CHAPTER XIII
THE FORCED FRIENDSHIP
We shall now conduct the reader to the house in the Rue du Temple, about three o'clock on the day in which M. d'Harville terminated his existence. At the time mentioned, the conscientious and indefatigable M. Pipelet sat alone in his lodge, occupied in repairing the boot which had, more than once, fallen from his hand during Cabrion's last attack; the physiognomy of the delicate-minded porter was dejected, and exhibited a more than usually melancholy air.
All at once a loud and shrill voice was heard calling from the upper part of the house, exclaiming, in tones which reëchoed down the staircase:
"M. Pipelet! M. Pipelet! Make haste! Come up as fast as you can! Madame Pipelet is taken very ill!"
"God bless me!" cried Alfred, rising from his stool. "Anastasie ill!" But, quickly resuming his seat, he said to himself, "What a simpleton I must be to believe such a thing! My wife has been gone out more than an hour! Ah, but may she not have returned without my observing it? Certainly, such a mode of proceeding would be somewhat irregular, but I am not the less bound to admit that it is possible."
"M. Pipelet!" called out the up-stairs voice again. "Pray come as quickly as you can; I am holding your wife in my arms!"
"Holloa!" said Pipelet, springing up abruptly. "Somebody got my wife in his arms!"
"I really cannot manage to unlace Madame Pipelet's stays by myself!" screamed out the voice, in tones louder than before.
These words perfectly electrified Alfred, and the blush of offended modesty empurpled his melancholy features.
"Sir-r-r!" cried he in a stentorian voice, as he rushed frantically from his lodge. "Sir-r-r! I adjure you, in the name of Honour, to leave my wife and her stays alone! I come! I come!"
And so saying, Alfred dashed into the dark labyrinth called a staircase, forgetting, in his excitement, to close the door of the lodge after him.
Scarcely had he quitted it than an individual entered quickly, snatched from the table the cobbler's hammer, sprung on the bed, and, by means of four small tacks, previously inserted into each corner of a thick cardboard he carried with him, nailed the cardboard to the back of the dark recess in which stood Pipelet's bed; then disappeared as quickly as he had come. So expeditiously was the operation performed, that the porter, having almost immediately recollected his omission respecting the closing the lodge door, hastily descended, and both shut and locked it; then putting the key in his pocket, returned with all speed to succour his wife above-stairs, without the slightest suspicion crossing his mind that any foot had trod there since his own. Having taken this precautionary measure, Alfred again darted off to the assistance of Anastasie, exclaiming, with all the power of his lungs:
"Sir-r-r! I come! Behold me! I place my wife beneath the safeguard of your delicacy!"
But a fresh surprise awaited the worthy porter, and had well-nigh caused him to fall from the height he had ascended to the sill of his own lodge, – the voice of her he expected to find fainting in the arms of some unknown individual was now heard, not from the upper part of the house, but at the entrance! In well-known accents, but sharper and shriller than usual, he heard Anastasie exclaim:
"Why, Alfred! What do you mean by leaving the lodge? Where have you got to, you old gossip?"
At this appeal, M. Pipelet managed to descend as far as the first landing, where he remained petrified with astonishment, gazing downwards with fixed stare, open mouth, and one foot drawn up in the most ludicrous manner.
"Alfred, I say!" screamed Madame Pipelet, a second time, in a voice loud enough to awake the dead.
"Anastasie down there? Then it is impossible she can be ill up-stairs," said Pipelet, mentally, faithful to his system of close and logical argumentation. "Whose, then, was the manly voice that spoke of her illness, and of his undoing her stays? An impostor, doubtless, to whom my distraction and alarm have been a matter of amusement; but what motive could he have had in thus working upon my susceptible feelings? Something very extraordinary is going on here. However, as soon as I have been to answer my wife's inquiry, I will return to clear up this mystery, and to discover the person whose voice summoned me in such haste."
In considerable agitation did M. Pipelet descend, and find himself in his wife's presence.
"It is you, then, this time?" inquired he.
"Of course it is me; who did you expect it was?"
"'Tis you, indeed! My senses do not deceive me!"
"Alfred, what is the matter with you? Why do you stand there, staring and opening your mouth, as if you meant to swallow me?"
"Because your presence reveals to me that strange things are passing here, so strange that – "
"Oh, stuff and nonsense! Give me the key of the lodge! What made you leave it when I was out? I have just come from the office where the diligence starts from for Normandy. I went there in a coach to take M. Bradamanti's trunk, as he did not wish that little rascal, Tortillard, to know anything about it, since, it seems, he had rather no one should be acquainted with the fact of his leaving Paris this evening; and, as for his mistrusting the boy, why, I don't wonder at it."
Saying these words, Madame Pipelet took the key from her husband's hand, opened the lodge, and entered it before her partner; but scarcely were they both safe within its dark recesses, than an individual, lightly descending the staircase, passed swiftly and unobserved before the lodge. This personage was Cabrion, who, having managed to steal up-stairs, had so powerfully worked upon the porter's tender susceptibilities. M. Pipelet threw himself into his chair, saying to his wife, in a voice of deep emotion:
"Anastasie; I do not feel myself comfortable to-day; strange and mysterious things are going on in this house."
"What! Are you going to break out again? What an old fool you are! Why, strange things happen in every house. What has come over you? Come, let's look at you! Well, I declare, you are all of a sweat, just as if you had been dragged out of the water! What have you been doing since I left you? Overexerting yourself, I am sure, and I forbid you ever doing so. La! Look how the great drops pour from him, poor old chick!"
"And well they may!" exclaimed M. Pipelet, passing his hand over his face, bathed in its own dew; "well may I sweat, – ay, even blood and water, – for there are facts connected with this house past belief or comprehension. First, you summon me up-stairs, and, at the same moment, I find you waiting below! Oh, it is too, too much for my poor brain!"
"Deuce take me, if I can comprehend one word of all you are saying! Lord, help us! It is to be hoped your poor old brain is not cracked. I tell you what, if you go on so, I shall just set you down for cracked; and all through that scamp of a Cabrion, – the devil take him! Ever since that last trick he played the other day, I declare you have not been yourself, so flustered and bewildered! Do you mean to live in fear and dread of that abominable painter all your days?"
But scarcely had Anastasie uttered these words than a fearful thing occurred. Alfred continued sitting, with his face turned towards the bed, while the lodge was dimly illumined by the faint glimmer of a winter's afternoon and a lamp that stood burning on the table, near Alfred's work. By these doubtful lights, M. Pipelet, just as his wife pronounced the name of Cabrion, imagined he saw, in the shadow of the recess, the half stolid, half chuckling features of his enemy. Alas! Too truly, there he was. His steeple-crowned hat, his flowing locks, thin countenance, sardonic smile, pointed beard, and look of fiendish malice, all were there, past all mistake. For a moment, M. Pipelet believed himself under the influence of a dream, and passed his hand across his eyes, in hopes that the illusion might disperse; but no; there was nothing illusive in what his eyes glared so fearfully upon, – nothing could be more real or positive. Yet, horror of horrors! This object seemed merely to possess a head, which, without allowing any part of the body to appear, grinned a satanic smile from the dark draperies of the recess in which stood the bed. At this horrific vision M. Pipelet fell back, without uttering a word. With uplifted arm he pointed towards the source of his terrors, but with so strong a manifestation of intense alarm that Madame Pipelet, spite of her usual courage and self-possession, could not help feeling a dread of – she knew not what. She staggered back a few steps, then, seizing Alfred by the hand, exclaimed:
"Cabrion!"
"I know it!" groaned forth M. Pipelet, in a deep, hollow voice, shutting his eyes to exclude the frightful spectre.
Nothing could have borne more flattering tribute to the talent which had so admirably delineated the features of Cabrion than the overwhelming terror his pasteboard likeness occasioned to the worthy couple in the lodge; but the first surprise of Anastasie over, she, bold as a lioness, rushed to the bed, sprang upon it, and, though not without some trepidation, tore the painting from the wall, against which it had been nailed; then, crowning her valiant deed by her accustomed favourite expression, the amazon triumphantly exclaimed:
"Get along with you!"
Alfred, on the contrary, remained with closed eyes and extended hands, fixed and motionless, according to his wont during the most critical passages of his life; the continued oscillation of his bell-crowned hat alone revealing, from time to time, the violence of his internal emotions.
"Open your eyes, my old duck!" cried Madame Pipelet, triumphantly. "It is nothing to be afraid of, only a picture, a portrait of that scoundrel Cabrion. Look here, lovey, – look at 'Stasie stamping on it!" continued the indignant wife, throwing the painting on the ground, and jumping upon it with all her force; then added, "Ah, I wish I had the villain here, to serve the same! I'll warrant I'd mark him for life!" Then, picking up the portrait, she said, "Well, I've served you out, anyhow! Just look, old dear, if I haven't!"
But poor Alfred, with a disconsolate shake of the head, made signs that he had rather not, and further intimating, by expressive gestures, his earnest desire that his wife would remove the detested likeness of his bitter foe far from his view.
"Well," cried the porteress, examining the portrait by the aid of the lamp, "was there ever such imperance? Why, Alfred, the vile feller has presumed to write in red letters at the bottom of the picture, 'To my dear friend Pipelet; presented by his friend for life, Cabrion!'"
"For life!" groaned Pipelet; then, heaving a deep sigh, he added, "Yes, 'tis my life he aims at; and he will finish by taking it. I shall exist, from this day forward, in a state of continual alarm, believing that the fiend who torments me is ever near, – hid, perhaps, in the floor, the wall, the ceiling, and thence watches me throughout the day; or even at night, when sleeping in the chaste arms of my wife, his eye is still on me. And who can tell but he is at this very instant behind me, gazing with that well-known sardonic grin; or crouched down in some corner of the room, like a deadly reptile! Say, you monster, are you there? Are you there, I demand?" cried M. Pipelet, accompanying this furious adjuration by a sort of circular motion of the head, as though wishing to interrogate every nook and corner of the lodge.
"Yes, dear friend, here I am!" answered the well-known voice of Cabrion, in blandly affectionate tones.
By a simple trick in ventriloquism, these words were made to appear as though issuing from the recess in which stood the bed; but the malicious joker was in reality close to the door of the lodge, enjoying every particular look and word that passed within. However, after uttering the last few words, he prudently disappeared with all haste, though not (as will be seen) without leaving his victim a fresh subject for rage, astonishment, and meditation.
Madame Pipelet, still skeptical and courageous, carefully examined under the bed, as well as in every corner of the lodge, but, discovering no trace of the enemy, actually went out into the alley to prosecute her researches; while M. Pipelet, completely crushed by this last blow, fell back into his chair in a state of boundless despair.
"Never mind, Alfred!" said Anastasie, who always exhibited great determination upon all critical occasions. "Bless you! The villain had managed to hide himself somewhere near the door, and, while we were looking in one direction, he managed to slip out in another. But just wait a bit: I shall catch him one of these days, and then see if I don't make him taste my broomstick! Let him take care, that's all!"
The door opened as she concluded this animating address, and Madame Séraphin, the housekeeper of the notary, Jacques Ferrand, entered the lodge.
"Good day, Madame Séraphin," said Madame Pipelet, who, in her extreme anxiety to conceal her domestic troubles from a stranger, assumed all at once a most gracious and winning manner; "what can I have the pleasure of doing for you?"
"Why, first of all, tell me what is the meaning of your new sign?"
"Our new sign?"
"Yes; the small printed board."
"Printed board!"
"To be sure; that black board with red letters, hung over the door leading from the alley up to your lodge."
"What, out in the street?"
"In the street, I tell you, precisely over your door."
"I wish I may die if I understand a single word of what you are talking about! Do you, old dear?"
Alfred spoke not.
"Certainly," continued Madame Séraphin, "since it relates to M. Pipelet, he can best explain to me what this board means."
Alfred uttered a sort of heavy, inarticulate groan, while his bell-crowned hat recommenced its convulsive agitations. This pantomimic action was meant to express that Alfred was in no condition to explain anything to anybody, having his mind already sufficiently burdened with an infinity of problematical questions he sought in vain to solve.
"Don't take any notice of poor dear Alfred, Madame Séraphin; he has got the cramp in his stomach, and that makes him so very – But what is this board of which you were speaking? Very likely it has just been put up by the man who keeps the wine-shop at the corner."
"I tell you again it is no such thing. It is a small painted board, hung up over your door, – I mean the door leading from the alley to the street."
"Ah, you are laughing at us!"
"Indeed I am not. I saw it just now, as I came in; on it is written, in large letters, 'Pipelet and Cabrion, dealers in Friendship and similar Articles. Inquire of the Porter.'"
"Gracious goodness! Do you hear that, Alfred? Do you hear what is written up over our door?"
Alfred gazed at Madame Séraphin with a bewildered look, but he neither understood nor sought to understand her meaning.
"Do you mean to say," continued Madame Pipelet, confounded by this fresh audacity, "that you positively saw a little board out in the street with all that about Alfred and Cabrion, and dealing in friendship?"
"I tell you I have just seen it, and read with my own eyes what I described to you. 'Well,' said I to myself, 'this is droll enough! M. Pipelet is a shoemaker by trade, but here he writes up publicly that he is a dealer in friendship along with a M. Cabrion! What can all this mean? There is something meant more than meets the eye!' Still, as the board further directed all persons desirous of knowing more to apply to the porter, 'Oh,' thinks I, 'Madame Pipelet can explain all this to me!' But, look, look!" cried Madame Séraphin, suddenly breaking off in her remarks. "Your husband is taken ill! Mind what you are about, or he will fall backwards!"
Madame Pipelet flew to her afflicted partner, and was just in time to receive him, half fainting, in her arms. The last blow had been too overwhelming, – the man in the bell-crowned hat had but just strength left to murmur forth, "The scoundrel has, then, publicly placarded me!"
"I told you, Madame Séraphin, that poor Alfred was suffering dreadful with the cramp in his stomach, besides being worried to death by a crack-brained vagabond, who is at him night and day: he'll be the death of my poor old duck at last. Never mind, darling, I've got a nice little drop of aniseed to give you; so drink it, and see if you can't shake your old feathers and be yourself again!"
Thanks to the timely application of Madame Pipelet's infallible remedy, Alfred gradually recovered his senses; but, alas, scarcely was he restored to full consciousness ere he was subjected to another and equally cruel trial of his feelings!
An individual of middle age, respectably dressed, and possessing a countenance so simple, or rather so silly, as to render it impossible to suspect him of any malice prepense or intended irony, opened the upper and glazed part of the lodge door, saying, with the most genuine air of mystification:
"I have just read on a small board placed over the door, at the entrance to the alley, the following words: 'Pipelet and Cabrion, dealers in Friendship and similar Articles. Inquire of the Porter.' Will you oblige me by explaining the meaning of those words, if you are, as I presume you to be, the porter in question?"
"The meaning!" exclaimed M. Pipelet, in a voice of thunder, and giving vent at length to his so long restrained indignation; "the meaning is simply, sir-r-r, that M. Cabrion is an infamous scoundrel, – an impostor!"
The simple-looking interrogator drew back, in dread of the consequences that might follow this sudden and furious burst of wrath, while, wrought up to a state of fury, Alfred leaned over the half door of the lodge, his glaring eyeballs and clenched hands indicating the intensity of his feelings; while the figures of Madame Séraphin and Anastasie were dimly revealed amid the murky shades of the small room.
"Let me tell you, sir-r-r!" cried M. Pipelet, addressing the placid-looking man at the door, "that I have no dealings with that beggar Cabrion, and certainly none in the way of friendship!"
"No, that I'm sure you have not!" screamed out Madame Pipelet, in confirmation of her husband's words; adding, as she displayed her forbidding countenance over her husband's shoulder, "and I wonder very much where that old dunderhead has come from to ask such a stupid question?"
"I beg your pardon, madame," said the guileless-looking individual thus addressed, again withdrawing another step to escape the concentrated anger of the enraged pair; "placards are made to be read, – you put out a board, which I read, – now allow me to say that I am not to blame for perusing what you set up purposely to attract attention, but that you are decidedly wrong to insult me so grossly when I civilly come to you, as your own board desires, for information."
"Oh, you old fool! Get along with you!" exclaimed Anastasie, with a most hideous distortion of visage.
"You are a rude, unmannerly woman!"
"Alfred, deary, just fetch me your boot-jack: I'll give that old chatterer such a mark that his own mother shall not know her darling again!"
"Really, madame, I can't say I understand receiving such rough treatment when I come, by your own directions, to make inquiries respecting what you or your husband have publicly notified in the streets."
"But, sir-r-r – !" cried the unhappy porter.
"Sir!" interrupted the hitherto placid inquirer, now worked up into extreme rage, "Sir! You may carry your friendship with your M. Cabrion as far as you please, but, give me leave to tell you, you have no business to parade yourself or your friendships in the face of everybody in the streets. And I think it right, sir, to let you know a bit of my mind; which is, that you are a boasting braggart, and that I shall go at once and lay a formal complaint against you at the police office." Saying which, the individual departed in an apparently towering passion.
"Anastasie," moaned out poor Pipelet, in a dolorous voice, "I shall never survive all this! I feel but too surely that I am struck with death, – I have not a hope of escape! You hear my name is publicly exposed in the open streets, in company with that scoundrel's! He has dared to placard the hideous tale of my having entered into a treaty of friendship with him! And the innocent, unsuspecting public will read the hateful statement – remember it – repeat it – spread the detestable report! Oh, monstrous, enormous, devilish invention! None but a fiend could have had such a thought. But there must be an end to this. The measure is full, – ay, to overflowing; and things have come to such a pass that either this accursed painter or myself must perish in the deadly struggle!" And, wrought up to such a state of vigorous resolution as to completely conquer his usual apathy, M. Pipelet seized the portrait of Cabrion and rushed towards the door.
"Where are you going, Alfred?" screamed the wife.
"To the commissary of police, and, at the same time, to tear down that vile board! Then, bearing the board in one hand and the portrait in the other, I will cry aloud to the commissary, 'Defend, avenge an injured man! Deliver me from Cabrion!'"
"So do, old darling! There, hold up your head and pluck up courage! And I tell you what, if the board is too high for you to reach, ask the man at the wine-shop to lend you his small ladder. That blackguard of a Cabrion! I only wish I had him in my power, I'd fry him for half an hour in my largest stew-pan! Why, scores of people have been publicly executed who did not deserve death a quarter as much as he does! The villain! I should like to see him just ready to have the guillotine dropped upon his head. Wouldn't I give him my blessing in a friendly way? A rascal!"
Alfred, amid all his woes, yet displayed a rare magnanimity, contrasting strongly with the vindictive spirit of his partner.
"No, no," said he; "spite of the wrongs he has done me, I would not, even if his life were in my power, 'demand his head!'"
"But I would! I would! I would!" vociferated the ferocious Anastasie. "If he had fifty heads, I would demand every one of them! I would not leave him one! But go along; make haste, Alfred, and set the commissary of police to work upon him."
"No," cried Alfred, "I desire not his blood; but I have a right to demand the perpetual imprisonment of this malicious being. My repose requires it, – my health peremptorily calls for it. The laws of my country must either grant me this reparation for all I have suffered, or I quit France. Yes, beautiful and beloved France! I turn my back on you for ever! And that is all an ungrateful nation would gain by neglecting to heal the wounds of my tortured mind;" and, bending beneath the weight of his grief, Alfred majestically quitted the lodge, like one of the ancient victims of all-conquering Fatality.