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N N.
Being a Novel in the French Paragraphic Style.
—Mademoiselle, I swear to you that I love you.
—You who read these pages. You who turn your
burning eyes upon these words—words that I trace
—Ah, Heaven! the thought maddens me.
—I will be calm. I will imitate the reserve of the
festive Englishman, who wears a spotted handkerchief
which he calls a Belchio, who eats biftek, and
caresses a bull-dog. I will subdue myself like him.
—Ha! Poto-beer! All right—Goddam!
—Or, I will conduct myself as the free-born American—the
gay Brother Jonathan! I will whittle me
a stick. I will whistle to myself “Yankee Doodle,”
and forget my passion in excessive expectoration.
—Hoho!—wake snakes and walk chalks.
The world is divided into two great divisions:
There are several provinces, among which may be
numbered England, America, Russia, and Italy.
N N. was a Parisian.
But N N. did not live in Paris. Drop a Parisian
in the provinces, and you drop a part of Paris with
him. Drop him in Senegambia, and in three days
he will give you an omelette soufflée or a pâté de foie
gras, served by the neatest of Senegambian filles,
whom he will call Mademoiselle. In three weeks he
will give you an opera.
N N. was not dropped in Senegambia, but in San
Francisco—quite as awkward.
They find gold in San Francisco, but they don't understand
gilding.
N N. existed three years in this place. He became
bald on the top of his head, as all Parisians do.
Look down from your box at the Opera Comique,
Mademoiselle, and count the bald crowns of the fast
young men in the pit. Ah—you tremble! They
show where the arrows of love have struck and
glanced off.
N N. was also near-sighted, as all Parisians finally
become. This is a gallant provision of Nature to
spare them the mortification of observing that their
lady friends grow old. After a certain age every
woman is handsome to a Parisian.
One day, N N. was walking down Washington
street. Suddenly he stopped.
He was standing before the door of a mantua-maker.
Beside the counter, at the further extremity
Her face was turned from N N. He entered,
With a plausible excuse, and seeming indifference,
he gracefully opened conversation with the mantua-maker
as only a Parisian can. But he had to deal
with a Parisian. His attempts to view the features
of the fair stranger by the counter were deftly combated
by the shop-woman. He was obliged to retire.
N N. went home and lost his appetite. He was
haunted by the elegant basque and graceful shoulders
of the fair unknown, during the whole night.
The next day he sauntered by the mantua-maker.
Ah! Heavens! A thrill ran through his frame, and
his fingers tingled with a delicious electricity. The
fair inconnu was there! He raised his hat gracefully.
He was not certain, but he thought that a slight motion
of her faultless bonnet betrayed recognition. He
would have wildly darted into the shop, but just
then the figure of the mantua-maker appeared in the
doorway.
—Did Monsieur wish anything?
Misfortune! Desperation. N N. purchased a bottle
of Prussic acid, a sack of charcoal, and a quire
of pink note paper, and returned home. He wrote a
letter of farewell to the closely fitting basque, and
opened the bottle of Prussic acid.
Some one knocked at his door. It was a Chinaman,
with his weekly linen.
These Chinese are docile, but not intelligent. They
are ingenious, but not creative. They are cunning
are simply barbarous. They purchase their wives
openly, and not constructively by attorney. By
offering small sums for their sweethearts, they degrade
the value of the sex.
Nevertheless, N N. felt he was saved. He explained
all to the faithful Mongolian, and exhibited
the letter he had written. He implored him to deliver
it.
The Mongolian assented. The race are not cleanly
or sweet savored, but N N. fell upon his neck. He
embraced him with one hand, and closed his nostrils
with the other. Through him, he felt he clasped the
close-fitting basque.
The next day was one of agony and suspense.
Evening came, but no Mercy. N N. lit the charcoal.
But, to compose his nerves, he closed his door and
first walked mildly up and down Montgomery Street.
When he returned, he found the faithful Mongolian
on the steps.
—All lity!
These Chinese are not accurate in their pronunciation.
They avoid the r, like the English nobleman.
N N. gasped for breath. He leaned heavily against
the Chinaman.
—Then you have seen her, Ching Long?
—Yes. All lity. She cum. Top side of house.
The docile barbarian pointed up the stairs, and
chuckled.
—She here—impossible! Ah, Heaven! do I
dream?
—Yes. All lity—top side of house. Good bye
John.
This is the familiar parting epithet of the Mongolian.
It is equivalent to our au revoir.
“N N. gazed with a stupefied air on the departing
servant.
He placed his hand on his throbbing heart. She
here—alone beneath this roof. Oh, Heavens—what
happiness!
But how? Torn from her home. Ruthlessly
dragged, perhaps, from her evening devotions, by the
hands of a relentless barbarian. Could she forgive
him?
He dashed frantically up the stairs. He opened
the door. She was standing beside his couch with
averted face.
A strange giddiness overtook him. He sank upon
his knees at the threshold.
—Pardon, pardon. My angel, can you forgive
me?
A terrible nausea now seemed added to the fearful
giddiness. His utterance grew thick and sluggish.
—Speak, speak, enchantress. Forgiveness is all I
ask. My Love, my Life!
She did not answer. He staggered to his feet.
As he rose, his eyes fell on the pan of burning charcoal.
A terrible suspicion flashed across his mind.
This giddiness—this nausea. The ignorance of the
barbarian. This silence. O merciful heavens! she
was dying!
He crawled toward her. He touched her. She
fell forward with a lifeless sound upon the floor. He
uttered a piercing shriek, and threw himself beside
her.
A file of gendarmes, accompanied by the Chef
Burke, found him the next morning lying lifeless
upon the floor. They laughed brutally—these cruel
minions of the law—and disengaged his arm from
the waist of the wooden dummy which they had
come to reclaim for the mantua maker.
Emptying a few bucketfuls of water over his form,
they finally succeeded in robbing him, not only of
his mistress, but of that Death he had coveted without
her.
Ah! we live in a strange world, Messieurs.
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