Bohemians of the Latin Quarter Part 56

In merely entering one night believe, One felt a scent of love and gaiety, Which filled our little room from morn to eve, For fortune loved our hospitality.

And winter went: then, through the open sash, Spring flew, to say the year's long night was done; We heard the call, and ran with impulse rash In the green country side to meet the sun.

It was the Friday of the Holy Week, The weather, for a wonder, mild and fair; From hill to valley, and from plain to peak, We wandered long, delighting in the air.

At length, exhausted by the pilgrimage, We found a sort of natural divan, Whence we could view the landscape, or engage Our eyes in rapture on the heaven's wide span.

Hand clasped in hand, shoulder on shoulder laid, With sense of something ventured, something missed, Our two lips parted, each; no word was said, And silently we kissed.

Around us blue-bell and shy violet Their simple incense seemed to wave on high; Surely we saw, with glances heavenward set, G.o.d smiling from his azure balcony.

"Love on!" he seemed to say, "I make more sweet The road of life you are to wander by, Spreading the velvet moss beneath your feet; Kiss, if you will; I shall not play the spy."

Love on, love on! In murmurs of the breeze, In limpid stream, and in the woodland screen That burgeons fresh in the renovated green, In stars, in flowers, and music of the trees,

Love on, love on! But if my golden sun, My spring, that comes once more to gladden earth, If these should move your b.r.e.a.s.t.s to grateful mirth, I ask no thanksgiving, your kiss is one.

A month pa.s.sed by; and, when the roses bloomed In beds that we had planted in the spring, When least of all I thought my love was doomed, You cast it from you like a noisome thing.

Not that your scorn was all reserved for me, It flies about the world by fits and starts; Your changeful fancy fits impartially From knave of diamonds to knave of hearts.

And now you are happy, with a brilliant suite Of bowing slaves and insincere gallants; Go where you will, you see them at your feet; A bed of perfumed posies round you flaunts:

The Ball's your garden: an admiring globe Of lovers rolls about the lit saloon, And, at the rustling of your silken robe, The pack, in chorus, bay you like the moon.

Shod in the softness of a supple boot Which Cinderella would have found too small, One scarcely sees your little pointed foot Flash in the flas.h.i.+ng circle of the Ball.

Shod in the softness of a supple boot Which Cinderella would have found too small, One scarcely sees your little pointed foot Flash in the flas.h.i.+ng circle of the Ball.

In the soft baths that indolence has brought Your once brown hands have got the ivory white, The pallor of the lily which has caught The silver moonbeam of a summer night:

On your white arm half clouded, and half clear, Pearls s.h.i.+ne in bracelets made of chiselled gold; On your trim waist a shawl of true Cashmere Aesthetically falls in waving fold:

Honiton point and costly Mechlin lace, With gothic guipure of a creamy white-- The matchless cobwebs of long vanished days-- Combine to make your presence rich and bright.

But I preferred a simpler guise than that, Your frock of muslin or plain calico, Simple adornments, with a veilless hat, Boots, black or grey, a collar white and low.

The splendor your admirers now adore Will never bring me back my ancient heats; And you are dead and buried, all the more For the silk shroud where heart no longer beats.

So when I worked at this funereal dirge, Where grief for a lost lifetime stands confessed, I wore a clerk's costume of sable serge, Though not gold eye gla.s.ses or pleated vest.

My penholder was wrapped in mournful c.r.a.pe, The paper with black lines was bordered round On which I labored to provide escape For love's last memory hidden in the ground.

And now, when all the heart that I can save Is used to furnish forth its epitaph.

Gay as a s.e.xton digging his own grave I burst into a wild and frantic laugh;

A laugh engendered by a mocking vein; The pen I grasped was trembling as I wrote; And even while I laughed, a scalding rain Of tears turned all the writing to a blot.

It was the 24th of December, and that evening the Latin Quarter bore a special aspect. Since four o'clock in the afternoon the p.a.w.nbroking establishments and the shops of the second hand clothes dealers and booksellers had been enc.u.mbered by a noisy crowd, who, later in the evening, took the ham and beef shops, cook shops, and grocers by a.s.sault. The shopmen, even if they had had a hundred arms, like Briareus, would not have sufficed to serve the customers who struggled with one another for provisions. At the baker's they formed a string as in times of dearth. The wine shop keepers got rid of the produce of three vintages, and a clever statistician would have found it difficult to reckon up the number of knuckles of ham and of sausages which were sold at the famous shop of Borel, in the Rue Dauphine. In this one evening Daddy Cretaine, nicknamed Pet.i.t-Pain, exhausted eighteen editions of his cakes. All night long sounds of rejoicing broke out from the lodging houses, the windows of which were brilliantly lit up, and an atmosphere of revelry filled the district.

The old festival of Christmas Eve was being celebrated.

That evening, towards ten o'clock, Marcel and Rodolphe were proceeding homeward somewhat sadly. Pa.s.sing up the Rue Dauphine they noticed a great crowd in the shop of a provision dealer, and halted a moment before the window. Tantalized by the sight of the toothsome gastronomic products, the two Bohemians resembled, during this contemplation, that person in a Spanish romance who caused hams to shrink only by looking at them.

"That is called a truffled turkey," said Marcel, pointing to a splendid bird, showing through its rosy and transparent skin the Perigordian tubercles with which it was stuffed. "I have seen impious folk eat it without first going down on their knees before it," added the painter, casting upon the turkey looks capable of roasting it.

"And what do you think of that modest leg of salt marsh mutton?" asked Rodolphe. "What fine coloring! One might think it was just unhooked from that butcher's shop in one of Jordaen's pictures. Such a leg of mutton is the favorite dish of the G.o.ds, and of my G.o.dmother Madame Chandelier."

"Look at those fis.h.!.+" resumed Marcel, pointing to some trout. "They are the most expert swimmers of the aquatic race. Those little creatures, without any appearance of pretension, could, however, make a fortune by the exhibition of their skill; fancy, they can swim up a perpendicular waterfall as easily as we should accept an invitation to supper. I have almost had a chance of tasting them."

"And down there--those large golden fruit, the foliage of which resembles a trophy of savage sabre blades! They are called pineapples, and are the pippins of the tropics."

"That is a matter of indifference to me," said Marcel. "So far as fruits are concerned, I prefer that piece of beef, that ham, or that simple gammon of bacon, cuira.s.sed with jelly as transparent as amber."

"You are right," replied Rodolphe. "Ham is the friend of man, when he has one. However, I would not repulse that pheasant."

"I should think not; it is the dish of crowned heads."

And as, continuing on their way, they met joyful processions proceeding homewards, to do honor to Momus, Bacchus, Comus, and all the other divinities with names ending in "us," they asked themselves who was the Gamacho whose wedding was being celebrated with such a profusion of victuals.

Marcel was the first who recollected the date and its festival.

"It is Christmas Eve," said he.

"Do you remember last year's?" inquired Rodolphe.

"Yes," replied Marcel. "At Momus's. It was Barbemuche who stood treat. I should never have thought that a delicate girl like Phemie could have held so much sausage."

"What a pity that Momus has cut off our credit," said Rodolphe.

"Alas," said Marcel, "calendars succeed but do not resemble one another."

"Would not you like to keep Christmas Eve?" asked Rodolphe.

"With whom and with what?" inquired the painter.

"With me."

"And the coin?"

"Wait a moment," said Rodolphe, "I will go into the cafe, where I know some people who play high. I will borrow a few sesterces from some favorite of fortune, and I will get something to wash down a sardine or a pig's trotter."

"Go," said Marcel. "I am as hungry as a dog. I will wait for you here,"

Rodolphe went into the cafe where he knew several people. A gentleman who had just won three hundred francs at cards made a regular treat of lending the poet a forty sous piece, which he handed over with that ill humor caused by the fever of play. At another time and elsewhere than at a card-table, he would very likely have been good for forty francs.

"Well?" inquired Marcel, on seeing Rodolphe return.

"Here are the takings," said the poet, showing the money.