ferragus-第2章

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It　was　horrible　and　stupendous；　but　the　compact　was　made；　and　it
lasted　precisely　because　it　appeared　to　be　so　impossible。

There　was；　therefore；　in　Paris　a　brotherhood　of　THIRTEEN；　who　belonged
to　each　other　absolutely；　but　ignored　themselves　as　absolutely　before
the　world。　At　night　they　met；　like　conspirators；　hiding　no　thought；
disposing　each　and　all　of　a　common　fortune；　like　that　of　the　Old　Man
of　the　Mountain；　having　their　feet　in　all　salons；　their　hands　in　all
money…boxes；　and　making　all　things　serve　their　purpose　or　their　fancy
without　scruple。　No　chief　commanded　them；　no　one　member　could　arrogate
to　himself　that　power。　The　most　eager　passion；　the　most　exacting
circumstance；　alone　had　the　right　to　pass　first。　They　were　Thirteen
unknown　kings；but　true　kings；　more　than　ordinary　kings　and　judges
and　executioners；men　who；　having　made　themselves　wings　to　roam
through　society　from　depth　to　height；　disdained　to　be　anything　in　the
social　sphere　because　they　could　be　all。　If　the　present　writer　ever
learns　the　reasons　of　their　abdication　of　this　power；　he　will　take
occasion　to　tell　them。＇*＇

＇*＇　See　Theophile　Gautier's　account　of　the　society　of　the　〃Cheval
　　　　Rouge。〃　Memoir　of　Balzac。　Roberts　Brothers；　Boston。

Now；　with　this　brief　explanation；　he　may　be　allowed　to　begin　the　tale
of　certain　episodes　in　the　history　of　the　THIRTEEN；　which　have　more
particularly　attracted　him　by　the　Parisian　flavor　of　their　details　and
the　whimsicality　of　their　contrasts。





FERRAGUS；
CHIEF　OF　THE　DEVORANTS



CHAPTER　I

MADAME　JULES

Certain　streets　in　Paris　are　as　degraded　as　a　man　covered　with　infamy；
also；　there　are　noble　streets；　streets　simply　respectable；　young
streets　on　the　morality　of　which　the　public　has　not　yet　formed　an
opinion；　also　cut…throat　streets；　streets　older　than　the　age　of　the
oldest　dowagers；　estimable　streets；　streets　always　clean；　streets
always　dirty；　working；　laboring；　and　mercantile　streets。　In　short；　the
streets　of　Paris　have　every　human　quality；　and　impress　us；　by　what　we
must　call　their　physiognomy；　with　certain　ideas　against　which　we　are
defenceless。　There　are；　for　instance；　streets　of　a　bad　neighborhood　in
which　you　could　not　be　induced　to　live；　and　streets　where　you　would
willingly　take　up　your　abode。　Some　streets；　like　the　rue　Montmartre；
have　a　charming　head；　and　end　in　a　fish's　tail。　The　rue　de　la　Paix　is
a　wide　street；　a　fine　street；　yet　it　wakens　none　of　those　gracefully
noble　thoughts　which　come　to　an　impressible　mind　in　the　middle　of　the
rue　Royale；　and　it　certainly　lacks　the　majesty　which　reigns　in　the
Place　Vendome。

If　you　walk　the　streets　of　the　Ile　Saint…Louis；　do　not　seek　the　reason
of　the　nervous　sadness　that　lays　hold　upon　you　save　in　the　solitude　of
the　spot；　the　gloomy　look　of　the　houses；　and　the　great　deserted
mansions。　This　island；　the　ghost　of　/fermiers…generaux/；　is　the　Venice
of　Paris。　The　Place　de　la　Bourse　is　voluble；　busy；　degraded；　it　is
never　fine　except　by　moonlight　at　two　in　the　morning。　By　day　it　is
Paris　epitomized；　by　night　it　is　a　dream　of　Greece。　The　rue
Traversiere…Saint…Honoreis　not　that　a　villainous　street？　Look　at　the
wretched　little　houses　with　two　windows　on　a　floor；　where　vice；　crime；
and　misery　abound。　The　narrow　streets　exposed　to　the　north；　where　the
sun　never　comes　more　than　three　or　four　times　a　year；　are　the
cut…throat　streets　which　murder　with　impunity；　the　authorities　of　the
present　day　do　not　meddle　with　them；　but　in　former　times　the
Parliament　might　perhaps　have　summoned　the　lieutenant　of　police　and
reprimanded　him　for　the　state　of　things；　and　it　would；　at　least；　have
issued　some　decree　against　such　streets；　as　it　once　did　against　the
wigs　of　the　Chapter　of　Beauvais。　And　yet　Monsieur　Benoiston　de
Chateauneuf　has　proved　that　the　mortality　of　these　streets　is　double
that　of　others！　To　sum　up　such　theories　by　a　single　example：　is　not
the　rue　Fromentin　both　murderous　and　profligate！

These　observations；　incomprehensible　out　of　Paris；　will　doubtless　be
understood　by　musing　men　of　thought　and　poesy　and　pleasure；　who　know；
while　rambling　about　Paris；　how　to　harvest　the　mass　of　floating
interests　which　may　be　gathered　at　all　hours　within　her　walls；　to　them
Paris　is　the　most　delightful　and　varied　of　monsters：　here；　a　pretty
woman；　farther　on；　a　haggard　pauper；　here；　new　as　the　coinage　of　a　new
reign；　there；　in　this　corner；　elegant　as　a　fashionable　woman。　A
monster；　moreover；　complete！　Its　garrets；　as　it　were；　a　head　full　of
knowledge　and　genius；　its　first　storeys　stomachs　repleted；　its　shops；
actual　feet；　where　the　busy　ambulating　crowds　are　moving。　Ah！　what　an
ever…active　life　the　monster　leads！　Hardly　has　the　last　vibration　of
the　last　carriage　coming　from　a　ball　ceased　at　its　heart　before　its
arms　are　moving　at　the　barriers　and　it　shakes　itself　slowly　into
motion。　Doors　open；　turning　on　their　hinges　like　the　membrane　of　some
huge　lobster；　invisibly　manipulated　by　thirty　thousand　men　or　women；
of　whom　each　individual　occupies　a　space　of　six　square　feet；　but　has　a
kitchen；　a　workshop；　a　bed；　children；　a　garden；　little　light　to　see
by；　but　must　see　all。　Imperceptibly；　the　articulations　begin　to　crack；
motion　communicates　itself；　the　street　speaks。　By　mid…day；　all　is
alive；　the　chimneys　smoke；　the　monster　eats；　then　he　roars；　and　his
thousand　paws　begin　to　ramp。　Splendid　spectacle！　But；　O　Paris！　he　who
has　not　admired　your　gloomy　passages；　your　gleams　and　flashes　of
light；　your　deep　and　silent　/cul…de…sacs/；　who　has　not　listened　to
your　murmurings　between　midnight　and　two　in　the　morning；　knows　nothing
as　yet　of　your　true　poesy；　nor　of　your　broad　and　fantastic　contrasts。

There　are　a　few　amateurs　who　never　go　their　way　heedlessly；　who　savor
their　Paris；　so　to　speak；　who　know　its　physiognomy　so　well　that　they
see　every　wart；　and　pimple；　and　redness。　To　others；　Paris　is　always
that　monstrous　marvel；　that　amazing　assemblage　of　activities；　of
schemes；　of　thoughts；　the　city　of　a　hundred　thousand　tales；　the　head
of　the　universe。　But　to　those　few；　Paris　is　sad　or　gay；　ugly　or
beautiful；　living　or　dead；　to　them　Paris　is　a　creature；　every　man；
every　fraction　of　a　house　is　a　lobe　of　the　cellular　tissue　of　that
great　courtesan　whose　head　and　heart　and　fantastic　customs　they　know
so　well。　These　men　are　lovers　of　Paris；　they　lift　their　noses　at　such
or　such　a　corner　of　a　street；　certain　that　they　can　see　the　face　of　a
clock；　they　tell　a　friend　whose　tobacco…pouch　is　empty；　〃Go　down　that
passage　and　turn　to　the　left；　there's　a　tobacconist　next　door　to　a
confectioner；　where　there's　a　pretty　girl。〃　Rambling　about　Paris　is；
to　these　poets；　a　costly　luxury。　How　can　they　help　spending　precious
minutes　before　the　dramas；　disasters；　faces；　and　picturesque　events
which　meet　us　everywhere　amid　this　heaving　queen　of　cities；　clothed　in
posters；who　has；　nevertheless；　not　a　single　clean　corner；　so
complying　is　she　to　the　vices　of　the　French　nation！　Who　has　not
chanced　to　leave　his　home　early　in　the　morning；　intending　to　go　to
some　extremity　of　Paris；　and　found　himself　unable　to　get　away　from　the
centre　of　it　by　the　dinner…hour？　Such　a　man　will　know　how　to　excuse
this　vagabondizing　start　upon　our　tale；　which；　however；　we　here　sum　up
in　an　observation　both　useful　and　novel；　as　far　as　any　observation　can
be　novel　in　Paris；　where　there　is　nothing　new；not　even　the　statue
erected　yesterday；　on　which　some　young　gamin　has　already　scribbled　his
name。

Well；　then！　there　are　streets；　or　ends　of　streets；　there　are　houses；
unknown　for　the　most　part　to　persons　of　social　distinction；　to　which　a
woman　of　that　class　cannot　go　without　causing　cruel　and　very　wounding
things　to　be　thought　of　her。　Whether　the　woman　be　rich　and　has　a
carriage；　whether　she　is　on　foot；　or　is　disguised；　if　she　enters　one
of　these　Parisian　defiles　at　any　hour　of　the　day；　she　compromises　her
reputation　as　a　virtuous　woman。　If；　by　chance；　she　is　there　at　nine　in
the　evening　the　conjectures　that　an　observer　permits　himself　to　make
upon　her　may　prove　fearful　in　their　consequences。　But　if　the　woman　is
young　and　pretty；　if　she　enters　a　house　in　one　of　those　streets；　if
the　house　has　a　long；　dark；　damp；　and　evil…smelling　passage…way；　at
the　end　of　which　flickers　the　pallid　gleam　of　an　oil　lamp；　and　if
beneath　that　gleam　appears　the　horrid　face　of　a　withered　old　woman
with　fleshless　fingers；　ah；　then！　and　we　say　it　in　the　interests　of
young　and　pretty　women；　that　woman　is　lost。　She　is　at　the　mercy　of　the
first　man　of　her　acquaintance　who　sees　her　in　that　Parisian　slough。
There　is　more　than　one　street　in　Paris　where　such　a　meeting　may　lead
to　a　frightful　drama；　a　bloody　drama　of　death　and　love；　a　drama　of　the
modern　school。

Unhappily；　this　scene；　this　modern　drama　itself；　will　be　comprehended
by　only　a　small　number　of　persons；　and　it　is　a　pity　to　tell　the　tale
to　a　public　which　cannot　enter　into　its　local　merit。　But　who　can
flatter　himself　that　he　will　ever　be　understood？　We　all　die　unknown
'tis　the　saying　of　women　and　of　authors。

At　half…past　eight　o'clock　one　evening；　in　the　rue　Pagevin；　in　the
days　when　that　street　had　no　wall　which　did　not　echo　some　infamous
word；　and　was；　in　the　direction　of　the　rue　Soly；　the　narrowest　and
most　impassable　street　in　Paris　（not　excepting　the　least　frequented
corner　of　the　most　deserted　street）；at　the　beginning　of　the　month　of
February　about　thirteen　years　ago；　a　young　man；　by　one　of　those
chances　which　come　but　once　in　life；　turned　the　corner　of　the　rue
Pagevin　to　enter　the　rue　des　Vieux…Augustins；　close　to　the　rue　Soly。
There；　this　young　man；　who　lived　himself　in　the　rue　de　Bourbon；　saw　in
a　woman　near　whom　he　had　been　unconsciously　walking；　a　vague
resemblance　to　the　prettiest　woman　in　Paris；　a　chaste　and　delightful
person；　with　whom　he　was　secretly　and　passionately　in　love；a　love
without　hope；　she　was　married。　In　a　moment　his　heart　leaped；　an
intolerable　heat　surged　from　his　centre　and　flowed　through　all　his
veins；　his　back　turned　cold；　the　skin　of　his　head　crept。　He　loved；　he
was　young；　he　knew　Paris；　and　his　knowledge　did　not　permit　him　to　be
ignorant　of　all　there　was　of　possible　infamy　in　an　elegant；　rich；
young；　and　beautiful　woman　walking　there；　alone；　with　a　furtively
criminal　step。　/She/　in　that　mud！　at　that　hour！

The　love　that　this　young　man　felt　for　that　woman　may　seem　romantic；
and　all　the　more　so　because　he　was　an　officer　in　the　Royal　Guard。　If
he　had　been　in　the　infantry；　the　affair　might　have　seemed　more　likely；
but；　as　an　officer　of　rank　in　the　cavalry；　he　belonged　to　that　French
arm　which　demands　rapidity　in　its　conquests　and　derives　as　much　vanity
from　its　amorous　exploits　as　from　its　dashing　uniform。　But　the　passion
of　this　officer　was　a　true　love；　and　many　young　hearts　will　think　it
noble。　He　loved　this　woman　because　she　was　virtuous；　he　loved　her
virtue；　her　modest　grace；　her　imposing　saintliness；　as　the　dearest
treasures　of　his　hidden　passion。　This　woman　was　indeed　worthy　to
inspire　one　of　those　platonic　loves　which　are　found；　like　flowers　amid
bloody　ruins；　in　the　history　of　the　middle…ages；　worthy　to　be　the
hidden　principle　of　all　the　actions　of　a　young　man's　life；　a　love　as
high；　as　pure　as　the　skies　when　blue；　a　lo