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_ The illustrious wine shop of "Eve's Apple" was situated in
the University, at the corner of the Rue de la Rondelle and
the Rue de la Bâtonnier. It was a very spacious and very
low hail on the ground floor, with a vaulted ceiling whose
central spring rested upon a huge pillar of wood painted yellow;
tables everywhere, shining pewter jugs hanging on the walls,
always a large number of drinkers, a plenty of wenches, a
window on the street, a vine at the door, and over the door
a flaring piece of sheet-iron, painted with an apple and a
woman, rusted by the rain and turning with the wind on an
iron pin. This species of weather-vane which looked upon
the pavement was the signboard.
Night was falling; the square was dark; the wine-shop,
full of candles, flamed afar like a forge in the gloom; the
noise of glasses and feasting, of oaths and quarrels, which
escaped through the broken panes, was audible. Through the
mist which the warmth of the room spread over the window
in front, a hundred confused figures could be seen swarming,
and from time to time a burst of noisy laughter broke forth
from it. The passers-by who were going about their business,
slipped past this tumultuous window without glancing at it.
Only at intervals did some little ragged boy raise himself
on tiptoe as far as the ledge, and hurl into the drinking-shop,
that ancient, jeering hoot, with which drunken men were then
pursued: "Aux Houls, saouls, saouls, saouls!"
Nevertheless, one man paced imperturbably back and forth
in front of the tavern, gazing at it incessantly, and going no
further from it than a pikernan from his sentry-box. He was
enveloped in a mantle to his very nose. This mantle he had
just purchased of the old-clothes man, in the vicinity of the
"Eve's Apple," no doubt to protect himself from the cold of
the March evening, possibly also, to conceal his costume.
From time to time he paused in front of the dim window with
its leaden lattice, listened, looked, and stamped his foot.
At length the door of the dram-shop opened. This was
what he appeared to be waiting for. Two boon companions
came forth. The ray of light which escaped from the door
crimsoned for a moment their jovial faces.
The man in the mantle went and stationed himself on the
watch under a porch on the other side of the street.
"~Corne et tonnerre~!" said one of the comrades. "Seven
o'clock is on the point of striking. 'Tis the hour of my
appointed meeting."
"I tell you," repeated his companion, with a thick tongue,
"that I don't live in the Rue des Mauvaises Paroles, ~indignus
qui inter mala verba habitat~. I have a lodging in the Rue
Jean-Pain-Mollet, ~in vico Johannis Pain-Mollet~. You are
more horned than a unicorn if you assert the contrary.
Every one knows that he who once mounts astride a bear is
never after afraid; but you have a nose turned to dainties
like Saint-Jacques of the hospital."
"Jehan, my friend, you are drunk," said the other.
The other replied staggering, "It pleases you to say so,
Phoebus; but it hath been proved that Plato had the profile
of a hound."
The reader has, no doubt, already recognized our two brave
friends, the captain and the scholar. It appears that the man
who was lying in wait for them had also recognized them, for
he slowly followed all the zigzags that the scholar caused the
captain to make, who being a more hardened drinker had
retained all his self-possession. By listening to them
attentively, the man in the mantle could catch in its
entirety the following interesting conversation,--
"~Corbacque~! Do try to walk straight, master bachelor;
you know that I must leave you. Here it is seven o'clock.
I have an appointment with a woman."
"Leave me then! I see stars and lances of fire. You are like
the Chateau de Dampmartin, which is bursting with laughter."
"By the warts of my grandmother, Jehan, you are raving
with too much rabidness. By the way, Jehan, have you any
money left?"
"Monsieur Rector, there is no mistake; the little butcher's
shop, ~parva boucheria~."
"Jehau! my friend Jehan! You know that I made an
appointment with that little girl at the end of the Pont Saint-
Michel, and I can only take her to the Falourdel's, the old
crone of the bridge, and that I must pay for a chamber. The
old witch with a white moustache would not trust me. Jehan!
for pity's sake! Have we drunk up the whole of the curé's
purse? Have you not a single parisis left?"
"The consciousness of having spent the other hours well is
a just and savory condiment for the table."
"Belly and guts! a truce to your whimsical nonsense! Tell
me, Jehan of the devil! have you any money left? Give
it to me, ~bédieu~!" or I will search you, were you as
leprous as Job, and as scabby as Caesar!"
"Monsieur, the Rue Galiache is a street which hath at one
end the Rue de la Verrerie, and at the other the Rue de la
Tixeranderie."
"Well, yes! my good friend Jehan, my poor comrade, the
Rue Galiache is good, very good. But in the name of heaven
collect your wits. I must have a sou parisis, and the
appointment is for seven o'clock."
"Silence for the rondo, and attention to the refrain,--
"~Quand les rats mangeront les cas,
Le roi sera seigneur d'Arras;
Quand la mer, qui est grande et le(e
Sera a la Saint-Jean gele(e,
On verra, par-dessus la glace,
Sortir ceux d'Arras de leur place~*."
* When the rats eat the cats, the king will be lord of Arras;
when the sea which is great and wide, is frozen over at St.
John's tide, men will see across the ice, those who dwell
in Arras quit their place.
"Well, scholar of Antichrist, may you be strangled with the
entrails of your mother!" exclaimed Phoebus, and he gave
the drunken scholar a rough push; the latter slipped against
the wall, and slid flabbily to the pavement of Philip
Augustus. A remnant of fraternal pity, which never abandons
the heart of a drinker, prompted Phoebus to roll Jehan with
his foot upon one of those pillows of the poor, which Providence
keeps in readiness at the corner of all the street posts
of Paris, and which the rich blight with the name of "a rubbish-
heap." The captain adjusted Jehan's head upon an inclined
plane of cabbage-stumps, and on the very instant, the
scholar fell to snoring in a magnificent bass. Meanwhile, all
malice was not extinguished in the captain's heart. "So much
the worse if the devil's cart picks you up on its passage!" he
said to the poor, sleeping clerk; and he strode off.
The man in the mantle, who had not ceased to follow him,
halted for a moment before the prostrate scholar, as though
agitated by indecision; then, uttering a profound sigh, he
also strode off in pursuit of the captain.
We, like them, will leave Jehan to slumber beneath the
open sky, and will follow them also, if it pleases the reader.
On emerging into the Rue Saint-André-des-Arcs, Captain
Phoebus perceived that some one was following him. On
glancing sideways by chance, he perceived a sort of shadow
crawling after him along the walls. He halted, it halted; he
resumed his march, it resumed its march. This disturbed
him not overmuch. "Ah, bah!" he said to himself, "I have
not a sou."
He paused in front of the College d'Autun. It was at this
college that he had sketched out what he called his studies,
and, through a scholar's teasing habit which still lingered in
him, he never passed the façade without inflicting on the
statue of Cardinal Pierre Bertrand, sculptured to the right of
the portal, the affront of which Priapus complains so bitterly
in the satire of Horace, ~Olim truncus eram ficulnus~. He had
done this with so much unrelenting animosity that the
inscription, ~Eduensis episcopus~, had become almost effaced.
Therefore, he halted before the statue according to his wont.
The street was utterly deserted. At the moment when he
was coolly retying his shoulder knots, with his nose in the
air, he saw the shadow approaching him with slow steps, so
slow that he had ample time to observe that this shadow wore
a cloak and a hat. On arriving near him, it halted and
remained more motionless than the statue of Cardinal Bertrand.
Meanwhile, it riveted upon Phoebus two intent eyes, full of
that vague light which issues in the night time from the pupils
of a cat.
The captain was brave, and would have cared very little for
a highwayman, with a rapier in his hand. But this walking
statue, this petrified man, froze his blood. There were then
in circulation, strange stories of a surly monk, a nocturnal
prowler about the streets of Paris, and they recurred
confusedly to his memory. He remained for several minutes in
stupefaction, and finally broke the silence with a forced laugh.
"Monsieur, if you are a robber, as I hope you are, you produce
upon me the effect of a heron attacking a nutshell. I
am the son of a ruined family, my dear fellow. Try your
hand near by here. In the chapel of this college there is
some wood of the true cross set in silver."
The hand of the shadow emerged from beneath its mantle
and descended upon the arm of Phoebus with the grip of an
eagle's talon; at the same time the shadow spoke,--
"Captain Phoebus de Châteaupers!"
What, the devil!" said Phoebus, "you know my name!"
"I know not your name alone," continued the man in the
mantle, with his sepulchral voice. "You have a rendezvous
this evening."
"Yes," replied Phoebus in amazement.
"At seven o'clock."
"In a quarter of an hour."
"At la Falourdel's."
"Precisely."
"The lewd hag of the Pont Saint-Michel."
"Of Saint Michel the archangel, as the Pater Noster saith."
"Impious wretch!" muttered the spectre. "With a woman?"
"~Confiteor~,--I confess--."
"Who is called--?"
"La Smeralda," said Phoebus, gayly. All his heedlessness
had gradually returned.
At this name, the shadow's grasp shook the arm of Phoebus
in a fury.
"Captain Phoebus de Châteaupers, thou liest!"
Any one who could have beheld at that moment the captain's
inflamed countenance, his leap backwards, so violent that
he disengaged himself from the grip which held him,
the proud air with which he clapped his hand on his swordhilt,
and, in the presence of this wrath the gloomy immobility
of the man in the cloak,--any one who could have beheld
this would have been frightened. There was in it a touch of
the combat of Don Juan and the statue.
"Christ and Satan!" exclaimed the captain. "That is a
word which rarely strikes the ear of a Châteaupers! Thou
wilt not dare repeat it."
"Thou liest!" said the shadow coldly.
The captain gnashed his teeth. Surly monk, phantom,
superstitions,--he had forgotten all at that moment. He no
longer beheld anything but a man, and an insult.
"Ah! this is well!" he stammered, in a voice stifled with
rage. He drew his sword, then stammering, for anger as well
as fear makes a man tremble: "Here! On the spot! Come
on! Swords! Swords! Blood on the pavement!"
But the other never stirred. When he beheld his adversary
on guard and ready to parry,--
"Captain Phoebus," he said, and his tone vibrated with
bitterness, "you forget your appointment."
The rages of men like Phoebus are milk-soups, whose ebullition
is calmed by a drop of cold water. This simple remark
caused the sword which glittered in the captain's hand to
be lowered.
"Captain," pursued the man, "to-morrow, the day after
to-morrow, a month hence, ten years hence, you will find me
ready to cut your throat; but go first to your rendezvous."
"In sooth," said Phoebus, as though seeking to capitulate
with himself, "these are two charming things to be
encountered in a rendezvous,--a sword and a wench; but I
do not see why I should miss the one for the sake of the
other, when I can have both."
He replaced his sword in its scabbard.
"Go to your rendezvous," said the man.
"Monsieur," replied Phoebus with some embarrassment,
"many thanks for your courtesy. In fact, there will be
ample time to-morrow for us to chop up father Adam's doublet
into slashes and buttonholes. I am obliged to you for
allowing me to pass one more agreeable quarter of an hour. I
certainly did hope to put you in the gutter, and still arrive
in time for the fair one, especially as it has a better appearance
to make the women wait a little in such cases. But you
strike me as having the air of a gallant man, and it is safer to
defer our affair until to-morrow. So I will betake myself to
my rendezvous; it is for seven o'clock, as you know." Here
Phoebus scratched his ear. "Ah. ~Corne Dieu~! I had forgotten!
I haven't a sou to discharge the price of the garret,
and the old crone will insist on being paid in advance. She
distrusts me."
"Here is the wherewithal to pay."
Phoebus felt the stranger's cold hand slip into his a large
piece of money. He could not refrain from taking the money
and pressing the hand.
"~Vrai Dieu~!" he exclaimed, "you are a good fellow!"
"One condition," said the man. "Prove to me that I have
been wrong and that you were speaking the truth. Hide me
in some corner whence I can see whether this woman is really
the one whose name you uttered."
"Oh!" replied Phoebus, "'tis all one to me. We will take,
the Sainte-Marthe chamber; you can look at your ease from
the kennel hard by."
"Come then," said the shadow.
"At your service," said the captain, "I know not whether
you are Messer Diavolus in person; but let us be good friends
for this evening; to-morrow I will repay you all my debts,
both of purse and sword."
They set out again at a rapid pace. At the expiration of a
few minutes, the sound of the river announced to them that
they were on the Pont Saint-Michel, then loaded with houses.
"I will first show you the way," said Phoebus to his companion,
"I will then go in search of the fair one who is awaiting
me near the Petit-Châtelet."
His companion made no reply; he had not uttered a word
since they had been walking side by side. Phoebus halted
before a low door, and knocked roughly; a light made its
appearance through the cracks of the door.
"Who is there?" cried a toothless voice.
"~Corps-Dieu! Tête-Dieu! Ventre-Dieu~!" replied the captain.
The door opened instantly, and allowed the new-corners to
see an old woman and an old lamp, both of which trembled.
The old woman was bent double, clad in tatters, with a shaking
head, pierced with two small eyes, and coiffed with a dish
clout; wrinkled everywhere, on hands and face and neck; her
lips retreated under her gums, and about her mouth she had
tufts of white hairs which gave her the whiskered look of a cat.
The interior of the den was no less dilapitated than she;
there were chalk walls, blackened beams in the ceiling, a
dismantled chimney-piece, spiders' webs in all the corners, in
the middle a staggering herd of tables and lame stools, a dirty
child among the ashes, and at the back a staircase, or rather,
a wooden ladder, which ended in a trap door in the ceiling.
On entering this lair, Phoebus's mysterious companion raised
his mantle to his very eyes. Meanwhile, the captain, swearing
like a Saracen, hastened to "make the sun shine in a
crown" as saith our admirable Régnier.
"The Sainte-Marthe chamber," said he.
The old woman addressed him as monseigneur, and shut up
the crown in a drawer. It was the coin which the man in the
black mantle had given to Phoebus. While her back was
turned, the bushy-headed and ragged little boy who was playing
in the ashes, adroitly approached the drawer, abstracted
the crown, and put in its place a dry leaf which he had plucked
from a fagot.
The old crone made a sign to the two gentlemen, as she
called them, to follow her, and mounted the ladder in advance
of them. On arriving at the upper story, she set her lamp on
a coffer, and, Phoebus, like a frequent visitor of the house,
opened a door which opened on a dark hole. "Enter here,
my dear fellow," he said to his companion. The man in the
mantle obeyed without a word in reply, the door closed upon
him; he heard Phoebus bolt it, and a moment later descend
the stairs again with the aged hag. The light had disappeared. _
Read next: VOLUME II: BOOK SEVENTH: Chapter 8 - The Utility of Windows which Open on the River
Read previous: VOLUME II: BOOK SEVENTH: Chapter 6 - The Effect which Seven Oaths in the Open Air can Produce
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