The Wandering Jew — Complete
"That's right; wheedle me now, wretch!"
"I swear by the accursed head of my landlord, that, if you liked, you
could spread yourself as much as the Bacchanal Queen--which is saying a
great deal."
"The fact is, that the Bacchanal had cheek enough, in all conscience."
"Not to speak of her fascinating the bobbies!"
"And magnetizing the beaks."
"They may get as angry as they please; she always finishes by making
them laugh."
"And they all call her: Queen!"
"Last night she charmed a slop (as modest as a country girl) whose
purity took up arms against the famous dance of the Storm-blown Tulip."
"What a quadrille! Sleepinbuff and the Bacchanal Queen, having opposite
to them Rose-Pompon and Ninny Moulin!"
"And all four making tulips as full-blown as could be!"
"By-the-bye, is it true what they say of Ninny Moulin?"
"What?"
"Why that he is a writer, and scribbles pamphlets on religion."
"Yes, it is true. I have often seen him at my employer's, with whom he
deals; a bad paymaster, but a jolly fellow!"
"And pretends to be devout, eh?"
"I believe you, my boy--when it is necessary; then he is my Lord
Dumoulin, as large as life. He rolls his eyes, walks with his head on
one side, and his toes turned in; but, when the piece is played out, he
slips away to the balls of which he is so fond. The girls christened him
Ninny Moulin. Add, that he drinks like a fish, and you have the photo
of the cove. All this doesn't prevent his writing for the religious
newspapers; and the saints, whom he lets in even oftener than himself,
are ready to swear by him. You should see his articles and his
tracts--only see, not read!--every page is full of the devil and
his horns, and the desperate fryings which await your impious
revolutionists--and then the authority of the bishops, the power of the
Pope--hang it! how could I know it all? This toper, Ninny Moulin, gives
good measure enough for their money!"
"The fact is, that he is both a heavy drinker and a heavy swell. How
he rattled on with little Rose-Pompon in the dance and the full-blown
tulip!"
"And what a rum chap he looked in his Roman helmet and top-boots."
"Rose-Pompon dances divinely, too; she has the poetic twist."
"And don't show her heels a bit!"
"Yes; but the Bacchanal Queen is six thousand feet above the level of
any common leg-shaker. I always come back to her step last night in the
full-blown tulip."
"It was huge!"
"It was serene!"
"If I were father of a family, I would entrust her with the education of
my sons!"
"It was that step, however, which offended the bobby's modesty."
"The fact is, it was a little free."
"Free as air--so the policeman comes up to her, and says: 'Well,
my Queen, is your foot to keep on a-goin' up forever?' 'No, modest
warrior!' replies the Queen; 'I practice the step only once every
evening, to be able to dance it when I am old. I made a vow of it, that
you might become an inspector.'"
"What a comic card!"
"I don't believe she will remain always with Sleepinbuff."
"Because he has been a workman?"
"What nonsense! it would preciously become us, students and shop-boys,
to give ourselves airs! No; but I am astonished at the Queen's
fidelity."
"Yes--they've been a team for three or four good months."
"She's wild upon him, and he on her."
"They must lead a gay life."
"Sometimes I ask myself where the devil Sleepinbuff gets all the money
he spends. It appears that he pays all last night's expenses, three
coaches-and-four, and a breakfast this morning for twenty, at ten francs
a-head."
"They say he has come into some property. That's why Ninny Moulin, who
has a good nose for eating and drinking, made acquaintance with him last
night--leaving out of the question that he may have some designs on the
Bacchanal Queen."
"He! In a lot! He's rather too ugly. The girls like to dance with him
because he makes people laugh--but that's all. Little Rose-Pompon, who
is such a pretty creature, has taken him as a harmless chap-her-own, in
the absence of her student."
"The coaches! the coaches!" exclaimed the crowd, all with one voice.
Forced to stop in the midst of the maskers, Mother Bunch had not lost
a word of this conversation, which was deeply painful to her, as it
concerned her sister, whom she had not seen for a long time. Not that
the Bacchanal Queen had a bad heart; but the sight of the wretched
poverty of Mother Bunch--a poverty which she had herself shared, but
which she had not had the strength of mind to bear any longer--caused
such bitter grief to the gay, thoughtless girl, that she would no more
expose herself to it, after she had in vain tried to induce her sister
to accept assistance, which the latter always refused, knowing that its
source could not be honorable.
"The coaches! the coaches!" once more exclaimed the crowd, as they
pressed forward with enthusiasm, so that Mother Bunch, carried on
against her will, was thrust into the foremost rank of the people
assembled to see the show.
It was, indeed, a curious sight. A man on horseback, disguised as a
postilion, his blue jacket embroidered with silver, and enormous tail
from which the powder escaped in puffs, and a hat adorned with long
ribbons, preceded the first carriage, cracking his whip, and crying with
all his might: "Make way for the Bacchanal Queen and her court!"
In an open carriage, drawn by four lean horses, on which rode two old
postilions dressed as devils, was raised a downright pyramid of men and
women, sitting, standing, leaning, in every possible variety of odd,
extravagant, and grotesque costume; altogether an indescribable mass of
bright colors, flowers, ribbons, tinsel and spangles. Amid this heap of
strange forms and dresses appeared wild or graceful countenances, ugly
or handsome features--but all animated by the feverish excitement of
a jovial frenzy--all turned with an expression of fanatical admiration
towards the second carriage, in which the Queen was enthroned, whilst
they united with the multitude in reiterated shouts of "Long live the
Bacchanal Queen."
This second carriage, open like the first, contained only the four
dancers of the famous step of the Storm-blown Tulip--Ninny Moulin, Rose
Pompon, Sleepinbuff, and the Bacchanal Queen.
Dumoulin, the religious writer, who wished to dispute possession of Mme.
de la Sainte-Colombe with his patron, M. Rodin--Dumoulin, surnamed
Ninny Moulin, standing on the front cushions, would have presented a
magnificent study for Callot or Gavarni, that eminent artist, who
unites with the biting strength and marvellous fancy of an illustrious
caricaturist, the grace, the poetry, and the depth of Hogarth.
Ninny Moulin, who was about thirty-five years of age, wore very much
back upon his head a Roman helmet of silver paper. A voluminous plume of
black feathers, rising from a red wood holder, was stuck on one side
of this headgear, breaking the too classic regularity of its outline.
Beneath this casque, shone forth the most rubicund and jovial face, that
ever was purpled by the fumes of generous wine. A prominent nose, with
its primitive shape modestly concealed beneath a luxuriant growth of
pimples, half red, half violet, gave a funny expression to a perfectly
beardless face; while a large mouth, with thick lips turning their
insides outwards, added to the air of mirth and jollity which beamed
from his large gray eyes, set flat in his head.
On seeing this joyous fellow, with a paunch like Silenus, one could not
help asking how it was, that he had not drowned in wine, a hundred times
over, the gall, bile, and venom which flowed from his pamphlets against
the enemies of Ultramontanism, and how his Catholic beliefs could float
upwards in the midst of these mad excesses of drink and dancing. The
question would have appeared insoluble, if one had not remembered how
many actors, who play the blackest and most hateful first robbers on the
stage, are, when off it, the best fellow in the world.
The weather being cold, Ninny Moulin wore a kind of box-coat, which,
being half-open, displayed his cuirass of scales, and his flesh-colored
pantaloons, finishing just below the calf in a pair of yellow tops to
his boots. Leaning forward in front of the carriage, he uttered wild
shouts of delight, mingled with the words: "Long live the Bacchanal
Queen!"--after which, he shook and whirled the enormous rattle he held
in his hand. Standing beside him, Sleepinbuff waved on high a banner
of white silk, on which were the words: "Love and joy to the Bacchanal
Queen!"
Sleepinbuff was about twenty-five years of age. His countenance was gay
and intelligent, surrounded by a collar of chestnut-colored whiskers;
but worn with late hours and excesses, it expressed a singular mixture
of carelessness and hardihood, recklessness and mockery; still, no base
or wicked passion had yet stamped there its fatal impress. He was the
perfect type of the Parisian, as the term is generally applied, whether
in the army, in the provinces, on board a king's ship, or a merchantman.
It is not a compliment, and yet it is far from being an insult; it is an
epithet which partakes at once of blame, admiration, and fear; for if,
in this sense, the Parisian is often idle and rebellious, he is also
quick at his work, resolute in danger, and always terribly satirical and
fond of practical jokes.
He was dressed in a very flashy style. He wore a black velvet jacket
with silver buttons, a scarlet waistcoat, trousers with broad blue
stripes, a Cashmere shawl for a girdle with ends loosely floating, and
a chimney-pot hat covered with flowers and streamers. This disguise set
off his light, easy figure to great advantage.
At the back of the carriage, standing up on the cushions, were Rose
Pompon and the Bacchanal Queen.
Rose-Pompon, formerly a fringe-maker, was about seventeen years old, and
had the prettiest and most winning little face imaginable. She was gayly
dressed in debardeur costume. Her powdered wig, over which was smartly
cocked on one side an orange and green cap laced with silver, increased
the effect of her bright black eyes, and of her round, carnation cheeks.
She wore about her neck an orange-colored cravat, of the same material
as her loose sash. Her tight jacket and narrow vest of light green
velvet, with silver ornaments, displayed to the best advantage a
charming figure, the pliancy of which must have well suited the
evolutions of the Storm blown Tulip. Her large trousers, of the same
stuff and color as the jacket, were not calculated to hide any of her
attractions.
The Bacchanal Queen, being at the least a head taller, leaned with one
hand on the shoulder of Rose-Pompon. Mother Bunch's sister ruled, like
a true monarch, over this mad revelry, which her very presence seemed
to inspire, such influence had her own mirth and animation over all that
surrounded her.
She was a tall girl of about twenty years of age, light and graceful,
with regular features, and a merry, racketing air. Like her sister, she
had magnificent chestnut hair, and large blue eyes; but instead of being
soft and timid, like those of the young sempstress, the latter shone
with indefatigable ardor in the pursuit of pleasure. Such was the energy
of her vivacious constitution, that, notwithstanding many nights and
days passed in one continued revel, her complexion was as pure, her
cheeks as rosy, her neck as fresh and fair, as if she had that morning
issued from some peaceful home. Her costume, though singular
and fantastic, suited her admirably. It was composed of a tight,
long-waisted bodice in cloth of gold, trimmed with great bunches of
scarlet ribbon, the ends of which streamed over her naked arms, and
a short petticoat of scarlet velvet, ornamented with golden beads and