Chapter 2

I could lead him, in twenty minutes, through the whole gamut of emotion, by talking about Auguste, and then of politics. It was irresistible, the temptation to lead him out. A word about Auguste, and he would wipe tears from his eyes. A mention of Gambetta, and the bare idea filled him with enthusiasm; he was instantly, in imagination, one of a surging crowd, throwing his hat in the air, or drawing Gambetta's carriage through the streets of Paris. I had only to speak of Alsace to bring him to a mood of sullen ugliness and hatred. He was, I have no doubt, a pretty good-tempered man; he was certainly warm-hearted; his apparent harshness to his balloon-venders was probably nothing more than necessary parental severity, and he was always ready to recognize their successes. But I have never seen a more wicked and desperate expression than an allusion to Alsace called up in his face and in his whole bearing. Sometimes he would laugh, when I mentioned the severed province; but it was with a hard, metallic, cruel laugh.' He felt the loss as he would have felt the loss of a limb. The first time I brought up the topic, I saw the whole bitter story of the dismembering of France.

There was another subject which called out that same bitter revengeful look, and that cruel nasal laugh,--the royalist factions and the Bonapartists. When we spoke of them, and I watched his face and heard his soulless laughter, I saw the French Revolution.

But he could always be brought back to open childish delight and warmth by a reference to the United States. Our government, in his eyes, embodied all that was good. France was now a “_république_,” to be sure, and he rejoiced in the fact; but he plainly felt the power and settled stability of our republic, and he seemed to have a filial devotion toward it closely akin to his love for Auguste.

How fortunate we were! Here were no _Légitimistes_, no _Orléanistes_, no _Bonapartistes_, for a perpetual menace! Here all citizens, however else their views might differ, believed, at least, in the republic, and desired to stay her hands. There were no factions here continually plotting in the darkness. Here the machinery of government was all in view, and open to discussion and improvement Ah, what a proud, happy country is this!”_Que c'est une république!_”

I gathered enthusiasm myself from this stranger's ardor for the country of his adoption. I think that I appreciated better, through him, the free openness of our institutions. It is of great advantage to meet an intense man, of associations different from your own, who, by his very intensity and narrowness, instantly puts you at his standpoint. I viewed the United States from the shores of a sister republic which has to contend against strong and organized political forces not fully recognized in the laws, working beneath the surface, which nevertheless are facts.

One acquaintance leads to another. Through Sorel, whose house was the final resort of Frenchmen in distress, and their asylum if they were helpless, not only Fidèle, but a number of other Frenchmen of that neighborhood, began to come to me with their small affairs. I was the _avocat_ who “speak French.” I am afraid that they were surprised at my “French” when they heard it.

There was a willow-worker from the Pas-de-Calais, a deformed man, walking high and low, and always wanting to rise from his chair and lay his hand upon my shoulder, as he talked, who came to consult me about the recovery of a hundred francs which he had advanced at _Anvers_ to a Belgian tailor upon the pledge of a sewing-machine, on consideration that the tailor, who was to come in a different steamer, should take charge of the willow-worker's dog on the voyage: the willow-worker had a wife and six children to look after. This was a lofty contest; but I had time then. I found a little amusement in the case, and I had the advantage of two or three hours in all of practical French conversation with men thoroughly in earnest. Finally, I had the satisfaction of settling their dispute, and so keeping them from a quarrel.

Then there was a French cook, out of a job, who wanted me to find him a place. He was gathering mushrooms, meanwhile, for the hotels. One day he surprised me by coming into my office in a white linen cap, brandishing in his hand a long, gleaming knife. He only desired, however, to tell me that he had found a place at one of the clubs, and to show, in his pride, the shining blade which he had just bought as his equipment.

But the man who impressed me most, after Sorel, was Carron. He first appeared as the friend of the cook,--whom he introduced to me, with many flourishes and compliments, although he was an utter stranger himself. Carron was a well-built and rather handsome man, of medium height, and was then perhaps fifty years of age. He had a remarkably bright, intelligent face, curling brown hair, and a full, wavy brown beard. He kept a rival boarding-house, not far from Sorel's, in a gabled wooden house two hundred years old, which was anciently the home of an eminent Puritan divine. In the oak-panelled room where the theologian wrote his famous tract upon the Carpenter who Profanely undertook to Dispense the Word in the way of Public Ministration, and was Divinely struck Dumb in consequence, Carron now sold beer from a keg.

It was plain at a glance that his present was not of a piece with his past I could not place him. His manners were easy and agreeable, and yet he was not a gentleman. He was well informed, and evidently of some mental training, and yet he was not quite an educated man. After his first visit to me, with the cook, he, too, occasionally looked in upon me, generally late in the afternoon, when I could call the day's work done and could talk French for half an hour with him, in place of taking a walk. He was strongly dramatic, like Sorel, but in a different way. Sorel was intense; Carron was _théâtral_. He was very fond of declamation; and seeing from the first my wish to learn French,--which Sorel would never very definitely recognize,--he often recited to me, for ear practice, and in an exceedingly effective way, passages from the Old Testament. He seemed to know the Psalms by heart. He was a good deal of an actor, and he took the part of a Hebrew prophet with great effect. But his fervor was all stage fire, and he would turn in an instant from a denunciatory Psalm to a humorous story. Even his stories were of a religious cast, like those which ministers relate when they gather socially. He told me once about a priest who was strolling along the bank of the Loire, when a drunken sailor accosted him and reviled him as a lazy good-for-nothing, a _fainéant_, and slapped his face. The priest only turned the other cheek to him. “Strike again,” he said; and the sailor struck. “Now, my friend,” said the priest, “the Scripture tells us that when one strikes us we are to turn the other cheek. There it ends its instruction and leaves us to follow our own judgment.” Whereupon, being a powerful man, he collared the sailor and plunged him into the water. He told me, too, with great unction, and with a roguish gleam in his eye, a story of a small child who was directed to prepare herself for confession, and, being given a manual for self-examination, found the wrong places, and appeared with this array of sins: “I have been unfaithful to my marriage vows.... I have not made the tour of my diocese.”

Carron had an Irish wife (_une Irlandaise_), much younger than he, whom he worshipped. He told me, one day, about his courtship. When he first met her, she knew not a word of French, and he not a word of English. He was greatly captivated (épris), and he had to contrive some mode of communication. They were both Catholics. He had a prayer-book with Latin and French in parallel columns; she had a similar prayer-book but in Latin and English. They would seat themselves; Carron would find in his prayer-book a sentence in French which would suit his turn, on a pinch, and through the medium of the Latin would find the corresponding passage in English in Norah's prayer-book and point it out to her. Norah, in her turn, would select and point out some passage in English which would serve as a tribute to Carron's charms, and he would discover in his prayer-book, in French, what that tribute was. Why should we deem the dead languages no longer a practical study, when Latin can gain for a Frenchman an Irish wife!

Carron, as I have said, puzzled me. He had not the pensive air of one who has seen better days. He was more than cheerful in his present life: he was full of spirits; and yet it was plain that he had been brought up for something different. I asked him once to tell me, for French lessons, the story of his life. With the most charming complaisance, he at once consented; but he proceeded in such endless detail, the first time, in an account of his early boyhood in a strict Benedictine monastery school, in the south of France, as to suggest that he was talking against time. And although his spirited and amusing picture of his childhood days only awakened my curiosity, I could never persuade him to resume the history. It was always “the next time.”

He seemed to be poor: but he never asked a favor except for others. On the contrary, he brought me some little business. A _Belge_ had been cheated out of five hundred dollars; I recovered half of it for him. A Frenchman from _le Midi_ had bought out a little business, and the seller had immediately set up shop next door; I succeeded in shutting up the rival. I was a prodigy.

After a time I was told something further as to Carron's life. He had been a Capuchin monk, in a monastery at or near Paris. The instant that I heard this statement, I felt in my very soul that it was true. My eye had always missed something in Carron. I now knew exactly what it was,--a shaved crown, bare feet, and a cowl.

It was the usage for the brethren of his order to go about Paris barefoot, begging. They were not permitted by the _concierges_ to go into the great apartment hotels. But “Carron, _il est très fin_,” said my informant; “you know,--'e is var' smart.” Carron would learn, by careful inquiry, the name of a resident on an upper floor; then he would appear at the _concierge's_ door, and would mention the name of this resident with such adroit, demure, and absolute confidence that he would be permitted at once to ascend. Once inside, he would go the rounds of the apartments. So he would get five times as much in a day as any of his fellows. A certain amount of the receipts he would yield up to the treasury of the monastery; the rest he kept for himself. After a while this came to be suspected, and he quietly withdrew to a new country.

There was not the slightest tangible corroboration of this story. It might have been the merest gossip or the invention of an enemy. But it fitted Carron so perfectly, that from the day I heard it I could never, somehow, question its substantial truth. If I had questioned it, I should have repeated the story to him, to give him an opportunity to answer. But something warned me not to do so.

Fidèle held on well at the custom-house, and I think that he became a general favorite. No one who took the old soldier by the hand and looked him in the eye could question his absolute honesty; and as for skill in his duties,--well, it was the custom-house.

But he was not saving much money. He was free to give and free to lend to his fellow-countrymen; and, moreover, various ways were pointed out to him by Mr. Fox, from time to time, in which an old soldier, delighting to aid his country, could serve her pecuniarily. The republic,--that is, the Republicans,--it was all one.

One afternoon, late in summer, Fidèle appeared at my office. He seldom visited me, except quarterly for his pension affidavit. As he came in now, I saw that something had happened. His grisly face wore the same kindly smile that it had always borne, but the light had gone out of it. His story was short. He had lost his place. He had been notified that his services would not be needed after Saturday. No reason had been given him; he was simply dismissed in humiliation. There must be some misunderstanding, such as occurs between the warmest friends. And was not the great government his friend? Did it not send him his pension regularly? Had it not sent a special messenger to seek him out, in his obscurity, for this position; and was he not far better suited to it now than at the outset?

In reply to questions from me, he told me more about Mr. Fox's first visit than I had hitherto known. I asked him, in a casual way, about the ward-meetings, and whether the French citizens generally attended them. No, they had been dropping off; they had become envious, perhaps, of him; they had formed a club, with Carron for president, and had voted to act in a body (_en solidarité_).

Then I told Fidèle that I knew no way to help him, and that I feared his dismission was final. He could not understand me, but went away, leaning on his cane, dragging his left foot sidewise behind him, with something of the air of an old faithful officer who has been deprived of his sword.

He had not been gone more than an hour, when the door opened again, and Carron looked in. Seeing that I was alone, he closed the door and walked very slowly toward my desk,--erect, demure, impassive, looking straight forward and not at me, with an air as if he were bearing a candle in high mass, intoning, as he came, a passage from the Psalms: “_Je me ré-jouirai; je partagerai Sichem, et je mesurerai la vallée de Succoth. Galaad sera à moi, Manassé sera à moi.... Moab sera le bassin où je me laverai et je jetterai mon soulier sur Édom.... Qui est-ce qui me conduira dans la ville forte? Qui est-ce qui me conduira jusquen Édom?_” (I will rejoice; I will divide Shechem and mete out the valley of Succoth. Gilead is mine; Ma-nasseh is mine.... Moab is my washpot; over Edom will I cast out my shoe.... Who will bring me into the strong city? Who will lead me into Edom?)

Carron propounded the closing inquiry with great unction; his manner expressed entire confidence that some one would be found to lead him into the strong city, to lead him into Edom.

I had lost something of my interest in Carron since I had heard the story of his Parisian exploits; but I could not help being amused at his manner. It portended something. He made no disclosure, however. Whatever he had to tell, he went away without telling it, contenting himself for the present with intimating by his triumphal manner that great good fortune was in the air.

On Saturday afternoon, as I was about closing my desk,--a little earlier than usual, for it was a most tempting late September day, and the waves of the harbor, which I could just see from my office window, called loudly to me,--Sorel appeared. I held out my hand, but he affected not to see it, and he sat down without a word. He was plainly disturbed and somewhat excited.

Of course I knew that it was his old friend's misfortune which weighed upon him; he was proud and fond of Fidèle.

I seated myself, and waited for him to speak. In a moment he began, with a low, hard laugh: “_Semble que notre bon Fidèle a sa démission_: you know,--our Fidèle got bounced!”

Yes, I said, Fidèle had told me so, and I was very sorry to hear it.

“_Evidemment_” (this in a tone of irony) “_il faut un homme plus juste, plus loyale, que le pauvre Fidèle!_ (You know,--they got to 'ave one more honester man!) _Bien!_ You know who goin' 'ave 'is place?”

I shook my head.

Sorel laid down his hat, and wiped his brow with his handkerchief. Then he went on, no longer speaking in French and then translating,--his usual concession to my supposed desires,--but mostly now in quasi-English: “_Mais_, you thing this great _gouvernement_ wan' hones' men work for her, _n'est-ce pas?_”

“The government ought to have the most honest men,” I said.

“_Bien_. Now you thing the _gouvernement_ boun' to 'ave some men w'at mos' know the business, _n'est-ce pas?_”

“It ought to have them.”

Sorel wiped his brow again. “Now, w'ich you thing the mos' honestes' man,--Fidèle, or-- _Carron?_ W'ich you thing know the business bes',--Fidèle, w'at been there, or Carron, w'at ain' been there?”

“Fidèle, of course.”

“Then tell me, w'at for they bounce' our Fidèle, and let Carron got 'is place?” and he burst into a harsh, resonant, contemptuous laugh. In a moment he resumed: “Now,” he said, “I only got one more thing to ax you,” and taking his felt hat in his hands, he held it on his knees, before him, and stooping a little forward, eyed me closely: “You know w'at we talk sometimes, you an' me, 'bout our Frensh _république_--some _Orléanistes_, some _Légitimistes_, some _Bonapartistes?_ You merember 'ow we talk, you and me?”

I nodded,

“We ain' got no _Orléanistes_, no _Bonapartistes' ici_, in this _gouvernement, n'est-ce pas?_”

I intimated that I had never met any.

“Now,” he proceeded, with an increased bitterness in his tone and his hard smile, “I use' thing you one good frien' to me, _mais_, you been makin' fool of me all that time!”

“You don't think any such thing,” I said.

“You know,” he went on, “who bounce our Fidèle?”

“No.”

Sorel received my reply with a low, incredulous laugh. Then he laid his hat down on the floor, drew his chair closer, held out his finger, and, with the air of one who shows another that he knows his secret he demanded:--

“_Qu'est-ce que c'est qu'un 'Boss'?_”

I sat silent for a moment, looking at him, not knowing just what to say.

“_Mais_,” he went on, “all the _Américains_” (they were chiefly Irish) “roun' my 'ouse been tellin' me, long time, '_Le_ Boss goin' bounce Fidèle.' Me, I laugh w'en they say so. I say, '_Le Boss? C'est un créature d'imagination, pour nous effrayer,' you know, make us scart '_C'est un loup-garou,' you know,--w'at make 'fraid li'l chil'ren. That's w'at I tell them. I thing then you would n't been makin' fool of me.'

“They don't know what they are talking about,” I said. “How can they know why Fidèle is removed?”

“_Mais_, you jus' wait; I goin' tell you. I fin they do know. Fidèle take he sol'ier-papers, an' he go see _le chef_” (here Sorel rose, and acted Fidèle). “Fidèle, 'e show 'is papers to _le chef_; 'e say, 'Now you boun' tell me why _le bon gouvernement_, w'at 's been my frien', bounce me now.' 'E say _le chef_ boun' to tell 'im,--_il faut absolument!_ 'E say 'e won' go, way if _le chef_ don' tell 'im; an' you know, no man can't scare our Fidèle!”

“Very well,” I said; “what did the collector, the _chef_ tell him? Fidèle is too lame, I suppose?”

“_Mais, non_,” with a suspicious smile. “_Le chef_, he mos' cry,--yas, sar,--an' 'e say 'e ain' got no trouble 'gainst Fidèle; _la république_, she ain' got no trouble 'gainst Fidèle. 'E say 'e di'n want Fidèle to go; _le gouvernement_, she d'n want 'im to go. _Mais_, 'e say, 'e can't help hisself; _le gouvernement_, she can't help herself. Yas, sar. Then Fidèle know w'at evarybody been tellin' us was true,--'e 'Boss,' 'e make 'im go!” And Sorel sat back in his chair.

“Now, I ax you one time more,” he resumed: “_qu'est-ce que c'est qu'un 'Boss'?_”

What could I say! How could I explain, offhand, to this stranger, the big boss, the little boss, the State boss, the ward boss, the county boss, all burrowing underneath our theoretical government! How could I explain to him that Fidèle's department in the custom-house had been allotted to a Congressman about to run for a second term, who needed it to control a few more ward-meetings,--needed, in the third ward caucus, those very French votes which Carron had been shrewd enough to steal away and organize! What could I say to Sorel which he, innocent as he was, would not misconstrue as inconsistent with our past glorifications of our republic! What did I say! I do not know. I only remember that he interrupted me, harshly and abruptly, as he rose to go.

“You an' me got great _pitié_, ain' we,” he said, “for _notre France, la pauvre France_, 'cause she got so many folks w'at _tourbillonnent sous la surface,--les Orléanistes les Bonapartistes_; don' we say so? _Mais, il n'y en a pas, ici_,--you know, we ain' got none here; don' we say so? We ain' got no _factionnaires_ here! _Mais non!_” Then, lowering his voice to a hoarse whisper: “_Votre bonne république,_” he said,--“_c'est une république du théâtre!_”

He had hardly closed the door behind him, when he opened it again, and put in his head, and with his hard, mocking laugh, demanded, “_Qu'est-ce que c'est qu'un 'Boss'?_” And as he walked down the hall, I could still hear his scornful laughter.

He never came to see me again. I sometimes heard of him through Carron, who had succeeded to Fidèle's position and had elevated a considerable part of his following: for several weeks they were employed at three dollars a day in the navy-yard, where, to their utter mystification, they moved, with a certain planetary regularity, ship-timber from the west to the east side of the yard, and then back from the east side to the west. You remember reading about this in the published accounts of our late congressional contest.

Though Sorel never visited me again, I occasionally saw him: once near the evening-school, when I went as a guest; once in the long market; once in the post-office; and once he touched me on the shoulder, as I was leaning over the street railing, by the dock, looking down at a Swedish bark. Each time he had but one thing to say; and having said it, he would break into his harsh, ironical laugh, and pass along:--

“_Qu'est-ce que c'est qu'un 'Boss'?_”

And Fidèle?

Still, if you will go to Madeira Place at sunset, you may see the cap and blouse come slowly in. Still the old sergeant sits at the head of the table. But his ideal is gone; his idol has clay feet. No longer does he describe to new-comers from France the receipt of his pension. All the old fond pride in it is gone, and he takes the money now as dollars and cents.

In the conversation, however, around the table the great government at Washington is by no means forgotten. Sometimes Sorel tells his guests about the Boss.