My uncle Scipio

Front matter

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.

.

*

Chapter I

Up to the time when I was ten years old my notions concerning* my uncle Scipio Mouginot were of the vaguest. The picture of him that rose before my youthful mind was blurred and dim, being simply that of an unknown relative who had his abode very far away, at Paris, and whose name, whenever it was mentioned in our family circle, was received with a contemptuous toss of the head. It was on a Sunday evening, in June, 1850, as I well remember, that I for the first time acquired a more distinct conception of this mysterious member of our family. The date of that ever-memorable evening is impressed upon my recollection the more indelibly that it also recalls a disagreeable circumstance that happened me during the day. The weather that Sunday was ideally fine : the sky was. cloudless, the sun shone brightly, a gentle wind from the east blew the dust in clouds along the Rue du Bourg. When the midday meal was concluded, I left the house in company with my cousin, Aristide Mouginot - Pechoin, my guardian’s son — a good boy, he was, as quiet and well-behaved as I was rude and turbulent. Grandma Pe-

MY UNCLE SCIPIO.

choin presented us each with ten sous for our w r eek’s spending money, and my aunt gave us ^ reiterated injunctions not to absent ourselves from vespers.

I can see ourselves now, just as we looked on that sunny afternoon, sauntering down the street side by side, dressed exactly alike, in black trousers, white waistcoats and those short English jackets that they used to call roundabouts. Aristide’s suit is new, however, while mine is threadbare and has lost its freshness. As it is only one o’clock, we take the longest way to reach the church. When we reach the bank of the Marne and Khine Canal, which has been opened only recently, we suddenly find ourselves in the midst of a crowd of pleasure-seekers, all in their Sunday best, gathered compactly around a large boat that has been freshly caulked and is decked out with flags and streamers. I drag Aristide along with me, and shouldering my way into thickest of the fray, there learn that the master of the boat, for a consideration of lifty centimes, will give those who are so inclined an excursion on the canal.

The bright sunshine and the laughing water conspire to whisper in my ear an invitation to play truant ; my boyish imagination takes fire at the idea of that adventurous voyage. I look at Aristide with eyes sparkling with eagerness.

Ten sous ! ” I say to him ; “are you game for it ?.”

But the cousin, who is a thrifty body where

MY UNCLE SCIPIO.

money is concerned, gives me a horrified look out of his big* round eyes, and with his provoking*ly virtuous air makes answer :

“ How can you think of such a thing* ! And vespers ? — ”

“ Oh, hang vespers ! There’s more fun to be had in the boat. Come along ! ”

Aristide refuses resolutely to be tempted, and the firmness of his resistance makes me all the more determined to carry my caprice into execution. I hand my ten-sou piece to the man whose duty it is to receive the money, and, as I jump on board the boat, shout to my cousin :

“ I will meet you when church comes out. Wait for me, and be sure you don’t say anything to give me away ! ”

The clums}^ barge, drawn by two tow-horses, glides sluggishly over the green bosom of the canal, the flags snap like a whiplash in the freshening breeze, and it is altogether a delightful sensation to feel one’s self floating between the two banks with their bordering rows of plane trees, while overhead the swallows are sporting in the blue sky and the church bells, ringing the last summons for vespers, dash the delight of stolen joys with a tinge of keen remorse. When the boat comes to a lock it stops for a moment, imprisoned between the lofty walls, the gates are opened, and the inrushing crystal tide sends gleams of sunlight dancing over the face of the dripping stonework.

While the stoppage lasts the passengers step ashore and stretch their legs on the towpath. I follow their example, but when the steersman

MY UNCLE SCIPIO.

summons us to come aboard again it is seen that the boat, owing to the rise of water in the lock, sets much higher above the surface than she did before ; the step is too high for my short legs. A boatman, with the best intentions in the world, seizes me by the arm to assist me upward ; I make a desperate effort to pass my leg over the rail, when, confound the luck ! I feel the tender cloth of my trousers yielding at the seat beneath the strain. I give utterance to a cry of distress, the man in his disgust lets go my arm, and I am left lying on the stone causeway, while the boat, with its cargo of laughing spectators, recedes and is lost to sight among the flaunting poppies that deck the banks.

There I am, chapfallen and alone, exposed to the blinding sunshine of the towpath. I carry my hand to the place where my garment has served me so treacherously, and tremblingly proceed to acquaint myself with the extent of the disaster. The rent is of large dimensions, and with that ridiculous roundabout there is no way of concealing the corpus delicti. People cannot help noticing it ! And Aristide, who is to wait for me when church is dismissed ! how am I ever to keep my appointment with him, and exhibit myself before the congregation with my attire in such a state ?

I attempt to repair damages with some pins that the gatekeeper’s wife gives me, but it is no use ; the cloth is too rotten, and the pins give way every time I move my legs, making the gaping wound still larger than it was before. There is but one safe course left me, and

MY UNCLE SCIPIO.

that is to regain my home as quickly as possible. Behold me, therefore, pursuing my melancholy way cityward beneath the spreading plane trees that overarch the roadway. As long as I keep to the canal the experience is not such a very disagreeable trial ; the banks are deserted, and there is no one to witness my mortification, but before me lies Villotte, the smoke from whose chimneys is rising off yonder from behind its screen of trees, and there the sidewalks are thronged with promenaders. The mere thought of it brings the blood in torrents to my cheeks. Shamefacedly I creep through the least frequented lanes and by-ways, hugging the walls, and so at last I come to the street on which faces the coachhouse of the Mouginot- Pechoin family. I steal in on tiptoe, silent as a mouse, and, invoking the cloak of obscurity to hide my shame and sorrow, await in the darkness of a disused lumber-room the advent of the twilight hour, when I know I shall hear old Adele summoning my uncle’s boarder, Lawyer Dieudonne Jacobi, to come to supper.

Lawyer Jacobi is near-sighted, and, what is more, I know that he is not very observant. As Grandmother Pechoin says: “He looks within.” He is always the first one in the dining-room. I lay my plans to effect my entrance m his company ; so doing I shall be safely seated, with my back to the wall, when the remainder of the family make their appearance —

Ouf ! everything has passed off nicely in accordance with my hopes and wishes, and now

MY UNCLE SCIPIO.

I am perched aloft on my high chair, in such a posture that no one can have any reason to suspect the damage sustained by the widest portion of my nether garment. The dining-room, a narrow, three-cornered apartment, is situated directly in the rear of the shop of my uncle Mouginot - Pechoin — who is the leading pharmacist of Villotte ; the only light it receives is afforded by a window of ground glass, the lower sash of which plays up and down in grooves, thus forming a sort of peephole through which cognizance may be taken of the happenings of the shop. Owing to the stifling heat the sash is raised this evening, and through the opening a view is obtained of the pharmacy, with its dazzlingly polished brass- work and its old pots and jars of immaculately white earthenware ; and behind the great red and blue globes in the show-window we catch shadowy glimpses of the pedestrians on the sidewalk, who have left their houses to enjoy a stroll in the cool evening air. A lamp, with a ground-glass shade, diffuses an equable and yellow light throughout the room and illuminates the snowy cloth on which the repast is served.

There are seven of us seated around the board, counting Arsene Camus, the apprentice, who makes himself scarce as soon as the dessert is brought on. (That is an invariable rule that has never once been departed from since the Mouginot pharmacy has been in existence and made a practice of receiving apprentices.) Facing the window that looks into

MY UNCLE SCIPIO.

the shop, in the first place, is Victor Mouginot, my uncle and guardian, a cold, phlegmatic, formal man of forty-eight, as inaccessible as the tight-locked closet where he bestows his poisons, and expressing himself always in the very briefest of sentences; a sternH-set, smoothshaven, impenetrable face, in which the small gray eyes seem fixed in a stare of stony immobility; a rigid body, stiff and unbending as a ramrod, close-buttoned in an olive-colored frock coat, the long sleeves of which fall over a pair of fists as round and hard as one of his own pestles. At his righk sits Grandmother Pechoin, a hale and stately old lady of seventy, who has had somewhat of renown as a beauty in her day, when Napoleon I. was emperor of France. The charm of feature is still to be observed beneath the lofty edifice of powdered hair, and the kindly eyes of lilac-blue, looking out from amid their enframement of silvery locks, make one think of violets blooming beneath the snow. A circumstance worthy of note is that she cannot endure her son-in-law, whose automaton-like frigidity gives her the fidgets, and she has a way of saying that Victor Mouginot cannot go near a chimney but he extinguishes the fire. Aristide Mouginot, my cousin, occupies the place on the left hand of his father, of whose repulsive manner he is a successful imitator: he is an only son, an infant phenomenon, whose perfections are constantly being dinned in my ears. He sits up straight* on his stool, his napkin is always properly tucked beneath his chin, he does not get

MY UNCLE SCIPIO.

gravy-spots on his <( best clothes,” he holds his tongue at table, and never asks for anything.

I don’t see why he should, forsooth, when he is helped to everything there is. on the board ! He does not play in the street with the little blackguard boys, he never talks back ; in a word, he is perfect.

But although he may be good — my cousin Aristide — he is not handsome. The great prominent ears, standing forth boldly on each side of his flaxen pate, are like the fins of a fish. His eyebrows are so thin that one might almost count the hairs ; he has white eyelashes, a pasty white complexion, and the regular Mouginot nose — the nose that runs in the family — which, in his case, has assumed the shape and size of a potato.

At the other end of the table, opposite my guardian, my aunt Mouginot sits in state. She has the form and something of the imposing air of her mother, but has not her affability and power to please. She suffers from neuralgia and keeps her head muffled in a black shawl, within the folds of which is visible at times a long, bilious-looking face, with yellow eyes, a sharp nose and juiceless lips. Her illhealth has given her the acidity*, and something of the appearance, of a lemon, added to which she is disposed to irony and is not overcharitable. She has a way of asserting her authority by emphatic gestures, and every movement she makes is attended by a loud jingling of the keys which she carries hung in a bunch from her belt. This harsh clank of steel has in the end impressed itself on my understanding as something inseparably connected with her personality, like the stridulous whirr of the locust or the sleep-murdering song of the mosquito, and I am conscious of a disagreeable sensation crawling over me every time I hear it. I have my place on her left hand, where I am subjected to her immediate and pitiless supervision ; she never lets up on me for a moment, and every mouthful I eat is as gall and wormwood to me under the seasoning of her sarcastic comments. On Aunt Mouginot’s right, obsequiously loquacious and profuse of small attentions, is my uncle’s boarder, Dieudonne . Jacobi, lawyer, a bachelor of fifty, who for fifteen years has been the friend and table companion of the family.

M. Dieudonne is a tall man, blonde as to his hair and pink as to his complexion, with a pepper-and-salt beard and small eyes of a faded blue. Notwithstanding the maturity of his years he affects a boyish manner and tone of voice, which contrast oddly enough with his gray beard. He dresses in dark colors/and inexpensively, but still retains some youthful predilections, wearing turn-down collars a la Colin and bright-blue neckties with long streaming ends. Being blessed with an abundant flow of flowery language, he is a ceaseless talker ; he is addicted to using obscure and high-sounding phrases, empty as a well that has gone dry ; it matters not to him that they are entirely void of sense and meaning if he can but inflate them with tropes and metaphors. He

MY UNCLE SCIPIO.

delights to discourse of the soul and of the heavenly bodies, for he is of a somewhat mystical and sentimental turn, but is not unmindful of his material entity, of which he takes precious good care.

As he has but a limited income he is constantly worrying over the question of ways and means for the future, and the prospect of approaching old age makes him very closefisted. He only takes dinner and supper with us, and old Adele, our solitary domestic, declares that the small loaf which is brought in for his early breakfast is made to last him four days. He is very devout, never failing to be present at early morning mass, where he takes a seat under the organ-loft, on the bench set apart for the poor — “ from motives of humility,” he says, but in reality because the warden who hands around the plate turns back before he gets thus far. Although a lawyer by profession and a member of the Bar, he is seldom seen in court ; his eloquence does not seem to have much weight with a jury, and the business community have discovered that his arguments are more rhetorical than sound. By way of counterpoise to this, he is the leading spirit of the Society of Fine-bots, Belles-Lettres and Horticulture of Villotte. From time to time, as some discovery is made in digging down the Mont de Fains — an old kettle, maybe, or a Gallo-Roman tumulus— he writes an essay and reads it before the society -j then he has fifty copies of his lucubration struck off — at the society’s expense, be it understood — and sends

MY UNCLE SCIPIO.

them round among* the houses where he visits. He has invented ever so many expedients,, none of -them dishonorable, however, whereby he may repay the obligations he incurs without putting his hand in his pocket. It is in this way that, in order to liquidate a portion of Uncle Mouginot’s account for board and lodging, he has undertaken to instruct Aristide and me in the elements of French and Latin. Every morning we mount the stairs to his room on the second floor, facing on the street, where he makes us decline rosa, a rose, or inflicts on us a dictation selected from the most bombastic portion of his opuscule. Aristide is not a youth of brilliant parts, but he is industrious, while I, on the other hand, occupy myself with watching the sparrows that come chirping about the window, or listen to the cries of the hucksters wheeling their loads of fruit and vegetables along the street, and thus I fail every now and then to catch a word of the dictation, which has the effect of destroying the harmony of M. Dieudonne’s style and procuring for me at the dinner-hour a sharp reprimand from my aunt Mouginot.

It is M. Dieudonne who does all the talking at supper this evening. My uncle is a man of few words, my aunt is suffering from her neuralgia, so that were it not for Lawyer Jacobi our repast would be a very silent one. But he considers it a matter of duty to keep the conversation going ; M. Dieudonne will talk on any and every subject, even if he is reduced to talking nonsense, rather than suffer one of those con-

MY UNCLE SCIPIO.

versational breaks which cause people to say : “ An angel is flying 1 over the house.” He chatters on and on, piling metaphor on trope and trope on metaphor, until he is called to order by the good-natured raillery of Grandma Pechoin. The old lady is very sensible, and takes no stock in his fiddle-faddle ; what she appreciates more than anything else is lucidity, and she makes no bones of so telling the sentimental lawyer.

“ Ah, madame, you have clipped my wings !” he thereon exclaims in his mellifluous boyish voice.

We have just finished the second course, a vinaigrette made from the boiled meat of the pot-au-feu ; Adele brings in the cheese in the midst of one of those silences that are so afflictive to M. Jacobi. Incontinently he starts off again :

“ I attended vespers at Notre Dame this afternoon in order to hear the Magnificat , which is rendered there with an amplitude and a depth of feeling which never fails to raise me out of myself and sweep me away in a mystical whirlwind of soul — ”

“ What’s that ? ” Grandma Pechoin mischievously inquired; “I don’t comprehend you. Whirlwinds of dust I have seen many a time ; whirlwind of soul, never ! ”

“ You ought to know by this time, mother,” Aunt Mouginot ironically remarks, “ that M. Jacobi doesn’t talk like the rest of us.”

“ Oh, madame ! ” the offended lawyer rejoins, “ if that is the way you take me up just for a

MY UNCLE SCIPIO.

little figure of speech, I shall keep my mouth shut in future:’’

He stops, looks around him, and surprises on my face an irreverent smile.

“By the way,” he goes on, giving me an ugly look, “ I looked for you at church, Jacques, hut Aristide seemed to have the bench all to himself. Where had you stowed yourself ? ”

I experienced a disagreeable sensation as of a stream of c?ld water trickling down my back, and begin to blush.

“Why were you not with Aristider, you bad boy ? ” my aunt severely demands.

My virtuous cousin is watching me furtively out of the corner of his eye ; I feel that my misdemeanor is about to be brought home to me, and the thought makes me lose countenance. Already my uncle’s basilisk eyes are fastened on me — already my aunt’s sharp nose, breathing dire threats, is outstretched in my direction, when a thrice-fortunate incident occurs to create a diversion. The shop-door is thrown open with a bang, the little bell tinkles, and a voice hoarse by reason of frequent potations shouts : “ Letters ! ” At the same time, casting a glance through the sliding window, I make out the silhouette of the letter-carrier, who thrusts his hand down into his tin box and brings out a sealed envelope.

“ A letter for you, Monsieur Mouginot. Ten sous due.”

A big red hand is introduced through the openings delivers the letter, and waits expectant of the money, which my uncle counts out

MY UNCLE SCIPIO.

grumblingly ; then the carrier takes himself off and the door is closed again. Every eye is fixed on Victor Mouginot, who puts on his spectacles and deliberately examines the envelope. No one thinks of questioning me further, and I breathe once more.

“ Hum ! ” says my uncle, “ that letter came from Paris. It is from my brother Scipio.”

“ Oh, oh ! ” my aunt ill-naturedly insinuates, “if he writes to us you may be sureMt is to beg for something. ”

My uncle breaks the seal and reads. His face is as expressionless as the face of a wooden image, and it is impossible to tell by the play of his features whether the contents of the letter are pleasing or the reverse.

“ Arsehe ! ” he commands, with a significant glance toward the apprentice, “it is time for you to go back to the shop.”

Arsene Camus obeys, and my uncle, still holding the open letter in his hand, cautiously closes the window of communication, and, addressing himself to the company, continues in his customary unconcerned tone of voice, in which is perceptible, however, the slightest trace of irony :

“ It is worth the ten sous. Listen ! ”

And in the same even voice he begins to read :

“ ‘ My dear Victor— It is a long, long time since I heard from the family and my old home, so I have determined to write and ask you for news. Although distance parts us,

MY UNCLE SCIPIO.

we must not let the grass of oblivion grow on the path of brotherly affection — ’ ”

“ There’s a noble image ! ” exclaims M. Dieudonne. “ He is a fine writer, the animal is.”

“ It is very kind of you to say so, but don’t interrupt me, if you please, Jacobi,” growls Uncle Victor. “ I will continue :

“ f — brotherly affection. Since we met last I have been constantly cudgeling my brain, and have elicited many new ideas. I came across one recently which would have insured a fortune to us all, but I had the impru&fence to make a confidant of an idiot who made it public before the right time, and spoiled all, so that the returns have not been what I expected they would be. I have, therefore, found it necessary to shift my gun to the other shoulder. Adversity is a good teacher, sometimes. I am now on the track of a gigantic enterprise. I am digging away at it, and as soon as I shall have struck the vein it won’t be by thousands that we shall count our profits — it will be by millions. Needs it I should say once more that it is into your coffers, my dearest relatives, that this auriferous stream will pour its golden tide. For me, the glory will suffice of having conducted to a successful end a great and patriotic enterprise ; what there is beyond shall be for my nephews. My laborious days and wakeful nights are filled with thoughts of them, and particularly of Jacques, that interesting orphan whom destiny has intrusted to our care,

MY UNCLE SCIPIO.

and for whom I predict a brilliant future that shall not belie the promise of his precocious intelligence. Why can I not be with him, why can I not be with you all ? By supplementing your knowledge with my experience, I would make of him a man in the true meaning of the word. Unfortunately I have irons in the fire. Duty forbids me to leave my post, and barren, but heartfelt, prayers and wishes are all, alas ! that I have to contribute to my nephew’s education. Capitalists are chary in these troublous times, and collections are made with difficulty. Owing to this, my dear Victor, I am compelled once again to beg you to grant me credit for my proportionate share, now nearly due, of the cost of maintenance of that dear child for the current six months. It will only be a loan for a brief time. I am a little hard-up just now, but as soon as I shall have struck the vein the family shall be repaid every penny they have expended. All I can say to you at present is : I hear the rustling of the wings of Fortune above my head, and as soon as the jade is within reach I will not fail to grasp her. For that you have the word of your devoted and persevering brother, who sends a kiss to all of you,

“ ‘ Scipio Mouginot.’ ”

“What do you think of it?” my uncle Victor asks between his close-set teeth.

“ Another of his schemes for bamboozling the unwary ! ” my aunt snorts with infinite contempt. “ What a humbug that man is ! ”

MY UNCLE SCIPIO.

“ I don’t care,” assertively declares Lawyer Jacobi, “ he wields a graceful pen all the same.”

“Words, empty words!” is Grandma Pechoin’s verdict. “ That’s what I call promising more butter than bread.”

For my part, I am very much inclined to share M. Dieudonne’s admiration. The millions evoked with such facility by Scipio Mouginot’s golden pen dazzle me, and I am of opinion that they are unnecessarily severe on that uncle who intends to make me a rich man and has such a flattering idea of my capacity.

“ What strikes me most evidently in this business,” my uncle gloomily observes, “is that we are to have Jacques on our hands entirely at our expense.”

“ Yes,” my aunt continues, turning her eyes on me, “ fresh sacrifices are to be imposed on us for this boy’s sake. Let us hope that he will not prove ungrateful, and that he will do what in him lies to repay our kindness by obedience and good behavior — ”

She delivers her little sermon with a countenance as sour as vinegar, and I am bitterly mortified. I cannot help thinking that altogether too much fuss is made over the sacrifices that the family is subjected to on my account, and the thought of my mind is betrayed on my countenance by a sulky grimace that proves highly displeasing to^ my touchy relative.

“ Well, sir ! ” she cries, shaking me as if I were a plum tree, “why don’t you answer? ”

MY UNCLE SCIPIO.

She shakes me so violently that I lose my equilibrium and tumble off my stool, and do it so maladroitly, moreover, that I turn my back to my aunt in falling*, and the yawning* rent in the seat of my trousers is presented full to her horrified gaze in the lamplight.

“ Holy Virgin ! what do my eyes behold ? ” exclaims Mme. Mouginot in a tone of indignant anger. “Where have you been, and what have you been doing, to ruin a pair of trousers that were new only the other day ? Answer, brisacque ! ”

Grasping me by the shoulders, she stands me against the wall and holds me there, transfixing* me with a look that searches my very soul. I have not learned how to lie, and with eyes downcast I make a clean breast of my iniquity : nty temptation, the boat-trip, the absence from church, and all the rest of it.

“ That’s what comes of disobedience,” my aunt replies. “ If you had been a good boy and gone with Aristide to vespers, you would not have torn your trousers. To-morrow you will stay in the house and have dry bread to eat. We are not rich enough to buy you new clothes every day ! ”

“And since he is so fond of the water,” Uncle Victor sententiously adds, “ when he is fifteen I will see if I can get him a berth on board the training ship. That will do — let him take himself off to bed ! ”

All rise from table, and as I am groping my way along the dark passage that conducts to the closet where Aristide and I sleep together

MY UNCLE SCIPIO.

I am conscious of a gently caressing hand upon my head, smoothing my curls.

“Don’t cry, little one,” whispers Grandma Pechoin. “To-morrow, when the folks are all downstairs, do you come to my room ; I will give you some chocolate to make your dry bread taste better — and I’ll mend your trousers for you.”

Chapter II

Kind Grandma Pechoin is as good as her word. While seated at table about one o’clock the following day, with a white earthenware plate and a tumbler of water in front of me — I am munching my butterless bread, listening sadly the while to the cheerful clatter of pots and pans that rises from the kitchen underneath — my door turns softly on its hinges, and I behold the lovely white-haired old lady, who, raising her finger to her lips, signs to me to follow her. With catlike steps we make our way to her bedroom, the windows of which, opening on the courtyard, have a southern aspect and command a pleasant view of the upper town of Villotte.