in_madeira_place.txt Part 2

But his fervor was all stage fire, and he would turn in an instant from a denunciatory Psalm to a humorous story. Even his stories were of a religious cast, like those which ministers relate when they gather socially. He told me once about a priest who was strolling along the bank of the Loire, when a drunken sailor accosted him and reviled him as a lazy good-for-nothing, a _faineant_, and slapped his face. The priest only turned the other cheek to him. "Strike again," he said; and the sailor struck. "Now, my friend," said the priest, "the Scripture tells us that when one strikes us we are to turn the other cheek. There it ends its instruction and leaves us to follow our own judgment."

Whereupon, being a powerful man, he collared the sailor and plunged him into the water. He told me, too, with great unction, and with a roguish gleam in his eye, a story of a small child who was directed to prepare herself for confession, and, being given a manual for self-examination, found the wrong places, and appeared with this array of sins: "I have been unfaithful to my marriage vows.... I have not made the tour of my diocese."

Carron had an Irish wife (_une Irlandaise_), much younger than he, whom he worshipped. He told me, one day, about his courtship. When he first met her, she knew not a word of French, and he not a word of English.

He was greatly captivated (epris), and he had to contrive some mode of communication. They were both Catholics. He had a prayer-book with Latin and French in parallel columns; she had a similar prayer-book but in Latin and English. They would seat themselves; Carron would find in his prayer-book a sentence in French which would suit his turn, on a pinch, and through the medium of the Latin would find the corresponding pa.s.sage in English in Norah's prayer-book and point it out to her. Norah, in her turn, would select and point out some pa.s.sage in English which would serve as a tribute to Carron's charms, and he would discover in his prayer-book, in French, what that tribute was. Why should we deem the dead languages no longer a practical study, when Latin can gain for a Frenchman an Irish wife!

Carron, as I have said, puzzled me. He had not the pensive air of one who has seen better days. He was more than cheerful in his present life: he was full of spirits; and yet it was plain that he had been brought up for something different. I asked him once to tell me, for French lessons, the story of his life. With the most charming complaisance, he at once consented; but he proceeded in such endless detail, the first time, in an account of his early boyhood in a strict Benedictine monastery school, in the south of France, as to suggest that he was talking against time. And although his spirited and amusing picture of his childhood days only awakened my curiosity, I could never persuade him to resume the history. It was always "the next time."

He seemed to be poor: but he never asked a favor except for others. On the contrary, he brought me some little business. A _Belge_ had been cheated out of five hundred dollars; I recovered half of it for him.

A Frenchman from _le Midi_ had bought out a little business, and the seller had immediately set up shop next door; I succeeded in shutting up the rival. I was a prodigy.

After a time I was told something further as to Carron's life. He had been a Capuchin monk, in a monastery at or near Paris. The instant that I heard this statement, I felt in my very soul that it was true. My eye had always missed something in Carron. I now knew exactly what it was,--a shaved crown, bare feet, and a cowl.

It was the usage for the brethren of his order to go about Paris barefoot, begging. They were not permitted by the _concierges_ to go into the great apartment hotels. But "Carron, _il est tres fin_," said my informant; "you know,--'e is var' smart." Carron would learn, by careful inquiry, the name of a resident on an upper floor; then he would appear at the _concierge's_ door, and would mention the name of this resident with such adroit, demure, and absolute confidence that he would be permitted at once to ascend. Once inside, he would go the rounds of the apartments. So he would get five times as much in a day as any of his fellows. A certain amount of the receipts he would yield up to the treasury of the monastery; the rest he kept for himself. After a while this came to be suspected, and he quietly withdrew to a new country.

There was not the slightest tangible corroboration of this story. It might have been the merest gossip or the invention of an enemy. But it fitted Carron so perfectly, that from the day I heard it I could never, somehow, question its substantial truth. If I had questioned it, I should have repeated the story to him, to give him an opportunity to answer. But something warned me not to do so.

Fidele held on well at the custom-house, and I think that he became a general favorite. No one who took the old soldier by the hand and looked him in the eye could question his absolute honesty; and as for skill in his duties,--well, it was the custom-house.

But he was not saving much money. He was free to give and free to lend to his fellow-countrymen; and, moreover, various ways were pointed out to him by Mr. Fox, from time to time, in which an old soldier, delighting to aid his country, could serve her pecuniarily. The republic,--that is, the Republicans,--it was all one.

One afternoon, late in summer, Fidele appeared at my office. He seldom visited me, except quarterly for his pension affidavit. As he came in now, I saw that something had happened. His grisly face wore the same kindly smile that it had always borne, but the light had gone out of it.

His story was short. He had lost his place. He had been notified that his services would not be needed after Sat.u.r.day. No reason had been given him; he was simply dismissed in humiliation. There must be some misunderstanding, such as occurs between the warmest friends. And was not the great government his friend? Did it not send him his pension regularly? Had it not sent a special messenger to seek him out, in his obscurity, for this position; and was he not far better suited to it now than at the outset?

In reply to questions from me, he told me more about Mr. Fox's first visit than I had hitherto known. I asked him, in a casual way, about the ward-meetings, and whether the French citizens generally attended them.

No, they had been dropping off; they had become envious, perhaps, of him; they had formed a club, with Carron for president, and had voted to act in a body (_en solidarite_).

Then I told Fidele that I knew no way to help him, and that I feared his dismission was final. He could not understand me, but went away, leaning on his cane, dragging his left foot sidewise behind him, with something of the air of an old faithful officer who has been deprived of his sword.

He had not been gone more than an hour, when the door opened again, and Carron looked in. Seeing that I was alone, he closed the door and walked very slowly toward my desk,--erect, demure, impa.s.sive, looking straight forward and not at me, with an air as if he were bearing a candle in high ma.s.s, intoning, as he came, a pa.s.sage from the Psalms: "_Je me re-jouirai; je partagerai Sichem, et je mesurerai la vallee de Succoth.

Galaad sera a moi, Mana.s.se sera a moi.... Moab sera le ba.s.sin ou je me laverai et je jetterai mon soulier sur edom.... Qui est-ce qui me conduira dans la ville forte? Qui est-ce qui me conduira jusquen edom?_"

(I will rejoice; I will divide Shechem and mete out the valley of Succoth. Gilead is mine; Ma-na.s.seh is mine.... Moab is my washpot; over Edom will I cast out my shoe.... Who will bring me into the strong city?

Who will lead me into Edom?)

Carron propounded the closing inquiry with great unction; his manner expressed entire confidence that some one would be found to lead him into the strong city, to lead him into Edom.

I had lost something of my interest in Carron since I had heard the story of his Parisian exploits; but I could not help being amused at his manner. It portended something. He made no disclosure, however. Whatever he had to tell, he went away without telling it, contenting himself for the present with intimating by his triumphal manner that great good fortune was in the air.

On Sat.u.r.day afternoon, as I was about closing my desk,--a little earlier than usual, for it was a most tempting late September day, and the waves of the harbor, which I could just see from my office window, called loudly to me,--Sorel appeared. I held out my hand, but he affected not to see it, and he sat down without a word. He was plainly disturbed and somewhat excited.

Of course I knew that it was his old friend's misfortune which weighed upon him; he was proud and fond of Fidele.

I seated myself, and waited for him to speak. In a moment he began, with a low, hard laugh: "_Semble que notre bon Fidele a sa demission_: you know,--our Fidele got bounced!"

Yes, I said, Fidele had told me so, and I was very sorry to hear it.

"_Evidemment_" (this in a tone of irony) "_il faut un homme plus juste, plus loyale, que le pauvre Fidele!_ (You know,--they got to 'ave one more honester man!) _Bien!_ You know who goin' 'ave 'is place?"

I shook my head.

Sorel laid down his hat, and wiped his brow with his handkerchief. Then he went on, no longer speaking in French and then translating,--his usual concession to my supposed desires,--but mostly now in quasi-English: "_Mais_, you thing this great _gouvernement_ wan' hones'

men work for her, _n'est-ce pas?_"

"The government ought to have the most honest men," I said.

"_Bien_. Now you thing the _gouvernement_ boun' to 'ave some men w'at mos' know the business, _n'est-ce pas?_"

"It ought to have them."

Sorel wiped his brow again. "Now, w'ich you thing the mos' honestes'

man,--Fidele, or-- _Carron?_ W'ich you thing know the business bes',--Fidele, w'at been there, or Carron, w'at ain' been there?"

"Fidele, of course."

"Then tell me, w'at for they bounce' our Fidele, and let Carron got 'is place?" and he burst into a harsh, resonant, contemptuous laugh. In a moment he resumed: "Now," he said, "I only got one more thing to ax you," and taking his felt hat in his hands, he held it on his knees, before him, and stooping a little forward, eyed me closely: "You know w'at we talk sometimes, you an' me, 'bout our Frensh _republique_--some _Orleanistes_, some _Legitimistes_, some _Bonapartistes?_ You merember 'ow we talk, you and me?"

I nodded,

"We ain' got no _Orleanistes_, no _Bonapartistes' ici_, in this _gouvernement, n'est-ce pas?_"

I intimated that I had never met any.

"Now," he proceeded, with an increased bitterness in his tone and his hard smile, "I use' thing you one good frien' to me, _mais_, you been makin' fool of me all that time!"

"You don't think any such thing," I said.

"You know," he went on, "who bounce our Fidele?"

"No."

Sorel received my reply with a low, incredulous laugh. Then he laid his hat down on the floor, drew his chair closer, held out his finger, and, with the air of one who shows another that he knows his secret he demanded:--

"_Qu'est-ce que c'est qu'un 'Boss'?_"

I sat silent for a moment, looking at him, not knowing just what to say.

"_Mais_," he went on, "all the _Americains_" (they were chiefly Irish) "roun' my 'ouse been tellin' me, long time, '_Le_ Boss goin' bounce Fidele.' Me, I laugh w'en they say so. I say, '_Le Boss? C'est un creature d'imagination, pour nous effrayer,' you know, make us scart '_C'est un loup-garou,' you know,--w'at make 'fraid li'l chil'ren.

That's w'at I tell them. I thing then you would n't been makin' fool of me.'

"They don't know what they are talking about," I said. "How can they know why Fidele is removed?"

"_Mais_, you jus' wait; I goin' tell you. I fin they do know. Fidele take he sol'ier-papers, an' he go see _le chef_" (here Sorel rose, and acted Fidele). "Fidele, 'e show 'is papers to _le chef_; 'e say, 'Now you boun' tell me why _le bon gouvernement_, w'at 's been my frien', bounce me now.' 'E say _le chef_ boun' to tell 'im,--_il faut absolument!_ 'E say 'e won' go, way if _le chef_ don' tell 'im; an' you know, no man can't scare our Fidele!"

"Very well," I said; "what did the collector, the _chef_ tell him?

Fidele is too lame, I suppose?"

"_Mais, non_," with a suspicious smile. "_Le chef_, he mos' cry,--yas, sar,--an' 'e say 'e ain' got no trouble 'gainst Fidele; _la republique_, she ain' got no trouble 'gainst Fidele. 'E say 'e di'n want Fidele to go; _le gouvernement_, she d'n want 'im to go. _Mais_, 'e say, 'e can't help hisself; _le gouvernement_, she can't help herself. Yas, sar. Then Fidele know w'at evarybody been tellin' us was true,--'e 'Boss,' 'e make 'im go!" And Sorel sat back in his chair.

"Now, I ax you one time more," he resumed: "_qu'est-ce que c'est qu'un 'Boss'?_"