2
FUNERAL ORATION UPON BLONDEAU, BY BOSSUET
ON A CERTAIN AFTERNOON, which had, as we shall see, some coincidence with events before related, Laigle de Meaux was leaning lazily back against the doorway of the Café Musain. He had the appearance of a caryatid on vacation; he was supporting nothing but his reverie. He was looking at the Place Saint Michel. Leaning back is a way of lying down standing which is not disliked by dreamers. Laigle de Meaux was thinking, without melancholy, of a little mishap which had befallen him the day before at the law-school, and which modified his personal plans for the future—plans which were, moreover, rather indefinite.
Reverie does not hinder a carriage from going by, nor the dreamer from noticing the carriage. Laigle de Meaux, whose eyes were wandering in a sort of general stroll, perceived, through all his somnambulism, a two-wheeled vehicle turning into the square, which was moving at a walk, as if undecided. What did this carriage want? why was it moving at a walk? Laigle looked at it. There was inside, beside the driver, a young man, and before the young man, a large carpet-bag. The bag exhibited to the passers-by this name, written in big black letters upon a card sewed to the cloth: MARIUS PONTMERCY.
This name changed Laigle’s attitude. He straightened up and addressed this apostrophe to the young man in the cabriolet:
“Monsieur Marius Pontmercy?”
The cabriolet, thus called upon, stopped.
The young man, who also seemed to be profoundly musing, raised his eyes.
“Well?” said he.
“You are Monsieur Marius Pontmercy?”
“Certainly.”
“I was looking for you,” said Laigle de Meaux.
“How is that?” inquired Marius; for he it was, in fact he had just left his grandfather‘s, and he had before him a face which he saw for the first time. “I do not know you.”
“Nor I either. I do not know you,” answered Laigle.
Marius thought he had met a buffoon, and that this was the beginning of a mystification in the middle of the street. He was not in a pleasant humour just at that moment. He knit his brows; Laigle de Meaux, imperturbable, continued:
“You were not at school yesterday”
“It is possible.”
“It is certain.”
“You are a student?” inquired Marius.
“Yes, Monsieur. Like you. The day before yesterday I happened to go into the school. You know, one sometimes has such notions. The professor was about to call the roll. You know that they are very ridiculous just at that time. If you miss the third call, they erase your name. Sixty francs gone.”
Marius began to listen. Laigle continued:
“It was Blondeau who was calling the roll. You know Blondeau; he has a very sharp and very malicious nose, and delights in smelling out the absent. He slily commenced with the letter P. I was not listening, not being concerned in that letter. The roll went on well, no erasure, the universe was present, Blondeau was sad. I said to myself, Blondeau, my love, you won’t do the slightest execution to-day Suddenly, Blondeau calls Marius Pontmercy; nobody answers. Blondeau, full of hope, repeats louder: Marius Pontmercy? And he seizes his pen. Monsieur, I have bowels. I said to myself rapidly: Here is a brave fellow who is going to be erased. Attention. This is a real live fellow who is not punctual. He is not a good boy. He is not a book-worm, a student who studies, a white-billed pedant strong on science, letters, theology, and wisdom, one of those numskulls drawn out with four pins, a pin for each faculty. He is an honourable idler who loafs, who likes to rusticate, who cultivates the grisette, who pays his court to beauty, who is perhaps, at this very moment, with my mistress. Let us save him. Death to Blondeau! At that moment Blondeau dipped his pen, black with erasures into the ink, cast his tawny eye over the room, and repeated for the third time: Marius Pontmercy! I answered: Present! In that way you were not erased.”
“Monsieur!—” said Marius.
“And I was,” added Laigle de Meaux.
“I do not understand you,” said Marius.
Laigle resumed:
“Nothing more simple. I was near the chair to answer, and near the door to escape. The professor was looking at me with a certain fixedness. Suddenly, Blondeau, who must be the malignant nose of which Boileau speaks, leaps to the letter L. L is my letter; I am of Meaux, and my name is Lesgle.”
“L‘Aigle!” interrupted Marius, “what a fine name.”
“Monsieur, the Blondeau re-echoes this fine name and cries: ‘Laigle!’ I answer: Present! Then Blondeau looks at me with the gentleness of a tiger, smiles, and says: If you are Pontmercy, you are not Laigle. A phrase which is uncomplimentary to you, but which brought me only to grief. So saying, he erases me.”
Marius exclaimed:
“Monsieur, I am mortified—”
“First of all,” interrupted Laigle, “I beg leave to embalm Blondeau in a few words of feeling eulogy. I suppose him dead. There wouldn’t be much to change in his thinness, his paleness, his coldness, his stiffness, and his odour. And I say: Erudimini qui judicatis terram. Here lies Blondeau, Blondeau the Nose, Blondeau Nasica, the ox of discipline, bos disciplinœ, the Molossus of his orders, the angel of the roll, who was straight, square, exact, rigid, honest, and hideous. God has erased him as he erased me.”
Marius resumed:
“I am very sorry—”
“Young man,” said Laigle of Meaux, “let this be a lesson to you. In future, be punctual.”
“I really must give a thousand excuses.”
“Never expose yourself again to having your neighbour erased.”
“I am very sorry.”
Laigle burst out laughing.
“And I, in raptures; I was on the brink of being a lawyer. This rupture saves me. I renounce the triumphs of the bar. I shall not defend the widow, and I shall not attack the orphan. No more toga, no more probation. Here is my erasure obtained. It is to you that I owe it, Monsieur Pontmercy. I intend to pay you a solemn visit of thanks. Where do you live?”
“In this cabriolet,” said Marius.
“A sign of opulence,” replied Laigle calmly. “I congratulate you. You have here rent of nine thousand francs a year.”
Just then Courfeyrac came out of the café.
Marius smiled sadly.
“I have been paying this rent for two hours, and I hope to get out of it; but, it is the usual story, I do not know where to go.”
“Monsieur,” said Courfeyrac, “come home with me.”
“I should have priority,” observed Laigle, “but I have no home.”
“Silence, Bossuet,” replied Courfeyrac.
“Bossuet,” said Marius, “but I thought you called yourself Laigle.
“Of Meaux,” answered Laigle; “metaphorically, Bossuet.”
Courfeyrac got into the cabriolet.
“Driver,” said he, “Hôtel de la Porte Saint Jacques.”
And that same evening, Marius was installed in a room at the Hotel de la Porte Saint Jacques, side by side with Courfeyrac.