Canadian Customs.
The neighboring British provinces of the north—the new Dominion of Canada—from various reasons, claim at this time the public attention. From intrinsic merits they are worthy of notice. With much of interest in the natural prospects and the interior life of this country and its denizens, it is almost a terra incognita to the general traveller, and few penetrate to those remote portions where the ancient customs of the original settlers are faithfully retained and kept up in their primitive simplicity. Although closely contiguous to the American line, bordered by its lakes and its forests of dense timber, rich in valuable mines and costly furs indigenous to northern latitudes, it is chiefly for these possessions that the province is sought by the utilitarian trader, rather than visited by the pleasure-seeking tourist. And yet the general beauty of scenery and the peculiar characteristics of the people are worthy of close observation, and one might vainly seek in a wider range for material so grand, or characteristics better deserving of appreciation. The noble St. Lawrence is bordered by shores of smiling fertility in the summer months. The country rises in gradual ascent from the present boundaries of the stream, and geological inquiry demonstrates that at an earlier period the bed of the river extended to much wider limits than at present. Still it is a grand and noble stream, as it goes sweeping onward majestically to the ocean, gemmed with a thousand isles, and having hundreds of peaceful villages that nestle on either shore. A mere passing voyage on this route of travel presents a rich and varied panorama of natural beauty. Still more interesting to the mind of serious thought than this mere material attraction, is the suggested idea presented in every village, crowned hill, or hamlet, nestling in some nook along the shore, of the happy unity and devotion of a people who make, within their humble homes and in the practice of piety, the sacred faith of their worship the main object of their existence. Strangers to their zeal many deride this devotion and call it fanaticism; but no system can offer, in practical moral results, a higher order of virtuous life than that presented by the Catholic Habitants [Footnote 112] of Lower Canada.
[Footnote 112: The Habitant is a generic name applied to the farming population of Canada East.]
Retaining, with their French origin, the happy temperament of the Latin race—courteous, hospitable, and enthusiastic—foreign refinements have not destroyed original purity of character; and in their simple lives, wisely directed by zealous, self-denying curés, they illustrate in piety and contentment the happy results of this influence. To notice, then, the habitudes of this class, to enter their homes and penetrate the arcana of their inner life, is a profitable study to all who are willing to receive the high moral lessons that grandeur does not constitute comfort, and that contentment may prevail where wealth does not abound, and that piety in simple faith presents a consolation that mere material possessions fail to bestow. While the patriotic Canadian claims as his motto,
"Notre culte, notre langue, notre lois," he properly places his religion first and above all other mundane considerations. This religion is the Catholic faith; and while the Canadian submits to political innovations, and recognizes the rights of the conquering arm of the British, he claims, in unbending adherence to his church, the observance of every ancient rite. The Code Napoleon may be modified by Saxon legislation; but the great common law of traditions in religious forms must ever remain undisturbed. Hence arises a peculiar charm in the simplicity, fervor, and unity of devotion among the Catholic Canadians. Voyaging from Montreal to La Rivière du Loup, at every intervening two or three leagues are defined the boundaries of a Catholic parish, denoted by the dome or spire of the village church. The proportions of these edifices present a solid character and generally harmonize in style; and, although lacking the finish of architectural design, they are constructed of stone, with ample accommodations for from one to two thousand worshippers. In this one edifice gathers, for miles around, the populace of the entire district; for here no discordant sects prevail to divide and weaken congregations. This one church, then, is the grand centre around which the people cluster, and which usually occupies the most commanding point of observation. If an ancient edifice, the building occupies the centre of the plateau of cottages, at once in former times the house of worship and fortress of defence. Should the approach of hostile Indians be signalled, the populace retired within the sacred precincts until after the danger passed, which was generally escaped by the appeal for peace, on terms of mutual accommodation, by the venerable priest. The influence of moral force often served to lead the minds of the aggressive savage to better and higher purposes.
Thus in this barren and bleak land whole tribes have been reclaimed from heathenism, though many priests, especially those of the Jesuit order, fell victims to their holy zeal, and offered their lives in sacrifice to their sacred efforts. Others lingered for years, prisoners in the hands of their captors, but still teaching in bondage, and finally, gaining influence from their virtues and learning, made proselytes of their persecutors. Thus whole tribes were brought within the influence of Christianity, and Canada was reclaimed from the savage customs of the natives, who have been elevated and preserved by the happy influence of the Church. These tribes have not disappeared, as elsewhere, before the rude invading march of the Christian, so-called, but continue in their united character and distinctive habits to live prosperously with their white brethren, and to venerate the religion they have embraced. Their principal villages dot the shores of the St. John and St. Lawrence, and even approach so near Quebec as Loretto. Their church edifices are generally of a simple character; but of late years, throughout Canada, many have been rebuilt, enlarged, or superseded by magnificent structures of more modern style than the ancient village church, in which, in times of a more primitive civilization, their forefathers worshipped. But the worship, in its outward ceremonies, remains unchanged. The same faith that won amid Siberian snows the land from savage rites, is alone fostered tenaciously in all its ancient forms. The devoted zeal of the French mission priest, driven from France by the bloody Revolution, carried the seeds of the true faith to the bleak shores of the Canadas; and their influence is well maintained by the curés of the present day, who continue not only to console spiritually, but in all the affairs of life give that wise direction which their superior intelligence enables them to exercise. The efforts of modern missionaries, who exhaust themselves in temporary efforts in remote regions, might take a wise lesson from this concentration of labor and dedication of life to the service of religion within fixed limits. It is granted, (for the fact cannot be controverted) that this people and country have been Christianized by the labors of the Catholic missionaries, and that the religion they inculcated is universally established and practised by the French population of the rural districts. It must, also, in fairness be admitted that the good effects of the system is demonstrated by the superior morale of the people under this control, who compare favorably with other sections where mixed sects predominate. Canada East, from the ocean to Quebec, is settled almost universally by Catholics, principally agriculturists, though along the shores the fisheries and pilotage occupy their attention as a means of livelihood. Among this people crime is almost unknown, so efficient have been the influences of their faith upon their moral habitudes. Notwithstanding this favorable condition of morality, emissaries from Canada West are diligently sent yearly with their stock of tracts for distribution and well-bound Bibles for sale. The preaching from one text, "Be not a busy-body in other people's matters," would be a judicious commentary on this course, especially as the influence of their own system fails to produce the benign influences of Catholicity, in freedom from the ordinary evils from which these happy, peaceful French parishes are exempted.
Devotion to their religion defends them from the influences of vice. Murder is a crime that rarely occurs among the native population, and other minor offences are equally unfrequent. To a people thus living harmoniously under an established religious influence, faithful in observance of their duties in patriarchal simplicity, and devoted to their religion, such invasion of the Protestant colporteur is a gratuitous impertinence. If the Catholic faith protects its votaries practically from sin, the substitution of another system, from the section of Canada West, (which by no means contrasts favorably with Catholic Canada East in comparative statistics of crime,) is no recommendation for the propagation of a faith that does not produce equal exemption from evil where their own influence prevails. Notwithstanding this common-sense proposition, zealots from the Bible societies yearly arrive among these devoted Christians, each one successively quarrelling about the proper construction of a book they universally recommend. The logical Canadian might well ask: "Why don't you agree among yourselves before you come to teach us? We are all happy in one opinion here!" Notwithstanding such rebuffs, the colporteurs proceed from house to house, leaving their incendiary documents, which inform the people that the creed that defends them from the influence of sin is a snare and delusion, and that to be saved they must forego its exercise, and advantageously adopt that of some one of the fifty Protestant sects. Any of these may be supposed to possess a sufficient diversity of doctrine to satisfy the most exacting inquirers in their search after religious novelties. If these so-called religious propagandists confined themselves exclusively to these statements, in conscientious diversity of belief, their action might be regarded as an ardent desire to do good to the souls of their fellow-men. But the basest means are used to proselytize, by deliberate forgeries of the truth. The following incident is recorded from personal knowledge of its occurrence, and can be verified by witnesses to the transaction: A colporteur of this beneficent class, from Canada West, entered the cottage of a poor Habitant family in the third range of the village of Saint-Michel, some fifteen miles from Quebec. One of the family was dying, in a room apart, and the priest of the parish was administering the last rites of the Church. The other members of the family were in the general room, during the confession preparatory to the anointing, and, although in grief, their circumstances did not protect them from the intrusion of the insidious stranger. The pedlar in piety vaunted his tracts, but as they were unable to read, these were unappreciated, and he finally displayed his costly Bible, which, he informed them, unless they possessed, studied, and read, they never could be saved. A stranger present—companion of the curé—asked the question: "Is it a Catholic edition?" "Oh! yes, certainly, a Catholic Bible," pointing to the binding with the embellishment of a large cross, the imprimatur of a bishop in France, and the recommendatory note from some Pope recommending its perusal to the study of the faithful. One had only to look within at the text to discover the perversion from the truth, and expose the fact that all these emblems were but a false pretence, to make the book sell among those who would be more attracted by its external resemblance to the authorized version of Holy Scriptures. The curé at this moment entered, and, in taxing the man with his duplicity, he answered with effrontery, "It is a Catholic Bible, but not the Romish edition;" adding, unless all read it they must certainly perish. "Then," answered the priest, "all here must be lost, for not one can read; and unless you remain, in your Christian benevolence, and instruct them, they cannot avail themselves of your written instructions." Fortunately, as a protection against the insidious wiles of such base pretenders to exclusive possession of religious truth, the laws of Lower Canada protect the people against dangerous forms of proselytism, calculated to create breaches of the peace; and the invasion of a harmonious parish by these disturbers of the contented people can be promptly punished as a penal offence. They may sell or give away their books, but here their influence for evil ends; and the trouble these colporteurs give themselves, if expended in a more legitimate manner, might prove quite as effective for their personal good in earning an honest livelihood by more worthy methods. To uproot these tares of evil is the one trouble given to the worthy curés, who diligently watch and guard their flocks from the invasions of wolves, as well as instruct and guide them truthfully in the way of life. The result of their self-denying labors is manifest; and Catholic Canada compares favorably in its morality with any portion of the Christian world. An American Catholic entering one of these rural parish churches described, though recognizing the same service in the offering of the holy sacrifice, would be struck by several distinctive features in the Mass and congregation, and perhaps more than one observance that, as a republican Catholic, he never before witnessed. Distinctions in society are observed, but the deference is paid to superior goodness only; the lines that mark the grades of superiority in society being drawn by the personal worth of the possessor in his elevation to the place of honor. Three chief officers are elected from among the congregation every two years. They occupy the seat of honor in the church on a raised banc, in some cases canopied, but always decorated by two candles and a crucifix. To these points the priest first proceeds at the aspersion, and, making his obeisance and blessing, proceeds with the ceremony. And they are likewise first served on the distribution of the pain bénit, and always take precedence in the grander ceremonies of the church, being admitted within the sanctuary to receive the palms, and on other appropriate occasions having the place notée assigned to their occupation. This gives the laity an active part and place of honor in the service of the church. Personal worth, and aptitude to look after the secular interests of the church, are the sole qualifications for this position, and the united voice of the congregation, in assembly, declares their choice. No alteration or repairs, or any movement connected with changes in matters pertaining to the interests of the church, can be undertaken without their approval. They are the defenders of the secular interests, as the priest is exclusively of the spiritual direction, but most generally harmonize with their curé in any plans of improvement he may suggest.
An American participating in these Canadian services could intelligently follow all that is exhibited in the ritual, though he would be surprised in a simple rural population at the pomp and exactitude with which on grand occasions the services would be performed. No ceremony is omitted that would give dignity to devotion, and the Roman ritual is closely followed. Although the American stranger might not understand the French sermon or hymn, generally sung during the gradual or communion service, still in common faith he would recognize the offering of the great sacrifice, expressed in the same sonorous language in which the service of the Church offers her devotions in every clime. Thus, as a foreigner, in the Catholic Church he would in the most solemn parts of the service feel at home. In common with Roman discipline, the Diocese of Quebec excludes female singers from the organ-loft, save by dispensation during the month of Mary, when this joyful season is marked by this indulgence. The choristers, composed of men and boys, sit within the sanctuary, in stalls arranged in a double row on either side, and these are chosen for their excellent character as well as vocal powers. [Footnote 113]
[Footnote 113: They sometimes number forty or fifty in an ordinary village church.]
None would be admitted who did not possess the one qualification of piety. All are decently surpliced, and on Sundays and fête-days four of the boys wear, in addition to the surplice, pendent wings of muslin, neatly plaited, and act as the prominent assistants to the Mass. At the feast of Corpus Christi, the grandest ceremonial of the Church, (after the consecration of a bishop,) as many as eight censers are used, and the road through which the cortége passes is garlanded with flowers, and banners are waving from every point. The grandeur of the ceremonial exceeds that of cathedral pomp in American cities, for the procession makes the out-door circuit of the village, stopping at four sections for the benediction. Two of these are erected temporarily of boughs of trees tastefully decorated, and most villages possess two small chapels distinct from the church that are permanently constructed for these purposes, and used on various occasions, whenever the bishop prescribes peculiar devotions. Thus, at the blessing of the seeds of the earth, in invoking prayers for a plentiful harvest, in times of plague, war, or inundation, these specialty services are peculiarly enjoined, and these chapels are then ever ready for the reception of the sacrament. Otherwise they are closed and unused, and only stand as memorials of the faith of the people; marking with the emblem of Christianity the Catholic land of Canada. At every mile a black cross stands as a milestone to point the way and keep religious hope alive on every side and every step; and sometimes, to mark special blessings in answer to prayers, these crosses are handsomely carved and of stone, and almost always enclose, even when of ordinary material, some sacred statue of venerated saint. Thus in the frigid clime and snow-capped hills of Canada, a Catholic love of the beautiful, pure, and good stands in memorials as frequent as may be found in the sunny climes of Italy or of the smiling lands of the south. Who will say that these objects of veneration do not tend to keep faith alive? The rustic Canadian, as he passes the memorial, lifts his mind to the higher reality to which it points, and in respectful adoration either raises his hat or devoutly crosses himself in prayer. Call it superstition if you will, but it is at least a harmless form of decent respect to the earthly insignia of heavenly realities which the emblem represents. The same respect, too, is universally extended to the curé when he passes abroad; all bow or lowly make their obeisance to the man of God. These outward manifestations of human respect only teach lessons of honor for the office proper to be observed; and, to the credit of Protestant gentlemen it may be added, in Lower Canada, the character and influence of the priest are so highly esteemed that, even though strangers to the Church, in many instances they conform to the custom. A Catholic never passes the clergy of the church without the compliment of the salut; to omit the observance would be a mark of disrespect. These peculiarities, like the order of the church service, arrest the attention of the American Catholic. The whole Mass is uniformly performed in Gregorian tones. The versicle of the day and the Introit are chanted by leading voices in the sanctuary. The choir commence the Kyrie, and it is likewise responsively intoned alternately, first by voices in the sanctuary, and then, with organ accompaniment, answered by singers in the organ-loft. And so the service is carried on most impressively, throughout the Gloria and Credo, even unto the canon of the Mass, with the same tone that is proper to the Mass of the day. Thus is produced an effect of solemn harmony and unity with the celebrant at the altar. No light operatic air clashes with the severe ritual, but all is grave and subdued, and only relieved by the simple pathos of some French hymn, creditably chanted, and most frequently as a solo, by the best voice of the choir. The Canadians are a music-loving people, and all orders cultivate this gift of nature. Their melodies are spirit-stirring and deserving of wider cultivation. As it is, many of our popular airs spring from la chanson Canadienne. Frugal in their tastes, the simple pleasures of social companionship are their chief relaxation; though the games and enjoyments of their hardy clime have their many votaries, and they excel in all the manly out-door exercises, in which even their women participate. Perhaps this may be one reason, besides higher moral causes, that account for the peculiar longevity and large families of the Canadian people. If more primitive in their customs than in lands where luxurious habits prevail, they are exempted from many evils consequent on their indulgence, and the virtues of the heart flourish and abound in luxuriance as the teachings of the church prevail and are practised. Hospitality is the crowning merit of the Canadian people. The stranger ever receives a generous welcome and courteous attentions. The French origin of the people retains all the idiosyncrasies of the latter race, and that easy grace of manner inseparable from French habitude. A Canadian peasant will receive a stranger with a ready tact that is universal, even to those in the simplest rank in life. This frankness and generosity of manner are partially the influence of the Church, which inculcates the practice of courtesy springing from goodness of heart and virtuous intention, and it is especially inculcated in a rite peculiar to the Catholic Church in Canada. During the course of the Mass, every Sunday, is duly observed the generally obsolete custom called the Agapae, of apostolic institution. It is one of those ceremonials which in its latent significance teaches a wholesome truth and duty, and it is to be regretted that it should have fallen into desuetude elsewhere. Significant of the good-fellowship that should prevail among all members of the human family, and in recognition of our common dependence one upon the other, and the duty of mutual aid and support to our brother-man, this feast of love is eaten in common by all ranks and conditions in life. If a Protestant should be present, and conduct himself orderly during the service, the courteous Canadian would extend a portion of the bread for the acceptance of his dissenting brother, as there is nothing of a sacramental character in its reception, and it is as free as the holy water fount in which the curious unbeliever often dips his hand with more superstitious dread than the Catholic believer. In this rite, large loaves of bread are prepared in rotation by the respective families of the parish, each in their order supplying the demand. This is called le pain bénit, blessed bread; and, after its benediction by prayer, that our daily food may be used to our advantage, which ceremony takes place from the steps of the altar, just before the Gloria, it is cut and divided into small pieces among the congregation, who receive it from the ushers, (the maires being first served,) in whatever position they may be in during the course of the service—either kneeling, seated, or standing. Its distribution usually commences during the course of the Credo, and, unless the congregation is very large, concludes at least before the commencement of the most solemn period of the Holy Sacrifice. The ceremony creates no confusion, but is received as an ordinary part of the day's duties. The morsel is accepted, the recipient blesses himself, with a short prayer, and the particle is consumed. The value of the observance of this rite is, the sacred lesson that it so significantly teaches. Its absence would only create remark in the mind of the Habitant, who is singularly tenacious of any innovation on the established customs of his forefathers, even where they manifestly are somewhat burdensome to be observed; for the preparation of bread in three or four large loaves for a thousand people is not entirely an insignificant matter. In the city churches of Quebec, the rite by dispensation is not observed, but it is universal in all the rural parishes. "La religion est changée." the Habitant would say with a sigh, should an effort be made to cut loose from any of the ancient landmarks and customs to whose practice he had been accustomed. The observance of this habit is therefore wisely retained, as teaching a wholesome lesson of charity to our fellow-man. All are recipients alike, young and old, the sinner as well as the saintly, for all have need of the tender indulgence of each other in deference to their common infirmities. Many lands of softer clime possess fairer scenes and a richer soil; but for the elevated affections of the heart in simplicity, none possess in a rarer degree those virtues calculated to render man noble and happy, and to elevate him in the social scale, than the people of these northern possessions that bound our American limits. Perhaps in the march of events, should their country ever be absorbed with our own republican institutions, the strongest bond of fellowship will be, the common religion they hold in such perfect unity with numbers of their American brethren. It is this principle that will render them adaptive to our political institutions as good citizens; and, perhaps, in simple faith, earnest devotion, and rigid standard of observances of the Catholic faith, the American Catholic could well borrow from his Canadian brethren a portion of that zeal for which they are so justly conspicuous.
Our limits forbid all that might be said of the Catholic hierarchy in Canada; a body of men who, for learning, piety, and self-sacrifice, furnish so many glorious examples worthy of imitation. Zealous in the cause of education, as fervent in their piety, they have made the sterling worth of the Canadian Church a subject for praise and imitation in every land. The simplest Canadian follows the language of the Church in his daily prayers; and as the Angelus sounds within her borders thrice a day, or the passing-bell tells of a soul departed, or the joyful chime proclaims a Christian received within the Church, the Latin prayer universally ascends from a thousand hearts, and Heaven's benisons follow in benignant response. May the sun of prosperity ever lighten her borders!
Translated From The French.
The Story Of Marcel,
The Little Mettray Colonist.
Chapter I.
"O grief beyond all other griefs! when fate
First leaves the young heart desolate
In the wide world."
Moore.
It was at the close of the memorable 26th of June, 1848, one of the most dreadful days of that sanguinary strife called "the Revolution," which had desolated Paris since the month of February, that a man, dressed in a torn and blood-stained blouse, his face and hands black with gunpowder, and carrying a gun on his shoulder, climbed hastily the dark, dirty staircase of a house in the Rue de la Parcheminerie. He was followed by a miserable-looking child of apparently about eight years old, whose little, trembling legs managed with difficulty to keep up with the long strides of the individual before him, who from time to time looked back to see that he was coming.
On reaching the third story, the revolutionist, for such he evidently was, opened a door, and entered a dismal, bad-smelling room of poverty-stricken aspect. A woman of about forty was there, busily occupied over a small iron furnace casting lead bullets, of which a number ready for use were lying on the dirty brick floor beside her.
"Here they are, all hot, all hot," cried she with a fierce laugh as he came in. "I don't keep you waiting for your tools, you see; there's not a citizen of Paris that has a better help-mate than you, Auguste; is there, now? And I'm as ready with my knife as—but what have you there?" And the dreadful woman strode forward a step as she caught sight of the child, half-hidden behind her husband.
"It's a poor little devil I picked up on a barricade," replied Auguste. "Ma foi! I believe that he had followed his father to the fight, where the citizen received his passport for the other world; the little one had hooked himself on to the corpse, and I had some trouble to loosen his hold, and afterward to put him on his legs again; but a drop of brandy did it at last, and here he is!"
"And what on earth are we to do with him?" vociferated the woman, who had listened to this explanation with many a shrug and menacing gesture. "I shall not feed him, I tell you. Where's the grub to come from, I should like to know?"
"Come, now," said Auguste soothingly, "be reasonable, do. Now that the dog's dead, you can give him the bones and lickings, can't you? It won't cost more to keep this little wretch than it did to keep the dog. Not so much, I believe."
"He's not worth either bones or lickings," screamed the wife. "Medor earned his living, while this beast of a child"—here she caught the frightened boy by the arm and whirled him violently round—"hasn't the strength of a fly!"
"He'll be able to pick up rags in a day or two, Pelagie, you will see; Come, now, let us keep him. Here, sit down, young one." And Auguste pushed the child down on a wooden stool.
Pelagie stormed, but Auguste at last gained the day, and even obtained a crust of bread for the wretched little creature, whose large eyes glanced from the one to the other of the speakers while they debated his fate. His thin, pale cheek still bore the traces of the tears he had shed when his father fell, shot through the heart, on the barricade, and his little blouse and torn trousers were stained with his father's blood!
We shall not repeat the conversation of the husband and wife on the events of the day—that day when the infatuated workpeople and proletaires of Paris murdered the venerable priest who, obedient to the call of his sacred duties, had come to the scene of strife and slaughter to preach mercy and forbearance. "The shepherd gives his life for his sheep," and, "May my blood be the last shed," were the last words of Archbishop Affre. Alas! when the torch of civil war is once lighted, men seem to grow mad; the fiercest passions of humanity are let loose, and ruin and death seem alone able to end the struggle. So has it ever been with the excitable people of Paris; so will it ever be with the ignorant and vicious. Many fell after the good archbishop, and among them Auguste Vautrin. He had gone off, carrying with him the newly-made bullets, and leaving the child whose life he had probably saved; he returned no more. A neighbor whispered to Pelagie that same night that her husband was lying dead in the Rue St. Antoine, but the depraved and unloving wife did not care to reclaim his body, and all that was left of the miserable man was consequently thrown ignominiously into the common grave of the misguided revolutionists.
Chapter II.
"Pinn'd, beaten, cold, pinch'd, threaten'd, and abused,
His efforts punish'd and his food refused,
Awake tormented, soon aroused from sleep,
Struck if he wept, and yet compelled to weep,
The trembling boy dropped down, and strove to pray,
Received a blow, and trembling turned away."
Crabbe.
Pelagie Vautrin, now a widow, continued to gain her living as before. She was what is called in France a "merchant of the four seasons," that is, a costermonger, hawking about the streets in a handcart the different vegetables and fruits of each season, sometimes even venturing on a load of salt mackerel, sometimes of dried figs. She was a strong, masculine-looking virago, who might have gained a tolerable living, for one day with another brought her in about three francs, had she not been given to drink. Every bargain she made either to buy or to sell was ratified by a glass of brandy, so that by the time she had emptied her cart, her pocket was nearly empty too. At all times without gentleness or pity, she became almost ferocious when excited by liquor, and it was a cruel fate that had made the little orphan fall into her hands. He, poor fellow, seemed to be quite friendless. Questioned and cross-questioned by Pelagie and her neighbors, he could give no further account of himself than that he was called Marcel, and that his father was shot on the barricade; the child shuddered each time that he was forced to answer this. He appeared never to have known his mother, replying always that he had lived with his father, only with his father, and nobody else. He was a slight, elegantly formed boy, with the intelligent, delicate features peculiar to the true Parisian. Timid and nervous, he trembled each time that Pelagie addressed him, and implicitly obeyed her slightest order.
During the two days that followed the death of Auguste, Pelagie remained shut up in her dirty, close-smelling room. Whether she feared that the restoration of public order might expose her to the unpleasant observation of the law, or that the loss of her husband did really somewhat affect her, we know not; certain it is that she staid quietly at home, and even shared the bread and boiled beef that a neighbor had fetched for her from a gargote, or poor eating-house, near by, with Marcel. He had been provided with a heap of rags for a bed, and permitted to sleep. And for two nights, poor boy, he had slept as children, happily the poor as well as the rich, only can sleep—forgetful of the past and unthinking of the future. But on the morning of the third day, Pelagie got up in full possession of all her wonted energy and brutality.
"Out of bed, little beggar!" were her first words, as she pushed the sleeping child with her foot; "out of bed; you must begin to work for your bread. Now, listen to me," she continued, as Marcel, with a scared look, started up ready-dressed from his bed of rags; "listen, do you hear, to me. You will go search for all the bits of old iron, old nails, and things of that sort, that you can find in the streets and gutters. Here is a leathern bag to put them in; do you see? I shall tie it about your waist, and take care you don't lose it. And here is a basket and a hook; with this hook you will catch up all the pieces of paper and rag that you see, and put them into the basket. Now, mind what you're about: I shall have an eye on you, wherever you may be. Here is a piece of bread; and don't come back until your basket is full, or I shall skin you."
So saying, she thrust the bewildered, frightened boy out of the door, which she shut immediately, leaving him to grope his way down the dark, crazy staircase as he best might.
After two or three falls he reached the door of the house, and found himself in the narrow, filthy gutter called the Rue de la Parcheminerie—one of the impure, airless thoroughfares of that old Paris which the present ruler of France is levelling to give place to wide, healthful, handsome streets and squares. He stood a moment hesitating whether he should turn to the right or to the left, when the voice of Pelagie calling to him from the window above made him look up. "Be off!" she screamed. "I'm watching you, and mind you bring me back all you get!"
The child shouldered his basket and ran on. Turning the corner and out of sight of his fierce protectress, if we may call her so, he stopped, poor little fellow! His basket and hook dropped to the ground, as with a gesture of despair he threw up his hands toward heaven and cried aloud, "O my father! my father!"
The cry and the gesture were not addressed to that Heavenly Father whose eye was then as ever upon him, full of pity and mercy though unseen and incomprehensible, for the unhappy orphan knew not how to pray; but we can believe that it was heard and answered, as if it had been a direct supplication to the throne of grace; not then, perhaps, but in the fulness of that time which he hath chosen for our consolation. A moment after, the boy gathered up his fallen basket and hook and diligently set to work. Not a rag or scrap of paper escaped his searching eye. Nails and metal buttons, and bits of old iron, and many a flattened bullet that had probably done some deadly work, all found their way into his basket or his leathern bag.
Toward twelve o'clock he found himself near the fountain in St. Michael's Place; tired and hot, he took a drink, and, seating himself on the curbstone near by, began to eat the piece of bread that Pelagie had given him that morning. His appetite was good, and he enjoyed his dry crust better than many a rich man did his sumptuous dinner that day. His little teeth went so busily and vigorously to work, that a hackney-coachman belonging to the coach-stand in the place, and who was lazily contemplating humanity from his box-seat, after watching him awhile with admiration, threw him a sou, telling him to buy some sausage, because he deserved something for the way in which he attacked that piece of brick-bat.
"He has teeth like a rat," cried the coachman, grinning, to one of his comrades; "the way he nibbles that crust, that's as hard as the stone he's sitting on, is a sight!"
Marcel took the sou, and returned a look of such smiling gratitude that the observant coachman again remarked to his friend that that little chap had eyes like the gazelle's in the Garden of Plants; "they're just as soft and tender," added he, "only blue." But the child dared not spend the money on himself—had not Pelagie told him to bring her back everything he got? So he put it into the bag with the old iron, and once more went to work. Steadily and earnestly he plodded on, all his little faculties concentrated on his task, so that at five in the afternoon his leathern bag was full, and his basket piled up and pressed down.
Glad and triumphant, with some hope of kind words this time at least, he turned toward the Rue de la Parcheminerie, and reached the wretched house just as Pelagie was pushing her empty handcart through the narrow passage into the yard, where it was put up under a shed for the night. He climbed the staircase and stood waiting for her on the landing-place before the door of her room.
"You here!" she cried when she perceived him. "What's brought you back so soon, you little vaurien?" [Footnote 114]
[Footnote 114: Worth-nothing.]
"My basket and my bag are both full, madam," replied Marcel, trembling as he looked up into the furious eyes of the drunken virago.
"I shall soon see that." She pushed him violently into the room. "Now, give me the bag."
She snatched it from him as she spoke and emptied out the contents on the floor.
"Why, what is this?" she exclaimed as she caught sight of the sou. "Did you find this? don't you know what it is?"
"I know what it is, madam; it was given to me to buy some sausage with to flavor my bread."
"To flavor your bread, you little beggar! Good bread's not good enough for you, then! I'll flavor your bread, you idiot." And with her strong right hand she dealt him a blow on the side of the head that felled him instantly to the floor.
He hid his bruised face in his little trembling hands and lay there weeping silently.
"Get up, get up, you idle dog; you're not going to stay there, I can tell you! Come, take your basket and hook and be off again." The unfeeling woman pulled up the wretched child as she spoke. "What! crying! I'll have none of that! Come, be off! You'll get no supper, I promise you, until your basket's full again."
Down the crazy staircase once more the little orphan stumbled into the street—hungry and tired, his cheek blue with the cruel blow, and his young heart swelling with the sense of so much injustice and oppression. The thought came to him suddenly that he would not return again to that wicked woman; but then, where should he go? Who would take care of him? He wandered through many dirty, narrow streets while he thus meditated, and at last found himself before the old church of St. Etienne du Mont. He saw some children going in, and followed them. There was so profound a silence in the sacred edifice, such a soft, subdued light streamed in from the beautiful painted windows, that the child's agitated, angry heart seemed calmed almost by a miracle. He slunk into a dark corner, and there, doing as he saw the happier children with whom he had entered do, he knelt. He did not pray; he had never known a mother's care, never been taught to lisp "Our Father who art in heaven" at his mother's knee; but peace and forgiveness entered into the orphan's soul as he knelt, silent, unheeded, in that dark corner of God's house.
Half an hour after he slunk out again into the street, feeling better, he knew not why, poor ignorant boy, and only anxious to try to satisfy his task-mistress.
All the evening he went to and fro, filling his basket from the heaps of rubbish thrown into the streets as soon as night comes by the numerous inhabitants of Parisian houses. At last, when ten o'clock had struck from all the church-towers in the quarter, he again climbed to the third story. The door was ajar, he entered softly, and saw, by the light of a gas-lamp that was on the opposite side of the street, Pelagie Vautrin lying extended on her bed, and snoring the heavy sleep of the drunkard.
He crept, tired and hungry, to his heap of rags, and soon happily forgot for a few hours that he was motherless and fatherless, a little waif adrift on the sea of life.
Thus passed and ended Marcel's first day of labor.
Chapter III.
"Thus liv'd the lad, in hunger, peril, pain,
His tears despis'd, his supplications vain.
…
Strange that a frame so weak could bear so long
The grossest insult and the foulest wrong;
But there were causes."
Crabbe.
Marcel had continued to ply this business for the profit of Pelagie Vautrin about two years, most times half-starved, and ofttimes beaten, and had become one of the quickest-sighted and quickest-witted of the little rag-pickers of Paris, when one wet winter's night, as he passed near St. Michael's Bridge, he put his foot on something hard.
To pick it up, to see by the nearest gaslight that it was a coarse linen bag, containing a quantity of gold coin, was the work of a minute; the next saw him running as if for dear life to the office of the Commissary of Police in the Rue des Noyers; he knew the place well by the red-glass lamp over the door. Almost breathless he handed his prize to the worthy magistrate, telling him at the same time where he had found it.
The commissary looked into his little, eager, intelligent face while he told his story, then taking his hand kindly, "You are a good boy," said he, "and, mark my words, your honesty will bring you good luck."
Marcel blushed with pleasure and surprise to be praised, but stood nervously twirling his ragged cap round and round.
"The man who lost the bag of gold," continued the commissary, "was here half an hour since; he is a poor clerk, and is in despair; he is afraid of going back to his employers to tell them that he has lost their money. You have saved him and his poor wife and children from much misery. Go, you are a good boy; but first tell me your name and where you live."
The child told him, it was written carefully down, and he then went away happier than he had ever been since that dreadful day when he had convulsively fastened himself to his father's dead body as it lay on the barricade.
But as he approached his miserable home, this happy feeling decreased; and he began to think of what Pelagie would say if she knew what he had been doing. To tell or not to tell, that was the question, and it was not yet decided when he opened the door of the dismal room, where Pelagie, drunk as usual, was making her preparations for going to bed.
"And where do you come from, vaurien?" asked she as he came in.
He did not reply; he was not prepared with a lie, and he feared to tell the truth. Pelagie, accustomed to prompt and ready answers from her victims, turned round and stared at him, surprised beyond measure at this unwonted hesitation.
"Do you hear, little beast, do you hear!" she screamed presently. "Where do you come from? Why don't you answer me?" And she seized him violently by the arm.
"Pray don't beat me!" said the child imploringly. "I will tell you. As I was passing over St. Michael's Bridge, I—I found—a bag—"
"A bag!" exclaimed Pelagie, still holding him fast. "A bag of what? Quick! quick! Speak faster!"
"Of gold," whispered the child, trembling, for he knew now that he should suffer for what he had done.
"Of gold? of gold? Where is it? Give it to me!" And she fumbled about his little breast, as if she thought it must be hidden there.
"I haven't got it!" said the boy, whose cheeks waxed paler and paler, but whose blue eyes met hers for once undauntedly. "I carried it to the Commissary of Police."
For one moment the drunken fury looked at him silently, and then burst forth in bitter curses and bitterer blows. Hard and fast they fell on the young head and tender face; he was knocked down and kicked up again—hurled against the wall—pushed into the fire-place—and at last thrown upon the cranky table, which fell with so terrible a crash that the noise fortunately brought up the tenants of the story beneath in time to prevent a murder; for it is too probable that would have been the end of this frightful scene, if no one had come to save poor Marcel.
"Madame, Madame Vautrin!" cried M. Poquet, as he rushed into the room, followed by his wife and a number of the neighbors, "what is the matter here? Pray, be calm. You've beaten that child too much! Now, stop, or I'll go for the police." And the strong man seized the furious woman in his arms, while his wife and one or two other women got hold of Marcel and carried him down-stairs, covered with blood and bruises, to the Poquets' room.
Covered with blood and bruises! Such was this wretched child's reward for the first act of probity he had as yet found an opportunity of performing!
Be gentle, then, in your judgment of his future errings. O children of happier fortunes! ye who are encouraged in every generous thought and honest deed by the tender caresses of a mother and the approving smiles of a father, remember that he was an ignorant, homeless orphan, whose first good impulses were beaten out of him, or stifled by the vicious influences which surrounded him.
Monsieur and Madame Poquet were—it is a pity to be obliged to say it of such a kind-hearted couple—no better than they should be, rather, indeed, far worse. M. Poquet called himself a cobbler, but few, very few were the boots or shoes that could show trace of his handiwork. Talking politics in the cabaret [Footnote 115] at the corner, with idlers like himself, seemed to be his principal occupation; but there were rumors afloat that, at night, when honest men were sleeping peacefully in their beds, he and his companions were dodging the police, and trying to find the money they would not work for. Certain it is he generally had a forty-sous piece in his pocket, and few people knew how he got it.
[Footnote 115: Wine-shop.]
Madame Poquet earned or rather thieved her living as a femme de ménage [Footnote 116] and a very good living she made too; for, not satisfied with stuffing herself as full as she could of victuals at her employer's house, she regularly brought back every evening in a great basket, that was continually suspended at her arm, such a supply of cheese, charcoal, sugar, garlic, bread, cigars, cold meat, and such like, that there was not a better furnished cupboard nor better fed children than hers in the neighborhood.
[Footnote 116: Charwoman.]
These children consisted of a boy and a girl—Polycarpe and Loulou—cunning, ready-witted, unprincipled, and idle. Never had they heard a word of truth; their only teaching since they came into the world had been to lie and steal, but like their parents they were naturally merry and good-tempered; they had never been ill-treated, as children generally are among the vicious poor, and they were well-disposed to be generous with their pilfered plenty.
Such were the people who had rescued the orphan from Pelagie Vautrin's murderous hands, and who now washed away the blood from several cuts on his head, and applied such remedies to his poor bruised limbs as they were acquainted with. And Madame Poquet had a kind, motherly way with her that comforted poor Marcel wonderfully, and Polycarpe and Loulou showed much sympathy; and at last he was put into bed (a dirty one, it is true, but warm) with Polycarpe; and the boy fell asleep happier, notwithstanding his aches and pains, than he had been for many a year of his short life.
For three whole days Marcel remained quietly with the Poquets, who would willingly have kept him altogether, and only hoped that Pelagie would let things be as they were. The fourth morning, however, brought a change. Scarcely had Madame Poquet taken herself and her great basket off for her day's work and pilfering, and M. Poquet slunk off a moment after to the cabaret at the corner, when Madame Vautrin appeared suddenly before the frightened eyes of the three children. She was sober, and in few words ordered Marcel to get his basket and hook and go to work. The trembling boy silently obeyed.
Chapter IV.
"Alas! regardless of their doom,
The little victims play!
No sense have they of ills to come,
Nor care beyond to-day.
Yet see how all around them wait
The ministers of human fate
And black misfortune's baleful train."
Gray.
But Polycarpe Poquet did not drop the acquaintance so well begun; far from it; he seemed to have become really attached to the pale, weak child, who was about a year younger than himself, and proved his friendship by becoming a kind of amateur rag-picker and helping to fill the dreadful basket and leathern bag that Pelagie exacted twice a day. This business finished, he would lead off Marcel in quest of amusement, with the understood intention also of picking up a few sous as he best could, and Polycarpe was not at all particular.
All was new to Marcel; he had never yet had time to stroll through the great thoroughfares at the hours when the magnificent shops of Paris display their wonderful merchandise to tempt the luxurious rich. He had not even ever crossed the bridges since that fatal 26th of June, 1848, and knew nothing of beautiful Paris but the narrow and busy streets of the "Quartier Latin," the quarter of the great schools, of the College of France, the Sorbonne, and the Institute.
How wonder-stricken was he the day that Polycarpe conducted him to the Place de la Concorde! The sky was blue, the sun bright, the two beautiful fountains were spouting their many waters in feathery spray, the grand old chestnut-trees of the Tuileries gardens were in full bloom behind him, palaces on either side of him, and before him stretched away the magnificent avenue of the Champs Elysées, bordered by trees and flowers and grassy lawns, and bounded in the far distance by the Arch of Triumph! The boy's heart swelled within him, for the love of the beautiful was hidden in it, as well as the sense of the good and true, and he could not speak. He had never gazed before on so brilliant a scene, and he could find no words to express his feelings.
Polycarpe understood nothing of this silent admiration, and after loitering a short time around some of the cafés among the trees in the avenue, proposed going down on the quay to look at the river. They stopped for a glass of brandy at the nearest cabaret—for Marcel had learnt this dreadful habit from his friend, who had been accustomed to tipple from his very birth—and then, ready for any mischief, descended to the river's side. An old lady was standing there, gazing at the swift-flowing water, as if she were longing to throw into it a very apoplectic-looking little dog she held by a string.
"Marcel, Marcel," whispered Polycarpe, "I'm going to have some fun with that old woman. I'll squeeze some sous out of her, you see if I don't!"
He started off running as he spoke, then suddenly stopped close to the dog.
"What a love of a dog!" cried he in apparent ecstasy. "I never saw a prettier little animal in my life! What kind of a dog do you call that, madam?"
"It is a Scotch dog, my young friend," replied the old lady, evidently much flattered; "you have very good taste, for he is really a very pretty creature."
"He is a love!" ejaculated Polycarpe.
"I have brought him here for a bath," continued the old lady. "I think that it would do him good if he would swim a little."
"That it would, madam," answered Polycarpe, stroking and kissing the fat, wheezy little animal; "but it would be well to give him a little rubbing first; his skin is rather dirty, I perceive, madam, on looking close. I'll wash him for you, if you like. I'm used to washing dogs. I wash my mother's dog every Saturday, madam."
"Really!" said the old lady. "Well, I should be glad to give Zozor a good washing, but I'm afraid he's difficult; he don't like it; he never did."
"That's nothing, madam. Julius Caesar—that's my mother's dog— don't like it, but he's obliged to, for it's for his good. You should just see Julius Caesar when I've washed and dressed him! He's perfectly beautiful! He's a poodle, quite white, and I've cut his coat so that he has a flounce round each ankle, three rows of fringe on his hips, a fine bandelet on his side, a frill on his chest, and a magnificent tassel at the end of his tail."
"He must be very handsome," remarked the old lady, who had listened with much interest to this description.
"He is, madam. My mother says no one can dress a dog better than I can. So I'll wash Zozor, if you like; I'll not hurt him in the least."
"You're very kind, indeed," said the old lady. "I really shall be very much obliged to you. Now then, Zozor, don't be naughty; it will do you good, Zozor."
So saying, the trustful old lady undid the string attached to her pet's collar, and delivered the victim into the hypocrite's hands. In an instant the wretched little creature was smeared from head to tail with a villanous compound of black soap and soot that Polycarpe drew from one of his dirty pockets. The poor animal howled dismally as his tormentor daubed him all over, and more vehemently still when his eyes, nose, and mouth were crammed with the nasty, stinging mixture.
"Now, madam," said Polycarpe, when the poor beast was well plastered and utterly unrecognizable, "that's the first operation; and if you want me to go on, and wash it off, my charge is forty sous, paid in advance. I never give credit: it's a bad system; I've learnt that by experience."
"You wicked boy!" screamed the old lady, "you little impostor! you've killed my poor Zozor!"
The unlucky pet was rolling himself in the mud, in an agony of pain.
"You cruel, wicked boy! Oh! what shall I do? what shall I do?"
"Why, you've only to pay me the forty sous," said Polycarpe, who stood calmly contemplating the contortions of his victim, "and I'll continue my operations. Forty sous is not dear, madam, especially as I provide the soap."
The old lady, unable to endure any longer the sight of her darling's sufferings, at last drew from her purse a piece of forty sous, and put it into the outstretched palm of the young scamp, who no sooner had closed his dirty fingers on the coin than he burst into an insulting laugh and took to his heels, leaving Zozor's mistress inarticulate with astonishment and rage.
Marcel had stood a little distance off while this scene was enacting. At first he laughed; but when he saw how much the poor dog suffered, the innate humanity of his nature was awakened, and as soon as his friend had disappeared he approached the yelling animal, and, with much difficulty and no little danger of being bitten, managed to seize him by the nape of the neck and throw him into the water. The miserable animal struggled desperately, and so got rid of a great part of the soap and soot; with the help of a boatman who had come up just in time, Marcel got him out again, and, after a little rubbing and rinsing, restored him to his weeping mistress, clean, but with blood-shot eyes and inflamed nostrils, and certainly very much the worse for his adventure.
The poor lady was profuse in her thanks. "You have saved his life," she cried; "I shall be eternally grateful to you; I will never forget you!" And she pressed her dripping darling to her heart, while she hastily climbed the steep that led from the river's side to the quay above.
Marcel followed when she was out of sight, and soon perceived Polycarpe waiting for him, and half-hidden behind one of the kiosks on the sidewalk in which newspapers are sold in Paris.
"So you washed that old woman's little monster!" cried he, as soon as he saw Marcel. "You needn't have done that. Here I've been waiting for you to go to Mother Crapaud's for a real blow-out. Come along, now, I'm as hungry as a wolf. Did you ever see an old woman so nicely done? O my eye! poor Zozor! wasn't he well soaped?"
Chapter V.
"Let not Ambition mock their humble toil,
Their vulgar crimes and villany obscure;
Nor rich folks hear with a disdainful smile
The low and petty knaveries of the poor.
"The titled villain and the thief of power,
The greatest rogue that ever bore a name,
Awaits alike the inevitable hour:
The paths of wickedness but lead to shame."
Parody On Gray's Elegy.
Polycarpe's favorite dining-saloon, the gargote, or eating-house, of the Mère Crapaud, was situated in the Rue de la Huchette, one of the narrowest, darkest, and dirtiest of the old streets of Paris. It was a large, low room, opening from the street; the whole length of one side of it was taken up by four great furnaces which cooked the contents of the four great marmites, or boilers, that were constantly suspended over them. The contents of three of these marmites consisted of beef-soup, flavored with carrots, turnips, cabbage, onions, and garlic. The fourth generally contained stewed beans, a favorite accompaniment to the boiled beef. A kind of counter, on which stood baskets of cut bread and bowls of salad, separated the furnaces and marmites from the other part of the room, which was furnished with tables of six places each, and benches, all painted dark green. The place was smoky and grimy, and not rendered pleasanter by the presence of the Mère Crapaud herself, an enormously fat, blear-eyed old woman, possessed of a most abusive tongue. Indeed, she would have seemed better fitted to drive away than to attract customers. The Mère Crapaud, however, was very popular, and with good reason; for not only were her beef and soup the very best that could be bought for the money, but she also could be depended on in critical moments, when those whom she recognized as regular customers were in difficulties with the authorities.
Fifteen or sixteen customers, of all ages and of both sexes, were seated at the tables when the two boys entered, and the Mère Crapaud, brandishing the great spoon with which she measured her soup, was busy behind the counter, assisted by two perspiring marmitons. [Footnote 117]
[Footnote 117: Scullions.]
"Bonjour, la mère," said Polycarpe, as he entered with the ease and swagger of a well-known and favored guest; "how goes it with you?"
"Bonjour, mauvais sujet," returned the hostess; "what brings you here, to-day?"
"Well, I followed my nose, good mother, which was attracted by the smell of your bouillon and beef, and brought me straight here. Permit me to present my friend M. Marcel, a young gentleman who is as yet unacquainted with the mysteries of your marmites."
"Mysteries! what do you mean by that, you little polisson? There are no mysteries in my soup-pots; good beef and good vegetables; find any better if you can."
"Why, I know I can't, Mother Crapaud, and that's why I've come."
"I don't intend running up a score for you, M. Polycarpe, I can tell you; so clear out, you and your friend, if you've nothing to pay with."
"But I have, Mother Crapaud. I'm a millionaire to-day, or very nearly so, and so I'm going to treat my friend and myself to two sous apiece of soup, and we'll see presently if you can give me change for this." And he tossed up into the air and caught again the silver piece he had extorted from poor Zozor's mistress.
The boys then seated themselves at one of the tables, and were presently served with a bowl of good bouillon and a hunk of bread.
"Now for a slice of fat beef, la mère," said Polycarpe, when the soup had disappeared; "six sous' worth will be enough for us two, and two sous each of stewed beans. What a cram! isn't it, Marcel?"
Marcel did indeed like his good hot dinner. Poor fellow! it was only when Polycarpe treated him that he knew what it was to eat his fill. No conscientious scruples prevented his full enjoyment of the present. Conscience, that mirror of the soul, which never flatters, never deceives, was veiled in him by the thick mists of ignorance, and the only kindnesses he ever received were from the hands of thieves.
They were finishing their beef and beans when two big, rough boys, dressed in dirty blue blouses and dirtier trousers of some nondescript color, rushed into the gargote and bellowed for something to eat. Throwing themselves on the bench opposite to that on which Polycarpe and Marcel were seated, they commenced a series of contortions, elbow nudges, whispers, and loud guffaws, which were only stopped by the arrival of their victuals. The elder of the two presently looked up, and, catching Polycarpe's fixed gaze, after a moment's hesitation exclaimed, "Well, yes! 'tis you, Polycarpe! I thought I remembered your face. I'm glad to meet you; you're a good one, I know."
Polycarpe was evidently much flattered by this recognition. "I thought I knew your face too, as soon as you sat down, Guguste, but you were so full of fun that I wouldn't interrupt you."
"I'll make you laugh presently," replied Guguste, bursting out afresh, as did his companion also. "I'll tell you something that'll tickle you. Come now, stop your noise," he continued to his friend, who wriggled and choked in a convulsion of merriment, "or I'll punch you quiet. I'll tell you, Polycarpe, when I've put this plateful away. My eyes, what fun!"
So saying, he and his friend fell to again, and had soon finished both beef and beans. When the plates were empty, Guguste leaned his two elbows on the table and took breath. "That matter being happily finished," said he presently, "I'll tell you the other; it's a joke, a real good joke, in my opinion; what old Gorgibus the shoemaker calls it, is another thing. What do you think he calls it, eh! Touton? A riddle, perhaps. Ha, ha, a riddle!"
His friend Touton twisted and wriggled and giggled so heartily at this idea, that he fell off the bench in his ecstasy. "What a fellow you are for fun!" exclaimed Guguste, pulling him up; "but really I don't wonder at you, to-day! You must know, Poly, that I haven't had a shoe to my feet that was decent for an age, and you'll agree that that was uncomfortable and unpleasant, not to say inconvenient, especially for a man of business like myself—ha, ha! So when I got up, this morning, I said to myself—while I shaved, you know, ha, ha, ha!—that I really must find some kind of covering for my trotters. But where? That was the question. So, to settle it, Touton and I strolled about the streets until we found ourselves pretty far in the Rue St. Antoine. What should we come upon all at once but a shoe-shop, and there in the window the very kind of shoes that suited my taste. Gorgibus was the name over the door. I shall always remember it; sha'n't you, Touton?"
"Don't speak to me, Guguste; I shall burst with laughing," replied Touton. "Poor old Gorgibus, at the sign of holy Saint Crispin! Oh! don't we owe him a candle, Guguste?"
"That we do, Touton, and you shall go to the church of St. Severin, it's close by, and pay it to the good saint!"
"Not now, Guguste. Go on with the story, do; I want to know how you got your shoes," cried Polycarpe.
"Well, then," continued the young reprobate, "Touton and I consulted together for a minute, and then in we went. 'I want a good pair of shoes, monsieur,' said I very politely. 'I'm just going as clerk to a notary, and I must be well shod. What is the price of this pair?'
"Ten francs,' said he.
"So I put my hand in my pocket and pulled out my cash, and counted it over with him, and I had just nine francs. 'That's all I have,' said I, putting the money back again into my pocket; 'will you give them to me for nine francs, if they fit me?'
"'Well, yes, I will, my boy,' said the old fellow good-naturedly. Upon that I sat down and put on both shoes; they went on like gloves, so comfortable, you have no idea! Then said I, 'Now, let me see if nothing hurts when I walk;' so I walked up and down the shop, old Gorgibus standing by admiring the fit, when, just as I was passing near the door, this great vaurien of a Touton gave me a punch in the nose!"
"Ha, ha, ha!" screamed Touton, unable any longer to restrain himself, "how I cut up the street when I'd done it! and Guguste cried, 'Stop, you rascal, I'll make you pay for that!' And he ran and I ran, and old Gorgibus looked after us and laughed till he cried, and he's crying still very likely!—ha, ha, ha!—and waiting for Guguste to come back and pay for the shoes! Ha, ha, ha!"
"Ha, ha, ha!" echoed the listeners.
"And then the neighbors," continued Guguste, wiping his eyes, "came to their doors, and kept calling out, 'He'll catch him, he'll catch him!' O Lord! what fun! And what a capital pair of shoes!" And the scamp put a foot on the table to show his prize, while the numerous customers around who had overheard the story applauded him with enthusiasm. Excited by the universal admiration, Guguste now invited the two boys to accompany him and his friend to the cabaret at the corner of the street to take a glass, an invitation most willingly accepted. The four unfortunate children accordingly, after paying for their dinners, adjourned to the wine-shop, where, in the society of bad men and worse women, they were initiated still deeper into the mysteries and the practice of crime.
Poor Marcel! poor little orphan!
To Be Continued.