by Eugène Sue
And now, at this time, remembering those mournful words, Jacques was absorbed in painful thought. Morok perceived his absence of mind, and said aloud to him, “You have given over drinking, Jacques. Have you had enough wine? Then you will want brandy. I will send for some.”
“I want neither wine nor brandy,” answered Jacques, abruptly, and he fell back into a sombre reverie.
“Well, you may be right,” resumed Morok, in a sardonic tone, and raising his voice still higher. “You do well to take care of yourself. I was wrong to name brandy in these times. There would be as much temerity in facing a bottle of brandy as the barrel of a loaded pistol.”
On hearing his courage as a toper called in question, Sleepinbuff looked angrily at Morok. “You think it is from cowardice that I will not drink brandy!” cried the unfortunate man, whose half-extinguished intellect was roused to defend what he called his dignity. “Is it from cowardice that I refuse, d’ye think, Morok? Answer me!”
“Come, my good fellow, we have all shown our pluck today,” said one of the guests to Jacques; “you, above all, who, being rather indisposed, yet had the courage to take the part of Goodman Cholera.”
“Gentlemen,” resumed Morok, seeing the general attention fixed upon himself and Sleepinbuff, “I was only joking; for if my comrade (pointing to Jacques) had the imprudence to accept my offer, it would be an act, not of courage, but of foolhardiness. Luckily, he has sense enough to renounce a piece of boasting so dangerous at this time, and I—”
“Waiter!” cried Jacques, interrupting Morok with angry impatience, “two bottles of brandy, and two glasses!”
“What are you going to do?” said Morok, with pretended uneasiness. “Why do you order two bottles of brandy?”
“For a duel,” said Jacques, in a cool, resolute tone.
“A duel!” cried the spectators, in surprise.
“Yes,” resumed Jacques, “a duel with brandy. You pretend there is as much danger in facing a bottle of brandy as a loaded pistol; let us each take a full bottle, and see who will be the first to cry quarter.”
This strange proposition was received by some with shouts of joy, and by others with genuine uneasiness.
“Bravo! the champions of the bottle!” cried the first.
“No, no; there would be too much danger in such a contest,” said the others.
“Just now,” added one of the guests; “this challenge is as serious as an invitation to fight to the death.”
“You hear,” said Morok, with a diabolical smile, “you hear, Jacques? Will you now retreat before the danger?”
At these words, which reminded him of the peril to which he was about to expose himself, Jacques started, as if a sudden idea had occurred to him. He raised his head proudly, his cheeks were slightly flushed, his eye shone with a kind of gloomy satisfaction, and he exclaimed in a firm voice: “Hang it, waiter! are you deaf? I asked you for two bottles of brandy.”
“Yes, sir,” said the waiter, going to fetch them, although himself frightened at what might be the result of this bacchanalian struggle. But the mad and perilous resolution of Jacques was applauded by the majority.
Ninny Moulin moved about on his chair, stamped his feet, and shouted with all his might: “Bacchus and drink! bottles and glasses! the throats are dry! brandy to the rescue! Largess! largess!”
And, like a true champion of the tournament, he embraced Modeste, adding, to excuse the liberty: “Love, you shall be the Queen of Beauty, and I am only anticipating the victor’s happiness!”
“Brandy to the rescue!” repeated they all, in chorus. “Largess!”
“Gentlemen,” added Ninny Moulin, with enthusiasm, “shall we remain indifferent to the noble example set us by Goodman Cholera? He said in his pride, ‘brandy!’ Let us gloriously answer, ‘punch!’”
“Yes, yes! punch!”
“Punch to the rescue!”
“Waiter!” shouted the religious writer, with the voice of a Stentor, “waiter! have you a pan, a caldron, a hogshead, or any other immensity, in which we can brew a monster punch?”
“A Babylonian punch!”
“A lake of punch!”
“An ocean of punch!”
Such was the ambitious crescendo that followed the proposition of Ninny Moulin.
“Sir,” answered the waiter, with an air of triumph, “we just happen to have a large copper caldron, quite new. It has been used, and would hold at least thirty bottles.”
“Bring the caldron!” said Ninny Moulin, majestically.
“The caldron forever!” shouted the chorus.
“Put in twenty bottles of brandy, six loaves of sugar, a dozen lemons, a pound of cinnamon, and then — fire! fire!” shouted the religious writer, with the most vociferous exclamations.
“Yes, yes! fire!” repeated the chorus!
The proposition of Ninny Moulin gave a new impetus to the general gayety; the most extravagant remarks were mingled with the sound of kisses, taken or given under the pretext that perhaps there would be no to-morrow, that one must make the most of the present, etc., etc. Suddenly, in one of the moments of silence which sometimes occur in the midst of the greatest tumult, a succession of slow and measured taps sounded above the ceiling of the banqueting-room. All remained silent, and listened.
CHAPTER XXI. BRANDY TO THE RESCUE.
AFTER THE LAPSE of some seconds, the singular rapping which had so much surprised the guests, was again heard, but this time louder and longer.
“Waiter!” cried one of the party, “what in the devil’s name is knocking?”
The waiter, exchanging with his comrades a look of uneasiness and alarm, stammered Out in reply: “Sir — it is — it is—”
“Well! I suppose it is some crabbed, cross-grained lodger, some animal, the enemy of joy, who is pounding on the floor of his room to warn us to sing less loud,” said Ninny Moulin.
“Then, by a general rule,” answered sententiously the pupil of the great painter, “if lodger or landlord ask for silence, tradition bids us reply by an infernal uproar, destined to drown all his remonstrances. Such, at least,” added the scapegrace, modestly, “are the foreign relations that I have always seen observed between neighboring powers.”
This remark was received with general laughter and applause. During the tumult, Morok questioned one of the waiters, and then exclaimed in a shrill tone, which rose above the clamor: “I demand a hearing!”
“Granted!” cried the others, gayly. During the silence which followed the exclamation of Morok, the noise was again heard; it was this time quicker than before.
“The lodger is innocent,” said Morok, with a strange smile, “and would be quite incapable of interfering with your enjoyment.”
“Then why does he keep up that knocking?” said Ninny Moulin, emptying his glass.
“Like a deaf man who has lost his ear-horn?” added the young artist.
“It is not the lodger who is knocking” said Morok, in a sharp, quick tone; “for they are nailing him down in his coffin.” A sudden and mournful silence followed these words.
“His coffin no, I am wrong,” resumed Morok; “her coffin, I should say, or more properly their coffin; for, in these pressing times, they put mother and child together.”
“A woman!” cried PLEASURE, addressing the writer; “is it a woman that is dead?”
“Yes, ma’am; a poor young woman about twenty years of age,” answered the waiter in a sorrowful tone. “Her little girl, that she was nursing, died soon after — all in less than two hours. My master is very sorry that you ladies and gents should be disturbed in this way; but he could not foresee this misfortune, as yesterday morning the young woman was quite well, and singing with all her might — no one could have been gayer than she was.”
Upon these words, it was as if a funeral pall had been suddenly thrown over a scene lately so full of joy; all the rubicund and jovial faces took an expression of sadness; no one had the hardihood to make a jest of mother and child, nailed do
wn together in the same coffin. The silence became so profound, that one could hear each breath oppressed by terror: the last blows of the hammer seemed to strike painfully on every heart; it appeared as if each sad feeling, until now repressed, was about to replace that animation and gayety, which had been more factitious than sincere. The moment was decisive. It was necessary to strike an immediate blow, and to raise the spirits of the guests, for many pretty rosy faces began to grow pale, many scarlet ears became suddenly white; Ninny Moulin’s were of the number.
On the contrary, Sleepinbuff exhibited an increase of audacity; he drew up his figure, bent down from the effects of exhaustion, and, with a cheek slightly flushed, he exclaimed: “Well, waiter? are those bottles of brandy coming? And the punch? Devil and all! are the dead to frighten the living?”
“He’s right! Down with sorrow, and let’s have the punch!” cried several of the guests, who felt the necessity of reviving their courage.
“Forward, punch!”
“Begone, dull care!”
“Jollity forever!”
“Gentlemen, here is the punch,” said a waiter, opening the door. At sight of the flaming beverage, which was to reanimate their enfeebled spirits, the room rang with the loudest applause.
The sun had just set. The room was large, being capable of dining a hundred guests; and the windows were few, narrow, and half veiled by red cotton curtains. Though it was not yet night, some portions of this vast saloon were almost entirely dark. Two waiters brought the monster-punch, in an immense brass kettle, brilliant as gold, suspended from an iron bar, and crowned with flames of changing color. The burning beverage was then placed upon the table, to the great joy of the guests, who began to forget their past alarms.
“Now,” said Jacques to Morok, in a taunting tone, “while the punch is burning, we will have our duel. The company shall judge.” Then, pointing to the two bottles of brandy, which the waiter had brought, Jacques added: “Choose your weapon!”
“Do you choose,” answered Morok.
“Well! here’s your bottle — and here’s your glass. Ninny Moulin shall be umpire.”
“I do not refuse to be judge of the field,” answered the religious writer, “only I must warn you, comrade, that you are playing a desperate game, and that just now, as one of these gentlemen has said, the neck of a bottle of brandy in one’s mouth, is perhaps more dangerous than the barrel of a loaded pistol.”
“Give the word, old fellow!” said Jacques, interrupting Ninny Moulin, “or I will give it myself.”
“Since you will have it so — so be it!”
“The first who gives in is conquered,” said Jacques.
“Agreed!” answered Morok.
“Come, gentlemen, attention! we must follow every movement,” resumed Ninny Moulin. “Let us first see if the bottles are of the same size — equality of weapons being the foremost condition.”
During these preparations, profound silence reigned in the room. The courage of the majority of those present, animated for a moment by the arrival of the punch, was soon again depressed by gloomy thoughts, as they vaguely foresaw the danger of the contest between Morok and Jacques. This impression joined to the sad thoughts occasioned by the incident of the coffin, darkened by degrees many a countenance. Some of the guests, indeed, continued to make a show of rejoicing, but their gayety appeared forced. Under certain circumstances, the smallest things will have the most powerful effect. We have said that, after sunset, a portion of this large room was plunged in obscurity; therefore, the guests who sat in the remote corners of the apartment, had no other light than the reflection of the flaming punch. Now it is well known, that the flame of burning spirit throws a livid, bluish tint over the countenance; it was therefore a strange, almost frightful spectacle, to see a number of the guests, who happened to be at a distance from the windows, in this ghastly and fantastic light.
The painter, more struck than all the rest by this effect of color, exclaimed: “Look! at this end of the table, we might fancy ourselves feasting with cholera-patients, we are such fine blues and greens.”
This jest was not much relished. Fortunately, the loud voice of Ninny Moulin demanded attention, and for a moment turned the thoughts of the company.
“The lists are open,” cried the religious writer, really more frightened than he chose to appear. “Are you ready, brave champions?” he added.
“We are ready,” said Morok and Jacques.
“Present! fire!” cried Ninny Moulin, clapping his hands. And the two drinkers each emptied a tumbler full of brandy at a draught.
Morok did not even knit his brow; his marble face remained impassible; with a steady hand he replaced his glass upon the table. But Jacques, as he put down his glass, could not conceal a slight convulsive trembling, caused by internal suffering.
“Bravely done!” cried Ninny Moulin. “The quarter of a bottle of brandy at a draught — it is glorious! No one else here would be capable of such prowess. And now, worthy champions, if you believe me, you will stop where you are.”
“Give the word!” answered Jacques, intrepidly. And, with feverish and shaking hand, he seized the bottle; then suddenly, instead of filling his glass, he said to Morok: “Bah! we want no glasses. It is braver to drink from the bottle. I dare you to it!”
Morok’s only answer was to shrug his shoulders, and raise the neck of the bottle to his lips. Jacques hastened to imitate him. The thin, yellowish, transparent glass gave a perfect view of the progressive diminution of the liquor. The stony countenance of Morok, and the pale thin face of Jacques, on which already stood large drops of cold sweat, were now, as well as the features of the other guests, illuminated by the bluish light of the punch; every eye was fixed upon Morok and Jacques, with that barbarous curiosity which cruel spectacles seem involuntarily to inspire.
Jacques continued to drink, holding the bottle in his left hand; suddenly, he closed and tightened the fingers of his right hand with a convulsive movement; his hair clung to his icy forehead, and his countenance revealed an agony of pain. Yet he continued to drink; only, without removing his lips from the neck of the bottle, he lowered it for an instant, as if to recover breath. Just then, Jacques met the sardonic look of Morok, who continued to drink with his accustomed impassibility. Thinking that he saw the expression of insulting triumph in Morok’s glance, Jacques raised his elbow abruptly, and drank with avidity a few drops more. But his strength was exhausted. A quenchless fire devoured his vitals. His sufferings were too intense, and he could no longer bear up against them. His head fell backwards, his jaws closed convulsively, he crushed the neck of the bottle between his teeth, his neck grew rigid, his limbs writhed with spasmodic action, and he became almost senseless.
“Jacques, my good fellow! it is nothing,” cried Morok, whose ferocious glance now sparkled with diabolical joy. Then, replacing his bottle on the table, he rose to go to the aid of Ninny Moulin, who was vainly endeavoring to hold Sleepinbuff.
This sudden attack had none of the symptoms of cholera. Yet terror seized upon all present; one of the women was taken with hysterics, and another uttered piercing cries and fainted away. Ninny Moulin, leaving Jacques in the hands of Morok, ran towards the door to seek for help, — when that door was suddenly opened, and the religious writer drew back in alarm, at the sight of the unexpected personage who appeared on the threshold.
CHAPTER XXII. MEMORIES.
THE PERSON BEFORE whom Ninny Moulin stopped in such extreme astonishment was the Bacchanal Queen.
Pale and wan, with, hair in disorder, hollow cheeks, sunken eyes, and clothed almost in rags, this brilliant and joyous heroine of so many mad orgies was now only the shadow of her former self. Misery and grief were impressed on that countenance, once so charming. Hardly had she entered the room, when Cephyse paused; her mournful and unquiet gaze strove to penetrate the half-obscurity of the apartment, in search of him she longed to see. Suddenly the girl started, and uttered a loud scream. She had just perceived, at the ot
her side of a long table, by the bluish light of the punch, Jacques struggling with Morok and one of the guests, who were hardly able to restrain his convulsive movements.
At this sight Cephyse, in her first alarm, carried away by her affection, did what she had so often done in the intoxication of joy and pleasure. Light and agile, instead of losing precious time in making a long circuit, she sprang at once upon the table, passed nimbly through the array of plates and bottles, and with one spring was by the side of the sufferer.
“Jacques!” she exclaimed, without yet remarking the lion-tamer, and throwing herself on the neck of her lover. “Jacques! it is I — Cephyse!”
That well-known voice, that heart-piercing cry, which came from the bottom of the soul, seemed not unheard by Sleepinbuff. He turned his head mechanically towards the Bacchanal Queen, without opening his eyes, and heaved a deep sigh; his stiffened limbs relaxed, a slight trembling succeeded to the convulsions, and in a few seconds his heavy eyelids were raised with an effort, so as to uncover his dull and wandering gaze. Mute with astonishment, the spectators of this scene felt an uneasy curiosity. Cephyse, kneeling beside her lover, bathed his hands in her tears, covered them with kisses, and exclaimed, in a voice broken by sobs, “It is I — Cephyse — I have found you again — it was not my fault that I abandoned you! Forgive me, forgive—”
“Wretched woman!” cried Morok, irritated at this meeting, which might, perhaps, be fatal to his projects; “do you wish to kill him? In his present state, this agitation is death. Begone!” So saying, he seized Cephyse suddenly by the arm, just as Jacques, waking, as it were, from a painful dream, began to distinguish what was passing around him.
“You! It is you!” cried the Bacchanal Queen, in amazement, as she recognized Morok, “who separated me from Jacques!”