|
If it were possible for literature
to use the microscope of the
Leuwenhoeks, the Malpighis, and
the Raspails (an attempt once
made by Hoffman, of Berlin),
and if we could magnify and then
picture the teredos navalis,
in other words, those ship-worms
which brought Holland within
an inch of collapsing by honey-combing
her dykes, we might have been
able to give a more distinct
idea of Messieurs Gigonnet, Baudoyer,
Saillard, Gaudron, Falleix, Transon,
Godard and company, borers and
burrowers, who proved their undermining
power in the thirtieth year of
this century.
But now it is time to show
another set of teredos, who burrowed
and swarmed in the government
offices where the principal scenes
of our present study took place.
In Paris nearly all these government
bureaus resemble each other.
Into whatever ministry you penetrate
to ask some slight favor, or
to get redress for a trifling
wrong, you will find the same
dark corridors, ill-lighted stairways,
doors with oval panes of glass
like eyes, as at the theatre.
In the first room as you enter
you will find the office servant;
in the second, the under-clerks;
the private office of the second
head-clerk is to the right or
left, and further on is that
of the head of the bureau. As
to the important personage called,
under the Empire, head of division,
then, under the Restoration,
director, and now by the former
name, head or chief of division,
he lives either above or below
the offices of his three or four
different bureaus.
Speaking in the administrative
sense, a bureau consists of a
man- servant, several supernumeraries
(who do the work gratis for a
certain number of years), various
copying clerks, writers of bills
and deeds, order clerks, principal
clerks, second or under head-clerk,
and head- clerk, otherwise called
head or chief of the bureau.
These denominational titles vary
under some administrations; for
instance, the order-clerks are
sometimes called auditors, or
again, book- keepers.
Paved like the corridor, and
hung with a shabby paper, the
first room, where the servant
is stationed, is furnished with
a stove, a large black table
with inkstand, pens, and paper,
and benches, but no mats on which
to wipe the public feet. The
clerk's office beyond is a large
room, tolerably well lighted,
but seldom floored with wood.
Wooden floors and fireplaces
are commonly kept sacred to heads
of bureaus and divisions; and
so are closets, wardrobes, mahogany
tables, sofas and armchairs covered
with red or green morocco, silk
curtains, and other articles
of administrative luxury. The
clerk's office contents itself
with a stove, the pipe of which
goes into the chimney, if there
be a chimney. The wall paper
is plain and all of one color,
usually green or brown. The tables
are of black wood. The private
characteristics of the several
clerks often crop out in their
method of settling themselves
at their desks,--the chilly one
has a wooden footstool under
his feet; the man with a bilious
temperament has a metal mat;
the lymphatic being who dreads
draughts constructs a fortification
of boxes on a screen. The door
of the under-head-clerk's office
always stands open so that he
may keep an eye to some extent
on his subordinates.
Perhaps an exact description
of Monsieur de la Billardiere's
division will suffice to give
foreigners and provincials an
idea of the internal manners
and customs of a government office;
the chief features of which are
probably much the same in the
civil service of all European
governments.
In the first place, picture
to yourself the man who is thus
described in the Yearly Register:--
"Chief of Division.--Monsieur
la baron Flamet de la Billardiere
(Athanase-Jean-Francois-Michel)
formerly provost-marshal of the
department of the Correze, gentleman
in ordinary of the bed- chamber,
president of the college of the
department of the Dordogne, officer
of the Legion of honor, knight
of Saint Louis and of the foreign
orders of Christ, Isabella, Saint
Wladimir, etc., member of the
Academy of Gers, and other learned
bodies, vice-president of the
Society of Belles-lettres, member
of the Association of Saint-Joseph
and of the Society of Prisons,
one of the mayors of Paris, etc."
The person who requires so
much typographic space was at
this time occupying an area five
feet six in length by thirty-six
inches in width in a bed, his
head adorned with a cotton night-cap
tied on by flame-colored ribbons;
attended by Despleins, the King's
surgeon, and young doctor Bianchon,
flanked by two old female relatives,
surrounded by phials of all kinds,
bandages, appliances, and various
mortuary instruments, and watched
over by the curate of Saint-Roch,
who was advising him to think
of his salvation.
La Billardiere's division occupied
the upper floor of a magnificent
mansion, in which the vast official
ocean of a ministry was contained.
A wide landing separated its
two bureaus, the doors of which
were duly labelled. The private
offices and antechambers of the
heads of the two bureaus, Monsieur
Rabourdin and Monsieur Baudoyer,
were below on the second floor,
and beyond that of Monsieur Rabourdin
were the antechamber, salon,
and two offices of Monsieur de
la Billardiere.
On the first floor, divided
in two by an entresol, were the
living rooms and office of Monsieur
Ernest de la Briere, an occult
and powerful personage who must
be described in a few words,
for he well deserves the parenthesis.
This young man held, during the
whole time that this particular
administration lasted, the position
of private secretary to the minister.
His apartment was connected by
a secret door with the private
office of his Excellency. A private
secretary is to the minister
himself what des Lupeaulx was
to the ministry at large. The
same difference existed between
young La Briere and des Lupeaulx
that there is between an aide-de-camp
and a chief of staff. This ministerial
apprentice decamps when his protector
leaves office, returning sometimes
when he returns. If the minister
enjoys the royal favor when he
falls, or still has parliamentary
hopes, he takes his secretary
with him into retirement only
to bring him back on his return;
otherwise he puts him to grass
in some of the various administrative
pastures,--for instance, in the
Court of Exchequer, that wayside
refuge where private secretaries
wait for the storm to blow over.
The young man is not precisely
a government official; he is
a political character, however;
and sometimes his politics are
limited to those of one man.
When we think of the number of
letters it is the private secretary's
fate to open and read, besides
all his other avocations, it
is very evident that under a
monarchical government his services
would be well paid for. A drudge
of this kind costs ten or twenty
thousand francs a year; and he
enjoys, moreover, the opera-
boxes, the social invitations,
and the carriages of the minister.
The Emperor of Russia would be
thankful to be able to pay fifty
thousand a year to one of these
amiable constitutional poodles,
so gentle, so nicely curled,
so caressing, so docile, always
spick and span,-- careful watch-dogs
besides, and faithful to a degree!
But the private secretary is
a product of the representative
government hot-house; he is propagated
and developed there, and there
only. Under a monarchy you will
find none but courtiers and vassals,
whereas under a constitutional
government you may be flattered,
served, and adulated by free
men. In France ministers are
better off than kings or women;
they have some one who thoroughly
understands them. Perhaps, indeed,
the private secretary is to be
pitied as much as women and white
paper. They are nonentities who
are made to bear all things.
They are allowed no talents except
hidden ones, which must be employed
in the service of their ministers.
A public show of talent would
ruin them. The private secretary
is therefore an intimate friend
in the gift of government-- However,
let us return to the bureaus.
Three men-servants lived in
peace in the Billardiere division,
to wit: a footman for the two
bureaus, another for the service
of the two chiefs, and a third
for the director of the division
himself. All three were lodged,
warmed, and clothed by the State,
and wore the well-known livery
of the State, blue coat with
red pipings for undress, and
broad red, white, and blue braid
for great occasions. La Billardiere's
man had the air of a gentleman-usher,
an innovation which gave an aspect
of dignity to the division.
Pillars of
the ministry, experts in all
manners and customs bureaucratic,
well-warmed and clothed at the
State's expense, growing rich
by reason of their few wants,
these lackeys saw completely
through the government officials,
collectively and individually.
They had no better way of amusing
their idle hours than by observing
these personages and studying
their peculiarities. They knew
how far to trust the clerks with
loans of money, doing their various
commissions with absolute discretion;
they pawned and took out of pawn,
bought up bills when due, and
lent money without interest,
albeit no clerk ever borrowed
of them without returning a "gratification." These
servants without a master received
a salary of nine hundred francs
a year; new years' gifts and "gratifications" brought
their emoluments to twelve hundred
francs, and they made almost
as much money by serving breakfasts
to the clerks at the office.
The elder of these men, who
was also the richest, waited
upon the main body of the clerks.
He was sixty years of age, with
white hair cropped short like
a brush; stout, thickset, and
apoplectic about the neck, with
a vulgar pimpled face, gray eyes,
and a mouth like a furnace door;
such was the profile portrait
of Antoine, the oldest attendant
in the ministry. He had brought
his two nephews, Laurent and
Gabriel, from Echelles in Savoie,--one
to serve the heads of the bureaus,
the other the director himself.
All three came to open the offices
and clean them, between seven
and eight o'clock in the morning;
at which time they read the newspapers
and talked civil service politics
from their point of view with
the servants of other divisions,
exchanging the bureaucratic gossip.
In common with servants of modern
houses who know their masters'
private affairs thoroughly, they
lived at the ministry like spiders
at the centre of a web, where
they felt the slightest jar of
the fabric.
On a Thursday evening, the
day after the ministerial reception
and Madame Rabourdin's evening
party, just as Antoine was trimming
his beard and his nephews were
assisting him in the antechamber
of the division on the upper
floor, they were surprised by
the unexpected arrival of one
of the clerks.
"That's Monsieur Dutocq," said
Antoine. "I know him by that
pickpocket step of his. He is
always moving round on the sly,
that man. He is on your back
before you know it. Yesterday,
contrary to his usual ways, he
outstayed the last man in the
office; such a thing hasn't happened
three times since he has been
at the ministry."
Here follows the portrait of
Monsieur Dutocq, order-clerk
in the Rabourdin bureau: Thirty-eight
years old, oblong face and bilious
skin, grizzled hair always cut
close, low forehead, heavy eyebrows
meeting together, a crooked nose
and pinched lips; tall, the right
shoulder slightly higher than
the left; brown coat, black waistcoat,
silk cravat, yellowish trousers,
black woollen stockings, and
shoes with flapping bows; thus
you behold him. Idle and incapable,
he hated Rabourdin,--naturally
enough, for Rabourdin had no
vice to flatter, and no bad or
weak side on which Dutocq could
make himself useful. Far too
noble to injure a clerk, the
chief was also too clear-sighted
to be deceived by any make-believe.
Dutocq kept his place therefore
solely through Rabourdin's generosity,
and was very certain that he
could never be promoted if the
latter succeeded La Billardiere.
Though he knew himself incapable
of important work, Dutocq was
well aware that in a government
office incapacity was no hindrance
to advancement; La Billardiere's
own appointment over the head
of so capable a man as Rabourdin
had been a striking and fatal
example of this. Wickedness combined
with self-interest works with
a power equivalent to that of
intellect; evilly disposed and
wholly self- interested, Dutocq
had endeavoured to strengthen
his position by becoming a spy
in all the offices. After 1816
he assumed a marked religious
tone, foreseeing the favor which
the fools of those days would
bestow on those they indiscriminately
called Jesuits. Belonging to
that fraternity in spirit, though
not admitted to its rites, Dutocq
went from bureau to bureau, sounded
consciences by recounting immoral
jests, and then reported and
paraphrased results to des Lupeaulx;
the latter thus learned all the
trivial events of the ministry,
and often surprised the minister
by his consummate knowledge of
what was going on. He tolerated
Dutocq under the idea that circumstances
might some day make him useful,
were it only to get him or some
distinguished friend of his out
of a scrape by a disgraceful
marriage. The two understood
each other well. Dutocq had succeeded
Monsieur Poiret the elder, who
had retired in 1814, and now
lived in the pension Vanquer
in the Latin quarter. Dutocq
himself lived in a pension in
the rue de Beaune, and spent
his evenings in the Palais-Royal,
sometimes going to the theatre,
thanks to du Bruel, who gave
him an author's ticket about
once a week. And now, a word
on du Bruel.
Though Sebastien
did his work at the office
for the small compensation
we have mentioned, du Bruel was
in the habit of coming there
to advertise the fact that he
was the under-head-clerk and
to draw his salary. His real
work was that of dramatic critic
to a leading ministerial journal,
in which he also wrote articles
inspired by the ministers,--a
very well understood, clearly
defined, and quite unassailable
position. Du Bruel was not lacking
in those diplomatic little tricks
which go so far to conciliate
general good-will. He sent Madame
Rabourdin an opera-box for a
first representation, took her
there in a carriage and brought
her back,--an attention which
evidently pleased her. Rabourdin,
who was never exacting with his
subordinates allowed du Bruel
to go off to rehearsals, come
to the office at his own hours,
and work at his vaudevilles when
there. Monsieur le Duc de Chaulieu,
the minister, knew that du Bruel
was writing a novel which was
to be dedicated to himself. Dressed
with the careless ease of a theatre
man, du Bruel wore, in the morning,
trousers strapped under his feet,
shoes with gaiters, a waistcoat
evidently vamped over, an olive
surtout, and a black cravat.
At night he played the gentleman
in elegant clothes. He lived,
for good reasons, in the same
house as Florine, an actress
for whom he wrote plays. Du Bruel,
or to give him his pen name,
Cursy, was working just now at
a piece in five acts for the
Francais. Sebastien was devoted
to the author,--who occasionally
gave him tickets to the pit,--and
applauded his pieces at the parts
which du Bruel told him were
of doubtful interest, with all
the faith and enthusiasm of his
years. In fact, the youth looked
upon the playwright as a great
author, and it was to Sebastien
that du Bruel said, the day after
a first representation of a vaudeville
produced, like all vaudevilles,
by three collaborators, "The
audience preferred the scenes
written by two."
"Why don't you write alone?" asked
Sebastien naively.
There were good reasons why
du Bruel did not write alone.
He was the third of an author.
A dramatic writer, as few people
know, is made up of three individuals;
first, the man with brains who
invents the subject and maps
out the structure, or scenario,
of the vaudeville; second, the
plodder, who works the piece
into shape; and third, the toucher-up,
who sets the songs to music,
arranges the chorus and concerted
pieces and fits them into their
right place, and finally writes
the puffs and advertisements.
Du Bruel was a plodder; at the
office he read the newest books,
extracted their wit, and laid
it by for use in his dialogues.
He was liked by his collaborators
on account of his carefulness;
the man with brains, sure of
being understood, could cross
his arms and feel that his ideas
would be well rendered. The clerks
in the office liked their companion
well enough to attend a first
performance of his plays in a
body and applaud them, for he
really deserved the title of
a good fellow. His hand went
readily to his pocket; ices and
punch were bestowed without prodding,
and he loaned fifty francs without
asking them back. He owned a
country-house at Aulnay, laid
by his money, and had, besides
the four thousand five hundred
francs of his salary under government,
twelve hundred francs pension
from the civil list, and eight
hundred from the three hundred
thousand francs fund voted by
the Chambers for encouragement
of the Arts. Add to these diverse
emoluments nine thousand francs
earned by his quarters, thirds,
and halves of plays in three
different theatres, and you will
readily understand that such
a man must be physically round,
fat, and comfortable, with the
face of a worthy capitalist.
As to morals, he was the lover
and the beloved of Tullia and
felt himself preferred in heart
to the brilliant Duc de Rhetore,
the lover in chief.
Dutocq had seen with great
uneasiness what he called the
liaison of des Lupeaulx with
Madame Rabourdin, and his silent
wrath on the subject was accumulating.
He had too prying an eye not
to have guessed that Rabourdin
was engaged in some great work
outside of his official labors,
and he was provoked to feel that
he knew nothing about it, whereas
that little Sebastien was, wholly
or in part, in the secret. Dutocq
was intimate with Godard, under-head-clerk
to Baudoyer, and the high esteem
in which Dutocq held Baudoyer
was the original cause of his
acquaintance with Godard; not
that Dutocq was sincere even
in this; but by praising Baudoyer
and saying nothing of Rabourdin
he satisfied his hatred after
the fashion of little minds.
Joseph Godard, a cousin of
Mitral on the mother's side,
made pretension to the hand of
Mademoiselle Baudoyer, not perceiving
that her mother was laying siege
to Falliex as a son-in-law. He
brought little gifts to the young
lady, artificial flowers, bonbons
on New- Year's day and pretty
boxes for her birthday. Twenty-six
years of age, a worker working
without purpose, steady as a
girl, monotonous and apathetic,
holding cafes, cigars, and horsemanship
in detestation, going to bed
regularly at ten o'clock and
rising at seven, gifted with
some social talents, such as
playing quadrille music on the
flute, which first brought him
into favor with the Saillards
and the Baudoyers. He was moreover
a fifer in the National Guard,--to
escape his turn of sitting up
all night in a barrack-room.
Godard was devoted more especially
to natural history. He made collections
of shells and minerals, knew
how to stuff birds, kept a mass
of curiosities bought for nothing
in his bedroom; took possession
of phials and empty perfume bottles
for his specimens; pinned butterflies
and beetles under glass, hung
Chinese parasols on the walls,
together with dried fishskins.
He lived with his sister, an
artificial-flower maker, in the
due de Richelieu. Though much
admired by mammas this model
young man was looked down upon
by his sister's shop-girls, who
had tried to inveigle him. Slim
and lean, of medium height, with
dark circles round his eyes,
Joseph Godard took little care
of his person; his clothes were
ill-cut, his trousers bagged,
he wore white stockings at all
seasons of the year, a hat with
a narrow brim and laced shoes.
He was always complaining of
his digestion. His principal
vice was a mania for proposing
rural parties during the summer
season, excursions to Montmorency,
picnics on the grass, and visits
to creameries on the boulevard
du Mont-Parnasse. For the last
six months Dutocq had taken to
visiting Mademoiselle Godard
from time to time, with certain
views of his own, hoping to discover
in her establishment some female
treasure.
Thus Baudoyer
had a pair of henchmen in Dutocq
and Godard.
Monsieur Saillard, too innocent
to judge rightly of Dutocq, was
in the habit of paying him frequent
little visits at the office.
Young La Billardiere, the director's
son, placed as supernumerary
with Baudoyer, made another member
of the clique. The clever heads
in the offices laughed much at
this alliance of incapables.
Bixiou named Baudoyer, Godard,
and Dutocq a "Trinity without
the Spirit," and little La Billardiere
the "Pascal Lamb."
"You are early this morning," said
Antoine to Dutocq, laughing.
"So are you, Antoine," answered
Dutocq; "you see, the newspapers
do come earlier than you let
us have them at the office."
"They did to-day, by chance," replied
Antoine, not disconcerted; "they
never come two days together
at the same hour."
The two nephews
looked at each other as if
to say, in admiration
of their uncle, "What cheek he
has!"
"Though I make two sous by
all his breakfasts," muttered
Antoine, as he heard Monsieur
Dutocq close the office door, "I'd
give them up to get that man
out of our division."
"Ah, Monsieur Sebastien, you
are not the first here to-day," said
Antoine, a quarter of an hour
later, to the supernumerary.
"Who is here?" asked
the poor lad, turning pale.
"Monsieur Dutocq," answered
Laurent.
Virgin natures
have, beyond all others, the
inexplicable
gift of second-sight, the reason
of which lies perhaps in the
purity of their nervous systems,
which are, as it were, brand-new.
Sebastien had long guessed Dutocq's
hatred to his revered Rabourdin.
So that when Laurent uttered
his name a dreadful presentiment
took possession of the lad's
mind, and crying out, "I feared
it!" he flew like an arrow into
the corridor.
"There is going to be a row
in the division," said Antoine,
shaking his white head as he
put on his livery. "It is very
certain that Monsieur le baron
is off to his account. Yes, Madame
Gruget, the nurse, told me he
couldn't live through the day.
What a stir there'll be! oh!
won't there! Go along, you fellows,
and see if the stoves are drawing
properly. Heavens and earth!
our world is coming down about
our ears."
"That poor young one," said
Laurent, "had a sort of sunstroke
when he heard that Jesuit of
a Dutocq had got here before
him."
"I have told him a dozen times,--for
after all one ought to tell the
truth to an honest clerk, and
what I call an honest clerk is
one like that little fellow who
gives us "recta" his ten francs
on New-Year's day,--I have said
to him again and again: The more
you work the more they'll make
you work, and they won't promote
you. He doesn't listen to me;
he tires himself out staying
here till five o'clock, an hour
after all the others have gone.
Folly! he'll never get on that
way! The proof is that not a
word has been said about giving
him an appointment, though he
has been here two years. It's
a shame! it makes my blood boil."
"Monsieur Rabourdin is very
fond of Monsieur Sebastien," said
Laurent.
"But Monsieur Rabourdin isn't
a minister," retorted Antoine; "it
will be a hot day when that happens,
and the hens will have teeth;
he is too--but mum! When I think
that I carry salaries to those
humbugs who stay away and do
as they please, while that poor
little La Roche works himself
to death, I ask myself if God
ever thinks of the civil service.
And what do they give you, these
pets of Monsieur le marechal
and Monsieur le duc? 'Thank you,
my dear Antoine, thank you,'
with a gracious nod! Pack of
sluggards! go to work, or you'll
bring another revolution about
your ears. Didn't see such goings-on
under Monsieur Robert Lindet.
I know, for I served my apprenticeship
under Robert Lindet. The clerks
had to work in his day! You ought
to have seen how they scratched
paper here till midnight; why,
the stoves went out and nobody
noticed it. It was all because
the guillotine was there! now-a-
days they only mark 'em when
they come in late!"
"Uncle Antoine," said Gabriel, "as
you are so talkative this morning,
just tell us what you think a
clerk really ought to be."
"A government clerk," replied
Antoine, gravely, "is a man who
sits in a government office and
writes. But there, there, what
am I talking about? Without the
clerks, where should we be, I'd
like to know? Go along and look
after your stoves and mind you
never say harm of a government
clerk, you fellows. Gabriel,
the stove in the large office
draws like the devil; you must
turn the damper."
Antoine stationed himself at
a corner of the landing whence
he could see all the officials
as they entered the porte-cochere;
he knew every one at the ministry,
and watched their behavior, observing
narrowly the contrasts in their
dress and appearance.
The first to
arrive after Sebastien was
a clerk of deeds in Rabourdin's
office named Phellion, a respectable
family-man. To the influence
of his chief he owed a half-scholarship
for each of his two sons in the
College Henri IV.; while his
daughter was being educated gratis
at a boarding school where his
wife gave music lessons and he
himself a course of history and
one of geography in the evenings.
He was about forty-five years
of age, sergeant-major of his
company in the National Guard,
very compassionate in feeling
and words, but wholly unable
to give away a penny. Proud of
his post, however, and satisfied
with his lot, he applied himself
faithfully to serve the government,
believed he was useful to his
country, and boasted of his indifference
to politics, knowing none but
those of the men in power. Monsieur
Rabourdin pleased him highly
whenever he asked him to stay
half an hour longer to finish
a piece of work. On such occasions
he would say, when he reached
home, "Public affairs detained
me; when a man belongs to the
government he is no longer master
of himself." He compiled books
of questions and answers on various
studies for the use of young
ladies in boarding-schools. These
little "solid treatises," as
he called them, were sold at
the University library under
the name of "Historical and Geographic
Catechisms." Feeling himself
in duty bound to offer a copy
of each volume, bound in red
morocco, to Monsieur Rabourdin,
he always came in full dress
to present them,-- breeches and
silk stockings, and shoes with
gold buckles. Monsieur Phellion
received his friends on Thursday
evenings, on which occasions
the company played bouillote,
at five sous a game, and were
regaled with cakes and beer.
He had never yet dared to invite
Monsieur Rabourdin to honor him
with his presence, though he
would have regarded such an event
as the most distinguished of
his life. He said if he could
leave one of his sons following
in the steps of Monsieur Rabourdin
he should die the happiest father
in the world.
One of his
greatest pleasures was to explore
the environs of
Paris, which he did with a map.
He knew every inch of Arcueil,
Bievre, Fontenay-aux-Roses, and
Aulnay, so famous as the resort
of great writers, and hoped in
time to know the whole western
side of the country around Paris.
He intended to put his eldest
son into a government office
and his second into the Ecole
Polytechnique. He often said
to the elder, "When you have
the honor to be a government
clerk"; though he suspected him
of a preference for the exact
sciences and did his best to
repress it, mentally resolved
to abandon the lad to his own
devices if he persisted. When
Rabourdin sent for him to come
down and receive instructions
about some particular piece of
work, Phellion gave all his mind
to it,--listening to every word
the chief said, as a dilettante
listens to an air at the Opera.
Silent in the office, with his
feet in the air resting on a
wooden desk, and never moving
them, he studied his task conscientiously.
His official letters were written
with the utmost gravity, and
transmitted the commands of the
minister in solemn phrases. Monsieur
Phellion's face was that of a
pensive ram, with little color
and pitted by the small- pox;
the lips were thick and the lower
one pendent; the eyes light-
blue, and his figure above the
common height. Neat and clean
as a master of history and geography
in a young ladies' school ought
to be, he wore fine linen, a
pleated shirt-frill, a black
cashmere waistcoat, left open
and showing a pair of braces
embroidered by his daughter,
a diamond in the bosom of his
shirt, a black coat, and blue
trousers. In winter he added
a nut-colored box-coat with three
capes, and carried a loaded stick,
necessitated, he said, by the
profound solitude of the quarter
in which he lived. He had given
up taking snuff, and referred
to this reform as a striking
example of the empire a man could
exercise over himself. Monsieur
Phellion came slowly up the stairs,
for he was afraid of asthma,
having what he called an "adipose
chest." He saluted Antoine with
dignity.
The next to
follow was a copying-clerk,
who presented a strange contrast
to the virtuous Phellion. Vimeux
was a young man of twenty- five,
with a salary of fifteen hundred
francs, well-made and graceful,
with a romantic face, and eyes,
hair, beard, and eyebrows as
black as jet, fine teeth, charming
hands, and wearing a moustache
so carefully trimmed that he
seemed to have made it the business
and occupation of his life. Vimeux
had such aptitude for work that
he despatched it much quicker
than any of the other clerks. "He
has a gift, that young man!" Phellion
said of him when he saw him cross
his legs and have nothing to
do for the rest of the day, having
got through his appointed task; "and
see what a little dandy he is!" Vimeux
breakfasted on a roll and a glass
of water, dined for twenty sous
at Katcomb's, and lodged in a
furnished room, for which he
paid twelve francs a month. His
happiness, his sole pleasure
in life, was dress. He ruined
himself in miraculous waistcoats,
in trousers that were tight,
half-tight, pleated, or embroidered;
in superfine boots, well-made
coats which outlined his elegant
figure; in bewitching collars,
spotless gloves, and immaculate
hats. A ring with a coat of arms
adorned his hand, outside his
glove, from which dangled a handsome
cane; with these accessories
he endeavoured to assume the
air and manner of a wealthy young
man. After the office closed
he appeared in the great walk
of the Tuileries, with a tooth-pick
in his mouth, as though he were
a millionaire who had just dined.
Always on the lookout for a woman,--an
Englishwoman, a foreigner of
some kind, or a widow,--who might
fall in love with him, he practised
the art of twirling his cane
and of flinging the sort of glance
which Bixiou told him was American.
He smiled to show his fine teeth;
he wore no socks under his boots,
but he had his hair curled every
day. Vimeux was prepared, in
accordance with fixed principles,
to marry a hunch-back with six
thousand a year, or a woman of
forty-five at eight thousand,
or an Englishwoman for half that
sum. Phellion, who delighted
in his neat hand-writing, and
was full of compassion for the
fellow, read him lectures on
the duty of giving lessons in
penmanship,--an honorable career,
he said, which would ameliorate
existence and even render it
agreeable; he promised him a
situation in a young ladies'
boarding-school. But Vimeux's
head was so full of his own idea
that no human being could prevent
him from having faith in his
star. He continued to lay himself
out, like a salmon at a fishmonger's,
in spite of his empty stomach
and the fact that he had fruitlessly
exhibited his enormous moustache
and his fine clothes for over
three years. As he owed Antoine
more than thirty francs for his
breakfasts, he lowered his eyes
every time he passed him; and
yet he never failed at midday
to ask the man to buy him a roll.
After trying
to get a few reasonable ideas
into this foolish head,
Rabourdin had finally given up
the attempt as hopeless. Adolphe
(his family name was Adolphe)
had lately economized on dinners
and lived entirely on bread and
water, to buy a pair of spurs
and a riding-whip. Jokes at the
expense of this starving Amadis
were made only in the spirit
of mischievous fun which creates
vaudevilles, for he was really
a kind-hearted fellow and a good
comrade, who harmed no one but
himself. A standing joke in the
two bureaus was the question
whether he wore corsets, and
bets depended on it. Vimeux was
originally appointed to Baudoyer's
bureau, but he manoeuvred to
get himself transferred to Rabourdin's,
on account of Baudoyer's extreme
severity in relation to what
were called "the English,"--a
name given by the government
clerks to their creditors. "English
day" means the day on which the
government offices are thrown
open to the public. Certain then
of finding their delinquent debtors,
the creditors swarm in and torment
them, asking when they intend
to pay, and threatening to attach
their salaries. The implacable
Baudoyer compelled the clerks
to remain at their desks and
endure this torture. "It was
their place not to make debts," he
said; and he considered his severity
as a duty which he owed to the
public weal. Rabourdin, on the
contrary, protected the clerks
against their creditors, and
turned the latter away, saying
that the government bureaus were
open for public business, not
private. Much ridicule pursued
Vimeux in both bureaus when the
clank of his spurs resounded
in the corridors and on the staircases.
The wag of the ministry, Bixiou,
sent round a paper, headed by
a caricature of his victim on
a pasteboard horse, asking for
subscriptions to buy him a live
charger. Monsieur Baudoyer was
down for a bale of hay taken
from his own forage allowance,
and each of the clerks wrote
his little epigram; Vimeux himself,
good-natured fellow that he was,
subscribed under the name of "Miss
Fairfax."
Handsome clerks of the Vimeux
style have their salaries on
which to live, and their good
looks by which to make their
fortune. Devoted to masked balls
during the carnival, they seek
their luck there, though it often
escapes them. Many end the weary
round by marrying milliners,
or old women,--sometimes, however,
young ones who are charmed with
their handsome persons, and with
whom they set up a romance illustrated
with stupid love letters, which,
nevertheless, seem to answer
their purpose.
Bixiou (pronounce
it Bisiou) was a draughtsman,
who ridiculed
Dutocq as readily as he did Rabourdin,
whom he nicknamed "the virtuous
woman." Without doubt the cleverest
man in the division or even in
the ministry (but clever after
the fashion of a monkey, without
aim or sequence), Bixiou was
so essentially useful to Baudoyer
and Godard that they upheld and
protected him in spite of his
misconduct; for he did their
work when they were incapable
of doing it for themselves. Bixiou
wanted either Godard's or du
Bruel's place as under-head-clerk,
but his conduct interfered with
his promotion. Sometimes he sneered
at the public service; this was
usually after he had made some
happy hit, such as the publication
of portraits in the famous Fualdes
case (for which he drew faces
hap-hazard), or his sketch of
the debate on the Castaing affair.
At other times, when possessed
with a desire to get on, he really
applied himself to work, though
he would soon leave off to write
a vaudeville, which was never
finished. A thorough egoist,
a spendthrift and a miser in
one,--that is to say, spending
his money solely on himself,--sharp,
aggressive, and indiscreet, he
did mischief for mischief's sake;
above all, he attacked the weak,
respected nothing and believed
in nothing, neither in France,
nor in God, nor in art, nor in
the Greeks, nor in the Turks,
nor in the monarchy,-- insulting
and disparaging everything that
he could not comprehend. He was
the first to paint a black cap
on Charles X.'s head on the five-
franc coins. He mimicked Dr.
Gall when lecturing, till he
made the most starched of diplomatists
burst their buttons. Famous for
his practical jokes, he varied
them with such elaborate care
that he always obtained a victim.
His great secret in this was
the power of guessing the inmost
wishes of others; he knew the
way to many a castle in the air,
to the dreams about which a man
may be fooled because he wants
to be; and he made such men sit
to him for hours.
Thus it happened
that this close observer, who
could display
unrivalled tact in developing
a joke or driving home a sarcasm,
was unable to use the same power
to make men further his fortunes
and promote him. The person he
most liked to annoy was young
La Billardiere, his nightmare,
his detestation, whom he was
nevertheless constantly wheedling
so as the better to torment him
on his weakest side. He wrote
him love letters signed "Comtesse
de M--" or "Marquise de B--";
took him to the Opera on gala
days and presented him to some
grisette under the clock, after
calling everybody's attention
to the young fool. He allied
himself with Dutocq (whom he
regarded as a solemn juggler)
in his hatred to Rabourdin and
his praise of Baudoyer, and did
his best to support him. Jean-Jaques
Bixiou was the grandson of a
Parisian grocer. His father,
who died a colonel, left him
to the care of his grandmother,
who married her head-clerk, named
Descoings, after the death of
her first husband, and died in
1822. Finding himself without
prospects on leaving college,
he attempted painting, but in
spite of his intimacy with Joseph
Bridau, his life-long friend,
he abandoned art to take up caricature,
vignette designing, and drawing
for books, which twenty years
later went by the name of "illustration." The
influence of the Ducs de Maufrigneuse
and de Rhetore, whom he knew
in the society of actresses,
procured him his employment under
government in 1819. On good terms
with des Lupeaulx, with whom
in society he stood on an equality,
and intimate with du Bruel, he
was a living proof of Rabourdin's
theory as to the steady deterioration
of the administrative hierarchy
in Paris through the personal
importance which a government
official may acquire outside
of a government office. Short
in stature but well-formed, with
a delicate face remarkable for
its vague likeness to Napoleon's,
thin lips, a straight chin, chestnut
whiskers, twenty-seven years
old, fair- skinned, with a piercing
voice and sparkling eye,--such
was Bixiou; a man, all sense
and all wit, who abandoned himself
to a mad pursuit of pleasure
of every description, which threw
him into a constant round of
dissipation. Hunter of grisettes,
smoker, jester, diner-out and
frequenter of supper-parties,
always tuned to the highest pitch,
shining equally in the greenroom
and at the balls given among
the grisettes of the Allee des
Veuves, he was just as surprisingly
entertaining at table as at a
picnic, as gay and lively at
midnight on the streets as in
the morning when he jumped out
of bed, and yet at heart gloomy
and melancholy, like most of
the great comic players.
Launched into the world of
actors and actresses, writers,
artists, and certain women of
uncertain means, he lived well,
went to the theatre without paying,
gambled at Frascati, and often
won. Artist by nature and really
profound, though by flashes only,
he swayed to and fro in life
like a swing, without thinking
or caring of a time when the
cord would break. The liveliness
of his wit and the prodigal flow
of his ideas made him acceptable
to all persons who took pleasure
in the lights of intellect; but
none of his friends liked him.
Incapable of checking a witty
saying, he would scarify his
two neighbors before a dinner
was half over. In spite of his
skin-deep gayety, a secret dissatisfaction
with his social position could
be detected in his speech; he
aspired to something better,
but the fatal demon hiding in
his wit hindered him from acquiring
the gravity which imposes on
fools. He lived on the second
floor of a house in the rue de
Ponthieu, where he had three
rooms delivered over to the untidiness
of a bachelor's establishment,
in fact, a regular bivouac. He
often talked of leaving France
and seeking his fortune in America.
No wizard could foretell the
future of this young man in whom
all talents were incomplete;
who was incapable of perseverance,
intoxicated with pleasure, and
who acted on the belief that
the world ended on the morrow.
In the matter
of dress Bixiou had the merit
of never being
ridiculous; he was perhaps the
only official of the ministry
whose dress did not lead outsiders
to say, "That man is a government
clerk!" He wore elegant boots
with black trousers strapped
under them, a fancy waistcoat,
a becoming blue coat, collars
that were the never-ending gift
of grisettes, one of Bandoni's
hats, and a pair of dark-colored
kid gloves. His walk and bearing,
cavalier and simple both, were
not without grace. He knew all
this, and when des Lupeaulx summoned
him for a piece of impertinence
said and done about Monsieur
de la Billardiere and threatened
him with dismissal, Bixiou replied, "You
will take me back because my
clothes do credit to the ministry";
and des Lupeaulx, unable to keep
from laughing, let the matter
pass. The most harmless of Bixiou's
jokes perpetrated among the clerks
was the one he played off upon
Godard, presenting him with a
butterfly just brought from China,
which the worthy man keeps in
his collection and exhibits to
this day, blissfully unconscious
that it is only painted paper.
Bixiou had the patience to work
up the little masterpiece for
the sole purpose of hoaxing his
superior.
The devil always
puts a martyr near a Bixiou.
Baudoyer's bureau
held the martyr, a poor copying-clerk
twenty-two years of age, with
a salary of fifteen hundred francs,
named Auguste-Jean-Francois Minard.
Minard had married for love the
daughter of a porter, an artificial-
flower maker employed by Mademoiselle
Godard. Zelie Lorrain, a pupil,
in the first place, of the Conservatoire,
then by turns a danseuse, a singer,
and an actress, had thought of
doing as so many of the working-women
do; but the fear of consequences
kept her from vice. She was floating
undecidedly along, when Minard
appeared upon the scene with
a definite proposal of marriage.
Zelie earned five hundred francs
a year, Minard had fifteen hundred.
Believing that they could live
on two thousand, they married
without settlements, and started
with the utmost economy. They
went to live, like dove-turtles,
near the barriere de Courcelles,
in a little apartment at three
hundred francs a year, with white
cotton curtains to the windows,
a Scotch paper costing fifteen
sous a roll on the walls, brick
floors well polished, walnut
furniture in the parlor, and
a tiny kitchen that was very
clean. Zelie nursed her children
herself when they came, cooked,
made her flowers, and kept the
house. There was something very
touching in this happy and laborious
mediocrity. Feeling that Minard
truly loved her, Zelie loved
him. Love begets love,--it is
the abyssus abyssum of the Bible.
The poor man left his bed in
the morning before his wife was
up, that he might fetch provisions.
He carried the flowers she had
finished, on his way to the bureau,
and bought her materials on his
way back; then, while waiting
for dinner, he stamped out her
leaves, trimmed the twigs, or
rubbed her colors. Small, slim,
and wiry, with crisp red hair,
eyes of a light yellow, a skin
of dazzling fairness, though
blotched with red, the man had
a sturdy courage that made no
show. He knew the science of
writing quite as well as Vimeux.
At the office he kept in the
background, doing his allotted
task with the collected air of
a man who thinks and suffers.
His white eyelashes and lack
of eyebrows induced the relentless
Bixiou to name him "the white
rabbit." Minard--the Rabourdin
of a lower sphere--was filled
with the desire of placing his
Zelie in better circumstances,
and his mind searched the ocean
of the wants of luxury in hopes
of finding an idea, of making
some discovery or some improvement
which would bring him a rapid
fortune. His apparent dulness
was really caused by the continual
tension of his mind; he went
over the history of Cephalic
Oils and the Paste of Sultans,
lucifer matches and portable
gas, jointed sockets for hydrostatic
lamps,--in short, all the infinitely
little inventions of material
civilization which pay so well.
He bore Bixiou's jests as a busy
man bears the buzzing of an insect;
he was not even annoyed by them.
In spite of his cleverness, Bixiou
never perceived the profound
contempt which Minard felt for
him. Minard never dreamed of
quarrelling, however,--regarding
it as a loss of time. After a
while his composure tired out
his tormentor. He always breakfasted
with his wife, and ate nothing
at the office. Once a month he
took Zelie to the theatre, with
tickets bestowed by du Bruel
or Bixiou; for Bixiou was capable
of anything, even of doing a
kindness. Monsieur and Madame
Minard paid their visits in person
on New-Year's day. Those who
saw them often asked how it was
that a woman could keep her husband
in good clothes, wear a Leghorn
bonnet with flowers, embroidered
muslin dresses, silk mantles,
prunella boots, handsome fichus,
a Chinese parasol, and drive
home in a hackney-coach, and
yet be virtuous; while Madame
Colleville and other "ladies" of
her kind could scarcely make
ends meet, though they had double
Madame Minard's means.
In the two
bureaus were two clerks so
devoted to each other
that their friendship became
the butt of all the rest. He
of the bureau Baudoyer, named
Colleville, was chief-clerk,
and would have been head of the
bureau long before if the Restoration
had never happened. His wife
was as clever in her way as Madame
Rabourdin in hers. Colleville,
who was son of a first violin
at the opera, fell in love with
the daughter of a celebrated
danseuse. Flavie Minoret, one
of those capable and charming
Parisian women who know how to
make their husbands happy and
yet preserve their own liberty,
made the Colleville home a rendezvous
for all our best artists and
orators. Colleville's humble
position under government was
forgotten there. Flavie's conduct
gave such food for gossip, however,
that Madame Rabourdin had declined
all her invitations. The friend
in Rabourdin's bureau to whom
Colleville was so attached was
named Thuillier. All who knew
one knew the other. Thuillier,
called "the handsome Thuillier," an
ex-Lothario, led as idle a life
as Colleville led a busy one.
Colleville, government official
in the mornings and first clarionet
at the Opera-Comique at night,
worked hard to maintain his family,
though he was not without influential
friends. He was looked upon as
a very shrewd man,--all the more,
perhaps, because he hid his ambitions
under a show of indifference.
Apparently content with his lot
and liking work, he found every
one, even the chiefs, ready to
protect his brave career. During
the last few weeks Madame Colleville
had made an evident change in
the household, and seemed to
be taking to piety. This gave
rise to a vague report in the
bureaus that she thought of securing
some more powerful influence
than that of Francois Keller,
the famous orator, who had been
one of her chief adorers, but
who, so far, had failed to obtain
a better place for her husband.
Flavie had, about this time--
and it was one of her mistakes--turned
for help to des Lupeaulx.
Colleville
had a passion for reading the
horoscopes of famous
men in the anagram of their names.
He passed whole months in decomposing
and recomposing words and fitting
them to new meanings. "Un Corse
la finira," found within the
words, "Revolution Francaise"; "Eh,
c'est large nez," in "Charles
Genest," an abbe at the court
of Louis XIV., whose huge nose
is recorded by Saint-Simon as
the delight of the Duc de Bourgogne
(the exigencies of this last
anagram required the substitution
of a z for an s),--were a never-ending
marvel to Colleville. Raising
the anagram to the height of
a science, he declared that the
destiny of every man was written
in the words or phrase given
by the transposition of the letters
of his names and titles; and
his patriotism struggled hard
to suppress the fact--signal
evidence for his theory--that
in Horatio Nelson, "honor est
a Nilo." Ever since the accession
of Charles X., he had bestowed
much thought on the king's anagram.
Thuillier, who was fond of making
puns, declared that an anagram
was nothing more than a pun on
letters. The sight of Colleville,
a man of real feeling, bound
almost indissolubly to Thuillier,
the model of an egoist, presented
a difficult problem to the mind
of an observer. The clerks in
the offices explained it by saying, "Thuillier
is rich, and the Colleville household
costly." This friendship, however,
consolidated by time, was based
on feelings and on facts which
naturally explained it; an account
of which may be found elsewhere
(see "Les Petits Bourgeois").
We may remark in passing that
though Madame Colleville was
well known in the bureaus, the
existence of Madame Thuillier
was almost unknown there. Colleville,
an active man, burdened with
a family of children, was fat,
round, and jolly, whereas Thuillier, "the
beau of the Empire" without apparent
anxieties and always at leisure,
was slender and thin, with a
livid face and a melancholy air. "We
never know," said Rabourdin,
speaking of the two men, "whether
our friendships are born of likeness
or of contrast."
Unlike these
Siamese twins, two other clerks,
Chazelle and
Paulmier, were forever squabbling.
One smoked, the other took snuff,
and the merits of their respective
use of tobacco were the origin
of ceaseless disputes. Chazelle's
home, which was tyrannized over
by a wife, furnished a subject
of endless ridicule to Paulmier;
whereas Paulmier, a bachelor,
often half-starved like Vimeux,
with ragged clothes and half-concealed
penury was a fruitful source
of ridicule to Chazelle. Both
were beginning to show a protuberant
stomach; Chazelle's, which was
round and projecting, had the
impertinence, so Bixiou said,
to enter the room first; Paulmier's
corporation spread to right and
left. A favorite amusement with
Bixiou was to measure them quarterly.
The two clerks, by dint of quarrelling
over the details of their lives,
and washing much of their dirty
linen at the office, had obtained
the disrepute which they merited. "Do
you take me for a Chazelle?" was
a frequent saying that served
to end many an annoying discussion.
Monsieur Poiret
junior, called "junior" to
distinguish him from his brother
Monsieur Poiret senior (now living
in the Maison Vanquer, where
Poiret junior sometimes dined,
intending to end his days in
the same retreat), had spent
thirty years in the Civil Service.
Nature herself is not so fixed
and unvarying in her evolutions
as was Poiret junior in all the
acts of his daily life; he always
laid his things in precisely
the same place, put his pen in
the same rack, sat down in his
seat at the same hour, warmed
himself at the stove at the same
moment of the day. His sole vanity
consisted in wearing an infallible
watch, timed daily at the Hotel
de Ville as he passed it on his
way to the office. From six to
eight o'clock in the morning
he kept the books of a large
shop in the rue Saint-Antoine,
and from six to eight o'clock
in the evening those of the Maison
Camusot, in the rue des Bourdonnais.
He thus earned three thousand
francs a year, counting his salary
from the government. In a few
months his term of service would
be up, when he would retire on
a pension; he therefore showed
the utmost indifference to the
political intrigues of the bureaus.
Like his elder brother, to whom
retirement from active service
had proved a fatal blow, he would
probably grow an old man when
he could no longer come from
his home to the ministry, sit
in the same chair and copy a
certain number of pages. Poiret's
eyes were dim, his glance weak
and lifeless, his skin discolored
and wrinkled, gray in tone and
speckled with bluish dots; his
nose flat, his lips drawn inward
to the mouth, where a few defective
teeth still lingered. His gray
hair, flattened to the head by
the pressure of his hat, gave
him the look of an ecclesiastic,--a
resemblance he would scarcely
have liked, for he hated priests
and clergy, though he could give
no reasons for his anti-religious
views. This antipathy, however,
did not prevent him from being
extremely attached to whatever
administration happened to be
in power. He never buttoned his
old green coat, even on the coldest
days, and he always wore shoes
with ties, and black trousers.
No human life
was ever lived so thoroughly
by rule. Poiret
kept all his receipted bills,
even the most trifling, and all
his account- books, wrapped in
old shirts and put away according
to their respective years from
the time of his entrance at the
ministry. Rough copies of his
letters were dated and put away
in a box, ticketed "My Correspondence." He
dined at the same restaurant
(the Sucking Calf in the place
du Chatelet), and sat in the
same place, which the waiters
kept for him. He never gave five
minutes more time to the shop
in the rue Saint Antoine than
justly belonged to it, and at
half-past eight precisely he
reached the Cafe David, where
he breakfasted and remained till
eleven. There he listened to
political discussions, his arms
crossed on his cane, his chin
in his right hand, never saying
a word. The dame du comptoir,
the only woman to whom he ever
spoke with pleasure, was the
sole confidant of the little
events of his life, for his seat
was close to her counter. He
played dominoes, the only game
he was capable of understanding.
When his partners did not happen
to be present, he usually went
to sleep with his back against
the wainscot, holding a newspaper
in his hand, the wooden file
resting on the marble of his
table. He was interested in the
buildings going up in Paris,
and spent his Sundays in walking
about to examine them. He was
often heard to say, "I saw the
Louvre emerge from its rubbish;
I saw the birth of the place
du Chatelet, the quai aux Fleurs
and the Markets." He and his
brother, both born at Troyes,
were sent in youth to serve their
apprenticeship in a government
office. Their mother made herself
notorious by misconduct, and
the two brothers had the grief
of hearing of her death in the
hospital at Troyes, although
they had frequently sent money
for her support. This event led
them both not only to abjure
marriage, but to feel a horror
of children; ill at ease with
them, they feared them as others
fear madmen, and watched them
with haggard eyes.
Since the day when he first
came to Paris Poiret junior had
never gone outside the city.
He began at that time to keep
a journal of his life, in which
he noted down all the striking
events of his day. Du Bruel told
him that Lord Byron did the same
thing. This likeness filled Poiret
junior with delight, and led
him to buy the works of Lord
Byron, translated by Chastopalli,
of which he did not understand
a word. At the office he was
often seen in a melancholy attitude,
as though absorbed in thought,
when in fact he was thinking
of nothing at all. He did not
know a single person in the house
where he lived, and always carried
the keys of his apartment about
with him. On New-Year's day he
went round and left his own cards
on all the clerks of the division.
Bixiou took it into his head
on one of the hottest of dog-
days to put a layer of lard under
the lining of a certain old hat
which Poiret junior (he was,
by the bye, fifty-two years old)
had worn for the last nine years.
Bixiou, who had never seen any
other hat on Poiret's head, dreamed
of it and declared he tasted
it in his food; he therefore
resolved, in the interests of
his digestion, to relieve the
bureau of the sight of that amorphous
old hat. Poiret junior left the
office regularly at four o'clock.
As he walked along, the sun's
rays reflected from the pavements
and walls produced a tropical
heat; he felt that his head was
inundated,--he, who never perspired!
Feeling that he was ill, or on
the point of being so, instead
of going as usual to the Sucking
Calf he went home, drew out from
his desk the journal of his life,
and recorded the fact in the
following manner:--
"To-day, July
3, 1823, overtaken by extraordinary
perspiration,
a sign, perhaps, of the sweating-sickness,
a malady which prevails in Champagne.
I am about to consult Doctor
Haudry. The disease first appeared
as I reached the highest part
of the quai des Ecoles."
Suddenly, having taken off
his hat, he became aware that
the mysterious sweat had some
cause independent of his own
person. He wiped his face, examined
the hat, and could find nothing,
for he did not venture to take
out the lining. All this he noted
in his journal:--
"Carried my
hat to the Sieur Tournan, hat-maker
in the rue
Saint- Martin, for the reason
that I suspect some unknown cause
for this perspiration, which,
in that case, might not be perspiration,
but, possibly, the effect of
something lately added, or formerly
done, to my hat."
Monsieur Tournan
at once informed his customer
of the presence
of a greasy substance, obtained
by the trying-out of the fat
of a pig or sow. The next day
Poiret appeared at the office
with another hat, lent by Monsieur
Tournan while a new one was making;
but he did not sleep that night
until he had added the following
sentence to the preceding entries
in his journal: "It is asserted
that my hat contained lard, the
fat of a pig."
This inexplicable fact occupied
the intellect of Poiret junior
for the space of two weeks; and
he never knew how the phenomenon
was produced. The clerks told
him tales of showers of frogs,
and other dog-day wonders, also
the startling fact that an imprint
of the head of Napoleon had been
found in the root of a young
elm, with other eccentricities
of natural history. Vimeux informed
him that one day his hat--his,
Vimeux's--had stained his forehead
black, and that hat- makers were
in the habit of using drugs.
After that Poiret paid many visits
to Monsieur Tournan to inquire
into his methods of manufacture.
In the Rabourdin
bureau was a clerk who played
the man of
courage and audacity, professed
the opinions of the Left centre,
and rebelled against the tyrannies
of Baudoyer as exercised upon
what he called the unhappy slaves
of that office. His name was
Fleury. He boldly subscribed
to an opposition newspaper, wore
a gray hat with a broad brim,
red bands on his blue trousers,
a blue waistcoat with gilt buttons,
and a surtout coat crossed over
the breast like that of a quartermaster
of gendarmerie. Though unyielding
in his opinions, he continued
to be employed in the service,
all the while predicting a fatal
end to a government which persisted
in upholding religion. He openly
avowed his sympathy for Napoleon,
now that the death of that great
man put an end to the laws enacted
against "the partisans of the
usurper." Fleury, ex-captain
of a regiment of the line under
the Emperor, a tall, dark, handsome
fellow, was now, in addition
to his civil-service post, box-keeper
at the Cirque-Olympique. Bixiou
never ventured on tormenting
Fleury, for the rough trooper,
who was a good shot and clever
at fencing, seemed quite capable
of extreme brutality if provoked.
An ardent subscriber to "Victoires
et Conquetes," Fleury nevertheless
refused to pay his subscription,
though he kept and read the copies,
alleging that they exceeded the
number proposed in the prospectus.
He adored Monsieur Rabourdin,
who had saved him from dismissal,
and was even heard to say that
if any misfortune happened to
the chief through anybody's fault
he would kill that person. Dutocq
meanly courted Fleury because
he feared him. Fleury, crippled
with debt, played many a trick
on his creditors. Expert in legal
matters, he never signed a promissory
note; and had prudently attached
his own salary under the names
of fictitious creditors, so that
he was able to draw nearly the
whole of it himself. He played
ecarte, was the life of evening
parties, tossed off glasses of
champagne without wetting his
lips, and knew all the songs
of Beranger by heart. He was
proud of his full, sonorous voice.
His three great admirations were
Napoleon, Bolivar, and Beranger.
Foy, Lafitte, and Casimir Delavigne
he only esteemed. Fleury, as
you will have guessed already,
was a Southerner, destined, no
doubt, to become the responsible
editor of a liberal journal.
Desroys, the
mysterious clerk of the division,
consorted with
no one, talked little, and hid
his private life so carefully
that no one knew where he lived,
nor who were his protectors,
nor what were his means of subsistence.
Looking about them for the causes
of this reserve, some of his
colleagues thought him a "carbonaro," others
an Orleanist; there were others
again who doubted whether to
call him a spy or a man of solid
merit. Desroys was, however,
simple and solely the son of
a "Conventionel," who did not
vote the king's death. Cold and
prudent by temperament, he had
judged the world and ended by
relying on no one but himself.
Republican in secret, an admirer
of Paul-Louis Courier and a friend
of Michael Chrestien, he looked
to time and public intelligence
to bring about the triumph of
his opinions from end to end
of Europe. He dreamed of a new
Germany and a new Italy. His
heart swelled with that dull,
collective love which we must
call humanitarianism, the eldest
son of deceased philanthropy,
and which is to the divine catholic
charity what system is to art,
or reasoning to deed. This conscientious
puritan of freedom, this apostle
of an impossible equality, regretted
keenly that his poverty forced
him to serve the government,
and he made various efforts to
find a place elsewhere. Tall,
lean, lanky, and solemn in appearance,
like a man who expects to be
called some day to lay down his
life for a cause, he lived on
a page of Volney, studied Saint-Just,
and employed himself on a vindication
of Robespierre, whom he regarded
as the successor of Jesus Christ.
The last of
the individuals belonging to
these bureaus who
merits a sketch here is the little
La Billardiere. Having, to his
great misfortune, lost his mother,
and being under the protection
of the minister, safe therefore
from the tyrannies of Baudoyer,
and received in all the ministerial
salons, he was nevertheless detested
by every one because of his impertinence
and conceit. The two chiefs were
polite to him, but the clerks
held him at arm's length and
prevented all companionship by
means of the extreme and grotesque
politeness which they bestowed
upon him. A pretty youth of twenty-two,
tall and slender, with the manners
of an Englishman, a dandy in
dress, curled and perfumed, gloved
and booted in the latest fashion,
and twirling an eyeglass, Benjamin
de la Billardiere thought himself
a charming fellow and possessed
all the vices of the world with
none of its graces. He was now
looking forward impatiently to
the death of his father, that
he might succeed to the title
of baron. His cards were printed "le
Chevalier de la Billardiere" and
on the wall of his office hung,
in a frame, his coat of arms
(sable, two swords in saltire,
on a chief azure three mullets
argent; with the motto; "Toujours
fidele"). Possessed with a mania
for talking heraldry, he once
asked the young Vicomte de Portenduere
why his arms were charged in
a certain way, and drew down
upon himself the happy answer, "I
did not make them." He talked
of his devotion to the monarchy
and the attentions the Dauphine
paid him. He stood very well
with des Lupeaulx, whom he thought
his friend, and they often breakfasted
together. Bixiou posed as his
mentor, and hoped to rid the
division and France of the young
fool by tempting him to excesses,
and openly avowed that intention.
Such were the principal figures
of La Billardiere's division
of the ministry, where also were
other clerks of less account,
who resembled more or less those
that are represented here. It
is difficult even for an observer
to decide from the aspect of
these strange personalities whether
the goose-quill tribe were becoming
idiots from the effects of their
employment or whether they entered
the service because they were
natural born fools. Possibly
the making of them lies at the
door of Nature and of the government
both. Nature, to a civil-service
clerk is, in fact, the sphere
of the office; his horizon is
bounded on all sides by green
boxes; to him, atmospheric changes
are the air of the corridors,
the masculine exhalations contained
in rooms without ventilators,
the odor of paper, pens, and
ink; the soil he treads is a
tiled pavement or a wooden floor,
strewn with a curious litter
and moistened by the attendant's
watering-pot; his sky is the
ceiling toward which he yawns;
his element is dust. Several
distinguished doctors have remonstrated
against the influence of this
second nature, both savage and
civilized, on the moral being
vegetating in those dreadful
pens called bureaus, where the
sun seldom penetrates, where
thoughts are tied down to occupations
like that of horses who turn
a crank and who, poor beasts,
yawn distressingly and die quickly.
Rabourdin was, therefore, fully
justified in seeking to reform
their present condition, by lessening
their numbers and giving to each
a larger salary and far heavier
work. Men are neither wearied
nor bored when doing great things.
Under the present system government
loses fully four hours out of
the nine which the clerks owe
to the service, --hours wasted,
as we shall see, in conversations,
in gossip, in disputes, and,
above all, in underhand intriguing.
The reader must have haunted
the bureaus of the ministerial
departments before he can realize
how much their petty and belittling
life resembles that of seminaries.
Wherever men live collectively
this likeness is obvious; in
regiments, in law-courts, you
will find the elements of the
school on a smaller or larger
scale. The government clerks,
forced to be together for nine
hours of the day, looked upon
their office as a sort of class-room
where they had tasks to perform,
where the head of the bureau
was no other than a schoolmaster,
and where the gratuities bestowed
took the place of prizes given
out to proteges,--a place, moreover,
where they teased and hated each
other, and yet felt a certain
comradeship, colder than that
of a regiment, which itself is
less hearty than that of seminaries.
As a man advances in life he
grows more selfish; egoism develops,
and relaxes all the secondary
bonds of affection. A government
office is, in short, a microcosm
of society, with its oddities
and hatreds, its envy and its
cupidity, its determination to
push on, no matter who goes under,
its frivolous gossip which gives
so many wounds, and its perpetual
spying.
|
