I saluted her hastily, and left the shop furiously angry, the more so that I was obliged to conceal my rage. A single glance I gave toward the husband—real or false—sufficed for me to recognize the pretended decorator at the opera, who came to my box to invite my judgment upon his Chinese kiosque. That I had been the victim of a regular conspiracy was very evident—resignation was my only resource.
A fortnight afterward I assumed a disguise, and had the weakness to go and promenade before the shop in the evening twilight, to catch a last glimpse of the unworthy object of my idolatry.
The colossal husband was brushing the dust from a mandarin in porcelain, and I heard him murmur,
“If that Doctor Sian Seng should attempt to set his foot inside my door again, I’ll choke him, pack him in straw, and sell his carcass to the doctors for fifteen louis!”
Oh no! I shall never see this beautiful monster again; I have the resolution of a man and of a philosopher; I will fulfill my mission to the end, and will again make myself worthy of you, oh! holy city, which the silver moon illumines so caressingly when from the top of Mount Tyryathon she hangs like a lantern of silk from Nanking!
In Paris there are physicians who devote themselves entirely to specific diseases; there are some who treat only infants at the breast; others, after weaning; others who prescribe only for those of sixty and above of it. Bills are stuck up at the corners of all the streets, and advertisements in the newspapers, proclaiming a thousand infallible receipts for the six hundred maladies which the celebrated Pi-ké has found to germinate in the human body. They have discovered amongst other curious things in physics, how to put a new nose upon faces unfortunately deprived of that ornament, and to elongate it when too short. They make teeth of ivory for old men—hair for the bald—legs for those who have lost them—eyes for the blind—tongues for the dumb—ears for the deaf—brains for fools—and have wonderful methods to resuscitate the dead. But they forgot to invent one remedy—a cure for disappointed love! In China we know nothing about love; that passion was first discovered in France, by a troubadour called Raymond—for five hundred years it has ravaged fearfully. It is estimated that eleven millions seven hundred and thirty-eight persons have fallen victims to it, through assassinations, languishing death, and suicide, caused by this scourge of the human race—that amounts to double the number of victims of cholera in Asia since the reign of Aurengzebé. The French government have never taken any means to stop the progress of this epidemic, on the contrary, it pays largely toward the support of four royal theatres, where they celebrate the power of love and another mortal disease called champagne. Mr. Scribe has made a fortune of five hundred thousand francs a year, by celebrating the delights of love and champagne for the governmental theatres.
In leaving the shop where my Chinoiseries were sold by Mademoiselle Alexandrine de Saint Phar, I had another violent attack of love; and you cannot imagine how I cursed that rascal Raymond. Having vented my rage where it was so well deserved, I began to think seriously about a cure, and I walked about the streets searching at every corner for some advertisement of a remedy; useless trouble! I went to the Hospital for Incurables, and asked the doctor there whether he had not some patient afflicted with this malady, so perfectly unknown in our harems; but he only shrugged his shoulders, and turned his back upon me. My head burned like fire—my heart beat violently—my eyes glazed. The phantom of Mademoiselle Alexandrine danced before my eyes continually with fascinating grace, my ears were filled with her silvery voice—alas! I lived only in her!
“Physician cure thyself,” has said the wise Menu—this thought suddenly occurred to me. Since the French doctors have forgotten to invent a cure for love, let us find a remedy; and we will give a Chinese name to this grand consolation for suffering Europe!
If I could live for a week without thinking of Mademoiselle Alexandrine I should be saved! It was impossible to remain in my lodgings, every thing there reminded me of her, the faithless one! Besides, solitude never cures the wounds of love, it only festers them. Visits to the country are still more dangerous. The streets, boulevards and theatres are filled with women, and the species too often reminds one of the individual traitress; still it is necessary to live a week in total forgetfulness of the ungrateful fair.
Fo has inspired me; let me render thanks to Fo! Paris is filled with monuments, many of them very high; I chose four from among them—the tower of Notre Dame, the Pantheon, the Column Vendôme and the tower of St. James; by the payment of a few sous, one is permitted to ascend these towers, which are kept by a tractable porter. I resolved to pass some days in going up and down the stairs of these monuments and towers without taking rest, only, to vary the monotony of this continual ascent and descent, I jumped into a cabriolet occasionally at the Place Vendôme, drove to the Depôt of the Railroad to Versailles, and traversed the distance to that royal city five or six times, with my eyes shut. When evening came I returned home, and, after a slight repast, went to bed and slept soundly.