in_madeira_place.txt Part 3

What could I say! How could I explain, offhand, to this stranger, the big boss, the little boss, the State boss, the ward boss, the county boss, all burrowing underneath our theoretical government! How could I explain to him that Fidele's department in the custom-house had been allotted to a Congressman about to run for a second term, who needed it to control a few more ward-meetings,--needed, in the third ward caucus, those very French votes which Carron had been shrewd enough to steal away and organize! What could I say to Sorel which he, innocent as he was, would not misconstrue as inconsistent with our past glorifications of our republic! What did I say! I do not know. I only remember that he interrupted me, harshly and abruptly, as he rose to go.

"You an' me got great _pitie_, ain' we," he said, "for _notre France, la pauvre France_, 'cause she got so many folks w'at _tourbillonnent sous la surface,--les Orleanistes les Bonapartistes_; don' we say so? _Mais, il n'y en a pas, ici_,--you know, we ain' got none here; don' we say so? We ain' got no _factionnaires_ here! _Mais non!_" Then, lowering his voice to a hoa.r.s.e whisper: "_Votre bonne republique,_" he said,--"_c'est une republique du theatre!_"

He had hardly closed the door behind him, when he opened it again, and put in his head, and with his hard, mocking laugh, demanded, "_Qu'est-ce que c'est qu'un 'Boss'?_" And as he walked down the hall, I could still hear his scornful laughter.

He never came to see me again. I sometimes heard of him through Carron, who had succeeded to Fidele's position and had elevated a considerable part of his following: for several weeks they were employed at three dollars a day in the navy-yard, where, to their utter mystification, they moved, with a certain planetary regularity, ship-timber from the west to the east side of the yard, and then back from the east side to the west. You remember reading about this in the published accounts of our late congressional contest.

Though Sorel never visited me again, I occasionally saw him: once near the evening-school, when I went as a guest; once in the long market; once in the post-office; and once he touched me on the shoulder, as I was leaning over the street railing, by the dock, looking down at a Swedish bark. Each time he had but one thing to say; and having said it, he would break into his harsh, ironical laugh, and pa.s.s along:--

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

And Fidele?

Still, if you will go to Madeira Place at sunset, you may see the cap and blouse come slowly in. Still the old sergeant sits at the head of the table. But his ideal is gone; his idol has clay feet. No longer does he describe to new-comers from France the receipt of his pension. All the old fond pride in it is gone, and he takes the money now as dollars and cents.

In the conversation, however, around the table the great government at Washington is by no means forgotten. Sometimes Sorel tells his guests about the Boss.