The cab stopped in front of a restaurant of decent exterior not far from Philippe’s. The young man went in, asked for a private room, and told the waiter to send up the coachman, as he had something to say to him, and to procure a boy to hold the horse. The coachman walked into the room, where the breakfast was ready served.
“Now, coachman, I am going to keep you all day, so do not refuse to drink a glass with me to keep up your strength.”
An hour after the poet and the coachman had breakfasted like old friends; six empty bottles testified that neither one nor the other were likely to die of thirst. The poet grumbled internally to himself as he thought of the three bottles of Clos-Vougeot, one of Léoville, two of Moulin-au-Vent, that had been consumed, and the fellow not drunk yet. Then he determined to try surer means, and called to the waiter to bring champagne. “It is no use, young fellow,” laughed the coachman, who was familiar at least, if he was not drunk; “champagne won’t make any difference; if you counted on that to get my passport, you reckoned without your host!”—“The devil I did,” cried the poor young man, horrified to see his scheme fall through, and to think of the prodigious length of the bill he should have to pay for nothing.—“Others, have tried it on, but I am too wide awake by half,” said the coachman, adding as he emptied the last bottle into his glass, “give me two ten-franc pieces and I will get you through.”—“How can I be grateful enough?” cried the poet, although in reality he felt rather humiliated to find that the grand scene in his fourth act had not succeeded.—“Call the waiter, and pay the bill.” The waiter was called, and the bill paid with a sigh. “Now give me your jacket.”—“My jacket?”—“Yes, this thing in velvet you have on your back.” The poet did as he was bid. “Now your waistcoat and trousers.”—“My trousers! Oh, insatiable coachman!”—“Make haste will you, or else I shall take you to the nearest guard-room for a confounded réfractaire, as you are.” The clothes were immediately given up. “Very well; now take mine, dress yourself in them, and let’s be off.” While the young man was putting on with decided distaste the garments of the cocher, the latter managed to introduce his ponderous bulk into those of the poet. This done, out they went. “Get up on the box.”—“On the box?”—“Yes, idiot,” said the coachman, growing more and more familiar; “I am going to get into the cab, now drive me wherever you please.” The plan was a complete success. At the Porte de Châtillon the disguised poet exhibited his passport, and the National Guard who looked in at the window of the carriage cried out, “Oh, he may pass; he might be my grandfather.” The cab rolled over the draw-bridge, and it was in this way that M ...,—ah! I was just going to let the cat out of the bag—it was in this way that our young poet broke the law of the Commune, and managed to dine that same evening at the Hôtel des Réservoirs at Versailles, with a deputy of the right on his left hand, and a deputy of the left on his right hand.
Shall I go away? Why not? Do I particularly wish to be shut up one morning in some barrack-room, or sent in spite of myself to the out-posts? My position of réfractaire is sensibly aggravated by the fact of my being in rather a dangerous neighbourhood. For the last few days, I have felt rather astonished at the searching glances that a neighbour always casts upon me, when we met in the street. I told my servant to try and find out who this man was. Great heavens! this scowling neighbour of mine is Gérardin—Gérardin of the Commune! Add to this the perilous fact, that our concierge is lieutenant in a Federal battalion, and you will have good reason to consider me the most unfortunate of réfractaires. However, what does it matter? I decide on remaining; I will stay and see the end, even should the terrible Pyat and the sweet Vermorel both of them be living under the same roof with me, even if my concierge be M. Delescluze himself!
NOTES:
[87] The decree which rendered obligatory the service in the marching companies of the National Guard, and the establishment of courts-martial, spread terror among the population, and thousands of people thronged daily to the Prefecture of Police. Sometimes, the queue extended from the Place Dauphine to beyond the Pont Neuf. But soon afterwards, stratagems of every kind were put into requisition to escape from the researches of the Commune, which became more eager and determined, from day to day, after the publication of the following decree, the chef-d’oeuvre of the too famous Raoul Rigault:—
“EX-PREFECTURE OF POLICE.
“Delivery of Passports.
“Considering that the civil authority cannot favour the non-execution of the decrees of the Commune, without failing in its duty, and that it is highly necessary that all communications with those who carry on this savage war against us should be prevented,
“The member of the Committee of Public Safety, Delegate at the Prefecture of Police,
“Decrees:—
“Art. 1. Passports can only be delivered on the production of satisfactory documents.
“Art. 2. No passport will be delivered to individuals between the ages of seventeen and thirty-five years, as such fall within the military law.
“Art. 3. No passport will be issued to any member of the old police, or who are in relation with Versailles.
“Art. 4. Any persons who come within the conditions of Articles 2 or 3, and apply for passports, will be immediately sent to the dépôt of the ex-Prefecture of Police.
(Signed) “RAOUL RIGAULT,
“Member of the Committee of Public Safety.”]
[88] Those who decline to join the Commune.