THE CUL-DE-JATTE

Otautau Standard and Wallace County Chronicle, Volume XI, Issue 522, 18 May 1915, Page 2

THE CUL-DE-JATTE

COMEDY IN THE WAR. AN AFFECTING" STORY FROM FRANCE. PA-RIB. Since you last heard from me I have been m hospital owing to my temerity m trying to stop a Prussian bullet, so I have no more news for you just "now about my own experience on active service. But that does not matter. In times like these all one's friends have "experiences/ so I will tell you the story of -a victim of the war as related to me -by my comrade Bicard. There is an element of comedy m it which will, I hope,, amuse you. Perhaps you will think that the present is .not a time for amusing stories, 'but, after all, as you English say, "It's a poor heart that never rejoices," and I can't resist telling you. Well, you must know that Bicard as well as myself committed the imprudence of getting m the way of a German bullet. We are both of us convalescent now, but not fit for duty m the trenches for a few days, and so we are quietly loafing about. Paris together. The other day, as *we were strolling over the Pont des Arts, Bicard suddenly nudged me, and whispered : "Look at that poor cripple beggar there. Give him 10 sous, if you've got as much on you." I looked up and saw a poor fellow without any legs, the lower part of whose trunk was encased m a sort of bowl or tub. In front of him was his hat, with a few coins m it, contributed by the compassionate passers-by. I felt rather piqued at Bicard's apparent want of confidence m my financial condition, so I rather ostentatiously threw a franc into the hat of the poor " cul-de-jatte," as we call such cripples m France. My cul-de-jatte evidently knew whom he had to thank for this. He didn't lose any time m thanking me, that's certain, but I'll swear I saw him wink at Bicard.

"There," said Bicard, "you behold a worthy man * who has been unfortunate. He is a genuine victim of the war. .Before the order for mobilisation he had what you may call a permanent situation. He was peacefully established where you see him now, his ' clients ' came regularly to see him and help him, and I assure yon that the number of them would astonish you. There was his 'pitch' right m the track of the Academicians, as they went backwards and forwards to their work, and they all gave him some trifle whenever they passed. There was M. Jean Richepin, Paul Bourget, Rene Bazin, Maurice Rostand "

"But M. Maurice Rostand is not a member of the Academy," said I.

" Oh, what's the odds — there were all sorts of literary blokes, and old Bonzigues yonder (that's his name) had a different yarn for every one of them. The dear old innocents, each one of them, wanted to know how he had lost his legs, or if he was born so, as though they'd never seen a cul-de-jatte before. Well — Bonzigues thought, I suppose, that .' variety is the sauce of life,' so he told M. Richepin that when he was a boy he had been apprenticed to a chimney-sweep, who had forced him to squeeze himself up narrow chimneys until he had worn a certain portion of his' anatomy (let us say the back of his front) right down to the 'os coccyx/ or where the foot of his tail would be irhe had one. To M. Frederic Masson he said that his legs had been amputated m consequence oi wounds he had received m the wars of the Second Empire. When M. Paul Bourget asked him how he came to be crippled thus he put on an air of mystery and informed the ** distinguished novelist that he had been ' arranged like this ' by the jealous husband of a lady whom he used to ' visit.' When the novelist, on the track of a 'sensation,' pressed for names, Bonzigues chivalrously declared that he would rather have both arms cut off as well as his legs than reveal the name of the lady. To M. Michel Zevaco he told sohie cock-and-bull yarn about masked men, of which you and I wouldn't have believed a solitary word, but which fairly knocked M. Zevaco. Then all these excellent gentlemen went home and made notes of all these yarns, and put them into their books as ' facts obtained at first hand,' and Bonzigues pouched the shekels, and when the Academicians were not there he used to 'entertain the public with a little tune that he played on the flute. He never played more/ than one tune, but it was a rustic, sentimental sort, and it fetched the country folks regularly. Well, this was very well while it lasted, but suddenly war broke out, and poor Bonzigues, on the third day of the mobilisation, had to depart to join his corps." "But he had no legs," said I. Bicard regarded me with an air of pity, not unmixed with contempt. " Good Lord." said he, "you don't n?ean to*say you haven't tumbled to it yet. Why, don't you see Bonzigues was a professional cripple. Outside his hours of business he had as many legs as other folks*, and got over the ground with rather a fine action. But during * office hours,' at the comer of the Pont des Arts, he squatted like a graven image of Buddha, with his legs sto.wed away up his inside or somewhere ; I don't know where, but then, you see, I haven't studied the anatomy of the human frame. And, after all, when you consider the tricks that women play by shdwing their ankles just for the sake of ' coquetterie,' it's not surprising that an honest man should hide his* legs to earn the daily bread of his wife and family. " However, be. that as it may, Bonzigues and his legs were mobilised and went to the front, aiid he was m my company. Never was a man so proud of his legs. It was a regular holiday* from 'business' for them. Not a man m the whole squad had such calves as Bonzigues. After a long march of 45 kilometres, when the rest of us poor cripples were all footsore and glad to halt, he would dance a jig and laugh at us, and say : ' See now, my comrades, what a grand thing it is to have economised your shanks when you were young ; see how supple end muscular mine are. Hop, hop, one, two, three. ' Often and often I said to him : ' Yoa needn't mock us poor beggars and swagger about what you call .* " your natural advantages"; it won't do you any good m the end, perhaps.' No more it did either. As long as we were fighting m the open it was all very well. Bonzigues ' squatted ' as if he were on the Pont des Arts, and as he wasn't more than a ya,rd' high then he didn't offer much of a mark to the Prussians. But when he found himself m the trenches 1 he had to change all that. In the trenches, j'ou see, a fellow ought to be built on piles to keep out of the water and mud, so if lie amused himself by doing .the '-cul-de-jatte there, he found the water over his head. So he had to resign himself to allow his precious shanks to paddle around m a, sort of half-frozen swamp. . " Poor old chap, I must . say he never shirked, and the end of it was that one fine morning we found him stuck, and had to haul him out by main force, with his beautiful legs properly frozen, and the sui'geon-major amputated them both to save his life."

"Well," I said, "at all events that' wouldn't interfere with his professional career as a> 'cul-de-jatte,' but rather the

contrary. He might pursue it with a good conscience now."

"Wait a bit. Don't you make any mistake. That's just what Bonzigues thought himself. ' Never mind,' said he ; ' I'll just { go back to business as usual.' And as soon as he got his discharge, back he went, with ; a light heart to his 'pitch' on the Pont ! des Arts. But he found that a good deal j had happened m his absence." I " Somebody jumped his claim, I sup- I pose," said 1. • |

" Not a bit of it," said Bicard. " I told | you he had a wife, didn't I? Well, my ! friend, woman is no doubt the most perfect work of God— but it's an awful pity that the Divine Architect didn't make her a bit. wiser. Perhaps He thought she would be too perfect then. Figure to your- • self, my friend, what that wife of Bonzigues had done. She went and took the J little platform on wheels on which he sat ' as cul-de-jatte during business hours, and : she stuck that blessed platform up on his regular 'pitch' on the Pont des Arts with a box m front of it for ' contributions,' and above the box a great placard, thus : ' The patron of this establishment has been j mobilised and gone to the front.' " Well, you can imagine the result. Poor Bonzigues during his absence gained no I end of admiration as a soldier, but as a cul-de-jatte he absolutely lost the esteem of his 'clients.' When he came back to his ' pitch ' he expected his friends the academicians to stop and ask him how he had lost his legs, as before, and he felt that he would now liave a true story to tell them, with a good conscience. But soon he noticed that they passed him by with a sidelong glance of indignation, as if they were saying : ' Look at that counfounded impostor !' ' Look at that shirker . who hides his legs so that he may not be forced to march.' Not one penny did he get, poor Bonzigues ! All he got by fighting for his country was an approving conscience and a diminished tailor's bill. For you must admit," said Bicard m a most judicial tone, " that it does take less stuff to clothe what you call the ' business end ' of a real cul-de-jatte than to make a pair of breeches for a man of normal figure."