University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.
ISRAEL IS INITIATED INTO THE MYSTERIES OF LODGING-HOUSES
IN THE LATIN QUARTER.

CLOSING the door upon himself, Israel advanced to
the middle of the chamber, and looked curiously round
him.

A dark tessellated floor, but without a rug; two mahogany
chairs, with embroidered seats, rather the worse
for wear; one mahogany bed, with a gay but tarnished
counterpane; a marble wash-stand, cracked, with a china
vessel of water, minus the handle. The apartment was
very large; this part of the house, which was a very
extensive one, embracing the four sides of a quadrangle,
having, in a former age, been the hotel of a nobleman.
The magnitude of the chamber made its stinted furniture
look meagre enough.

But in Israel's eyes, the marble mantel (a comparatively
recent addition) and its appurtenances, not only redeemed
the rest, but looked quite magnificent and hospitable in
the extreme. Because, in the first place, the mantel
was graced with an enormous old-fashioned square mirror,

of heavy plate glass, set fast, like a tablet, into the
wall. And in this mirror was genially reflected the following
delicate articles:—first, two boquets of flowers
inserted in pretty vases of porcelain; second, one cake
of white soap; third, one cake of rose-colored soap (both
cakes very fragrant); fourth, one wax candle; fifth, one
china tinder-box; sixth, one bottle of Eau de Cologne;
seventh, one paper of loaf sugar, nicely broken into sugar-bowl
size; eighth, one silver teaspoon; ninth, one glass
tumbler; tenth, one glass decanter of cool pure water;
eleventh, one sealed bottle containing a richly hued liquid,
and marked “Otard.”

“I wonder now what O-t-a-r-d is?” soliloquised Israel,
slowly spelling the word. “I have a good mind to step
in and ask Dr. Franklin. He knows everything. Let
me smell it. No, it's sealed; smell is locked in. Those
are pretty flowers. Let's smell them: no smell again.
Ah, I see—sort of flowers in women's bonnets—sort of
calico flowers. Beautiful soap. This smells anyhow—
regular soap-roses—a white rose and a red one. That
long-necked bottle there looks like a crane. I wonder
what's in that? Hallo! E-a-u—d-e—C-o-l-o-g-n-e. I wonder
if Dr. Franklin understands that? It looks like his
white wine. This is nice sugar. Let's taste. Yes, this
is very nice sugar, sweet as—yes, it's sweet as sugar;
better than maple sugar, such as they make at home.
But I'm crunching it too loud, the Doctor will hear me.
But here's a teaspoon. What's this for? There's no
tea, nor tea-cup; but here's a tumbler, and here's drinking
water. Let me see. Seems to me, putting this and

that and the other thing together, it's a sort of alphabet
that spells something. Spoon, tumbler, water, sugar,
— brandy—that's it. O-t-a-r-d is brandy. Who put
these things here? What does it all mean? Don't put
sugar here for show, don't put a spoon here for ornament,
nor a jug of water. There is only one meaning to it,
and that is a very polite invitation from some invisible
person to help myself, if I like, to a glass of brandy and
sugar, and if I don't like, let it alone. That's my reading.
I have a good mind to ask Doctor Franklin about it,
though, for there's just a chance I may be mistaken,
and these things here be some other person's private property,
not at all meant for me to help myself from.
Co-logne, what's that—never mind. Soap: soap's to wash
with. I want to use soap, anyway. Let me see—no,
there's no soap on the wash-stand. I see, soap is not
given gratis here in Paris, to boarders. But if you want
it, take it from the marble, and it will be charged in the
bill. If you don't want it let it alone, and no charge.
Well, that's fair, anyway. But then to a man who
could not afford to use soap, such beautiful cakes as these
lying before his eyes all the time, would be a strong
temptation. And now that I think of it, the O-t-a-r-d
looks rather tempting too. But if I don't like it now, I
can let it alone. I've a good mind to try it. But it's
sealed. I wonder now if I am right in my understanding
of this alphabet? Who knows? I'll venture one little
sip, anyhow. Come, cork. Hark!”

There was a rapid knock at the door.

Clapping down the bottle, Israel said, “Come in.”

It was the man of wisdom.

“My honest friend,” said the Doctor, stepping with
venerable briskness into the room, “I was so busy during
your visit to the Pont Neuf, that I did not have time to
see that your room was all right. I merely gave the
order, and heard that it had been fulfilled. But it just
occurred to me, that as the landladies of Paris have some
curious customs which might puzzle an entire stranger,
my presence here for a moment might explain any little
obscurity. Yes, it is as I thought,” glancing towards the
mantel.

“Oh, Doctor, that reminds me; what is O-t-a-r-d, pray?”

“Otard is poison.”

“Shocking.”

“Yes, and I think I had best remove it from the room
forthwith,” replied the sage, in a business-like manner putting
the bottle under his arm; “I hope you never use
Cologne, do you?”

“What—what is that, Doctor?”

“I see. You never heard of the senseless luxury—a
wise ignorance. You smelt flowers upon your mountains.
You won't want this, either;” and the Cologne bottle was
put under the other arm. “Candle—you'll want that.
Soap—you want soap. Use the white cake.”

“Is that cheaper, Doctor?”

“Yes, but just as good as the other. You don't ever
munch sugar, do you? It's bad for the teeth. I'll take
the sugar. So the paper of sugar was likewise dropped
into one of the capacious coat pockets.

“Oh, you better take the whole furniture, Doctor

Franklin. Here, I'll help you drag out the bedstead.”

“My honest friend,” said the wise man, pausing solemnly,
with the two bottles, like swimmer's bladders,
under his arm-pits; “my honest friend, the bedstead you
will want; what I propose to remove you will not want.”

“Oh, I was only joking, Doctor.”

“I knew that. It's a bad habit, except at the proper
time, and with the proper person. The things left on the
mantel were there placed by the landlady to be used if
wanted; if not, to be left untouched. To-morrow morning,
upon the chambermaid's coming in to make your bed, all
such articles as remained obviously untouched would have
been removed, the rest would have been charged in the
bill, whether you used them up completely or not.”

“Just as I thought. Then why not let the bottles stay,
Doctor, and save yourself all this trouble?”

“Ah! why indeed. My honest friend, are you not my
guest? It were unhandsome in me to permit a third
person superfluously to entertain you under what, for the
time being, is my own roof.”

These words came from the wise man in the most graciously
bland and flowing tones. As he ended, he made
a sort of conciliatory half bow towards Israel.

Charmed with his condescending affability, Israel, without
another word, suffered him to march from the room, bottles
and all. Not till the first impression of the venerable
envoy's suavity had left him, did Israel begin to surmise
the mild superiority of successful strategy which lurked
beneath this highly ingratiating air.

“Ah,” pondered Israel, sitting gloomily before the rifled

mantel, with the empty tumbler and teaspoon in his hand,
“it's sad business to have a Doctor Franklin lodging in
the next room. I wonder if he sees to all the boarders
this way. How the O-t-a-r-d merchants must hate him,
and the pastry-cooks too. I wish I had a good pie to
pass the time. I wonder if they ever make pumpkin pies
in Paris? So I've got to stay in this room all the time.
Somehow I'm bound to be a prisoner, one way or another.
Never mind, I'm an ambassador; that's satisfaction. Hark!
The Doctor again.—Come in.”

No venerable doctor, but in tripped a young French
lass, bloom on her cheek, pink ribbons in her cap, liveliness
in all her air, grace in the very tips of her elbows.
The most bewitching little chambermaid in Paris. All
art, but the picture of artlessness.

“Monsieur! pardon!”

“Oh, I pardong ye freely,” said Israel. “Come to call
on the Ambassador?”

“Monsieur, is de—de—” but, breaking down at the very
threshold in her English, she poured out a long ribbon
of sparkling French, the purpose of which was to convey
a profusion of fine compliments to the stranger, with many
tender inquiries as to whether he was comfortably roomed,
and whether there might not be something, however trifling,
wanting to his complete accommodation. But Israel
understood nothing, at the time, but the exceeding grace,
and trim, bewitching figure of the girl.

She stood eyeing him for a few moments more, with
a look of pretty theatrical despair, and, after vaguely lingering
a while, with another shower of incomprehensible

compliments and apologies, tripped like a fairy from the
chamber. Directly she was gone Israel pondered upon a
singular glance of the girl. It seemed to him that he
had, by his reception, in some way, unaccountably disappointed
his beautiful visitor. It struck him very strangely
that she had entered all sweetness and friendliness, but
had retired as if slighted, with a sort of disdainful and
sarcastic levity, all the more stinging from its apparent
politeness.

Not long had she disappeared, when a noise in the
passage apprised him that, in her hurried retreat, the girl
must have stumbled against something. The next moment
he heard a chair scraping in the adjacent apartment, and
there was another knock at the door.

It was the man of wisdom this time.

“My honest friend, did you not have a visitor, just
now?”

“Yes, Doctor, a very pretty girl called upon me.”

“Well, I just stopped in to tell you of another strange
custom of Paris. That girl is the chambermaid, but she
does not confine herself altogether to one vocation. You
must beware of the chambermaids of Paris, my honest
friend. Shall I tell the girl, from you, that, unwilling to
give her the fatigue of going up and down so many flights
of stairs, you will for the future waive her visits of
ceremony?”

“Why, Doctor Franklin, she is a very sweet little girl.”

“I know it, my honest friend; the sweeter the more
dangerous. Arsenic is sweeter than sugar. I know you
are a very sensible young man, not to be taken in by

an artful Ammonite, and so I think I had better convey
your message to the girl forthwith.”

So saying, the sage withdrew, leaving Israel once more
gloomily seated before the rifled mantel, whose mirror was
not again to reflect the form of the charming chambermaid.

“Every time he comes in he robs me,” soliloquised
Israel, dolefully; “with an air all the time, too, as if
he were making me presents. If he thinks me such a
very sensible young man, why not let me take care of
myself?”

It was growing dusk, and Israel, lighting the wax candle,
proceeded to read in his Guide-book.

“This is poor sight-seeing,” muttered he at last, “sitting
here all by myself, with no company but an empty tumbler,
reading about the fine things in Paris, and I myself
a prisoner in Paris. I wish something extraordinary would
turn up now; for instance, a man come in and give me
ten thousand pounds. But here's `Poor Richard;' I am
a poor fellow myself; so let's see what comfort he has
for a comrade.”

Opening the little pamphlet, at random, Israel's eyes
fell on the following passages: he read them aloud—

“`So what signifies waiting and hoping for better times?
We may make these times better, if we bestir ourselves.
Industry need not wish, and he that lives upon hope will
die fasting, as Poor Richard says. There are no gains,
without pains. Then help hands, for I have no lands, as
Poor Richard says.' Oh, confound all this wisdom! It's
a sort of insulting to talk wisdom to a man like me.

It's wisdom that's cheap, and it's fortune that's dear.
That ain't in Poor Richard; but it ought to be,” concluded
Israel, suddenly slamming down the pamphlet.

He walked across the room, looked at the artificial
flowers, and the rose-colored soap, and again went to the
table and took up the two books.

“So here is the `Way to Wealth,' and here is the
Guide to Paris.' Wonder now whether Paris lies on
the Way to Wealth? if so, I am on the road. More
likely though, it's a parting-of-the-ways. I shouldn't be
surprised if the Doctor meant something sly by putting
these two books in my hand. Somehow, the old gentleman
has an amazing sly look—a sort of wild slyness—about
him, seems to me. His wisdom seems a sort of sly, too.
But all in honor, though. I rather think he's one of those
old gentlemen who say a vast deal of sense, but hint a
world more. Depend upon it, he's sly, sly, sly. Ah,
what's this Poor Richard says: `God helps them that
help themselves.' Let's consider that. Poor Richard
ain't a Dunker, that's certain, though he has lived in
Pennsylvania. `God helps them that help themselves.'
I'll just mark that saw, and leave the pamphlet open to
refer to it again—Ah!”

At this point, the Doctor knocked, summoning Israel
to his own apartment. Here, after a cup of weak tea,
and a little toast, the two had a long, familiar talk together;
during which, Israel was delighted with the
unpretending talkativeness, serene insight, and benign
amiability of the sage. But, for all this, he could hardly
forgive him for the Cologne and Otard depredations.

Discovering that, in early life, Israel had been employed
on a farm, the man of wisdom at length turned the
conversation in that direction; among other things, mentioning
to his guest a plan of his (the Doctor's) for yoking
oxen, with a yoke to go by a spring instead of a bolt;
thus greatly facilitating the operation of hitching on the
team to the cart. Israel was very much struck with the
improvement; and thought that, if he were home, upon
his mountains, he would immediately introduce it among
the farmers.