Madame Husson's Rosier
We had just left Gisors, where I was awakened to hearing the name of thetown called out by the guards, and I was dozing off again when a terrificshock threw me forward on top of a large lady who sat opposite me.One of the wheels of the engine had broken, and the engine itself layacross the track. The tender and the baggage car were also derailed, andlay beside this mutilated engine, which rattled, groaned, hissed, puffed,sputtered, and resembled those horses that fall in the street with theirflanks heaving, their breast palpitating, their nostrils steaming andtheir whole body trembling, but incapable of the slightest effort to riseand start off again.There were no dead or wounded; only a few with bruises, for the train wasnot going at full speed. And we looked with sorrow at the great cripplediron creature that could not draw us along any more, and that blocked thetrack, perhaps for some time, for no doubt they would have to send toParis for a special train to come to our aid.It was then ten o'clock in the morning, and I at once decided to go backto Gisors for breakfast.As I was walking along I said to myself:"Gisors, Gisors--why, I know someone there!Who is it? Gisors? Let me see, I have a friend in this town." A namesuddenly came to my mind, "Albert Marambot." He was an old school friendwhom I had not seen for at least twelve years, and who was practicingmedicine in Gisors. He had often written, inviting me to come and seehim, and I had always promised to do so, without keeping my word. But atlast I would take advantage of this opportunity.I asked the first passer-by:"Do you know where Dr. Marambot lives?"He replied, without hesitation, and with the drawling accent of theNormans:"Rue Dauphine."I presently saw, on the door of the house he pointed out, a large brassplate on which was engraved the name of my old chum. I rang the bell,but the servant, a yellow-haired girl who moved slowly, said with aStupid air:"He isn't here, he isn't here."I heard a sound of forks and of glasses and I cried:"Hallo, Marambot!"A door opened and a large man, with whiskers and a cross look on hisface, appeared, carrying a dinner napkin in his hand.I certainly should not have recognized him. One would have said he wasforty-five at least, and, in a second, all the provincial life whichmakes one grow heavy, dull and old came before me. In a single flash ofthought, quicker than the act of extending my hand to him, I could seehis life, his manner of existence, his line of thought and his theoriesof things in general. I guessed at the prolonged meals that had roundedout his stomach, his after-dinner naps from the torpor of a slowindigestion aided by cognac, and his vague glances cast on the patientwhile he thought of the chicken that was roasting before the fire. Hisconversations about cooking, about cider, brandy and wine, the way ofpreparing certain dishes and of blending certain sauces were revealed tome at sight of his puffy red cheeks, his heavy lips and his lustrelesseyes."You do not recognize me. I am Raoul Aubertin," I said.He opened his arms and gave me such a hug that I thought he would chokeme."You have not breakfasted, have you?""No.""How fortunate! I was just sitting down to table and I have an excellenttrout."Five minutes later I was sitting opposite him at breakfast. I said:"Are you a bachelor?""Yes, indeed.""And do you like it here?""Time does not hang heavy; I am busy. I have patients and friends.I eat well, have good health, enjoy laughing and shooting. I get along.""Is not life very monotonous in this little town?""No, my dear boy, not when one knows how to fill in the time. A littletown, in fact, is like a large one. The incidents and amusements areless varied, but one makes more of them; one has fewer acquaintances, butone meets them more frequently. When you know all the windows in astreet, each one of them interests you and puzzles you more than a wholestreet in Paris."A little town is very amusing, you know, very amusing, very amusing.Why, take Gisors. I know it at the tips of my fingers, from itsbeginning up to the present time. You have no idea what queer history ithas.""Do you belong to Gisors?""I? No. I come from Gournay, its neighbor and rival. Gournay is toGisors what Lucullus was to Cicero. Here, everything is for glory; theysay 'the proud people of Gisors.' At Gournay, everything is for thestomach; they say 'the chewers of Gournay.' Gisors despises Gournay, butGournay laughs at Gisors. It is a very comical country, this."I perceived that I was eating something very delicious, hard-boiled eggswrapped in a covering of meat jelly flavored with herbs and put on icefor a few moments. I said as I smacked my lips to compliment Marambot:"That is good."He smiled."Two things are necessary, good jelly, which is hard to get, and goodeggs. Oh, how rare good eggs are, with the yolks slightly reddish, andwith a good flavor! I have two poultry yards, one for eggs and the otherfor chickens. I feed my laying hens in a special manner. I have my ownideas on the subject. In an egg, as in the meat of a chicken, in beef,or in mutton, in milk, in everything, one perceives, and ought to taste,the juice, the quintessence of all the food on which the animal has fed.How much better food we could have if more attention were paid to this!"I laughed as I said:"You are a gourmand?""Parbleu. It is only imbeciles who are not. One is a gourmand as one isan artist, as one is learned, as one is a poet. The sense of taste, myfriend, is very delicate, capable of perfection, and quite as worthy ofrespect as the eye and the ear. A person who lacks this sense isdeprived of an exquisite faculty, the faculty of discerning the qualityof food, just as one may lack the faculty of discerning the beauties of abook or of a work of art; it means to be deprived of an essential organ,of something that belongs to higher humanity; it means to belong to oneof those innumerable classes of the infirm, the unfortunate, and thefools of which our race is composed; it means to have the mouth of ananimal, in a word, just like the mind of an animal. A man who cannotdistinguish one kind of lobster from another; a herring--that admirablefish that has all the flavors, all the odors of the sea--from a mackerelor a whiting; and a Cresane from a Duchess pear, may be compared to a manwho should mistake Balzac for Eugene Sue; a symphony of Beethoven for amilitary march composed by the bandmaster of a regiment; and the ApolloBelvidere for the statue of General de Blaumont."Who is General de Blaumont?""Oh, that's true, you do not know. It is easy to tell that you do notbelong to Gisors. I told you just now, my dear boy, that they called theinhabitants of this town 'the proud people of Gisors,' and never was anepithet better deserved. But let us finish breakfast first, and then Iwill tell you about our town and take you to see it."He stopped talking every now and then while he slowly drank a glass ofwine which he gazed at affectionately as he replaced the glass on thetable.It was amusing to see him, with a napkin tied around his neck, his cheeksflushed, his eyes eager, and his whiskers spreading round his mouth as itkept working.He made me eat until I was almost choking. Then, as I was about toreturn to the railway station, he seized me by the arm and took methrough the streets. The town, of a pretty, provincial type, commandedby its citadel, the most curious monument of military architecture of theseventh century to be found in France, overlooks, in its turn, a long,green valley, where the large Norman cows graze and ruminate in thepastures.The doctor quoted:"'Gisors, a town of 4,000 inhabitants in the department of Eure,mentioned in Caesar's Commentaries: Caesaris ostium, then Caesartium,Caesortium, Gisortium, Gisors.' I shall not take you to visit the oldRoman encampment, the remains of which are still in existence."I laughed and replied:"My dear friend, it seems to me that you are affected with a specialmalady that, as a doctor, you ought to study; it is called the spirit ofprovincialism."He stopped abruptly."The spirit of provincialism, my friend, is nothing but naturalpatriotism," he said. "I love my house, my town and my province becauseI discover in them the customs of my own village; but if I love mycountry, if I become angry when a neighbor sets foot in it, it is becauseI feel that my home is in danger, because the frontier that I do not knowis the high road to my province. For instance, I am a Norman, a trueNorman; well, in spite of my hatred of the German and my desire forrevenge, I do not detest them, I do not hate them by instinct as I hatethe English, the real, hereditary natural enemy of the Normans; for theEnglish traversed this soil inhabited by my ancestors, plundered andravaged it twenty times, and my aversion to this perfidious people wastransmitted to me at birth by my father. See, here is the statue of thegeneral.""What general?""General Blaumont! We had to have a statue. We are not 'the proudpeople of Gisors' for nothing! So we discovered General de Blaumont.Look in this bookseller's window."He drew me towards the bookstore, where about fifteen red, yellow andblue volumes attracted the eye. As I read the titles, I began to laughidiotically. They read:Gisors, its origin, its future, by M. X. . . ., member of severallearned societies; History of Gisors, by the Abbe A . . . .; Gasorsfrom the time of Caesar to the present day, by M. B. . . ., Landowner;Gisors and its environs, by Doctor C. D. . . ; The Glories of Gisors,by a Discoverer."My friend," resumed Marambot, "not a year, not a single year, youunderstand, passes without a fresh history of Gisors being publishedhere; we now have twenty-three.""And the glories of Gisors?" I asked."Oh, I will not mention them all, only the principal ones. We had firstGeneral de Blaumont, then Baron Davillier, the celebrated ceramist whoexplored Spain and the Balearic Isles, and brought to the notice ofcollectors the wonderful Hispano-Arabic china. In literature we have avery clever journalist, now dead, Charles Brainne, and among those whoare living, the very eminent editor of the Nouvelliste de Rouen, CharlesLapierre . . . and many others, many others."We were traversing along street with a gentle incline, with a June sunbeating down on it and driving the residents into their houses.Suddenly there appeared at the farther end of the street a drunken manwho was staggering along, with his head forward his arms and legs limp.He would walk forward rapidly three, six, or ten steps and then stop.When these energetic movements landed him in the middle of the road hestopped short and swayed on his feet, hesitating between falling and afresh start. Then he would dart off in any direction, sometimes fallingagainst the wall of a house, against which he seemed to be fastened, asthough he were trying to get in through the wall. Then he would suddenlyturn round and look ahead of him, his mouth open and his eyes blinking inthe sunlight, and getting away from the wall by a movement of the hips,he started off once more.A little yellow dog, a half-starved cur, followed him, barking; stoppingwhen he stopped, and starting off when he started."Hallo," said Marambot, "there is Madame Husson's 'Rosier'."Madame Husson's 'Rosier'," I exclaimed in astonishment. "What do youmean?"The doctor began to laugh."Oh, that is what we call drunkards round here. The name comes from anold story which has now become a legend, although it is true in allrespects.""Is it an amusing story?""Very amusing.""Well, then, tell it to me.""I will."There lived formerly in this town a very upright old lady who was a greatguardian of morals and was called Mme. Husson. You know, I am tellingyou the real names and not imaginary ones. Mme. Husson took a specialinterest in good works, in helping the poor and encouraging thedeserving. She was a little woman with a quick walk and wore a blackwig. She was ceremonious, polite, on very good terms with the Almightyin the person of Abby Malon, and had a profound horror, an inborn horrorof vice, and, in particular, of the vice the Church calls lasciviousness.Any irregularity before marriage made her furious, exasperated her tillshe was beside herself.Now, this was the period when they presented a prize as a reward ofvirtue to any girl in the environs of Paris who was found to be chaste.She was called a Rosiere, and Mme. Husson got the idea that she wouldinstitute a similar ceremony at Gisors. She spoke about it to AbbeMalon, who at once made out a list of candidates.However, Mme. Husson had a servant, an old woman called Francoise, asupright as her mistress. As soon as the priest had left, madame calledthe servant and said:"Here, Francoise, here are the girls whose names M. le cure has submittedto me for the prize of virtue; try and find out what reputation they bearin the district."And Francoise set out. She collected all the scandal, all the stories,all the tattle, all the suspicions. That she might omit nothing, shewrote it all down together with her memoranda in her housekeeping book,and handed it each morning to Mme. Husson, who, after adjusting herspectacles on her thin nose, read as follows:Bread...........................four sousMilk............................two sousButter .........................eight sousMalvina Levesque got into trouble last year with Mathurin Poilu.Leg of mutton...................twenty-five sousSalt............................one souRosalie Vatinel was seen in the Riboudet woods with Cesaire Pienoir, byMme. Onesime, the ironer, on July the 20th about dusk.Radishes........................one souVinegar.........................two sousOxalic acid.....................two sousJosephine Durdent, who is not believed to have committed a fault,although she corresponds with young Oportun, who is in service in Rouen,and who sent her a present of a cap by diligence.Not one came out unscathed in this rigorous inquisition. Francoiseinquired of everyone, neighbors, drapers, the principal, the teachingsisters at school, and gathered the slightest details.As there is not a girl in the world about whom gossips have not foundsomething to say, there was not found in all the countryside one younggirl whose name was free from some scandal.But Mme. Husson desired that the "Rosiere" of Gisors, like Caesar's wife,should be above suspicion, and she was horrified, saddened and in despairat the record in her servant's housekeeping account-book.They then extended their circle of inquiries to the neighboring villages;but with no satisfaction.They consulted the mayor. His candidates failed. Those of Dr. Barbesolwere equally unlucky, in spite of the exactness of his scientificvouchers.But one morning Francoise, on returning from one of her expeditions, saidto her mistress:"You see, madame, that if you wish to give a prize to anyone, there isonly Isidore in all the country round."Mme. Husson remained thoughtful. She knew him well, this Isidore, theson of Virginie the greengrocer. His proverbial virtue had been thedelight of Gisors for several years, and served as an entertaining themeof conversation in the town, and of amusement to the young girls wholoved to tease him. He was past twenty-one, was tall, awkward, slow andtimid; helped his mother in the business, and spent his days picking overfruit and vegetables, seated on a chair outside the door.He had an abnormal dread of a petticoat and cast down his eyes whenever afemale customer looked at him smilingly, and this well-known timiditymade him the butt of all the wags in the country.Bold words, coarse expressions, indecent allusions, brought the color tohis cheeks so quickly that Dr. Barbesol had nicknamed him "thethermometer of modesty." Was he as innocent as he looked? ill-naturedpeople asked themselves. Was it the mere presentiment of unknown andshameful mysteries or else indignation at the relations ordained as theconcomitant of love that so strongly affected the son of Virginie thegreengrocer? The urchins of the neighborhood as they ran past the shopwould fling disgusting remarks at him just to see him cast down his eyes.The girls amused themselves by walking up and down before him, crackingjokes that made him go into the store. The boldest among them teased himto his face just to have a laugh, to amuse themselves, made appointmentswith him and proposed all sorts of things.So Madame Husson had become thoughtful.Certainly, Isidore was an exceptional case of notorious, unassailablevirtue. No one, among the most sceptical, most incredulous, would havebeen able, would have dared, to suspect Isidore of the slightestinfraction of any law of morality. He had never been seen in a cafe,never been seen at night on the street. He went to bed at eight o'clockand rose at four. He was a perfection, a pearl.But Mme. Husson still hesitated. The idea of substituting a boy for agirl, a "rosier" for a rosiere," troubled her, worried her a little, andshe resolved to consult Abbe Malon.The abbe responded:"What do you desire to reward, madame? It is virtue, is it not, andnothing but virtue? What does it matter to you, therefore, if it ismasculine or feminine? Virtue is eternal; it has neither sex norcountry; it is 'Virtue.'"Thus encouraged, Mme. Husson went to see the mayor.He approved heartily."We will have a fine ceremony," he said. "And another year if we canfind a girl as worthy as Isidore we will give the reward to her. It willeven be a good example that we shall set to Nanterre. Let us not beexclusive; let us welcome all merit."Isidore, who had been told about this, blushed deeply and seemed happy.The ceremony was fixed for the 15th of August, the festival of the VirginMary and of the Emperor Napoleon. The municipality had decided to makean imposing ceremony and had built the platform on the couronneaux, adelightful extension of the ramparts of the old citadel where I will takeyou presently.With the natural revulsion of public feeling, the virtue of Isidore,ridiculed hitherto, had suddenly become respected and envied, as it wouldbring him in five hundred francs besides a savings bank book, a mountainof consideration, and glory enough and to spare. The girls now regrettedtheir frivolity, their ridicule, their bold manners; and Isidore,although still modest and timid, had now a little contented air thatbespoke his internal satisfaction.The evening before the 15th of August the entire Rue Dauphine wasdecorated with flags. Oh, I forgot to tell you why this street had beencalled Rue Dauphine.It seems that the wife or mother of the dauphin, I do not remember whichone, while visiting Gisors had been feted so much by the authorities thatduring a triumphal procession through the town she stopped before one ofthe houses in this street, halting the procession, and exclaimed:"Oh, the pretty house! How I should like to go through it! To whom doesit belong?"They told her the name of the owner, who was sent for and brought, proudand embarrassed, before the princess. She alighted from her carriage,went into the house, wishing to go over it from top to bottom, and evenshut herself in one of the rooms alone for a few seconds.When she came out, the people, flattered at this honor paid to a citizenof Gisors, shouted "Long live the dauphine!" But a rhymester wrote somewords to a refrain, and the street retained the title of her royalhighness, for"The princess, in a hurry,Without bell, priest, or beadle,But with some water only,Had baptized it."But to come back to Isidore.They had scattered flowers all along the road as they do for processionsat the Fete-Dieu, and the National Guard was present, acting on theorders of their chief, Commandant Desbarres, an old soldier of the GrandArmy, who pointed with pride to the beard of a Cossack cut with a singlesword stroke from the chin of its owner by the commandant during theretreat in Russia, and which hung beside the frame containing the crossof the Legion of Honor presented to him by the emperor himself.The regiment that he commanded was, besides, a picked regiment celebratedall through the province, and the company of grenadiers of Gisors wascalled on to attend all important ceremonies for a distance of fifteen totwenty leagues. The story goes that Louis Philippe, while reviewing themilitia of Eure, stopped in astonishment before the company from Gisors,exclaiming:"Oh, who are those splendid grenadiers?""The grenadiers of Gisors,"replied the general."I might have known it," murmured the king.So Commandant Desbarres came at the head of his men, preceded by theband, to get Isidore in his mother's store.After a little air had been played by the band beneath the windows, the"Rosier" himself appeared--on the threshold. He was dressed in whiteduck from head to foot and wore a straw hat with a little bunch of orangeblossoms as a cockade.The question of his clothes had bothered Mme. Husson a good deal, and shehesitated some time between the black coat of those who make their firstcommunion and an entire white suit. But Francoise, her counsellor,induced her to decide on the white suit, pointing out that the Rosierwould look like a swan.Behind him came his guardian, his godmother, Mme. Husson, in triumph.She took his arm to go out of the store, and the mayor placed himself onthe other side of the Rosier. The drums beat. Commandant Desbarres gavethe order "Present arms!" The procession resumed its march towards thechurch amid an immense crowd of people who has gathered from theneighboring districts.After a short mass and an affecting discourse by Abbe Malon, theycontinued on their way to the couronneaux, where the banquet was servedin a tent.Before taking their seats at table, the mayor gave an address. This isit, word for word. I learned it by heart:"Young man, a woman of means, beloved by the poor and respected by therich, Mme. Husson, whom the whole country is thanking here, through me,had the idea, the happy and benevolent idea, of founding in this town aprize for, virtue, which should serve as a valuable encouragement to theinhabitants of this beautiful country."You, young man, are the first to be rewarded in this dynasty of goodnessand chastity. Your name will remain at the head of this list of the mostdeserving, and your life, understand me, your whole life, must correspondto this happy commencement. To-day, in presence of this noble woman, ofthese soldier-citizens who have taken up their arms in your honor, inpresence of this populace, affected, assembled to applaud you, or,rather, to applaud virtue, in your person, you make a solemn contractwith the town, with all of us, to continue until your death the excellentexample of your youth."Do not forget, young man, that you are the first seed cast into thisfield of hope; give us the fruits that we expect of you."The mayor advanced three steps, opened his arms and pressed Isidore tohis heart.The "Rosier" was sobbing without knowing why, from a confused emotion,from pride and a vague and happy feeling of tenderness.Then the mayor placed in one hand a silk purse in which gold tingled--five hundred francs in gold!--and in his other hand a savings bank book.And he said in a solemn tone:"Homage, glory and riches to virtue."Commandant Desbarres shouted "Bravo!" the grenadiers vociferated, and thecrowd applauded.Mme. Husson wiped her eyes, in her turn. Then they all sat down at thetable where the banquet was served.The repast was magnificent and seemed interminable. One course followedanother; yellow cider and red wine in fraternal contact blended in thestomach of the guests. The rattle of plates, the sound of voices, and ofmusic softly played, made an incessant deep hum, and was dispersed abroadin the clear sky where the swallows were flying. Mme. Hussonoccasionally readjusted her black wig, which would slip over on one side,and chatted with Abbe Malon. The mayor, who was excited, talked politicswith Commandant Desbarres, and Isidore ate, drank, as if he had nevereaten or drunk before. He helped himself repeatedly to all the dishes,becoming aware for the first time of the pleasure of having one's bellyfull of good things which tickle the palate in the first place. He hadlet out a reef in his belt and, without speaking, and although he was alittle uneasy at a wine stain on his white waistcoat, he ceased eating inorder to take up his glass and hold it to his mouth as long as possible,to enjoy the taste slowly.It was time for the toasts. They were many and loudly applauded.Evening was approaching and they had been at the table since noon. Fine,milky vapors were already floating in the air in the valley, the lightnight-robe of streams and meadows; the sun neared the horizon; the cowswere lowing in the distance amid the mists of the pasture. The feast wasover. They returned to Gisors. The procession, now disbanded, walked indetachments. Mme. Husson had taken Isidore's arm and was giving him aquantity of urgent, excellent advice.They stopped at the door of the fruit store, and the "Rosier" was left athis mother's house. She had not come home yet. Having been invited byher family to celebrate her son's triumph, she had taken luncheon withher sister after having followed the procession as far as the banquetingtent.So Isidore remained alone in the store, which was growing dark. He satdown on a chair, excited by the wine and by pride, and looked about him.Carrots, cabbages, and onions gave out their strong odor of vegetables inthe closed room, that coarse smell of the garden blended with the sweet,penetrating odor of strawberries and the delicate, slight, evanescentfragrance of a basket of peaches.The "Rosier" took one of these and ate it, although he was as full as anegg. Then, all at once, wild with joy, he began to dance about thestore, and something rattled in his waistcoat.He was surprised, and put his hand in his pocket and brought out thepurse containing the five hundred francs, which he had forgotten in hisagitation. Five hundred francs! What a fortune! He poured the goldpieces out on the counter and spread them out with his big hand with aslow, caressing touch so as to see them all at the same time. There weretwenty-five, twenty-five round gold pieces, all gold! They glistened onthe wood in the dim light and he counted them over and over, one by one.Then he put them back in the purse, which he replaced in his pocket.Who will ever know or who can tell what a terrible conflict took place inthe soul of the "Rosier" between good and evil, the tumultuous attack ofSatan, his artifices, the temptations which he offered to this timidvirgin heart? What suggestions, what imaginations, what desires were notinvented by the evil one to excite and destroy this chosen one? Heseized his hat, Mme. Husson's saint, his hat, which still bore the littlebunch of orange blossoms, and going out through the alley at the back ofthe house, he disappeared in the darkness.Virginie, the fruiterer, on learning that her son had returned, went homeat once, and found the house empty. She waited, without thinkinganything about it at first; but at the end of a quarter of an hour shemade inquiries. The neighbors had seen Isidore come home and had notseen him go out again. They began to look for him, but could not findhim. His mother, in alarm, went to the mayor. The mayor knew nothing,except that he had left him at the door of his home. Mme. Husson hadjust retired when they informed her that her protege had disappeared.She immediately put on her wig, dressed herself and went to Virginie'shouse. Virginie, whose plebeian soul was readily moved, was weepingcopiously amid her cabbages, carrots and onions.They feared some accident had befallen him. What could it be?Commandant Desbarres notified the police, who made a circuit of the town,and on the high road to Pontoise they found the little bunch of orangeblossoms. It was placed on a table around which the authorities weredeliberating. The "Rosier" must have been the victim of some stratagem,some trick, some jealousy; but in what way? What means had been employedto kidnap this innocent creature, and with what object?Weary of looking for him without any result, Virginie, alone, remainedwatching and weeping.The following evening, when the coach passed by on its return from Paris,Gisors learned with astonishment that its "Rosier" had stopped thevehicle at a distance of about two hundred metres from the town, hadclimbed up on it and paid his fare, handing over a gold piece andreceiving the change, and that he had quietly alighted in the centre ofthe great city.There was great excitement all through the countryside. Letters passedbetween the mayor and the chief of police in Paris, but brought noresult.The days followed one another, a week passed.Now, one morning, Dr. Barbesol, who had gone out early, perceived,sitting on a doorstep, a man dressed in a grimy linen suit, who wassleeping with his head leaning against the wall. He approached him andrecognized Isidore. He tried to rouse him, but did not succeed in doingso. The ex-"Rosier" was in that profound, invincible sleep that isalarming, and the doctor, in surprise, went to seek assistance to helphim in carrying the young man to Boncheval's drugstore. When they liftedhim up they found an empty bottle under him, and when the doctor sniffedat it, he declared that it had contained brandy. That gave a suggestionas to what treatment he would require. They succeeded in rousing him.Isidore was drunk, drunk and degraded by a week of guzzling, drunk and sodisgusting that a ragman would not have touched him. His beautiful whiteduck suit was a gray rag, greasy, muddy, torn, and destroyed, and hesmelt of the gutter and of vice.He was washed, sermonized, shut up, and did not leave the house for fourdays. He seemed ashamed and repentant. They could not find on himeither his purse, containing the five hundred francs, or the bankbook, oreven his silver watch, a sacred heirloom left by his father, thefruiterer.On the fifth day he ventured into the Rue Dauphine, Curious glancesfollowed him and he walked along with a furtive expression in his eyesand his head bent down. As he got outside the town towards the valleythey lost sight of him; but two hours later he returned laughing androlling against the walls. He was drunk, absolutely drunk.Nothing could cure him.Driven from home by his mother, he became a wagon driver, and drove thecharcoal wagons for the Pougrisel firm, which is still in existence.His reputation as a drunkard became so well known and spread so far thateven at Evreux they talked of Mme. Husson's "Rosier," and the sots of thecountryside have been given that nickname.A good deed is never lost.Dr. Marambot rubbed his hands as he finished his story. I asked:"Did you know the 'Rosier'?""Yes. I had the honor of closing his eyes.""What did he die of?""An attack of delirium tremens, of course."We had arrived at the old citadel, a pile of ruined walls dominated bythe enormous tower of St. Thomas of Canterbury and the one called thePrisoner's Tower.Marambot told me the story of this prisoner, who, with the aid of a nail,covered the walls of his dungeon with sculptures, tracing the reflectionsof the sun as it glanced through the narrow slit of a loophole.I also learned that Clothaire II had given the patrimony of Gisors to hiscousin, Saint Romain, bishop of Rouen; that Gisors ceased to be thecapital of the whole of Vexin after the treaty of Saint-Clair-sur-Epte;that the town is the chief strategic centre of all that portion ofFrance, and that in consequence of this advantage she was taken andretaken over and over again. At the command of William the Red, theeminent engineer, Robert de Bellesme, constructed there a powerfulfortress that was attacked later by Louis le Gros, then by the Normanbarons, was defended by Robert de Candos, was finally ceded to Louis leGros by Geoffry Plantagenet, was retaken by the English in consequence ofthe treachery of the Knights-Templars, was contested by Philippe-Augustusand Richard the Lionhearted, was set on fire by Edward III of England,who could not take the castle, was again taken by the English in 1419,restored later to Charles VIII by Richard de Marbury, was taken by theDuke of Calabria occupied by the League, inhabited by Henry IV, etc.,etc.And Marambot, eager and almost eloquent, continued:"What beggars, those English! And what sots, my boy; they are all'Rosiers,' those hypocrites!"Then, after a silence, stretching out his arm towards the tiny river thatglistened in the meadows, he said:"Did you know that Henry Monnier was one of the most untiring fishermenon the banks of the Epte?""No, I did not know it.""And Bouffe, my boy, Bouffe was a painter on glass.""You are joking!""No, indeed. How is it you do not know these things?"
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