XVI. AMONG THE MARKET PORTERS
"Boulevard Rochechouart," said Berthe, the young asylum nurse, to theconductor as she sprang into the tram just as it was starting.
It was a September afternoon, one of the last fine days of the nowfast-dying summer, and the girl had just got her fortnightly leave forforty-eight hours. She had gone off duty at noon, and now had until noonon the next day but one to resume her own personality and shake off theanxieties that beset all those who are charged with the constant care ofthe insane, the most distressing kind of patients that exists. As ageneral rule Berthe spent her fortnightly holidays with her oldgrand-parents in their cottage outside Paris, but on this occasion shehad elected to remain in the city, influenced thereto by the longconversation she had had with the patient confided to her particularcare, No. 25, Mme. Rambert. Since that first talk with her, on the dayof Professor Swelding's visit to the asylum, she had had others, andBerthe had now elaborated a plan to enable the supposed lunatic toescape, and had decided to spend her short holiday in bringing the planto a point.
At the boulevard Rochechouart Berthe got out of the tram, looked aroundto get her bearings in the somewhat unfamiliar neighbourhood, and thenturned into the rue Clignancourt and stood on the left-hand side of thestreet, looking at the shops. The third one was a wine shop, only thefirst of many in the street.
Berthe pushed the door of this establishment a little way open andlooked at the rather rowdy company gathered round the zinc counter, allwith flushed faces and all talking loudly. She did not venture inside,but in a clear voice asked, "Is M. Geoffroy here?" No definite answerwas forthcoming, but the men turned round, hearing her enquiry, andseeing her pretty figure began to nudge one another and jest and laughcoarsely. "Come in, missy," said one of them, but already Berthe hadquickly closed the door and lightly gone on her way.
A few yards further on there was another bar, and into this, also,Berthe peeped and once more asked, "Is M. Geoffroy here?" adding by wayof further explanation, "Hogshead Geoffroy, I mean." This time a roar oflaughter followed, and the girl fled, flushed with indignation.
Yet she did not desist from her strange search, and at last, at thesixth shop, her question was answered by a deep bass voice from the farend of a smoke-clouded den. "Hogshead Geoffroy? Here!" and heaving asigh of relief Berthe went inside the shop.
* * * * *
When you want to see M. "Hogshead" Geoffroy, your procedure issimplicity itself. As he has no known address, all you have to do is tostart at the bottom of the rue Clignancourt on the left-hand side, lookinto every wineshop, and ask, in tones loud enough to be heard above theclatter of conversation, whether Hogshead Geoffroy is there, and it willbe mighty bad luck if, at one or other of the bars, you do not hear theanswer, "Hogshead Geoffroy? Here," followed immediately by thatgentleman's order to the _patronne_: "Half a pint, please: the gentlemanwill pay!" It is a safe order; the _patronne_ knows from past experiencethat she can serve the half-pint without anxiety: Hogshead Geoffroyrapidly drains it, and then holds out a huge and hairy hand to thevisitor and enquires, "Well, what is it?"
If, as often happens, the Hogshead finds himself confronted by astranger, he feels no surprise; he knows his own popularity, and is amodest soul, so he calls his visitor by his Christian name at once, tapshim amicably on the shoulder, and calls him "old boy," and invites himto stand a drink. The Hogshead is an artist in his line; he hireshimself out to public halls to announce in his powerful voice,reinforced by a trumpet, the various items on the programme or theresults of performances achieved. He also harangues the crowd on behalfof showmen, or hurls threats at too excited demonstrators at publicdemonstrations. Between whiles he rolls hogsheads down into cellars, orbottles wine, and even drinks it when he is among friends who have moneyto pay withal.
* * * * *
At sight of Berthe, Hogshead Geoffroy so far departed from custom as notto give an order to the _patronne_ at the bar; instead, he rose and wenttowards the girl and unceremoniously embraced her.
"Ah-ha, little sister, there you are! Why, I was just that momentthinking of you!" He drew her to the back of the shop, towards a bunchof sturdy, square-shouldered fellows drinking there, to whom heintroduced her. "Now then, mates, try to behave yourselves; I'm bringinga charming young lady to see you, my sister Berthe, littleBob--Bobinette, as we called her when we lived with the old folks." Thegirl blushed, a little uneasy at finding herself in such a mixedcompany, but Hogshead Geoffroy put every one at ease; he put his greathand under Berthe's chin and tilted her head back. "Don't you think sheis pretty, this little sister of mine? She's the very spit of herbrother!" There was a general roar of laughter. The contrast between thetwo figures was so great that it seemed impossible there could be anyrelationship between them: the graceful, slender, tiny _Parisienne_looking tinier still beside the huge colossus of a man six feet high,with the chest of a bull and the shoulders of an athlete. "We don't seemto be built on quite the same lines," M. Geoffroy admitted, "but all thesame there is a family likeness!"
The men made room for the girl, and after she had yielded to the generalinsistence and accepted a glass of white wine, Geoffroy bent forward andspoke in a lower tone.
"Well, what do you want with me?"
"I want to talk to you about something which will interest you, I'msure," Berthe answered.
"Anything to be got out of it?" was the giant's next enquiry.
Berthe smiled.
"I expect so, or I wouldn't have troubled you."
"Whenever there's any money to be picked up the Hogshead's always on,"he replied: "especially just now when things aren't any too bright,though I may tell you I think there's going to be an alteration in thatrespect."
"Have you got a situation?" Berthe asked in some surprise.
Hogshead Geoffroy laid a finger on his lip.
"It's still a secret," he said, "but there's no harm in talking it over,for everybody here knows all about it," and at interminable length, andwith many a pause for libations, he explained that he was a candidatefor an appointment as Market Porter. He had been cramming for afortnight past, in order to emerge triumphantly from the examination towhich candidates were always subjected, and that very morning he had satin the Hotel de Ville wrestling with nothing less than a problem inarithmetic. In proof, he produced from his pocket a crumpled, greasy andwine-stained sheet of paper scrawled all over with childish writing andfigures, and showed it to his sister, immensely proud of the effect hewas producing on her. "A problem," he repeated. "See here: two taps filla tank at the rate of twenty litres a minute, and a third tap empties itat the rate of fifteen hundred litres an hour. How long will it take forthe tank to get full?"
A friend of Geoffroy's broke in: it was Mealy Benoit, his mostformidable competitor for the appointment.
"And how long will it take for you to get full?" he asked with a greatlaugh.
Hogshead Geoffroy banged his fist on the table.
"This is a serious conversation," he said, and turned again to hissister, who wanted to know if he had succeeded in finding the answer tothe problem. "Maybe," he replied. "I worked by rule of thumb, for, asyou know, arithmetic and all those devil's funniments aren't in my line.To sit for an hour, writing at a table in the great hall of the Hotel deVille--not much! It made me sweat more than carrying fourhundredweight!"
But the company was preparing to make a move. Time was getting on, andat six o'clock the second part of the examination, the physical test,was to be held in the Fish Market. Mealy Benoit had paid his scorealready, and Hogshead Geoffroy's deferent escort of friends was gettingrestless. Berthe won fresh favour in her brother's eyes by paying fortheir refreshments with a ten franc piece and leaving the change to beplaced to his credit, and then with him she left the wineshop.
* * * * *
The annual competition for an appointment as Market Porter is held atthe end of September. It is a great event. Ther
e are generally manycandidates, but only two or three, and sometimes less, of the best arepicked. The posts are few and good, for the number of porters islimited. The examination is in two parts: one purely intellectual,consisting of some simple problem and a little dictation, the otherphysical, in which the candidates have to carry a sack of meal weighingthree hundredweight a distance of two hundred yards in the shortesttime.
At six o'clock punctually the market women were all in their placesalong the pavement by their respective stalls. The hall was decoratedwith flags; the salesmen and regular shopmen were provided with chairs,and their assistants were behind them, with the sweepers and criers; atthe back stood three or four rows of the general public, all eager towitness the impressive display.
The two-hundred-yard course was carefully cleared, every obstacle havingbeen scrupulously swept off the asphalte, especially pieces oforange-peel, lettuce leaves and bits of rotten vegetable matter, whichmight have caused a competitor to slip when trying to break the recordfor carrying the sack. A high official of the Hotel de Ville and threeof the senior Market Porters formed the jury, and there were also twoofficials of the Cyclists' Union, expert in the use of stop watches,armed with tested chronometers and deputed to take the exact time ofeach performance.
The crowd of onlookers was as odd, and eclectic, and keen, as canpossibly be imagined. Berthe, who knew that false modesty is quite outof place in popular gatherings, mingled freely in the generalconversation. Among other picturesque types she had noticed oneparticularly extraordinary individual who, although he was in the lastrow of all, overtopped the rest by quite half of his body, being perchedon an antiquated tricycle, which provoked the hilarity of the mob.
"What ho, Bouzille!" somebody called out, for the man was a well-knownand popular figure, and everybody knew his name. "Is that Methuselah'stricycle that you have pinched?" and to some of the sallies the fellowreplied with a smile that was almost lost in his matted beard, and toothers with a jest uttered in the purest dialect of Auvergne.
Someone spoke softly in Berthe's ear and she turned and saw a sturdyfellow of about twenty-five, wearing a blue blouse, a red handkerchiefround his neck, and a drover's cap; he was a well-built, powerful man,and in spite of his humble dress, had an intelligent face and an almostdistinguished manner. Berthe responded amiably, and a few commonplaceremarks were exchanged between the two.
"In case you care to know, my name's Julot," said the man.
And Berthe replied frankly, but without otherwise compromising herself.
"And I am Bob, or Bobinette, whichever you like. I am HogsheadGeoffroy's sister," she added with a little touch of pride.
A murmur ran round the crowd. Mealy Benoit was going through his trial.The great fellow came along with rapid, rhythmical step, with supplelimbs and chest hunched forward. Surely balanced on his broad shouldersand the nape of his neck was an enormous sack of meal, accuratelyweighed to scale three hundredweight. Without the least hesitation orslackening of pace, he covered the two hundred yards, reaching the goalperfectly fresh and fit; he stood for a moment or two in front of thejudges, displaying the mighty muscles of his naked chest, over which theperspiration was running, and evincing genuine delight in not freeinghimself from his heavy burden at the earliest possible moment. Theapplause was enthusiastic and immediate, but silence quickly fell againand all eyes turned towards the starting-post. It was HogsheadGeoffroy's turn.
The giant was really a splendid sight. Instead of walking as his rivalhad done, he began to step like a gymnast, and the crowd yelled theirdelight. It seemed that he must beat his rival's time easily, but all atonce the great sack on his shoulders was seen to shake, and Geoffroyalmost stopped, uttering a heavy groan before he got going again. Thecrowd looked on in surprise: where he had just set his feet there was awet mark upon the asphalte: Geoffroy had slipped on a piece oforange-peel. But he managed to restore the equilibrium of the sack, and,taught caution by the risk he had just run, he finished the course withmeasured steps.
* * * * *
Two hours later the result of the competition was announced. HogsheadGeoffroy and Mealy Benoit were bracketed equal, having taken exactly thesame time to cover the course; upon the result of the writtenexamination would depend the final issue, and the matter was all themore important because this year there was but one vacancy for a MarketPorter.
Berthe, or Bobinette, was vehemently discussing with her neighbours themishap that had befallen Geoffroy during his trial. A man dressed in ashabby black overcoat buttoned up to the chin, and wearing a kind ofjockey cap on his greasy hair, was watching her intently, seeming toagree with all she said while really interested in something else.Berthe, who was very intent upon the matter in hand, did not notice thisindividual's manner; it was Julot, her faithful squire for the last twohours, who got her away.
"Come," he said, taking her by the sleeve, "you know your brother iswaiting for you," and as she yielded to his insistence he whispered inher ear, "That chap's a dirty-looking rascal: I don't think much ofhim!"
"He certainly is uncommonly ugly," the girl admitted, and then like thetrained nurse that she was, she added, "and did you notice hiscomplexion? The man must be ill: he is absolutely green!"
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