2. Birds of the State at the Post Office
From a very fascinating English girl, domiciled in Yorkshire, I have just received the following request:—“I hear you are having another postal strike in Paris, and that carrier-pigeons are being used. How charming! And what a lucky man you are to be living in such an exciting country! Down here nothing ever happens. So do be a dear and send me a letter by a pigeon—it would be lovely.”
Thus news travels slowly to my very fascinating correspondent’s home in Yorkshire. The postal strike, the general strike and all the other strikes are over: and yet it is certain that if I could but gratify Miss Ethel Grahame’s desire I should rise considerably in her esteem. Strike or no strike, she would dearly love to have a pigeon, that had flown all the way from the grands boulevards to Scarborough, come tapping at her window. To her friends she would say: “Look! A letter from Paris! And brought all that long, long distance by a pigeon!” Naturally, cries of astonishment from the friends. Then, great headlines in the local papers: “Pigeon-Carrying Extraordinary,” and “Pigeon as Postman,” and “The Pigeon from Paris.” Next, consternation of Miss Ethel Grahame’s innumerable admirers, who would immediately proceed to fear and hate me as a formidable rival. And finally, and best of all, my letter put carefully away, and preserved for ever and for ever, in a scented desk.
Dreams, only dreams! I know nothing about pigeons; and then it has been stated that every pigeon in France, who is anything of a carrier, has been requisitioned by the Government. The postal strike is over, but the carrier-pigeons of Paris and of the provinces nevertheless remain at the exclusive disposal of the Cabinet. They have become State birds; they may fly only for the Republic.
So, what a life! As I cross the Luxembourg Gardens (the pleasantest of all the Paris parks), this fine, sunny afternoon, I reflect bitterly over the absurdity and irony of things. Gorgeous, costly birds, such as the parrot or the peacock, I could easily obtain; but a plain carrier-pigeon, no! Since the French Government is responsible for my predicament, may it fall! And may the State birds (if ever employed) play M. Clemenceau and his colleagues false! And——
A pigeon! Yes—there, on the path before me—a fine, strong, handsome pigeon; the very pigeon to make the trip from Paris to Scarborough. And my heart beats. And my brow throbs. And I am all excitement, all emotion, when—O bitter disappointment!—it suddenly occurs to me that this must be an ordinary pigeon, one of those idle, good-for-nothing pigeons that hop about public gardens in quest of crumbs. That is his life; that is all he is capable of doing. O fool that I was, to have thought for a moment that here was the very bird to go tapping at Miss Ethel Grahame’s window!
Yes, what a life! As I make my way to the grands boulevards it dawns upon me that I have never seen a carrier-pigeon, and that therefore I have no idea what he looks like. Also, suppose I wonderfully succeeded in securing one, what should I say to him, what should I do with him? In fact, how does one tell a carrier-pigeon where to go? And——
Two pigeons on the steps of this church, but of the before-mentioned greedy, good-for-nothing kind. Then, more pigeons in this poulterer’s, but dormant, dead. And next, on the menu of a café, the intimation in bold, red letters: “This Day: Braised Pigeon and Green Peas.”
In this café, in their accustomed corner, I find M. Henri Durand and M. Marcel Bertrand, two amiable, chatty, middle-aged little Frenchmen with whom I am on cordial, confidential terms. Thinking they may help me, I tell them of my trouble, and extraordinary are their expressions when I have finished.
“My admirable but unfortunate friend, you are ill,” gasps M. Bertrand. “My excellent but unhappy neighbour from Across the Channel, the heat has disturbed you,” cries M. Durand. And then (after I have denied that I am suffering either from illness or from the heat) M. Bertrand solemnly holds forth:
“You ask for a carrier-pigeon to take a letter to a very adorable miss who lives in Yorkshire. But, my poor old one, French pigeons have never heard of Yorkshire,—and neither have I and neither has our friend Durand here, and neither, I am sure, has anyone in France. But I will not insist: this Yorkshire is not the point. The point is, every carrier-pigeon in France has been proclaimed a bird of the State. In Paris, there are 15,000; in the provinces, 150,000, thus 165,000 in all; and all of them have been mobilised—yes, mobilised by order of the Government. In fact, a carrier-pigeon to-day occupies the same position as a soldier or a sailor. True, he cannot fight; but upon command, he must fly. And yet you ask for one of these State birds! Unfortunate friend, you might as well ask for a regiment or a military balloon, or a war-ship.”
But still more extraordinary revelations follow. I hear, for instance, that the 15,000 carrier-pigeons in Paris are housed in the various ministries—yes, every ministry in Paris is a vast dovecot. Two thousand pigeons for the Minister of War; three thousand pigeons for the Minister of Justice, and six thousand pigeons for the Prime Minister.
“He also keeps pigeons at his private residence,” states M. Bertrand. “If he heard you wanted one of his State birds, he would have you arrested.”
“So,” I sigh, “there is nothing to be done.” And sympathetically M. Bertrand replies: “Alas, my poor, lovesick one, nothing. I regret it with all my heart, but you must tell the blonde, adorable miss that birds of the State may fly only for their own country.”
Then up speaks M. Durand, and I learn that the 15,000 State birds in Paris are being wonderfully looked after, even spoilt. Never such comfortable, pleasant dovecots; never such plentiful, excellent fare! “It is to be hoped,” concludes M. Durand, “that they are not being overfed, and that they are not contracting idle, luxurious habits; for that would be disastrous.”
And here I rise. And after I have taken leave of MM. Durand and Bertrand, I go to the nearest post office and send Miss Ethel Grahame the following expensive telegram:—
“Deeply sorry no pigeon available. Have done my very best. Writing full particulars. Can only say meanwhile that every pigeon in France has been proclaimed a Bird of the State.”