CHAPTER XIX. THE CHOLERA MASQUERADE.(39)
A stream of people, who preceded the masquerade, made a sudden irruption through the arch into the square, uttering loud cheers as they advanced. Children were also there, blowing horns, whilst some hooted and others hissed.
The quarryman, Ciboule, and their band, attracted by this new spectacle, rushed tumultuously towards the arch. Instead of the two eating-houses, which now (1845) stand on either side of the Rue d’Arcole, there was then only one, situated to the left of the vaulted passage, and much celebrated amongst the joyous community of students, for the excellence both of its cookery and its wines. At the first blare of the trumpets, sounded by the outriders in livery who preceded the masquerade, the windows of the great room of the eating-house were thrown open, and several waiters, with their napkins under their arms, leaned forward, impatient to witness the arrival of the singular guests they were expecting.
At length, the grotesque procession made its appearance in the thick of an immense uproar. The train comprised a chariot, escorted by men and women on horseback, clad in rich and elegant fancy dresses. Most of these maskers belonged to the middle and easy classes of society. The report had spread that masquerade was in preparation, for the purpose of daring the cholera, and, by this joyous demonstration, to revive the courage of the affrighted populace. Immediately, artists, young men about town, students, and so on, responded to the appeal, and though till now unknown one to the other, they easily fraternized together. Many brought their mistresses, to complete the show. A subscription had been opened to defray the expenses, and, that morning, after a splendid breakfast at the other end of Paris, the joyous troop had started bravely on their march, to finish the day by a dinner in the square of Notre Dame.
We say bravely, for it required a singular turn of mind, a rare firmness of character, in young women, to traverse, in this fashion, a great city plunged in consternation and terror—to fall in at every step with litters loaded with the dying, and carriages filled with the dead—to defy, as it were, in a spirit of strange pleasantry, the plague that was detonating the Parisians. It is certain that, in Paris alone, and there only amongst a peculiar class, could such an idea have ever been conceived or realized. Two men, grotesquely disguised as postilions at a funeral, with formidable false noses, rose-colored crape hat-bands and large favors of roses and crape bows at their buttonholes, rode before the vehicle. Upon the platform of the car were groups of allegorical personages, representing WINE, PLEASURE, LOVE, PLAY. The mission of these symbolical beings was, by means of jokes, sarcasms, and mockeries, to plague the life out of Goodman Cholera, a sort of funeral and burlesque Cassander, whom they ridiculed and made game of in a hundred ways. The moral of the play was this: “To brave Cholera in security, let us drink, laugh, game, and make love!”
WINE was represented by a huge, lusty Silenus, thick-set, and with swollen paunch, a crown of ivy on his brow, a panther’s skin across his shoulder, and in his hand a large gilt goblet, wreathed with flowers. None other than Ninny Moulin, the famous moral and religious writer, could have exhibited to the astonished and delighted spectators an ear of so deep a scarlet, so majestic an abdomen, and a face of such triumphant and majestic fulness. Every moment, Ninny Moulin appeared to empty his cup—after which he burst out laughing in the face of Goodman Cholera. Goodman Cholera, a cadaverous pantaloon, was half-enveloped in a shroud; his mask of greenish cardboard, with red, hollow eyes, seemed every moment to grin as in mockery of death; from beneath his powdered peruke, surmounted by a pyramidical cotton night-cap, appeared his neck and arm, dyed of a bright green color; his lean hand, which shook almost always with a feverish trembling (not feigned, but natural), rested upon a crutch-handled cane; finally, as was becoming in a pantaloon, he wore red stockings, with buckles at the knees, and high slippers of black beaver. This grotesque representative of the cholera was Sleepinbuff.
Notwithstanding a slow and dangerous fever, caused by the excessive use of brandy, and by constant debauchery, that was silently undermining his constitution, Jacques Rennepont had been induced by Morok to join the masquerade. The brute-tamer himself, dressed as the King of Diamonds, represented PLAY. His forehead was adorned with a diadem of gilded paper, his face was pale and impassible, and as his long, yellow beard fell down the front of his parti-colored robe, Morok looked exactly the character he personated. From time to time, with an air of grave mockery, he shook close to the eyes of Goodman Cholera a large bag full of sounding counters, and on this bag were painted all sorts of playing cards. A certain stiffness in the right arm showed that the lion-tamer had not yet quite recovered from the effects of the wound which the panther had inflicted before being stabbed by Djalma.
PLEASURE, who also represented Laughter, classically shook her rattle, with its sonorous gilded bells, close to the ears of Goodman Cholera. She was a quick, lively young girl, and her fine black hair was crowned with a scarlet cap of liberty. For Sleepinbuff’s sake, she had taken the place of the poor Bacchanal queen, who would not have failed to attend on such an occasion—she, who had been so valiant and gay, when she bore her part in a less philosophical, but not less amusing masquerade. Another pretty creature, Modeste Bornichoux, who served as a model to a painter of renown (one of the cavaliers of the procession), was eminently successful in her representation of LOVE. He could not have had a more charming face, and more graceful form. Clad in a light blue spangled tunic, with a blue and silver band across her chestnut hair, and little transparent wings affixed to her white shoulders, she placed one forefinger upon the other, and pointed with the prettiest impertinence at Goodman Cholera. Around the principal group, other maskers, more or less grotesque in appearance, waved each a banner, an which were inscriptions of a very anacreontic character, considering the circumstances:
“Down with the Cholera!” “Short and sweet!” “Laugh away, laugh always!” “We’ll collar the Cholera!” “Love forever!” “Wine forever!” “Come if you dare, old terror!”
There was really such audacious gayety in this masquerade, that the greater number of the spectators, at the moment when it crossed the square, in the direction of the eating-house, where dinner was waiting, applauded it loudly and repeatedly. This sort of admiration, which courage, however mad and blind, almost always inspires, appeared to others (a small number, it must be confessed) a kind of defiance to the wrath of heaven; and these received the procession with angry murmurs. This extraordinary spectacle, and the different impressions it produced, were too remote from all customary facts to admit of a just appreciation. We hardly know if this daring bravado was deserving of praise or blame.
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Besides, the appearance of those plagues, which from age to age decimate the population of whole countries, has almost always been accompanied by a sort of mental excitement, which none of those who have been spared by the contagion can hope to escape. It is a strange fever of the mind, which sometimes rouses the most stupid prejudices and the most ferocious passions, and sometimes inspires, on the contrary, the most magnificent devotion, the most courageous actions—with some, driving the fear of death to a point of the wildest terror—with others, exciting the contempt of life to express itself in the most audacious bravadoes. Caring little for the praise or blame it might deserve, the masquerade arrived before the eating-house, and made its entry in the midst of universal acclamations. Everything seemed to combine to give full effect to this strange scene, by the opposition of the most singular contrasts. Thus the tavern, in which was to be held this extraordinary feast, being situated at no great distance from the antique cathedral, and the gloomy hospital, the religious anthems of the ancient temple, the cries of the dying, and the bacchanalian songs of the banqueteers, must needs mingle, and by turns drown one another. The maskers now got down from their chariot, and from their horses, and went to take their places at the repast, which was waiting for them. The actors in the masquerade are at table in the great room of the tavern. They are joyous, noisy, even riotous. Yet their gayety has a strange tone, peculiar to itself.
Sometimes, the most resolute involuntarily remember that their life is at stake in this mad and audacious game with destiny. That fatal thought is rapid as the icy fever-shudder, which chills you in an instant; therefore, from time to time, an abrupt silence, lasting indeed only for a second, betrays these passing emotions which are almost immediately effaced by new bursts of joyful acclamation, for each one says to himself: “No weakness! my chum and my girl are looking at me!”
And all laugh, and knock glasses together, and challenge the next man, and drink out of the glass of the nearest woman. Jacques had taken off the mask and peruke of Goodman Cholera. His thin, leaden features, his deadly paleness, the lurid brilliancy of his hollow eyes, showed the incessant progress of the slow malady which was consuming this unfortunate man, brought by excesses to the last extremity of weakness. Though he felt the slow fire devouring his entrails, he concealed his pain beneath a forced and nervous smile.
To the left of Jacques was Morok, whose fatal influence was ever on the increase, and to his right the girl disguised as PLEASURE. She was named Mariette. By her side sat Ninny Moulin, in all his majestic bulk, who often pretended to be looking for his napkin under the table, in order to have the opportunity of pressing the knees of his other neighbor, Modeste, the representative of LOVE. Most of the guests were grouped according to their several tastes, each tender pair together, and the bachelors where they could. They had reached the second course, and the excellence of the wine, the good cheer, the gay speeches, and even the singularity of the occasion, had raised their spirits to a high degree of excitement, as may be gathered from the extraordinary incidents of the following scene.
(39) We read in the Constitutionnel, Saturday March 31st, 1832: “The Parisians readily conform to that part of the official instructions with regard to the cholera, which prescribes, as a preservation from the disease, not to be afraid, to amuse one’s self, etc. The pleasures of Mid-Lent have been as brilliant and as mad as those of the carnival itself. For a long time past there had not been so many balls at this period of the year. Even the cholera has been made the subject of an itinerant caricature.”
CHAPTER XX. THE DEFIANCE.
Two or three times, without being remarked by the guests, one of the waiters had come to whisper to his fellows, and point with expressive gesture to the ceiling. But his comrades had taken small account of his observations or fears, not wishing, doubtless, to disturb the guests, whose mad gayety seemed ever on the increase.
“Who can doubt now of the superiority of our manner of treating this impertinent Cholera? Has he dared even to touch our sacred battalion?” said a magnificent mountebank-Turk, one of the standard-bearers of the masquerade.
“Here is all the mystery,” answered another. “It is very simple. Only laugh in the face of the plague, and it will run away from you.”
“And right enough too, for very stupid work it does,” added a pretty little Columbine, emptying her glass.
“You are right, my darling; it is intolerably stupid work,” answered the Clown belonging to the Columbine; “here you are very quiet, enjoying life, and all on a sudden you die with an atrocious grimace. Well! what then? Clever, isn’t it? I ask you, what does it prove?”
“It proves,” replied an illustrious painter of the romantic school, disguised like a Roman out of one of David’s pictures, “it proves that the Cholera is a wretched colorist, for he has nothing but a dirty green on his pallet. Evidently he is a pupil of Jacobus, that king of classical painters, who are another species of plagues.”
“And yet, master,” added respectfully a pupil of the great painter, “I have seen some cholera patients whose convulsions were rather fine, and their dying looks first-rate!”
“Gentlemen,” cried a sculptor of no less celebrity, “the question lies in a nutshell. The Cholera is a detestable colorist, but a good draughtsman. He shows you the skeleton in no time. By heaven! how he strips off the flesh!—Michael Angelo would be nothing to him.”
“True,” cried they all, with one voice; “the Cholera is a bad colorist, but a good draughtsman.”
“Moreover, gentlemen,” added Ninny Moulin, with comic gravity, “this plague brings with it a providential lesson, as the great Bossuet would have said.”
“The lesson! the lesson!”
“Yes, gentlemen; I seem to hear a voice from above, proclaiming: ‘Drink of the best, empty your purse, and kiss your neighbor’s wife; for your hours are perhaps numbered, unhappy wretch!’”
So saying, the orthodox Silenus took advantage of a momentary absence of mind on the part of Modeste, his neighbor, to imprint on the blooming cheek of LOVE a long, loud kiss. The example was contagious, and a storm of kisses was mingled with bursts of laughter.
“Ha! blood and thunder!” cried the great painter as he gayly threatened Ninny Moulin; “you are very lucky that to-morrow will perhaps be the end of the world, or else I should pick a quarrel with you for having kissed my lovely LOVE.”
“Which proves to you, O Rubens! O Raphael! the thousand advantages of the Cholera, whom I declare to be essentially sociable and caressing.”
“And philanthropic,” said one of the guests; “thanks to him, creditors take care of the health of their debtors. This morning a usurer, who feels a particular interest in my existence, brought me all sorts of anti-choleraic drugs, and begged me to make use of them.”
“And I!” said the pupil of the great painter. “My tailor wished to force me to wear a flannel band next to the skin, because I owe him a thousand crowns. But I answered ‘Oh, tailor, give me a receipt in full, and I will wrap myself up in flannel, to preserve you my custom!’”
“O Cholera, I drink to thee!” said Ninny Moulin, by way of grotesque invocation. “You are not Despair; on the contrary, you are the emblem of Hope—yes, of hope. How many husbands, how many wives, longed for a number (alas! too uncertain chance) in the lottery of widowhood! You appear, and their hearts are gladdened. Thanks to you, benevolent pest! their chances of liberty are increased a hundredfold.”
“And how grateful heirs ought to be! A cold—a heat—a trifle—and there, in an hour, some old uncle becomes a revered benefactor!”
“And those who are always looking out for other people’s places—what an ally they must find in the Cholera!”
“And how true it will make many vows of constancy!” said Modeste, sentimentally. “How many villains have sworn to a poor, weak woman, to love her all their lives, who never meant (the wretches!) to keep their word so well!”
“Gentlemen,” cried Ninny Moulin, “since we are now, perhaps, at the eve of the end of the world, as yonder celebrated painter has expressed it, I propose to play the world topsy-turvy: I beg these ladies to make advances to us, to tease us, to excite us, to steal kisses from us, to take all sorts of liberties with us, and (we shall not die of it) even to insult us. Yes, I declare that I will allow myself to be insulted. So, LOVE, you may offer me the greatest insult that can be offered to a virtuous and modest bachelor,” added the religious writer, leaning over towards his neighbor, who repulsed him with peals of laughter; and the proposal of Ninny Moulin being received with general hilarity, a new impulse was given to the mirth and riot.
In the midst of the uproar, the waiter, who had before entered the room several times, to whisper uneasily to his comrades, whilst he pointed to the ceiling, again appeared with a pale and agitated countenance; approaching the man who performed the office of butler, he said to him, in a low voice, tremulous with emotion: “They are come!”
“Who?”
“You know—up there”; and he pointed to the ceiling.
“Oh!” said the butler, becoming thoughtful; “where are they?”
“They have just gone upstairs; they are there now,” answered the waiter, shaking his head with an air of alarm; “yes, they are there!”
“What does master say?”
“He is very vexed, because—” and the waiter glanced round at the guests. “He does not know what to do; he has sent me to you.”
“What the devil have I to do with it?” said the other; wiping his forehead. “It was to be expected, and cannot be helped.”
“I will not remain here till they begin.”
“You may as well go, for your long face already attracts attention. Tell master we must wait for the upshot.”
The above incident was scarcely perceived in the midst of the growing tumult of the joyous feast. But, among the guests, one alone laughed not, drank not. This was Jacques. With fixed and lurid eye, he gazed upon vacancy. A stranger to what was passing around him, the unhappy man thought of the Bacchanal Queen, who had been so gay and brilliant in the midst of similar saturnalia. The remembrance of that one being, whom he still loved with an extravagant love, was the only thought that from time to time roused him from his besotted state.
It is strange, but Jacques had only consented to join this masquerade because the mad scene reminded him of the merry day he had spent with Cephyse—that famous breakfast, after a night of dancing, in which the Bacchanal Queen, from some extraordinary presentiment, had proposed a lugubrious toast with regard to this very pestilence, which was then reported to be approaching France. “To the Cholera!” had she said. “Let him spare those who wish to live, and kill at the same moment those who dread to part!”
And now, at this time, remembering those mournful words, Jacques was absorbed in painful thought. Morok perceived his absence of mind, and said aloud to him, “You have given over drinking, Jacques. Have you had enough wine? Then you will want brandy. I will send for some.”
“I want neither wine nor brandy,” answered Jacques, abruptly, and he fell back into a sombre reverie.
“Well, you may be right,” resumed Morok, in a sardonic tone, and raising his voice still higher. “You do well to take care of yourself. I was wrong to name brandy in these times. There would be as much temerity in facing a bottle of brandy as the barrel of a loaded pistol.”
On hearing his courage as a toper called in question, Sleepinbuff looked angrily at Morok. “You think it is from cowardice that I will not drink brandy!” cried the unfortunate man, whose half-extinguished intellect was roused to defend what he called his dignity. “Is it from cowardice that I refuse, d’ye think, Morok? Answer me!”
“Come, my good fellow, we have all shown our pluck today,” said one of the guests to Jacques; “you, above all, who, being rather indisposed, yet had the courage to take the part of Goodman Cholera.”
“Gentlemen,” resumed Morok, seeing the general attention fixed upon himself and Sleepinbuff, “I was only joking; for if my comrade (pointing to Jacques) had the imprudence to accept my offer, it would be an act, not of courage, but of foolhardiness. Luckily, he has sense enough to renounce a piece of boasting so dangerous at this time, and I—”
“Waiter!” cried Jacques, interrupting Morok with angry impatience, “two bottles of brandy, and two glasses!”
“What are you going to do?” said Morok, with pretended uneasiness. “Why do you order two bottles of brandy?”
“For a duel,” said Jacques, in a cool, resolute tone.
“A duel!” cried the spectators, in surprise.
“Yes,” resumed Jacques, “a duel with brandy. You pretend there is as much danger in facing a bottle of brandy as a loaded pistol; let us each take a full bottle, and see who will be the first to cry quarter.”
This strange proposition was received by some with shouts of joy, and by others with genuine uneasiness.
“Bravo! the champions of the bottle!” cried the first.
“No, no; there would be too much danger in such a contest,” said the others.
“Just now,” added one of the guests; “this challenge is as serious as an invitation to fight to the death.”
“You hear,” said Morok, with a diabolical smile, “you hear, Jacques? Will you now retreat before the danger?”
At these words, which reminded him of the peril to which he was about to expose himself, Jacques started, as if a sudden idea had occurred to him. He raised his head proudly, his cheeks were slightly flushed, his eye shone with a kind of gloomy satisfaction, and he exclaimed in a firm voice: “Hang it, waiter! are you deaf? I asked you for two bottles of brandy.”
“Yes, sir,” said the waiter, going to fetch them, although himself frightened at what might be the result of this bacchanalian struggle. But the mad and perilous resolution of Jacques was applauded by the majority.
Ninny Moulin moved about on his chair, stamped his feet, and shouted with all his might: “Bacchus and drink! bottles and glasses! the throats are dry! brandy to the rescue! Largess! largess!”
And, like a true champion of the tournament, he embraced Modeste, adding, to excuse the liberty: “Love, you shall be the Queen of Beauty, and I am only anticipating the victor’s happiness!”
“Brandy to the rescue!” repeated they all, in chorus. “Largess!”
“Gentlemen,” added Ninny Moulin, with enthusiasm, “shall we remain indifferent to the noble example set us by Goodman Cholera? He said in his pride, ‘brandy!’ Let us gloriously answer, ‘punch!’”
“Yes, yes! punch!”
“Punch to the rescue!”
“Waiter!” shouted the religious writer, with the voice of a Stentor, “waiter! have you a pan, a caldron, a hogshead, or any other immensity, in which we can brew a monster punch?”
“A Babylonian punch!”
“A lake of punch!”
“An ocean of punch!”
Such was the ambitious crescendo that followed the proposition of Ninny Moulin.
“Sir,” answered the waiter, with an air of triumph, “we just happen to have a large copper caldron, quite new. It has been used, and would hold at least thirty bottles.”
“Bring the caldron!” said Ninny Moulin, majestically.
“The caldron forever!” shouted the chorus.
“Put in twenty bottles of brandy, six loaves of sugar, a dozen lemons, a pound of cinnamon, and then—fire! fire!” shouted the religious writer, with the most vociferous exclamations.
“Yes, yes! fire!” repeated the chorus!
The proposition of Ninny Moulin gave a new impetus to the general gayety; the most extravagant remarks were mingled with the sound of kisses, taken or given under the pretext that perhaps there would be no to-morrow, that one must make the most of the present, etc., etc. Suddenly, in one of the moments of silence which sometimes occur in the midst of the greatest tumult, a succession of slow and measured taps sounded above the ceiling of the banqueting-room. All remained silent, and listened.
CHAPTER XXI. BRANDY TO THE RESCUE.
After the lapse of some seconds, the singular rapping which had so much surprised the guests, was again heard, but this time louder and longer.
“Waiter!” cried one of the party, “what in the devil’s name is knocking?”
The waiter, exchanging with his comrades a look of uneasiness and alarm, stammered Out in reply: “Sir—it is—it is—”
“Well! I suppose it is some crabbed, cross-grained lodger, some animal, the enemy of joy, who is pounding on the floor of his room to warn us to sing less loud,” said Ninny Moulin.
“Then, by a general rule,” answered sententiously the pupil of the great painter, “if lodger or landlord ask for silence, tradition bids us reply by an infernal uproar, destined to drown all his remonstrances. Such, at least,” added the scapegrace, modestly, “are the foreign relations that I have always seen observed between neighboring powers.”
This remark was received with general laughter and applause. During the tumult, Morok questioned one of the waiters, and then exclaimed in a shrill tone, which rose above the clamor: “I demand a hearing!”
“Granted!” cried the others, gayly. During the silence which followed the exclamation of Morok, the noise was again heard; it was this time quicker than before.
“The lodger is innocent,” said Morok, with a strange smile, “and would be quite incapable of interfering with your enjoyment.”
“Then why does he keep up that knocking?” said Ninny Moulin, emptying his glass.
“Like a deaf man who has lost his ear-horn?” added the young artist.
“It is not the lodger who is knocking” said Morok, in a sharp, quick tone; “for they are nailing him down in his coffin.” A sudden and mournful silence followed these words.
“His coffin no, I am wrong,” resumed Morok; “her coffin, I should say, or more properly their coffin; for, in these pressing times, they put mother and child together.”
“A woman!” cried PLEASURE, addressing the writer; “is it a woman that is dead?”
“Yes, ma’am; a poor young woman about twenty years of age,” answered the waiter in a sorrowful tone. “Her little girl, that she was nursing, died soon after—all in less than two hours. My master is very sorry that you ladies and gents should be disturbed in this way; but he could not foresee this misfortune, as yesterday morning the young woman was quite well, and singing with all her might—no one could have been gayer than she was.”
Upon these words, it was as if a funeral pall had been suddenly thrown over a scene lately so full of joy; all the rubicund and jovial faces took an expression of sadness; no one had the hardihood to make a jest of mother and child, nailed down together in the same coffin. The silence became so profound, that one could hear each breath oppressed by terror: the last blows of the hammer seemed to strike painfully on every heart; it appeared as if each sad feeling, until now repressed, was about to replace that animation and gayety, which had been more factitious than sincere. The moment was decisive. It was necessary to strike an immediate blow, and to raise the spirits of the guests, for many pretty rosy faces began to grow pale, many scarlet ears became suddenly white; Ninny Moulin’s were of the number.
On the contrary, Sleepinbuff exhibited an increase of audacity; he drew up his figure, bent down from the effects of exhaustion, and, with a cheek slightly flushed, he exclaimed: “Well, waiter? are those bottles of brandy coming? And the punch? Devil and all! are the dead to frighten the living?”
“He’s right! Down with sorrow, and let’s have the punch!” cried several of the guests, who felt the necessity of reviving their courage.
“Forward, punch!”
“Begone, dull care!”
“Jollity forever!”
“Gentlemen, here is the punch,” said a waiter, opening the door. At sight of the flaming beverage, which was to reanimate their enfeebled spirits, the room rang with the loudest applause.
The sun had just set. The room was large, being capable of dining a hundred guests; and the windows were few, narrow, and half veiled by red cotton curtains. Though it was not yet night, some portions of this vast saloon were almost entirely dark. Two waiters brought the monster-punch, in an immense brass kettle, brilliant as gold, suspended from an iron bar, and crowned with flames of changing color. The burning beverage was then placed upon the table, to the great joy of the guests, who began to forget their past alarms.
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“Now,” said Jacques to Morok, in a taunting tone, “while the punch is burning, we will have our duel. The company shall judge.” Then, pointing to the two bottles of brandy, which the waiter had brought, Jacques added: “Choose your weapon!”
“Do you choose,” answered Morok.
“Well! here’s your bottle—and here’s your glass. Ninny Moulin shall be umpire.”
“I do not refuse to be judge of the field,” answered the religious writer, “only I must warn you, comrade, that you are playing a desperate game, and that just now, as one of these gentlemen has said, the neck of a bottle of brandy in one’s mouth, is perhaps more dangerous than the barrel of a loaded pistol.”
“Give the word, old fellow!” said Jacques, interrupting Ninny Moulin, “or I will give it myself.”
“Since you will have it so—so be it!”
“The first who gives in is conquered,” said Jacques.
“Agreed!” answered Morok.
“Come, gentlemen, attention! we must follow every movement,” resumed Ninny Moulin. “Let us first see if the bottles are of the same size—equality of weapons being the foremost condition.”
During these preparations, profound silence reigned in the room. The courage of the majority of those present, animated for a moment by the arrival of the punch, was soon again depressed by gloomy thoughts, as they vaguely foresaw the danger of the contest between Morok and Jacques. This impression joined to the sad thoughts occasioned by the incident of the coffin, darkened by degrees many a countenance. Some of the guests, indeed, continued to make a show of rejoicing, but their gayety appeared forced. Under certain circumstances, the smallest things will have the most powerful effect. We have said that, after sunset, a portion of this large room was plunged in obscurity; therefore, the guests who sat in the remote corners of the apartment, had no other light than the reflection of the flaming punch. Now it is well known, that the flame of burning spirit throws a livid, bluish tint over the countenance; it was therefore a strange, almost frightful spectacle, to see a number of the guests, who happened to be at a distance from the windows, in this ghastly and fantastic light.
The painter, more struck than all the rest by this effect of color, exclaimed: “Look! at this end of the table, we might fancy ourselves feasting with cholera-patients, we are such fine blues and greens.”
This jest was not much relished. Fortunately, the loud voice of Ninny Moulin demanded attention, and for a moment turned the thoughts of the company.
“The lists are open,” cried the religious writer, really more frightened than he chose to appear. “Are you ready, brave champions?” he added.
“We are ready,” said Morok and Jacques.
“Present! fire!” cried Ninny Moulin, clapping his hands. And the two drinkers each emptied a tumbler full of brandy at a draught.
Morok did not even knit his brow; his marble face remained impassible; with a steady hand he replaced his glass upon the table. But Jacques, as he put down his glass, could not conceal a slight convulsive trembling, caused by internal suffering.
“Bravely done!” cried Ninny Moulin. “The quarter of a bottle of brandy at a draught—it is glorious! No one else here would be capable of such prowess. And now, worthy champions, if you believe me, you will stop where you are.”
“Give the word!” answered Jacques, intrepidly. And, with feverish and shaking hand, he seized the bottle; then suddenly, instead of filling his glass, he said to Morok: “Bah! we want no glasses. It is braver to drink from the bottle. I dare you to it!”
Morok’s only answer was to shrug his shoulders, and raise the neck of the bottle to his lips. Jacques hastened to imitate him. The thin, yellowish, transparent glass gave a perfect view of the progressive diminution of the liquor. The stony countenance of Morok, and the pale thin face of Jacques, on which already stood large drops of cold sweat, were now, as well as the features of the other guests, illuminated by the bluish light of the punch; every eye was fixed upon Morok and Jacques, with that barbarous curiosity which cruel spectacles seem involuntarily to inspire.
Jacques continued to drink, holding the bottle in his left hand; suddenly, he closed and tightened the fingers of his right hand with a convulsive movement; his hair clung to his icy forehead, and his countenance revealed an agony of pain. Yet he continued to drink; only, without removing his lips from the neck of the bottle, he lowered it for an instant, as if to recover breath. Just then, Jacques met the sardonic look of Morok, who continued to drink with his accustomed impassibility. Thinking that he saw the expression of insulting triumph in Morok’s glance, Jacques raised his elbow abruptly, and drank with avidity a few drops more. But his strength was exhausted. A quenchless fire devoured his vitals. His sufferings were too intense, and he could no longer bear up against them. His head fell backwards, his jaws closed convulsively, he crushed the neck of the bottle between his teeth, his neck grew rigid, his limbs writhed with spasmodic action, and he became almost senseless.
“Jacques, my good fellow! it is nothing,” cried Morok, whose ferocious glance now sparkled with diabolical joy. Then, replacing his bottle on the table, he rose to go to the aid of Ninny Moulin, who was vainly endeavoring to hold Sleepinbuff.
This sudden attack had none of the symptoms of cholera. Yet terror seized upon all present; one of the women was taken with hysterics, and another uttered piercing cries and fainted away. Ninny Moulin, leaving Jacques in the hands of Morok, ran towards the door to seek for help,—when that door was suddenly opened, and the religious writer drew back in alarm, at the sight of the unexpected personage who appeared on the threshold.
CHAPTER XXII. MEMORIES.
The person before whom Ninny Moulin stopped in such extreme astonishment was the Bacchanal Queen.
Pale and wan, with, hair in disorder, hollow cheeks, sunken eyes, and clothed almost in rags, this brilliant and joyous heroine of so many mad orgies was now only the shadow of her former self. Misery and grief were impressed on that countenance, once so charming. Hardly had she entered the room, when Cephyse paused; her mournful and unquiet gaze strove to penetrate the half-obscurity of the apartment, in search of him she longed to see. Suddenly the girl started, and uttered a loud scream. She had just perceived, at the other side of a long table, by the bluish light of the punch, Jacques struggling with Morok and one of the guests, who were hardly able to restrain his convulsive movements.
At this sight Cephyse, in her first alarm, carried away by her affection, did what she had so often done in the intoxication of joy and pleasure. Light and agile, instead of losing precious time in making a long circuit, she sprang at once upon the table, passed nimbly through the array of plates and bottles, and with one spring was by the side of the sufferer.
“Jacques!” she exclaimed, without yet remarking the lion-tamer, and throwing herself on the neck of her lover. “Jacques! it is I—Cephyse!”
That well-known voice, that heart-piercing cry, which came from the bottom of the soul, seemed not unheard by Sleepinbuff. He turned his head mechanically towards the Bacchanal Queen, without opening his eyes, and heaved a deep sigh; his stiffened limbs relaxed, a slight trembling succeeded to the convulsions, and in a few seconds his heavy eyelids were raised with an effort, so as to uncover his dull and wandering gaze. Mute with astonishment, the spectators of this scene felt an uneasy curiosity. Cephyse, kneeling beside her lover, bathed his hands in her tears, covered them with kisses, and exclaimed, in a voice broken by sobs, “It is I—Cephyse—I have found you again—it was not my fault that I abandoned you! Forgive me, forgive—”
“Wretched woman!” cried Morok, irritated at this meeting, which might, perhaps, be fatal to his projects; “do you wish to kill him? In his present state, this agitation is death. Begone!” So saying, he seized Cephyse suddenly by the arm, just as Jacques, waking, as it were, from a painful dream, began to distinguish what was passing around him.
“You! It is you!” cried the Bacchanal Queen, in amazement, as she recognized Morok, “who separated me from Jacques!”
She paused; for the dim eye of the victim, as it rested upon her, grew suddenly bright.
“Cephyse!” murmured Jacques; “is it you?”
“Yes, it is I,” answered she, in a voice of deep emotion; “who have come—I will tell you—”
She was unable to continue, and, as she clasped her hands together, her pale, agitated, tearful countenance expressed her astonishment and despair at the mortal change which had taken place in the features of Jacques. He understood the cause of her surprise, and as he contemplated, in his turn, the suffering and emaciated countenance of Cephyse, he said to her, “Poor girl! you also have had to bear much grief, much misery—I should hardly have known you.”
“Yes,” replied Cephyse, “much grief—much misery—and worse than misery,” she added, trembling, whilst a deep blush overspread her pale features.
“Worse than misery?” said Jacques, astonished.
“But it is you who have suffered,” hastily resumed Cephyse, without answering her lover.
“Just now, I was going to make an end of it—your voice has recalled me for an instant—but I feel something here,” and he laid his hand upon his breast, “which never gives quarter. It is all the same now—I have seen you—I shall die happy.”
“You shall not die, Jacques; I am here—”
“Listen to one, my girl. If I had a bushel of live coal in my stomach, it could hardly burn me more. For more than a month, I have been consuming my body by a slow fire. This gentleman,” he added, glancing at Morok, “this dear friend, always undertook to feed the flame. I do not regret life; I have lost the habit of work, and taken to drink and riot; I should have finished by becoming a thorough blackguard: I preferred that my friend here should amuse himself with lighting a furnace in my inside. Since what I drank just now, I am certain that it fumes like yonder punch.”