In Madeira Place | Page 2

or, on the other hand, does a stalwart man just from the
rich Brie country return at sundown in abject despair, bringing back
almost all of the red and blue globes which floated like a radiant
constellation of hope about his head when he set forth in the early
morning, Sorel can express, by his "Eh!" and some slight movement,
with subtle exactness and with no possibility of being misapprehended,
the precise shade of feeling with which the result inspires him.
But there he stops. Nothing is said. Sorel is a philosopher: he has

indicated volumes, and he will not dilute with language. One who has
fired a little lead bullet does not need to throw after it a bushel of
mustard-seed.
The company, as they come in, one by one, wash their hands and faces,
if they see fit, at the kitchen sink, and dry them on a long
roller-towel,--a device adopted, probably, from the Americans. Then
they retire to the room behind the kitchen, and seat themselves at a long
table, at which the bear-leaders place themselves only after seeing their
animal fed, in the coalhole, where he is quartered.
At the supper-table all is joy, even with the hopeless. Fidèle beams with
good-humor, and not infrequently is called on to describe, amid a
general hush, for the benefit of some new-comer from "la belle
France" the quarterly receipt of the communication from Washington:
how he stays at home that day, and shaves, and waits at the door for "la
poste;" how the gray-uniformed letter-carrier appears, hands out a letter
"as large as that," and nods smilingly to Fidèle: he, too, fought at "la
Montagne du Lookout." The amount of the sergeant's pension
astonishes them, wonted as they are to the pecuniary treatment of
soldiers in the Old World. "Mais, it is a fortune! Fidèle is a vrai rentier!
Ah! une république comme ça!"
Generally, however, Fidèle contents himself at the evening meal with
smiling good-humoredly on everybody and rapidly passing in, under
his drooping mustache, spoonfuls of soup, morsels from the long
French loaf, and draughts of lager beer; for only the rich can have wine
in this country, and in the matter of drink an exile must needs lower his
standard, as the prodigal lowered his.
While Sorel and his wife and their busy maid fly in and out with potage
and rôti, "t-r-r-rès succulent," the history of which we must not pry too
deeply into, there is much excited conversation. You see at once that
many amusing things happen to one who sells balloons all day upon the
Park. And there are varied fortunes to recount. Such a lady actually
wished to buy three for fifty cents! Such a "police-er-mann" is to be
highly commended; such another looks with an evil eye upon all: he
should truly be removed from office. There is a rumor that a license fee

is to be required by the city.
All this is food for discussion.
After supper they all sit about the kitchen or in the alley-way, chatting,
smoking. She who has been lucky in her sales basks in Sorel's favor.
The unfortunate peasant from the Brie country feels the little bullet in
his heart, and nurses a desperate resolution to redeem himself on the
morrow: one must live.
Sometimes, if you happen to pass there on a warm evening, you may
see a young woman, rather handsome, sitting sidewise on the outer
basement steps, looking absently before her, straight-backed, upright,
with her hands clasped about one knee, with her skirt sweeping away: a
picture of Alsace. I have never been able to find out who she is.
One evening there is a little flutter among this brood. A gentleman, at
the alley door, wishes to see M. Sorel. M. Sorel leads the gentleman out,
through the alley gate, to the front street-door; then, retiring whence he
came, he shortly appears from within at the front door, which opens
only after a struggle. A knot of small boys has instantly gathered,
apparently impressed with a vague, awful expectation that the
gentleman about to enter will never come out. Realizing, however, that
in that case there will be nothing to see, they slowly disperse when the
door is closed, and resume their play.
Sorel ushers the gentleman into the front parlor, which is Sorel's
bedroom, which is also the storehouse of his merchandise, which is
also the nursery. At this moment an infant is sleeping in a trundle-bed.
The gentleman takes a chair. So does Sorel.
The gentleman does not talk French. Fortunately, M. Sorel can speak
the English: he has learned it in making purchases for his table.
"I am an officer of the government," says Mr. Fox, with a very sharp,
distinct utterance, "in the custom-house. You know 'customhouse'?"

M.