Down and Out in Paris and London (14 page)

a Communist when sober, he turned violently patriotic

when drunk. He started the evening with good Commu-

nist principles, but after four or five litres he was a rampant

Chauvinist, denouncing spies, challenging all foreigners to

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fight, and, if he was not prevented, throwing bottles. It was

at this stage that he made his speech—for he made a patri-

otic speech every Saturday night. The speech was always the

same, word for word. It ran:

‘Citizens of the Republic, are there any Frenchmen here? If

there are any Frenchmen here, I rise to remind them—to

remind them in effect, of the glorious days of the war. When

one looks back upon that time of comradeship and heroism—

one looks back, in effect, upon that time of comradeship and

heroism. When one remembers the heroes who are dead—one

remembers, in effect, the heroes who are dead. Citizens of the

Republic, I was wounded at Verdun—‘

Here he partially undressed and showed the wound he

had received at Verdun. There were shouts of applause. We

thought nothing in the world could be funnier than this

speech of Furex’s. He was a well-known spectacle in the

quarter; people used to come in from other BISTROS to

watch him when Us fit started.

The word was passed round to bait Furex. With a wink to

the others someone called for silence, and asked him to sing

the ‘Marseillaise’. He sang it well, in a fine bass voice, with

patriotic gurgling noises deep down in his chest when he

came to ‘AUX ARRMES, CITOYENS! FORRMEZ VOS BA-

TAILLONS!’ Veritable tears rolled down his cheeks; he was

too drunk to see that everyone was laughing at him. Then,

before he had finished, two strong workmen seized him

by either arm and held him down, while Azaya shouted,

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Down and Out in Paris and London

‘VIVE L’ALLEMAGNE!’ just out of his reach. Furex’s face

went purple at such infamy. Everyone in the BISTRO be-

gan shouting together, ‘VIVE L’ALLEMAGNE! A BAS LA

FRANCE!’ while Furex struggled to get at them. But sud-

denly he spoiled the fun. His face turned pale and doleful,

his limbs went limp, and before anyone could stop him he

was sick on the table. Then Madame F. hoisted him like a sack

and carried him up to bed. In the morning he reappeared

quiet and civil, and bought a copy of L’HUMANITE.

The table was wiped with a cloth, Madame F. brought

more litre bottles and loaves of bread, and we Settled down

to serious drinking. There were more songs. An itinerant

singer came in with his banjo and performed for five-sou

pieces. An Arab and a girl from the BISTRO down the street

did a dance, the man wielding a painted wooden phallus

the size of a rolling-pin. There were gaps in the noise now.

People had begun to talk about their love-affairs, and the

war, and the barbel fishing in the Seine, and the best way

to FAIRE LA REVOLUTION, and to tell stories. Charlie,

grown sober again, captured the conversation and talked

about his soul for five minutes. The doors and windows were

opened to cool the room. The street was emptying, and in

the distance one could hear the lonely milk train thunder-

ing down the Boulevard St Michel. The air blew cold on our

foreheads, and the coarse African wine still tasted good: we

were still happy, but meditatively, with the shouting and hi-

larious mood finished.

By one o’clock we were not happy any longer. We felt the

joy of the evening wearing thin, and called hastily for more

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111

bottles, but Madame F. was watering the wine now, and it

did not taste the same. Men grew quarrelsome. The girls

were violently kissed and hands thrust into their bosoms

and they made off lest worse should happen. Big Louis, the

bricklayer, was drunk, and crawled about the floor barking

and pretending to be a dog. The others grew tired of him

and kicked at him as he went past. People seized each other

by the arm and began long rambling confessions, and were

angry when these were not listened to. The crowd thinned.

Manuel and another man, both gamblers, went across to

the Arab BISTRO, where card-playing went on till daylight.

Charlie suddenly borrowed thirty francs from Madame F.

and disappeared, probably to a brothel. Men began to emp-

ty their glasses, call briefly, ‘’SIEURS, DAMES!’ and go off

to bed.

By half past one the last drop of pleasure had evaporated,

leaving nothing but headaches. We perceived that we were

not splendid inhabitants of a splendid world, but a crew of

underpaid workmen grown squalidly and dismally drunk.

We went on swallowing the wine, but it was only from hab-

it, and the stuff seemed suddenly nauseating. One’s head

had swollen up like a balloon, the floor rocked, one’s tongue

and lips were stained purple. At last it was no use keeping

it up any longer. Several men went out into the yard behind

the BISTRO and were sick. We crawled up to bed, tumbled

down half dressed, and stayed there ten hours.

Most of my Saturday nights went in this way. On the

whole, the two hours when one was perfectly and wildly

happy seemed worth the subsequent headache. For many

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Down and Out in Paris and London

men in the quarter, unmarried and with no future to think

of, the weekly drinking-bout was the one thing that made

life worth living.

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XVIII

Charlie told us a good story one Saturday night in the

BISTRO. Try and picture him—drunk, but sober

enough to talk consecutively. He bangs on the zinc bar and

yells for silence:

‘Silence, MESSIEURS ET DAMES—silence, I implore

you! Listen to this story, that I am about to tell you. A

memorable story, an instructive story, one of the souve-

nirs of a refined and civilized life. Silence, MESSIEURS ET

DAMES!

‘It happened at a time when I was hard up. You know

what that is like —how damnable, that a man of refinement

should ever be in such a condition. My money had not come

from home; I had pawned everything, and there was noth-

ing open to me except to work, which is a thing I will not do.

I was living with a girl at the time—Yvonne her name was—

a great half-witted peasant girl like Azaya there, with yellow

hair and fat legs. The two of us had eaten nothing in three

days. MON DIEU, what sufferings! The girl used to walk up

and down the room with her hands on her belly, howling

like a dog that she was dying of starvation. It was terrible.

‘But to a man of intelligence nothing is impossible. I pro-

pounded to myself the question, ‘What is the easiest way to

get money without working?’ And immediately the answer

came: ‘To get money easily one must be a woman. Has not

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Down and Out in Paris and London

every woman something to sell?’ And then, as I lay reflecting

upon the things I should do if I were a woman, an idea came

into my head. I remembered the Government maternity

hospitals—you know the Government maternity hospitals?

They are places where women who are ENCEINTE are given

meals free and no questions are asked. It is done to encour-

age childbearing. Any woman can go there and demand a

meal, and she is given it immediately.

‘’MON DIEU!’ I thought, ‘if only I were a woman! I would

eat at one of those places every day. Who can tell whether a

woman is ENCEINTE or not, without an examination?’

‘I turned to Yvonne. ‘Stop that insufferable bawling.’ I

said, ‘I have thought of a way to get food.’

‘’How?’ she said.

‘’It is simple,’ I said. ‘Go to the Government maternity

hospital. Tell them you are ENCEINTE and ask for food.

They will give you a good meal and ask no questions.’

‘Yvonne was appalled. ‘MAIS, MON DIEU,’ she cried, ‘I

am not ENCEINTE!’

‘’Who cares?’ I said. ‘That is easily remedied. What do

you need except a cushion—two cushions if necessary? It is

an inspiration from heaven, MA CHERE. Don’t waste it.’

‘Well, in the end I persuaded her, and then we borrowed

a cushion and I got her ready and took her to the maternity

hospital. They received her with open arms. They gave her

cabbage soup, a ragout of beef, a puree of potatoes, bread

and cheese and beer, and all kinds of advice about her baby.

Yvonne gorged till she almost burst her skin, and managed

to slip some of the bread and cheese into her pocket for me.

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I took her there every day until I had money again. My in-

telligence had saved us.

‘Everything went well until a year later. I was with

Yvonne again, and one day we were walking down the Bou-

levard Port Royal, near the barracks. Suddenly Yvonne’s

mouth fell open, and she began turning red and white, and

red again.

‘’MON DIEU!’ she cried, ‘look at that who is coming! It

is the nurse who was in charge at the maternity hospital. I

am ruined!’

‘’Quick!’ I said, ‘run!’ But it was too late. The nurse had

recognized Yvonne, and she came straight up to us, smil-

ing. She was a big fat woman with a gold pince-nez and red

cheeks like the cheeks of an apple. A motherly, interfering

kind of woman.

‘’I hope you are well, MA PETITE?’ she said kindly. ‘And

your baby, is he well too? Was it a boy, as you were hoping?’

‘Yvonne had begun trembling so hard that I had to grip

her arm. ‘No,’ she said at last.

‘’Ah, then, EVIDEMMENT, it was a girl?’

‘Thereupon Yvonne, the idiot, lost her head completely.

‘No,’ she actually said again!

‘The nurse was taken aback. ‘COMMENT!’ she ex-

claimed, ‘neither a boy nor a girl! But how can that be?’

‘Figure to yourselves, MESSIEURS ET DAMES, it was

a dangerous moment. Yvonne had turned the colour of a

beetroot and she looked ready to burst into tears; another

second and she would have confessed everything. Heaven

knows what might have happened. But as for me, I had kept

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Down and Out in Paris and London

my head; I stepped in and saved the situation.

‘’It was twins,’ I said calmly.

‘’Twins!’ exclaimed the nurse. And she was so pleased

that she took Yvonne by the shoulders and embraced her on

both cheeks, publicly.

‘Yes, twins …’

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XIX

One day, when we had been at the Hotel X five or six

weeks, Boris disappeared without notice. In the eve-

ning I found him waiting for me in the Rue de Rivoli. He

slapped me gaily on the shoulder.

‘Free at last, MON AMI! You can give notice in the morn-

ing. The Auberge opens tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow?’

‘Well, possibly we shall need a day or two to arrange

things. But, at any rate, no more CAFETERIA! NOUS

SOMMES LANCES, MON AMI! My tail coat is out of pawn

already.’

His manner was so hearty that I felt sure there was some-

thing wrong, and I did not at all want to leave my safe and

comfortable job at the hotel. However, I had promised Bo-

ris, so I gave notice, and the next morning at seven went

down to the Auberge de Jehan Cottard. It was locked, and I

went in search of Boris, who had once more bolted from his

lodgings and taken a room in the rue de la Groix Nivert. I

found him asleep, together with a girl whom he had picked

up the night before, and who he told me was ‘of a very sym-

pathetic temperament.’ As to the restaurant, he said that it

was all arranged; there were only a few little things to be

seen to before we opened.

At ten I managed to get Boris out of bed, and we un-

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Down and Out in Paris and London

locked the restaurant. At a glance I saw what the ‘few little

things’ amounted to. It was briefly this: that the alterations

had not been touched since our last visit. The stoves for the

kitchen had not arrived, the water and electricity had not

been laid on, and there was all manner of painting, polish-

ing and carpentering to be done. Nothing short of a miracle

could open the restaurant within ten days, and by the look of

things it might collapse without even opening. It was obvi-

ous what had happened. The PATRON was short of money,

and he had engaged the staff (there were four of us) in order

to use us instead of workmen. He would be getting our ser-

vices almost free, for waiters are paid no wages, and though

he would have to pay me, he would not be feeding me till the

restaurant opened. In effect, he had swindled us of several

hundred francs by sending for us before the restaurant was

open. We had thrown up a good job for nothing.

Boris, however, was full of hope. He had only one idea