HUMAN FOLLIES.

[2]

[3]

HUMAN FOLLIES.

(La Bêtise Humaine.)

BY

JULES NORIAC.

Translated from the SIXTEENTH Paris Edition.

BY

GEORGE MARLOW.

PHILADELPHIA:

FREDERICK LEYPOLDT.

New York: F. W. Christern.

1863.

[4]

CHAPTER I.

When Eusebe Martin had attained his twenty-first year, his father, who was a man of sense, thus addressed him:—

“Eusebe, you are no longer a child: it is time to begin your education. You were but eight years old when you lost your mother, my beloved wife. This was a great misfortune, no doubt; for her heart would have been to you a treasure of affection. However, if we were permitted to believe in compensations in this world, I should think that you had been recompensed for this loss, great as it was. Your mother, had she lived, would have spoiled you, and to-day you would not have been half the man you are.

“Remember that I have been to you a father full of solicitude. Since the day of your mother’s death, I have left you as free as the bird that at[6] this moment is singing on the linden-tree at the door. I have clothed you according to the season,—in summer in linen, in winter in wool. My table has always been abundantly supplied. As I never told you that you ate too much, you have never shown a desire to overload your stomach. I have accustomed you to running in the fields and to working with the peasants, which has rendered you strong and vigorous.

“Morally, I owed you nothing more. Nevertheless, I have taught you to read and to write. I cannot tell you how thankful I am that you have not a thick head: instead of six months, you would have wearied me two long years,—perhaps more. What use have you made of the little learning I have given you? I have never taken the pains to inquire. I have left my library entirely at your disposal, because I knew that if it contained no good books it also contained no bad ones. Have the books you have read tended to form or deform your judgment? Little do I care; for, since no one can know where falsehood is to be found and where truth is hidden, my reflections would, probably, have been at war with reason.”

“Books generally tire me,” interrupted Eusebe.[7] “Up to the present time I have read nothing but the adventures of a sailor named Robinson Crusoe, and of one Telemachus, son of Ulysses.”

“So much the better,” replied M. Martin; “or, perhaps, so much the worse. I would rather see you an enthusiastic admirer of Robinson, than of Paul and Virginia, or Faublas. But perhaps I am wrong; for, after all, Paul and Virginia are all tenderness, Faublas all love, and Robinson is egotism personified. However, nothing proves that egotism, which is a fault, is not alone worth as much as tenderness and love, which are considered good qualities.

“Now, my son, listen to me. You owe me your existence, for which, if I do not merit your thanks, I should not incur your displeasure. I but fulfilled a natural law. I have provided for your wants: the laws of society made it my duty. I have just paid a sum of money which exempts you from military service. You will, however, be at liberty to become a soldier at any time you may think proper. To-day I have received from my notary your mother’s fortune. Here it is: it is yours. In this belt there are forty-eight pieces of paper of the Bank of France, and one hundred pieces of gold. Each one of these pieces of paper is worth fifty pieces of gold: each piece of gold is worth twenty[8] of those white pieces which I give you on Sunday, when you go to play with the vagabond boys of the village on the church square. In short, you possess fifty thousand francs,—that is, more twenty-sous pieces than we gather apples in ten years. Compared with some, you are rich; with others, you are poor. Do not trouble yourself either about those who are above

or about those who are below you. The interest of this money will enable you to live until, after having become acquainted with the world, you decide to choose a vocation. If, however, you do not see fit to take the trouble of investing it, you have only to limit your expenses to ten francs per day, when your patrimony will last five thousand days,—that is, about fourteen years. In all probability, at the expiration of this time I shall be dead, and you will naturally be the possessor of our domain, the Capelette, the revenues of which are three thousand francs a year, in bad times as well as in good.

[9]

“You are about to set out for Paris, the city par excellence of civilization. Never will you have so good a theatre for studying the world. Profit by it. Go, Eusebe, and do not take the goods of others: you would have no excuse, since you have enough of your own. Never disguise the truth. The play is not worth the candle. Never strike the weak, and be equally careful not to defend them: you would make yourself two enemies. Try to have neither enemies nor friends: there is little to choose between them. And now, good-bye, my boy: here is the coach.”

The young man threw his arms around his father’s neck and embraced him affectionately. M. Martin was moved by this unexpected outburst of feeling. In a trembling voice, he said,—

“Farewell, my son! farewell!”

The young man started. His father, having placed himself at the window a moment afterwards, looked at him as he hurried towards the road.

“Eusebe!” cried he: “come here a moment, and tell me what put it into your head to embrace me, and who taught you to make this demonstration of affection.”

“Father,” replied the young man, “ten years ago M. Jaucourt, the curate, who died last year, seeing me divide a piece of bread with a poor idiot, embraced me as I just embraced you when you divided your fortune with me.”

At this moment the diligence passed. With one bound, Eusebe seated himself beside the postilion.

[10]

M. Martin closed the window, and, as he with a large plaid handkerchief wiped away a tear that was ready to fall, said,—

[11]

“Plague on the curates! they are always sticking their noses where they have no business!”

CHAPTER II.

M. Martin was neither a wicked man nor a fool, but he was a confirmed skeptic. For forty years (he was now sixty) he had been disappointed in all the events of his life.

When it became necessary for him to marry, he had to choose between two of his cousins, who were equally accomplished and equally beautiful. He preferred the one who pleased him least, because she was of a more robust constitution than her sister. Nine years afterwards she died, while the delicate sister was still living.

Martin was half ruined by a friend of his youth, for whom he would have given his life.

One day, when he was from home, one of his outbuildings caught fire, and the flames would have communicated to his dwelling but for a man, who, at the risk of his life, succeeded in arresting them. This man was his only enemy!

Well informed for a man of his condition, and endowed with a fair share of sense, he was looked up to by his neighbors with a certain degree of[12] deference. He studied hard in order to strengthen a reputation of which he was proud; but in so doing he was not slow to discover that he knew nothing.

His first visit to Paris was still fresh in his memory. It was in September, 1832. One morning he went to breathe the fresh air in the garden of the Tuileries, when a man of a noble and friendly mien, wearing a gray hat, commenced conversation with him.

“You are a stranger in Paris?”

“I am from Limousin,” replied Martin.

“You are a manufacturer, perhaps?”

“No: I am a farmer.”

“I am not acquainted with your section of the country, but I have heard it highly spoken of.”

“We have, indeed, a beautiful country,” replied the countryman,—“rich and picturesque, industrious and patriotic: we are in want of but one thing,—a river.”

“But you have the Vienna.”

“The Vienna is not navigable.”

“Could it not be made so?”

“It is the dream of the entire population of Limousin.”

[13]

“Monsieur, what is your name?”

“Martin.”

“Very well, Monsieur Martin: when you return home, tell your neighbors that in less than three years their river will be navigable.”

“Who are you,” asked Martin, “who speak with so much authority?”

A bland smile lighted up the features of the man with the gray hat, as he replied, with simplicity,—

“I am the King of the French.”

It seemed as if the crowd which had gathered around the two promenaders had only waited for this announcement. Cries of “Vive le Roi!” many times repeated, burst forth. The people surrounded the king, who smiled at some, offered his hand to others, and had a kind word for all.

“There is a great king and a great people,” thought Martin, who returned to the Capelette to narrate his royal adventure and acquaint the whole department with the king’s promises.

Seventeen years wore away. Martin, tired of the monotony of the country, and living alone with his son, who was still a child, resolved to go once more to Paris. Scarcely had he arrived at a hotel, when he hurried to dress himself in his best, saying that, although the king had not kept his promise, he owed him the first visit.[14] “I shall see him in his garden,” said he: “he will be less embarrassed than if I were to call at his palace.”

He found the entrances to the Tuileries blocked up, and motley crowds, who were loud in their cries, surrounded the palace. “What excellent people!—what love for their sovereign!” thought honest Martin.

Multitudes of ragged boys were running through the streets, singing,—

“What youths! What noble youths!” cried honest Martin, with tears in his eyes.

Seeing that he could not approach the garden from the side of the Rue de Rivoli, he went round to the Place de la Concorde. Just as he arrived at the quay, a small half-hidden gate in the wall opened before him, from which issued an old man, wearing a blue blouse, leaning on the arm of another man scarcely less aged than himself.

“Monsieur Martin,” said he, “help me, I pray you, to get into this cab.”

“Who are you? I do not recollect you,” said the astonished rustic.

[15]

“An hour ago I was King of the French,” replied the old man.

“Ah! sire,” cried Martin, preoccupied by the one idea, “the Vienna is not yet navigable.”

“It is true: I failed to keep my promise, and I am cruelly punished.”

The cab drove rapidly away, while Martin remained fixed to the spot, unable to comprehend the meaning of this royal apparition. He was, however, soon roused from his revery by a noisy crowd that issued from the little gate.

“The brigand has escaped us,” cried they.

“We will have him before he gets far.”

“So much the better.”

“Unfortunate king! deluded people!” murmured the countryman; and he took the road to the Capelette, where he lived in solitude. His mind became more and more wavering. Having no one with whom to engage in discussion, he had contracted the habit of controverting his ideas himself, and the consequence was, that he had become a skeptic in every thing. This was the reason why he had brought up his son as he had done, or, rather, the reason why he had not brought him up at all.

[16]

CHAPTER III.

On the evening of the day on which he left home, Eusebe arrived at the railroad-depot. He approached the ticket-office, and said to the agent,—

“I want to go to Paris.”

“Which class car do you wish, sir?”

“The best.”

“Fifty-four francs,” replied the agent.

Eusebe handed him three louis, and received six francs in return.

“There,” thought Eusebe, “is a clever fellow: it did not take him a minute to tell how much was coming to me.”

“And now,” he asked, “could you tell me, sir, where I will find the carriage?”

“The train, you mean.”

“I don’t know. Is that the name of the vehicle that is to transport me to Paris?” asked Eusebe, timidly.

“Vehicle!” cried the man.[17] “What do you call a vehicle? Your jesting is ill timed, sir. Here is your car: another time try to be a little more polite.”

“This man,” said Eusebe to himself, “is not so clever, after all: he is a fool,—an ignoramus!”

Eusebe’s journey was without incident. Alone in a first-class coupé, he made himself a couch, on the floor, of the cushions, and, placing his valise under his head for a pillow, he slept quietly until daylight.

When he awoke, he had passed Orleans. His eyes, half open, glanced at the country, and a cry of admiration escaped him.

“Oh, what splendid farms! what beautiful fields!” cried he:[18] “how admirably the land is cultivated! what care, what labor, is bestowed on it! My father was right: civilization has not penetrated into the departments of the interior. Fifteen hours ago, I left the Capelette. What a difference! Why is the soil so fertile here and so sterile with us? The soil is the same, but the cultivation is not. Here there are no immense forests, no uncultivated fields: the country is as populous as our cities. Laborers abound, and agricultural implements are brought to the highest state of perfection. What abundance! what riches! Everybody seems to be happy and contented. How beautiful and grand all this is!”

At the moment he made these reflections, the train began to slacken its speed. They approached a station. Eusebe watched attentively the groups of people who were waiting behind a barrier for the train to pass, in order that they might, in their turn, pass also. The noise of the locomotive frightened a cart-horse tied to a post near by. The poor animal, trembling with fear, snorted and reared up on his hind legs, when a man, armed with a whip, came out of an inn and began to strike the beast with all his might. The more he struck, the more the horse reared and pranced. Finally, breaking his halter, the animal sprang furiously against the barrier, which he struck with his head and fell dead. The man cursed like a carter, which he was.

“Surely,” said Eusebe to himself,[19] “this is a very bad business. The fault is the man’s, and not the beast’s. If the man had not left the horse, the horse would not have been frightened. If the horse had not been frightened, the man would not have struck him; and if the man had not struck the horse, the animal would not be dead. This man is perhaps a savage, recently arrived among civilized people. That, however, I think scarcely probable, since he speaks with tolerable correctness. Is my father right in saying that extremes touch, and that the last word of civilization is perhaps the first of barbarism?”

Eusebe had arrived at this point in his reflections, when two travellers entered the coupé he occupied. Although it was still early in September, the two new-comers wore fur caps and overshoes and thick woollen cloaks, while their faces were half concealed by immense woollen comforters.

“Upon my word,” said one of them, “the winter is already setting in: this northwest wind is any thing but agreeable. What do you say to taking a puff? It will give us an appetite.”

On hearing these words, Eusebe was a prey to the most lively curiosity. The singular costume of his travelling-companions made him suspect he had in them two subjects for study, coming from some distant clime. To judge from their furs, they must have first seen the light at Moscow. On hearing them talk about “taking a puff,” he expected to see something new and extraordinary, and prepared himself to be all eyes and ears, in order to become acquainted with the customs of the strangers whom chance had thrown in his way.

To the great disappointment of the young man,[20] the traveller took some cigars out of his pocket and lighted one, after having offered them to his companion and then to Eusebe, who had refused.

“You do not smoke, young man?”

“No, sir.”

“Bah! How old are you, then?”

“Twenty-one.”

“Twenty-one years old, and you do not smoke! Where the devil do you come from, my young friend?”

“I come from the Capelette, a domain near Saint-Brice, in Limousin; I am going to Paris to see the world; and I cannot be your friend, since I never met you until this morning.”

“Do not get angry, young man. It was not my intention to be rude.”

“I know that,” said Eusebe. “On the contrary, you offered me your rolls of tobacco, for which I am obliged.”

“Ah! you are from Monsieur de Pourceaugnac’s neighborhood,” said the other, who until now had remained silent.

“I do not know the gentleman,” replied Eusebe: “my father and I live a very retired life.”

“Naïve, upon my word!” cried the smoker.[21] “He ought to be framed. What, young man! you do not know the gayest of Molière’s heroes?”

“I have never been away from the Capelette, sir, and my condition does not allow me to become acquainted with heroes. I do not even know where Molière is situated.”

The two travellers burst into a hearty laugh.

“Gentlemen,” said Eusebe, when the hilarity of his neighbors had ceased, “you amuse yourselves at my expense, because I am ignorant, which, I think, is any thing but kind of you. You indiscreetly questioned me; I answered: I might have remained silent. Recollect, I beg of you, that you meddled with my affairs, and that I have not concerned myself about yours. I have not asked you whence you come, where you are going, or who you are. When you laughed at me, I might have thrown you out of the window; but I did not do it, and you ought to be thankful.”

“Out of the window! Not so fast, my dear sir.”

“I could certainly have done it,” said Eusebe, with simplicity.

“Pardon me,” said the second traveller.[22] “We do not wish to make ourselves disagreeable. You are too quick to take offence. I am in the habit of travelling a great deal. During the last ten years, my friend and I have been almost always en route. Whenever we find ourselves in company, we ask how it happens, where our companions come from, and where they are going. That helps to while away the time, and injures no one.”

“And is that all you travel for?” asked Eusebe.

“What an idea! We are travelling clerks: we represent two of the first houses in Paris.”

“However great my simplicity may be,” replied Eusebe, “I think there are no first houses in Paris, and, what is more, that there can be none, since the first on arriving from the north are the last when one comes from the south.”

They arrived at Paris, and Martin, junior, got out of the car.

With his valise in his hand, Eusebe stepped out of the depot, when a cabman cried out to him,—

“Here you are, sir! Where shall I drive you to, sir?”

“I don’t know,” replied Eusebe.

“It’s not me that’ll tell you, then.”

“I have not asked you.”

“Eh! do you hear that? Here is a gentleman that don’t know where he is going.”

[23]

“Mind your own business.”

“Bah! you lubber! you haven’t a sou.”

The provincial was about to reply, when the cabman, to whom a traveller had just made a sign, hurried away.

“These people do not seem to be very familiar with the laws of hospitality,” thought Eusebe:[24] “they call you to insult you. What does all this mean?”

CHAPTER IV.

Paris is the dream of all provincialists. Rich and poor want to come here, at least once,—the first to enjoy life, the second to try to make their fortunes. No one can imagine the disappointment of these visitors, since each one has had his own peculiar ideas of the metropolis. For some, Paris is an immense succession of palaces; for others, the houses are built of gold and precious stones.