is itnot, Emile?"
Emile smiled, and confessed that the carpet was "_fort bien_."
"And the time-piece, Madame?" suggested the furniture-dealer, at whosedoor we were standing. "Madame should really not refuse herself thetime-piece."
Josephine shook her head.
"It is too dear," said she.
"Pardon, madame. I am giving it away,--absolutely giving it away at theprice!"
Josephine looked at it wistfully, and weighed her little purse. It was avery little purse, and very light.
"It is so pretty!" said she.
The clock was of ormolu upon a painted stand, that was surmounted by astout little gilt Cupid in a triumphal chariot, drawn by a pair ofhard-working doves.
"What is the price of it?" I asked.
"Thirty-five francs, m'sieur," replied the dealer, briskly.
"Say twenty-five," urged Josephine.
The dealer shook his head.
"What if we did without the looking-glass?" whispered Josephine to her_fiance_. "After all, you know, one can live without a looking-glass;but how shall I have your dinners ready, if I don't know what o'clockit is?"
"I don't really see how we are to do without a clock," admitted Emile.
"And that darling little Cupid!"
Emile conceded that the Cupid was irresistible.
"Then we decide to have the clock, and do without the looking-glass?"
"Yes, we decide."
In the meantime I had slipped the thirty-five francs into the dealer'shand.
"You must do me the favor to accept the clock as a wedding-present,Mademoiselle Josephine," I said. "And I hope you will favor me with aninvitation to the wedding."
"And me also," said Mueller; "and I shall hope to be allowed to offer alittle sketch to adorn the walls of your new home."
Their delight and gratitude were almost too great. We shook hands againall round. I am not sure, indeed, that Josephine did not then and thereembrace us both for the second time.
"And you will both come to our wedding!" cried she. "And we will spendthe day at St. Cloud, and have a
dance in the evening; and we willinvite Monsieur Gustave, and Monsieur Jules, and Monsieur Adrien. Oh,dear! how delightful it will be!"
"And you promise me the first quadrille?" said I.
"And me the second?" added Mueller.
"Yes, yes--as many as you please."
"Then you must let us know at what time to come, and all about it; so,till Friday week, adieu!"
And thus, with more shaking of hands, and thanks, and good wishes, weparted company, leaving them still occupied with the gilt Cupid and thefurniture-broker.
After the dense atmosphere of the clothes-market, it is a relief toemerge upon the Boulevart du Temple--the noisy, feverish, crowdedBoulevart du Temple, with its half dozen theatres, its glare of gas, itscake-sellers, bill-sellers, lemonade-sellers, cabs, cafes, gendarmes,tumblers, grisettes, and pleasure-seekers of both sexes.
Here we pause awhile to applaud the performances of a company ofdancing-dogs, whence we are presently drawn away by the sight of agentleman in a _moyen-age_ costume, who is swallowing penknives andbringing them out at his ears to the immense gratification of a largecircle of bystanders.
A little farther on lies the Jardin Turc; and here we drop in for halfan hour, to restore ourselves with coffee-ices, and look on at thedancers. This done, we presently issue forth again, still in search ofamusement.
"Have you ever been to the Petit Lazary?" asks my friend, as we stand atthe gate of the Jardin Turc, hesitating which way to turn.
"Never; what is it?"
"The most inexpensive of theatrical luxuries--an evening's entertainmentof the mildest intellectual calibre, and at the lowest possible cost.Here we are at the doors. Come in, and complete your experience ofParis life!"
The Petit Lazary occupies the lowest round of the theatrical ladder. Wepay something like sixpence half-penny or sevenpence apiece, and areinducted into the dress-circle. Our appearance is greeted with a roundof applause. The curtain has just fallen, and the audience have nothingbetter to do. Mueller lays his hand upon his heart, and bows profoundly,first to the gallery and next to the pit; whereupon they laugh, andleave us in peace. Had we looked dignified or indignant we shouldprobably have been hissed till the curtain rose.
It is an audience in shirt-sleeves, consisting for the most part ofworkmen, maid-servants, soldiers, and street-urchins, with a plentifulsprinkling of pickpockets--the latter in a strictly private capacity,being present for entertainment only, without any ulteriorprofessional views.
It is a noisy _entr'acte_ enough. Three vaudevilles have already beenplayed, and while the fourth is in preparation the public amuses itselfaccording to its own riotous will and pleasure. Nuts and apple paringsfly hither and thither; oranges describe perilous parabolas between thepit and the gallery; adventurous _gamins_ make daring excursions roundthe upper rails; dialogues maintained across the house, and quarrelssupported by means of an incredible copiousness of invective, mingle indiscordant chorus with all sorts of howlings, groanings, whistlings,crowings, and yelpings, above which, in shrillest treble, rise thevoices of cake and apple-sellers, and the piercing cry of the hump-backwho distributes "vaudevilles at five centimes apiece." In the meantime,almost distracted by the patronage that assails him in every direction,the lemonade-vendor strides hither and thither, supplying floods ofnectar at two centimes the glass; while the audience, skilled in thecombination of enjoyments, eats, drinks, and vociferates to its heart'scontent. Fabulous meats, and pies of mysterious origin, are brought outfrom baskets and hats. Pocket-handkerchiefs spread upon benches do dutyas table-cloths. Clasp-knives, galette, and sucre d'orge pass from handto hand--nay, from mouth to mouth--and, in the midst of the tumult, thecurtain rises.
All is, in one moment, profoundly silent. The viands disappear; thelemonade-seller vanishes; the boys outside the gallery-rails clamberback to their places. The drama, in the eyes of the Parisians, is almosta sacred rite, and not even the noisiest _gamin_ would raise his voiceabove a whisper when the curtain is up.
The vaudeville that follows is, to say the least of it, a perplexingperformance. It has no plot in particular. The scene is laid in alodging-house, and the discomforts of one Monsieur Choufleur, an elderlygentleman in a flowered dressing-gown and a gigantic nightcap, furnishforth all the humor of the piece. What Monsieur Choufleur has done todeserve his discomforts, and why a certain student named Charles shoulddevote all the powers of his mind to the devising and inflicting ofthose discomforts, is a mystery which we, the audience, are neverpermitted to penetrate. Enough that Charles, being a youth ofmischievous tastes and extensive wardrobe, assumes a series of disguisesfor the express purpose of tormenting Monsieur Choufleur, and isunaccountably rewarded in the end with the hand of Monsieur Choufleur'sdaughter; a consummation which brings down the curtain amid loudapplause, and affords entire satisfaction to everybody.
It is by this time close upon midnight, and, leaving the theatre withthe rest of the audience, we find a light rain falling. The noisythoroughfare is hushed to comparative quiet. The carriages that roll byare homeward bound. The waiters yawn at the doors of the cafes andsurvey pedestrians with a threatening aspect. The theatres are closingfast, and a row of flickering gas-lamps in front of a faded transparencywhich proclaims that the juvenile _Tableaux Vivants_ are to be seenwithin, denotes the only place of public amusement yet open to thecurious along the whole length of the Boulevart du Temple.
"And now, _amigo_, where shall we go?" says Mueller. "Are you for abilliard-room or a lobster supper? Or shall we beat up the quarters ofsome of the fellows in the Quartier Latin, and see what fun is afoot onthe other side of the water?"
"Whichever you please. You are my guest to-night, and I am at yourdisposal."
"Or what say you to dropping in for an hour among the Chicards?"
"A capital idea--especially if you again entertain the society with atrue story of events that never happened."
"_Allons donc_!--
'C'etait de mon temps Que brillait Madame Gregoire. J'allais a vingt ans Dans son cabaret rire et boire.'
--confound this drizzle! It soaks one through and through, like asponge. If you are no fonder of getting wet through than I am, I vote weboth run for it!"
With this he set off running at full speed, and I followed.
The rain soon fell faster and thicker. We had no umbrellas; and being bythis time in a region of back-streets, an empty fiacre was a prize notto be hoped for. Coming presently to a dark archway, we took shelter andwaited till the shower should pass over. It lasted longer than we hadexpected, and threatened to settle into a night's steady rain. Muellerkept his blood warm by practicing extravagant quadrille steps andsinging scraps of Beranger's ballads; whilst I, watching impatiently fora cab, kept peering up and down the street, and listening toevery sound.
Presently a quick footfall echoed along the wet pavement, and the figureof a man, dimly seen by the blurred light of the street-lamps, camehurrying along the other side of the way. Something in the firm freestep, in the upright carriage, in the height and build of the passer-by,arrested my attention. He drew nearer. He passed under the lamp justopposite, and, as he passed, flung away the end of his cigar, whichfell, hissing, into the little rain-torrent running down the middle ofthe street. He carried no umbrella; but his hat was pulled low, and hiscollar drawn up, and I could see nothing of his face. But the gesturewas enough.
For a moment I stood still and looked after him; then, calling to Muellerthat I should be back presently, I darted off in pursuit.