CHAPTER XII
IN WHICH A MODEST MAN MAUNDERS
"In my opinion," said I, "a man who comes to see Paris in three months isa fool, and kin to that celebrated ass who circum-perambulated the globein eighty days. See all, see nothing. A man might camp a lifetime in theLouvre and learn little about it before he left for Pere Lachaise. Yethere comes the United States in a gigantic "_monome_" to see the city inthree weeks, when three years is too short a time in which to appreciatethe Carnavalet Museum alone! I'm going home."
"Oh, papa!" said Alida.
"Yes, I am," I snapped. "I'd rather be tried and convicted in Oyster Bayon the charge of stealing my own pig than confess I had 'seen Paris' inthree months."
We had driven out to the Trocadero that day, and were now comfortablyseated in the tower of that somewhat shabby "palace," for the purpose ofobtaining a bird's eye view of the "Rive Droite" or right bank of theSeine.
Elegant, modern, spotless, the Rive Droite spread out at our feet,silver-gray squares of Renaissance architecture inlaid with the delicategreen of parks, circles, squares, and those endless double and quadruplelines of trees which make Paris slums more attractive than Fifth Avenue.Far as the eye could see stretched the exquisite monotony of the RiveDroite, discreetly and artistically broken by domes and spires ofuncatalogued "monuments," in virgin territory, unknown and unsuspectedto those spiritual vandals whose hordes raged through the boulevards,waving ten thousand blood-red Baedekers at the paralyzed Parisians.
"Well," said I, "now that we have 'seen' the Rive Droite, let's cast abird's-eye glance over Europe and Asia and go back to the hotel forluncheon."
My sarcasm was lost on my daughters because they had moved out ofearshot. Alida was looking through a telescope held for her by a friendof Captain de Barsac, an officer of artillery named Captain VicomteTorchon de Cluny. He was all over scarlet and black and gold; when hewalked his sabre made noises, and his ringing spurs reminded me of thesound of sleigh-bells in Oyster Bay.
My daughter Dulcima was observing the fortress of Mont-Valerien througha tiny pair of jewelled opera-glasses, held for her by Captain deBarsac. It was astonishing to see how tirelessly De Barsac held thoseopera-glasses, which must have weighed at least an ounce. But Frenchofficers are inured to hardships and fatigue.
"Is _that_ a fortress?" asked Dulcima ironically. "I see nothing butsome low stone houses."
"Next to Gibraltar," said De Barsac, "it is the most powerful fortressin the world, mademoiselle. It garrisons thousands of men; its storesare enormous; it dominates not only Paris, but all France."
"But where are the cannon?" asked Dulcima.
"Ah--exactly--where? That is what other nations pay millions to findout--and cannot. Will you take my word for it that there are one or twocannon there--and permit me to avoid particulars?"
"You might tell me where just one little unimportant cannon is?" said mydaughter, with the naive curiosity which amuses the opposite and stillmore curious sex.
"And endanger France?" asked De Barsac, with owl-like solemnity.
"Thank you," pouted Dulcima, perfectly aware that he was laughing.
Their voices became low, and relapsed into that buzzing murmur whichalways defeats its own ends by arousing parental vigilance.
"Let us visit the aquarium," said I in a distinct and disagreeablevoice. Doubtless the "voice from the wilderness" was gratuitouslyunwelcome to Messieurs De Barsac and Torchon de Cluny, but they appearedto welcome the idea with a conciliatory alacrity noticeable in young menwhen intruded upon by the parent of pretty daughters. Dear me, how fondthey appeared to be of me; what delightful information they volunteeredconcerning the Trocadero, the Alexander Bridge, the Champ de Mars.
* * * * *
The aquarium of the Trocadero is underground. To reach it you simplywalk down a hole in France and find yourself under the earth, listeningto the silvery prattle of a little brook which runs over its bed ofpebbles _above your head_, pouring down little waterfalls into endlessbasins of glass which line the damp arcades as far as you can see. Thearcades themselves are dim, the tanks, set in the solid rock, areilluminated from above by holes in the ground, through which pours theyellow sunshine of France.
Looking upward through the glass faces of the tanks you can see thesurface of the water with bubbles afloat, you can see the waterfalltumbling in; you can catch glimpses of green grass and bushes, and a bitof blue sky.
Into the tanks fall insects from the world above, and the fish sail upto the surface and lazily suck in the hapless fly or spider that tumblesonto the surface of the water.
It is a fresh-water aquarium. All the fresh-water fish of France arerepresented here by fine specimens--pike, barbels, tench, dace, perch,gudgeons, sea-trout, salmon, brown-trout, and that lovely delicatetrout-like fish called _l'Ombre de Chevallier_. What it is I do notknow, but it resembles our beautiful American brook-trout in shape andmarking; and is probably a hybrid, cultivated by these clever Frenchspecialists in fish-propagation.
Coming to a long crystal-clear tank, I touched the glass with myfinger-tip, and a slender, delicate fish, colored like mother-of-pearl,slowly turned to stare at me.
"This," said I, "is that aristocrat of the waters called the 'Grayling.'Notice its huge dorsal fin, its tender and diminutive mouth. It takes afly like a trout, but the angler who would bring it to net must workgently and patiently, else the tender mouth tears and the fish is lost.Is it not the most beautiful of all fishes?
"'Here and there a lusty trout; Here and there a Grayling--'
"Ah, Tennyson knew. And that reminds me, Alida," I continued, preparingto recount a personal adventure with a grayling in Austria--"thatreminds me----"
I turned around to find I had been addressing the empty and somewhathumid atmosphere. My daughter Alida stood some distance away, gazingabsently at a tank full of small fry; and Captain Vicomte Torchon deCluny stood beside her, talking. Perhaps he was explaining the habits ofthe fish in the tank.
My daughter Dulcima and Captain de Barsac I beheld far down the arcades,strolling along without the faintest pretence of looking at anything buteach other.
"Very well," thought I to myself, "this aquarium is exactly the place Iexpect to avoid in future--" And I cheerfully joined my daughters asthough they and their escorts had long missed me.
Now, of course, they all expressed an enthusiastic desire to visitevery tank and hear me explain the nature of their contents; but it wastoo late.
"No," said I, "it is damp enough here to float all the fishes in theSeine. And besides, as we are to 'see' the Rive Droite, we shouldhasten, so that we may have at least half an hour to devote to theremainder of France."
From the bowels of the earth we emerged into the sunshine, to partake ofan exceedingly modest luncheon in the Trocadero restaurant, under thegreat waterfall.
Across the river a regiment of red-legged infantry marched, drums andbugles sounding.
"All that territory over there," said De Barsac, "is given up tobarracks. It is an entire quarter of the city, occupied almostexclusively by the military. There the streets run between miles ofmonotonous barracks, through miles of arid parade grounds, where all daylong the _piou-pious_ drill in the dust; where the cavalry exercise;where the field-artillery go clanking along the dreary streets towardtheir own exercise ground beyond the Usine de Gaz. All day long thatquarter of the city echoes with drums beating and trumpets sounding, andthe trample of passing cavalry, and the clank and rattle of cannon.Truly, in the midst of peace we prepare for--something else--weFrench."
"It is strange," said I, "that you have time to be the greatestsculptors, architects, and painters in the world."
"In France, monsieur, we never lack time. It is only in America that youcorner time and dispense it at a profit."
"Time," said I, "is at once our most valuable and valueless commodity.Our millionaires seldom have sufficient time to avoid indigestion. Yet,although time is apparently so precious, there
are among us men whospend it in reading the New York _Herald_ editorials. I myself am oftenshort of time, yet I take a Long Island newspaper and sometimes evenread it."
We had been walking through the gardens, while speaking, toward a largecrowd of people which had collected along the river. In the centre ofthe crowd stood a taxicab, on the box of which danced the cabby,gesticulating.
When we arrived at the scene of disturbance the first person I sawdistinctly was our acquaintance, the young man from East Boston,hatless, dishevelled, all over dust, in the grasp of two agents depolice.
"He has been run over by a taxi," observed De Barsac. "They are going toarrest him."
"Well, why don't they do it?" I said, indignantly, supposing that DeBarsac meant the chauffeur was to be arrested.
"They have done so."
"No, they haven't! They are holding the man who has been run over!"
"Exactly. He has been run over and they are arresting him."
"Who?" I demanded, bewildered.
"Why, the man who has been run over!"
"But why, in Heaven's name!"
"Why? Because he allowed himself to be run over!"
"What!" I cried. "They arrest the man who has been run over, and not theman who ran over him?"
"It is the law," said De Barsac, coolly.
"Do you mean to tell me that the _runner_ is left free, while the_runnee_ is arrested?" I asked in deadly calmness, reducing my questionto legal and laconic language impossible to misinterpret.
"Exactly. The person who permits a vehicle to run over him in defianceof the French law, which says that nobody ought to let himself be runover, is liable to arrest, imprisonment, and fine--unless, of course, sobadly injured that recovery is impossible."
Now at last I understood the Dreyfus Affaire. Now I began to comprehendthe laws of the Bandarlog. Now I could follow the subtle logic of thephilosophy embodied in "Alice in Wonderland" and "Through theLooking-Glass!"
This was the country for me! Why, certainly; these people here couldunderstand a man who was guilty of stealing his own pig.
"I think I should like to live in Paris again," I said to my daughters;then I approached the young man from East Boston and bade him cheer up.
He was not hurt; he was only rumpled and dusty and hopping mad.
"I shall pay their darned fine," he said. "Then I'm going to hire a caband drive it myself, and hunt up that cabman who ran over me, by Judas!"
* * * * *
That night I met Williams at the Cafe Jaune by previous and craftyagreement; and it certainly was nice to be together after all theseyears in the same old seats in the same cafe, and discuss the days thatwe never could live again--and wouldn't want to if we could--alas!
The talk fell on Ellis and Jones, and immediately I perceived thatWilliams had skillfully steered the conversation toward those two youngmen--and I knew devilish well he had a story to tell me about them.
So I cut short his side-stepping and circling, and told him to be aboutit as I wanted to devote one or two hours that night to a matter which Ihad recently neglected--Sleep.
"That Jones," he said, "was a funny fellow. He and Ellis didn't meetover here; Ellis was before his time. But they became excellent friendsunder rather unusual circumstances.
"Ellis, you know, was always getting some trout fishing when he was overhere. He was a good deal of a general sportsman. As for Jones--well, youremember that he had no use for anything more strenuous than a motortour."
"I remember," I said.
The Adventures of a Modest Man Page 15
