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MATED FROM THE MORGUE
_A TALE OF THE SECOND EMPIRE_
BY
JOHN AUGUSTUS O'SHEA
AUTHOR OF
'LEAVES FROM THE LIFE OF A SPECIAL CORRESPONDENT,' 'ANIRON-BOUND CITY,' 'ROMANTIC SPAIN,' 'MILITARYMOSAICS,' ETC.
'La Ville de Paris a son grand m?t tout de bronze, sculpt? de victoires, et pour vigie Napol?on.'--DE BALZAC.
LONDONSPENCER BLACKETT[Successor to J. & R. Maxwell]MILTON HOUSE, 35, ST. BRIDE STREET, E.C.1889[_All rights reserved_]
APOLOGETIC.
This tale, such as it is, has one merit. It is a study of manners,mainly made on the spot, not evolved from the shelves of the BritishMuseum. There is in it, at least, a crude attempt at photography, aprocess in which sunlight and air have some part, and, therefore, likerto nature than the adumbrations of the reading-room. The localities arefaithfully drawn, the persons are not dolls with stuffing of sawdust,but human animals who might have lived--and, mayhap, did live. If thevolume does not kill an hour, the writer is murderer only in thought.
TO MY FRIEND,
COLONEL THE BARON CRAIGNISH,
EQUERRY TO
HIS HIGHNESS THE DUKE OF SAXE-COBURG-GOTHA,
This Little Book,
IN TARDY THANK-OFFERING FOR THAT LARGELEG OF MUTTON.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. A HOUSELESS DOG 1
II. A CRUSH AT THE MORGUE 8
III. LE VRAI N'EST PAS TOUJOURS VRAISEMBLABLE 20
IV. THE SONG-BIRD'S NEST 30
V. NAPOLEONIC IDEAS 40
VI. THE OLD BONAPARTIST'S STORY 52
VII. FRIEZECOAT AT HOME 65
VIII. POPPING THE QUESTION 75
IX. A SOLDIER OF FORTUNE 85
X. 'LA JEUNE FRANCE' 96
XI. THE BONE OF CONTENTION 104
XII. ORANGE BLOSSOMS 121
XIII. THE HONEYMOON TRIP 128
XIV. VANITAS VANITATUM 139
XV. THE FIFTH OF MAY, 1870 152
MATED FROM THE MORGUE.
CHAPTER I.
A HOUSELESS DOG.
The scene is Paris, the Imperial Paris, but not a quarter that isfashionable, wealthy, or much frequented by the tourist. It is the wild,slovenly, buoyant quarter of the Paris of the left bank, known as _lePays Latin_--the Land of Latin. The quarter of frolic and genius, ofvaulting ambition and limp money-bags, of generosity and meanness, oftruth and hypocrisy; the quarter which supplies the France of the futurewith its mighty thinkers, the France of the passing with the forlornhopes of its revolutions, the world--and the _demi monde_ too--veryoften with its most brilliant and erratic meteors.
The time is the spring of 1866. The chestnut-tree, called the Twentiethof March, in the Champs Elys?es, has shown its first blossoms. But theweather is cold and damp in spite of these deceitful blossoms: the skiesweep, and chill winds blow sullenly along the Seine. It is just theweather to make the blaze of a ruddy fire a cheerful sight, and the hissof the crackling logs a cheerful sound; but there is neither fire nor,indeed, grate or stove wherein to put it, in the cabinet numbered 37, onthe fifth story of the H?tel de Suez, in the Rue du Four, into which weask the reader to penetrate. A portmanteau, whose half-opened lidbetrays 'the poverty of the land,' lies in a corner, a shabby suit ofman's wearing apparel hangs carelessly on a chair, and a head, thicklycovered with hair, protrudes from the blankets in a little bed in arecess, and out of the mouth in this head protrudes a Turkish pipe ofexaggerated length, and out of the same mouth at regular intervalsfilters a slender thread of smoke. The lips contract and open again, andno smoke comes. The head is elevated, the blankets thrown back, and theshoulders and torso of the smoker appear rising gradually from the bedtill they are erect; the bowl of the Turkish pipe is regarded a momentdeprecatingly (as if the pipe could have been kept alight withouttobacco), and the lips move again, this time to soliloquy:
'Mr. Manus O'Hara, I have a great respect for your father's son: youcome of a fine proud spend-thrift old Irish family; but I tell you what,my brilliant friend, if you don't replenish the exchequer I shall beobliged to cut your society. You're not in a position to pay any morevisits to that interesting elderly female acquaintance of yours, youraunt.[1] Realize your position, sir, I beg of you. You're in a mostconfounded state of impecuniosity; you haven't a sou left, and I'mafraid your pipe is finally extinguished. Then, that delightful lady inthe den of Cerberus below, who was one long smile when you and thesack,[2] now that you are _en d?che_,[3] is an eternal snarl like a verydog of Hades. When you had money you had a room on the first floor atthirty francs a month; now that you are poor she stuffs you into agarret on the fourth at thirty-five. Perdition catch it, Mr. O'Hara,it's very expensive to be poor. Without cash or credit! Charmingposition for a young man of genius! If you had a good suit of clothesyou might have a chance of getting into the _h?tel des haricots_,[4] butwith your present raiment there is no danger of your encouraging thathorrible temptation of ingenuous youth known as running into debt. It'smy private opinion you wouldn't get a box of matches on your solemnoath, let alone your word, at the present crisis in your chequeredcareer. Good heavens! How cold it is! Without cash or credit. That'sthe burden of the litany. Shall I pray? Bah! Who could pray with hungergnawing his vitals? Forty-two hours without food, and still without cashor credit to procure a bite.'
The head was dipped suddenly and violently under the blankets.
A long pause.
The bed-covering billows as if stirred by some strong agitation of theform beneath.
All is quiet again.
Now a stifled sound as of sobbing comes from under the blankets. Theyare forcibly flung back, and a pale face, one feverish flush on eachcheek, emerges. The eyes flash with a sharp fitful light amid thequick-darting big tears, and the breast heaves with convulsive sobs. Atlength amid the sobs rise broken words:
'Too proud to beg, and not paid for working. Must I die, then? A houndis fed; 'tis only man is let perish by his fellow-beings!'
Silence again; and suddenly and startlingly on the air to the silencesucceeds a mocking, hysterical laugh. The form springs from itsrecumbent position on to the bare floor, and approaches a small mirrorfixed against the wall.
That laugh again.
'Ha, ha! Manus, my boy, die game!' and with the expression of thisadvice, or rather intention, calm seems to come to the troubled spiritof our poor friend. He takes his clothes off the chair and dresseshimself, keeping up a jeering comment of self-ridicule, as he puts oneach shabby article of attire.
'Ha! my pretty paper collar, I must turn you. You'll never die aheretic. By Jove! paper collars were a great invention: they emancipatethe lord of creation from the thraldom of the washerwoman. Better toface the free sky than to pine in this stuffy cell. Your toilette isfinished, Manus, my friend, and
now to pass under the Caudine forks.'
The Caudine forks was the term he applied to the passage leading by the_concierge's_ narrow office to the open street--a humiliating passageenough, it is made, to any man of proud spirit and slim purse by thevoluble Parisian _concierge_, the warder of the entrance to thelodging-house. The _concierge_ is a perennial fountain of gossip, thedemon of grasp personified, and is popularly supposed always to have adaughter at the Conservatory of Music. Watching his opportunity,crouched at the bottom of the dark stairs, O'Hara bolted at a mad rushthrough the hall, and never ceased running until he had gained theBoulevard St. Michel, after traversing the intervening Rue de l'Ecole deM?decine.
He stopped a minute, laughed, tightened the belt which supported histrousers, cried in a light voice, 'Blockade safely run!' and resumed hisway rapidly along the boulevard till he came to the quay, then turnedto the right, past Notre Dame, until he reached the Pont d'Archev?che,whereat he stopped. The Morgue was near--gloomy receptacle of theunclaimed dead, sent to their God before their time by crime,starvation, or despair, or by some of the accidents which often-timescut short the span of the happiest human life. He looked at it with adesperate, desponding, forlorn look for a little time, and then brokeout as if in sequence of some train of thought:
'No; it's no use thinking of it. I couldn't do it. If it weren't for theimmortality of the soul, and that inconvenient religious training I'vegot! Now if I were a Pagan, I could freely end my woes in that silentriver; but I'm a Christian, and must suffer them, and curse my kind.'
A mournful yet affectionate whine at his feet attracted his attention.He looked down. A lank, ugly cur, of unassignable breed, butunmistakably currish--a rank, unmitigated cur, with melancholy visageand moist eyes--returned the look.
'Poor dog, you, too, have hunger in your face. The world has desertedyou!'
The dog whined again, and rubbed his thin sides familiarly andconfidently against the bottom of O'Hara's trousers.
'Alas! friend, I am like yourself--a wretched, friendless dog. Yourimploring looks are lost on me, though, Heaven knows, I would relieveyou if I could. _Haud ignara mali miseris succurrere disco._ Faith! thegender is wrong there. My grammar is going with everything else. Isuppose I should have said _ignarus_.'
He faintly smiled at the notion.
'But I have nothing--absolutely nothing,' running his hand expressivelyacross his waistcoat-pockets. It stopped--his face lit up joyfully; thenfell. 'Blessed,' continued he, 'are those who expect nothing, for theyshall not be disappointed,' and slowly putting his hand into the pockethe extracted, with difficulty, a silver piece of ten sous. He looked atit steadily, almost incredulously, then at the dog. 'Come, my friend,'he cried, 'companion in misfortune, you must share my luck.' And fiveminutes afterwards O'Hara and his dumb acquaintance might be seen in thenearest _cr?merie_, O'Hara munching a roll of bread and the houselessdog greedily lapping a bowl of hot milk.
And both of them looked very happy dogs.
Mated from the Morgue: A Tale of the Second Empire Page 1
