Ten Tales

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So the description would continue--dazzling, Homeric.

"It is the hour for the regatta--noon--the sun just overhead. The boats
draw up in line on the sparkling river, before a tent gaudy with
streamers. On the bank the mayor with his staff of office, gendarmes in
yellow shoulder-belts, and a swarm of summer dresses, open parasols, and
straw hats. Bang! the signal-gun is fired. The _Marsouin_ shoots ahead
of all her competitors and easily gains the prize--and no fatigue! We go
around Marne, and, returning, dine at Creteil. How cool the evening in
the dusky arbor, where pipes glow through the darkness, and moths singe
their wings in the flame of the _omelette au kirsch_. At the end of a
dessert, served on decorated plates, we hear from the ball-room the call
of the cornet--'Take places for the quadrille!' But already a rival
crew, beaten that same morning, has monopolized the prettiest girls. A
fight!--teeth broken, eyes blackened, ugly falls, and whacks below the
belt; in a word, a poem of physical enthusiasm, of noisy hilarity, of
animal spirits, without speaking of the return at midnight, through
crowded stations, with girls whom we lift into the cars, friends
separated calling from one end of the train to the other, and fellows
playing a horn upon the roof."

And the evenings of my astonishing companion were not less full of
adventure than his Sundays. Collar-and-elbow wrestling in a tent, under
the red light of torches, between him--simple amateur--and Du Bois, the
iron man, in person; rat-chases near the mouths of sewers, with dogs as
fierce as tigers; sanguinary encounters at night, in the most dangerous
quarters, with ruffians and nose-eaters, were the most insignificant
episodes of his nightly career. Nor do I dare relate other adventures of
a more intimate character, from which, as the writers of an earlier day
would say in noble style, a pen the least timorous would recoil with
horror.

However painful it may be to confess an unworthy sentiment, I am obliged
to say that my admiration for Meurtrier was not unmixed with regret and
bitterness. Perhaps there was mingled with it something of envy. But the
recitation of his most marvellous exploits had never awakened in me the
least feeling of incredulity, and Achille Meurtrier easily took his
place in my mind among heroes and demigods, between Roland and
Pirithous.

II.

At this time I was a great wanderer in the suburbs, and I occupied the
leisure of my summer evenings by solitary walks in those distant
regions, as unknown to the Parisians of the boulevards as the country of
the Caribbees, and of whose sombre charm I endeavored later to tell in
verse.

One evening in July, hot and dusty, at the hour when the first
gas-lights were beginning to twinkle in the misty twilight, I was
walking slowly from Vaugirard through one of those long and depressing
suburban streets lined on each side by houses of unequal height, whose
porters and porteresses, in shirt sleeves and in calico, sat on the
steps and imagined that they were taking the fresh air. Hardly any one
passing in the whole street; perhaps, from end to end, a mason, white
with plaster, a sergeant-de-ville, a child carrying home a four-pound
loaf larger than himself, or a young girl hurrying on in hat and cloak,
with a leather bag on her arm; and every quarter-hour the half-empty
omnibus coming back to its place of departure with the heavy trot of its
tired horses.

Stumbling now and then on the pavement--for asphalt is an unknown luxury
in these places--I went down the street, tasting all the delights of a
stroller. Sometimes I stopped before a vacant lot to watch, through the
broken boards of the fence, the fading glories of the setting sun and
the black silhouettes of the chimneys thrown against a greenish sky.
Sometimes, through an open window on the ground-floor, I caught sight of
an interior, picturesque and familiar: here a jolly-looking laundress
holding her flat-iron to her cheek; there workmen sitting at tables and
smoking in the basement of a cabaret, while an old Bohemian with long
gray hair, standing before them, sang something about "Liberty,"
accompanying himself on a guitar about the color of bouillon--the scenes
of Chardin and Van Ostade.

Suddenly I stopped.

One of these personal pictures had caught my eye by its domestic and
charming simplicity.

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She looked so happy and peaceful in her quiet little room, the dear old
lady in her black gown and widow's cap, leaning back in an easy-chair
covered with green Utrecht velvet, and sitting quietly with her hands
folded on her lap. Everything around her was so old and simple, and
seemed to have been preserved, less through a wise economy than on
account of hallowed memories, since the honey-moon with monsieur of the
high complexion, in a frock-coat and flowered waistcoat, whose oval
crayon ornamented the wall. By two lamps on the mantle-shelf every
detail of the old-fashioned furniture could be distinguished, from the
clock on a fish of artificial and painted marble to the old and
antiquated piano, on which, without doubt, as a young girl, in
leg-of-mutton sleeves and with hair dressed _a la Grecque_, she had
played the airs of Romagnesi.

Certainly a loved and only daughter, remaining unmarried through her
affection for her mother, piously watched over the last years of the
widow. It was she, I was sure, who had so tenderly placed her dear
mother; she who had put the ottoman under her feet, she who had put near
her the inlaid table, and arranged on it the waiter and two cups. I
expected already to see her coming in carrying the evening coffee--the
sweet, calm girl, who should be dressed in mourning like the widow, and
resemble her very much.

Absorbed by the contemplation of a scene so sympathetic, and by the
pleasure of imagining that humble poem, I remained standing some steps
from the open window, sure of not being noticed in the dusky street,
when I saw a door open and there appeared--oh, how far he was from my
thoughts at that moment--my friend Meurtrier himself, the formidable
hero of tilts on the river and frays in unknown places.

A sudden doubt crossed me. I felt that I was on the point of discovering
a mystery.

It was indeed he. His terrible hairy hand held a tiny silver coffee-pot,
and he was followed by a poodle which greatly embarrassed his steps--a
valiant and classic poodle, the poodle of blind clarionet-players, a
poor beggar's poodle, a poodle clipped like a lion, with hairy ruffles
on his four paws, and a white mustache like a general of the Gymnase.

"Mamma," said the giant, in a tone of ineffable tenderness, "here is
your coffee. I am sure that you will find it nice to-night. The water
was boiling well, and I poured it on drop by drop."

"Thank you," said the old lady, rolling her easy-chair to the table with
an air; "thank you, my little Achille. Your dear father said many a time
that there was not my equal at making coffee--he was so kind and
indulgent, the dear, good man--but I begin to believe that you are even
better than I."

At that moment, and while Meurtrier was pouring out the coffee with all
the delicacy of a young girl, the poodle, excited no doubt by the
uncovered sugar, placed his forepaws on the lap of his mistress.

"Down, Medor," she cried, with a benevolent indignation. "Did any one
ever see such a troublesome animal? Look here, sir! you know very well
that your master never fails to give you the last of his cup.
By-the-way," added the widow, addressing her son, "you have taken the
poor fellow out, have you not?"

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"Certainly, mamma," he replied, in a tone that was almost infantile. "I
have just been to the creamery for your morning milk, and I put the
leash and collar on Medor and took him with me."

"And he has attended to all his little wants?"

"Don't be disturbed. He doesn't want anything."

Reassured on this point, important to canine hygiene, the good dame
drank her coffee, between her son and her dog, who each regarded her
with an inexpressible tenderness.

It was assuredly unnecessary to see or hear more. I had already descried
what a peaceful family life--upright, pure, and devoted--my friend
Meurtrier hid under his chimerical gasconades. But the spectacle with
which chance had favored me was at once so droll and so touching that I
could not resist the temptation to watch for some moments longer. That
indiscretion sufficed to show me the whole truth.

Yes, this type of roisterers, who seemed to have stepped from one of the
romances of Paul de Kock--this athlete, this despot of bar-rooms and
public-houses--performed simply and courageously, in these lowly rooms
in the suburbs, the sublime duties of a sister of charity. This intrepid
oarsman had never made a longer voyage than to conduct his mother to
mass or vespers every Sunday. This billiard expert knew only how to play
bezique. This trainer of bull-dogs was the submissive slave of a
poodle. This Mauvaise-Philibert was an Antigone.

III.

The next morning, on arriving at the office, I asked Meurtrier how he
had employed the previous evening, and he instantly improvised, without
a moment's hesitation, an account of a sharp encounter on the boulevard
at two in the morning, when he had knocked down with a single blow of
his fist, having passed his thumb through the ring of his keys, a
terrible street rough. I listened, smiling ironically, and thinking to
confound him; but remembering how respectable a virtue is which is
hidden even under an absurdity, I struck him amicably on the shoulder,
and said, with conviction:

"Meurtrier, you are a hero!"

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