The Wandering Jew — Complete
indefatigable, laughed, ate, and drank, with youthful and Pantagruelian
ardor, so that, during the first part of the feast, there was less
chatter than clatter of plates and glasses.
The Bacchanal Queen's countenance was less gay, but much more animated
than usual; her flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes announced a feverish
excitement; she wished to drown reflection, cost what it might. Her
conversation with her sister often recurred to her, and she tried to
escape from such sad remembrances.
Jacques regarded Cephyse from time to time with passionate adoration;
for, thanks to the singular conformity of character, mind, and taste
between him and the Bacchanal Queen, their attachment had deeper and
stronger roots than generally belong to ephemeral connections founded
upon pleasure. Cephyse and Jacques were themselves not aware of all the
power of a passion which till now had been surrounded only by joys and
festivities, and not yet been tried by any untoward event.
Little Rose-Pompon, left a widow a few days before by a student, who, in
order to end the carnival in style, had gone into the country to raise
supplies from his family, under one of those fabulous pretences which
tradition carefully preserves in colleges of law and medicine--Rose
Pompon, we repeat, an example of rare fidelity, determined not to
compromise herself, had taken for a chaperon the inoffensive Ninny
Moulin.
This latter, having doffed his helmet, exhibited a bald head, encircled
by a border of black, curling hair, pretty long at the back of the head.
By a remarkable Bacchic phenomenon, in proportion as intoxication gained
upon him, a sort of zone, as purple as his jovial face, crept by degrees
over his brow, till it obscured even the shining whiteness of his crown.
Rose-Pompon, who knew the meaning of this symptom, pointed it out to the
company, and exclaimed with a loud burst of laughter: "Take care, Ninny
Moulin! the tide of the wine is coming in."
"When it rises above his head he will be drowned," added the Bacchanal
Queen.
"Oh, Queen! don't disturb me; I am meditating, answered Dumoulin, who
was getting tipsy. He held in his hand, in the fashion of an antique
goblet, a punch-bowl filled with wine, for he despised the ordinary
glasses, because of their small size.
"Meditating," echoed Rose-Pompon, "Ninny Moulin is meditating. Be
attentive!"
"He is meditating; he must be ill then!"
"What is he meditating? an illegal dance?"
"A forbidden Anacreontic attitude?"
"Yes, I am meditating," returned Dumoulin, gravely; "I am meditating
upon wine, generally and in particular--wine, of which the immortal
Bossuet"--Dumoulin had the very bad habit of quoting Bossuet when he was
drunk--"of which the immortal Bossuet says (and he was a judge of good
liquor): 'In wine is courage, strength joy, and spiritual fervor'--when
one has any brains," added Ninny Moulin, by way of parenthesis.
"Oh, my! how I adore your Bossuet!" said Rose-Pompon.
"As for my particular meditation, it concerns the question, whether the
wine at the marriage of Cana was red or white. Sometimes I incline to
one side, sometimes to the other--and sometimes to both at once."
"That is going to the bottom of the question," said Sleepinbuff.
"And, above all, to the bottom of the bottles," added the Bacchanal
Queen.
"As your majesty is pleased to observe; and already, by dint of
reflection and research, I have made a great discovery--namely, that, if
the wine at the marriage of Cana was red--"
"It couldn't 'a' been white," said Rose-Pompon, judiciously.
"And if I had arrived at the conviction that it was neither white nor
red?" asked Dumoulin, with a magisterial air.
"That could only be when you had drunk till all was blue," observed
Sleepinbuff.
"The partner of the Queen says well. One may be too athirst for science;
but never mind! From all my studies on this question, to which I have
devoted my life--I shall await the end of my respectable career with
the sense of having emptied tuns with a historical--theological--and
archeological tone!"
It is impossible to describe the jovial grimace and tone with which
Dumoulin pronounced and accentuated these last words, which provoked a
general laugh.
"Archieolopically?" said Rose-Pompon. "What sawnee is that? Has he a
tail? does he live in the water?"
"Never mind," observed the Bacchanal Queen; "these are words of wise men
and conjurers; they are like horsehair bustles--they serve for filling
out--that's all. I like better to drink; so fill the glasses, Ninny
Moulin; some champagne, Rose-Pompon; here's to the health of your
Philemon and his speedy return!"
"And to the success of his plant upon his stupid and stingy family!"
added Rose-Pompon.
The toast was received with unanimous applause.
"With the permission of her majesty and her court," said Dumoulin, "I
propose a toast to the success of a project which greatly interests me,
and has some resemblance to Philemon's jockeying. I fancy that the toast
will bring me luck."
"Let's have it, by all means!"
"Well, then--success to my marriage!" said Dumoulin, rising.
These words provoked an explosion of shouts, applause, and laughter.
Ninny Moulin shouted, applauded, laughed even louder than the rest,
opening wide his enormous mouth, and adding to the stunning noise the
harsh springing of his rattle, which he had taken up from under his
chair.
When the storm had somewhat subsided, the Bacchanal Queen rose and said:
"I drink to the health of the future Madame Ninny Moulin."
"Oh, Queen! your courtesy touches me so sensibly that I must
allow you to read in the depths of my heart the name of my
future spouse," exclaimed Dumoulin. "She is called Madame
Honoree-Modeste-Messaline-Angele de la Sainte-Colombe, widow."
"Bravo! bravo!"
"She is sixty years old, and has more thousands of francs-a-year than
she has hair in her gray moustache or wrinkles on her face; she is
so superbly fat that one of her gowns would serve as a tent for this
honorable company. I hope to present my future spouse to you on Shrove
Tuesday, in the costume of a shepherdess that has just devoured her
flock. Some of them wish to convert her--but I have undertaken to divert
her, which she will like better. You must help me to plunge her headlong
into all sorts of skylarking jollity."
"We will plunge her into anything you please."
"She shall dance like sixty!" said Rose-Pompon, humming a popular tune.
"She will overawe the police."
"We can say to them: 'Respect this lady; your mother will perhaps be as
old some day!'"
Suddenly, the Bacchanal Queen rose; her countenance wore a singular
expression of bitter and sardonic delight. In one hand she held a glass
full to the brim. "I hear the Cholera is approaching in his seven-league
boots," she cried. "I drink luck to the Cholera!" And she emptied the
bumper.
Notwithstanding the general gayety, these words made a gloomy
impression; a sort of electric shudder ran through the assemblage, and
nearly every countenance became suddenly serious.
"Oh, Cephyse!" said Jacques, in a tone of reproach.
"Luck to the Cholera," repeated the Queen, fearlessly. "Let him spare
those who wish to live, and kill together those who dread to part!"
Jacques and Cephyse exchanged a rapid glance, unnoticed by their joyous
companions, and for some time the Bacchanal Queen remained silent and
thoughtful.
"If you put it that way, it is different," cried Rose-Pompon, boldly.
"To the Cholera! may none but good fellows be left on earth!"
In spite of this variation, the impression was still painfully
impressive. Dumoulin, wishing to cut short this gloomy subject,
exclaimed: "Devil take the dead, and long live the living! And, talking
of chaps who both live and live well, I ask you to drink a health most
dear to our joyous queen, the health of our Amphitryon. Unfortunately,
I do not know his respectable name, having only had the advantage
of making his acquaintance this night; he will excuse me, then, if I
confine myself to proposing the health of Sleepinbuff--a name by no
means offensive to my modesty, as Adam never slept in any other manner.
I drink to Sleepinbuff."
"Thanks, old son!" said Jacques, gayly; "were I to forget your name, I
should call you 'Have-a-sip?' and I am sure that you would answer: 'I
will.'"
"I will directly!" said Dumoulin, making the military salute with one
hand, and holding out the bowl with the other.
"As we have drunk together," resumed Sleepinbuff, cordially, "we ought
to know each other thoroughly. I am Jacques Rennepont?"
"Rennepont!" cried Dumoulin, who appeared struck by the name, in spite
of his half-drunkenness; "you are Rennepont?"
"Rennepont in the fullest sense of the word. Does that astonish you?"
"There is a very ancient family of that name--the Counts of Rennepont."
"The deuce there is!" said the other, laughing.
"The Counts of Rennepont are also Dukes of Cardoville," added Dumoulin.
"Now, come, old fellow! do I look as if I belonged to such a family?--I,
a workman out for a spree?"
"You a workman? why, we are getting into the Arabian Nights!" cried
Dumoulin, more and more surprised. "You give us a Belshazzar's banquet,
with accompaniment of carriages and four, and yet are a workman? Only
tell me your trade, and I will join you, leaving the Vine of the Divine
to take care of itself."
"Come, I say! don't think that I am a printer of flimsies, and a
smasher!" replied Jacques, laughing.
"Oh, comrade! no such suspicion--"
"It would be excusable, seeing the rigs I run. But I'll make you easy on
that point. I am spending an inheritance."
"Eating and drinking an uncle, no doubt?" said Dumoulin, benevolently.
"Faith, I don't know."
"What! you don't know whom you are eating and drinking?"
"Why, you see, in the first place, my father was a bone-grubber."
"The devil he was!" said Dumoulin, somewhat out of countenance, though
in general not over-scrupulous in the choice of his bottle-companions:
but, after the first surprise, he resumed, with the most charming
amenity: "There are some rag-pickers very high by scent--I mean
descent!"
"To be sure! you may think to laugh at me," said Jacques, "but you are
right in this respect, for my father was a man of very great merit. He
spoke Greek and Latin like a scholar, and often told me that he had not
his equal in mathematics; besides, he had travelled a good deal."
"Well, then," resumed Dumoulin, whom surprise had partly sobered, "you
may belong to the family of the Counts of Rennepont, after all."
"In which case," said Rose-Pompon, laughing, "your father was not a
gutter-snipe by trade, but only for the honor of the thing."
"No, no--worse luck! it was to earn his living," replied Jacques; "but,
in his youth, he had been well off. By what appeared, or rather by
what did not appear, he had applied to some rich relation, and the
rich relation had said to him: 'Much obliged! try the work'us.' Then he
wished to make use of his Greek, and Latin, and mathematics. Impossible
to do anything--Paris, it seems, being choke-full of learned men--so
my father had to look for his bread at the end of a hooked stick, and
there, too, he must have found it, for I ate of it during two years,
when I came to live with him after the death of an aunt, with whom I had
been staying in the country."
"Your respectable father must have been a sort of philosopher," said
Dumoulin; "but, unless he found an inheritance in a dustbin, I don't see
how you came into your property."
"Wait for the end of the song. At twelve years of age I was an
apprentice at the factory of M. Tripeaud; two years afterwards, my
father died of an accident, leaving me the furniture of our garret--a