The Man With The Broken Ear
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Edmond About >> The Man With The Broken Ear
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14 THE MAN
WITH
THE BROKEN EAR
TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF
_EDMOND ABOUT_
BY
HENRY HOLT
NEW YORK
HOLT & WILLIAMS
1872
Entered, according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1867, by
HENRY HOLT, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the
United States, for the Southern District of New York.
DEDICATION OF THE FIRST EDITION.[A]
DEAR LEYPOLDT:
You have not forgotten that nearly two years ago,
before our business connection was thought of, this
identical translation was 'respectfully declined' by you
with that same courtesy, the exercise of which in frequent
similar cases, each one of us now tries so hard to shove on
the other's shoulders. I hope that your surprise on reading
this note of dedication will not interfere with your
forgiving the pertinacity with which, through it, I still
strive to make the book _yours_.
H. H.
451 BROOME STREET, May 16, 1867.
[Footnote A: Published by Leypoldt & Holt.]
The Translator has placed a few explanatory Notes at the end of the
volume. They are referred to by numbers in the text.
THE MAN
WITH THE BROKEN EAR.
CHAPTER I.
WHEREIN THEY KILL THE FATTED CALF TO CELEBRATE THE RETURN OF A FRUGAL
SON.
On the 18th of May, 1859, M. Renault, formerly professor of physics and
chemistry, now a landed proprietor at Fontainebleau, and member of the
Municipal Council of that charming little city, himself carried to the
post-office the following letter:--
"_To Monsieur Leon Renault, Civil Engineer, Berlin, Prussia._
(To be kept at the Post-Office till called for.)
"MY DEAR CHILD:
"The good news you sent us from St. Petersburg caused
us the greatest joy. Your poor mother had been ailing
since winter, but I had not spoken to you about it from
fear of making you uneasy while so far from home. As
for myself, I had not been very well; and there was yet
a third person (guess the name if you can!) who was
languishing from not seeing you. But content yourself,
my dear Leon: we have been recuperating more and more
since the time of your return is almost fixed. We begin
to believe that the mines of the Ural will not swallow
up that which is dearer to us than all the world. Thank
God! that fortune which you have so honorably and so
quickly made will not have cost your life, nor even
your health, since you tell us you have been growing
fat off there in the desert. If you have not finished
up all your business out there, so much the worse for
you: there are three of us who have sworn that you
shall never go back again. You will not find it hard to
accede, for you will be happy among us. Such, at least,
is the opinion of Clementine.... I forget that I was
pledged not to name her. Master Bonnivet, our excellent
neighbor, has not rested content with investing your
funds in a good mortgage, but has also drawn up, in his
leisure moments, a most edifying little indenture,
which now lacks nothing but your signature. Our worthy
mayor has ordered, on your account, a new official
scarf, which is on the way from Paris. You will have
the first benefit of it. Your apartment (which will
soon belong to a plural 'you') is elegant, in
proportion to your present fortune. You are to
occupy....; but the house has changed so in three
years, that my description would be incomprehensible to
you. M. Audret, the architect of the imperial chateau,
directed the work. He actually wanted to construct me a
laboratory worthy of Thenard or Duprez. I earnestly
protested against it, and said that I was not yet
worthy of one, as my celebrated work on the
Condensation of Gases had only reached the fourth
chapter. But as your mother was in collusion with the
old scamp of a friend, it has turned out that science
has henceforth a temple in our house--a regular
sorcerer's den, according to the picturesque expression
of your old Gothon: it lacks nothing, not even a
four-horse-power steam engine. Alas! what can I do with
it? I am confident, nevertheless, that the expenditure
will not be altogether lost to the world. You are not
going to sleep upon your laurels. Oh, if I had only had
your fortune when I had your youth! I would have
dedicated my days to pure science, instead of losing
the best part of them among those poor young men who
got nothing from my lectures but an opportunity to read
Paul de Kock. I would have been ambitious!--I would
have striven to connect my name with the discovery of
some great general law, or at least with the invention
of some very useful apparatus. It is too late now; my
eyes are worn out, and the brain itself refuses to
work. Take your turn, my boy! You are not yet
twenty-six, the Ural mines have given you the
wherewithal to live at ease, and, for yourself alone,
you have no further wants to satisfy; the time has come
to work for humanity. That you will do so, is the
strongest wish and dearest hope of your doting old
father, who loves you and who waits for you with open
arms.
"J. RENAULT.
"P. S. According to my calculations, this letter ought
to reach Berlin two or three days before you. You have
been already informed by the papers of the 7th inst. of
the death of the illustrious Humboldt. It is a cause of
mourning to science and to humanity. I have had the
honor of writing to that great man several times in my
life, and he once deigned to reply, in a letter which I
piously cherish. If you happen to have an opportunity to
buy some personal souvenir of him, a bit of his
handwriting or some fragment of his collections, you
will bring me a real pleasure."
A month after the departure of this letter, the son so eagerly looked
for returned to the paternal mansion. M. and Mme. Renault, who went to
meet him at the depot, found him taller, stouter, and better-looking in
every way. In fact, he was no longer merely a remarkable boy, but a man
of good and pleasing proportions. Leon Renault was of medium height,
light hair and complexion, plump and well made. His large blue eyes,
sweet voice, and silken beard indicated a nature sensitive rather than
powerful. A very white, round, and almost feminine neck contrasted
singularly with a face bronzed by exposure. His teeth were beautiful,
very delicate, a little inclined backward, and very evenly shaped. When
he pulled off his gloves, he displayed two small and rather pudgey
hands, quite firm and yet pleasantly soft, neither hot nor cold, nor dry
nor damp, but agreeable to the touch and cared-for to perfection.
As he was, his father and mother would not have exchanged him for the
Apollo Belvedere. They embraced him rapturously, overwhelming him with a
thousand questions, most of which he, of course, failed to answer. Some
old friends of the family, a doctor, an architect, and a notary, had run
to the depot with the good old people; each one of them in turn gave him
a hug, and asked him if he was well, and if he had had a pleasant
journey. He listened patiently and even joyfully to this common-place
music whose words did not signify much, but whose melody went to the
heart because it came from the heart.
They had been there a good quarter of an hour, the train had gone
puffing on its way, the omnibuses of the various hotels had started one
after another at a good trot up the street leading to the city, and the
June sun seemed to enjoy lighting up this happy group of excellent
people. But Madame Renault cried out all at once that the poor child
must be dying of hunger, and that it was barbarous to keep him waiting
for his dinner any longer. There was no use in his protesting that he
had breakfasted at Paris, and that the voice of hunger appealed to him
less strongly than that of joy. They all got into two carriages, the son
beside his mother, the father opposite, as if he could not keep his
eyes off his boy. A wagon came behind with the trunks, long boxes,
chests, and the rest of the traveller's baggage. At the entrance of the
town, the hackmen cracked their whips, the baggage-men followed the
example, and this cheerful clatter drew the people to their doors and
woke up for an instant the quietude of the streets. Madame Renault threw
her glances right and left, searching out the spectators of her triumph,
and saluting with most cordial affability people she hardly knew at all.
And more than one mother saluted her, too, without knowing her; for
there is no mother indifferent to such kinds of happiness, and,
moreover, Leon's family was liked by everybody. And the neighbors,
meeting each other, said with a satisfaction free from jealousy:
"That is Renault's son, who has been at work three years in the Russian
mines, and now has come to share his fortune with his old parents."
Leon also noticed several familiar faces, but not all that he wished to
see. For he bent over an instant to his mother's ear, saying: "And
Clementine?" This word was pronounced so low and so close that M.
Renault himself could not tell whether it was a word or a kiss. The good
lady smiled tenderly, and answered but a single word: "Patience!" As if
patience were a virtue very common among lovers!
The door of the house was wide open, and old Gothon was standing on the
threshold. She raised her arms toward heaven and cried like a booby,
for she had known Leon since he was not much higher than her wash-tub.
There was now another formidable hugging on the upper step, between the
good old servant and her young master. After a reasonable interval, the
friends of M. Renault prepared to leave, but it was wasted pains; for
they were assured that their places at table had already been prepared.
And when all save the invisible Clementine were reassembled in the
parlor, the great round-backed chairs held out their arms to the scion
of the house of Renault; the old mirror on the mantle delighted to
reflect his image; the great chandelier chimed a little song of welcome
with its crystal pendants, and the mandarins on the etagere shook their
heads in sign of welcome, as if they were orthodox _penates_ instead of
strangers and pagans. No one can tell why kisses and tears began to rain
down again, but it certainly did seem as if he had once more just
returned.
"Soup!" cried Gothon.
Madame Renault took the arm of her son, contrary to all the laws of
etiquette, and without even apologizing to the honored guests present.
She scarcely excused herself, even, for helping the son before the
company. Leon let her have her own way, and took it all smilingly: there
was not a guest there who was not ready to upset his soup over his
waistcoat rather than taste it before Leon.
"Mother!" cried Leon, spoon in hand, "this is the first time for three
years that I've tasted good soup." Madame Renault felt herself blush
with satisfaction, and Gothon was so overcome that she dropped a plate.
Both fancied that possibly he had spoken to please their self-conceit;
but nevertheless he spoke truly. There are two things in this world
which a man does not often find away from home: the first is good soup;
the second is disinterested love.
If I should attempt here an accurate enumeration of all the dishes that
appeared on the table, there would not be one of my readers whose mouth
would not water. I believe, indeed, that more than one delicate lady
would be in danger of an attack of indigestion. Suppose, if you please,
that such a list would reach nearly to the end of the volume, leaving me
but a single page on which to write the marvellous history of Fougas.
Therefore I forthwith return to the parlor, where coffee is already
served.
Leon took scarcely half of his cup: but do not let that lead you to
infer that the coffee was too hot, or too cold, or too sweet. Nothing in
the world would have prevented his drinking it to the last drop, if a
knock at the street-door had not stopped it just opposite his heart.
The minute which followed appeared to him interminable. Never in his
travels had he encountered such a long minute. But at length Clementine
appeared, preceded by the worthy Mlle. Virginie Sambucco, her aunt; and
the mandarins who smiled on the etagere heard the sound of three
kisses. Wherefore three? The superficial reader, who pretends to
foresee things before they are written, has already found a very
probable explanation. "Of course," says he, "Leon was too respectful to
embrace the dignified Mlle. Sambucco more than once, but when he came to
Clementine, who was soon to become his wife, he very properly doubled
the dose." Now sir, that is what I call a premature judgment! The first
kiss fell from the mouth of Leon upon the cheek of Mlle. Sambucco; the
second was applied by the lips of Mlle. Sambucco to the right cheek of
Leon; the third was, in fact, an accident that plunged two young hearts
into profound consternation.
Leon, who was very much in love with his betrothed, rushed to her
blindly, uncertain whether he would kiss her right cheek or her left,
but determined not to put off too long a pleasure which he had been
promising himself ever since the spring of 1856. Clementine did not
dream of defending herself, but was fully prepared to apply her pretty
rosy lips to Leon's right cheek or his left, indifferently. The
precipitation of the two young people brought it about that neither
Clementine's cheeks nor Leon's received the offering intended for them.
And the mandarins on the etagere, who fully expected to hear two kisses,
heard but one. And Leon was confounded, and Clementine blushed up to her
ears, and the two lovers retreated a step, intently regarding the roses
of the carpet which will remain eternally graven upon their memories.
In the eyes of Leon Renault, Clementine was the most beautiful creature
in the world. He had loved her for little more than three years, and it
was somewhat on her account that he had taken the journey to Russia. In
1856 she was too young to marry, and too rich for an engineer with a
salary of 2,400 francs to properly make pretentions to her hand. Leon,
who was a good mathematician, proposed to himself the following problem:
"Given--one young girl, fifteen and a half years old, with an income of
8,000 francs, and threatened with the inheritance from Mlle. Sambucco
of, say 200,000 more:--to obtain a fortune at least equal to hers within
such a period as will give her time enough to grow up, without leaving
her time enough to become an old maid." He had found the solution in the
Ural mines.
During three long years, he had indirectly corresponded with the beloved
of his heart. All the letters which he wrote to his father or mother,
passed into the hands of Mlle. Sambucco, who did not keep them from
Clementine. Sometimes, indeed, they were read aloud in the family, and
M. Renault was never obliged to omit a phrase, for Leon never wrote
anything which a young girl should not hear. The aunt and the niece had
no other distractions; they lived retired in a little house at the end
of a pretty garden, and received no one but old friends. Clementine,
therefore, deserved but little credit for keeping her heart for Leon.
With the exception of a big colonel of cuirassiers, who sometimes
followed her in her walks, no man had ever made any demonstrations
toward her.
She was very pretty withal, and not so merely to the eyes of her lover,
or of the Renault family, or of the little city where she lived.
Provincial towns are apt to be easily satisfied. They give the
reputation of being a pretty woman or a great man, cheaply; especially
when they are not rich enough in such commodities to show themselves
over particular. In capitals, however, people claim to admire nothing
but absolute merit. I have heard the mayor of a village say, with a
certain pride: "Admit now, that my servant Catherine is right pretty,
for a village of six hundred people!" Clementine was pretty enough to be
admired in a city of eight hundred thousand. Fancy to yourself a little
blonde creole, with black eyes, creamy complexion and dazzling teeth.
Her figure was round and supple as a twig, and was finished off with
dainty hands and pretty Andalusian feet, arched and beautifully rounded.
All her glances were smiles, and all her movements caresses. Add to
this, that she was neither a fool nor a prude, nor even an ignoramus
like girls brought up in convents. Her education, which was begun by her
mother, had been completed by two or three respectable old professors
selected by M. Renault, who was her guardian. She had a sound heart, and
a quick mind. But I may reasonably ask myself why I have so much to say
about her, for she is still living; and, thank God! not one of her
perfections has departed.
CHAPTER II.
UNPACKING BY CANDLE-LIGHT.
About ten o'clock in the evening, Mlle. Virginie Sambucco said it was
time to think of going home: the ladies lived with monastic regularity.
Leon protested; but Clementine obeyed, though not without pouting a
little. Already the parlor door was open, and the old lady had taken her
hood in the hall, when the engineer, suddenly struck with an idea,
exclaimed:
"You surely won't go without helping me to open my trunks! I demand it
of you as a favor, my good Mademoiselle Sambucco!"
The respectable lady paused: custom urged her to go; kindness inclined
her to stay; an atom of curiosity swayed the balance.
"I'm so glad!" cried Clementine, replacing her aunt's hood on the rack.
Mme. Renault did not yet know where they had put Leon's baggage. Gothon
came to say that everything had been thrown pell-mell into the
sorcerer's den, to remain there until Monsieur should point out what he
wanted taken to his own room. The whole company, armed with lamps and
candles, betook themselves to a vast room on the ground floor, where
furnaces, retorts, philosophical instruments, boxes, trunks, clothes
bags, hat boxes and the famous steam-engine, formed a confused and
entertaining spectacle. The light played about this interior, as it
appears to in certain pictures of the Dutch school. It glanced upon the
great yellow cylinders of the electric machine, struck upon the long
glass bottles, rebounded from two silver reflectors, and rested, in
passing, upon a magnificent Fortin barometer. The Renaults and their
friends, grouped in the midst of the boxes--some sitting, some standing,
one holding a lamp, another a candle--detracted nothing from the
picturesqueness of the scene.
Leon, with a bunch of little keys, opened the boxes one after another.
Clementine was seated opposite him on a great oblong box, and watched
him with all her eyes, more from affection than curiosity. They began by
setting to one side two enormous square boxes which contained nothing
but mineralogical specimens. After this they passed in review the riches
of all kinds which the engineer had crowded among his linen and
clothing.
A pleasant odor of Russia leather, tea from the caravans, Levant
tobacco, and attar of roses soon permeated the laboratory. Leon brought
forth a little at a time, as is the custom of all rich travellers who,
on leaving home, left a family and good stock of friends behind. He
exhibited, in turn, fabrics of the Asiatic looms, narghiles of embossed
silver from Persia, boxes of tea, sherbets flavored with rose, precious
extracts, golden webs from Tarjok, antique armor, a service of frosted
silver of Toula make, jewelry mounted in the Russian style, Caucasian
bracelets, necklaces of milky amber, and a leather sack full of
turquoises such as they sell at the fair of Nijni Novgorod. Each object
passed from hand to hand amid questions, explanations, and interjections
of all kinds. All the friends present received the gifts intended for
them. There was a concert of polite refusals, friendly urgings, and
'thank-yous' in all sorts of voices. It is unnecessary to say that much
the greater share fell to the lot of Clementine; but she did not wait to
be urged to accept them, for, in the existing state of affairs, all
these pretty things would be but as a part of the wedding gifts--not
going out of the family.
Leon had brought his father an exceedingly handsome dressing gown of a
cloth embroidered with gold, some antiquarian books found in Moscow, a
pretty picture by Greuze, which had been stuck out of the way, by the
luckiest of accidents, in a mean shop at Gastinitvor; two magnificent
specimens of rock-crystal, and a cane that had belonged to Humboldt.
"You see," said he to M. Renault, on handing him this historic staff,
"that the postscript of your last letter did not fall overboard." The
old professor received the present with visible emotion.
"I will never use it," said he to his son. "The Napoleon of science has
held it in his hand: what would one think if an old sergeant like me
should permit himself to carry it in his walks in the woods? And the
collections? Were you not able to buy anything from them? Did they sell
very high?"
"They were not sold," answered Leon. "All were placed in the National
Museum at Berlin. But in my eagerness to satisfy you, I made a thief of
myself in a strange way. The very day of my arrival, I told your wish to
a guide who was showing me the place. He told me that a friend of his, a
little Jew broker by the name of Ritter, wanted to sell a very fine
anatomical specimen that had belonged to the estate. I ran to the Jew's,
examined the mummy, for such it was, and, without any haggling, paid the
price he asked. But the next day, a friend of Humboldt, Professor Hirtz,
told me the history of this shred of a man, which had been lying around
the shop for more than ten years, and never belonged to Humboldt at all.
Where the deuce has Gothon stowed it? Ah! Mlle. Clementine is sitting on
it."
Clementine attempted to rise, but Leon made her keep seated.
"We have plenty of time," said he, "to take a look at the old baggage;
meanwhile you can well imagine that it is not a very cheerful sight.
This is the history that good old Hirtz told me; he promised to send
me, in addition, a copy of a very curious memoir on the same subject.
Don't go yet, my dear Mademoiselle Sambucco; I have a little military
and scientific romance for you. We will look at the mummy as soon as I
have acquainted you with his misfortunes."
"Aha!" cried M. Audret, the architect of the chateau, "it's the romance
of the mummy, is it, that you're going to tell us? Too late my poor
Leon! Theophile Gautier has gotten ahead of you, in the supplement to
the _Moniteur_, and all the world knows your Egyptian history."
"My history," said Leon, "is no more Egyptian than Manon Lescault. Our
excellent doctor Martout, here, ought to know the name of professor John
Meiser, of Dantzic; he lived at the beginning of this century, and I
think that his last work appeared in 1824 or 1825."
"In 1823," replied M. Martout. "Meiser is one of the scientific men who
have done Germany most honor. In the midst of terrible wars which
drenched his country in blood, he followed up the researches of
Leeuwenkoeck, Baker, Needham, Fontana, and Spallanzani, on the
revivification of animals. Our profession honors in him, one of the
fathers of modern biology."
"Heavens! What ugly big words!" cried Mlle. Sambucco. "Is it decent to
keep people till this time of night, to make them listen to Dutch."
"Don't listen to the big words, dear little auntey. Save yourself for
the romance, since there is one."
"A terrible one!" said Leon. "Mlle. Clementine is seated over a human
victim, sacrificed to science by professor Meiser."
Clementine instantly got up. Her fiance handed her a chair, and seated
himself in the place she had just left. The listeners, fearing that
Leon's romance might be in several volumes, took their places around
him, some on boxes, some on chairs.
CHAPTER III.
THE CRIME OF THE LEARNED PROFESSOR MEISER.
"Ladies," said Leon, "Professor Meiser was no vulgar malefactor, but a
man devoted to science and humanity. If he killed the French colonel who
at this moment reposes beneath my coat tails, it was for the sake of
saving his life, as well as of throwing light on a question of the
deepest interest, even to each one of you.
"The duration of our existence is very much too brief. That is a fact
which no man can contradict. We know that in a hundred years, not one of
the nine or ten persons assembled in this house will be living on the
face of the earth. Is not this a deplorable fact?"
Mlle. Sambucco heaved a heavy sigh, and Leon continued:
"Alas! Mademoiselle, like you I have sighed many a time at the
contemplation of this dire necessity. You have a niece, the most
beautiful and the most adorable of all nieces, and the sight of her
charming face gladdens your heart. But you yearn for something more; you
will not be satisfied until you have seen your little grand nephews
trotting around. You will see them I earnestly believe. But will you
see their children? It is doubtful. Their grandchildren? Impossible! In
regard to the tenth, twentieth, thirtieth generation, it is useless even
to dream.
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