A French Revolution for One Cent

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLII, Issue 21, 26 May 1909, Page 50

A French Revolution for One Cent

By

ERNEST POOLE

THE quivering, hollow-eyed student of the Latin Quarter, orating on the rights of man. banged the j cafe table with his bony fist; th* table, a little iron affair on the sidewalk. tipped slightly. From the small pile of copper coins on the edge a fivecentime piece slipped noiselessly off and dropped into the student’s gaping ccat pocket Idle oration banged on. The doublethinned waiter with the little, solemn eyes, and the sliek, black hair, shifted to the other foot. At the next table the affable gentleman in tlie fawn-coloured frock coat took another sip of absinthe, twirled his fine-pointed moustache and smiled approvingly. The buxom clicescniadame from next door kept eyeing the ragged little street gamin who stood, hands on hips, directly in front of the orator —now staring solemnly at those burning eyes and that tumbled hair, nowturning to wink at madame, and thus diverting her attention while his chubby partner crept stealthily behind her toward a big yellow cheese in her tiny shop. Three benevolent old gentlemen in brown straw hats stopped and listened, with holiday smiles. Across tire narrow street, in the open window next mine, a young artist was sketching the student, languidly, for the heat was intense. Far above us from the little attic balcony two lovers leaned over, trying to look together through one opera glass. Another bang of the fist and the oration plunged into the French Revolution. To-day was the great day of France, the 14th of July, the anniversary of the fall of the Bastille! "Ah, Day—Day, Day Immortal—the groans, the shrieks, the sublime, the magnificent frenzy, the Idea, the Poem, the Blood, the Man raising hi- fist for ’’ Down came the fist! Crash—and the student’s fourth glass of absinthe lay shattered on the sidewalk, the amber fluid lost. A pause; then a toss of the poet’s narrow, shaggy head, a glance from those burning eyes, a superb gesture—all signalled the waiter to bring another drink. But the waiter stood solemn, motionless, statuesque. Indignantly the poet’s hand grasped the tiny pile of coppers and shoved them waiterward. Nothing. Another glare; then in the dead silence the fat waiter spoke: "Monsieur has had four absinthes. Monsieur has paid for three. I have given monsieur the change, it is there—forty centimes. But forty centimes will not pay for two more drinks. If monsieur will show me more money ” ‘‘Ah! Garcon. you want money!” A light, amused smile played on the poet's thin lips. as. stooping. he carelessly counted the coppers. Suddenly he stooped so low that h:- hat fell off. The waiter bent with dignity, picked it up from the pavement, and offered it to the poet. The poet glared into the waiter’s eyes. "Gai - 11. regard these coins!” Tlie waiter looked. Three ten-centime pieces, an i one five. A five-centime piece was nd-.-ing. The poet’s dark eyes glistened. "Gai ■ >n. 1 demand my forty centimes, my property. my all, my rights—my Sacred rights!” But the waiter was again a statue. Only by the heave of the double chin could one tell that the throat behind it was contracting. He Spoke -lowly, doggedly. "Monsieur, 1 am a man. Monsieur, I give you forty centimes.” "Garcon. I beg you to replace my hat »-my hat!" Tlie waiter stooped and carefully replaced the hat on the dirty pavement, The poet’s face grew white. "Pig! Imbecile!” k "Monsiuer, I am a man.” ‘•Garcon. you are a thief!" The fist banged again. "You di-grace this day day of freedom, day of joy. day of glory! You! You cast on this day a blot of shame; you insult la belle France! And I —l defend her! I strike with this weak hand for freedom. I blot out. I demand liberty. I demand my rights—my property! uarante centimes! Quarante eeatimesl” The poet rose on * chair,

fell, rose again, damp curls flowing, arms extended, eyes ablaze. "Superb!” cried the young artist, leaning suddenly far from his window. “Superb! The gesture is superb! Vive I’art! A has le garcon! Save him—save the poet! The gesture! Mon dieu! The gesture is superb!" "My heart brims!” The gesture swayed slightly. "Thanks —1 give you thanks! My new friend—my brother!” His eyes filled and his voice broke. "My comrade—my champion—my saviour!” One long arm clasped his swaying little chest and the other reached up to the artist with a deep yearning. "To you! 1 embrace! 1 kiss!" "Ah! The Sublime!” The artist frantically grasped his pencil, head thrown back, eyes inspired. "The Idea! Let me catch! I draw! And you—you shall be immortal!” “Quarante centimes!” yelled the Immortal. "I lift my voice—my heart throbs —my rights—my liberty—my own! Quarante centimes! Quarante centimes!” "Quarante centimes!” screamed the artist, furiously sketching. "Quarante centimes!” piped the little gamin. "Quarante centimes!" roared the mob. The narrow street was packed, heads leaned from a hundred windows, delighted shrieks of laughter, calls, and shakings of hands. And over all, the centre of the picture, rose the Sublime, swaying on his chair, arms extended and jerking rhythmically up and down like a great master leading an orchestra. "Quarante centimes! Quarante centimes! Quarante centimes!" The mob was controlled, the roar beat in rhythm, the Idea was on top. The fat waiter with the slick, shiny hair moved not, neither did he smile. But the double chin kept working faster in and out, the fat hands clinched the apron slowly tighter, and the little eyes gleamed from their pink, shallow socket-s. Suddenly he rushed across the street and heavily mounted the front of the cheeselady’s wagon. “A bas les aristocrats! Down with the tyrants!" His deep thundering voice broke the rhythmic roar of the mob. "Vive Marat! Vive Danton! Vive Robespierre!” The mob turned open-mouthed, silent. “"Down with the rich who defraud the ■workingman. the artisan, the waiter! The poor, poor waiter! Down with the

tyrants! Vive les proletaires! Vive la partie socialiste!” One moment’s silence. Then the mob divided, Paris split in two, France broke asunder, and the Class Struggle was begun. With a roar one-half of the classconscious, mob swept over to the waiter. With a smile the affable gentleman leaped up on a chair, twirled his moustache, and—— “Vive I’armee! Vive la loi! Vive la France!” he cried. Again the mob turned, furious, thirsty. "A moi! A moi!” cried the undaunted

aristocrat, and to his standard rushed the other half, headed by the cheese-lady. “Vive I’armee! Vive la France!” “Vive la partie socialiste! Death to the aristocrats! Vengeance! Vengeance!’’ With a roar the mob charged and surged together. Hair was torn, insults flew, noses swelled, eyes’were blackened. The Idea went frantic. Chaos! The cafe tables were rushed as rams to the front. The proprietor, wild with rage, snatched his telephone to ring for the police. But the partie socialiste, ever watchful of tyrants, saw his strategy. In a few quick, well-chosen, long words, Marat junior explained the meaning of the trick in terms of Karl Marx. In a class-conscious frenzy the mob hoveled to the heavens. Suddenly from h.s window the artist —class-conscious, selfconscious—flung out his hands in a poetic gesture of farewell, leaped straight

out from his window, clutched the tel* phone wire in mid air and bore it to th* earth amid frantic kisses, embracings, and tears. ‘ Alone and cut off now from all lawful help, the undaunted gentleman rushed here and there, affable, smiling, cheering on his forces, the cheese-lady close behind him. Marat junior rushed on the gentleman and tossed his a pron—emblem of YVork—dexterously over the aristocratic* bead. But as he dragged the polished parasite to the dust, suddenly the devoted cheese-lady, looking in vain for a weapon, rushed to her cheese-wagon, burst in the rear door, seized a huge, luscious Edam cheese, and sent it like a cannon-ball at the head of the classconscious strangler. I In an instant the battle, the roar, the Idea—all had ehanged. "Down with the petite bourgeoisie!” shrieked the partie socialiste. “Protect her! save our neightbour!" yelled the tradesman. "Swipe the cheeses!” piped the little street gamin. And cheeses filled the air—red Edams, stunning whom they struck, huge Swiss cheeses, soft, voluptuous, like syrens tempting heroes from the fray, German, French, Italian cheeses. Rocheforts, Camemberts, tiny, harmless to see, but bearing death to nostiils. And over all an aged Limburger sailed rejoicing in its power. Tlie lady wrung her hands then grabbed a cheese under each arm, and sat down again on the kerbstone, weeping. But again came her champion, affable, courteous, cool. In a moment he had a commissiary, a line of his ablest men and women reaching to a neighbour's cellar. And as if by magic that line sueked in tha flying cheeses. In a steady stream they poured into the cellar door. A moment later only one Edam and a ponderous battered old Swiss cheese hovered in the air. And they too were sucked in—by a second commissary leading up a side alley, wisely arranged by the little street gamin. And now suddenly all faces turned to heaven. Far above, between the two grey rows of buildings, a huge flag was waved slowly back and forth by the two lovers leaning arm in arm far out from their little rose balcony. And the flag was spotless red! "Vive le socialistes! ’’ roared half the ‘moo, and while the roar rose to a thrilling chorus of shrieks and screams of adoration, sudden'y Marat junior, ever watchful of tyrants, yelled: "Stop him! Puli him down!” and pointed at the street door of the house of the lovers. The mob glared. Too late! The affable gentleman, the cheese-madame, and five devoted followers had rushed in, slammed the door and were speeding up the seven flights of stairs like demons to disturb the lovers heaven above. There was yet time! The lovers might be saved! The flag might be defended! The mob surged

*0 the attar! ~ The locked door shivered, hesitated, and was about to erash in when from the window elose overhead a black, ominous fire hose was hurled by a stalwart arm. The mob shrieked as they recognised that arm —the arm of the cheese-lady. Down dangled the giant hose five feet over the heads of the besiegers. The next instant it writhed like a serpent in agony, then leaped like a thing alive, and eold water—wrecker of riots — shot out on the crowd. The stream made fearful havoe. Men. women and innocent children went heels over head down the steps. A’d now for a touch of pathos. The three benevolent old gentlemen had been caught long ago in the mob, and hustled, benevolently bewildered, through charge after charge. So confused were their faces, so dazed their smiles, that both mobs had used them simply as battering rams till one stray hat was crushed far down over the right ear of its owner, a second was jammed tightly over its master's spectacle 1 nose, and a third was only a slender brown rim round the white hair of a frantic old gentleman. These three innocent rams were now for the last time hurled to the front, Marat junior and his gang rushing them up to the door. At the same instant the black hose swished sharply in, the huge white stream struck with dull, sickening thuds, and the three benevolent old gentlemen rolled limply do vn the steps, and into the gutter. Sueh is the fate of eharitv —sweet Charity—when the Class Struggle begins. The poet had seemed strangely confused ever since the Class Struggle began. He had been hustled, a huddled ball of humanity quivering with anguish, under th? feet of the mob, viewing the dark

underside of war, the grim horror, the groans, the kicks, the sorrows. His sensitive soul had sobbed in agony, he had held his hands before his burning eyes. Then su fdenly beneath him in the gutter he had felt a eold, wet something creeping. striking chill into his bones. The thing he dreaded most —the nightmare water —was upon him. With a shriek he had leaped up, his trousers soaked and clinging to his slender legs, and vaulting to a table he had suddenly spied the Hag. In an instant his face had changed; the agony, the injustice, the wounds, swelling nose, torn curls, the wet trousers—all were forgotten. By the eyes, by the eway, by the increasing hiccough, you could tell that his soul had soared far above the kicks and the watery gutter. The Poet wae with the flag!

“Ah. Hag—my flag!’’ There was something in the voice of that thin wet, hollow-eyed boy that sent a soft hush over the mob. Faces turned suddenly. The Gesture was now pointing directly heavenward, motionless except for the hiccoughs. I could hear the artist near me sketching furiously. "Ah, flag—my flag!” Ail the pathos, all the hopeless yearning of I'Aiglon was in that voice. One thin hand put back the hair from the delicate brow. “Ah, ah, ah! Flag—flag—two flags—two flags—l see two flag-! Ah, flags—my flags—my two flags! Mme —mine—my own —my rights—my property —my quarante centimes! Ah! ah! Quarante centimes! Quarante centimes! Quarante centimes! Quarante ” The plaintive voice broke off. The Gesture fell. The fist clinched. The poet had sighted the waiter. The fat waiter with slick, blaek hair was gazing up at the red . flag in heaven. One eye black, the other blazing, nose swelling, double chin contracting—there could be no mistake. This man loved that flag—the two flags. This man was the poet's brother! With a sobbing cry. the Sublime bounded to the proletarian. They embraced—again and yet again. The mob roared, the mob paired off and all began embracing. The fight was at an end. Brotherhood! Immortality! Tears! But no. suddenly a huge red thing fluttered limply down from heaven. Brutal cries rang from the lovers’ ravished bower. More hose from the cheese-lady’s window. The flag fell on the steps, madame -oaked it with water, mud and cheese stuck on. In an instant the mob went insane.

Blood now flowed. Eyes before blackened were now bloody, frightful. Noses before swelling were now crushed sideways. Ears were torn and so was hair. Faces streamed, fingers scratched, fists struck blindly. The poet towered over all on his table, his thin arms clasping the flag to his heart, his lips kissing the red. “Flag—flag—my flag.” Around him stood his brothers to defend.. Tables raised as shields, arms uplifted, voices screaming, while the furious bourgeois tradesmen charged and charged in vain. Far above in the lovers’ bower I could see a face, delighted and demoniac. The affable gentleman smiled. I looked down the street and shuddered. For a block' on either side the narrow way was a surging mass of stu-

dents —laughs, howls, blows, tears, curses! And tlwough -it all advanced slowly—an omnibus. 1 looked closer. The top of the omnibus was packed with peaceable holiday citizens who rose smiling, curious, and happy. But as the cries smote their ears and they felt the Idea, in an instant tho*e people divided. Words rose, faces darkened. fists shook, eyes gleamed, bodies quivered. And as the great 'bus lumbered through, the little group on top leaped far down, grasping hands of

new found brothers. Gentleman heartened gentleman. Workman cheered workman. Students cheered everyone. All shouted directions. One young aristocrat- even dove down from the ’bus, heels held firmly by a friend, and clutched the flag from the poet. The poet with a shriek hung sublimely on with tooth and nail. He was dragged swaying towards the top of the 'bus. Screams, roars, frenzy! But in an instant six huge workmen, bakers, grasped his heels and bore the flag back to earth; I looked again. Down the street rode 40 police. At full gallop they swept along. In the centre they stopped, divided, and shoved the mob swiftly asunder. Wild screams sank to roars: roars slowly descended to distant grumble--: grumbles broke into far-away laughter, and the mob had melted. For a moment the little street was silent. Eight swooning women sat up. Three benevolent, kindly old gentlemen. prostrate, groaned faintly. And then came pathos. The Sublime fell off his table, the waiter tenderly carried him to a chair—flag and all. One long look at the flag, one long look at the waiter. Then. "Brother—my new. new’ brother,’’ he murmured, and stopped for one weak hiccough: "1 give you all—my all—all! — ah!—my all ” He rose and took off his coat and held it out to his brother. The brother moved not, neither did he smile. Only by the heave of his doubel chin could wou describe his yearning. There was a long silence. In an eestacy the young artist sketched the new Gesture. The Sublime gave one last, sudden, violent hiccough, his arm shook and from the gaping pocket of the coat there dropped on the table —a fivecentime piece. One dim bewildered glance from the poet. A quick sob from tlTe waiter—as quickly restrained. Then one la-t touch of I'Aiglon. “Ah!—ah!—ah!” And the revolution was over.