Part 21

Now then, I was going to plan for myself an agreeable life, with easy work and certain profits. Made happy by this prospect, I promised myself that I would correct my caprices, repress the ardent impulses of my frankness, in order to stay in this place a long, long time. In a twinkling my gloomy ideas vanished; and my hatred of the _bourgeois_ flew away, as if by enchantment. I again became madly and hilariously gay, and, seized anew with a violent love of life, I began to think that the masters are sometimes good. The personnel was not numerous, but it was select,--a cook, a _valet de chambre_, an old butler, and myself. There was no coachman, the masters having abolished their stable a short time before, preferring to hire their teams from a livery-man. We became friends directly. That very evening they gave me welcome by opening a bottle of champagne.

"My!" I exclaimed, clapping my hands; "they do things well here."

The _valet de chambre_ smiled, and shook a bunch of keys musically in the air. He had the keys to the cellar; he had all the keys. He was the trusted servant of the house.

"Say, will you lend them to me?" I asked, by way of a joke.

Giving me a tender look, he answered:

"Yes, if you are nice with Baby. You will have to be nice with Baby."

Oh! he was a _chic_ man, and he knew how to talk to women. He had an English name,--William. What a pretty name!

During the meal, which lasted for some time, the old butler did not say a word, but ate and drank a great deal. They paid no attention to him, and he seemed a little dopy. As for William, he was charming, gallant, and assiduous; he paid me delicate attentions under the table; and, when we were drinking our coffee, he offered me Russian cigarettes, of which his pockets were full. Then, drawing me to him,--the tobacco had made me a little dizzy, and I was a little drunk too, and my hair was disarranged,--he seated me upon his knees, and whispered audacious things in my ear. Oh! but he was bold!

Eugénie, the cook, did not seem scandalized by these remarks and these performances. Anxious and dreamy, she kept her neck continually inclined toward the door, pricked up her ears at the slightest sound, as if she were expecting some one, and, with a very uncertain eye, kept on guzzling wine, glass after glass. She was a woman of about forty-five, with a large bust, fleshy, sensual lips, languishing and passionate eyes, and an air of great kindness mingled with melancholy. At last there came a discreet knock at the door. Eugénie's face lighted up; she rose with a bound, and went to open the door. Not being familiar with the habits of this servants' hall, I wanted to assume a more decorous attitude, but William held me more tightly than before, pressing me close against him with a firm embrace.

"That's nothing," he remarked, quietly. "That is the little one."

Meantime a young man had entered, almost a child. Very slender, very blonde, with a very white skin underlying the dark beginnings of a beard, scarcely eighteen, he was as pretty as a love. He wore an entirely new and elegant jacket, which set off his trim and slender bust, and a pink cravat. He was the son of the janitor in the next house. He came, it seems, every evening. Eugénie adored him, was mad over him. Every day she put aside, in a big basket, tureens full of _bouillon_, fine slices of meat, bottles of wine, cakes, and delicious fruits, which the little one carried to his parents.

"Why are you so late to-night?" asked Eugénie.

The little one excused himself in a drawling voice.

"I had to look out for the lodge. Mamma had gone on an errand."

"Your mother, your mother ... are you telling me the truth, young scamp?"

She sighed, and, with her eyes gazing into the child's eyes, and her two hands resting on his shoulders, she continued, in a mournful tone:

"When you are late, I am always afraid something has happened. I do not want you to be late, my darling. You will say to your mother that, if that continues,--well, I will give you nothing more ... for her."

Then, with quivering nostrils and her whole body shaken by a thrill, she said:

"How pretty you are, my love! Oh! your little phiz! your little phiz! Why did you not wear your pretty yellow shoes? I want you to look your best when you come to see me. And those eyes, those big eyes, you little brigand! Ah! I'll bet they have been looking at another woman. And your lips! your lips! What have those lips been doing?"

He smilingly reassured her, with a slightly swaying motion of his body:

"No, indeed, I assure you, Nini, that's straight. Mamma had gone on an errand,--yes, truly."

Eugénie repeated several times:

"Oh! you scamp, you scamp, I do not want you to be looking at other women. Your little phiz for me, your little mouth for me, your big eyes for me! Say, do you really love me?"

"Oh, yes, surely."

"Say it again."

"Oh! surely."

She leaped upon his neck, and, panting, led him into the adjoining room, stammering words of love.

William said to me:

"How she holds him! And what a pile this little chap costs her! Last week she gave him a complete new outfit. You would not love me like that."

This scene had stirred me deeply, and I promptly vowed a sister's friendship for the poor Eugénie. This boy resembled M. Xavier. At least there was a moral similarity between these two beings,--so pretty, though so rotten. And this reminder made me sad,--oh! infinitely sad! I saw myself again in M. Xavier's room, the night when I gave him the ninety francs. Oh! your little phiz! your little mouth! your big eyes! They were the same cold and cruel eyes, there was the same undulation of the body, there was the same vice shining in the pupils and imparting a sort of benumbing poison to the lips.

I released myself from William's arms, and, as I was arranging my disordered hair, I remarked:

"Well, I must say, you don't lose any time."

Of course I did not want to change anything in the habits of the house, or in the service. William did the housework, in a go-as-you-please fashion. A stroke of the broom here, a stroke of the duster there, and the thing was done. The rest of the time he babbled, ransacked drawers and closets, and read the letters that were dragging about on every hand and in every corner. I did as he did. I allowed the dust to accumulate upon and under the furniture, and I took good care not to disturb the disorder of the _salons_ and the chambers. If I had been in the masters' place, I should have been ashamed to live in so untidy an interior. But they did not know how to command, and, being timid and fearing scenes, they never dared to say anything. If sometimes, after an omission that was too patent or too embarrassing, they ventured to stammer: "It seems to me that you have not done this or that," we had only to answer, in a tone whose firmness did not exclude insolence: "I really ask Madame's pardon; Madame is mistaken. And, if Madame is not content...." Then they insisted no further, and that was the end of it. Never in my life have I met masters having less authority over their servants, or such ninnies! Really, one is not to be led by the nose as they were.

It is necessary to do William this justice,--that he had known how to put things on a good footing in the box. William had a passion that is common among servants,--the passion for the races. He knew all the jockeys, all the trainers, all the bookmakers, and also some very sporty gentlemen, barons and viscounts, who showed a certain friendship for him, knowing that he had astonishing tips from time to time. This passion, whose maintenance and satisfaction require numerous suburban excursions, does not harmonize with a restricted and sedentary calling, like that of a _valet de chambre_. Now, William had regulated his life in this way; after breakfast, he dressed and went out. How _chic_ he was in his black and white check pantaloons, his highly-polished shoes, his putty-colored overcoat, and his hats! Oh! William's hats, hats the color of deep water, in which skies, trees, streets, rivers, crowds, hippodromes, succeeded one another in prodigious reflections! He came back just in time to dress his master, and often, in the evening, after dinner, he went out again, saying that he had an important rendezvous with the English. I did not see him again until very late at night, when he always came home a little drunk, from having taken too many cocktails. Every week he invited friends to dinner,--coachmen, _valets de chambre_, race-track people,--these latter very comical and weird with their twisted legs, their deformed knees, and their appearance of crapulous cynicism and ambiguous sex. They talked horses, turf, women, told all sorts of disagreeable stories about the morals of their masters, and then, becoming excited by the fumes of the wine, began on politics. William was a superbly uncompromising and terribly violent reactionary.

"The man for me," he cried, "is Cassagnac. A rude lad, Cassagnac! They are afraid of him. How he can write! What raps he gives! Yes, let the dirty rascals tackle this strenuous chap if they dare!"

And suddenly, at the height of the noise, Eugénie rose, paler and with shining eyes, and rushed for the door. The little one entered, his face wearing an expression of astonishment at sight of these unusual people, of these empty bottles, of this reckless pillage of the table. Eugénie had saved a glass of champagne and a plate of goodies for him. Then they both disappeared into the adjoining room.

"Oh! your little phiz, your little mouth, your big eyes!"

That night the parents' basket contained larger and better portions. Of course these worthy people should profit by the feast.

William often spoke to me of Edgar, the celebrated stud-groom of the baron de Borgsheim. He was proud to know him; he admired him almost as much as he admired Cassagnac. Edgar and Cassagnac were the two great enthusiasms of his life. I think it would have been dangerous to joke him about them, or even to discuss them with him. When he came home at night, late, William excused himself by saying to me, "I was with Edgar." It seemed that to be with Edgar constituted not only an excuse, but a glory.

"Why don't you bring your famous Edgar to dinner, that I may see him?" I asked of him one day.

William was scandalized at this idea, and he declared, loftily: "What! do you imagine that Edgar would dine with simple servants?"

It was from Edgar that William got his incomparable method of polishing his hats. Once, at the Auteuil races, Edgar was approached by the young marquis de Plérin.

"Say, my lad," begged the marquis, "how do you get your hats?"

"My hats, Monsieur the Marquis?" responded Edgar, highly flattered, for the young Plérin, a robber at the races and a trickster at the gaming-table, was then one of the most famous personalities of Parisian society. "It is very simple; only it is like picking the winner,--you must know how. Well, this is the trick. Every morning I make my _valet de chambre_ run for a quarter of an hour. He sweats, of course. And the sweat contains oil. Then, with a very fine silk handkerchief, he wipes the sweat from his brow, and rubs my hats with it. A stroke or two with the iron finishes the job. But it takes a clean and healthy man, preferably a man with nut-brown complexion,--for some blondes smell strong, and all sweats are not suitable. Last year I gave the receipt to the prince of Wales."

And, as the young marquis de Plérin thanked Edgar and slyly shook his hand, the latter added, confidently:

"Take Baladeur at seven to one. He is to be the winner, Monsieur the Marquis."

It is really funny when I think of it, but I finally came to feel flattered myself that William had such a relation. To me, too, Edgar was something admirable and inaccessible, like the emperor of Germany, Victor Hugo, or Paul Bourget. That is why I think it advisable to fix in these pages, from all that William told me, the portrait of this more than illustrious, this historic personage.

Edgar was born in London, in a frightful den, between two hiccups of whiskey. As a boy he was a vagabond, a beggar, a thief, and a jail-bird. Later, having the requisite physical deformities and the most crapulous instincts, he was pitched on for a groom. From ante-room to stable, rubbing against all the trickery, all the rapacity, all the vice prevailing among the servants of a grand establishment, he became a "lad" in the Eaton stud. And he strutted about in a Scotch cap, a yellow and black striped waistcoat, and light pantaloons, loose at the thighs, tight at the calves, and wrinkled at the knees in the form of a screw. When scarcely an adult, he looked like a little old man, with frail limbs and furrowed face, red at the cheek-bones, yellow at the temples, with worn-out and grimacing mouth, with thin hair brushed over his ears in the form of a greasy spiral. In a society which the odor of horse-dung causes to swoon with delight Edgar was already a personage less anonymous than a workingman or a peasant,--almost a gentleman.

At Eaton he learned his trade thoroughly. He knows how to groom a stylish horse, how to take care of it when it is sick, and what detailed and complicated toilets are most suitable to the color of its coat. He knows the secret of the intimate washings, the refined polishings, the expert pedicurings, and the ingenious processes of make-up, by which the beasts of the race-track, like the beasts of love, are set out and beautified. In the bar-rooms he knew important jockeys, celebrated trainers, and the big-bellied baronets, and blackleg dukes and bums, who are the _cream_ of this muck-heap and the _flower_ of this horse-dung. Edgar would have liked to become a jockey, for he soon saw all the tricks that could be played and the money that could be made. But he had grown too large. Though his legs had remained thin and bowed, he had acquired something of a corporation. He was too heavy. So, being unable to don the jockey's coat, he decided to wear the coachman's livery.

To-day Edgar is forty-three years old. He is one of the five or six English, Italian, and French stud-grooms of whom they talk in elegant society with wondering admiration. His name triumphs in the sporting papers, and even in the paragraphs of the society and literary journals. The baron de Borgsheim, his present master, is proud of him,--more proud of him than he would be of a financial operation that had ruined a hundred thousand janitors. Swelling up with an air of definitive superiority, he says: "My stud-groom!" as a collector of pictures would say: "My Rubens!" And, in fact, the lucky baron has reason to be proud, for, since he came into possession of Edgar, he has made great strides in fame and respectability. Edgar has gained for him that admission to uncompromising _salons_ which he so long coveted. Through Edgar he has at last overcome the resistance of society to his race. At the club they talk of the famous "victory of the baron over England." The English have taken Egypt from us, but the baron has taken Edgar from the English, and that restores the equilibrium. If he had conquered the Indies, he would not have been more loudly acclaimed. This admiration is accompanied, however, by deep jealousy. They would like to get Edgar away from him, and so there goes on around Edgar all sorts of intrigues, and corrupting conspiracies, and flirtations, like those that go on around a beautiful woman. As for the newspapers, they, in their respectful enthusiasm, have reached a point where they are no longer able to tell exactly which of the two, Edgar or the baron, is the admirable stud-groom, and which the admirable financier. They confound the two in the mutual glories of one and the same apotheosis.

Provided you have been curious enough to circulate among aristocratic crowds, you certainly must have met Edgar, who is one of their most precious ornaments and one who is most commonly displayed. He is a man of average height, very ugly,--that comical English ugliness,--and having an immoderately long nose, with doubly royal curves, which oscillate between the Semitic curve and the Bourbon curve. His lips, very short and turned-up, reveal black holes between decaying teeth. His complexion is lightened in the scale of the yellows, relieved at the cheek-bones with some hatchings in bright lake. Without being obese, like the majestic coachman of the olden time, he is now endowed with a comfortable and regular _embonpoint_ which covers with fat the vulgar protuberances of his frame. And, slightly throwing out his chest, he walks with an elastic step, his elbows bent at the regulation angle. Scorning to follow the fashion, desirous rather of setting it, he dresses richly and fantastically. He has blue frock-coats, with watered-silk facings, excessively tight-fitting and too new; pantaloons of English cut that are too light; cravats that are too white; jewels that are too big; handkerchiefs that are too fragrant; shoes that are too highly polished; hats that are too shining. How long the young swells have envied Edgar the unusual and fulgurating brilliancy of his headgear!

At eight o'clock in the morning, wearing a little round hat and a putty-colored overcoat as short as a jacket, with an enormous yellow rose in his button-hole, Edgar descends from his automobile, in front of the baron's mansion. The grooming is just finished. After having cast an ill-humored look around the yard, he enters the stables and begins his inspection, followed by the anxious and respectful hostlers. Nothing escapes his suspicious and sidewise glances,--a bucket not in its place, a spot on the steel chains, a scratch on the silvers and brasses. And he growls, flies into a passion, and threatens in a phlegm-choked voice, his bronchial tubes being still obstructed by the fermentation of the champagne drunk the night before. He enters each box, and passes his white-gloved hand over the manes, necks, bellies, and legs of the horses. If he finds the slightest trace of dirt on his glove, he jaws the hostlers; there is a flood of filthy words and insulting oaths, and a tempest of furious gestures. Then he examines minutely the horses' hoofs, smells of the oats in the marble mangers, feels of the litter, and long and carefully studies the form, color, and density of the dung, which never suits him.

"What kind of dung do you call that, I should like to know? It is the dung of a cab-horse. Be sure that I see nothing like it to-morrow, pack of good-for-nothings that you are!"

Sometimes the baron puts in an appearance, glad of a chance to talk with his stud-groom. Scarcely does he notice his master's presence. The latter's timid questions he answers with curt and snarling words. Never does he say "Monsieur the Baron." The baron, on the contrary, is almost tempted to say: "Monsieur the coachman!" Afraid that he may irritate Edgar, he does not stay long, and retires discreetly.

Having finished his review of the stables, the carriage-houses, and the harness-rooms, and having given his orders in a tone of military command, Edgar gets into his automobile again, and starts rapidly for the Champs-Elysées, where at first he makes a short stop in a little bar-room, among race-track people, skunk-faced tipsters, who drop mysterious words into his ears, and show him confidential dispatches. The rest of the morning is devoted to visits to sundry trades-people, to give them new orders and receive commissions, and to horse-dealers, with whom such conversations as the following take place:

"Well, Master Edgar?"

"Well, Master Poolny?"

"I have a buyer for the baron's bays."

"They are not for sale."

"Fifty pounds for you."

"No."

"A hundred pounds, Master Edgar."

"We will see, Master Poolny."

"That is not all, Master Edgar."

"What else, Master Poolny?"

"I have two magnificent sorrels for the baron."

"We do not need them."

"Fifty pounds for you."

"No."

"A hundred pounds, Master Edgar."

"We will see, Master Poolny."

A week later Edgar has spoiled the paces of the baron's bays in just the right degree, not too much or too little, and then, having demonstrated to the baron that it is high time to get rid of them, he sells them to Poolny, who sells to Edgar the two magnificent sorrels. Poolny restores the bays to good condition by sending them to pasture for three months, and two years later perhaps sells them again to the baron.

At noon Edgar's work is done. He returns for lunch to his apartments in the Rue Euler, for he does not live in the baron's mansion, and never drives the baron. His apartments consist of a ground-floor, heavily upholstered in embroidered plush of the loudest shades, the walls being covered with English lithographs of hunts, steeplechases, famous cracks, and various portraits of the prince of Wales, one of which was presented to Edgar by the prince himself, and bears a dedication from him. Then there are canes, whips, stirrups, bits, and tally-ho horns, arranged in a panoply, with an enormous bust of Queen Victoria, made of polychromatic and loyalist terra cotta, in the centre, between two gilded pediments. Then, free from care, strangling in his blue frock-coats, his head covered with his radiant beacon, Edgar devotes the rest of his day to his own affairs and to his own pleasures. His affairs are numerous, for he is in partnership with a club cashier, a bookmaker, and a horse photographer, and he has three horses in training near Chantilly. Nor are his pleasures lacking; the most famous little women know the way to the Rue Euler, where, on days when they happen to be short, they are sure to find a cup of tea and five louis.

In the evening, after having shown himself at the Ambassadeurs, at the Cirque, and at the Olympia, very correct in his silk-faced dress-coat, Edgar repairs to the _Ancien_, and there spends a long time in getting drunk, in the company of coachmen who assume the airs of gentlemen, and of gentlemen who assume the airs of coachmen.

And every time that William told me one of these stories he concluded, with a voice of admiring wonder:

"Oh! this Edgar! there is a man for you, indeed!"

My masters belonged to what it is agreed to call the high society of Paris; that is to say, Monsieur was a penniless nobleman, and nobody knew exactly where Madame came from. Many stories were afloat regarding her origin, each more disagreeable than the others. William, very familiar with the scandals of high society, pretended that the madame was the daughter of an old coachman and an old chambermaid, who, by pinching and general misbehavior, got together a small capital, established themselves as usurers in a disreputable quarter of Paris, and rapidly made a large fortune by lending money, mainly to prostitutes and house-servants. They struck it rich, indeed!

It was certainly true that Madame, in spite of her apparent elegance and her very pretty face, had queer manners and vulgar habits that were very disagreeable. The dirty creature was fond of boiled beef, and bacon and cabbage; and, like the cabmen, it was her delight to pour red wine into her soup. I was ashamed of her. Often, in her quarrels with Monsieur, her anger stirred the mud that still remained in the depths of her being, not yet thoroughly cleaned by her suddenly-acquired luxury, and brought up to her lips a filthy foam of words,--ah! words that I, who am not a lady, often regret having uttered. But there you are! One does not imagine how many women there are, with angels' mouths, and starry eyes, and three-thousand-franc dresses, who, in their own houses, use coarse language, make filthy gestures, and are disgusting by their vulgarity,--in fact, strumpets of the lowest type.

"Great ladies," said William, "are like the best sauces,--it is better not to know how they are made."