Beautiful women waste themselves sweetly.
They think that this will never come to an end.Philosophers, poets, painters, observe these ecstasies and know not what to make of it, so greatly are they dazzled by it.
The departure for Cythera! exclaims Watteau; Lancret, the painter of plebeians, contemplates his bourgeois, who have flitted away into the azure sky; Diderot stretches out his arms to all these love idyls, and d'Urfe mingles druids with them.
After breakfast the four couples went to what was then called the King's Square to see a newly arrived plant from India, whose name escapes our memory at this moment, and which, at that epoch, was attracting all Paris to Saint-Cloud. It was an odd and charming shrub with a long stem, whose numerous branches, bristling and leafless and as fine as threads, were covered with a million tiny white rosettes; this gave the shrub the air of a head of hair studded with flowers.There was always an admiring crowd about it.
After viewing the shrub, Tholomyes exclaimed, "I offer you asses!" and having agreed upon a price with the owner of the asses, they returned by way of Vanvres and Issy.
At Issy an incident occurred.The truly national park, at that time owned by Bourguin the contractor, happened to be wide open.
They passed the gates, visited the manikin anchorite in his grotto, tried the mysterious little effects of the famous cabinet of mirrors, the wanton trap worthy of a satyr become a millionaire or of Turcaret metamorphosed into a Priapus.They had stoutly shaken the swing attached to the two chestnut-trees celebrated by the Abbe de Bernis.
As he swung these beauties, one after the other, producing folds in the fluttering skirts which Greuze would have found to his taste, amid peals of laughter, the Toulousan Tholomyes, who was somewhat of a Spaniard, Toulouse being the cousin of Tolosa, sang, to a melancholy chant, the old ballad gallega, probably inspired by some lovely maid dashing in full flight upon a rope between two trees:--
"Soy de Badajoz,
"Badajoz is my home,
Amor me llama,
And Love is my name;
Toda mi alma,
To my eyes in flame,
Es en mi ojos,
All my soul doth come;
Porque ensenas,
For instruction meet
A tuas piernas.
I receive at thy feet"
Fantine alone refused to swing.
"I don't like to have people put on airs like that," muttered Favourite, with a good deal of acrimony.
After leaving the asses there was a fresh delight; they crossed the Seine in a boat, and proceeding from Passy on foot they reached the barrier of l'Etoile. They had been up since five o'clock that morning, as the reader will remember; but bah! there is no such thing as fatigue on Sunday, said Favourite; on Sunday fatigue does not work.
About three o'clock the four couples, frightened at their happiness, were sliding down the Russian mountains, a singular edifice which then occupied the heights of Beaujon, and whose undulating line was visible above the trees of the Champs Elysees.
From time to time Favourite exclaimed:--
"And the surprise?
I claim the surprise."
"Patience," replied Tholomyes.
BOOK THIRD.--IN THE YEAR 1817
CHAPTER V
AT BOMBARDA'S
The Russian mountains having been exhausted, they began to think about dinner; and the radiant party of eight, somewhat weary at last, became stranded in Bombarda's public house, a branch establishment which had been set up in the Champs-Elysees by that famous restaurant-keeper, Bombarda, whose sign could then be seen in the Rue de Rivoli, near Delorme Alley.
A large but ugly room, with an alcove and a bed at the end (they had been obliged to put up with this accommodation in view of the Sunday crowd); two windows whence they could survey beyond the elms, the quay and the river; a magnificent August sunlight lightly touching the panes; two tables; upon one of them a triumphant mountain of bouquets, mingled with the hats of men and women; at the other the four couples seated round a merry confusion of platters, dishes, glasses, and bottles; jugs of beer mingled with flasks of wine; very little order on the table, some disorder beneath it;
"They made beneath the table A noise, a clatter of the feet that was abominable,"
says Moliere.
This was the state which the shepherd idyl, begun at five o'clock in the morning, had reached at half-past four in the afternoon.The sun was setting; their appetites were satisfied.
The Champs-Elysees, filled with sunshine and with people, were nothing but light and dust, the two things of which glory is composed.The horses of Marly, those neighing marbles, were prancing in a cloud of gold.
Carriages were going and coming.
A squadron of magnificent body-guards, with their clarions at their head, were descending the Avenue de Neuilly; the white flag, showing faintly rosy in the setting sun, floated over the dome of the Tuileries.The Place de la Concorde, which had become the Place Louis XV.once more, was choked with happy promenaders.
Many wore the silver fleur-de-lys suspended from the white-watered ribbon, which had not yet wholly disappeared from button-holes in the year 1817.Here and there choruses of little girls threw to the winds, amid the passersby, who formed into circles and applauded, the then celebrated Bourbon air, which was destined to strike the Hundred Days with lightning, and which had for its refrain:-- "Rendez-nous notre pere de Gand, Rendez-nous notre pere." "Give us back our father from Ghent, Give us back our father."
Groups of dwellers in the suburbs, in Sunday array, sometimes even decorated with the fleur-de-lys, like the bourgeois, scattered over the large square and the Marigny square, were playing at rings and revolving on the wooden horses; others were engaged in drinking; some journeyman printers had on paper caps; their laughter was audible.Every thing was radiant.
It was a time of undisputed peace and profound royalist security; it was the epoch when a special and private report of Chief of Police Angeles to the King, on the subject of the suburbs of Paris, terminated with these lines:--
"Taking all things into consideration, Sire, there is nothing to be feared from these people.
They are as heedless and as indolent as cats.The populace is restless in the provinces; it is not in Paris.These are very pretty men, Sire.
It would take all of two of them to make one of your grenadiers.
There is nothing to be feared on the part of the populace of Paris the capital.
It is remarkable that the stature of this population should have diminished in the last fifty years; and the populace of the suburbs is still more puny than at the time of the Revolution.
It is not dangerous.In short, it is an amiable rabble."
Prefects of the police do not deem it possible that a cat can transform itself into a lion; that does happen, however, and in that lies the miracle wrought by the populace of Paris.
Moreover, the cat so despised by Count Angles possessed the esteem of the republics of old.In their eyes it was liberty incarnate; and as though to serve as pendant to the Minerva Aptera of the Piraeus, there stood on the public square in Corinth the colossal bronze figure of a cat.The ingenuous police of the Restoration beheld the populace of Paris in too "rose-colored" a light; it is not so much of "an amiable rabble" as it is thought.
The Parisian is to the Frenchman what the Athenian was to the Greek:
no one sleeps more soundly than he, no one is more frankly frivolous and lazy than he, no one can better assume the air of forgetfulness; let him not be trusted nevertheless; he is ready for any sort of cool deed; but when there is glory at the end of it, he is worthy of admiration in every sort of fury.Give him a pike, he will produce the 10th of August; give him a gun, you will have Austerlitz.
He is Napoleon's stay and Danton's resource.Is it a question of country, he enlists; is it a question of liberty, he tears up the pavements.
Beware! his hair filled with wrath, is epic; his blouse drapes itself like the folds of a chlamys.
Take care! he will make of the first Rue Grenetat which comes to hand Caudine Forks.When the hour strikes, this man of the faubourgs will grow in stature; this little man will arise, and his gaze will be terrible, and his breath will become a tempest, and there will issue forth from that slender chest enough wind to disarrange the folds of the Alps.It is, thanks to the suburban man of Paris, that the Revolution, mixed with arms, conquers Europe.
He sings; it is his delight.Proportion his song to his nature, and you will see!
As long as he has for refrain nothing but la Carmagnole, he only overthrows Louis XVI.; make him sing the Marseillaise, and he will free the world.
This note jotted down on the margin of Angles' report, we will return to our four couples.
The dinner, as we have said, was drawing to its close.
BOOK THIRD.--IN THE YEAR 1817
CHAPTER VI
A CHAPTER IN WHICH THEY ADORE EACH OTHER
Chat at table, the chat of love; it is as impossible to reproduce one as the other; the chat of love is a cloud; the chat at table is smoke.
Fameuil and Dahlia were humming.
Tholomyes was drinking.Zephine was laughing, Fantine smiling, Listolier blowing a wooden trumpet which he had purchased at Saint-Cloud.
Favourite gazed tenderly at Blachevelle and said:--
"Blachevelle, I adore you."
This called forth a question from Blachevelle:--
"What would you do, Favourite, if I were to cease to love you?"
"I!" cried Favourite.
"Ah!
Do not say that even in jest!If you were to cease to love me, I would spring after you, I would scratch you, I should rend you, I would throw you into the water, I would have you arrested."
Blachevelle smiled with the voluptuous self-conceit of a man who is tickled in his self-love. Favourite resumed:--
"Yes, I would scream to the police!
Ah!
I should not restrain myself, not at all!
Rabble!"
Blachevelle threw himself back in his chair, in an ecstasy, and closed both eyes proudly.
Dahlia, as she ate, said in a low voice to Favourite, amid the uproar:--
"So you really idolize him deeply, that Blachevelle of yours?"
"I?
I detest him," replied Favourite in the same tone, seizing her fork again.
"He is avaricious.
I love the little fellow opposite me in my house.
He is very nice, that young man; do you know him?One can see that he is an actor by profession.
I love actors.As soon as he comes in, his mother says to him:
`Ah! mon Dieu! my peace of mind is gone.
There he goes with his shouting.
But, my dear, you are splitting my head!'
So he goes up to rat-ridden garrets, to black holes, as high as he can mount, and there he sets to singing, declaiming, how do I know what? so that he can be heard down stairs!He earns twenty sous a day at an attorney's by penning quibbles.He is the son of a former precentor of Saint-Jacques-du-Haut-Pas. Ah! he is very nice.
He idolizes me so, that one day when he saw me making batter for some pancakes, he said to me:
`Mamselle, make your gloves into fritters, and I will eat them.'
It is only artists who can say such things as that.
Ah! he is very nice.I am in a fair way to go out of my head over that little fellow.Never mind; I tell Blachevelle that I adore him--how I lie!
Hey!
How I do lie!"
Favourite paused, and then went on:--
"I am sad, you see, Dahlia.
It has done nothing but rain all summer; the wind irritates me; the wind does not abate.
Blachevelle is very stingy; there are hardly any green peas in the market; one does not know what to eat.
I have the spleen, as the English say, butter is so dear! and then you see it is horrible, here we are dining in a room with a bed in it, and that disgusts me with life."
BOOK THIRD.--IN THE YEAR 1817
CHAPTER VII
THE WISDOM OF THOLOMYES
In the meantime, while some sang, the rest talked together tumultuously all at once; it was no longer anything but noise.Tholomyes intervened.
"Let us not talk at random nor too fast," he exclaimed."Let us reflect, if we wish to be brilliant.
Too much improvisation empties the mind in a stupid way.
Running beer gathers no froth.No haste, gentlemen.
Let us mingle majesty with the feast.
Let us eat with meditation; let us make haste slowly.
Let us not hurry.Consider the springtime; if it makes haste, it is done for; that is to say, it gets frozen.
Excess of zeal ruins peach-trees and apricot-trees. Excess of zeal kills the grace and the mirth of good dinners.
No zeal, gentlemen!
Grimod de la Reyniere agrees with Talleyrand."
A hollow sound of rebellion rumbled through the group.
"Leave us in peace, Tholomyes," said Blachevelle.
"Down with the tyrant!" said Fameuil.
"Bombarda, Bombance, and Bambochel!" cried Listolier.
"Sunday exists," resumed Fameuil.
"We are sober," added Listolier.
"Tholomyes," remarked Blachevelle, "contemplate my calmness [mon calme]."
"You are the Marquis of that," retorted Tholomyes.
This mediocre play upon words produced the effect of a stone in a pool.The Marquis de Montcalm was at that time a celebrated royalist.All the frogs held their peace.
"Friends," cried Tholomyes, with the accent of a man who had recovered his empire, "Come to yourselves.
This pun which has fallen from the skies must not be received with too much stupor.Everything which falls in that way is not necessarily worthy of enthusiasm and respect.
The pun is the dung of the mind which soars.The jest falls, no matter where; and the mind after producing a piece of stupidity plunges into the azure depths.
A whitish speck flattened against the rock does not prevent the condor from soaring aloft.Far be it from me to insult the pun!
I honor it in proportion to its merits; nothing more.
All the most august, the most sublime, the most charming of humanity, and perhaps outside of humanity, have made puns.
Jesus Christ made a pun on St. Peter, Moses on Isaac, AEschylus on Polynices, Cleopatra on Octavius.
And observe that Cleopatra's pun preceded the battle of Actium, and that had it not been for it, no one would have remembered the city of Toryne, a Greek name which signifies a ladle.
