Chapter I: A Reading Room

“Madame, give me the _Constitutionnel_.”

“They are all in use at the moment, monsieur.”

“Well, then give me the _Courrier Français_.”

“Here’s the first sheet of it, monsieur. You shall have the rest in a moment.”

“When I read a newspaper, madame, I like to have it whole; with this new fashion of yours, of cutting the paper in two, you sometimes make us wait at the most interesting places, and that is very unpleasant.”

“But, monsieur, we can’t take ten copies of the same paper! The expenses are big enough already! By cutting the paper, it is easier to accommodate a number of people, and the second sheet of the _Courrier Français_ will certainly be returned before you have read the first.”

“That is not certain. I am not one of those people who spend an hour reading a column. I want a whole paper.”

“Will you have the _Débats_?”

“Very well, give me the _Débats_.”

The gentleman who insisted upon having a whole newspaper, like the children who insist upon having a dish to themselves at a restaurant, although they often cannot eat half of it, had entered the reading room grumbling; he took his seat upon a bench between two readers, one of whom, a young and courteous man, moved along to make room for him, while the other, who was old and wrinkled, with his hair brushed _à la_ pigeon’s wing, glanced crossly at the newcomer and turned his back on him after muttering in a sour tone:

“Be careful, monsieur, you are sitting on my coat.”

I was standing at the door of the room, where I rarely remain long; I easily obtained a whole newspaper, because I selected a humble literary sheet; and in these days when politics engrosses everybody, mere literature is cruelly neglected. I can readily understand that people are interested in and absorbed by the interests of our country. There are times when I myself read the great newspapers eagerly; but even then I could not pass hours poring over them. What would you have? One cannot make oneself over, and politics has never been in my line. Indeed, I may be wrong, but it seems to me that that would be a most blessed country where the people were never called upon to busy themselves with politics.

I wanted to know what the papers said about the play that was produced the day before at the Variétés. One paper declared that is was detestable, another pronounced it delightful; is it possible to form an opinion upon such judgments?

“Madame, give me the _Quotidienne_, please, and the Gazette de France, if nobody has them.”

“No, monsieur, nobody has them; here they are.”

I turned to look. One often turns to look when one is not reading anything serious; I wanted to see the gentleman who had taken the _Gazette_ and the _Quotidienne_. I saw a very tall, straight individual, with smooth, plastered hair, curly behind the ears; with a furtive eye and a honeyed voice; I was on the point of saying, with red ears and a flushed complexion; in truth, he had both these, and if I had looked at him before he spoke, I could have guessed what papers he would have asked for. Some people claim that the face is deceitful; but no, it is not so deceitful as it is said to be, especially to those who take the trouble to examine it carefully.

I still held my paper in my hand but I was no longer reading it. I amused myself by scrutinizing all those faces leaning over the printed pages. It would have made a pretty picture for a _genre_ painter. That stout man, with his elbows resting on the table covered with the conventional green cloth, had the air of a potentate called upon to arbitrate between neighboring kings. Sometimes he protruded his lower lip, dissatisfied doubtless with what was being done; but soon his expression softened, his mouth resumed its usual expression, and a slight nod of the head indicated that he was better pleased with what he was reading.

At his right, a short, gray-haired man was reading with an avidity which was depicted upon every feature. It mattered little to him that people came in and went out, coughed, blew their noses, or sat down beside him; his eyes did not leave for one second the sheet that he held before them, and they gleamed like a young man’s. There was patriotism, glory, liberty in that expression.

Beyond him, a man of uncertain age, a man with a mania; that could be seen at a glance. The lamp must be exactly in front of him, his feet must have a chair to rest upon, and his snuff-box must be placed beside his paper. If all these conditions were not exactly fulfilled, then he was perfectly wretched and had no idea what he was reading. I soon had a proof of it: his neighbor moved his snuff-box with his elbow, whereupon he raised his eyes angrily and glared at the offender, muttering:

“It seems to me that you have room enough, and that it isn’t in your way!”

It was several minutes before he could resume his reading in peace, and he did not do so until he had replaced his box at the same distance from his hand as before. But soon a more serious accident happened: as there were many people in the room, a newcomer ventured to take the chair upon which his feet were resting. Thereupon the man with the mania was completely upset; after glancing askance at the person who had presumed to take such a liberty, he rose, walked to the desk, angrily threw down the newspaper and a sou, and left the room, saying:

“It’s outrageous! it is impossible to read the news when one is interrupted and disturbed every moment.”

The man with the smooth hair had taken a seat in the corner at the end of the room. From time to time he cast a furtive glance about him; then he resumed his reading, but very quietly, without moving, without the slightest change of expression.

Just beyond him, a stupid faced man had been leaning over the same sheet for an interminable time; but he was not asleep, as I thought at first. That man was, so I was told, the terror of all reading rooms. He regularly took four hours to read an ordinary newspaper, and six to read the _Moniteur_. If those who let newspapers had many customers like him, they would have to charge by the hour, as at billiards.

I was about to return to my literary review, but my attention was distracted by a female voice which rang in my ears; anything of the feminine gender always distracts my attention. I instantly abandoned the regular customers of the reading room, and looked into the next room at the right, which was filled with tables covered with books; for at that establishment books as well as papers were let; and in truth it was wisely done, for in these days, in order to earn one’s living, it is none too much, in fact sometimes it is not enough, to do two things at once.

As I was standing between the two rooms, it was easy for me to look into the one devoted to books: I saw a woman of some twenty years, with a bright, wide-awake face. Her dress indicated that she lived near by; her head was uncovered; a black silk apron _à corsage_ fitted her snugly; but her feet were in list slippers which were much too large for her, and she also had a thimble on one of her hands, which were covered with old gloves of which the fingers were cut off. She tripped in, smiling, and placed a package of books on the desk, saying:

“Here! we have _devoured_ all these already!”

“What! why, you only got them yesterday!”

“Oh! we read fast at our house; my aunt doesn’t do anything else, and my sister has a sore thumb and couldn’t work; she often has a sore thumb, my sister has; and my brother much prefers reading novels to practising on the violin. I confess that I like it much better too, when he is not practising; it’s so tiresome to have a violin forever scraping in your ears; oh! it sets my teeth on edge just to think of it. I have a horror of a violin--What are you going to give me? We want something nice.”

“I don’t just know, you read so fast; before long you will have read all the books I have got.”

“We want something new.”

“New! that’s what all the subscribers say; they think that nothing is good except what is new; and yet we have some old novels which are far ahead of the modern ones.”

“Bah! you say that to get me to take your _Cleveland_, your _Tom Jones_ and your old _Doyen de Killerine_ again.”

“The _Doyen de Killerine_ is a very good book, mademoiselle, and----”

“Madame, I don’t take any interest in a hunchback hero with crooked legs and patches over his eyes. No! no! what I like is a handsome young man, very dark and well-built, with a noble carriage; he is all right,--you can imagine him and fancy that you are looking at him. When he makes love, you say to yourself: ‘I’d like to have a lover like him;’ and there’s some pleasure in that.”

The proprietress smiled; I did the same, while pretending to be engrossed in my paper. The young woman fluttered from one table to another; she would take up a book, open it, then put it back on its shelf, saying:

“We have read this; we have read this. Bless my soul! have we read everything?”

“Here, mademoiselle,” said the woman who kept the room, “here’s something interesting and well written.”

“What is it?”

“_La Femme de Bon Sens, ou La Prisonnière de Bohême._”

“Let’s see whom it is by: translated from the English by Ducos. Why, this was published in 1798! Are you making fun of me, to give me such an old novel as this?”

“What difference does it make how old it is, when I tell you that it is good?”

“I tell you that its age makes a great deal of difference; we like pictures of contemporary manners. A novel more than twenty years old cannot depict the manners of to-day.”

“But it may depict the passions and absurdities of society; those things are of all times, mademoiselle. That is why people still enjoy seeing _Tartufe_, the _Misanthrope_, the _Etourdi_, although those works are certainly not new.”

“Oh! it all depends on the taste. But I don’t want the _Femme de Bon Sens_. Besides, I don’t like the title; it seems to be an epigram.”

“Well, here is something new--the _Bourreau de_----”

“Enough! enough! thank the Lord we have never cared for executioners--_bourreaux_--! we don’t like the literature of the burying ground, the manners of the Morgue. It is possible that such pictures may be true to life, but we have no desire to go to those places to find out; we would shun with horror a street or square where preparations were being made to execute a criminal; and you expect us to enjoy reading books where the author persists in describing such horrors in detail, in presenting ghastly pictures! Oh! it seems to me, madame, that a man must have a very bad opinion of women to think that they will enjoy such reading, that such tableaux can possibly have any attraction for them. It is equivalent to coupling us with the wretches who rush in crowds to look on at an execution; and I did not suppose that there could be any glory in writing for those women!”

I could not resist the desire to look up from my paper; we like to meet people who think as we do, and as I agreed absolutely with that young woman in her views regarding literature, I looked at her with satisfaction. Chance willed that she should look at me at the same moment. I smiled, no doubt, for she made a funny little face and skipped away to another part of the room.

She soon returned with four volumes, and said:

“At last, I believe I have found one that we haven’t read: _Eugène et Guillaume_. I will take this. It’s by Picard; it ought to be good.”

“You should not always trust to the author’s name, mademoiselle; however, when it is by a writer who knows how to write, one is sure at all events to have something which will not offend in style, even if the plot or the incidents are not well done. You say that you will take _Eugène et Guillaume_?”

“Yes, but I must have something else with it. Four volumes! why, they will hardly last one evening. By the way, have you anything new by the author of _Sœur Anne_? He is my favorite, you know.”

I could not help looking at the young woman with still greater satisfaction, for I am very intimate with the author whom she named.

“No, mademoiselle, I have nothing by that author that you have not read. But here is something that came out yesterday.”

“Ah! give it to me, give it to me.”

“I don’t know just what it is, but so far as newness goes, I will warrant it.”

“Let me have it.”

“Will you promise not to keep it long?”

“Yes, yes; you know that it is only a matter of one evening with us.”

“You will be very careful about cutting it?”

“Yes, yes! I must run now, or my aunt will say that I have been gossiping.”

The young woman took all the volumes under her arm and went out, after casting another rapid glance in my direction.

She was succeeded by a woman with a round cap and calico wrapper. She brought back only a single book, which she laid on the desk, saying:

“Great heaven! we had hard work to finish it! I thought that we would never see the end!”

“It is true that you have had the book nearly a month.”

“Oh, dear me! we don’t read fast at our house; you see, as a general thing, my man reads to me while I am working; and as he still has the catarrh, he stops at every comma to cough. Never mind, it’s mighty interesting. I cried hard with that poor girl who spends fifteen years in the underground dungeon, with nothing but bread and water to eat. She must have had a good stomach, I tell you, not to be sick.”

“Do you want something else?”

“Yes, to be sure. Something about robbers, if you please, and about ghosts, if you have anything, because a novel with robbers and ghosts in it can’t help being interesting. Oh! and then I want something with pictures, some of those lovely pictures of crimes. I am very fond of pictures, I am; and then you see, I say to myself: ‘a novel that they don’t spend the money to put pictures in, why it can’t have Peru behind it.’ Don’t I hit the mark?”

“Here is something, madame, that will interest you greatly.”

“What is it?”

“_The Ghosts of the Nameless Château_, or _The Brigands of the Abandoned Quarry_.”

“Ah! what a splendid title! what a ring there is to it! Let’s look at the pictures. A man eating a skeleton. Bless my soul! that must be good. I don’t want to see any more; I’ll take the _Ghosts_, and I’ll go and buy some jujube paste for my husband, so that he won’t cough quite so much when he’s reading.”

The worthy woman who loved pictures was succeeded by an elderly man who also wanted a novel. He was asked what sort of story he wanted; but it mattered little to him: he wanted it to read in bed at night, something that would put him to sleep right away. What he wanted was found at once.

After him came a lady on the decline. She brought back a volume of memoirs, and she wanted more memoirs; according to her, memoirs were the only proper thing to read. When a lady has passed the age for making conquests, I can understand that memoirs seem instructive to her and also pleasant reading; to her the past has more charm than the present. Being no longer able to tell us of what she does, she desires that we should be interested in what she has done; that is one way to keep people talking about her. After a life of adventures, she considers that to cease to occupy the public attention is a living death. Poor creature! I am sorry for her; she dies twice over. But see how mistaken she is! she falls into oblivion while seeking immortality; and there are some excellent mothers of families, simple, virtuous women, who nevertheless do not die altogether, for all who have known them treasure their images and their memories in the depths of their hearts.

The lady of the memoirs went away with eight octavo volumes under her arm. Next came an old gentleman powdered and musked as in the days of the Regency. He wore a little three-cornered hat which did not approach his ears, and a silk muffler over his coat, although it was only the first of October. This gentleman nodded patronizingly to the proprietress and placed two volumes on her desk.

“What the devil did you give me this for?” he said; “it’s a wretched, detestable book.”

“What! didn’t you like it, monsieur? Why, it has been generally praised.”

“I promise you that it will not be praised by me!”

“Then monsieur does not want the sequel? There are two more volumes.”

“No, indeed, I don’t want the sequel. It was as much as I could do to read three pages.”

“Was that enough to enable you to judge?”

“Yes, madame; I always judge by the first few lines. I want something good, something useful--a romance of the times of chivalry, for example.”

“I have _Amadis de Gaule_.”

“I have read that.”

“_Geneviève de Cornouailles._”

“I’ve read it.”

“The _Chevaliers du Cygne_.”

“I’ve read it. I’ve read all the old books of that sort. Give me a new one.”

“Why, romances of chivalry are seldom written nowadays.”

“What’s that! seldom written? Why aren’t they written, pray? You must have some written, madame; you must order some from your novel writers.”

“They say that they are no longer in vogue, monsieur.”

“They don’t know what they are talking about; there is nothing else so good; that is the true type of novel. But these modern authors do not understand the taste of their readers. They write books in which they aim to be bright and realistic. They draw pictures of society, as if such things could be compared with a description of a tournament! In the old days they used to write much better novels. Those of the younger Crébillon were not without merit; those of Mademoiselle de Scudéry were a little too long, I admit; but _Le Sopha_, _Le Bijoux Indiscrets_, and _Angola_--those are fine stories, sparkling with delectable details!”

“If monsieur would like _L’Enfant du Carnaval_, by Pigault-Lebrun, that too is full of very amusing incidents.”

“No, madame, no; I don’t read such books as that. What do you take me for? That is so broad! why, there’s a certain dish of spinach, which----”

“Which makes one laugh, monsieur, whereas your Angola makes one blush, or even worse.”

“Madame, give me a romance of chivalry. I want to teach my grandson, and certainly that is the only sort of reading that can be at once useful and agreeable to him.”

“Would monsieur like _Don Quixote_?”

“_Don Quixote_! fie, madame! your Cervantes is an impertinent fellow, a knave, a sneak, who presumes to ridicule the noblest, most gallant, most revered things in the world! If that Cervantes had lived in my time, madame, I would have made him retract his _Don Quixote_, or else, by the shades of my ancestors, I swear that he would have passed an uncomfortable quarter of an hour!”

The proprietress pretended to have a paroxysm of coughing in order to conceal her desire to laugh. As for myself, I could not contain myself, I burst out laughing and the paper fell from my hands. The man with the muffler turned in my direction; he eyed me indignantly and put his right hand to his left side, whether in search of a sword, in order to treat me as he would have treated Miguel Cervantes, I do not know. But, instead of a weapon, his hand came into contact with nothing more than a bonbon box; he opened that, and took out two or three pastilles which he put in his mouth with a dignified air, and said to the woman:

“Come, let us have done with this. What are you going to give me, madame?”

“Perhaps monsieur is not familiar with the story of the _Quatre Fils Aymon_?”

“I have read it three times, but I shall be glad to read it again. Give me the story of the _Fils Aymon_, and I will let my grandson meditate upon it; it will not be my fault if I do not make a Richardet of him.”

The gentleman put the book under his muffler; then he flashed an angry glance at me, and probably proposed to make a very dignified exit; unfortunately, as he glanced at me, he failed to see a lady who was coming in; and when he turned, he collided with her; the lady’s hat knocked off his three-cornered one, which was carefully balanced on his head. The little old man picked up his hat and pulled it over his eyes, muttering: “What are we coming to?” and went out, slamming the door so viciously that he nearly broke all the glass, which action I considered by no means worthy of an old chevalier.

The lady who had knocked off the little hat was young and rather pretty; a half veil thrown back over her hood did not conceal her features; indeed, her eyes did not indicate a person who shrank from being noticed; far from it. But there was in her dress a mixture of coquetry and slovenliness, of pretension and poverty; she had in her hand a pamphlet which she tossed upon the desk, saying:

“I have brought back the _Chevilles de Maître Adam_; how much do I owe you?”

“Six sous, mademoiselle.”

“What! six sous for a farce which I have kept only three days,--just long enough to copy my part?”

“That is the price, mademoiselle. You gave me thirty sous as security; here’s twenty-four.”

“Why, it’s an exorbitant price, madame--six sous! I hire very often, but I have never paid so much as that. It would be as cheap to buy the thing. How much does it cost?”

“Thirty sous, mademoiselle.”

“Great heavens! how they are putting up the price of plays nowadays! It’s an awful shame! But I must have the _Mariage de Figaro_, to learn the part of Chérubin, which I am going to play on Sunday on Rue de Chantereine. I can’t learn my parts unless I copy them; writing seems to engrave them on my brain. I copied Nanine in one night and I knew it the next day. But six sous! that’s rather hard. People think that it doesn’t cost anything to act in society. I should think not! there’s no end to the expenses. Costumes, rouge, bundles to be carried! Never mind, give me Figaro. I have never played in a burlesque yet, but my teacher told me that I ought to be very good in it, because I am not knock-kneed. Keep what I paid you; that will pay for this.”

The _Mariage de Figaro_ was handed to her. She turned over the leaves of the pamphlet, muttering:

“Oh! how short it is! almost no long speeches, and I am so fond of lengthy dialogues! I am sorry now that I don’t play Suzanne. But I will copy both parts; then I can play the man or the woman as they want. I am not particular.”

The actress-apprentice stuffed the pamphlet into her bag and went out, winding about her body an old shawl which looked as if it had often done duty as a turban for Zaïre or Mohammed.

It must be very amusing to let books; you see a great many people and hear amusing things; there are people who instantly lay bare their folly, their absurdity, their wretched taste; but the business requires patience, especially when one has to do with such customers as the chevalier in the muffler.

I was about to return my newspaper and pay for it, when I heard a very familiar voice even before the person to whom it belonged had entered the door. I turned and saw my friend Bélan, who, in accordance with his custom, shouted as if he were talking to a deaf person, and found a way to occupy the space of four people, although he was very slim and his height exempted him from the conscription. But Bélan kept his arms in motion all the time, stood on tiptoe to increase his height, threw his head back, and went through the antics of a bear in a cage.

As he opened the door, Bélan spied me; he came toward me, exclaiming:

“Ah! I was looking for you, Blémont, my friend; I have just come from your rooms; they told me that you might be here, and here you are.”

“Hush! hush! don’t talk so loud,” I said to Bélan, whose shrill tones caused a revolution in the reading room. “Wait a moment; I am at your service.”

“My dear fellow, I have come about a very serious matter. I will tell you about it, and you will see whether----”

“Hush, I say; these people reading the newspapers, whom you are interrupting, don’t care anything about your affairs; that isn’t what they came here for.”

“That is true, but----”

“Come on;” and taking Monsieur Bélan’s arm, I dragged him away from the reading room.