“Miragoane,” he said, “keep the shop.” Miragoane turned an intelligent eye on him, and came forward as far as the doorstep, where she sat down with an important air. Télémaque went upstairs to a nice bedroom hung with a pictured paper on which a boar-hunt was indefinitely repeated. This room was furnished with a walnut wardrobe, a bed with white cotton hangings, and four tables, and served as the landlord’s bedroom and as a diningroom for private parties on Sundays. Télémaque took a box out of the cupboard, and laying it on the table, opened it with much care. It was full of things wrapped in paper and silk handkerchiefs. He took out first a red shawl, then a pair of beaded epaulettes, some earrings, a cross, a regular plaster of obscure orders, and a big hat trimmed with braid and big gold tassels at each of its two points. When these treasures were spread on the table, he contemplated them with the astonished look of a child; he put the hat with its dangling tassels on his woolly head, wrapped himself in the red shawl, which had belonged to his wife Olivette, and looked at himself in his small shaving mirror.
He was living his past life over again, and had gone back to the time when he was a general. He saw the dazzling coronation ceremony of His Majesty Faustin I., the blue mantles of the dukes, princes and counts, the red coats of the barons; the black face of the Emperor with his golden crown; Olivette, who had come all in her court-dress, in a wheelbarrow, to take her place with the other ladies in the nave of the church.
Everything came back to him, the multi-coloured garments, the salutes of the cannon, the military, music, the cries of “Vive l’Empereur.” His imagination pictured the sumptuous entertainments of the imperial palace, where, beneath the candles and the crystal chandeliers, the ladies of the court danced, till in the furious excitement of waltzing their magnificent black bosoms burst through their white muslin bodices. He saw again his soldiers, drawn up for inspection on the arid and sunburnt plain. Ranked in order of battle they all presented arms to him, while he himself, Télémaque, with his hands behind his back, like Napoleon in the pictures, went up and down the ranks, and said:
“Soldiers, I am very pleased with you.”
Then his imagination presented more sombre pictures. He saw the events which had brought about his fall.
Soulouque, the Emperor, combined with his power as a sovereign the genius of a crafty and cruel child. In December 1851 he determined to make war on the Republic of San Domingo, and General Télémaque, at the head of his brigade, formed part of the expeditionary corps commanded by General Voltaire Castor, Comte de l’Ile-à-Vache. In his proclamation to the army the Emperor said: “Officers, non-commissioned officers, soldiers! The men of the East, the cattle graziers of San Domingo, will fly before you. Forward!”
Full of confidence in his Emperor’s word, General Télémaque marched proudly at the head of the black regiments which formed the vanguard — his tasselled hat on his head, and on his breast the imperial and military Order of Saint Faustin, as well as the grand cordon of the Haitian Legion of Honour. His uniform was heavily braided with gold, but his feet were bare. All of a sudden a vigorous rattle of musketry surprised him on the border of a plantation of bananas. Astonished, indignant, frightened, he turned his troubled face to his troops, and cried with sincere eloquence:
“Emperor made fun of poor people!”
At the general’s words the brigade turned on its heels and ran off as fast as it could. Télémaque headed the flying column, putting into play the muscles of his monkey-like legs, and hanging out his tongue. He didn’t give one thought to the guns, the tents, the packets of cartridges, and the cases of biscuit abandoned by the roadside. When Soulouque heard of this military achievement, he trembled in every limb. He had General Voltaire Castor shot by way of raising his spirits somewhat, and he ordered General Télémaque to be arrested; but the latter hid for a week in the bush, till the French consul, at the request of the beautiful Madame Sainte-Lucie, gave him shelter and smuggled him aboard the Naïade, just then sailing for Marseilles.
When Télémaque reached this point in his souvenirs, he took on the air of an intelligent dog who has been whipped, and hastily put the cross, the epaulettes, and the cocked-hat back in their wrappings. He looked uneasily out of the window for fear some one should have seen them from the avenue, and having replaced the precious box in the wardrobe and locked it up, he went downstairs again into the shop and poured a few drops of water into the savoury, simmering stew.
The hands of the clock which hung above the counter pointed to eleven, and a crowd of little urchins, with mops of hair in disorder and their shirts hanging out of their ragged breeches, came galloping up to the glass door in a cloud of dust. Télémaque appeared on the threshold bearing a soup-tureen full of bits of chicken and cold fried fish, all cleanly wrapped in pieces of newspaper. Miragoane gravely and attentively superintended the distribution from the doorstep agitating her tail the while.
The little folks, tumbling over each other, pressed round the negro, who in a stern nasal voice gave the order:
“Right-about face.”
The children fell into line, hands down, chins up, casting longing looks at the soup-tureen.
Télémaque inspected them for some time with a serious pleasure.
“Answer to the roll,” he said. “Number one, number two, number three,” and handed to each one his ration. Numbers one, two, and three scampered off, with both hands hugging their portion of the titbits to their chests, and then wolfing it in a corner while they cast distrustful glances in all directions.
“Numbers four, five, six.”
Number six, who had red hair, knocked down number four, who was lame, and sent his chicken bone rolling into the gutter.
Miragoane cocked her ear, Number four picked up his bone, and General Télémaque, having thus provided for his army, returned to his cooking. Perceiving that the stew was all right, he took a little wooden gun, painted red, from a drawer and called Miragoane. She came up slowly, with drooping ears and a look which meant, “Good Lord! what is the use of all this! Why complicate life needlessly. It does not give me the slightest pleasure to be drilled. But I consent to do it just to be agreeable to my master — Télémaque.”
The dog stood on her hind legs, and hugged the wooden gun against her pink belly.
“Carry arms! Present arms!”
She obeyed the word of command till her legs grew tired, then she dropped on all fours again, and leaving her weapon on the tiles she gave herself a shake and went back to her place on the doorstep.
“Not well done — careless,” said Télémaque. “We must begin all over again to-morrow.”
But Miragoane, motionless and rigid, barked twice. Then she began to run from the doorstep to the stove, making her claws rattle on the tiles. Remi, wearing a bell-shaped straw hat of the kind used by boating-men, walked into the shop and proceeded to make himself known to Télémaque, who was too delighted to say a word. He turned his back and began to uncork a bottle of white wine. “That you, Massa Remi?” he said at last.
“Massa Remi, son of Massa Minister, godson of my poor wife Olivette, who sold arrack, cocoanuts, and sapotillas at Port-au-Prince. Black men kill her wickedly in her shop, and drink her rum. It was printed in big letters in Haiti Monitor. Massa Morel-Latasse, the consul, read it to me. I was sad for Olivette, good woman. How please I am to see you, Massa Remi. Olivette not young when I marry her. They laugh at Télémaque for marrying old woman; but he know the more old a woman am, more good she cooks. Sit down, Massa Remi; dis white wine neber grow no older, ‘cause we’re going drink it,” and he laughed long and loudly at his joke. When he had uncorked the bottle, blown away the wax round the mouth and filled the glasses, he became thoughtful and said:
“Life not last always, but death last always.” Then leaning forward he put his thick lips close to Sainte-Lucie’s ear and whispered:
“I’ve got nice little lot of money upstairs, in a bag, to make a fine tombstone for Olivette.”
After this he gre
w more cheerful, asked after Madame Sainte-Lucie, who was a fine woman, he said, and wanted to know what Remi was doing in Paris.
“I am studying for my degree,” answered the young man with a yawn.
Télémaque did not know what degree meant, but he supposed it was something good. He half closed his fawning eyes as he clinked glasses. Then he asked if Remi would not be a general some day.
“It’s fine,” he said, with a sigh, “it’s fine to be a general, but it has its drawbacks.”
“You were a general yourself once, Télémaque,” said Remi, who found the negro amusing; “it was under that wicked ape of a Soulouque, wasn’t it?”
Télémaque looked uneasy. His thick lips trembled.
“Massa Remi, you mustn’t speak like dat of the Emperor,” he stuttered.
Remi had heard his father say that the general was horribly afraid of Soulouque, whom he imagined to be still alive. So he added:
“Do you think his ghost will come in the night and drag you out of bed? He has been dead these last ten years.”
The negro shook his head slowly.
“No, Massa Remi,” he said.
It was no use Remi saying every one knew that Soulouque died in Jamaica in 1867. The negro replied:
“No, Massa Remi, the Emperor not dead, he in hiding,” and Télémaque’s forehead puckered over its hard skull.
From the copper saucepan came a pleasing odour of meat and spices. Télémaque sniffed it and grew cheerful again.
“Now we’ll breakfast, Massa Remi,” he said with a laugh.
He laid the cloth in an arbour hung with Virginia creeper; his little garden looked over fields of lettuces. The banks of the railway to Versailles barred the horizon. Remi was gazing abstractedly at this meagre country, when the negro reappeared grinning from ear to ear above the smoking dish he carried in both hands.
“It something very good, Massa Remi,” he said.
Miragoane, put in charge of the shop while they ate, which they did with a good appetite, turned at intervals towards the table with a resigned expression. When they had finished the rabbit, washed down with Argenteuil wine, they lingered lovingly over an excellent Brie cheese and new bread.
“You are very comfortable here, Télémaque,” said Remi, who was himself perfectly happy.
Télémaque sighed deeply, for human nature is never satisfied.
“Do you know what is wanting in my restaurant, Massa Remi? my portrait in a gilt frame. It would look so well over the counter. As I told you, I have nice sum of money upstairs in a bag, for my poor Olivette’s tombstone; but I would give a fair slice of it to the painter who did my portrait.”
Sainte-Lucie assured the general he should have his portrait, without touching the money meant for his godmother’s mausoleum.
“I am a painter,” he said to the astonished Télémaque; “next time I come I will bring my box of colours and a canvas and make a portrait of you.”
Miragoane announced the arrival of two customers, soldiers who wanted cans of beer. While Télémaque disappeared through the trap-door which shut in the stair to the cellar, Remi, whose pipe had gone out, went to the counter for a match, when who should he see going down the avenue but the little old gentleman he had caught sight of in the gilt drawing-room of the ladies in the Rue des Feuillantines, the same little old gentleman with the same white whiskers and the same umbrella.
“Télémaque, come here, quick, quick!” he cried.
The trap-door was raised, and Télémaque appeared like a subterranean but kindly genius. He laughed from the midst of the bottles of beer which he would have immediately proceeded to uncork and serve to the two waiting soldiers. But Remi caught him by his white jacket and led him, puzzled, to the threshold of the shop.
“Télémaque, do you know that old gentleman?” he asked, pointing a finger at the bent back of the worthy man.
The negro, hugging the two bottles against his chest, answered with a great peal of laughter:
“Why of course, Massa Remi; he my landlord, his name Massa Sarriette. I going to ask him to do some repair in my attic.”
“Télémaque, you mustn’t ask that old man to do any repairs,” said Remi; adding in a severe voice:
“Do you pay your rent regularly, Télémaque?”
Was it to be supposed that a restaurant-keeper could live in the same house for twenty-one years and not pay his rent?
Remi then learnt that Monsieur Sarriette was considered a rich man, that he lived most of the time in Normandy, where he had property, and was always measuring public monuments with his umbrella.
The enthusiastic youth exclaimed:
“Télémaque, I will paint your portrait. I will paint you in your general’s uniform, with a red feather in your hat and four epaulettes.”
“That would be beautiful, Massa Remi,” said the black man with a grave and contrite air; “but you mustn’t do it, because it would vex the Emperor who is in hiding. You can paint me in black dress clothes with three diamond studs in my shirt.”
Remi, who never indulged in reflections of any kind, and was never surprised whatever happened around and about him, caught himself wondering, as he walked down the Avenue Saint Germain, why he had been so excited when he saw the old friend of the ladies in the Rue des Feuillantines go by.
CHAPTER IX
HAVING meditated profoundly on the pearl-grey letter on Twelfth Night, and the rendezvous at the fountain, Branchut the moralist finished by building up an ideal conception of these mysterious events. He no longer thirsted for Sainte-Lucie’s blood; in his opinion the creole had nothing whatever to do with the matter.
The philosopher arrived, by the help of his inner consciousness alone, at a knowledge of the truth about his adventure. Filled with contempt for the assertions of Remi, who openly acknowledged himself to be the author of the pearl-grey letter, Branchut was convinced with all the certainty of intuition that it was written by an exquisite and unhappy woman of a rare nature and exceptional conditions.
By a series of inductions such as only the brain of a metaphysician could be capable of, the moralist proved to himself by the clearest evidence that this woman was a Danish princess, that her name was Vranga, and that after having attired herself for the appointment at the fountain of the four bishops with ornaments of the most strangely poetical and melancholy character, she had fallen dead in her boudoir, surrounded by tropical plants, whose perfume, symbolical of her love for Branchut, was at once delicious and mortal.
As these sad and elegant facts were revealed to him, one by one, by dint of subjective enquiry and internal cogitation, he communicated them to his friend Labanne, who found nothing surprising in them. His successive discoveries on the subject of the Princess Vranga, however, had the effect of plunging Branchut into a state of melancholy eloquence.
“I must expiate by the most refined tortures,” he said, “the incomparable crime of having caused the death of this unparalleled creature, who was nervous as a racehorse, and learned as Hypatia.”
Grievous twitchings affected all the nerves of his expressive nose. Vranga became his one idea; he lived only in her memory. In his despair he forgot to borrow any clothes from Labanne, and in his melancholy detachment wandered about the Boulevard Saint-Michel draped in his horse-blanket as in a shroud.
“You see,” he would say to his friends when they stopped to speak to him, “I am in mourning.” And he would point to his head, on which was something that had a vague resemblance to crape, twisted round something that had a vague resemblance to a hat.
While he thus wore mourning for the Princess Vranga, Remi was becoming colder and colder towards the hostess of “The Famished Cat.” He never ventured alone to the establishment, and would not even leave his companions to get a match from the table by the sink, where Virginie eternally rinsed glasses.
He was growing serious and painting zealously. There was another fellow now in Labanne’s studio, a real hard worker, a muscular fellow as strong as a h
orse, who with sleeves turned up, and open shirt front showing his hairy chest, painted all day without saying a word. His peasant’s face, deeply lined and coloured like the earth, garnished with a bristly beard, expressed no sentiment of any kind; his round eyes observed everything, but never gave a clue to his own thoughts. It was Potrel — Potrel of whose ingratitude Virginie was never tired of speaking. He had returned from Fontainebleau, where he had been painting for two years, and Labanne lent him a corner of his studio until the one he had taken at Montmartre should be vacant. Potrel spoke little, and badly: bending over his easel, his palette on his thumb, his eyes half shut, he would reply to all Labanne’s wild theories the one word “Possibly,” which he articulated as he revived with an indrawn breath the expiring ashes in the blackened bowl of his pipe. One day Labanne said to him:
“The absolute is unrealisable; no artist can express absolute beauty.”
“Possibly,” answered Potrel, and went on painting. He hired a model, an admirable little Italian, snivelling and cunning, who stole his tobacco, so Sainte-Lucie could now try his hand at “academies.”
When Potrel got off his stool to stretch his legs, he would give Remi a few brief but clear words of advice and resume his work.
One morning, when he was scratching his beard and biting his nails, Remi asked him how it was he was not working. Potrel pointed with his hand in the direction of the skylight, and said:
“That cursed gewgaw there prevents my painting.”
Complete Works of Anatole France Page 298