Complete Works of Anatole France

by Anatole France

  I

  MY name is Elme-Laurent-Jacques Ménétrier. My father, Léonard Ménétrier, kept a cook-shop in the Rue Saint-Jacques at the sign of the Reine Pédauque, whose feet, as one knows, were webbed after the fashion of ducks and geese.

  His gables rose over against Saint-Benoît-le-Bétourné, between Madame Gilles the draper at the sign of the Trois Pucelles, and Monsieur Blaizot the bookseller at the sign of the Image of Saint Catherine, and not far from the Petit Bacchus, whose railing, decorated with vine-branches, formed the corner of the Rue des Cordiers. He was very fond of me, and when I lay in my little bed after supper he would take my hand in his, and raising my fingers one after the other, beginning with the thumb, would say: “This one killed it, this one plucked it, this one fried it, and this one ate it. And here’s little Riquiqui, who gets nothing at all.”

  “Sauce, sauce, sauce,” he would add, tickling the palm of my hand with the tip of my little finger.

  And he laughed loudly. I laughed also till I fell asleep, and my mother vowed that the smile was still on my lips next morning.

  My father was a good cook and feared God. That is why on feast-days he carried the banner of the cooks whereon was embroidered a beautiful St. Laurence with his gridiron and his golden palm. My father used to say to me:

  “Jacquot, your mother is a saintly and worthy woman.”

  It was a speech he was fond of repeating. And in truth my mother went to church every Sunday carrying a book printed in large letters. For she could not read small print well, saying it dragged the eyes out of her head. My father passed an hour or two every evening at the inn, the Petit Bacchus, where Jeannette the viol player, and Catherine the lace-maker would also repair. And whenever he returned a little later than usual he would say in a softened voice as he donned his cotton night-cap, “Barbe, sleep in peace. As I told the lame cutler but a moment ago, you are a saintly and worthy woman.”

  I was six years of age when one day, readjusting his apron, always a sign in him of having come to a resolution, he spoke to me as follows:

  “Miraut, our faithful dog, has turned my spit for fourteen years. I have nothing to say against him. He is a good servant who has never robbed me of the smallest morsel of turkey or goose, happy if, as reward for his work, he was allowed to lick the jack. But he is growing old. His paws are stiffening, he no longer sees, and he is of no use for turning the wheel. Jacquot, it is for you, my son, to take his place. With care and a little practice you will succeed as well as he.”

  Miraut heard these words and wagged his tail in sign of approval.

  My father continued.

  “Very well then, seated on this stool you will turn the spit. Nevertheless, so as to form your mind you can go over your catechism, and when, in consequence, you are able to read all the printed letters you can learn by heart some book of grammar, or instruction, or yet again the admirable teachings of the Old and New Testament. For knowledge of God and of the distinction between good and evil, are necessary even in the practice of a routine such as mine, a condition of little standing, no doubt, but honest, and after all that of my father, and yet one day thine, please God.”

  From that day forward, seated from morning till evening in the chimney corner, I turned the spit, my catechism open on my knees. A good capuchin, who came bag in hand to beg of my father, helped me with my spelling. He did it all the more willingly for that my father, who respected knowledge, paid him for his lessons with a good slice of turkey and a big glass of wine, so that at length the little brother, seeing that I could put together syllables and words fairly well, brought me a beautiful life of St. Marguerite wherein he taught me to read with fluency.

  One day, putting his wallet on the counter according to custom, he came and sat down near me, and warming his bare feet in the ashes on the hearth, he made me repeat for the hundredth time:

  Virgin wise and pure and fair

  Help a mother’s pains to bear

  Have pity on us all.

  At that moment a man, thick set but handsome, clad in ecclesiastical garb, came into the kitchen and cried in a big voice:

  “Hello, mine host! Serve me with something good.”

  Under his grey hair he looked in the prime of life and strength. His mouth laughed, his eyes sparkled. His rather heavy jowl and triple chin sloped with majesty on to his clerical bands, become, by sympathy no doubt, as greasy as the neck that overhung them. My father, courteous by profession, doffed his cap and said as he bowed:

  “If your Reverence will warm himself at my fire I will serve him with what he requires.”

  Without any further pressing the Abbé took his place before the fire beside the capuchin.

  Hearing the good brother read:

  Virgin wise and pure and fair, &c.

  he clapped his hands and said:

  “Oh, what a rare bird! What an uncommon man! A capuchin who can read! What are you called, little brother?

  “Brother Ange, an unworthy capuchin,” answered my master.

  My mother, who had heard voices from her room above, came down into the shop, drawn by curiosity.

  The Abbé greeted her with a politeness that was already friendly, and said:

  “Here is something to be admired, Madame, brother Ange is a capuchin, and he can read.”

  “He can read anything written,” answered my mother.

  And approaching the brother she recognised the hymn of St. Marguerite by the picture representing the virgin-martyr, holy-water sprinkler in hand.

  “This hymn is difficult to read,” she added, “because the words are quite small and are scarcely separated the one from the other. Happily, it suffices, when in pain, to apply it as a poultice to the part that hurts the most, and it acts thus as well and even better than when recited. I have put it to the proof, Monsieur, at the birth of my son Jacquot, who is here present.”

  “Do not doubt it, my good Madame,” said brother Ange. “The hymn to St. Marguerite is a sovereign remedy for what you say, on the express condition that alms be given to the capuchins.” With these words brother Ange emptied the goblet which my mother had filled to the brim for him, threw his wallet over his shoulder, and went off in the direction of the Petit Bacchus. My father served the Abbé with a portion of chicken, and he, drawing from his pocket a slice of bread, a flask of wine, and a knife whose copper handle represented the late king as a Roman emperor on an antique column, began his supper.

  But he had barely put the first morsel of food in his mouth before he stopped and, turning to my father, asked for salt, appearing surprised that he had not been offered the salt-cellar before.

  “It was customary,” said he, “among the ancients to offer salt as a sign of hospitality. Moreover, they placed salt-cellars in the temples on the tables of the gods.”

  My father handed him grey salt in the wooden shoe which hung in the chimney corner. The Abbé took what he wanted and said:

  “The ancients looked upon salt as a necessary seasoning for all meals, and they rated it so highly that they gave the metaphorical name of salt to all witticisms which add savour to conversation.”

  “Ah!” said my father, “however highly your ancients may have held it, the salt tax of to-day puts a still higher price upon it.”

  My mother, who listened as she knitted a woollen stocking, was pleased to put in a word:

  “One must believe salt is a good thing, for the priest puts a grain of it on the tongues of infants held at the baptismal font. When my Jacquot felt the salt on his tongue he pulled a face, for small as he was he was cunning. I am speaking, Monsieur l’Abbé, of my son Jacques, here present.”

  The Abbé looked at me and said:

  “He is a big boy now. Modesty is depicted on his face, and he is reading the life of St. Marguerite attentively.”

  “Oh!” continued my mother, “he can read the prayer against chilblains and also the prayer of St. Hubert, both of which brother Ange has given him, and the history of him who was devoured in the
faubourg Saint Marcel by several devils for having blasphemed the holy Name of God.”

  My father looked at me with admiration, then whispered in the Abbé’s ear that I learnt all I wished with inborn and natural facility.

  “Well, then, we must accustom him to good reading,” replied the Abbé, “which is the ornament of man, a consolation in this life, and a remedy for all ills, even those of love, as the poet Theocritus affirms.”

  “Cook though I am I venerate knowledge,” said my father, “and I am willing to believe that it is a cure for love as your worship says. But I do not think it is a cure for hunger.”

  “Perhaps it is not a universal panacea,” answered the Abbé, “but it brings some solace with it, after the manner of an exceeding sweet balm, imperfect though it may be.”

  As he was thus talking, Catherine the lace-maker appeared on the threshold, her cap over one ear, her fichu tumbled. At the sight of her my mother frowned and dropped three stitches of her knitting.

  “Monsieur Ménétrier,” said Catherine, “come and speak to the officers of the watch. If you don’t they will take brother Ange off to prison without fault of his. The good brother came into the Petit Bacchus a moment ago and drank two or three pots of wine for which he did not pay, for fear, said he, of wanting in respect to the rule of St. Francis. But the worst part of the affair is that seeing me in the arbour with friends, he came up to me to teach me a new hymn. I told him it was not the right moment, but as he became insistent the lame cutler, who was close beside me, pulled him away by the beard. Then brother Ange flung himself on the cutler, who rolled on the ground pulling over the table and the jugs with him. The innkeeper rushed up on hearing the noise, and seeing the table overthrown, the wine spilt, and brother Ange, one foot on the cutler’s head, brandishing a stool with which he hit all who came near him, this wicked landlord swore like a fiend, and fled to call the watch. Monsieur Ménétrier, come without delay, come and rescue the little brother from the hands of the officers! He is a holy man and there is excuse to be made for him in this matter.”

  My father was inclined to be obliging to Catherine. Nevertheless this time the lace-maker’s words did not produce the effect she expected. He replied sharply that he saw no excuse for the capuchin, and that he hoped he would be well punished with bread and water in the blackest dungeon-cell of the convent whose shame and disgrace he seemed to be.

  He became heated as he spoke:

  “A drunkard and a debauchee to whom I give good wine and good cheer daily, and who goes off to the pot-house to wanton with trollops who are abandoned enough to prefer the society of a peddling cutler and a capuchin to that of honest tradesmen of the neighbourhood. Fie!”

  He stopped short at this part of his invective and looked stealthily at my mother, who, standing stiff and straight by the staircase, was knitting with short, sharp jerks of her needles.

  Catherine, surprised at this bad reception, said drily:

  “So you won’t speak a good word for him to the innkeeper and the guard?”

  “If you like I will tell them to take the cutler with the capuchin.”

  “But,” she said laughing, “the cutler is your friend.”

  “More your friend than mine,” said my father irritably. “A beggar who tugs at a strap and limps.”

  “Oh, as to that it is quite true that he limps, he limps, he limps.” And she left the cook-shop bursting with laughter.

  My father turned to the Abbé who was scraping a bone with his knife, “As I have had the honour to explain to your worship, every lesson in reading and writing that this capuchin gives to my child I have paid for in goblets of wine and succulent slices of hare, rabbit, goose, nay even of woodcock and capon. He is a drunkard and a debauchee.”

  “No doubt about that,” replied the Abbé.

  “But if he dare put foot in my house again I will drive him out with a broom-handle.”

  “That would be quite right,” said the Abbé. “This capuchin is a donkey, and he would teach your son to bray rather than to talk. You will do well to throw into the fire his life of St. Marguerite, his prayer against chilblains, and the story of the were-wolf with which the frowsy monk poisons the child’s mind. At the price brother Ange got for his lessons I will give you mine. I will teach the child Latin and Greek, French too, which Voiture and Balzac have so perfected. Thus by a twofold good fortune, for it is both rare and beneficent, Jacquot Tournebroche shall become learned, and I shall have a meal every day.”

  “Done,” said my father, “Barbe, bring two goblets. There is no business settled when the parties have not touched glasses in sign of agreement. We will drink here. I never want to set foot in the Petit Bacchus again, the cutler and this monk have filled me with such disgust.”

  The Abbé got up and placing his hands on the back of his chair said slowly and gravely:

  “Before all I thank God — Creator and Preserver of all good things for having led me to this fostering household. It is He alone who guides us, and we should acknowledge His providence in human affairs, though it may be rash and at times incongruous to obey it too blindly. For being universal His providence is to be encountered in all sorts of cases, sublime assuredly, by reason of God’s part in them, but obscene or ridiculous for the part played in them by men which is the only side they show us. So we must not, like monks and old women, invoke the finger of God every time the cat jumps. Praise God, and beseech Him to enlighten me in the teaching which I shall give this child, and, for the rest, let us recline ourselves on His holy Will, without seeking to understand Him in everything.”

  Then raising his glass he drank a great gulp of wine.

  “This wine induces a soft and salutary heat in the workings of the human body,” said he. “It is a liquor worthy of celebration at Teos and in the Temple by the princes of bacchic song, Anacreon and Chaulieu. It must touch the lips of my youthful disciple.”

  He put the beaker to my chin and cried:

  “Come, O bees of Academe, and light in harmonious swarm on the lips, henceforth sacred to the Muses, of Jacobus Tournebroche.”

  But my mother said, “O Monsieur l’Abbé, it is true that wine will draw bees, more particularly when it is sweet wine. But you must not wish those evil insects to light on the lips of my Jacquot, for their sting is cruel. One day when biting into a peach I was stung on the tongue by a bee, and I suffered the torments of the damned. And nothing eased me till brother Ange put in my mouth a pinch of earth moistened with saliva while he repeated the prayer to St. Cosmas.”

  The Abbé made her understand that he spoke of bees in an allegorical sense. And my father said to her in a tone of reproach:

  “Barbe, you are a saintly and worthy woman, but I have often remarked that you have an annoying fondness for plunging headlong into serious conversation, like a dog into a bowling-alley.”

  “May be,” replied my mother, “but if you had paid more attention to my advice, Léonard, you would be better off. I can’t be expected to know all the different kinds of bees, but I know about the conduct of a household, and what is due behaviour in a man of certain age, who is father of a family, and banner-bearer in his confraternity.”

  My father scratched his ear, and poured more wine for the Abbé, who said, sighing:

  “Certes, knowledge is no longer honoured in our day, in the kingdom of France, as it was among the Romans when, though fallen from their pristine virtues, rhetoric raised Eugenius to the purple. It is no rare thing in our time to see an able man in a garret without fire or light. Exemplum ut talpa. I am an example.”

  He then gave us an account of his life, which I will report to you as it came from his lips, saving where in places my tender years hindered me from understanding it plainly, and consequently from retaining it in my memory. And I believe that I have been able to fill up such gaps from the confidences he made me later, when he honoured me with his friendship.

  II

  SUCH as you see me,” he said, “or, to put it better, such
as you do not see me, young, lithe, bright-eyed and black-haired, I taught the liberal arts in the college of Beauvais under Messieurs Dugué, Guérin, Coffin, and Baffier. I had taken orders, and I thought to make myself a great reputation in letters. But a woman overthrew my hopes. She was one Nicole Pigoreau, and she kept a bookshop at the sign of the Bible d’Or, on the place in front of the college. I was in the habit of going there, for ever turning over the books she received from Holland, and also those bi-pontic editions furnished with notes, glosses, and learned commentaries. I was a pleasing youth, and, to my misfortune, Madame Pigoreau recognised it. She had been pretty, and could still attract. Her eyes could speak. One day Cicero and Titus Livius, Plato, Aristotle, Thucydides, Polybius, Varro, Epictetus, Seneca, Boethius, Cassiodorus, Homer, Æschylus, Sophocles, Euripides, Plautus, Terence, Diodorus Siculus, Dionysius of Halicarnassus il St. John Chrysostom, St. Basil, St. Jerome and St. Augustine, Erasmus, Salmasius, Turnebus, Scaliger, St. Thomas Aquinas, St. Bonaventure, Bossuet with Ferri in his train, Lenain, Godefroy, Mezéray, Maimbourg, Fabricius, Father Lelong and Father Pitou, all the poets, all the orators, all the historians, all the fathers, all the doctors, all the theologians, all the humanists, all the compilers, sitting assembled on the walls from ceiling to floor, witnessed our embraces.