AUBARREE.
Without proof?
LERMITE.
Treating Dr. David Mathieu’s declaration with contempt... on the constable’s evidence alone; it is beyond me, quite beyond my understanding.
AUBARREE.
Nevertheless, it is quite easy to understand.
LERMITE.
What, to lend ear to the braying of that ignoble, dull, obstinate creature, rather than to the disinterested evidence of a man of outstanding merit and the highest intelligence. To believe the ass before the wise man — you think that natural? Do you? Why, it is monstrous! This magistrate Bourriche is a sinister kind of joker.
AUBARREE.
Don’t say that, Lermite, don’t say that. Bourriche is a respected magistrate who has just given us fresh proof of his judicial mind.
LERMITE.
In the Crainquebille affair?
AUBARREE.
Certainly. By weighing one against the other the contradictory attestations of Police-constable 64 and of Professor David Mathieu, the judge would have committed himself to a line of conduct where only uncertainty and doubt are to be met with. Bourriche has too judicial a mind to base his sentences on science and reason, whose conclusions are subject to never-ending dispute.
LERMITE.
So a judge must renounce knowledge?
AUBARREE.
Yes, but he must not renounce giving judgment. The fact of the matter is, Bourriche does not take Bastien Matra into consideration. He considers Police-constable 64. Man is fallible, he reflects. Descartes and Gassendi, Leibnitz and Newton, Claude Bernard and Pasteur, were all liable to mistake. But Police-constable 64 makes no mistake. He is merely a number. A number is not subject to error.
LERMITE.
Well, we’ll call that an argument.
AUBARREE.
An irrefutable one. And then there is something else. Police-constable 64 is the strong arm of the State. All the weapons of a State should point the same way. By opposing them, one against the other...
LERMITE.
Public peace is disturbed. I understand.
AUBARREE.
And, finally, if the Court decides against the executive, who would carry out its judgments? Without the police the judge would be but a sorry dreamer of dreams. — [Enter LEMERLE.
LEMERLE.
Aubarrée, you are wanted in Court Four. Why! hasn’t the Court resumed yet?
AUBARREE.
No.
LEMERLE.
Isn’t the usher here?
LERMITE.
Excuse me, sir.... Does the infliction of a fine entail in case of non-payment a prolongation of imprisonment?
LEMERLE.
Yes.
LERMITE.
Then would you be kind enough to give these two sovereigns to your costermonger?
LEMERLE.
Crainquebille?
LERMITE.
Yes, without telling him whom the money comes from.
LEMERLE.
Willingly, monsieur.
LERMITE.
But I must ask change for a fiver.
LEMERLE (searching his pocket).
Let me see... perhaps I... no, three pounds; oh, yes, here are ten shillings, fifty and ten, sixty. There, monsieur.
LERMITE.
Thank you.
LEMERLE.
It is I who thank you in his name.
DR. MATHIEU (to LEMERLE).
You were Crainquebille’s counsel, were you not, sir? I have been looking for you.
LEMERLE.
Oh, yes! You are Dr. David Mathieu. You gave evidence for us.
DR. MATHIEU.
Could you give these two sovereigns to your client to pay his fine?
LEMERLE.
With the greatest pleasure. But I have already received two pounds from this gentleman (pointing to LERMITE) for the same object.
DR. MATHIEU.
Ah... — [Bows. Silence.
LEMERLE
(holding in each hand two pounds — two from LERMITE and two from the doctor).
What do you propose, gentlemen?
DR. MATHIEU.
Well... two pounds for the fine.
LERMITE.
Yes, and two when he comes out.
LEMERLE.
Very good. You may count on me, gentlemen. [He bows and goes out. Short silence.
MATHIEU and LERMITE bow in a friendly way. MATHIEU turns to go, followed, a few steps behind, by LERMITE. MATHIEU stops almost on the threshold, and turns back to LERMITE, who is close to him. The two men, with hands outstretched, say in unison: “Will you allow me?”... They smile and shake each other warmly by the hand, not without a touch of melancholy. MATHIEU goes out.
THE USHER announces the Court.
LERMITE.
Here goes again.
ACT III.
Night.
SCENE I.
THE CHESTNUT-VENDOR.
Chestnuts all hot!
[He wraps up a ha’porth for a small boy.
CRAINQUEBILLE
(coming out of a wineshop where he has been having words).
Well, what of it? Because I ask for a glass on tick. Is that any reason to treat me like a pickpocket?
THE CHESTNUT-VENDOR.
Credit is dead, the debtors have killed it.
CRAINQUEBILLE.
I ask anyone, couldn’t he have trusted me for a glass? He got plenty out of me while I had anything. You are a thief, and I tell you so straight.
THE CHESTNUT-VENDOR.
Here is a fellow who comes out of quod, and calls other people thieves.
ALPHONSE
(a twelve-year-old, comes out of the wine-shop and says to CRAINQUEBILLE in a tone of the sweetest politeness;)
I say, guv’nor, is it true that it’s quite comfortable in jail?
CRAINQUEBILLE.
Dirty young cub! (He gives him a kick. ALPHONSE goes in whimpering.) It is your father who ought to be in jail, instead of growing rich by selling poison.
THE WINESHOP-KEEPER (followed by his son).
If it were not for your white hairs I would teach you to hit my son. (To his son.) Go in, you little varmint! — [They go in.
CRAINQUEBILLE (to the CHESTNUT-VENDOR)
Well, would you believe it?
THE CHESTNUT-VENDOR.
What can you expect? He is right: — you oughtn’t to hit other folks’ children, nor reproach them for having a father they never chose. My poor Crainquebille, for the last two months, since you came out, you are not the same man; you are hard to live with, and everything seems to taste sour to you. That wouldn’t matter, but all you are good for nowadays is to raise your elbow.
CRAINQUEBILLE.
I have never been a waster, but now and again I must have a glass for refreshment’s sake and to put me on my legs. My inside burns me. And nothing picks you up like a drink.
THE CHESTNUT-VENDOR.
That wouldn’t matter so much either, but you are flabby and work-shy. A man in that condition is a man who is down and can’t get up again. Everyone who passes tramples on him.
CRAINQUEBILLE.
True enough. I haven’t the courage I used to have. I am done for. The pitcher goes so often to the well that at last it breaks. And then, since that affair of mine in Court I have lost my character. I am no longer the same man. What can you expect? They took me up for shouting “bloody copper.” It wasn’t true. There was a doctor there with a ribbon in his coat who told them it wasn’t true. They wouldn’t hear anything. I allow you, the magistrates are very civil; they don’t swear at one, but one can’t explain things to them. They gave me two quid, and they hid my barrow away so that it took me a fortnight before I could lay my hands on it. And the whole thing is most extraordinary. On my soul, it is as if I had been acting in a play.
THE CHESTNUT-VENDOR.
They gave you two quid? That is something new. They used not to do that.
CRAINQUEBILLE.
To be
just, they gave me two quid in the hand. And then a prison is quite decent. One cannot deny it. It is well kept and clean. You could eat off the floor. But when you come out there is no work, no way of earning a halfpenny. Everyone turns his back on you.
THE CHESTNUT-VENDOR.
I will tell you what: change your neighbourhood.
CRAINQUEBILLE.
Madame Bayard, at the boot-shop, she makes a face when I pass. She insults me, and it was her fault I was taken up. The beauty of it is, she still owes me that sevenpence. I should have claimed it just now, but she had a customer. Let her wait a little. She shall lose nothing by waiting.
THE CHESTNUT-VENDOR.
Where are you going?
CRAINQUEBILLE.
I am going to talk to Madame Bayard.
THE CHESTNUT-VENDOR.
You keep quiet.
CRAINQUEBILLE.
Why, I have the right to claim my sevenpence. I want it; perhaps you will give it me? If you will, say so.
THE CHESTNUT-VENDOR.
Not to be done; my old woman would tear my eyes out. I have given you enough — a shilling here, and two shillings there — these last two months.
CRAINQUEBILLE.
Am I to die like a dog? I haven’t got a farthing left.
THE CHESTNUT-VENDOR (calling him back). Crainquebille... do you know what you ought to do?
CRAINQUEBILLE.
What?
THE CHESTNUT-VENDOR.
You ought to change your neighbourhood.
CRAINQUEBILLE.
That is impossible. I am like a goat that browses where she is tied up. She must browse even though there are only stones.
[MADAME BAYARD is seeing her customer out; when the latter has turned the corner of the street, MADAME BAYARD comes straight to CRAINQUEBILLE and addresses him loudly.
MADAME BAYARD.
What do you want with me?
CRAINQUEBILLE.
It is no good glaring at me like that. I want my sevenpence.
MADAME BAYARD (Coming down from her altitude).
Your sevenpence?
CRAINQUEBILLE.
Yes, my sevenpence.
MADAME BAYARD.
To begin with, I forbid you to enter my shop as you did a moment ago. It is no way to behave.
CRAINQUEBILLE.
Maybe — but my sevenpence...
MADAME BAYARD.
I don’t know what you mean. Moreover, understand this, one can owe nothing to people who have been in prison.
CRAINQUEBILLE.
You baggage!
MADAME BAYARD.
Ruffian! Oh! if only my husband were still alive!
CRAINQUEBILLE.
If I had your husband here, you old croaker, I would give him a sound kick to teach him to rob people and insult them afterwards.
MADAME BAYARD.
Where are the police?
[She goes in and fastens the shop-door.
CRAINQUEBILLE.
Keep it then! Keep it, thief that you are!
THE CHESTNUT-VENDOR.
Thief, thieves, the word is never out of your mouth! All the world’s a thief, according to you. It is true and, on the other hand, it isn’t true. I’ll tell you. We all have to live, and you can’t live without injuring others — it is impossible — so...
LA SOURIS.
Good evening, everyone.
THE CHESTNUT-VENDOR.
Good evening, La Souris.
LA SOURIS.
Feeling better, old Crainquebille? You don’t remember me? La Souris. You know me well, all the same. You gave me a pear, tho’ it was a bit over-ripe.
CRAINQUEBILLE.
Possibly.
LA SOURIS.
I am going to take a rest. I am living here. I am tired. Love us! when one has sweated all day long! I have been calling La Patrie, La Presse, Le Soir, till my throat is sore. When I have had a bite I shall get under the bed-clothes. Good night all.
THE CHESTNUT-VENDOR.
You have no bed-clothes.
LA SOURIS.
No bed-clothes? Come and look. I have made myself some out of newspapers and sacks.
CRAINQUEBILLE.
You are in luck, old chap. It is two months since I slept on anything soft. (LA SOURIS goes indoors.) And that’s true. They turned me out of my attic. For thirty nights I have been sleeping in a stable on my barrow. It has never stopped raining, and the stable is flooded. To avoid drowning one must sit up and crouch over the stinking water, with the cats, and rats, and great spiders as big as pumpkins. And then, last night, the drain-pipe burst, the carts were all swimming in the sewage, bah! Why, they even put a guard at the door to prevent people from entering because the walls are shaky. They are like me, the walls, they won’t stand up much longer. (Seeing MADAME LAURE enter the wineshop.) Hallo! there is Madame Laure.
THE CHESTNUT-VENDOR.
Madame Laure is a steady woman, and doing well; and considering what she is, she knows her position. She does not drink at the bar. I bet you she will come out with a quart of something to drink at home with her friends.
CRAINQUEBILLE.
Madame Laure! I know her as if I were her Maker. She is a customer. A fine lady, sure enough.
THE CHESTNUT-VENDOR. —
And a fine woman. (MADAME LAURE comes out of the wine-shop.) There, what did I tell you?
CRAINQUEBILLE.
Good day, Madame Laure.
MADAME LAURE (to THE CHESTNUT-VENDOR). Two penn’orth of chestnuts. And mind they are hot.
CRAINQUEBILLE.
You do not remember me, Madame Laure? The costermonger.
MADAME LAURE.
Yes, I know. (to THE CHESTNUT VENDOR.) Don’t give me those out of your bag. There’s no knowing how long they have been cooling there.
THE CHESTNUT-VENDOR.
They are piping hot; they are burning my fingers.
CRAINQUEBILLE.
You don’t remember me so easily because I have not got my barrow. People look at things differently sometimes.... And are you getting on all right, Madame Laure? (He touches her on the arm.) I am asking you — are you getting on all right?
MADAME LAURE.
Now then, Auverpin, hurry up with those chestnuts. I have people waiting for me. I have a party to-day. Only people whom I know.
CRAINQUEBILLE.
Don’t take your custom away from me, Madame Laure. You always did look at both sides of a sixpence, but you are a good customer, all the same.
MADAME LAURE (to THE CHESTNUT-VENDOR).
Do them up quick. It is not pleasant to have a man talking to you who has been in trouble.
CRAINQUEBILLE.
What did you say?
MADAME LAURE.
I was not talking to you.
CRAINQUEBILLE.
You said I had been in trouble. Well, what about you? You have seen the inside of a Black Maria. If I had as many dollar pieces as you have been times in the police-van...
THE CHESTNUT-VENDOR.
There you go, cursing at my customers now. Shut up, or I’ll put it across you.
MADAME LAURE.
Go along with you, you old Ticket-of-leave. CRAINQUEBILLE.
You know all about it, you do....
[The apparition of a policeman, silent and watchful, ends the dispute. MADAME LAURE goes off majestically.
LA SOURIS (at the window).
Shut your mouths. One can’t sleep!
CRAINQUEBILLE.
B — h that she is... there is no greater b — h than that woman.
THE CHESTNUT-VENDOR (packing up his stove).
To go for a customer just as she is being served! You must have lost all sense of things. Clear out of my way. You may think yourself lucky that I did not give you in charge. (Going off.) A man to whom I have lent shillings and shillings a week for the last two months. But he doesn’t know what’s what. [The barman puts up the shutters.
SCENE II.
CRAINQUEBILLE.
Hi! there, Auverpin! Auverpin! Listen! He hooks off. He won’t listen to anything. What I have against that old hag is that they are all like her, all of them. They pretend not to know me; Madame Cointreau, Madame Lessenne, Madame Bayard. All of them. So, because one has been put away for a fortnight one isn’t even good enough to sell leeks. Is it fair? Is there any sense in letting a decent fellow die of hunger because he has had trouble with the ‘tecs? If I can’t sell my vegetables I can do nothing but starve. Why, I might have stolen, or murdered, or had the plague, it would not have been worse. And the cold and hunger. I have had nothing to eat. It’s down and out with you, old Crainquebille. You’re done. At times I am sorry I ever came out.... — (There is a policeman standing still in the background. CRAINQUEBILLE sees him and says:) What a fool I am! I know the trick. Why shouldn’t I make use of it? (He goes quietly up to the policeman and in a weak and hesitating voice says:) You bloody copper! {The constable looks at CRAINQUEBILLE, not without sadness, but keenly and contemptuously. An interval. CRAINQUEBILLE, astonished, stammers:) You bloody copper! that’s what I say.
THE POLICE-CONSTABLE.
Well, you ought not to say it. You — ought — not — to say it. At your age you should know better. Move on!
CRAINQUEBILLE.
Why don’t you run me in?
THE POLICE-CONSTABLE (shaking his head).
If I had to take up every sot who said what he oughtn’t to, I should have my work cut out. And what good would it CRAINQUEBILLE
(overcome, remains a long time silent and stupefied; then says very gently:)
I did not mean you when I said “bloody copper.” It was not meant for anyone in particular. It was just a... a... notion.
THE CONSTABLE (with gentle austerity).
If it was just a notion or anything else, you ought not to have said it. Because when a man does his duty, and has much to put up with, you ought not to insult him with foolish words.... I tell you again, move on.
SCENE III.
LA SOURIS (out of the window).
Old Crainquebille! Old Crainquebille! Old Crainquebille!
CRAINQUEBILLE.
Hallo, who is that up there? Is it a miracle? It don’t seem possible...
LA SOURIS.
Old Crainquebille...
CRAINQUEBILLE.
Oh, it’s you!
LA SOURIS.
Where are you off to, like that, with no umbrella?
CRAINQUEBILLE.
Complete Works of Anatole France Page 395