by Edmond About
CHAPTER XI.
WHEREIN COLONEL FOUGAS LEARNS SOME NEWS WHICH WILL APPEAR OLD TO MYREADERS.
Among all the persons present at this scene, there was not a single onewho had ever seen a resuscitation. I leave you to imagine the surpriseand joy which reigned in the laboratory. A triple round of applause,mingled with cheers, hailed the triumph of Doctor Nibor. The crowd,packed in the parlor, the passages, the court-yard, and even in thestreet, understood at this signal, that the miracle was accomplished.Nothing could hold them back, they forced the doors, cleared allobstacles, upset all the philosophers who tried to stop them, andfinished by pouring into the chamber of Science.
"Gentlemen!" cried M. Nibor, "Do you want to kill him?"
But they let him talk. The wildest of all passions, curiosity, had longheld dominion over the crowd: every one wanted to see, though at therisk of crushing the others. M. Nibor tumbled down, M. Renault and hisson, in attempting to help him, were thrown on top of him; MadameRenault, in her turn, was thrown down at the feet of Fougas, and beganscreaming at the top of her voice.
"Damnation!" said Fougas, straightening himself up as if by a spring,"these scoundrels will suffocate us if some one doesn't squelch them!"His attitude, the glare of his eyes, and, above all, the prestige of themiraculous, cleared a space around him. One would have thought that thewalls had been stretched or that the spectators had slid into oneanother!
"Out of here, every mother's son of you!" cried Fougas, in his fiercesttone of command. A tumult of cries, explanations, and remonstrances wasraised around him; he fancied he heard menaces, he seized the firstchair within reach, brandished it like a weapon, drove, hammered, upsetthe citizens, soldiers, officials, _savants_, friends, sight-seers,commissary of police--everybody, and urged the human torrent into thestreet with an uproar perfectly indescribable. This done, he shut thedoor and bolted it, returned to the laboratory, saw three men standingnear Madame Renault, and said to the old lady, softening the tone of hisvoice:
"Well, good mother, shall I serve these three like the others?"
"No! No! No! Be careful!" cried the good old lady. "My husband and myson, Monsieur, and Doctor Nibor, who has restored you to life."
"In that case all honor to them, good mother! Fougas has never violatedthe laws of gratitude and hospitality. As for you, my Esculapius, giveme your hand!"
At the same instant, he noticed ten or a dozen inquisitive people ontiptoe on the pavement just by the windows of the laboratory. Forthwithhe marched and opened them with a precipitation which upset the gazersamong the crowd.
"People," said he, "I have knocked down a hundred beggarly pandours whorespect neither sex nor infirmity. For the benefit of those who are notsatisfied, I will state that I call myself colonel Fougas of the 23d.And _Vive l'Empereur!_"
A confused mixture of plaudits, cries, laughs, and jeers, answered thisunprecedented allocution. Leon Renault hastened out to make apologies toall to whom they were due. He invited a few friends to dine the sameevening with the terrible colonel, and, of course, he did not forget tosend a special messenger to Clementine. Fougas, after speaking to thepeople, returned to his hosts, swinging himself along with a swaggeringair, set himself astride a chair, took hold of the ends of hismoustache, and said:
"Well! Come, let's talk this over. I've been sick then?"
"Very sick."
"That's fabulous! I feel entirely well. I'm hungry, and, moreover, whilewaiting for dinner, I'll even try a glass of your schnick."
Mme. Renault went out, gave an order, and returned in an instant.
"But tell me, then, where I am," resumed the colonel. "By theseparaphernalia of work, I recognize a disciple of Urania; possibly afriend of Monge and Berthollet. But the cordial friendliness impressedon your countenances proves to me that you are not natives of this landof sour-krout. Yes, I believe it from the beatings of my heart. Friends,we have the same fatherland. The kindness of your reception, even werethere no other indications, would have satisfied me that you are French.What accidents have brought you so far from our native soil? Children ofmy country, what tempest has thrown you upon this inhospitable shore?"
"My dear Colonel," replied M. Nibor, "if you want to become very wise,you will not ask so many questions at once. Allow us the pleasure ofinstructing you quietly and in order, for you have a great many thingsto learn."
The Colonel flushed with anger, and answered sharply:
"At all events, you are not the man to teach them to me, my littlegentleman!"
A drop of blood which fell on his hand changed the current of histhoughts:
"Hold on!" said he; "am I bleeding?"
"That will amount to nothing; circulation is reestablished, and yourbroken ear...."
He quickly carried his hand to his ear and said:
"It's certainly so. But Devil take me if I recollect this accident!"
"I'll make you a little dressing, and in a couple of days there will beno trace of it left!"
"Don't give yourself the trouble, my dear Hippocrates; a pinch of powderis a sovereign cure!"
M. Nibor set to work to dress the ear in a little less military fashion.During his operations, Leon reentered.
"Ah! ah!" said he to the Doctor, "you are repairing the harm I did."
"Thunderation!" cried Fougas, escaping from the hands of M. Nibor so asto seize Leon by the collar, "was it you, you rascal, that hurt my ear?"
Leon was very good-natured, but his patience failed him. He pushed hisman roughly aside.
"Yes, sir, it was I who tore your ear, in pulling it, and if that littlemisfortune had not happened to me, it is certain that you would havebeen, to-day, six feet under ground. It is I who saved your life, afterbuying you with my money when you were not valued at more thantwenty-five louis. It is I who have passed three days and two nights incramming charcoal under your boiler. It is my father who gave you theclothes you now have on. You are in our house. Drink the little glass ofbrandy Gothon just brought you; but for God's sake give up the habit ofcalling me rascal, of calling my mother 'Good Mother.' and of flingingour friends into the street and calling them beggarly pandours!"
The colonel, all dumbfounded, held out his hand to Leon, M. Renault andthe doctor, gallantly kissed the hand of Mme. Renault, swallowed at agulp a claret glass filled to the brim with brandy, and said in asubdued voice:
"Most excellent friends, forget the vagaries of an impulsive butgenerous soul. To subdue my passions shall hereafter be my law. Afterconquering all the nations in the universe, it is well to conquer one'sself."
This said, he submitted his ear to M. Nibor, who finished dressing it.
"But," said he, summoning up his recollections, "they did not shoot methen?"
"No."
"And I wasn't frozen to death in the tower?"
"Not quite."
"Why has my uniform been taken off? I see! I am a prisoner!"
"You are free."
"Free! _Vive l'Empereur!_ But then, there's not a moment to lose! Howmany leagues is it to Dantzic?"
"It's very far."
"What do you call this chicken coop of a town?"
"Fontainebleau."
"Fontainebleau! In France?"
"Prefecture of Seine-et-Marne. We are going to introduce to you thesub-prefect, whom you just pitched into the street."
"What the Devil are your sub-prefects to me? I have a message from theEmperor for General Rapp, and I must start, this very day, for Dantzic.God knows whether I'll be there in time!"
"My poor Colonel, you will arrive too late. Dantzic is given up."
"That's impossible! Since when?"
"About forty-six years ago."
"Thunder! I did not understand that you were ... mocking me!"
M. Nibor placed in his hand a calendar, and said: "See for yourself! Itis now the 17th of August, 1859; you went to sleep in the tower ofLiebenfeld on the 11th of November, 1813; there have been, then,forty-six years, all to three months, during which the world has movedon w
ithout you."
"Twenty-four and forty-six; but then I would be seventy years old,according to your statement!"
"Your vitality clearly shows that you are still twenty-four."
He shrugged his shoulders, tore up the calendar and said, beating thefloor with his foot: "Your almanac is a humbug!"
M. Renault ran to his library, took up half a dozen books at haphazardand made him read, at the foot of the title pages, the dates 1826, 1833,1847, 1858.
"Pardon me!" said Fougas, burying his head in his hands. "What hashappened to me is so new! I do not think that another human being wasever subjected to such a trial. I am seventy years old!"
Good Madame Renault went and got a looking-glass from the bath room, andgave it to him, saying:
"Look!"
He took the glass in both hands, and was silently occupied in resumingacquaintance with himself, when a hand-organ came into the court andbegan playing "Partant pour la Syrie!"
Fougas threw the mirror to the ground, and cried out:
"What is that you were telling me? I hear the little song of QueenHortense!"[4]
M. Renault patiently explained to him, while picking up the pieces ofthe mirror, that the pretty little song of Queen Hortense had become anational air, and even an official one, since the regimental bands hadsubstituted that gentle melody for the fierce Marsellaise, and that oursoldiers, strange to say, had not fought any the worse for it. But theColonel had already opened the window, and was crying out to theSavoyard:
"Eh! Friend! A napoleon for you if you will tell me in what year I amdrawing the breath of life!"
The artist began dancing as lightly as possible playing on his musicalinstrument.
"Advance at the order!" cried the Colonel, "and keep that devilishmachine still!"
"A little penny, my good monsieur!"
"It is not a penny that I'll give you, but a napoleon, if you'll tell mewhat year it is."
"Oh but that's funny! Hi--hi--hi!"
"And if you don't tell me quicker than this amounts to, I'll cut yourears off!"
The Savoyard ran away, but he came back pretty soon, having meditated,during his flight, on the maxim: "Nothing risk nothing gain."
"Monsieur," said he, in a wheedling voice, "this is the year EighteenHundred and Fifty-nine."
"Good!" cried Fougas. He felt in his pockets for money, and foundnothing there. Leon saw his predicament, and flung twenty francs intothe court. Before shutting the window, he pointed out, to the right, thefacade of a pretty little new building where the Colonel coulddistinctly read
AUDRET ARCHITECTE.
MDCCCLIX.
A perfectly satisfactory piece of evidence, and one which did not costtwenty francs.
Fougas, a little confused, pressed Leon's hand, and said to him:
"My friend, I do not forget that Confidence is the first duty fromGratitude toward Beneficence. But tell me of our country! I tread thesacred soil where I received my being, and I am ignorant of the careerof my native land. France is still the queen of the world, is she not?"
"Certainly," said Leon.
"How is the Emperor?"
"Well."
"And the Empress?"
"Very well."
"And the King of Rome?"
"The Prince Imperial? He is a very fine child."
"How? A fine child! And you have the face to say that this is 1859!"
M. Nibor took up the conversation, and explained in a few words that thereigning sovereign of France was not Napoleon I., but Napoleon III.
"But then," cried Fougas, "my Emperor is dead!"
"Yes."
"Impossible! Tell me anything you will but that! My Emperor isimmortal."
M. Nibor and the Renaults, who were not quite professional historians,were obliged to give him a summary of the history of our century. Someone went after a big book written by M. de Norvins and illustrated withfine engravings by Raffet. He only believed in the presence of Truthwhen he could touch her with his hand, and still cried out almost everymoment: "That's impossible! This is not history that you are reading tome: it is a romance written to make soldiers weep!"
This young man must indeed have had a strong and well-tempered soul, forhe learned in forty minutes all the woful events which Fortune hadscattered through eighteen years, from the first abdication up to thedeath of the King of Rome. Less happy than his old companions in arms,he had no interval of repose between these terrible and repeatedshocks, all beating upon his heart at the same time. One could havefeared that the blow might prove mortal, and poor Fougas die in thefirst hour of his recovered life. But the imp of a fellow yielded andrecovered himself in quick succession like a spring. He cried out withadmiration on hearing of the five battles of the campaign in France; hereddened with grief at the farewells of Fontainebleau. The return fromthe Isle of Elba transfigured his handsome and noble countenance; atWaterloo his heart rushed in with the last army of the Empire, and thereshattered itself. Then he clenched his fists and said between his teeth:"If I had been there at the head of the 23d, Blucher and Wellingtonwould have seen another fate!" The invasion, the truce, the martyr ofSt. Helena, the ghastly terror of Europe, the murder of Murat--the idolof the cavalry, the death of Ney, Bruno, Mouton Duvernet, and so manyother whole-souled men whom he had known, admired, and loved, threw himinto a series of paroxysms of rage, but nothing upset him. In hearing ofthe death of Napoleon, he swore that he would eat the heart of England;the slow agony of the pale and interesting heir of the Empire, inspiredhim with a passion to tear the vitals out of Austria. When the drama wasover and the curtain fell on Schoenbrunn, he dashed away his tears andsaid: "It is well. I have lived in a moment a man's entire life. Nowshow me the map of France!"
Leon began to turn over the leaves of an atlas, while M. Renaultattempted to continue narrating to the colonel the history of theRestoration, and of the monarchy of 1830. But Fougas' interest was inother things.
"What do I care," said he, "if a couple of hundred babblers of deputiesput one king in place of another? Kings! I've seen enough of them in thedirt. If the Empire had lasted ten years longer, I could have had a kingfor a boot-black."
When the atlas was placed before him, he at once cried out with profounddisdain: "That, France!" But soon two tears of pitying affectionescaping from his eyes, swelled the rivers Ardeche and Gironde. Hekissed the map and said, with an emotion which communicated itself tonearly all present:
"Forgive me, poor old love, for insulting your misfortunes. Thosescoundrels whom we always whipped have profited by my sleep to pare downyour frontiers; but little or great, rich or poor, you are my mother,and I love you as a faithful son! Here is Corsica, where the giant ofour age was born; here is Toulouse, where I first saw the light; here isNancy where I felt my heart awakened, where, perhaps, she whom I call myAEgle waits for me still! France! Thou hast a temple in my soul; this armis thine; thou shalt find me ever ready to shed my blood to the lastdrop in defending or avenging thee!"
