CHAPTER II

Hope in Laffitte--A false hope--New projects--M. Lecornier--How and on what conditions I clothe myself anew--Bamps, tailor, 12 rue du Helder--Bamps at Villers-Cotterets--I visit our estate along with him--Pyramus follows a butcher lad--An Englishman who loved gluttonous dogs--I sell Pyramus--My first hundred francs--The use to which they are put--Bamps departs for Paris--Open credit

Although I had told my mother that my return was only a provisional one, to use M. Lefèvre's expression, she had very little doubt at heart that it was really final. Her doubt turned to certainty when she saw Sunday, Monday, Tuesday pass by without my speaking of returning to Crespy; but, poor mother! she never said a word to me concerning this catastrophe: it had cost her so much to part with me, that, since God had sent me back to her, she opened her maternal heart, arms and door to me. I had some hope left me: Adolphe had promised to make overtures to M. Laffitte, the banker, on my behalf; if M. Laffitte made me an opening in his office, where they worked from ten to four, there would be the whole of the evening and early morning to oneself for other work. Besides, it was time I should earn something. The most important thing was to get to Paris, to light our poor candles at that universal, vast and dazzling fireside, which was a light to the whole world. A fortnight after my return from Crespy, I received a letter from Adolphe. His request had come to nothing, for M. Laffitte's offices were over full of clerks as it was: they were talking of clearing some out. So I decided to put in action at the first opportunity a plan I had settled upon during the last sleepless night I had spent at M. Lefèvre's. This project was perfectly simple and, by its very simplicity, seemed likely to succeed.

I would select, from my father's desk, a dozen letters from Marshal Jourdan, Marshal Victor, Marshal Sébastiani, from all the marshals still living, in fact, with whom my father had had dealings. I would collect a small sum of money and I would start for Paris. I would approach these old friends of my father; they would do what they could, and it would be a strange thing if four or five marshals of France, one of whom was Minister for War, could not by their combined influence find a situation at 1200 francs for the son of their old comrade-in-arms. But although this plan looked as simple and artless, at the first glance, as a pastoral by Florian, it was very difficult to put in execution. Small though the sum was, it was not an easy thing to raise it; moreover, an expenditure I had foolishly made at Crespy complicated matters.

I had become connected at Crespy with a young man who had lived in Paris: his name was Lecornier. He was brother of that gracious person to whom I gave a name in one of my preceding chapters--you will recollect it, although it was only mentioned once--the charming name of Athénaïs, or, in other words, Athena, Minerva, Pallas, although the bearer of it was quite unaware of this fact. Well, ashamed of moving in the aristocratic world of Crespy in my old-fashioned clothes of Villers-Cotterets, I had asked Lecornier, as my build was exactly his, to write to his tailor to make me a coat, a waistcoat and a pair of trousers. Lecornier wrote: I sent my twenty francs as a remittance on account, and, fifteen days later, the tailor forwarded me the goods, enclosing a bill for a hundred and fifty-five francs, from which he had deducted the twenty francs I had sent him on account. It was arranged that the rest of the bill should be liquidated at the rate of twenty francs a month. The tailor's name was Bamps, and he lived in the rue du Helder, No. 12. It will be seen, from his charges, that although Bamps lived in a fashionable quarter, he was neither a Chevreuil nor a Staub; no, he was a journeyman who charged fancy prices, who had drifted from the Latin quarter, where he should always have remained. But for the very reason that his business was small, Bamps had all the more need of the profits it produced.

Although I exercised the greatest economy possible, I had not been able to put aside the promised twenty francs when the next month's payment became due. Not having them, of course I could not send them. This first infraction of our treaty made Bamps very uneasy. Nevertheless, Bamps knew that Lecornier belonged to a family well to do, although not wealthy; Lecornier kept his engagements with him with scrupulous punctuality; so he decided to wait, before giving signs of his anxiety. The second month came. With it came the same impossibility on my part, and, consequently, redoubled uneasiness on the part of Bamps. Meanwhile, I had left Crespy--under the circumstances related--and I had returned to Villers-Cotterets. Five or six days after my departure, Bamps, becoming more and more uncomfortable, had written to Lecornier. Lecornier had replied, giving him my fresh address. It therefore came about that one day--about the beginning of the third month after receiving the clothes--as I was lounging on our threshold, the town clock struck one, the diligence from Paris drew up in the square, and a traveller got down from it who asked the conductor two or three questions, took his bearings and came straight to me. I guessed half the truth. Bamps was walking with his knees out like Duguesclin, and nobody but a soldier or a tailor could walk thus. I was not mistaken: the stranger came straight to me and introduced himself; it was Bamps. It was necessary to play something like the scene between Don Juan and M. Dimanche; this was all the more difficult as I had never read _Don Juan._ However, instinct made up for ignorance. I gave Bamps a most cordial reception; I introduced him to my mother, to whom, fortunately, I had said a few words about this my first debt; I offered him refreshment, and I asked him to sit down, or, if he preferred so to do, to visit our estate. Under the circumstances, Bamps' choice was a foregone conclusion: he preferred to visit _our estate._

Now, what was this property of which the reader has already heard me speak, but which he will assuredly have forgotten? Our estate was the house of M. Harlay on which my mother had been paying a life-annuity for something like forty years; M. Harlay had died during my stay with Maître Lefèvre; but, just as though he had made a wager, he died on the anniversary of his birth, triumphantly terminating his ninetieth year!... Unfortunately, his death had not been much advantage to us. My mother had borrowed, on house and garden, almost as much as house and garden were worth; so that we were neither richer nor poorer by this inheritance; though, as there were certain duties to pay, I may venture to state we were poorer rather than richer. But Bamps knew none of these details. I therefore offered, as I have said, to take him over our estate. He accepted. I unchained Pryamus, and we set off. After going fifty yards, Pyramus left us to follow a butcher boy who went by with a piece of mutton on his shoulder. I give this detail, although, at first glance, it may appear very trivial; for it was not without influence upon my future. For what would have happened to me and to Bamps if this butcher boy, whose name was Valtat, had not passed by, and if Pyramus had not followed him? We went on our way, without thinking of Pyramus. Man jostles up against great events, every moment of his life, without seeing them and without being conscious of them.

We soon arrived. M. Harlay's house, now our own, was situated in the place de la Fontaine, perhaps a couple of hundred steps from the house we lived in. I had taken the keys: I opened the doors, and we began by looking over the interior of the house. It was not so clean as to inspire great confidence: everything had grown old along with the worthy man who had just died in it, and who had taken great care not to undertake a single repair in it; "for," said he, "it will last as long as I shall." It had lasted as long as he had, true; but, all the same, it was time he died. If he had lingered on merely another year or two with the same intention in his head, he would have out-lasted the house. The inside of our poor property, then, afforded the most melancholy sight of complete neglect and dilapidation. The floors were broken through, the wall-papers torn off, the bricks broken. Bamps shook his head, and said, in his half Alsacian and half French dialect, "Ach! My vord! my vord! it is in a fery pad stade."

Most surely would I have offered Bamps the house, in exchange for his bill, if he would have taken it. When the house had been surveyed, I said to Bamps--

"Now let us go and see the garden."

"Is de garten in zo pad a stade as de house?" he asked. "Well ... it has been rather neglected, but now it belongs to us...."

"It vill take much money to restore dis old tumbledown place," Bamps discreetly observed.

"Bah! we shall find it," I replied: "if it is not in our own pockets, it will be in someone else's."

"Goot! if you can vind it, zo much de better."

We crossed the yard and entered the garden. It was at the beginning of April; we had had two or three lovely days--days one knows so well, on which the year, like a faithful servant, seems to fold up Winter's white garment, and unfold the green robe of Spring.

Now, although the garden was as neglected as the house, it was pursuing its work of life, in opposition to the work of death going on in the house. The house grew older year by year; year by year the garden renewed its youth. It looked as though the trees had powdered themselves for a forest ball: apples and pears in white, and peaches and almonds in pink. You could not imagine anything younger, fresher or more full of life, than was this garden of death. Everything was waking up with Nature, as she herself woke up: the birds had begun to sing, and three or four butterflies, deceived by the flowers and by the first rays of sunshine, were flying about still somewhat benumbed; poor ephemera, born in the morning, but to die by night!

"Well," I asked Bamps, "what do you say to the garden?" "Oh! dat is fery bretty: it is a bity it is not in de rue de Rifoli."

"There will be more than a hundred crowns' worth of fruit in this garden, you take my word for it."

"Yess, if no pad frosts come."

O Bamps! you Jew, my friend, you tailor, my creditor, you have probably not read those fine lines of Hugo, which, by the way, were not then written:--

"Il faut que l'eau s'épuise à courir les valines; Il faut que l'éclair brille, et brille peu d'instants; Il faut qu'avril jaloux brûle de ses gelées Le beau pommier trop fier de ses fleurs etoilées, Neige odorante du printemps."

We walked round the garden; then, when I fancied satisfaction carried the day against dissatisfaction, I took Bamps back home. Dinner was waiting for us. I believe the dinner caused Bamps to go from satisfaction back to dissatisfaction.

"Ah, veil," he said to me, when he had taken his cup of coffee and his cognac, "we must now have a liddle talk about business."

"Why not, my dear Bamps? Willingly."

My mother heaved a sigh.

"Veil, then," continued Bamps, "the bill is for a huntred and vifty-vive francs."

"Towards which I have given you twenty."

"Towards vhich you haf gifen me tventy: so dere is a palance of a huntred and thirdy-vive. Towards dese huntred and thirdy-vive, you said you would gif me tventy per month. Two months haf gone py: so dat makes forty you owe me."

"Exactly forty, my dear sir--you reckon like Barême."

"Veil, I can reckon all right."

The situation was growing embarrassing. Had we opened my poor mother's banking account and scratched together every farthing, we should certainly not have been able to find the forty francs demanded. Just at that moment the door opened.

"Is M. Dumas in?" asked a hoarse, raucous voice.

"Yes, M. Dumas is here," I replied in a bad temper. "What do you want with him?"

"I don't want him."

"Who does, then?"

"An Englishman at M. Cartier's."

"An Englishman?" I repeated.

"Yes, an Englishman, who is very anxious to see you."

That was my own state of mind too! The Englishman could not be more anxious to see me than I was to get away from Bamps.

"My dear Bamps," I said to him, "wait for me; I will come back. We will settle up our account on my return."

"Be qvick back; I must depard dis efening."

"Set your mind at rest about that: I shall be back in an instant."

I took up my cap and followed the stable lad, who had told my mother, to her great surprise, that he had orders not to go back without me.

Cartier, at whose house was the Englishman who demanded to see me, was an old friend of our family, the proprietor of the _Boule d'or,_ a hotel situated at the extreme east of the town, on the road to Soissons. The diligences stopped at his house. There was therefore nothing surprising that the Englishman who was asking for me should be staying there: what did astonish me was that this Englishman should want me. When I appeared in the kitchen, old Cartier, who was warming himself, according to his usual habit, in the chimney corner, came up to me.

"Look sharp," he said: "I believe I am going to pull off a good thing for you."

"Come now, that would be very welcome," I replied; "I was never in greater need of a lucky windfall."

"Well, follow me."

And Cartier, walking in front of me, led me to a little parlour where travellers dined. Just as we opened the door, we heard a voice saying, with a strong English accent--

"Take care, mine host: the dog does not know me, and will run out."

"Never fear, milord," replied Cartier: "I am bringing his master."

Every innkeeper considers an Englishman has the right to the title of milord; so they use the title unsparingly: true, it usually pays them to do so.

"Ah! come in, sir," said the Englishman, trying to rise, by leaning both his elbows on the arms of his chair. He could not succeed. Seeing this, I hastened to say to him--

"Pray do not disturb yourself, monsieur."

"Oh, I will not disturb myself," said the Englishman, falling back in his arm-chair with a sigh. The time he took in getting up and falling back in his chair, with the rising and falling movement suggestive of an omelette soufflée which has fallen flat, was occupied by me in quickly glancing at him and his surroundings. He was a man of between forty and forty-five years of age, of sandy complexion, with his hair clipped short and his whiskers cut _en collier_; he wore a blue coat with metal buttons, a chamois leather waistcoat, breeches of grey woollen material with gaiters to match, after the fashion of grooms. He was seated before the table where he had just dined. The table bore the debris of a meal sufficient for six people. He must have weighed from three hundred to three hundred and fifty pounds. Pyramus was seated on the parquetry floor, looking very melancholy; round Pyramus were placed ten or twelve shiny plates, licked clean with that thoroughness I knew he was capable of in the matter of dirty plates. On the last plate, however, were some scraps still unconsumed. These unconsumed scraps were the cause of Pyramus's depressed spirits.

"Please come and speak to me, monsieur," said the Englishman.

I drew near him. Pyramus recognised me, yawned to notify the fact, stretched himself full length on his stomach so as to get as near to me as possible, his paws stretched out on the floor, his nose laid on his paws.

"Yes, monsieur," I said to the Englishman.

"Now!" said he. Then, after a pause, he added--

"That dog of yours has taken my fancy."

"He is greatly honoured, monsieur."

"And they have told me you might perhaps agree to sell him to me, if I were to pay you a good price for him."

"I shall not need very much persuasion, monsieur; I have been trying to get rid of him, and since he pleases you ..."

"Oh yes, he pleases me."

"Well, then, take him."

"Oh, I do not want to take the dog without paying for him." Cartier nudged my elbow.

"Monsieur," I said, "I am not a dealer in dogs: he was given to me, I will give him to you."

"Well, but he has cost you his keep."

"Oh, the keep of a dog does not come to much."

"Never mind; if is but fair I should pay for his food.... How long have you had him?"

"Nearly two years."

"Then I owe you for his food for two years."

Cartier continued to nudge my elbow. And it occurred to me that the dog's keep would help admirably to pay for the master's clothes.

"Very well," said I, "we will settle it so: you shall pay me for his keep."

"Reckon it up."

"What do you think of fifty francs per year?"

"Oh! oh!"

"Is it too much?" I asked.

"On the contrary, I do not think it is enough: the dog eats a lot."

"Yes, true, monsieur; I was intending to warn you of that." "Oh, I have witnessed it; but I like animals and people who eat a lot: it shows they have a good digestion, and a good digestion tends to good humour."

"Very well, then, you shall fix your own charge."

"You said, I think, that it was to be ten napoleons?"

"No, monsieur; I said five napoleons."

Cartier nudged my elbow harder and harder.

"Ah! five napoleons?... You will not take ten?"

"No, monsieur, and only that because I happen at this moment to be in great need of five napoleons."

"Won't you take fifteen napoleons? I am sure the dog is worth fifteen napoleons."

"No, no, no, no; give me five napoleons, and he is yours."

"What do you call him?"

"Pyramus."

"Pyramus!" exclaimed the Englishman.

Pyramus did not budge.

"Oh," continued the Englishman, "what did you say you called him?"

"I said Pyramus."

"He did not stir when I called him."

"That is because he is not yet accustomed to your pronunciation."

"Oh, he will soon get used to it."

"There is no doubt of it."

"You think so?"

"I am sure of it."

"Good! I thank you, monsieur: here are the five napoleons."

I hesitated to take them; but in the English accent with which he pronounced the last words there was an intonation which so cruelly reminded me of the German accent of Bamps that I decided.

"I am much obliged to you, monsieur," I said.

"On the contrary, it is I who ought to thank you," the Englishman replied, trying to raise himself afresh--an attempt which was as abortive as the first.

I made him a sign with my hand, as I bowed; he sank back into his arm-chair, and I went out.

"Well, now, how did it come about that Pyramus fell into the hands of such a master?" I asked old Cartier.

"That scamp of a dog was born with a lucky spoon in his mouth!"

"It was the simplest thing in the world. Valtat brought me a piece of lamb; Pyramus scented the fresh meat; he followed Valtat. Valtat came here; Pyramus came here. The Englishman got out of the carriage; he saw your dog. He had been recommended to take shooting exercise: he asked me if the dog was a good one; I told him it was. He asked me who owned the dog; I told him it belonged to you. He asked me if you would consent to sell it; I told him I would send and fetch you, and then he could ask you himself. I sent for you ... you came ... there's the whole story.... Pyramus is sold and you are not ill pleased?"

"Why, certainly not! The rascal is such a thief that I should have been obliged to give him away or to break his neck.... He was ruining us!"

Cartier shrugged his shoulders, as much as to say, "That would not be a difficult task!" Then, passing to another train of ideas, he said--

"So you have returned home?"

"That is so."

"You were sick of Crespy?"

"I am sick of every place."

"What do you want to do now?"

"Why, I want to go to Paris."

"And when do you start?"

"May be sooner than you think."

"Do not go without giving me an opportunity to pay you out."

"Never fear!"

Before I went to Crespy, I had thoroughly beaten Cartier at billiards.

"Besides," I went on, "if I go, as I shall not leave in any carriage but one of yours, you can stop me on the step."

"Done!... But this time it must be a struggle to death." "To death!"

"Your five napoleons must be staked."

"You know I never play for money, and as for my five napoleons, they already have their vocation."

"Well, well, well, adieu."

"_Au revoir._"

And I left Cartier, with this engagement booked. We shall see where it led me.

When I re-entered the house, I found Bamps, who was beginning to grow impatient. The first coach for Paris passed through Villers-Cotterets at eight o'clock in the evening: it was now seven.

"Ah! goot!" he said, "there you are!... I did not regon I should zee you again."

"What!" I said, imitating his jargon, "you did not regon you should zee me again?"

Wondrous power of money! I was mocking Bamps, who, an hour before, had made me tremble with fear. Bamps knit his eyebrows.

"We zay, den?" he said.

"We say that I owe you twenty francs per month--that two months have gone by without payment--and that, consequently, I owe you forty francs."

"You owe me vorty vrancs."

"All right, my dear Bamps--here you are!"

And I threw two napoleons on the table, taking care to let the three others in the palm of my hand be visible. My poor mother looked at me with the most profound amazement. I reassured her with a sign. The sign allayed her fears, but not her surprise. Bamps examined the two napoleons, rubbed them to make sure they were not false, and rolled them, one after the other, into his pocket.

"You do not vant any more dings?" he asked.

"No, thank you, my dear Monsieur. Besides, I am expecting to leave here for Paris in a short time."

"You will bear in mind that I have the first claim on your custom?"

"All right, my dear Bamps, for good and all! But if you mean to start at eight o'clock ...?"

"If I mean to stard--! I should just tink so!"

"Well, then, there is no time to lose."

"The Tevil!"

"You know where the coach stops?"

"Yess."

"Very well, _bon voyage_."

"Atieu! Monsir Toumas! Atieu, Matame Toumas!... Atieu! atieu!"

And Bamps, delighted, not only at having secured forty francs, but still further at being somewhat reassured about the rest of his account, set off, wafting us his parting benedictions, with all the speed his little legs could make.

My mother just waited till she had closed both doors, then she said--

"But where did you get that money, you young rogue?"

"I sold Pyramus, mother."

"For how much?"

"A hundred francs."

"So that there are sixty francs left?"

"At your service, dear mother."

"I am afraid I must take them. I have two hundred francs to pay to-morrow to the warehouseman, and I only have a hundred and fifty towards it."

"Here they are ... but on one condition."

"What is it?"

"That you let me have them back again as soon as I set off for Paris."

"With whom are you going?"

"That must be my business."

"Well, so be it.... I really begin to feel as though God were with you."

At this, we both went to bed, with that settled faith that has never deserted me. And I doubt even whether my mother's faith, at any rate at that moment, was as strong as mine.