The Petitpaon Era

by Henri Austruy

  “How does it inconvenience you?”

  “Oh, my dear Monsieur Coffre, one can see that you’ve never been a soldier, that you’ve never worn a uniform!” And to give pleasure to his mistress, he quoted the sentence she had used a little while before: “The uniform, for a man, is what beauty is, for a woman.”

  “But you’re wearing it under that envelope, your uniform—one can tell!”

  “But it can’t be seen! I am, at this moment, like those plain-faced women of whom it is said: ‘She’s assuredly not beautiful, but she must have a good figure!’ Very flattering! Which doesn’t alter the fact that the woman can’t find a lover.”

  “Unfortunate woman, especially if she’s married!” Monsieur Coffre commiserated.

  “Alas!” Emma sighed.

  “Do you think it’s amusing to circulate in this accoutrement? Everyone turns to look at me as I go by. They point at me, laughing, and I hear the words that have become my obsession: ‘It’s our provisional dead man!’ If only I could give all those people a slap!”

  “There are too many. Your two hands wouldn’t be sufficient,” the banker observed.

  “Oh, after a few dozen duels to the death, they’d leave me alone, provisionally dead or not, but I can’t fight, since I have no trace of official existence. To escape the street-urchins who grab the hem of my ridiculous livery, I’m obliged to travel in a closed carriage. To cap it all, I’m represented in a revue as the immortal dead man, under the pretext that in France, the provisional lasts forever. It’s intolerable—enough to make one kill oneself for real!”

  “Calm down, my friend, calm down!” the banker interjected.

  “Oh, Monsieur Coffre, you’ve just given me a name the permits me to make a request of you—you called me your friend; you can’t abandon me. Save me.”

  “Save you! Save you from what?”

  “From this lamentable uncertainty. Am I dead? Am I alive? You’re powerful, Monsieur Coffre—you can tip the balance for or against me at your whim.”

  Hermann Coffre looked long and hard at his wife and Alexandre Sylphe. Then, as if he had just made an inviolable oath to himself, he said: “Agreed, Captain. I’ll ruin myself if I have to, but you shall be alive!”

  And, either because he wanted to escape Alexandre Sylphe’s protestations of gratitude or for some other reason, Hermann Coffre bowed to his wife, shook the Captain’s hand and withdrew in great haste.

  Left alone, the two lovers played an extra-conjugal scene for themselves, in the course of which Emma showed herself tyrannical and submissive by turns, and which Alexandre concluded by taking off his dust-cover before the rhapsodic eyes of his mistress.

  The absence of Monsieur Coffre permitted them to dine together in private, and eat from the same plate. What happened thereafter lasted until midnight, the hour at which Alexandre Sylphe put on his dust-sheet again to return to his own domicile for a well-earned rest.

  VIII

  In accordance with ancient customs, Time is divided into slices of various sizes, which are mutually exclusive; thus, the months and the years only took their place on the calendar when their elders no longer figured there.

  For people who do not follow the phases of the moon and who are not preoccupied with settlements of bills and debts or worldly duties—in brief, those who escape obsession with the date—days and weeks have a value that is intrinsically equal. The members of the arbitration tribunal found themselves temporarily classed in that privileged elite once they had received orders from their respective Governments to remain in Paris to await the resumption of the sessions, at which time they would receive further instructions.

  The Minister Henri Verbuis put a young attaché at the disposal of each foreigner, with a mission to show them the treasures of Paris in their most favorable light.

  First, there were visits to libraries and museums; the diplomats, united in a picturesque caravan that brightened up the quarters in which they appeared, gaped without the slightest enthusiasm at the books, paintings and sculptures in which France took the greatest pride.

  At the Jardin d’Acclimatation, the representative of Haricot VII gazed without emotion at the animals of his homeland, and an American protested in the name of the League Against the Captivity of Ferocious Animals, of which he was a vice-president. The national manufactories and principal theaters only served as pretexts for the least flattering comparisons.

  There was no doubt about it: France’s guests were bored. What could be done to dissipate that unfavorable impression, which might have unfortunate repercussions throughout the world?

  On the insistence of Abbé Mortol, Cardinal Pecari organized masses and vespers of sumptuous ostentation at Notre Dame; the delegates put candles out with their yawns. Lectures on the most elevated subjects given by the most qualified Masters turned the main hall of the Collège de France into a dormitory. A magnificent firework display at the top of the Eiffel Tower might perhaps have been applauded by the inhabitants of the Earth’s planetary neighbors, but did not generate the slightest joy in the unsmiling company.

  Out of ideas, Henri Verbuis confide his anxiety to Bernard Petitpaon. The latter listened, his brow furrowed, to the tale of the peregrinations and pleasures dispensed to the members of the international tribunal since the day when their functions had consisted of doing nothing.

  “My dear Verbuis, have you ever been to Constantinople?”

  “Never.”

  “All right—but let’s imagine that your sympathetic person were to be transported there imminently. What would you desire to see, after a pilgrimage as rapid as it would be obligatory to a few mosques and other famous establishments?”

  “The Sultan.”

  “The Sultan? All right. Ten minutes pause, a quick drink, you leave. It’s spring; you’ve left Madame Verbuis in Paris...”

  “Oh yes! Houris!”

  “Exactly—houris! Or their equivalent. My dear Minister, diplomats aren’t made of that insensible matter we call wood. These are men who, trusting in our universal renown, have arrived scenting festivities, as the warhorses of past centuries scented gunpowder—and you’re treating them like young women! Have you left them to their own devices yet? No, you take them on excursions, expose them to the ill-treatment of the most notorious pedants of our era!”

  “Oh!” protested the Minister of Foreign Affairs.

  “There’s no Oh about it. Between ourselves, do you know of anything more sinister than these nitpickers of texts, who, after having burning a hundred liters of oil over a single sentence, claim to be able to demonstrate to you that the author meant to express the exact opposite of what he wrote?”

  “But these Messieurs are eminent professors, paid by the State,” Verbuis objected.

  “Paid by the State! Paid by the State! What does that prove? Every organism supposes parasites. Let’s keep to ourselves those that we have the privilege of possessing and not think that even the sight of rare and savage animals might be capable of making our guests forget that which can only be found in Paris: Parisiennes!”

  “In which case?” Verbuis interrogated.

  “In which case, tell your young attachés that some fun is in order. There are places in Paris where one can have a good time, damn it! It’s not difficult to find young, pretty girls...”

  “Oh, my dear President, that’s not the role of Protocol!” the Minister protested.

  “If it were, your Protocol would be useful for something! Then again, I haven’t finished. You’re not unaware that Hermann Coffre is taking a very keen interest in Captain Sylphe?”

  “I’m very well aware that Monsieur Coffre will bring down the Cabinet if he’s not convinced that we’re putting all our effort into restoring all the Captain’s rights.”

  “Good! As I was saying to General Croppeton only this morning, it’s vitally necessary that the decision of the arbitration tribunal is favorable to Captain Sylphe. We’re fortunate enough to have the representatives of the powers for seve
ral months, and we’re not profiting from that advantage. That’s criminal, my dear Verbuis! Women are incomparable means of persuasion. Let’s find each of the Foreigners a gracious and intelligent companion who will be able, at moments when the heart trumps all reason, to talk about the Captain, to obtain promises...”

  “Oh! That’s an idea of genius!” said Henri Verbuis, admiringly.

  “My God, yes! It’s up to you to realize it. Take the advice of our colleagues beforehand—that’s more polite!”

  In the Cabinet meeting that was hastily convened, Henri Verbuis presented Bernard Petitpaon’s plan as if it were his own, which won him a veritable triumph. It was decided that nothing would be neglected to conquer the members of the tribunal. The young men whose delicate complexion or religious and moral principles were ill-adapted to a life of profligacy were relieved of their mission as guides and replaced by experienced roisterers, who took an oath not to fail in their duty.

  Finally recognizing the Paris that they had so far only seen in their dreams, the diplomats amused themselves like schoolboys escaping the master’s ruler. They were seen at the Bal Tabarin indulging in dances of the most frantic nature. At the Follies Bergère the Japanese delegate went up on stage to measure himself against one of his compatriots, a jiu-jitsu champion. At the Bal Bullier, in the midst of a circle of drunken students of both sexes, Haricot VII’s spokesman picked a quarrel with a wooden negro whose spring-loaded abdomen served to measure the strength of pugilists, and ended up knocking him down while uttering his war cry.

  In the great nocturnal establishments, the champagne flowed freely; noted hetaerae neglected their regular clients and only had eyes and ears for the enthusiastic and generous merrymakers. The wings of the theaters were devastated, and some directors, deprived of the entirety of their female personnel, were forced to revert to the suitably-embellished leotards of young adolescents.

  Legend added to the reality, and whenever a street-urchin or a coachman perceived some staggering silhouette, he never failed to shout a sporting: “Hey there, diplomat!”

  In the same way that debauchery often originates from too much virtue, however, excesses can bring about a return to temperance. Weary and worn out, the diplomats disappeared into the alcoves of their choice and when, on the night of the thirty-first of January and the first of January, Eternity changed its ultimate digit, all the members of the arbitration committee were at the discretion of one Parisienne or another.

  Each of the amiable women in question received considerable subsidies drawn from the funds of the political police, whose cash-box Monsieur Coffre insisted on garnishing. Believing that they were loved for themselves, the noble Foreigners allowed themselves to indulge in confidences of which note was duly taken by the agents commissioned to that effect. However, out of human respect and to give satisfaction to the population of Parisiennes, who were very demanding in matters of official rejoicing, receptions were held at the Hôtel de Ville and the various Ministries, and the Palais de l’Élysée opened its most gilded reception rooms on several occasions.

  An extraordinary gala illuminated the façade of the Lyrique Grand-Mondial, and as Bernard Petitpaon had announced that he would be present in person at the performance, veritable crimes were committed to force entry into the theater.

  Until then, the President of the Republic had abstained from appearing at the Lyrique Grand-Mondial, which he had directed after having sung there. Either because he had shrugged off the yoke of courtiers ever ready to praise his high rank or because he would experience some joy in stepping back in his life, he not only decided that he would attend the gala, but expressed the desire that the performance would comprise a play in which he had once played the principal role.

  Flatterers suggested to him the possibility of comparisons that, while doubtless being entirely to his advantage, might nevertheless be insulting.

  “I shall applaud the young comrade,” Bernard Petitpaon declared, “if he is, like me, a great singer and a good actor!”

  The evening was epic.

  Respectful of the art to which he had added luster and which had made him famous, Bernard Petitpaon arrived a few minutes before the curtain went up. In accordance with a custom as solemn as it was ancient, the director of the Lyrique Grand-Mondial came to meet him at the foot of the great staircase with a seven-branched silver chandelier in each hand; as they were very heavy and he was no athlete, he almost buckled under the burden several times, and only recovered his breath after seeing Bernard Petitpaon disappear into the presidential box.

  Standing up, the President listened attentively to the Marseillaise, without which no ceremony is possible. After the regulation five or six ovations, he signaled to the leader of the orchestra to start the score.

  The first chords of Cincinnatus covered with their majestic waves the stirring of the black coats and diamond-clad women, who hastily settled in their seats. Every note evoked a cherished memory for Petitpaon, all the dearer for having been buried in a distant past. His hand mechanically followed the cadence of the measure, and he was taken back to the first performance of Cincinnatus. He had been twenty-five years old; the author, Oscar Pistonnet, against winds and tides, cabals and perfidies, had confided to him the rude task of representing his hero. He relived the vertigo of finding himself alone, lost in the middle of the immense stage, waiting for the curtain to rise over the gulf of the auditorium.

  He went pale, and his heart beat as if to burst when the character appeared whom he had once animated. The scenery had not changed; it was still the same Roman countryside under a luminous sky. The same plow seemed to be harnessed to the yoke of the same team of oxen, which were ruminating placidly without seeming unduly astonished by the slightly bizarre métier that they were following.

  The artist, awaiting his cue, made sure of his breath and puckered his lips in order to moisten them, while following the conductor’s baton with a furtive eye.

  Hollowed out by an imperceptible hesitation in its first emergence, the voice affirmed its metal in order to launch with mighty lungs into the laborer’s song. It was the titanic joy of the man who has tamed nature, opening the rebellious loins of the earth in order to fecundate them—and the music put so much power into that hymn of incessant victory over obscure forces that the protagonists of emperors, kings and anonymous Governments, come from the four corners of the world to play their parts in the tragicomedy of Captain Sylphe, blushed over the utter futility of their own métier.

  Meanwhile, the drama unfolded, and when, at the end of the first act, the delegation of senators arrived to ask the man of the fields to quit his plough in the superior interest of the Republic, the entire auditorium gave Bernard Petitpaon a standing ovation.

  Abruptly snatched out of his dream, the President looked down, trying to smile, but whether because his joy was too great or his vision of the past gripped him to profoundly, he dissolved in tears, covering his face with his hands.

  After the second act, during which Cincinnatus, under the red mantle of his dictatorship, ensured the salvation of Rome, Bernard Petitpaon asked the head of the Diplomatic Service to remained seated in the Presidential box and, preceding the director of the Grand-Mondial, his successor, he went down to the little door that led to the stage.

  The scene-shifters were setting up the scenery for the final act, in the midst of that feverish agitation which has the appearance of chaotic disorder for the profane. In order not to get in the way of the operation, and also to contemplate at his ease the boards on which he had left so much of himself, Petitpaon hid behind a pillar.

  Close at hand, a deep voice tried a vocal exercise. As if he thought that it had emerged from his own mouth, Bernard Petitpaon instinctively raised his hand to his throat. The director of the Grand-Mondial, who had seen the gesture and grasped its significance, reassured the President by introducing him to the actor who was playing the role of Cincinnatus.

  Bernard Petitpaon took him in his arms and embraced him.
“My boy, you are, after me, the artist who has understood the role with the greatest genius. Those who have not heard me have reason to judge you incomparable!”

  The poor baritone, nonplussed by the effusive praise of his aged and illustrious colleague, started to weep, which caused Petitpaon to make the observation: “Watch out—you’ll have a damp voice when you sing the third.”

  “Thanks you, oh, thank you, Monsieur le Président de a République Française!” stammered the employee of the Grand-Mondial.

  “We’re both Cincinnatus, and it’s not because I’ve been the elder of the family that I’ll forget my comrades!”

  Petitpaon tried to make his exit from the circle that had gathered around him, but he was too late. All the cast members had come down to the stage for the third act. Everyone received the most hyperbolic compliments, and the President was in the process of kissing Cincinnatus’ wife, with the standard precautions to avoid smudging her make-up, when the head of the Diplomatic Service surged forth from the tightly-knit ranks of the young dancers and chorus-girls.

  Anticipating reproaches that he judged to be probably merited, the President simply said to the preventer of further embraces: “I’m coming!” And, following in the footsteps of the discreetly scandalized functionary, he returned to his box, to the renewed strains of the Marseillaise.

  That evening, triumphant in every respect, was not the only one of its kind, so the diplomats sent dithyrambic narratives to their friends and acquaintances that bore fruit in the form of innumerable visitors. Trains, hectically multiplied, waited for days on end before finding a track free to get into Paris. In that vertiginous movement, accidents were so frequent that no one paid the slightest attention to them any longer, and hoteliers, with revolvers in hand, battled against the assaults mounted night and day on their establishments by hordes of travelers fleeing the stars.