CHAPTER I

Rousseau and Romieu--Conversation with the porter--The eight hours' candle--The _Deux Magots_--At what hour one should wind up one's watch--M. le sous-préfet enjoys a joke--Henry Monnier--A paragraph of information--On suppers--On cigars

While these great events were happening in high political spheres, our humble fortunes were on the wane. The hundred louis that my mother had brought with her had come to an end; we were aghast to find we had spent nearly 4000 francs within a year and a half--nearly 11 1800 francs, that is to say, more than we ought to have done, t; It was therefore imperative that I should fulfil my promises and add to my salary by working out of my office hours.

De Leuven and I had stuck valiantly and persistently at collaborating together, but nothing had come of it--a result that made us bitterly inveigh aloud against the injustice of managers, and the want of taste of directorates, although, under my breath, I was more just in my criticism of our efforts, and frankly admitted to myself that were I a manager I would not have accepted my own work. So we made up our minds to make certain sacrifices, and ask Rousseau to join us, in order that he might add those indescribable finishing touches to our works which would make all the difference in the world. These sacrifices consisted in our procuring several bottles of good old Bordeaux, some flasks of rum and some loaf-sugar. Rousseau belonged to the famous school of Favart, Radet, Collé, Désaugiers, Armand Gouffé and Company, who never worked save to the sound of the popping of corks, with the vision of seething fumes of punch-bowls before their eyes. Rousseau had a reputation which, later, he was most unwillingly obliged to share with his illustrious collaborator Romieu. At a certain period I should not have dared to speak thus of the famous prefect of the Dordogne, for fear of injuring his political career. It will be remembered what distress was caused by the news (which happily proved to be false) of his having been devoured by bugs, and how his partisans hastened to fling back the ill-natured jest into the face of the wretched papers that had spread the report. It is, alas! so difficult for an intellectual man to be forgiven his wit, and for a funny man to pass for a serious one, that Romieu had scarcely begun to recover from this duplex reputation, unluckily but too well deserved, when, after ten years at the _sous-préfecture_ and _préfecture_, a similar fate overtook him to that of the poor Roman cobbler who taught a raven to exclaim, "_Vive César Auguste!_" the Cæsar Augustus of France fell, and all Romieu's pains and labours were lost, _opera et impensa periit._ Romieu retired into private life, and the fall above referred to, which, contrary to the laws of gravity, operated from the base upwards, gave us full liberty with respect to the author of the _Enfant trouvé_ and the _Ère des Césars._

In 1825, then, Romieu was collaborating with Rousseau; but, as in the case of Adolphe and myself, they got absolutely nothing out of it beyond a crowd of adventures each more delightfully amusing than its predecessor, which defrayed their expenses at the _café du Roi_ and the _café des Variétés._

Let us make it clear, for there might be some ambiguity in the matter, and it might be thought that something also came out of our collaboration.

No, nothing at all came of ours: Adolphe had always been as jolly as a Trappist monk, while I, although by nature extremely light-hearted, was only able to laugh at the farces of others, without ever being able, in all the farces that were made, to be more than a simple spectator. I profoundly admired Rousseau's and Romieu's cleverness in these lines. So there were few nights when Rousseau especially (who could not carry his wine as well as Romieu, but who, it should be acknowledged, went in for excellent wines), abandoned to himself by his treacherous Pylades, had to be led home by some patrol or other, and taken to the police-station for making a nocturnal uproar. But Rousseau was like those children who, as a precaution against their being lost, are taught their name and address. Rousseau had deeply engraved upon his memory the name of a certain police-officer of his acquaintance, and it was so firmly embedded there that neither wine, nor brandy, nor rum nor punch was powerful enough to wash it out. Rousseau staggering, Rousseau stuttering, Rousseau tight, Rousseau drunk, Rousseau dead drunk, Rousseau forgetful of the name and address of his mother, the name and address of Romieu, his own name and his own address, could always distinctly articulate the name and address of that particular police-officer!

And as no one could refuse a man as drunk as he was the reasonable request to be taken to a police-officer, Rousseau was taken to his friend, who delivered him a formal lecture, but always wound up by setting him free.

Once, however, the lecture was more keen than usual, and Rousseau listened to it looking very penitent. Then, as the police-officer upbraided him for disturbing his slumbers, thus waking him night after night, Rousseau responded--

"You are quite right, and I promise you I will henceforth have myself taken before someone else once every three times."

He kept his word. But all police-officers were not so long-suffering as good M.--. The first one before whom Rousseau appeared sent him to the Saint-Martin guard-room and kept him there for a couple of days. After this experience he decided to go back to his old habit.

Rousseau and Romieu were very fond of playing pranks on porters and grocers. Rousseau would put his head in at a porter's grille and call out--

"Good-day, my friend."

"Good-day, monsieur."

"May I ask what bird that is you have in your window?"

"It is a blackcap, monsieur."

"Ah! indeed!... Why do you keep a blackcap?"

"Because it sings so nicely, monsieur."

"Really?"

"Stop and listen...."

And the porter would put his hands on his hips and wag his head up and down with a smile on his face as he listened to the singing of his blackcap.

"Ah! you are right!... You are married?"

"Yes, monsieur,--been married three times."

"And where is your woman?"

"My wife, Monsieur means?"

"Yes, of course, your wife."

"She is at the lodger's, on the fifth floor."

"Indeed! indeed! And what is she doing at the lodger's on the fifth floor?"

"Charing."

"Is the lodger on the fifth floor young or old?"

"Between the two."

"Good.... And your children?"

"I haven't any."

"You haven't any?"

"No."

"Then what have you been about during your three marriages?"

"Excuse me ... does Monsieur want someone?"

"No."

"Monsieur wants something?"

"No."

"Well, for the past quarter of an hour Monsieur has been asking me question after question."

"Yes."

"What did you mean by these questions?"

"Nothing at all."

"What! nothing at all?... But surely Monsieur had some reason?"

"None."

"Monsieur had no reason?"

"No."

"Well, then, I should much like to know why Monsieur did me the honour ...?"

"Why, I was passing by ... I saw the words over your lodge '_Speak to the porter_,' so I spoke to you."

Romieu would enter a grocer's shop.

"Good-morning, monsieur."

"Monsieur, your very humble servant."

"Have you candles eight to the pound?"

"Certainly, monsieur, plenty of them; it is an article much in demand, for there are more small purses than large ones."

"Your observation, monsieur, savours of higher matters than groceries."

Romieu and the grocer bowed to each other.

"You flatter me, monsieur."

"Monsieur said that he wanted ...?"

"One candle of eight to the pound."

"Only one?"

"Yes, at first; later, I will see."

The grocer took a candle out of a packet.

"Here it is, monsieur."

"Will you cut it in half? I detest fingering candles!"

"Quite so, monsieur; they have such a strong smell.... Here is your candle in two pieces."

"Ah! now will you be good enough to cut each of those halves into four pieces?"

"Into four?"

"Yes; I need eight pieces of candle for my purpose."

"Here are your eight pieces, monsieur."

"Pardon me, will you oblige me by preparing the wicks for me?"

"The whole eight?"

"Seven rather, since one naturally has its wick ready."

"Quite so."

"That is all right ... there, there, very good ... there, thank you. Now then ... place them on the counter at three inches' distance from one another.... Ah!..."

"But what on earth is that for?"

"You will see.... Now, would you have the goodness to lend me a lucifer match?"

"Certainly ... take one."

"Thanks."

And Romieu would solemnly light the eight candle-ends.

"But what is that for, monsieur?"

"I am creating a farce."

"A farce?"

"Yes."

"And now ...?"

"And now the farce is done, I am going"; and Romieu would nod to the grocer and make off.

"What! are you going without paying for the candle?" shrieked the grocer. "At least pay for the candle."

Romieu would turn round--

"If I paid for the candle, where would be the farce?"

And he would go on his way quite heedless of the grocer's objurgations.

Occasionally, Romieu's ambitions would soar higher than teasing grocers, and he would play irreverent pranks in higher circles of commerce.

One evening, he was passing along the rue de Seine, at the corner of the rue de Bussy, at half-past twelve midnight, when an assistant was preparing to close the shop of _les Deux Magots._ Generally, the establishment closed at eleven, so it was unusually late.

Romieu rushed inside the shop.

"Where is the proprietor of the establishment?"

"M. P---?"

"Yes."

"He has gone to bed."

"Has he been gone long?"

"About an hour."

"But he sleeps in the house?"

"Certainly."

"Take me to him."

"But, monsieur...."

"Without delay."

"But...."

"Instantly."

"Is your communication then of so pressing a nature?"

"It is so important that I shudder lest I be too late."

"Since Monsieur assures me...."

"Come, take me to him, take me to him quickly!"

The assistant did not wait to close the shop, but took Romieu through into an anteroom, where M. P---- was snoring like a bass-viol.

"M. P----! M. P----!..." shouted the shopboy.

"Well, what is it? Go to the devil with you! What do you want?"

"It is not I...."

"What do you mean by saying it is not you?"

"No, it is a gentleman who wishes a few words with you."

"At this time of night?"

"He says it is very urgent."

"Where is the gentleman?"

"He is at the door. Come in, monsieur, come in."

Romieu entered on tiptoe, hat in hand, with a smiling countenance.

"Pardon, monsieur, a thousand pardons for disturbing you."

"Oh, do not mention it, monsieur; it is nothing. What is your business?"

"I wish to speak with your partner."

"With my partner?"

"Yes."

"But I have no partner."

"You haven't?"

"No."

"Then why put on your sign, '_Aux Deux Magots_'? It deceives the public!"

But sometimes it happened that the hoaxer was recognised, and then he was caught in his own trap.

One day Rousseau went into a watchmaker's.

"Monsieur, I wish to see some good watches."

"Monsieur, here is the very article you desire."

"Whose make is it?"

"Leroy's."

"Who is Leroy?"

"One of the most famous of my craft."

"Then you can guarantee it?"

"I can."

"How many times a week does it need winding?"

"Once."

"Morning or evening?"

"Whichever you prefer; though it is really better to wind it in the morning."

"Why so?"

"Because one may be drunk in the evening, Monsieur Rousseau, and break the mainspring."

Rousseau was caught this time; he left, promising the watchmaker his custom--a promise he never fulfilled, bearing in mind the watchmaker's retort.

It will be seen that when Romieu became first a sub-prefect and then a prefect he could not continue this kind of pleasantry; nevertheless, I understand that the old Adam in him would crop out from time to time, for it is very difficult to efface natural propensities, which, according to the poet of Auteuil, will persist in returning full tilt.

So it is related that one night the sub-prefect was returning home at eleven o'clock, after supper;--when Romieu was in Paris and took supper out he never returned home until the following morning; but every creature knows, alas! that Paris is not the provinces!--and he caught sight of three or four street lads belonging to the district, busy throwing stones at the complimentary street lamp that was always lit in front of the _sous-préfecture_; however, as it was not Paris, but only a provincial town, the young guttersnipes were country lubbers, and had already thrown four or five stones without being able to touch the spot. The sub-prefect saw them without being seen and shrugged his shoulders. Finally, being totally unable to contain himself at the sight of such clumsiness, he came up to them, took his place in the midst of the astonished urchins, picked up the first stone he saw, threw it--and behold, lo!--the lamp ceased to be a lamp. "That is how it should be done, messieurs," he said, and he entered his house, muttering--

"Oh! the young folk of to-day are a degenerate lot!"

Sometimes, too, M. le préfet, in his brave braided coat of office, would condescend to be gluttonous,--for who does not have his bad moments? even the wisest sin seven times a day, so surely the intellectual man may make a beast of himself once a year.

Henri Monnier, the witty caricaturist, charming creator of _proverbes_ and friend of all, when passing through Périgueux, went to call on his old comrade Romieu and invited himself to dinner that day. M. le préfet gave a formal dinner party, the guests being mostly departmental officials, the stiffest and most punctilious he could find. It took a great deal to overawe Henri Monnier; he chattered away, told all sorts of tales just as freely as if he had been in his own house, or in yours or in mine; in other words, he was delightful. But he noticed that, although he persistently addressed Romieu in familiar language, Romieu was equally persistent in being formal with him.

This was entirely contrary to their habits and customs. Henri Monnier made quite certain that he was not labouring under any misapprehension; then, when he was sure he was right, he shouted from one end of the table to the other, "Look here, my dear Romieu, why ever do you address me as _you_ while I use the familiar _thou_? The company here will take you for my valet."

Paris really missed Romieu when he left it, although it still possessed Rousseau; as the authorities were bent on making Romieu a prefect, Paris would have liked him to be prefect of Paris, but apparently that was not possible. How could Romieu have left Rousseau behind him in Paris? Ah! Rousseau never forgave him for doing that! He wrote a very pretty song about it, which I will give my readers, if I can find it.

When Romieu was appointed sub-prefect, Rousseau jumped for joy; it would, he argued, be a grave omission on the part of the Government to make Romieu a sub-prefect without giving Rousseau some title or other; and as Rousseau had not asked for even a sub-prefecture after the Revolution, it was but reasonable to refrain from blaming the Government, and, less proud than Cæsar, he was quite willing to play second fiddle. He went in search of Romieu.

"Well done, my dear friend, I congratulate you."

"Oh! you have heard?"

"The deuce I have!"

"Yes, they have made me a sub-prefect."

"Well?"

"Well, what?"

"I hope you are thinking of me."

"Thinking of you? In what way?"

"You will require a secretary, I should think."

"Yes, so I shall."

"You have not got one yet?"

"No."

"Very well, that is my berth, then. Twelve hundred francs, board, lodging and your society. I could ask for nothing better."

"Indeed?" said Romieu.

"Come, now!"

"Return the day after to-morrow, and I will tell you if the thing be possible."

"Possible! What the devil should prevent it ...?"

Rousseau took his departure, and returned two days later. He found Romieu looking very serious, even anxious.

"Well?" he asked.

"Well, my dear friend, I am in despair."

"Why?"

"Impossible!"

"Impossible to take me with you?"

"Yes ... you see...."

"No, I don't see."

"Before I could take you with me I had to make some inquiries."

"About me?"

"Yes, about you, and I learnt...."

"You learnt ...?"

"I learnt that you drank."

Rousseau left; but this time he did not return again. Poor Rousseau! Three months before his death, he related this story to my son and me, with tears in his eyes.

"Romieu will come to a bad end," he said in tones as tragic as those of Calchas; "he is an ungrateful being."

May Heaven preserve Romieu from Rousseau's prediction!

Romieu stayed in the provinces for three years without coming back to Paris, and during those three years his absence led to great changes in the capital, as the following distich by an unknown author appears to state:--

"Lorsque Romieu revint du Monomotapa Paris ne soupait plus, et Paris ressoupa."

I said great changes had taken place in Paris, I should have said fatal changes. The cessation of supper parties has brought about more troublesome consequences in a civilised world than might be supposed. I attribute our present state of intellectual degeneration to the cessation of supper parties and the innovation of the cigar. God forbid I should state that our sons' mental abilities are not equal to our own; I, at least, have a son who would not forgive me if I made such a statement. But they are of a different type of mind. Time alone can settle which is the better of the two.

We men of forty years and upwards still preserve something of the aristocratic spirit of the eighteenth century, tempered with the chivalrous spirit of the Empire.

Women had great influence over minds of that period, and supper parties were a real social factor.

By eleven o'clock at night all the cares of the day are cast aside, and one knows there are still from six to eight hours to spend at one's ease between the night ends and day comes. When one sits at a well-filled table, face to face with a pretty girl, amid the pleasurable excitement of lights and flowers, the mind lets itself be carried away into the realm of dreams, though wide awake, and at such a time it attains its highest flights of brilliancy and exaltation. It is not only that one is more brilliant at supper-time than at any other meal, and that one has more wit than at any other repast, but one's very nature seems to be different.

I am sure that the greater number of the witty sayings of the eighteenth century were said at supper-time. Let us, therefore, have more of these supper parties, and we shall not lack what made them so brilliant.

Now let us turn to the cigar. Formerly, after _déjeuner_, men and women would proceed to the billiard-room or to the garden; after dinner, they would adjourn to the drawing-room; and there the conversation would continue on the same lines, whether desultory or more general. Nowadays, men have scarcely risen from table before they say to one another, "Come, let us have a cigar."

Then they go out, and walk up and down the pavements smoking. There they meet women also, but not at all capable of the same type of wit as those whom they have just left in the drawing-room. Men's minds are raised to the level of the women with whom they associate; one cannot demean oneself before the most lovely half of creation. And this generalisation is proved true every day.

One does not meet the same people in the public promenades two days running, but, though the people change, the type of conversation is pretty much the same always. Imperceptibly the tone of mind becomes lower. If you add to this the influence of the narcotic contained in tobacco, you can judge what the state of society will be in half a century if the taste for the cigar goes on increasing incessantly. We shall have about as much intellectual activity in France in 1950 as there is in Holland at the present time.

The reader will see that we have travelled far from Rousseau and Romieu. We have only Rousseau now to deal with, and let us, therefore, return to him.