by Eugène Sue
CHAPTER XXI. BRANDY TO THE RESCUE.
After the lapse of some seconds, the singular rapping which had so muchsurprised the guests, was again heard, but this time louder and longer.
"Waiter!" cried one of the party, "what in the devil's name isknocking?"
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 tosing less loud," said Ninny Moulin.
"Then, by a general rule," answered sententiously the pupil of the greatpainter, "if lodger or landlord ask for silence, tradition bids us replyby an infernal uproar, destined to drown all his remonstrances. Such, atleast," added the scapegrace, modestly, "are the foreign relations thatI have always seen observed between neighboring powers."
This remark was received with general laughter and applause. During thetumult, Morok questioned one of the waiters, and then exclaimed in ashrill tone, which rose above the clamor: "I demand a hearing!"
"Granted!" cried the others, gayly. During the silence which followedthe exclamation of Morok, the noise was again heard; it was this timequicker than before.
"The lodger is innocent," said Morok, with a strange smile, "and wouldbe quite incapable of interfering with your enjoyment."
"Then why does he keep up that knocking?" said Ninny Moulin, emptyinghis 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, quicktone; "for they are nailing him down in his coffin." A sudden andmournful 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 putmother and child together."
"A woman!" cried PLEASURE, addressing the writer; "is it a woman that isdead?"
"Yes, ma'am; a poor young woman about twenty years of age," answered thewaiter in a sorrowful tone. "Her little girl, that she was nursing, diedsoon after--all in less than two hours. My master is very sorry thatyou ladies and gents should be disturbed in this way; but he could notforesee this misfortune, as yesterday morning the young woman was quitewell, and singing with all her might--no one could have been gayer thanshe was."
Upon these words, it was as if a funeral pall had been suddenly thrownover a scene lately so full of joy; all the rubicund and jovial facestook an expression of sadness; no one had the hardihood to make ajest of mother and child, nailed down together in the same coffin. Thesilence became so profound, that one could hear each breath oppressed byterror: the last blows of the hammer seemed to strike painfully on everyheart; it appeared as if each sad feeling, until now repressed,was about to replace that animation and gayety, which had been morefactitious than sincere. The moment was decisive. It was necessary tostrike an immediate blow, and to raise the spirits of the guests, formany pretty rosy faces began to grow pale, many scarlet ears becamesuddenly white; Ninny Moulin's were of the number.
On the contrary, Sleepinbuff exhibited an increase of audacity; he drewup his figure, bent down from the effects of exhaustion, and, with acheek slightly flushed, he exclaimed: "Well, waiter? are those bottlesof brandy coming? And the punch? Devil and all! are the dead to frightenthe living?"
"He's right! Down with sorrow, and let's have the punch!" cried severalof 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. Atsight of the flaming beverage, which was to reanimate their enfeebledspirits, the room rang with the loudest applause.
The sun had just set. The room was large, being capable of dining ahundred guests; and the windows were few, narrow, and half veiled by redcotton curtains. Though it was not yet night, some portions of this vastsaloon were almost entirely dark. Two waiters brought the monster-punch,in an immense brass kettle, brilliant as gold, suspended from an ironbar, and crowned with flames of changing color. The burning beverage wasthen placed upon the table, to the great joy of the guests, who began toforget their past alarms.
"Now," said Jacques to Morok, in a taunting tone, "while the punch isburning, we will have our duel. The company shall judge." Then, pointingto the two bottles of brandy, which the waiter had brought, Jacquesadded: "Choose your weapon!"
"Do you choose," answered Morok.
"Well! here's your bottle--and here's your glass. Ninny Moulin shall beumpire."
"I do not refuse to be judge of the field," answered the religiouswriter, "only I must warn you, comrade, that you are playing a desperategame, and that just now, as one of these gentlemen has said, the neckof a bottle of brandy in one's mouth, is perhaps more dangerous than thebarrel 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," resumedNinny Moulin. "Let us first see if the bottles are of the samesize--equality of weapons being the foremost condition."
During these preparations, profound silence reigned in the room. Thecourage of the majority of those present, animated for a moment by thearrival of the punch, was soon again depressed by gloomy thoughts,as they vaguely foresaw the danger of the contest between Morok andJacques. This impression joined to the sad thoughts occasioned by theincident of the coffin, darkened by degrees many a countenance. Someof the guests, indeed, continued to make a show of rejoicing, but theirgayety appeared forced. Under certain circumstances, the smallest thingswill have the most powerful effect. We have said that, after sunset,a portion of this large room was plunged in obscurity; therefore, theguests who sat in the remote corners of the apartment, had no otherlight than the reflection of the flaming punch. Now it is well known,that the flame of burning spirit throws a livid, bluish tint over thecountenance; it was therefore a strange, almost frightful spectacle, tosee a number of the guests, who happened to be at a distance from thewindows, 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 ourselvesfeasting with cholera-patients, we are such fine blues and greens."
This jest was not much relished. Fortunately, the loud voice of NinnyMoulin demanded attention, and for a moment turned the thoughts of thecompany.
"The lists are open," cried the religious writer, really more frightenedthan 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 twodrinkers 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, ashe 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 brandyat a draught--it is glorious! No one else here would be capable of suchprowess. And now, worthy champions, if you believe me, you will stopwhere you are."
"Give the word!" answered Jacques, intrepidly. And, with feverish andshaking hand, he seized the bottle; then suddenly, instead of fillinghis glass, he said to Morok: "Bah! we want no glasses. It is braver todrink from the bottle. I dare you to it!"
Morok's only answer was to shrug his shoulders, and raise the neckof the bottle to his lips. Jacques hastened to imitate him. The thin,yellowish, transparent glass gave a perfect view of the progressivediminution of the liquor. The stony countenance of Morok, and the palethin face of Jacques, on which
already stood large drops of cold sweat,were now, as well as the features of the other guests, illuminatedby the bluish light of the punch; every eye was fixed upon Morok andJacques, with that barbarous curiosity which cruel spectacles seeminvoluntarily to inspire.
Jacques continued to drink, holding the bottle in his left hand;suddenly, he closed and tightened the fingers of his right hand witha convulsive movement; his hair clung to his icy forehead, and hiscountenance revealed an agony of pain. Yet he continued to drink; only,without removing his lips from the neck of the bottle, he lowered it foran instant, as if to recover breath. Just then, Jacques met the sardoniclook of Morok, who continued to drink with his accustomed impassibility.Thinking that he saw the expression of insulting triumph in Morok'sglance, Jacques raised his elbow abruptly, and drank with avidity a fewdrops more. But his strength was exhausted. A quenchless fire devouredhis vitals. His sufferings were too intense, and he could no longer bearup against them. His head fell backwards, his jaws closed convulsively,he crushed the neck of the bottle between his teeth, his neck grewrigid, his limbs writhed with spasmodic action, and he became almostsenseless.
"Jacques, my good fellow! it is nothing," cried Morok, whose ferociousglance now sparkled with diabolical joy. Then, replacing his bottleon the table, he rose to go to the aid of Ninny Moulin, who was vainlyendeavoring to hold Sleepinbuff.
This sudden attack had none of the symptoms of cholera. Yet terrorseized upon all present; one of the women was taken with hysterics, andanother uttered piercing cries and fainted away. Ninny Moulin, leavingJacques in the hands of Morok, ran towards the door to seek forhelp,--when that door was suddenly opened, and the religious writer drewback in alarm, at the sight of the unexpected personage who appeared onthe threshold.