VIII
THE MAGIC LANTERN
I had been sitting against the tree for some time; the darkness had dispersed some of the saunterers; and those who remained plunged deeper into the cross paths, seeking, as it seemed, by preference the darkest and least-frequented spots. Doubtless they had their reasons for that. I do not know precisely what I was thinking about, when I heard heavy steps approach and stop behind me. I turned and saw a man carrying what we call a magic lantern. He set his apparatus down against the tree; he had not seen me, or did not notice me. He lighted his lantern to exhibit his pictures, whereupon I at once thought of Florian’s monkey; the reminiscence made me laugh, and I prepared to listen to the owner of the lantern, although I feared that the comparison would be unfavorable to him.
I heard him mutter between his teeth as he arranged his lights:
“Ah! the hussy! the rascal! where has she been these three hours, since she left me on the pretext of going to feed the brat? She’s playing some game on me. If it wasn’t a show day, how quickly I’d drop the whole business!—Never mind, Madame Trousquin, I’ll find a way to solve my doubts; and if I see anything crooked, there’ll be a sharp and effective reckoning!”
The poor man was evidently jealous; he swore and stamped and glared from side to side, but Madame Trousquin did not appear. By way of compensation, the gleam of the magic lantern attracted a girl and a young soldier, the latter of whom took his seat close beside the former, bidding the showman to close the curtain around them. He enveloped them in an old blue or gray sheet,—it was impossible to distinguish the color,—and I could not help thinking that a magic lantern may be at times a very great convenience.
Père Trousquin began his performance, interrupting himself frequently to swear at his wife, who did not return; and I listened attentively, although I could see nothing, not being under the curtain; but I had an idea that the spectators for whom the pictures were being explained were not looking at them.
“First of all, messieurs and mesdames, you see the sun, the moon, the stars, and the little fishes. Farther on, the products of the soil, such as trees, vegetables, animals, caves, waterfalls, rattlesnakes. Pray examine Monsieur Sun, whom you can’t look at because he’s so bright; and Madame Moon, who is full because she’s in her first quarter. See those stars, how fast they travel, as if the devil was carrying ’em off!—Three hours to put Fifi to bed! Ah! the slut! how I’ll make her dance to-night!—See Venus, glistening like a pinchbeck pin! See the shepherd’s star! The shepherd Tircis, I suppose, seeing what his reputation is. And there’s the Three Kings, who are always together. And the Chariot, that travels like those you see in the mountains of Russia. And Mercury and Jupiter. And the Virgin and the Twins. And the Bull and the Goat. Anybody can understand about them. Do you see the Scales? Do you see the Scorpion?—a wicked beast he is! All these, messieurs and mesdames, are planets that determine the nervous infections of the people born under their affluence. The planet Venus is for wanton women, the Shepherd for good-looking youths, the Three Kings for heroes, the Chariot for coachmen, Jupiter for roistering blades, Mercury for apothecaries, the Virgin for little girls, and the Goat for many worthy gentlemen whom you know. Observe, messieurs and mesdames, in the middle of that great black cloud, full of stars, between the Bear and the Ram, you’ll see a big, hairy comet, with a tail longer than a fox’s. That brilliant meteor has in all ages announced the end of the world; with its tail or its head it is capable of overturning our globe, which is held in place only by a thread, and broiling us all like chestnuts.”
At this point, a movement under the curtain led me to surmise that the comet had aroused great curiosity.
“One moment, messieurs and mesdames, and you’ll see what you will see.”
Père Trousquin pulled a cord to change the picture, and, after several very emphatic oaths, resumed his explanation, not changing his voice a quarter of a tone.