“To be hired as a manual laborer, if that’s possible,” he replies.
The man looks him up and down. “You don’t look the part,” he remarks. “Have you done it before? Do you have any experience?”
“No, but I assume that with intelligence and good will, it won’t take long to learn.”
“You might think so,” mutters the other. “A good manual laborer is rarer than a good mason.” He adds: “Do you have papers? Where have you come from?”
The beggar is nonplussed.
“You’ve come from the country house, I’ll wager,” says the foreman, raising his arm in the direction of the prison. “You’d do better to go offer yourself to a shoe-factory. At least you could say you’ve served your apprenticeship.”
Two or three companions have drawn nearer to them.
“Monsieur is weary of working in the shadows for the government,” affirms the Limousin, with a coarse laugh. “He wants to serve you.”
Red with shame, the liberated man hastens to disappear, pursued by insulting gibes.
He resumes his route, invaded again by an anguished sorrow. Market-gardeners’ vehicles, returning from the market, go past him continually. They know the time of release; they hate the malefactors that the State nourishes at their expense, and who, when summer comes, steal their fruits as they go by. Every morning, they make a brutal game of humiliating them.
“Another one from over there! Get, away, good-for-nothing!”
“Watch your pockets!”
“Dirty tramp!”
“Burglar!”
Etc.
He is in haste to get away from an environment whose vicinity seems to identify him to all scorn. A side-road appears to him to be more direct and less busy. He takes it and increases his pace.
Time goes by, the sun climbs, fatigue and hunger begin to make themselves keenly felt. He goes into an inn and asks for something to eat.
“An omelet, a steak, a cutlet?” asks the proprietor, in the middle of a game of Zanzibar with a group of carters.
Jacques Liban is not yet familiar with economical meals, and remains confused.
“Sort it out with the wife,” says the innkeeper. A slattern emerges from the kitchen and asks in her turn what the customer desires.
“I only have twelve sous,” he murmurs, ashamedly.
“A soup, half a liter and two sous’-worth of bread, replies the woman, accustomed to this sorts of bargaining. “Will that do? It’s more trouble than profit.”
He dare not refuse, and devours his meager fare with remorse. His infinitesimal resources have been exhausted at a stroke; he would have done better to buy a loaf of bread on the way.
“Am I far from Paris?” he enquires, as he leaves.
“Nearly four leagues,” the woman replies.
“Which is the shortest route?”
By the indications that he is given, he observes with annoyance that he has gone astray. He continues walking, cursing the adventure, cursing the stupid self-regard that first made his lose precious time and then prevented him from refusing the innkeeper’s relatively costly proposal. He trudges his fifteen kilometers angrily and find himself at the Porte des Prés-Saint-Gervais at about three o’clock.
“Finally,” he murmurs, collapsing on a bench on the exterior boulevard. “At least I’ll go unnoticed!”
But what will become of him, without a sou to his name? Where will he eat this evening?
And his mind, once so fertile in resources, has no response, no suggestion to offer!
Thick darkness extends before him, not the slightest glimmer of light to show him his route. He feels his energy abandoning him at the very moment when he needs it most, and if he still has any hope for the future, the sentiment of his present impotence plunges it into torpor.
It is, however, necessary to tear himself out of this despairing daydream, doubtless occasioned by the fatigue of his long march. Above all, it’s necessary that he finds some money right away!
Perhaps, by selling his still-presentable dust-coat and exchanging his almost-new hat for an old one, he can obtain the ten francs that he can use, first of all, to get back his trunk, three months on deposit, and then subsidize his initial needs. He goes into the wretched shops of three or four local second-hand dealers in succession and attempts to carry out his plan; but it is the first time in his life that he has gone into such hovels. Dr. Albin only ever knew the Mont-de-Piété by name. He has no knowledge of the ignoble bargains to which the starvelings who fall into the dens of these birds of prey are subject and the prices offered seem so derisory to him that he emerges beside himself with wrath.
In the Rue de Belleville a more spacious and less sordid shop appears to offer a better prospect. He goes into the dark shop, a long tunnel cluttered with ragged religious and military uniforms and seamstress’ rags hanging from the ceiling, where the walls are covered with frayed dresses and faded ilk shirts, lamentable collections of clothing sold after death or contagious diseases, the wardrobe of the morgue and the hospital, a lumber-room corrupted by odors of benzene, grease, musk, dirt and old leather.
An obese man whose flaccid cheeks are marbled by dark red capillaries emerges from the depths and comes to meet him.
“Monsieur,” the passer-by proposes to him, indicating his traveling garment. “I desire to sell this. How much will you give me for it?”
“Nothing,” grunts the broker.
“That’s not much,” declares the stranger, trying to take it in good part. “The garment, however, cost me dear and it’s still in good condition.”
“It could be brand new and I wouldn’t give you two sous for it.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s only well-off people who wear things like that, and they don’t come to my shop to dress themselves.”
“I’ll make you another offer, then. Here’s a hat that’s almost new, which it will be easy for you to sell at a good price. I’ll willingly exchange it for an old one if you’ll give me a few sous in return.
“How much are you giving me with the hat?” replies the merchant, playing the fool.
“I’m not giving you anything, I’m asking you for money.”
The merchant examines the bowler and sniggers.
“Let’s put our cards on the table,” he says. “No need for subterfuge. I can see that the hat embarrasses you, and the coat. You want to be rid of them—I understand. It happens all the time. Well, I’m a good fellow, you know, there’s nothing to fear with me; I have what you need. I’ll give you a good one in exchange—that’s to get you to come back when you’ve got something better.”
“He takes me for a thief,” mutters the hungry man, quivering with rage, but he quickly suppresses his initial impulse. “You’re mistaken; I’m not trying to get rid of the object for the reason you suppose. I need money, that’s all. If I had another hat I’d simply sell you this one, but as I can’t go around bare-headed, I’m offering to exchange this one for one of less value with a small sum in return. Do you understand?”
The two men look at one another. The clothes-dealer continues to snigger in an incredulous and arrogant fashion
“Say,” he says, “can you give me the address of the Figaro whose cut your hair so well?”
Jacques Liban, remembering the ignoble way in which he has been recently sheared, experiences a pain in the heart, but if the man has observed him so well and has had the cruelty to remind him that he has come out of prison, he will have his revenge in his turn.
“I’d be wrong to give you the address you’re asking for,” he replies, in the curt and trenchant voice of old, “for if your hair were cut short, you’d catch cold, and if you caught cold, you’d be a dead man.”
“What! What do you mean?”
“I mean, you poor devil, that you’re afflicted by a very dangerous disease, diabetes, and you’re in a bad way.”
The merchant opens his eyes wide in alarm. “How do you know that?” he ends up asks,
fearfully “Are you a physician or a sorcerer?”
“Both.”
“A bone-setter, perhaps?”
“A bone-setter, indeed.”
“It’s true, what you said. I have diabetes—so my doctor claims, at least. For months he’s been drugging me, and I’m no better for it. I’ll wager you know a good remedy.”
“Well, those I’ve cured affirm it.”
“Then we can make a deal, if you like,” the salesman proposes, suddenly becoming honey and sugar. “I’ll trade your hat for one of mine, I’ll take your dust-coat, and I’ll give you two francs for the lot—on condition, of course, that you tell me your remedy. All right?”
“Two francs—what a joke! You put a low price of your health. There are people in your situation who’d pay a fortune to get it back.”
“Go on, I’ll go to three. That’s my last word.
The bone-setter accepts the bargain, examines the patient, writes a long prescription, exchanges his new hat for an old one, abandons his traveling-coat and receives the agreed price in return.
An impulse of hatred and malevolence has just got him out of difficulty temporarily. He cannot help noticing that, and does not experience any regret; the merchant’s impudence merited a lesson.
That sum of three francs, which he palpates fondly, gives him new strength. The immediate care removed leaves a little more clarity in his mind.
He goes down the Rue du Faubourg du Temple, arrives at the Place de la République and notices the handwritten posters stuck to the barracks of the Château d’Eau. All the offers aimed at specialist and well-determined métiers are no good to him. A few are asking for apprentices between the age of twelve and fifteen to train up, and others only propose tasks for immediate pay. It’s too late, anyway, to attempt anything. But tomorrow...
Toward what goal will his search be directed? The teaching profession seems indicated. He will surely find some institutional head who will take him on as a professor or a junior.
Chapter VII
Since he has been poor his stomach digests rapidly, with an ironic punctuality. He perceived very quickly that the meager aliments devoured that morning would not permit him to wait until the following day. His sojourn in prison had taught him frugality; that was a fortunate training for the circumstance, but he had not yet served an apprenticeship in fasting. He found himself in proximity to a philanthropic restaurant of which he had often heard mention, and hastened to it in order to appease his hunger.
A long file of shabby individuals were forming a queue, as at the theater; the majority had small loaves and bottles under their arms.
“They don’t supply bread, then?” he asked his neighbor.
“No bread or wine. You have to go buy those elsewhere. Hurry up because it’s late and the queue’s already long.”
He profited from this advice and came back to join the queue. He found himself next to an old man with dirty clothes, a long yellow-white beard and a face illuminated by alcohol, a classic type-specimen of the beggars that run around the cafes under the pretext of selling pencils or letter-paper.
“Why do they make us wait at the door?” he asked.
“You’re coming here for the first time! It’s because you have to go past the cash-box before going in. They sell meat-tickets for four sous and vegetable-tickets for two. Get your money ready and do as I do.”
They penetrated into the immense bare hall, exchanged their tickets and sat down at a table beside forks and cups retained by iron chains. The vast room, full of people, was almost silent. Nothing was audible but the click of cutlery and the sounds of mastication. Only a few words were exchanged in low voices.
“Is it forbidden to talk?” he asked.
“No, but the people here don’t have the time or the desire; it’s necessary to make room for others.”
“A great many people come here?”
“Until the day’s provisions are exhausted; then they shut—too bad for latecomers. It’s doubtless curiosity that brings you here?” The old man stared at the check suit as he made this supposition.
“No, Monsieur, don’t trust this slightly garish outfit, which isn’t in accord with my situation. It’s harsh necessity—and as everything is relative, I can even say that this evening I’m having a veritable feast.”
The alcoholic became more amiable. He had brought a liter of cheap wine. “Permit me to offer you a glass,” he said, taking out the bottle. “It’s the sixteen, and I know it—it’s good.”
“With the hope of returning the favor one day,” acquiesced Jacques Liban. They clinked their cups amicably and drank to their health.
“Excellent,” remarked the guest, for the sake of condescension.
“Isn’t it? All the same, I’ll wager that you’ve drunk better in the past.”
“That’s quite possible,” the stranger admitted, smiling, “but the good days will come back. I’m going to work. I...”
“Work!” sniggered the old pauper. “Work! You’ll be lucky if you find any. If you have a manual skill, I don’t say no, and then…but I deduce from your appearance, your reasoning and your white hands that it’s not the case. But I was wrong to say that to you—what’s the point in discouraging you?”
“Is it so difficult, then, to earn one’s bread?”
“I hope that you don’t have an experience like mine—but I, who am talking to you, who, like you, once occupied a very honorable position in a large provincial city,” confided the man with the rubicund nose, caressing his long beard, “who was a ministerial officer, searched for work for years without being able to find any in a stable and remunerative fashion.”
“Is it possible?”
“As I have the honor of telling you. I’ve been admitted as a model into the studios of student painters, because of the beard,” he declared, proudly. “At other times I’ve written love letters for maids and whores, etc., etc., but all those occupations were precarious, and then...”
“Then?”
“I sold penholders and pencils—you know what that means, don’t you? I begged, I’m a beggar,” the old man confessed, in a low voice. “Oh, the early days were hard! Begging, you see, is a métier like any other; it’s necessary to know it; one doesn’t succeed overnight, especially when one isn’t a child of the bullet and doesn’t possess some repulsive infirmity to excite pity in passers-by. Look, dressed as you are, I defy you to extort five sous a day from the compassion of your contemporaries. You’d be taken for a thief, a fraudster, for anything you like, but for an unfortunate—never! You don’t have the gaze, the voice, the gestures, or, above all, the look. There also, Monsieur, form plays its preponderant role, setting the stage is indispensable. Such as you are, you couldn’t go into a café without the waiters throwing you out, and you wouldn’t take a hundred steps in the street without the cops feeling your collar.”
“But I don’t have any intention of competing with you,” Jacques Liban affirmed, with a forced laugh.
“Don’t be disgusted, there’s no dishonor in it. It’s necessary to live, and at our age, when one hasn’t a sou and no work, there are only two resources: to take or to receive. Well, it’s more difficult to be a good beggar than a good thief, so there are far more thieves than true beggars. I’m not talking about occasional beggars, of course: those who, caught in want, implore the passers-by in order not to die of hunger. They aren’t serious, and never receive anything anyway. No, I’m talking about true mendicants: professionals, artists, who know how to soften the heart of Harpagon and Monsieur Vautour—those, in a word, who have no need to beg to live.
“They, you see, are stronger people than one night think. I know some who could go to live on their income and play politics in some jolly provincial corner, if avarice or passion for the métier didn’t prevent them from retiring. There are beggars’ places under the porches of churches that are sometimes sold more dearly than a clerk or a bailiff’s evidence.
“But the men of genius in the corpora
tion are the specialists. If I weren’t bound be professional secrecy,” the tireless chatterbox declared, “I could tell you some good stories. There is, however, one item of information I can give you, because my friend Bouton is dead and his place is up for grabs. He knew all the famous men by name and mainly worked the vicinity of the Institut on session days. How does one refuse an obol to an erudite solicitor who admires your talent?
“Me,” he added, modestly, “I don’t have that ability, but all the same, I’ve a few tricks in my bag. On pay days and Mondays I move the drunkards to pity. As soon as a man starts perorating and gesticulating in front of a counter, I go in and ask humbly for a drink of water. The wine merchant, who’s in on the trick, brings me a carafe, asks me questions; I reply that I don’t have a sou, and the soft-hearted drunkard doesn’t take long to offer me a glass. The proverb’s right, you see: water-drinkers have no heart; there’s no one more charitable than a lush, firstly because he doesn’t like to drink alone, and secondly because the booze makes him forget poverty and chase away the egotistical concern for the morrow.”
They had finished their meal. Jacques Liban, ashamed of the acquaintance, had bid his importunate companion farewell—but he changed his mind.
“Do you know a place where I can spend the night cheaply?”
“Of course. Firstly, one can sleep in cheap lodgings for two and four sous in the Rue Mouffetard and the Rue Galande; then there are limekilns in the environs of Paris where one can stay warm—but watch out, one can asphyxiate there, and the cops often mount raids there; when the suburban commissaires and gendarmes have nothing to do, they go there in search of work. Finally—and this is where it’s necessary to go if you’re not accustomed to low dives, there’s a night-shelter in the Rue St-Jacques where you can have onion soup. There’s no denying that it’s a fine institution—perhaps the bath is vexing, one isn’t always disposed to play the duck; but the soup and the bed aren’t to be disdained. Unfortunately, it’s necessary to present oneself before eleven, and when one wants to play a hand of manilla or cultivate the fair sex, that can be very hard.”
The Second Life of Doctor Albin Page 7