Z. Marcas

I never saw anybody, not even among the most remarkable men of the day, whose appearance was so striking as this man’s; the study of his countenance at first gave me a feeling of great melancholy, and at last produced an almost painful impression.

There was a certain harmony between the man and his name.  The Z. preceding Marcas, which was seen on the addresses of his letters, and which he never omitted from his signature, as the last letter of the alphabet, suggested some mysterious fatality.

Marcas! say this two-syllabled name again and again; do you not feel as if it had some sinister meaning?  Does it not seem to you that its owner must be doomed to martyrdom?  Though foreign, savage, the name has a right to be handed down to posterity; it is well constructed, easily pronounced, and has the brevity that beseems a famous name.  Is it not pleasant as well as odd?  But does it not sound unfinished?

I will not take it upon myself to assert that names have no influence on the destiny of men.  There is a certain secret and inexplicable concord or a visible discord between the events of a man’s life and his name which is truly surprising; often some remote but very real correlation is revealed.  Our globe is round; everything is linked to everything else.  Some day perhaps we shall revert to the occult sciences.

Do you not discern in that letter Z an adverse influence?  Does it not prefigure the wayward and fantastic progress of a storm-tossed life?  What wind blew on that letter, which, whatever language we find it in, begins scarcely fifty words?  Marcas’ name was Zephirin; Saint Zephirin is highly venerated in Brittany, and Marcas was a Breton.

Study the name once more:  Z Marcas!  The man’s whole life lies in this fantastic juxtaposition of seven letters; seven! the most significant of all the cabalistic numbers.  And he died at five-and-thirty, so his life extended over seven lustres.

Marcas!  Does it not hint of some precious object that is broken with a fall, with or without a crash?

I had finished studying the law in Paris in 1836.  I lived at that time in the Rue Corneille in a house where none but students came to lodge, one of those large houses where there is a winding staircase quite at the back lighted below from the street, higher up by borrowed lights, and at the top by a skylight.  There were forty furnished rooms —­furnished as students’ rooms are!  What does youth demand more than was here supplied?  A bed, a few chairs, a chest of drawers, a looking-glass, and a table.  As soon as the sky is blue the student opens his window.

But in this street there are no fair neighbors to flirt with.  In front is the Odeon, long since closed, presenting a wall that is beginning to go black, its tiny gallery windows and its vast expanse of slate roof.  I was not rich enough to have a good room; I was not even rich enough to have a room to myself.  Juste and I shared a double-bedded room on the fifth floor.

On our side of the landing there were but two rooms—­ours and a smaller one, occupied by Z. Marcas, our neighbor.  For six months Juste and I remained in perfect ignorance of the fact.  The old woman who managed the house had indeed told us that the room was inhabited, but she had added that we should not be disturbed, that the occupant was exceedingly quiet.  In fact, for those six months, we never met our fellow-lodger, and we never heard a sound in his room, in spite of the thinness of the partition that divided us—­one of those walls of lath and plaster which are common in Paris houses.

Our room, a little over seven feet high, was hung with a vile cheap paper sprigged with blue.  The floor was painted, and knew nothing of the polish given by the frotteur’s brush.  By our beds there was only a scrap of thin carpet.  The chimney opened immediately to the roof, and smoked so abominably that we were obliged to provide a stove at our own expense.  Our beds were mere painted wooden cribs like those in schools; on the chimney shelf there were but two brass candlesticks, with or without tallow candles in them, and our two pipes with some tobacco in a pouch or strewn abroad, also the little piles of cigar-ash left there by our visitors or ourselves.

A pair of calico curtains hung from the brass window rods, and on each side of the window was a small bookcase in cherry-wood, such as every one knows who has stared into the shop windows of the Quartier Latin, and in which we kept the few books necessary for our studies.

The ink in the inkstand was always in the state of lava congealed in the crater of a volcano.  May not any inkstand nowadays become a Vesuvius?  The pens, all twisted, served to clean the stems of our pipes; and, in opposition to all the laws of credit, paper was even scarcer than coin.

How can young men be expected to stay at home in such furnished lodgings?  The students studied in the cafes, the theatre, the Luxembourg gardens, in grisettes’ rooms, even in the law schools —­anywhere rather than in their horrible rooms—­horrible for purposes of study, delightful as soon as they were used for gossiping and smoking in.  Put a cloth on the table, and the impromptu dinner sent in from the best eating-house in the neighborhood—­places for four —­two of them in petticoats—­show a lithograph of this “Interior” to the veriest bigot, and she will be bound to smile.

We thought only of amusing ourselves.  The reason for our dissipation lay in the most serious facts of the politics of the time.  Juste and I could not see any room for us in the two professions our parents wished us to take up.  There are a hundred doctors, a hundred lawyers, for one that is wanted.  The crowd is choking these two paths which are supposed to lead to fortune, but which are merely two arenas; men kill each other there, fighting, not indeed with swords or fire-arms, but with intrigue and calumny, with tremendous toil, campaigns in the sphere of the intellect as murderous as those in Italy were to the soldiers of the Republic.  In these days, when everything is an intellectual competition, a man must be able to sit forty-eight hours on end in his chair before a table, as a General could remain for two days on horseback and in his saddle.

The throng of aspirants has necessitated a division of the Faculty of Medicine into categories.  There is the physician who writes and the physician who practises, the political physician, and the physician militant—­four different ways of being a physician, four classes already filled up.  As to the fifth class, that of physicians who sell remedies, there is such a competition that they fight each other with disgusting advertisements on the walls of Paris.

In all the law courts there are almost as many lawyers as there are cases.  The pleader is thrown back on journalism, on politics, on literature.  In fact, the State, besieged for the smallest appointments under the law, has ended by requiring that the applicants should have some little fortune.  The pear-shaped head of the grocer’s son is selected in preference to the square skull of a man of talent who has not a sou.  Work as he will, with all his energy, a young man, starting from zero, may at the end of ten years find himself below the point he set out from.  In these days, talent must have the good luck which secures success to the most incapable; nay, more, if it scorns the base compromises which insure advancement to crawling mediocrity, it will never get on.

If we thoroughly knew our time, we also knew ourselves, and we preferred the indolence of dreamers to aimless stir, easy-going pleasure to the useless toil which would have exhausted our courage and worn out the edge of our intelligence.  We had analyzed social life while smoking, laughing, and loafing.  But, though elaborated by such means as these, our reflections were none the less judicious and profound.

While we were fully conscious of the slavery to which youth is condemned, we were amazed at the brutal indifference of the authorities to everything connected with intellect, thought, and poetry.  How often have Juste and I exchanged glances when reading the papers as we studied political events, or the debates in the Chamber, and discussed the proceedings of a Court whose wilful ignorance could find no parallel but in the platitude of the courtiers, the mediocrity of the men forming the hedge round the newly-restored throne, all alike devoid of talent or breadth of view, of distinction or learning, of influence or dignity!

Could there be a higher tribute to the Court of Charles X. than the present Court, if Court it may be called?  What a hatred of the country may be seen in the naturalization of vulgar foreigners, devoid of talent, who are enthroned in the Chamber of Peers!  What a perversion of justice!  What an insult to the distinguished youth, the ambitions native to the soil of France!  We looked upon these things as upon a spectacle, and groaned over them, without taking upon ourselves to act.

Juste, whom no one ever sought, and who never sought any one, was, at five-and-twenty, a great politician, a man with a wonderful aptitude for apprehending the correlation between remote history and the facts of the present and of the future.  In 1831, he told me exactly what would and did happen—­the murders, the conspiracies, the ascendency of the Jews, the difficulty of doing anything in France, the scarcity of talent in the higher circles, and the abundance of intellect in the lowest ranks, where the finest courage is smothered under cigar ashes.

What was to become of him?  His parents wished him to be a doctor.  But if he were a doctor, must he not wait twenty years for a practice?  You know what he did?  No?  Well, he is a doctor; but he left France, he is in Asia.  At this moment he is perhaps sinking under fatigue in a desert, or dying of the lashes of a barbarous horde—­or perhaps he is some Indian prince’s prime minister.

Action is my vocation.  Leaving a civil college at the age of twenty, the only way for me to enter the army was by enlisting as a common soldier; so, weary of the dismal outlook that lay before a lawyer, I acquired the knowledge needed for a sailor.  I imitate Juste, and keep out of France, where men waste, in the struggle to make way, the energy needed for the noblest works.  Follow my example, friends; I am going where a man steers his destiny as he pleases.

These great resolutions were formed in the little room in the lodging-house in the Rue Corneille, in spite of our haunting the Bal Musard, flirting with girls of the town, and leading a careless and apparently reckless life.  Our plans and arguments long floated in the air.

Marcas, our neighbor, was in some degree the guide who led us to the margin of the precipice or the torrent, who made us sound it, and showed us beforehand what our fate would be if we let ourselves fall into it.  It was he who put us on our guard against the time-bargains a man makes with poverty under the sanction of hope, by accepting precarious situations whence he fights the battle, carried along by the devious tide of Paris—­that great harlot who takes you up or leaves you stranded, smiles or turns her back on you with equal readiness, wears out the strongest will in vexatious waiting, and makes misfortune wait on chance.

At our first meeting, Marcas, as it were, dazzled us.  On our return from the schools, a little before the dinner-hour, we were accustomed to go up to our room and remain there a while, either waiting for the other, to learn whether there were any change in our plans for the evening.  One day, at four o’clock, Juste met Marcas on the stairs, and I saw him in the street.  It was in the month of November, and Marcas had no cloak; he wore shoes with heavy soles, corduroy trousers, and a blue double-breasted coat buttoned to the throat, which gave a military air to his broad chest, all the more so because he wore a black stock.  The costume was not in itself extraordinary, but it agreed well with the man’s mien and countenance.

My first impression on seeing him was neither surprise, nor distress, nor interest, nor pity, but curiosity mingled with all these feelings.  He walked slowly, with a step that betrayed deep melancholy, his head forward with a stoop, but not bent like that of a conscience-stricken man.  That head, large and powerful, which might contain the treasures necessary for a man of the highest ambition, looked as if it were loaded with thought; it was weighted with grief of mind, but there was no touch of remorse in his expression.  As to his face, it may be summed up in a word.  A common superstition has it that every human countenance resembles some animal.  The animal for Marcas was the lion.  His hair was like a mane, his nose was sort and flat; broad and dented at the tip like a lion’s; his brow, like a lion’s, was strongly marked with a deep median furrow, dividing two powerful bosses.  His high, hairy cheek-bones, all the more prominent because his cheeks were so thin, his enormous mouth and hollow jaws, were accentuated by lines of tawny shadows.  This almost terrible countenance seemed illuminated by two lamps—­two eyes, black indeed, but infinitely sweet, calm and deep, full of thought.  If I may say so, those eyes had a humiliated expression.

Marcas was afraid of looking directly at others, not for himself, but for those on whom his fascinating gaze might rest; he had a power, and he shunned using it; he would spare those he met, and he feared notice.  This was not from modesty, but from resignation founded on reason, which had demonstrated the immediate inutility of his gifts, the impossibility of entering and living in the sphere for which he was fitted.  Those eyes could at times flash lightnings.  From those lips a voice of thunder must surely proceed; it was a mouth like Mirabeau’s.

“I have seen such a grand fellow in the street,” said I to Juste on coming in.

“It must be our neighbor,” replied Juste, who described, in fact, the man I had just met.  “A man who lives like a wood-louse would be sure to look like that,” he added.

“What dejection and what dignity!”

“One is the consequence of the other.”

“What ruined hopes!  What schemes and failures!”

“Seven leagues of ruins!  Obelisks—­palaces—­towers!—­The ruins of Palmyra in the desert!” said Juste, laughing.

So we called him the Ruins of Palmyra.

As we went out to dine at the wretched eating-house in the Rue de la Harpe to which we subscribed, we asked the name of Number 37, and then heard the weird name Z. Marcas.  Like boys, as we were, we repeated it more than a hundred times with all sorts of comments, absurd or melancholy, and the name lent itself to a jest.  Juste would fire off the Z like a rocket rising, z-z-z-z-zed; and after pronouncing the first syllable of the name with great importance, depicted a fall by the dull brevity of the second.

“Now, how and where does the man live?”

From this query, to the innocent espionage of curiosity there was no pause but that required for carrying out our plan.  Instead of loitering about the streets, we both came in, each armed with a novel.  We read with our ears open.  And in the perfect silence of our attic rooms, we heard the even, dull sound of a sleeping man breathing.

“He is asleep,” said I to Juste, noticing this fact.

“At seven o’clock!” replied the Doctor.

This was the name by which I called Juste, and he called me the Keeper of the Seals.

“A man must be wretched indeed to sleep as much as our neighbor!” cried I, jumping on to the chest of drawers with a knife in my hand, to which a corkscrew was attached.

I made a round hole at the top of the partition, about as big as a five-sou piece.  I had forgotten that there would be no light in the room, and on putting my eye to the hole, I saw only darkness.  At about one in the morning, when we had finished our books and were about to undress, we heard a noise in our neighbor’s room.  He got up, struck a match, and lighted his dip.  I got on to the drawers again, and I then saw Marcas seated at his table and copying law-papers.

His room was about half the size of ours; the bed stood in a recess by the door, for the passage ended there, and its breadth was added to his garret; but the ground on which the house was built was evidently irregular, for the party-wall formed an obtuse angle, and the room was not square.  There was no fireplace, only a small earthenware stove, white blotched with green, of which the pipe went up through the roof.  The window, in the skew side of the room, had shabby red curtains.  The furniture consisted of an armchair, a table, a chair, and a wretched bed-table.  A cupboard in the wall held his clothes.  The wall-paper was horrible; evidently only a servant had ever been lodged there before Marcas.

“What is to be seen?” asked the Doctor as I got down.

“Look for yourself,” said I.

At nine next morning, Marcas was in bed.  He had breakfasted off a saveloy; we saw on a plate, with some crumbs of bread, the remains of that too familiar delicacy.  He was asleep; he did not wake till eleven.  He then set to work again on the copy he had begun the night before, which was lying on the table.

On going downstairs we asked the price of that room, and were told fifteen francs a month.

In the course of a few days, we were fully informed as to the mode of life of Z. Marcas.  He did copying, at so much a sheet no doubt, for a law-writer who lived in the courtyard of the Sainte-Chapelle.  He worked half the night; after sleeping from six till ten, he began again and wrote till three.  Then he went out to take the copy home before dinner, which he ate at Mizerai’s in the Rue Michel-le-Comte, at a cost of nine sous, and came in to bed at six o’clock.  It became known to us that Marcas did not utter fifteen sentences in a month; he never talked to anybody, nor said a word to himself in his dreadful garret.

“The Ruins of Palmyra are terribly silent!” said Juste.

This taciturnity in a man whose appearance was so imposing was strangely significant.  Sometimes when we met him, we exchanged glances full of meaning on both sides, but they never led to any advances.  Insensibly this man became the object of our secret admiration, though we knew no reason for it.  Did it lie in his secretly simple habits, his monastic regularity, his hermit-like frugality, his idiotically mechanical labor, allowing his mind to remain neuter or to work on his own lines, seeming to us to hint at an expectation of some stroke of good luck, or at some foregone conclusion as to his life?

After wandering for a long time among the Ruins of Palmyra, we forgot them—­we were young!  Then came the Carnival, the Paris Carnival, which, henceforth, will eclipse the old Carnival of Venice, unless some ill-advised Prefect of Police is antagonistic.

Gambling ought to be allowed during the Carnival; but the stupid moralists who have had gambling suppressed are inert financiers, and this indispensable evil will be re-established among us when it is proved that France leaves millions at the German tables.

This splendid Carnival brought us to utter penury, as it does every student.  We got rid of every object of luxury; we sold our second coats, our second boots, our second waistcoats—­everything of which we had a duplicate, except our friend.  We ate bread and cold sausages; we looked where we walked; we had set to work in earnest.  We owed two months’ rent, and were sure of having a bill from the porter for sixty or eighty items each, and amounting to forty or fifty francs.  We made no noise, and did not laugh as we crossed the little hall at the bottom of the stairs; we commonly took it at a flying leap from the lowest step into the street.  On the day when we first found ourselves bereft of tobacco for our pipes, it struck us that for some days we had been eating bread without any kind of butter.

Great was our distress.

“No tobacco!” said the Doctor.

“No cloak!” said the Keeper of the Seals.

“Ah, you rascals, you would dress as the postillion de Longjumeau, you would appear as Debardeurs, sup in the morning, and breakfast at night at Very’s—­sometimes even at the Rocher de Cancale.—­Dry bread for you, my boys!  Why,” said I, in a big bass voice, “you deserve to sleep under the bed, you are not worthy to lie in it—­”

“Yes, yes; but, Keeper of the Seals, there is no more tobacco!” said Juste.

“It is high time to write home, to our aunts, our mothers, and our sisters, to tell them we have no underlinen left, that the wear and tear of Paris would ruin garments of wire.  Then we will solve an elegant chemical problem by transmuting linen into silver.”

“But we must live till we get the answer.”

“Well, I will go and bring out a loan among such of our friends as may still have some capital to invest.”

“And how much will you find?”

“Say ten francs!” replied I with pride.

It was midnight.  Marcas had heard everything.  He knocked at our door.

“Messieurs,” said he, “here is some tobacco; you can repay me on the first opportunity.”

We were struck, not by the offer, which we accepted, but by the rich, deep, full voice in which it was made; a tone only comparable to the lowest string of Paganini’s violin.  Marcas vanished without waiting for our thanks.

Juste and I looked at each other without a word.  To be rescued by a man evidently poorer than ourselves!  Juste sat down to write to every member of his family, and I went off to effect a loan.  I brought in twenty francs lent me by a fellow-provincial.  In that evil but happy day gambling was still tolerated, and in its lodes, as hard as the rocky ore of Brazil, young men, by risking a small sum, had a chance of winning a few gold pieces.  My friend, too, had some Turkish tobacco brought home from Constantinople by a sailor, and he gave me quite as much as we had taken from Z. Marcas.  I conveyed the splendid cargo into port, and we went in triumph to repay our neighbor with a tawny wig of Turkish tobacco for his dark Caporal.

“You are determined not to be my debtors,” said he.  “You are giving me gold for copper.—­You are boys—­good boys——­”

The sentences, spoken in varying tones, were variously emphasized.  The words were nothing, but the expression!—­That made us friends of ten years’ standing at once.

Marcas, on hearing us coming, had covered up his papers; we understood that it would be taking a liberty to allude to his means of subsistence, and felt ashamed of having watched him.  His cupboard stood open; in it there were two shirts, a white necktie and a razor.  The razor made me shudder.  A looking-glass, worth five francs perhaps, hung near the window.

The man’s few and simple movements had a sort of savage grandeur.  The Doctor and I looked at each other, wondering what we could say in reply.  Juste, seeing that I was speechless, asked Marcas jestingly: 

“You cultivate literature, monsieur?”

“Far from it!” replied Marcas.  “I should not be so wealthy.”

“I fancied,” said I, “that poetry alone, in these days, was amply sufficient to provide a man with lodgings as bad as ours.”

My remark made Marcas smile, and the smile gave a charm to his yellow face.

“Ambition is not a less severe taskmaster to those who fail,” said he.  “You, who are beginning life, walk in the beaten paths.  Never dream of rising superior, you will be ruined!”

“You advise us to stay just as we are?” said the Doctor, smiling.

There is something so infectious and childlike in the pleasantries of youth, that Marcas smiled again in reply.

“What incidents can have given you this detestable philosophy?” asked I.

“I forgot once more that chance is the result of an immense equation of which we know not all the factors.  When we start from zero to work up to the unit, the chances are incalculable.  To ambitious men Paris is an immense roulette table, and every young man fancies he can hit on a successful progression of numbers.”

He offered us the tobacco I had brought that we might smoke with him; the Doctor went to fetch our pipes; Marcas filled his, and then he came to sit in our room, bringing the tobacco with him, since there were but two chairs in his.  Juste, as brisk as a squirrel, ran out, and returned with a boy carrying three bottles of Bordeaux, some Brie cheese, and a loaf.

“Hah!” said I to myself, “fifteen francs,” and I was right to a sou.

Juste gravely laid five francs on the chimney-shelf.

There are immeasurable differences between the gregarious man and the man who lives closest to nature.  Toussaint Louverture, after he was caught, died without speaking a word.  Napoleon, transplanted to a rock, talked like a magpie—­he wanted to account for himself.  Z. Marcas erred in the same way, but for our benefit only.  Silence in all its majesty is to be found only in the savage.  There is never a criminal who, though he might let his secrets fall with his head into the basket of sawdust does not feel the purely social impulse to tell them to somebody.

Nay, I am wrong.  We have seen one Iroquois of the Faubourg Saint-Marceau who raised the Parisian to the level of the natural savage —­a republican, a conspirator, a Frenchman, an old man, who outdid all we have heard of Negro determination, and all that Cooper tells us of the tenacity and coolness of the Redskins under defeat.  Morey, the Guatimozin of the “Mountain,” preserved an attitude unparalleled in the annals of European justice.

This is what Marcas told us during the small hours, sandwiching his discourse with slices of bread spread with cheese and washed down with wine.  All the tobacco was burned out.  Now and then the hackney coaches clattering across the Place de l’Odeon, or the omnibuses toiling past, sent up their dull rumbling, as if to remind us that Paris was still close to us.

His family lived at Vitre; his father and mother had fifteen hundred francs a year in the funds.  He had received an education gratis in a Seminary, but had refused to enter the priesthood.  He felt in himself the fires of immense ambition, and had come to Paris on foot at the age of twenty, the possessor of two hundred francs.  He had studied the law, working in an attorney’s office, where he had risen to be superior clerk.  He had taken his doctor’s degree in law, had mastered the old and modern codes, and could hold his own with the most famous pleaders.  He had studied the law of nations, and was familiar with European treaties and international practice.  He had studied men and things in five capitals—­London, Berlin, Vienna, Petersburg, and Constantinople.

No man was better informed than he as to the rules of the Chamber.  For five years he had been reporter of the debates for a daily paper.  He spoke extempore and admirably, and could go on for a long time in that deep, appealing voice which had struck us to the soul.  Indeed, he proved by the narrative of his life that he was a great orator, a concise orator, serious and yet full of piercing eloquence; he resembled Berryer in his fervor and in the impetus which commands the sympathy of the masses, and was like Thiers in refinement and skill; but he would have been less diffuse, less in difficulties for a conclusion.  He had intended to rise rapidly to power without burdening himself first with the doctrines necessary to begin with, for a man in opposition, but an incubus later to the statesman.

Marcas had learned everything that a real statesman should know; indeed, his amazement was considerable when he had occasion to discern the utter ignorance of men who have risen to the administration of public affairs in France.  Though in him it was vocation that had led to study, nature had been generous and bestowed all that cannot be acquired—­keen perceptions, self-command, a nimble wit, rapid judgment, decisiveness, and, what is the genius of these men, fertility in resource.

By the time when Marcas thought himself duly equipped, France was torn by intestine divisions arising from the triumph of the House of Orleans over the elder branch of the Bourbons.

The field of political warfare is evidently changed.  Civil war henceforth cannot last for long, and will not be fought out in the provinces.  In France such struggles will be of brief duration and at the seat of government; and the battle will be the close of the moral contest which will have been brought to an issue by superior minds.  This state of things will continue so long as France has her present singular form of government, which has no analogy with that of any other country; for there is no more resemblance between the English and the French constitutions than between the two lands.

Thus Marcas’ place was in the political press.  Being poor and unable to secure his election, he hoped to make a sudden appearance.  He resolved on making the greatest possible sacrifice for a man of superior intellect, to work as a subordinate to some rich and ambitious deputy.  Like a second Bonaparte, he sought his Barras; the new Colbert hoped to find a Mazarin.  He did immense services, and he did them then and there; he assumed no importance, he made no boast, he did not complain of ingratitude.  He did them in the hope that his patron would put him in a position to be elected deputy; Marcas wished for nothing but a loan that might enable him to purchase a house in Paris, the qualification required by law.  Richard III. asked for nothing but his horse.

In three years Marcas had made his man—­one of the fifty supposed great statesmen who are the battledores with which two cunning players toss the ministerial portfolios exactly as the man behind the puppet-show hits Punch against the constable in his street theatre, and counts on always getting paid.  This man existed only by Marcas, but he had just brains enough to appreciate the value of his “ghost” and to know that Marcas, if he ever came to the front, would remain there, would be indispensable, while he himself would be translated to the polar zone of Luxembourg.  So he determined to put insurmountable obstacles in the way of his Mentor’s advancement, and hid his purpose under the semblance of the utmost sincerity.  Like all mean men, he could dissimulate to perfection, and he soon made progress in the ways of ingratitude, for he felt that he must kill Marcas, not to be killed by him.  These two men, apparently so united, hated each other as soon as one had deceived the other.

The politician was made one of a ministry; Marcas remained in the opposition to hinder his man from being attacked; nay, by skilful tactics he won him the applause of the opposition.  To excuse himself for not rewarding his subaltern, the chief pointed out the impossibility of finding a place suddenly for a man on the other side, without a great deal of manoeuvring.  Marcas had hoped confidently for a place to enable him to marry, and thus acquire the qualification he so ardently desired.  He was two-and-thirty, and the Chamber ere long must be dissolved.  Having detected his man in this flagrant act of bad faith, he overthrew him, or at any rate contributed largely to his overthrow, and covered him with mud.

A fallen minister, if he is to rise again to power, must show that he is to be feared; this man, intoxicated by Royal glibness, had fancied that his position would be permanent; he acknowledged his delinquencies; besides confessing them, he did Marcas a small money service, for Marcas had got into debt.  He subsidized the newspaper on which Marcas worked, and made him the manager of it.

Though he despised the man, Marcas, who, practically, was being subsidized too, consented to take the part of the fallen minister.  Without unmasking at once all the batteries of his superior intellect, Marcas came a little further than before; he showed half his shrewdness.  The Ministry lasted only a hundred and eighty days; it was swallowed up.  Marcas had put himself into communication with certain deputies, had moulded them like dough, leaving each impressed with a high opinion of his talent; his puppet again became a member of the Ministry, and then the paper was ministerial.  The Ministry united the paper with another, solely to squeeze out Marcas, who in this fusion had to make way for a rich and insolent rival, whose name was well known, and who already had his foot in the stirrup.

Marcas relapsed into utter destitution; his haughty patron well knew the depths into which he had cast him.

Where was he to go?  The ministerial papers, privily warned, would have nothing to say to him.  The opposition papers did not care to admit him to their offices.  Marcas could side neither with the Republicans nor with the Legitimists, two parties whose triumph would mean the overthrow of everything that now is.

“Ambitious men like a fast hold on things,” said he with a smile.

He lived by writing a few articles on commercial affairs, and contributed to one of those encyclopedias brought out by speculation and not by learning.  Finally a paper was founded, which was destined to live but two years, but which secured his services.  From that moment he renewed his connection with the minister’s enemies; he joined the party who were working for the fall of the Government; and as soon as his pickaxe had free play, it fell.

This paper had now for six months ceased to exist; he had failed to find employment of any kind; he was spoken of as a dangerous man, calumny attacked him; he had unmasked a huge financial and mercantile job by a few articles and a pamphlet.  He was known to be a mouthpiece of a banker who was said to have paid him largely, and from whom he was supposed to expect some patronage in return for his championship.  Marcas, disgusted by men and things, worn out by five years of fighting, regarded as a free lance rather than as a great leader, crushed by the necessity of earning his daily bread, which hindered him from gaining ground, in despair at the influence exerted by money over mind, and given over to dire poverty, buried himself in a garret, to make thirty sous a day, the sum strictly answering to his needs.  Meditation had leveled a desert all round him.  He read the papers to be informed of what was going on.  Pozzo di Borgo had once lived like this for some time.

Marcas, no doubt, was planning a serious attack, accustoming himself to dissimulation, and punishing himself for his blunders by Pythagorean muteness.  But he did not tell us the reasons for his conduct.

It is impossible to give you an idea of the scenes of the highest comedy that lay behind this algebraic statement of his career; his useless patience dogging the footsteps of fortune, which presently took wings, his long tramps over the thorny brakes of Paris, his breathless chases as a petitioner, his attempts to win over fools; the schemes laid only to fail through the influence of some frivolous woman; the meetings with men of business who expected their capital to bring them places and a peerage, as well as large interest.  Then the hopes rising in a towering wave only to break in foam on the shoal; the wonders wrought in reconciling adverse interests which, after working together for a week, fell asunder; the annoyance, a thousand times repeated, of seeing a dunce decorated with the Legion of Honor, and preferred, though as ignorant as a shop-boy, to a man of talent.  Then, what Marcas called the stratagems of stupidity—­you strike a man, and he seems convinced, he nods his head—­everything is settled; next day, this india-rubber ball, flattened for a moment, has recovered itself in the course of the night; it is as full of wind as ever; you must begin all over again; and you go on till you understand that you are not dealing with a man, but with a lump of gum that loses shape in the sunshine.

These thousand annoyances, this vast waste of human energy on barren spots, the difficulty of achieving any good, the incredible facility of doing mischief; two strong games played out, twice won, and then twice lost; the hatred of a statesman—­a blockhead with a painted face and a wig, but in whom the world believed—­all these things, great and small, had not crushed, but for the moment had dashed Marcas.  In the days when money had come into his hands, his fingers had not clutched it; he had allowed himself the exquisite pleasure of sending it all to his family—­to his sisters, his brothers, his old father.  Like Napoleon in his fall, he asked for no more than thirty sous a day, and any man of energy can earn thirty sous for a day’s work in Paris.

When Marcas had finished the story of his life, intermingled with reflections, maxims, and observations, revealing him as a great politician, a few questions and answers on both sides as to the progress of affairs in France and in Europe were enough to prove to us that he was a real statesman; for a man may be quickly and easily judged when he can be brought on to the ground of immediate difficulties:  there is a certain Shibboleth for men of superior talents, and we were of the tribe of modern Levites without belonging as yet to the Temple.  As I have said, our frivolity covered certain purposes which Juste has carried out, and which I am about to execute.

When we had done talking, we all three went out, cold as it was, to walk in the Luxembourg gardens till the dinner hour.  In the course of that walk our conversation, grave throughout, turned on the painful aspects of the political situation.  Each of us contributed his remarks, his comment, or his jest, a pleasantry or a proverb.  This was no longer exclusively a discussion of life on the colossal scale just described by Marcas, the soldier of political warfare.  Nor was it the distressful monologue of the wrecked navigator, stranded in a garret in the Hotel Corneille; it was a dialogue in which two well-informed young men, having gauged the times they lived in, were endeavoring, under the guidance of a man of talent, to gain some light on their own future prospects.

“Why,” asked Juste, “did you not wait patiently for an opportunity, and imitate the only man who has been able to keep the lead since the Revolution of July by holding his head above water?”

“Have I not said that we never know where the roots of chance lie?  Carrell was in identically the same position as the orator you speak of.  That gloomy young man, of a bitter spirit, had a whole government in his head; the man of whom you speak had no idea beyond mounting on the crupper of every event.  Of the two, Carrel was the better man.  Well, one becomes a minister, Carrel remained a journalist; the incomplete but craftier man is living; Carrel is dead.

“I may point out that your man has for fifteen years been making his way, and is but making it still.  He may yet be caught and crushed between two cars full of intrigues on the highroad to power.  He has no house; he has not the favor of the palace like Metternich; nor, like Villele, the protection of a compact majority.

“I do not believe that the present state of things will last ten years longer.  Hence, supposing I should have such poor good luck, I am already too late to avoid being swept away by the commotion I foresee.  I should need to be established in a superior position.”

“What commotion?” asked Juste.

“AUGUST, 1830,” said Marcas in solemn tones, holding out his hand towards Paris; “AUGUST, the offspring of Youth which bound the sheaves, and of Intellect which had ripened the harvest, forgot to provide for Youth and Intellect.

“Youth will explode like the boiler of a steam-engine.  Youth has no outlet in France; it is gathering an avalanche of underrated capabilities, of legitimate and restless ambitions; young men are not marrying now; families cannot tell what to do with their children.  What will the thunderclap be that will shake down these masses?  I know not, but they will crash down into the midst of things, and overthrow everything.  These are laws of hydrostatics which act on the human race; the Roman Empire had failed to understand them, and the Barbaric hordes came down.

“The Barbaric hordes now are the intelligent class.  The laws of overpressure are at this moment acting slowly and silently in our midst.  The Government is the great criminal; it does not appreciate the two powers to which it owes everything; it has allowed its hands to be tied by the absurdities of the Contract; it is bound, ready to be the victim.

“Louis XIV., Napoleon, England, all were or are eager for intelligent youth.  In France the young are condemned by the new legislation, by the blundering principles of elective rights, by the unsoundness of the ministerial constitution.

“Look at the elective Chamber; you will find no deputies of thirty; the youth of Richelieu and of Mazarin, of Turenne and of Colbert, of Pitt and of Saint-Just, of Napoleon and of Prince Metternich, would find no admission there; Burke, Sheridan, or Fox could not win seats.  Even if political majority had been fixed at one-and-twenty, and eligibility had been relieved of every disabling qualification, the Departments would have returned the very same members, men devoid of political talent, unable to speak without murdering French grammar, and among whom, in ten years, scarcely one statesman has been found.

“The causes of an impending event may be seen, but the event itself cannot be foretold.  At this moment the youth of France is being driven into Republicanism, because it believes that the Republic would bring it emancipation.  It will always remember the young representatives of the people and the young army leaders!  The imprudence of the Government is only comparable to its avarice.”

That day left its echoes in our lives.  Marcas confirmed us in our resolution to leave France, where young men of talent and energy are crushed under the weight of successful commonplace, envious, and insatiable middle age.

We dined together in the Rue de la Harpe.  We thenceforth felt for Marcas the most respectful affection; he gave us the most practical aid in the sphere of the mind.  That man knew everything; he had studied everything.  For us he cast his eye over the whole civilized world, seeking the country where openings would be at once the most abundant and the most favorable to the success of our plans.  He indicated what should be the goal of our studies; he bid us make haste, explaining to us that time was precious, that emigration would presently begin, and that its effect would be to deprive France of the cream of its powers and of its youthful talent; that their intelligence, necessarily sharpened, would select the best places, and that the great thing was to be first in the field.

Thenceforward, we often sat late at work under the lamp.  Our generous instructor wrote some notes for our guidance—­two pages for Juste and three for me—­full of invaluable advice—­the sort of information which experience alone can supply, such landmarks as only genius can place.  In those papers, smelling of tobacco, and covered with writing so vile as to be almost hieroglyphic, there are suggestions for a fortune, and forecasts of unerring acumen.  There are hints as to certain parts of America and Asia which have been fully justified, both before and since Juste and I could set out.

Marcas, like us, was in the most abject poverty.  He earned, indeed, his daily bread, but he had neither linen, clothes, nor shoes.  He did not make himself out any better than he was; his dreams had been of luxury as well as of power.  He did not admit that this was the real Marcas; he abandoned this person, indeed, to the caprices of life.  What he lived by was the breath of ambition; he dreamed of revenge while blaming himself for yielding to so shallow a feeling.  The true statesman ought, above all things, to be superior to vulgar passions; like the man of science.  It was in these days of dire necessity that Marcas seemed to us so great—­nay, so terrible; there was something awful in the gaze which saw another world than that which strikes the eye of ordinary men.  To us he was a subject of contemplation and astonishment; for the young—­which of us has not known it?—­the young have a keen craving to admire; they love to attach themselves, and are naturally inclined to submit to the men they feel to be superior, as they are to devote themselves to a great cause.

Our surprise was chiefly roused by his indifference in matters of sentiment; women had no place in his life.  When we spoke of this matter, a perennial theme of conversation among Frenchmen, he simply remarked: 

“Gowns cost too much.”

He saw the look that passed between Juste and me, and went on: 

“Yes, far too much.  The woman you buy—­and she is the least expensive —­takes a great deal of money.  The woman who gives herself takes all your time!  Woman extinguishes every energy, every ambition.  Napoleon reduced her to what she should be.  From that point of view, he really was great.  He did not indulge such ruinous fancies of Louis XIV. and Louis XV.; at the same time he could love in secret.”

We discovered that, like Pitt, who made England is wife, Marcas bore France in his heart; he idolized his country; he had not a thought that was not for his native land.  His fury at feeling that he had in his hands the remedy for the evils which so deeply saddened him, and could not apply it, ate into his soul, and this rage was increased by the inferiority of France at that time, as compared with Russia and England.  France a third-rate power!  This cry came up again and again in his conversation.  The intestinal disorders of his country had entered into his soul.  All the contests between the Court and the Chamber, showing, as they did, incessant change and constant vacillation, which must injure the prosperity of the country, he scoffed at as backstairs squabbles.

“This is peace at the cost of the future,” said he.

One evening Juste and I were at work, sitting in perfect silence.  Marcas had just risen to toil at his copying, for he had refused our assistance in spite of our most earnest entreaties.  We had offered to take it in turns to copy a batch of manuscript, so that he should do but a third of his distasteful task; he had been quite angry, and we had ceased to insist.

We heard the sound of gentlemanly boots in the passage, and raised our heads, looking at each other.  There was a tap at Marcas’ door—­he never took the key out of the lock—­and we heard the hero answer: 

“Come in.”  Then—­“What, you here, monsieur?”

“I, myself,” replied the retired minister.

It was the Diocletian of this unknown martyr.

For some time he and our neighbor conversed in an undertone.  Suddenly Marcas, whose voice had been heard but rarely, as is natural in a dialogue in which the applicant begins by setting forth the situation, broke out loudly in reply to some offer we had not overheard.

“You would laugh at me for a fool,” cried he, “if I took you at your word.  Jesuits are a thing of the past, but Jesuitism is eternal.  Your Machiavelism and your generosity are equally hollow and untrustworthy.  You can make your own calculations, but who can calculate on you?  Your Court is made up of owls who fear the light, of old men who quake in the presence of the young, or who simply disregard them.  The Government is formed on the same pattern as the Court.  You have hunted up the remains of the Empire, as the Restoration enlisted the Voltigeurs of Louis XIV.

“Hitherto the evasions of cowardice have been taken for the manoeuvring of ability; but dangers will come, and the younger generation will rise as they did in 1790.  They did grand things then.  —­Just now you change ministries as a sick man turns in his bed; these oscillations betray the weakness of the Government.  You work on an underhand system of policy which will be turned against you, for France will be tired of your shuffling.  France will not tell you that she is tired of you; a man never knows whence his ruin comes; it is the historian’s task to find out; but you will undoubtedly perish as the reward of not having the youth of France to lend you its strength and energy; for having hated really capable men; for not having lovingly chosen them from this noble generation; for having in all cases preferred mediocrity.

“You have come to ask my support, but you are an atom in that decrepit heap which is made hideous by self-interest, which trembles and squirms, and, because it is so mean, tries to make France mean too.  My strong nature, my ideas, would work like poison in you; twice you have tricked me, twice have I overthrown you.  If we unite a third time, it must be a very serious matter.  I should kill myself if I allowed myself to be duped; for I should be to blame, not you.”

Then we heard the humblest entreaties, the most fervent adjuration, not to deprive the country of such superior talents.  The man spoke of patriotism, and Marcas uttered a significant “Ouh! ouh!” He laughed at his would-be patron.  Then the statesman was more explicit; he bowed to the superiority of his erewhile counselor; he pledged himself to enable Marcas to remain in office, to be elected deputy; then he offered him a high appointment, promising him that he, the speaker, would thenceforth be the subordinate of a man whose subaltern he was only worthy to be.  He was in the newly-formed ministry, and he would not return to power unless Marcas had a post in proportion to his merit; he had already made it a condition, Marcas had been regarded as indispensable.

Marcas refused.

“I have never before been in a position to keep my promises; here is an opportunity of proving myself faithful to my word, and you fail me.”

To this Marcas made no reply.  The boots were again audible in the passage on the way to the stairs.

“Marcas!  Marcas!” we both cried, rushing into his room.  “Why refuse?  He really meant it.  His offers are very handsome; at any rate, go to see the ministers.”

In a twinkling, we had given Marcas a hundred reasons.  The minister’s voice was sincere; without seeing him, we had felt sure that he was honest.

“I have no clothes,” replied Marcas.

“Rely on us,” said Juste, with a glance at me.

Marcas had the courage to trust us; a light flashed in his eye, he pushed his fingers through his hair, lifting it from his forehead with a gesture that showed some confidence in his luck and when he had thus unveiled his face, so to speak, we saw in him a man absolutely unknown to us—­Marcas sublime, Marcas in his power!  His mind was in its element—­the bird restored to the free air, the fish to the water, the horse galloping across the plain.

It was transient.  His brow clouded again, he had, it would seem, a vision of his fate.  Halting doubt had followed close on the heels of white-winged hope.

We left him to himself.

“Now, then,” said I to the Doctor, “we have given our word; how are we to keep it?”

“We will sleep upon it,” said Juste, “and to-morrow morning we will talk it over.”

Next morning we went for a walk in the Luxembourg.

We had had time to think over the incident of the past night, and were both equally surprised at the lack of address shown by Marcas in the minor difficulties of life—­he, a man who never saw any difficulties in the solution of the hardest problems of abstract or practical politics.  But these elevated characters can all be tripped up on a grain of sand, and will, like the grandest enterprise, miss fire for want of a thousand francs.  It is the old story of Napoleon, who, for lack of a pair of boots, did not set out for India.

“Well, what have you hit upon?” asked Juste.

“I have thought of a way to get him a complete outfit.”

“Where?”

“From Humann.”

“How?”

“Humann, my boy, never goes to his customers—­his customers go to him; so that he does not know whether I am rich or poor.  He only knows that I dress well and look decent in the clothes he makes for me.  I shall tell him that an uncle of mine has dropped in from the country, and that his indifference in matters of dress is quite a discredit to me in the upper circles where I am trying to find a wife.—­It will not be Humann if he sends in his bill before three months.”

The Doctor thought this a capital idea for a vaudeville, but poor enough in real life, and doubted my success.  But I give you my word of honor, Humann dressed Marcas, and, being an artist, turned him out as a political personage ought to be dressed.

Juste lent Marcas two hundred francs in gold, the product of two watches bought on credit, and pawned at the Mont-de-Piete.  For my part, I had said nothing of the six shirts and all necessary linen, which cost me no more than the pleasure of asking for them from a forewoman in a shop whom I had treated to Musard’s during the carnival.

Marcas accepted everything, thanking us no more than he ought.  He only inquired as to the means by which we had got possession of such riches, and we made him laugh for the last time.  We looked on our Marcas as shipowners, when they have exhausted their credit and every resource at their command it fit out a vessel, must look on it as it puts out to sea.

Here Charles was silent; he seemed crushed by his memories.

“Well,” cried the audience, “and what happened?”

“I will tell you in a few words—­for this is not romance—­it is history.”

We saw no more of Marcas.  The administration lasted for three months; it fell at the end of the session.  Then Marcas came back to us, worked to death.  He had sounded the crater of power; he came away from it with the beginnings of brain fever.  The disease made rapid progress; we nursed him.  Juste at once called in the chief physician of the hospital where he was working as house-surgeon.  I was then living alone in our room, and I was the most attentive attendant; but care and science alike were in vain.  By the month of January, 1838, Marcas himself felt that he had but a few days to live.

The man whose soul and brain he had been for six months never even sent to inquire after him.  Marcas expressed the greatest contempt for the Government; he seemed to doubt what the fate of France might be, and it was this doubt that had made him ill.  He had, he thought, detected treason in the heart of power, not tangible, seizable treason, the result of facts, but the treason of a system, the subordination of national interests to selfish ends.  His belief in the degradation of the country was enough to aggravate his complaint.

I myself was witness to the proposals made to him by one of the leaders of the antagonistic party which he had fought against.  His hatred of the men he had tried to serve was so virulent, that he would gladly have joined the coalition that was about to be formed among certain ambitious spirits who, at least, had one idea in common—­that of shaking off the yoke of the Court.  But Marcas could only reply to the envoy in the words of the Hotel de Ville: 

“It is too late!”

Marcas did not leave money enough to pay for his funeral.  Juste and I had great difficulty in saving him from the ignominy of a pauper’s bier, and we alone followed the coffin of Z. Marcas, which was dropped into the common grave of the cemetery of Mont-Parnasse.

We looked sadly at each other as we listened to this tale, the last we heard from the lips of Charles Rabourdin the day before he embarked at le Havre on a brig that was to convey him to the islands of Malay.  We all knew more than one Marcas, more than one victim of his devotion to a party, repaid by betrayal or neglect.

LES JARDIES, May 1840.