“Jules Favre,”* he replied at last, with such contemptuous pity that I naturally felt abashed. Thus I had the chance to get to know the very flower of French eloquence at its main source, as you might say.
But there is a vast number of these sources. The bourgeois is riddled with eloquence. We went once to the pantheon to have a look at the great men. It was the wrong time to come at and we had to pay two francs. Thereupon a venerable, if decrepit, disabled soldier took the keys and led us to the church crypt. On the way there he still spoke like a man, even though the absence of teeth made him mumble a little. But as soon as we were down in the crypt and he had brought us to the first tomb, he broke into sing-song.
“Ci-gît* Voltaire,* Voltaire this great genius of lovely France. He abolished prejudice, overcame ignorance, wrestled with the angel of darkness and held high the torch of enlightenment. He reached greatness in his tragedies, though France already had Corneille.”*
He was clearly repeating a lesson he had learnt and committed to memory. Someone had once written out the whole sermon for him on a piece of paper and he got it off by heart for the rest of his life: pleasure shone on his kind old face as he began perorating in highfalutin style for our benefit.
“Ci-gît Jean-Jacques Rousseau,”* he continued at the next tomb. “Jean-Jacques Rousseau, l’homme de la nature et de la vérité!”*
Suddenly I wanted to laugh. A highfalutin style can make anything appear ridiculous. Besides, it was obvious that even as he spoke of nature and vérité the poor old man had no idea what he was talking about.
“How odd!” I said to him. “Of these two great men one spent his life calling the other a liar and a wretch, and the other simply called the first a fool. And here they have come together, almost next to each other.”
“Monsieur, monsieur!” began the disabled soldier. He wanted to reply something, but didn’t and quickly took us to another tomb.
“Ci-gît Lannes, Marshal Lannes”* – he went off into his sing-song again – “one of the greatest heroes France, so rich in heroes, has ever had. He was not only a great marshal and the most skilful leader of troops apart from the great Emperor, but he enjoyed an even greater happiness. He was also the friend…” “Of course,” I said, eager to shorten the speech, “he was the friend of
Napoleon.”
“Monsieur,” interrupted the disabled soldier, “let me speak.” He sounded somewhat hurt.
“Go on then, I am listening.”
“But he enjoyed an even greater happiness. He was the friend of the great Emperor. Not one of all his other marshals had had the happiness of becoming the great man’s friend. Marshal Lannes alone proved worthy of that great honour. As he lay dying for his country on the field of battle…”
“Well yes, he had both his legs torn off by a cannon ball.”
“Monsieur, monsieur,” exclaimed the soldier almost in tears, “do let me speak myself. You know it all perhaps… But let me tell it too.”
The strange fellow was terribly keen to tell the story himself, even though we knew it all before.
“As he lay dying for his country,” he began once more, “on the field of battle, the Emperor, struck to the heart and mourning his great loss…”
“Came to say farewell to him,” said I, unable to restrain myself from interrupting him again. But I immediately felt I should not have done it and was overcome by remorse.
“Monsieur, monsieur,” said the old man dolefully and reproachfully looking at me straight in the eye and shaking his grey head. “Monsieur, I know, I am sure you know all this better than me, perhaps. But you have yourself taken me on to show you: let me speak then. There’s not much left now… Then the Emperor, struck to the heart and mourning (alas, in vain!) the great loss which he, the army and the whole of France had sustained, approached the deathbed and by his last farewell soothed the cruel sufferings of the great captain who died almost in his presence – C’est fini, monsieur,”* he added, casting a reproachful glance at me, and continued on his way.
“And here is another tomb; and those over there… quelques sénateurs,”* he added with complete indifference and gave a casual nod in the direction of several other tombs nearby. He had exhausted the whole of his eloquence on Voltaire, Jean-Jacques and Marshal Lannes.
This was a direct example, coming from the people so to speak, of the love of eloquence. Is it possible that all the speeches held in the national assembly, the convention and the clubs, in which the nation had almost directly participated and in which it had been re-educated, is it possible, I repeat, that they have left only one trace – the love of eloquence for the sake of eloquence?
8
Bribri and Ma Biche
AND WHAT ABOUT SPOUSES? Spouses thrive and flourish. By the way, why, you may ask, do I write “spouses” instead of wives? Lofty style, my dear sirs, that’s why. The bourgeois, whenever he has recourse to lofty style, always says “mon épouse”. And though other classes simply say ma femme – my wife – like everywhere else, it is better to follow the national spirit of the majority and use the lofty style of speech. It’s more characteristic. Besides, there are other names as well. When the bourgeois is in a sentimental mood or wants to be unfaithful to his wife he always calls her ma biche – my doe. And conversely a loving wife in an excess of dainty skittishness calls her darling bourgeois bribri, to the great delight of the bourgeois.
Bribri and Ma Biche always thrive but now more than ever. It is, of course, understood (tacitly, almost) that Ma Biche and Bribri must, in our troubled times, serve as models of society’s virtue, harmony and blissful state, and as a reproach to the odious nonsense of absurd communist tramps; but apart from that, Bribri becomes, maritally speaking, increasingly amenable every year. He understands that his Biche cannot be kept back, whatever is done or said, that a Parisienne is made to have a lover, and that a husband cannot avoid a couple of horns. He will naturally keep mum while his savings are still meagre and his possessions few.
However, as soon as he has both, Bribri becomes more exacting in every way, because he then acquires a great respect for himself. He begins to consider Gustave in a different light too, particularly if the latter is no more than a ragamuffin and has but few possessions.
In general, a Parisian who has a little money and wants to get married chooses a wife who also has a little money. Not only that, but they go through each other’s accounts first, and if they discover that francs and possessions are equal on either side, they unite. This happens everywhere else too; but here the law of the equality of pockets has developed into a peculiar custom.
For instance, if a girl has so much as a penny more than a would-be suitor, she will never be allowed to marry him, and a better Bribri is then looked for. Besides, love matches are becoming increasingly impossible and are regarded as almost indecent. The reasonable custom which invariably demands the equality of pockets and the marriage of fortunes is rarely broken – more rarely, I should think, than anywhere else.
The bourgeois has organized his wife’s money excellently well to his own advantage. That is precisely why he is often ready to close his eyes to his Biche’s escapades and not to notice a number of annoying things, for otherwise, in case of disagreement between them, the question of the dowry can raise its ugly head.
Besides, should his Biche ever take to following fashion beyond her means, Bribri would take note but voice no objection; his wife might ask less for her dresses. Ma Biche is then much easier to deal with. Anyway, as marriages are for the most part marriages of fortunes and very little attention is paid to mutual affection, Bribri himself is not averse to letting his glances stray away from his own Biche. Thus it is best not to interfere with each other. In this way more harmony reigns in the home, and the beloved names – Bribri and Ma Biche – are ever more frequently murmured by the loving couples.
As a matter of fact, to be quite frank, Bribri has even here succeeded in securing his own position. The police officer is always at his disposal. Such is the law of which he is himself
the author. If the worst comes to the worst and he finds the pair of lovers en flagrant délit,* he can even kill them, without having to answer for his actions. Ma Biche knows this and approves it.
A long period of protection and guardianship has reduced Ma Biche to such a state of mind that she neither complains nor dreams, as in certain other barbarous and ridiculous countries, of, for instance, receiving a university education, joining clubs and becoming a Member of Parliament. She prefers to lead her present ethereal and, so to speak, canary-like existence. She is decked out in fine clothes and gloves and taken for drives, she dances, she sucks sweets, superficially
