HOW MADEMOISELLE CAMARGO ORIGINALLY CAME INTO M. DECAMPS’ POSSESSION
NOTWITHSTANDING the verbal invitation Decamps had given me, I received the morning following a formal note. This letter was to remind me of the correct dress to be worn, no guests being admitted except in smoking jackets and slippers. I was punctual to time and in appropriate costume.
A painter’s studio is well worth peeing, when the host, to do honour to his guests, decorates his walls with his collection of curios and works of art, gathered from the four corners of the earth. You think to enter an artist’s workshop, and lo! you find yourself in a museum that would do credit to many a county town of provincial France. Suits of armour, dating from different centuries represent the civilization of mediaeval Europe, and show by their style and shape to what epoch their manufacture may be assigned. This one, burnished on both sides of the breastpiece, with its sharp, bright ridge, and engraved with a crucifix and the Virgin below in prayer, carrying the legend, “Mater Dei, or a pro nobis,” was forged in France and presented to King Louis XI, who had it hung on the walls of his ancient Castle of Plessis-les-Tours. Another, with the rounded breast still bearing the marks of the mace from whose blows it protected its master, received its dents in the tournaments of the Emperor Maximilian, and came to us from Germany. A third, embossed in relief with the Labours of Hercules, was perhaps worn by King François I, and is an authentic product of the Florentine workshops of Benvenuto Cellini. This Canadian tomahawk and scalping knife come from America; the one has broken French heads, the other has raised the perfumed locks of fair dead women. These arrows and this kréese are from the Indian Seas; the heads of the one and the blade of the other are deadly, for they have been poisoned with the sap of venomous plants from Java. This curved sabre was tempered at Damascus. This yatagan, with a notch on the back of its blade for every neck it has severed, was torn from the grasp of a dying Bedouin. Lastly, this long Arab musket with the silver mountings and rings was brought back from Casaubah perhaps by Isabey, who may have bartered it from Yousouf against a sketch of the Roads of Algiers or a plan of the Fort l’Empereur.
Now, after studying these trophies one by one, and each of them has the history of a world attached, look at these tables on which are shown, higgledy-piggledy, a thousand varied objects, astonished to find themselves together. Here are porcelains from Japan, Egyptian figurines, Spanish knives, Turkish poniards, Italian stilettos, Algerian slippers, Circassian caps, idols from the Ganges, crystals from the Alps. Look long and carefully; there is enough to keep you engaged for a whole long day. Under your feet are the skins of tiger, lion and leopard, shot in Asia or Africa; above your head, with wings extended and poised as in life, is the seagull, that, as the wave curls and falls, dashes beneath the vault it forms as under an arch; the osprey that, watching the waters from above, closes its wings and drops like a stone on any fish coming near the surface; the guillemot, that, when the sportsman’s gun is pointed at him, dives as the trigger is pulled, rising again far beyond range; and last, the kingfisher, the halcyon of the ancients, with its brilliant plumage of mingled aquamarine and lapis lazuli.
But what is above all likely to catch the eye of a connoisseur in an artist’s interior is the heterogeneous collection of pipes which await, all ready filled, the Promethean fire which shall descend on them from heaven. For you must know there is nothing more fantastic and capricious than the tastes of different smokers. One will prefer the common short clay, to which our old seasoned vessels give the expressive name of “brûle-gueule.” These are loaded up with the common Government tobacco called “caporal.” Another will only touch his dainty lips with the amber mouthpiece of the Arabian chibouk that is filled with the black weed of Algiers or the green of Tunis. This smoker, grave as one of Fenimore Cooper’s Indian braves, methodically draws through the calumet of peace long whiffs of Maryland; that again, sensuous as an Indian nabob, winds, like a serpent’s coils, around his arm the sinuous folds of his hookah, which brings to his palate the Latakia’s fumes cooled and perfumed with rose-water and benzoin. There are some who from habit prefer the meerschaum pipe of the German student and the strong short cigar of the Belgians to the narghile of the Turk, sung by Lamartine, and the tobacco of Sinai, of which the repute is higher or lower according as it grows on or below the mountain’s sides. Others, to complete the list, there are who will dislocate their necks to keep in an upright position the gorgory of the negroes, while an obliging friend standing on a chair tries, with vast expenditure of charcoal and pulmonary vigour, first to dry and then to light the clay-caked growth of Madagascar.
When I entered the rooms of my host, pipes had been all chosen and seats all occupied. But all sat up to “attention “on seeing me come in; and, with a precision which would have done credit to a company of the National Guard, every pipe-stem, whether of wood or clay, of horn or ivory, of jasmine or of amber, was detached from the loving lips which pressed it, and was stretched towards me. By a wave of the hand, I declined the gifts with thanks, drew from my pocket a book of papelitos, and proceeded to roll between my fingers the Andalusian cigarette with all the patience and skill of some grey-haired Spaniard.
In five minutes’ time, we were all floating in an atmosphere dense enough to drive a steamboat of a hundred-and-twenty horse power. As far as the smoke would allow, you could make out, over and above the guests, the ordinary boarders of the household, whose acquaintance the reader has already made. There was Gazelle, who this evening showed the first symptoms of a very singular preoccupation; this was to climb up and on to the marble mantelpiece, so as to warm herself at the lamp, and she gave herself up to this impossible task with all the zeal and perseverance of her nature. There was Tom, whom Alexandre Decamps was using as an arm-rest, much as he might the cushions of a lounge, and from time to time he raised his good-tempered head under his master’s arm, snorted and sneezed to clear his nostrils from the smoke, and then resumed his slumber with a heavy sigh. There was James the First seated on a stool close beside his old friend Fau, who, by the free use of the whip, had brought his education to the present pitch of perfection, and for whom he cherished the liveliest sense of gratitude, and the most implicit obedience. Finally, there was, seated in her glass jar and planted conspicuously in the middle of the circle of guests, Mademoiselle Camargo, whose gymnastic and gastronomic feats were to form the main entertainment of the evening.
It is important, before we go further, to look back a little and show our readers by what an unprecedented concatenation of events Mademoiselle Camargo, who was born and bred on the plain of Saint-Denis, became the companion of Tom, who was a native of Canada, of James, who had first seen the light on the coasts of Angola, and of Gazelle, who had been captured in the marshes of Holland.
Every one knows what a ferment of preparation begins to stir in the parts of Paris about the Rue Saint-Martin and the Rue Saint-Denis when the month of September brings back the commencement of the shooting season. Then every second person you meet is a citizen returning from the canal, where he has been to get his hand in by shooting swallows, leading his dog in leash, a gun on his shoulder, resolving to be less of a duffer this year than last, and stopping each of his acquaintances to ask, “Are you fond of quail, of partridge?”
“Yes.”
“That’s right. I will send you some on the third or fourth of next month.”
“Thanks.”
“By the way, I have just killed five swallows in eight shots.”
“Very good.”
“Not bad shooting, is it?”
“Capital.”
“Good-bye.”
“Good night to you.”
Thus, towards the end of the month of August, 1829, one of these sportsmen entered the front door of No. 109, Faubourg Saint-Denis, and asked the concierge if Decamps was in. On receiving a reply in the affirmative, he went upstairs, dragging his dog step by step, and knocking the barrel of his gun against every turn, up the five sets of stairs which led to the studio of our great painter.
There he found only the artist’s brother, Alexandre. Alexandre is one of those clever and original men who are instantly recognized as artists merely as they pass you in the street; who would be good at everything, if they were not too indolent ever to take any one thing up seriously; recognizing by instinct the beautiful and the true wherever they come across it, without troubling themselves to enquire whether the work that excites their enthusiasm is pushed by a clique or signed by a great name; for the rest, a good fellow in every sense of the term, always ready to turn his pockets inside out for a friend, and, like all persons preoccupied by ideas worth the trouble of thinking of, easy to lead, not from any weakness of character, but merely from a hatred of discussion and a dread of being bored. With this kind of disposition, Alexandre easily allowed himself to be persuaded by the visitor that it would give him great pleasure to open the season with him on the plain of Saint-Denis, where there were, it was reported, this year flights of quail, coveys of partridges, and flocks of hares. As a consequence of this conversation Alexandre ordered a shooting jacket from Chevreuil, a gun from Lepage, and a pair of leggings from Boivin’s; the bills came to six hundred and sixty francs, without reckoning the cost of the shooting licence, which was delivered to him at the Prefecture of Police, on presentation of a certificate of good life and decent conduct, granted him without objection by the Commissary of his own district.
On the 31st August Alexandre made the discovery that there was but one thing wanting to make him a finished sportsman — to wit, a dog. Instantly he hastened to the house of the man who, along with his pack, had sat to his brother for his picture of “The Performing Dogs,” and asked him if he had anything to suit him. The man replied that he had several animals of wonderful sagacity, just the thing for the work required, and, passing from his room into the kennels, with which it communicated, with one turn of his wrist he removed the three-cornered hat and uniform coat which adorned a species of black and white mongrel, immediately led him in, and introduced him to Alexandre as a thoroughbred dog of a very superior breed. The latter remarked that for a thoroughbred he had very straight, pointed ears, which seemed contrary to the received canons about breeding; but to this the man answered that Love was an English dog, and that it was the height of good breeding in England to wear the ears in that style. “As, after all, this might be the truth, Alexandre - forced himself to accept the explanation, and carried Love off to his house.
Next day, at five o’clock in the morning, our sportsman came and aroused Alexandre, who was still sleeping the sleep of the just, scolded him roundly for his laziness and dilatoriness, declaring that he would find, on his arrival, the whole plain already swept and devastated with powder and shot.
In fact, the nearer they got to the barrier, the louder and more frequent became the detonations. So our sportsmen quickened their steps, passed the customhouse, turned down the first alley leading to the plain, threw themselves into a cabbage garden, and fell instantly into the middle of a general action.
You must have seen the plain of Saint-Denis with your own eyes on the first day of the shooting season to form an idea of the mad scene it presents. Not a lark, not a house-sparrow flies by without being saluted by a thousand shots from every quarter. If perchance it falls, thirty gamebags open, thirty bourgeois quarrel over the slain, thirty dogs fall upon each other tooth and nail. If it continues its flight, every eye is fixed upon it; if it settles, every man starts running; if it gets up again, every one fires. Now and then some of the pellets intended for the game find their billet in the gunners’ bodies; you must not take any notice of that. Moreover, there is an ancient saw among Parisian sportsmen to the effect that lead is the friend of man. If this be true, I have to my credit three friends in my leg, which a fourth friend kindly placed there.
The smell of powder and the popping of the fowling-pieces produced the usual effect. No sooner had our sportsman begun to scent the one and hear the other than-he charged into the mêlée and commenced at once to bear his part in the Witches’ Sabbath which had just drawn him within its circle of attraction.
Alexandre, less impressionable than his friend, advanced more leisurely, religiously followed by Love, whose nose never left his master’s heels. But, as we all know, the work of a sporting dog is to quarter the ground and not to watch for missing nails in the soles of your boots; this thought naturally occurred to Alexandre after walking for half an hour. Consequently he waved his hand to Love and shouted:
“Seek!
Love at once stood on his hind legs and began to dance. “Well!” said Alexandre, resting the butt of his gun on the ground and contemplating his dog, “it appears that Love, over and above his general education, possesses some agreeable accomplishments. I think Ï have been fortunate in my purchase.”
However, as he had brought Love to hunt for game and not to dance, he seized the moment when Love resumed his ordinary four-footed attitude and made a second more expressive signal and said with a louder voice, “Hi! Seek!”
Love lay fiat on his side, shut his eyes tight, and shammed dead. Alexandre took up his eye-glasses and scrutinized Love. The intelligent animal lay as still as a log; not a hair on his body stirred; life might have been extinct for twenty-four hours.
“That is very pretty,” said Alexandre, “but, my dear friend, this is neither the time nor place for this sort of amusement, we have come out to shoot game; so let us shoot. Come along, stupid, let us get to work.”
Love did not move.
“Wait a bit!” said Alexandre, picking up a pea-stick from the ground and going up to Love with the intention of laying it across his shoulders. “Wait a bit.”
Directly Love saw the stick in his master’s hands, he got upon his legs and followed all his movements with an expression on his countenance of remarkable intelligence. Alexandre, noticing this, deferred chastising him, and hoping that at last he was going to obey him this time, he extended the stick towards Love and repeated once more his command.
“Go! seek!”
Love took a run and made a flying leap over the pea-stick. Love understood three things perfectly: dancing on his hind legs, shamming dead, and jumping for his king.
Alexandre, who, for the time being, was no better pleased with the last accomplishment than with the two others, broke the stick across Love’s back, who ran away howling towards our sportsman.
And so it happened, that just as Love reached him, our sportsman fired, and, by the greatest piece of luck, an unfortunate skylark, who got in the way of the shot, fell into the very jaws of Love. The dog blessed Providence for its gift, and without troubling to see whether it was wanted or not, he made only one mouthful of it.
Our sportsman flung himself upon the unhappy dog with the most terrible maledictions, seized him by the throat, and choked him till he was forced to open his jaws, in spite of his resistance to the operation. The sportsman plunged his other hand up to the wrist down the animal’s throat, and drew it out grasping three feathers from the lark’s tail. As to the body, that was gone beyond his reach.
The owner of the lark then felt in his pockets for a knife with which to disembowel Love and thus to recover his game. But unfortunately for him and luckily for Love, he had lent his, the previous evening, to his wife to shape beforehand the skewers on which his partridges were to be trussed, and the wife had forgotten to give it back. Forced therefore to have recourse to less violent measures of punishment, he gave Love a kick which would have driven in any ordinary porte-cochère, placed carefully in his gamebag the three feathers he had rescued, and shouted at the top of his voice to Alexandre.
“You make your mind easy, my dear friend, never again will I come out shooting with you. Your devil of a Love has just swallowed a magnificent quail of mine! Ah — come in here! you brute!”
Love took care not to “come in.” On the contrary, he travelled, as fast as his legs would carry him, back towards his master, which seemed to show that, all things considered, he liked being beaten better than being kicked.
Nevertheless, the mouthful of lark had given Love an appetite, and as he went, he saw that here and there individuals apparently of the same species flew up in front of him. So, forgetting his terror, he began to run about in every direction, hoping, no doubt, that he might chance on a second toothsome windfall as good as the first one.
Alexandre followed him with great difficulty, cursing his own folly the while; Love’s system of hunting was quite different from that of other dogs, that is he carried his head high and his tail down. This showed that his eyesight was better than his sense of smell; but this interchange of faculties was intolerable for his master, for the dog kept circling about at exactly a hundred paces in front, putting up the game at just double the range of a fowling-piece and throwing his tongue after the birds till they settled down again.
The same game went on the whole day.
Towards five o’clock in the evening, Alexandre had covered some fifteen leagues and Love more than fifty; the one was exhausted with shouting, the other with barking. As to the sportsman, he had finished his quest and, quitting them both, had gone off to shoot snipe on the Pantin marshes. All at once Love made a point!
Such a sure, firm point it was, that he might have been, like the dog of Cephalus, changed into stone. At this sight, so novel for him, Alexandre forgot his fatigue, and ran like a lamplighter, trembling all the time lest Love should break before he got within range. But there was no fear of that. Love’s feet were glued to the ground.
Alexandre came up to him, watched the direction of his eyes, and found they were fixed on a tuft of grass; under this tuft he perceived a greyish object. He judged it to be a young partridge separated from the rest of the covey; and trusting rather to his cap than to his gun, he laid the latter down, took his cap in his hand, and, approaching on tip-toe like a child after a butterfly, he clapped it over the unknown object, groped under it with the other hand, and drew out — a frog! Anybody else would have thrown the frog thirty yards away; not so Alexandre, for he reasoned that since this interesting creature had been sent to him by Providence in such a miraculous manner, there must be some hidden mystery in her destiny, and great events probably depended upon her career.
Accordingly, he put her carefully into his gamebag, brought her straight home, transferred her forthwith to a big glass jar, out of which we had eaten the last remaining cherries the day before, and poured over her head all the water left in the water jug.
All this care and attention for a frog would have seemed extraordinary on the part of a man who had obtained one in a less complicated fashion, but Alexandre knew what the capture of that frog had cost him, and he treated her accordingly.
She had cost him six hundred and sixty francs, without reckoning the gun licence.