Chapter Chapter 188 · THE SUBSTITUTE

It chanced that the regiment to which Lieutenant Théodule belonged came

to perform garrison duty in Paris. This inspired Aunt Gillenormand with

a second idea. She had, on the first occasion, hit upon the plan of

having Marius spied upon by Théodule; now she plotted to have Théodule

take Marius’ place.

At all events and in case the grandfather should feel the vague need of

a young face in the house,—these rays of dawn are sometimes sweet to

ruin,—it was expedient to find another Marius. “Take it as a simple

erratum,” she thought, “such as one sees in books. For Marius, read

Théodule.”

A grandnephew is almost the same as a grandson; in default of a lawyer

one takes a lancer.

One morning, when M. Gillenormand was about to read something in the

_Quotidienne_, his daughter entered and said to him in her sweetest

voice; for the question concerned her favorite:—

“Father, Théodule is coming to present his respects to you this

morning.”

“Who’s Théodule?”

“Your grandnephew.”

“Ah!” said the grandfather.

Then he went back to his reading, thought no more of his grandnephew,

who was merely some Théodule or other, and soon flew into a rage, which

almost always happened when he read. The “sheet” which he held,

although Royalist, of course, announced for the following day, without

any softening phrases, one of these little events which were of daily

occurrence at that date in Paris: “That the students of the schools of

law and medicine were to assemble on the Place du Panthéon, at

midday,—to deliberate.” The discussion concerned one of the questions

of the moment, the artillery of the National Guard, and a conflict

between the Minister of War and “the citizen’s militia,” on the subject

of the cannon parked in the courtyard of the Louvre. The students were

to “deliberate” over this. It did not take much more than this to swell

M. Gillenormand’s rage.

He thought of Marius, who was a student, and who would probably go with

the rest, to “deliberate, at midday, on the Place du Panthéon.”

As he was indulging in this painful dream, Lieutenant Théodule entered

clad in plain clothes as a bourgeois, which was clever of him, and was

discreetly introduced by Mademoiselle Gillenormand. The lancer had

reasoned as follows: “The old druid has not sunk all his money in a

life pension. It is well to disguise one’s self as a civilian from time

to time.”

Mademoiselle Gillenormand said aloud to her father:—

“Théodule, your grandnephew.”

And in a low voice to the lieutenant:—

“Approve of everything.”

And she withdrew.

The lieutenant, who was but little accustomed to such venerable

encounters, stammered with some timidity: “Good day, uncle,”—and made a

salute composed of the involuntary and mechanical outline of the

military salute finished off as a bourgeois salute.

“Ah! so it’s you; that is well, sit down,” said the old gentleman.

That said, he totally forgot the lancer.

Théodule seated himself, and M. Gillenormand rose.

M. Gillenormand began to pace back and forth, his hands in his pockets,

talking aloud, and twitching, with his irritated old fingers, at the

two watches which he wore in his two fobs.

“That pack of brats! they convene on the Place du Panthéon! by my life!

urchins who were with their nurses but yesterday! If one were to

squeeze their noses, milk would burst out. And they deliberate

to-morrow, at midday. What are we coming to? What are we coming to? It

is clear that we are making for the abyss. That is what the

_descamisados_ have brought us to! To deliberate on the citizen

artillery! To go and jabber in the open air over the jibes of the

National Guard! And with whom are they to meet there? Just see whither

Jacobinism leads. I will bet anything you like, a million against a

counter, that there will be no one there but returned convicts and

released galley-slaves. The Republicans and the galley-slaves,—they

form but one nose and one handkerchief. Carnot used to say: ‘Where

would you have me go, traitor?’ Fouché replied: ‘Wherever you please,

imbecile!’ That’s what the Republicans are like.”

“That is true,” said Théodule.

M. Gillenormand half turned his head, saw Théodule, and went on:—

“When one reflects that that scoundrel was so vile as to turn

carbonaro! Why did you leave my house? To go and become a Republican!

Pssst! In the first place, the people want none of your republic, they

have common sense, they know well that there always have been kings,

and that there always will be; they know well that the people are only

the people, after all, they make sport of it, of your republic—do you

understand, idiot? Is it not a horrible caprice? To fall in love with

Père Duchesne, to make sheep’s-eyes at the guillotine, to sing

romances, and play on the guitar under the balcony of ’93—it’s enough

to make one spit on all these young fellows, such fools are they! They

are all alike. Not one escapes. It suffices for them to breathe the air

which blows through the street to lose their senses. The nineteenth

century is poison. The first scamp that happens along lets his beard

grow like a goat’s, thinks himself a real scoundrel, and abandons his

old relatives. He’s a Republican, he’s a romantic. What does that mean,

romantic? Do me the favor to tell me what it is. All possible follies.

A year ago, they ran to _Hernani_. Now, I just ask you, _Hernani!_

antitheses! abominations which are not even written in French! And

then, they have cannons in the courtyard of the Louvre. Such are the

rascalities of this age!”

“You are right, uncle,” said Théodule.

M. Gillenormand resumed:—

“Cannons in the courtyard of the Museum! For what purpose? Do you want

to fire grape-shot at the Apollo Belvedere? What have those cartridges

to do with the Venus de Medici? Oh! the young men of the present day

are all blackguards! What a pretty creature is their Benjamin Constant!

And those who are not rascals are simpletons! They do all they can to

make themselves ugly, they are badly dressed, they are afraid of women,

in the presence of petticoats they have a mendicant air which sets the

girls into fits of laughter; on my word of honor, one would say the

poor creatures were ashamed of love. They are deformed, and they

complete themselves by being stupid; they repeat the puns of Tiercelin

and Potier, they have sack coats, stablemen’s waistcoats, shirts of

coarse linen, trousers of coarse cloth, boots of coarse leather, and

their rigmarole resembles their plumage. One might make use of their

jargon to put new soles on their old shoes. And all this awkward batch

of brats has political opinions, if you please. Political opinions

should be strictly forbidden. They fabricate systems, they recast

society, they demolish the monarchy, they fling all laws to the earth,

they put the attic in the cellar’s place and my porter in the place of

the King, they turn Europe topsy-turvy, they reconstruct the world, and

all their love affairs consist in staring slily at the ankles of the

laundresses as these women climb into their carts. Ah! Marius! Ah! you

blackguard! to go and vociferate on the public place! to discuss, to

debate, to take measures! They call that measures, just God! Disorder

humbles itself and becomes silly. I have seen chaos, I now see a mess.

Students deliberating on the National Guard,—such a thing could not be

seen among the Ogibewas nor the Cadodaches! Savages who go naked, with

their noddles dressed like a shuttlecock, with a club in their paws,

are less of brutes than those bachelors of arts! The four-penny

monkeys! And they set up for judges! Those creatures deliberate and

ratiocinate! The end of the world is come! This is plainly the end of

this miserable terraqueous globe! A final hiccough was required, and

France has emitted it. Deliberate, my rascals! Such things will happen

so long as they go and read the newspapers under the arcades of the

Odéon. That costs them a sou, and their good sense, and their

intelligence, and their heart and their soul, and their wits. They

emerge thence, and decamp from their families. All newspapers are

pests; all, even the _Drapeau Blanc!_ At bottom, Martainville was a

Jacobin. Ah! just Heaven! you may boast of having driven your

grandfather to despair, that you may!”

“That is evident,” said Théodule.

And profiting by the fact that M. Gillenormand was taking breath, the

lancer added in a magisterial manner:—

“There should be no other newspaper than the _Moniteur_, and no other

book than the _Annuaire Militaire_.”

M. Gillenormand continued:—

“It is like their Sieyès! A regicide ending in a senator; for that is

the way they always end. They give themselves a scar with the address

of _thou_ as citizens, in order to get themselves called, eventually,

_Monsieur le Comte_. Monsieur le Comte as big as my arm, assassins of

September. The philosopher Sieyès! I will do myself the justice to say,

that I have never had any better opinion of the philosophies of all

those philosophers, than of the spectacles of the grimacer of Tivoli!

One day I saw the Senators cross the Quai Malplaquet in mantles of

violet velvet sown with bees, with hats à la Henri IV. They were

hideous. One would have pronounced them monkeys from the tiger’s court.

Citizens, I declare to you, that your progress is madness, that your

humanity is a dream, that your revolution is a crime, that your

republic is a monster, that your young and virgin France comes from the

brothel, and I maintain it against all, whoever you may be, whether

journalists, economists, legists, or even were you better judges of

liberty, of equality, and fraternity than the knife of the guillotine!

And that I announce to you, my fine fellows!”

“Parbleu!” cried the lieutenant, “that is wonderfully true.”

M. Gillenormand paused in a gesture which he had begun, wheeled round,

stared Lancer Théodule intently in the eyes, and said to him:—

“You are a fool.”

BOOK SIXTH—THE CONJUNCTION OF TWO STARS