The Second Life of Doctor Albin

by Raoul Gineste

  His self-respect reveled against that casual offer. “I don’t need a drink and I don’t ask for alms,” he said, proudly.

  “All my apologies, Monsieur,” laughed the parvenu, returning the coin to his pocket. “I thought it would please you.” Addressing the flower-seller, he added: “It takes away the desire to be charitable; I won’t take the risk of receiving the lesson again.”

  Humiliated by the incident, he drew away and at down on a bench facing the barracks. Soldiers in battle-dress were returning from maneuvers, harassed by fatigue, streaming with sweat, covered in dust, weighed down by their kit; they were swallowed up at the double by the arched entrance.

  Once, the sight of a regiment had engendered patriotic hopes in his heart; now he thought before anything else of the abominable costs of war; he saw once again the bleak faces returning from a siege, the silent files of decimated and vanquished troops, horizons ablaze, fields of snow covered with the dead and the dying, the bloodied and muddy Tonkinese paddy-fields, and that house full of decapitated cadavers, the fatal cradle of his rebirth. The victims immolated to the false manes of Dr. Albin loomed up before him, and the collective crime appeared to him in all its hideousness.

  Men, individually mild and benevolent, by the mere fact of being united into a band and dressed in a certain fashion, burned villages, pillaged houses, took pride in murdering their fellows, and the Fatherland circled their heads with laurels!

  Was that not the antagonism between collective and individual morality displayed in all its nudity?

  When would humankind reestablish equilibrium? When would the river of tears and blood that is war be dammed?

  A sigh seemed to reply to him. A woman of distinguished appearance and a certain age, pale and thin, with a package on her knees, was sitting beside him. Her gaze, lowered to the ground, seemed to be fixed upon some terrifying sight; it was as if she were frozen in an attitude of dolor, nothing capable of deflecting her from her despair.

  He fled immediately, as if he had scented the odor of death.

  Why, he asked himself, are so many miseries once unperceived surging forth before me today? Is it my own misfortune that has removed the scales from my eyes, or do great dolors attract one another? I’d swear that that unknown woman is going to die, and I only have that intuition because I can’t help her...

  The sun was beginning to do down. He observed, cursing, that he had wasted an entire day wandering and that the futile vagabondage, complicated by hunger, had left him greatly fatigued. He went through Les Halles, gradually drawing nearer to the night-shelter. A sudden rumor erupted behind him: cries of “Thief!” and “Stop him!” multiplied.

  He turned round; in the man who went past him, fleeing at top speed, he recognized once again the starveling of the fortifications. Two or three strong market porters and butcher boys were on his heels; workers who were coming in the opposite direction blocked his path; it was not long before a trip brought him down. The unfortunate lay on the ground, his forehead bloodied by the fall. Policemen approached and lifted him up.

  “What is it? What has he done?” they asked.

  A fat old woman ran up, out of breath. “He stole a sausage from me, Monsieur. On reflection, let him go, I’ll give it to him. He must be rudely hungry to take it like that, with his fingers, from the hot stove!”

  The audience started to laugh.

  “You stole a sausage,” said the policeman. “Where is it?”

  “I don’t know. When I saw them chasing me, I dropped it. I stole it for nothing!”

  Further laughter greeted the unfortunate’s heart-rending disappointment.

  “Go on,” said the policemen, amused themselves. “Don’t do it again and be off, since it’s been given to you.”

  “It’s been given to me! cried the starveling, his eyes lighting up. “Where is it?”

  “A dog ate it,” replied a street-urchin.

  “Oh, damn it! I burned my fingers for the cur!” groaned the grotesque delinquent. Astounded by the unaccustomed clemency of the police, he added: “It’s a bit stiff, all the same. Caught red-handed and they didn’t even arrest me!”

  The hilarity became general, but no one thought of helping him.

  “Too bad,” murmured Charles Balin, who, being better informed, was almost moved to tears. “If heaven is just, it will take my action into account.” He put two sous into his hat and made a collection for the poor devil.

  Chapter X

  “Obtain information everywhere,” the director of the shelter advised him. “Read all the placards on the street-corners carefully. To begin with, go to the small ads section.”

  He followed the advice. A crowd of men, most of them young and vigorous, were cluttering up the exhibition hall and the environs of the newspaper officers. Some were taking note of the offers pinned up, others, standing around, were waiting disconsolately for an opportunity to present itself. Sometimes, a busy individual who looked like a caterer came in: a laborer was wanted, a manual worker, a delivery man, etc. A compact group of solicitors raced toward the Messiah; the man made his choice and the others, brows furrowed by care, immediately resumed their places.

  He spent hours thus in vain waiting.

  “No luck today,” said a little, rosy-cheeked old man, timid and neat, who had come over to him two or three times with the evident intention of striking up a conversation. “We’re wasting our time here.”

  “I’m very much afraid,” he replied, “that we’re too numerous. People are spoiled for choice; they’ll always prefer the young ones to us.”

  “There are however, instances where people look for men of a certain age, serious men of respectable appearance.”

  “What are they?”

  “When it’s a matter of certain small tasks demanding a good deal of decorum: client of a page-four physician or an American dentist, for example; put on a frock-coat and a respectable appearance, and the occupation is within the range of all intelligence; it’s sufficient to work the antechamber and sing the praises, with sufficient skill, of the illustrious healer. If I, who am speaking, had had a single one of all the cancers they’ve cured for me, I’d have been dead long since.

  “Sometimes, manufacturers of specialties are in search of good launchers. You present yourself in recalcitrant establishments, ask for a glass of Quina Machin; the waiter, who hasn’t got it, offers you a glass of Quina Chose; you spit fire and flame, declare that you have no wish to be poisoned, and leave. Or you run around all the small pharmacies of a neighborhood asking for a bottle of L***’s famous tonic wine; the pharmacist apologizes for not having any, asks you to come back in a few hours, sends out for some—and you don’t go back, of course.

  “But those roles, you understand, require to be played seriously; if the appearance or the manner arouses the slightest suspicion, the end isn’t attained. Unfortunately for me, they necessitate a frequent change of personnel; that’s the cause of my current lack of employment. Oh, if only the police hadn’t stuck their noses into the affairs of the *** matrimonial agency, I wouldn’t be here; that’s where I collected some nice fees.

  “What did you do there?”

  “Noble fathers, rich uncles, bishops in partibus, opulent gout-sufferers in quest of a devoted companion, etc., etc.”

  “So those are the only employments that a man of a certain age can hope to find here?” he asked, in a melancholy tone.

  “Well, those who don’t have a métier, properly speaking, and don’t want to take on dangerous and ingrate tasks like appearing as false witnesses, are very happy to accept them.”

  There was a long moment of silence. The little old man coughed; it was evident that he still had something to say.

  “There are also,” he eventually added, “photographers who come here in search of intelligent models, and who pay quite well, believe me.”

  “I thought it was entirely the opposite.”

  “I’m talking about photographs for export—those who speciali
ze in pornographic pictures.”

  “Oh!”

  “I can assure you that it’s agreeable,” the old choirboy confessed, his eyes gleaming with lust. “One sees funny things. One isn’t always bound, of course, to take one’s role seriously; the most robust of men couldn’t do that. No, one makes a semblance—which already isn’t a sinecure—but it’s well paid, and there’s nothing to dread, for if the woman is as naked as Truth, the man is usually disguised as all kinds of great individuals; lord, boyar, prince, sultan, financier, senator, magistrate, curé, monk, general, etc. etc. No danger that you’ll be recognized!”

  “It’s evident that you’re speaking from experience.”

  “Once, I posed as the King of the Belgians,” replied the lubricious old man. “My doctor has forbidden me to do it anymore.”

  “You must have played the scenes with too much conviction!”

  His forehead furrowed by disgust, Charles Balin, scenting some adroit tout, hastened to break off the conversation, but then, seeing that he was risking waiting even longer without finding the slightest opportunity that he could accept without falling from grace, took down twenty addresses and promised himself that as soon as he had eaten in haste in some corner of the square, to recommence active research.

  Everything seemed to be in league against him, however; the rain that had been threatening since the morning began to fall in buckets. As his unique garment did not permit him to confront it without danger, and his thin and elegant shoes were not made for walking in mud, he quickly took refuge under a vault of the Louvre.

  Oh, the despairing sadness that invaded him there, during long hours of waiting. The low gray sky put the royal courtyard in mourning; it seemed to him that the sun was extinct forever, that the desolation of things, so concordant with that of his soul, would never end, and that they were veritable teardrops that were falling in front of him. Could he ever have imagined, once, that such a banal accident could take on for some people the proportions of a veritable catastrophe?

  Who, then, would take pity on his distress if nature herself came out against him?

  Every moment lost brought him closer to absolute deprivation. Although he had gone to bed the previous evening without dinner, the two sous sacrificed to his greed and the two given as alms had reduced his derisory capital to forty centimes, only enough to keep hunger at bay for a few hours.

  The rain did not stop until late. He immediately set forth once again, and fate seemed suddenly to favor him.

  He was passing through one of the narrow back streets that still surround Les Halles when he saw a man in the process of sticking a notice on the panel of an old coaching entrance. The written notice read: Immediately required, coachman and delivery man, good salary.

  He immediately raced after the employee, into the vast warehouse of a fruit wholesaler, and asked for the job.

  “Already!” exclaimed the proprietor. “We won’t lack candidates.”

  The man considered him at length. “Where have you come from?” he asked. “Have you done the job before?”

  “It’s the first time I’ve sought employment of this kind,” the unknown admitted, frankly, “but you can put me on trial; you’ll see that I can drive perfectly, and I know Paris thoroughly.”

  “Do you have papers? I want a man I can trust; my delivery man is often called upon to collect invoices.”

  “These are the only papers I have on me,” replied Charles Balin, slightly abashed, holding out Monsieur Béguinard’s certificate and the legalization of signature.

  The wholesaler scanned them and scowled. “These papers only relate to one thing,” he remarked. “That’s that you’ve been a schoolmaster for a fortnight. I don’t see any connection between that métier and that of coachman. What proof do I have that you can even drive?”

  “I’ll tell you the truth,” the solicitor replied. “Not long ago, I was a rich man., very rich. I had horses and carriages. I took pleasure in driving them myself and I guided them with a veritable skill.”

  “That’s possible,” murmured the fruit merchant, indecisively, but ended up adding: “Come tomorrow at five. A trial won’t cost me much. You’ll have a hundred sous a day to start. If you suit me I’ll hire you by the month, and feed you.”

  The petitioner dissolved in thanks, and went out radiant.

  “A hundred sous a day,” he repeated, “and a job that I’m sure I can do with honor; that’s deliverance in a short while.”

  His joy, aided by the demands of his stomach, caused him to forget all precaution. He returned to the philanthropic restaurant, spent what remained to him and hastened to return to the shelter.

  The next morning, at five o’clock precisely, he presented himself at the fruit warehouse. The wholesaler made a gesture of annoyance on perceiving him. A truck loaded with crates emerged from the courtyard.

  “You’re too late,” he said. “The job’s taken.”

  “I’ve arrived at the agreed time,” stammered Charles Balin.

  “I told you four o’clock and you’ve come at five.”

  “Don’t lie!” growled the ousted petitioner.

  “Oh, we’re turning nasty,” replied the other, in the same tone. “Bad move, friend. You want the truth, well, here it is: didn’t you tell me that you’ve just lost a large fortune and that you learned to drive in order to conform with the fashion of the day?”

  “Very nearly.”

  “Your reason seemed good to me at first, but on reflecting a little, it didn’t take me long to perceive that it’s worthless. It’s admissible that in the capacity of a rich man you learned the métier of a coachman, but it’s even more certain that you refrained from learning that of a groom. Now, my horses need to be well-combed as well as well-guided. The errand-boy ran after you to tell you not to bother, but you’d already disappeared. And as several solicitors presented themselves immediately after you, who had their papers in order and whose honorability was attested by certificates of good conduct and mores, I didn’t have any difficulty making my choice.”

  “You’ve made me lose time,” grumbled the unfortunate.

  “Don’t think so,” replied the wholesaler, becoming coarse. “I’ve got you up a little earlier, that’s all. It’s time gained, my man. And there’s enough of it, isn’t there? If you think I’ve done you wrong, address yourself to the law.

  Charles Balin mastered his anger with great difficulty, and left, distraught.

  The streets were full of busy people running to their work. He envied their good fortune and felt near to tears.

  “What!” he muttered. “So many mediocre or worthless individuals find employment, and I, a man of the elite, can’t earn my bread?”

  He wandered for a while at random. The shops and workshops were only just beginning to open. Then, shaking off the torpor that gradually infiltrated into his soul with every setback, he recommenced his painful endeavors with a new ardor, determined to continue for as long as he could.

  Having remembered, during his insomnia, that he had heard of people making a start as proofreaders, he started with the printers and publishing houses.

  “Proofreader?” they objected. “Where have you come from? Are you in the trade?”

  “No,” he replied, “but I’ve spent my life correcting proofs and my knowledge of dead and living languages puts me in a position to render the greatest services.”

  “No matter—you’re wasting your time. First of all, the position of proofreader, like that of overseer, is a kind of marshal’s baton that we award to old employees; then there are friends, protégés, those of our shareholders and our clients. Where would we be if we gave places as proofreaders to unknowns? You must have exercised some profession during your life; address yourself in that direction; you’ll find sentiments of solidarity and benevolence there that you won’t encounter elsewhere.”

  In fact, the man was right. He could not, it is true, make appeal to the sentiments that had just been mentioned, but he would ha
ve more assurance by looking in the direction indicated.

  He went into a pharmacist’s shop; the druggist was in search of a laboratory assistant.

  “Did the agency send you?” asked the chemist. “Where have you come from? If you’re from the provinces, there’s no point in looking for a place; I need someone up to date with Parisian pharmacy.”

  “I can make the most delicate preparations and the most difficult analyses,” he declared, confidently.

  “Then you’re making a mistake applying here. It’s not an aide I want, it’s a lab boy.”

  “Who can do the most can do the least. I’ll accept those functions, and you can put me to the proof for the rest.”

  The apothecary looked him up and down disdainfully. “And you imagine that I’d let my preparations and my analyses be done by my lab boy? What do you take me for? Here, everyone stays in his place, you understand. In addition to domestic services, I only ask one thing of my assistants, and I can judge your work right away. Take that bottle, that paper and that wax, and we’ll see whether you’re capable of labeling a potion with a little chic.”

  The unfortunate petitioner had never labeled a bottle. After a few moments of trial, the certified grocer sent him packing without further ado.

  “Chemical analyses!” he cried, indignantly. “You don’t even know how to make a simple pleat!”

  Now he knocked at random on all doors. “You have need, I hear, of a bookkeeper…a salesperson…a representative…on office boy…a clerk…an overseer…an aide...a manager…a tutor…etc., etc.” Everywhere, he was found to be too old and too debilitated for the employment; everywhere, proof was demanded of his capability and morality; everywhere, he was sent away with more or less ironic pity.

  He went into employment agencies and bureaux; they offered to sell him lists of vacant positions. A problematic banker asked him for three thousand francs of security; a dubious enquiry agent in need of a sleuth to follow a trail and provoke a divorce did not forgive him for a momentary hesitation that he could not help betraying.