CHAPTER XI.

MAÎTRE PICARD PROSECUTES A SUCCESSFUL CRUSADE AGAINST THE STUDENTS

There are very few portions of Paris which have retained their physiognomy of the _moyen âge_ with less change than the Quartier Latin. The narrow tortuous streets have undergone little alteration since they were first built; few new thoroughfares have intersected the dense cluster of tall gloomy houses that bound them; in fact, as far as the line of the Rue des Fosses, whereon the ramparts were still partly situated at the time of this romance, everything has remained nearly in the same state for centuries. The humble nature of the articles exposed for sale in the different shop windows, and the small prices attached thereunto, were the same formerly as now. For the denizens of this learned _pays_ have been, time out of mind, the members of the different schools; and poverty and clerkship ever wandered hand-in-hand together about its venerable streets, or ruminated in its cloistered quietudes.

Yet have not the livelier parts of the city, most known to passing sojourners, a fiftieth part of the interest which is attached to the dirty old _quartier_ wherein our scene now passes, although money has ever been the scarcest article to be found within its limits, since the days when the ‘Cloistre St. Benoyt’ and ‘Hostel de Clugny’ were newly erected buildings. We ourselves have lived merrily therein, in small cabins at the extreme summits of houses, where carnival irregularities drove us to restrict our expenses, literally to a few sous a-day--when three hard eggs, some bread, and a cruet of wine formed a jovial dinner; and a pair of bright eyes could sometimes be found to laugh in company over such an humble meal as this, and desire none better. Certainly if such a thing as disinterested affection exists in the world--which at times we feel inclined to doubt--it is to be found in the Quartier Latin. And then its associations! It conjures up no visions of English parvenus, vulgar tourists, and Meurice’s Table d’Hôte; you would not find a _Galignani’s Messenger_, or a cake of Windsor soap throughout its entire range. No; all your thoughts would be of doublets and pointed shoes--of rapiers and scholars of Cluny; of anything, in fact, the reverse to what would suggest itself on the other side of the river.

But our hobby is fairly running away with us over a course we have before traversed; we must return once more to that which has long past. In 1665 there stood at the corner of the Rue des Mathurins and Rue de la Harpe, in the very heart of this venerable division of Paris, the shop of ‘Maître Picard, chapelier.’ It was a modest edifice, with one large window, in which were displayed hats and caps of every age and style. For the students then, as now, held prevalent fashions in great contempt, and dressed according to their whims and finances, or in whatever they contrived to capture in night skirmishes from the persons of the bourgeoisie.

To advertise his calling Maître Picard had erected a sign in front of his house, over and above the intimation just mentioned. It was a huge hat of red tin, gaily adorned with gilt edges, from which, on certain festivals, bright ribbons floated in the draughts of wind that whisked round the corner of the streets, to the great admiration of the passers-by in general, coupled with wonder that it had remained so long unmolested in such a precarious locality as the neighbourhood of the Hôtel Dieu and Sorbonne. But this was because it was a little too high up for them to clutch it; a few feet lower, and long ago, Maître Picard would have been horrified some fine morning at perceiving his sign had vanished: for, as we have seen, the rotund little patrol was one of the marching watch; and the same _antipathie vouée_ which the student of the Quartier Latin at the present time exhibits towards the Sergent de ville, existed quite as forcibly two hundred years ago between the scholar of Cluny and the Garde Bourgeois.

Since the rude treatment which Maître Picard had received from the hands of his sworn persecutors at the ‘Lanterne,’ in the Rue Mouffetard, he had neglected no opportunity of interfering with their enjoyments, and various had been the schemes which Camille Theria and Phillipe Glazer had planned for revenge. But they had all failed; especially every enterprise against the hat, to which their designs were principally directed. For they knew that the gigantic metal sign was the pride of Maître Picard’s heart, and the glory of the Rue des Mathurins--that its abstraction would crush his public spirit; and that as such, no stone should be left unturned in effecting its destruction. And indeed, as far as that went, they tried to carry out their intentions in a very literal spirit, as the broken state of the rude pavement below, and several large dents in the enormous hat above, fully testified.

At last, by what appeared to be a fortunate chance for the marauders, Jean Blacquart, the Gascon, took a lodging on the upper floor of the house; being principally led to such a step by a feeling of gratitude for the timely intercession of Maître Picard, when his fellow-students were about to hang him. The instant this became known, it was resolved that advantage should be taken of his occupancy to carry off the hat. Blacquart, at first, plumply refused to assist in such an irregular proceeding; but after Theria had assured him that in the event of his non-compliance he would be dropped in the Bièvre, or slowly roasted before the fire of the cabaret in the Rue Mouffetard, the Gascon assented. A particular night was fixed upon for the attempt, and a meeting of the ‘Gens de la Courte Epée’ called at a tavern in the Rue des Cordeliers--the site of the present Rue de l’École de Médecine--to effect this object.

That night Maître Picard, not being on guard, resolved upon indulging in potent drinks and toothsome viands in his little parlour behind the shop. He had closed his wareroom at an early hour; and having invited Jean Blacquart to join him--for the Gascon was not of the marauding party, although he had an indirect part to perform in the outrage--was discussing hot wine with his lodger a little after curfew, and listening to his rhodomontades connected with his profession and deeds and actions generally.

Jean had told a great many narratives about encounters he had won (which had never taken place) and enemies he had killed (who were still alive), increasing the marvels of each with each cup of wine, until the fulness of his heart, coupled with his fear of being mixed up in the affair, led him to inform Maître Picard of the intended attempt upon his hat to be made that very evening. The apartment occupied by the Gascon was at the top of the house; it had formerly been a granary--such as may still be seen in Paris--and outside a small but strong wooden crane was fixed, hanging over the doomed sign. To the rope of this a loop was to be made, and then Camille Theria, who had taken the danger and the glory of the enterprise to himself, was to be hauled up until he came within reach of the hat, which he was to take from its fixings and bear off in triumph.

The first feelings inspired in the breast of Maître Picard, as he heard this bold scheme unfolded, were those of fright; the next partook largely of revenge.

‘How many will there be?’ he asked.

‘Oh! a hundred,’ replied Blacquart. It was the ‘Gascon’ for twenty.

‘Bless me!’ said Maître Picard; ‘a great number--an awful number. You have told me to-night that you once fought a score yourself; but I don’t think you could face so many.’

‘I don’t think I could,’ said Blacquart. ‘I will try, if you please; only if my courage led me into any rash attack, I might be fatally wounded, and then what a scrape you would get into.’

‘True--true,’ said Maître Picard, wiping his face, and taking a long draught of wine; ‘and it is the same with me. My frame is rather round than large; but there is a great spirit at work within it, which I cannot always command. I will call together the Garde Bourgeois.’

‘Will not their assembling alarm the others,’ said Blacquart.

‘Not at all--not at all,’ returned the _chapelier_. ‘We will have them come by twos and threes, and hide in my shop.’

‘Excellent!’ said the Gascon.

‘Will you summons them, then?’ asked Maître Picard.

‘I think not,’ said Blacquart; ‘although they know me as a daring and gallant coadjutor. My appearance in the streets might provoke suspicion with any of the students I might meet.’

To the joy of the Gascon, who thought inside the house the safest position with such an event about to come off, Maître Picard rose, with some trouble, from his settle, and, puffing and blowing, started out to summons his brother-guards. The Gascon remained to finish the wine; which, having done, he felt so nerved that he sang bold and warlike songs to himself, and then drawing his sword fought imaginary duels with nobody, and slaughtered many chimerical adversaries, concluding from mere want of breath, in high good humour with himself and his prowess. He was yet panting from his late courageous exertions, when his landlord returned with a few of his brethren in the guard, and these were speedily followed by others, who were stationed in the shop and parlour. Their presence increased the Gascon’s valour to such a pitch that, when he saw they had all arrived, he even offered to go and fight the students himself. And had it not been for one of the guard, who, from sheer wickedness, recommended Jean to do so, to his extreme terror, there is no knowing to what lengths he might have gone, or what wonderful actions he might have committed.

The curfew sounded; the lights disappeared in the Quartier Latin, as the shops were closed, and the glimmer of the lanterns alone illumined the thoroughfares. Maître Picard disposed the Garde Bourgeois for a proper sortie, and then went up to Blacquart’s room, accompanied by the student, whom he placed to keep a look out at the window.

‘I think I hear them coming,’ said Jean, after he had been a short time at his post.

‘They are marching in order,’ observed Maître Picard, with breathless attention; ‘the students have mustered strongly.’

‘No; it is the Guet Royal,’ returned the Gascon, as the night-patrol came round the corner of the Rue de la Harpe.

‘I think we had better call them in, too,’ said the affrighted little hatter.

‘No--no,’ answered Jean; ‘the disturbance and the clank of their arms will alarm the others. Beside, is there not enough to protect you? You have me.’

‘Very true,’ said Maître Picard. But he said it as if he did not think it was. However, he was resigned to his fate, and the Guet Royal passed along the Rue des Mathurins, turning off towards the Sorbonne.

‘They will not be back for half an hour,’ murmured Maître Picard, as the last cresset disappeared round the corner.

‘Then they will be too late for our gentlemen,’ said the Gascon; ‘for I hear them now coming in reality.’

In effect he was right. The students had evidently waited until the patrol had passed, knowing they would thus be for a certain time uninterrupted, and they now came quietly in front of the house. One of them, whom Blacquart knew to be Camille Theria, clapped his hands, and the Gascon replied to the signal.

‘They wanted to hang me the other night,’ said he; ‘but I mean to succeed better with them than they did with me. And yet,’ he added as he looked below, ‘there seems to be a great many of them.’

‘What are you waiting for?’ asked the _chapelier_.

‘Me? oh! nothing--nothing,’ said the Gascon. His blood was ebbing down rapidly every instant. ‘Only I was thinking if you were to make a speech from the window, and forgive them, how they would esteem you; and perhaps it would save bloodshed.’

Theria, who was below, repeated the signal.

‘Lower down your rope,’ said Maître Picard, who was peeping over the parapet.

‘Upon my honour, I don’t much like to do so,’ said Blacquart, as his last atom of heroism evaporated.

‘If you don’t let the line down immediately, I will give you into custody below as an accomplice,’ said the bourgeois, in wrathful accents.

Another impatient signal from Theria was heard; and poor Jean, in a terrible fright, proceeded to unwind the cord from its winch; whilst the hatter kept looking just over the parapet to see what was going on.

‘It is almost close to the ground,’ he said. ‘Now it touches it; and that rascal Theria has got hold of the end. He puts his foot in it. Huzza! huzza! now wind away; he is ours.’

And the rotund little man delivered himself up to the performance of such joyful gymnastics, that at last his hat fell off and tumbled into the street. A student, who saw it fall, thought it was Theria’s, and cramming his _casquette_ into his cloak-pocket, put it on, until the other should come down.

‘Now, stop! for your life!’ said Maître Picard to the Gascon, who kept winding away in great trepidation, but saying through it all that he was easily accomplishing the work of six men. ‘Now stop! he is on a level with the sign; let him remain there.’

Jean implicitly obeyed; the catch fell into the toothed wheel, and he came to the window, whilst Maître Picard hurried down stairs very rapidly, by reason of his gravity, and told his fellow police that it was time to make their charge. They accordingly rushed into the street, and were face to face with the students.

‘Trapped!’ ejaculated Theria, as he felt his progress stopped, and saw the tumult below. ‘Oh, Master Blacquart, you shall pay for this.’

A terrible riot ensued. What the students wanted in numbers, they made up in strength and daring. They wrested the partisans from their opponents to turn against them, and in all probability would have come off the conquerors, had not Maître Picard opened one of his upper windows and discharged a blunderbus therefrom--not to injure his enemies, but to give the alarm by the report of this novel weapon, not long imported from Holland.[9] It had the desired effect, and in a few minutes brought back the Guet Royal.

Some of the students fled at once as they saw the night-patrol advance, for they were men with whom there was no trifling. Those who remained, being a small number, were now captured by the bourgeois; and then Maître Picard emerged from his house, and Theria was let down and seized.

‘Huzza!’ cried the little _chapelier_, giving way to fresh antics. ‘We have caught you--eh? Take him away; to the guard-house with such a brawler. Stop--no--the glory shall be with me. Gentlemen of the Guet Royal, march on with your other prisoners; the Garde Bourgeois will take charge of the ringleader. _Mauvais sujet_--ugh!’

Camille took no notice of Maître Picard’s address. He was, however, chafing with anger inwardly at being thus caught.

‘To the guard-house!’ continued Maître Picard, ‘without loss of time. I have rid Paris of a brigand--a cut-purse. _En avant!_’

Drawing his sword as well as his short arms and fat little body permitted, Maître Picard placed himself before the prisoner, and two of the others followed. In this state they started off, the hatter leaving Blacquart in charge of his shop, and proceeded towards the nearest _corps du garde_. But, as they were passing down the Rue de la Harpe, Camille, who had been watching his opportunity, suddenly tripped up the _chapelier_, and sent him rolling into the kennel that rushed down the middle of the street, before he had time to save himself. He then as rapidly dealt a couple of heavy blows to his followers, and whilst they were aghast at the unexpected attack, rushed down the Rue du Foin, in the obscurity of which he was immediately lost. But we must follow him along it, leaving the two guards, first to recover themselves and then to pick up Maître Picard, in as sorry a plight as might well be.

Flying along the narrow thoroughfare, a few minutes brought Camille to his abode in the Place Maubert. He went directly to the apartment of Philippe Glazer, who was at home, and briefly told him what had happened.

‘It will not stop here,’ said Theria. ‘That wretched bourgeois can make a nasty business of it if he likes, and I must leave Paris at once.’

‘Immediately?’ asked Glazer.

‘Directly. My studies, such as they have been, are nearly finished, and Liège will do for me to settle at as well as anywhere else. Besides, it is my home.’

‘Can I assist you in anything?’ asked Philippe.

‘In one thing only--a little money, for I am quite cleaned out by _mes camarades_. In return, Philippe, I leave you everything--my books, my rapier, and my Estelle--poor Estelle! Don’t ever part with my rapier whatever you do.’

Glazer smiled at his friend’s speech, as he collected what little money he had by him, and gave to the other.

‘Ten thousand thanks, Philippe,’ said Camille, ‘it shall be repaid some day; we do not cheat one another.’

‘I will trust you,’ said Glazer; ‘is there anything else I can do for you?’

‘One thing,’ said Camille, more seriously. ‘I am not one to boast of favours bestowed, or even hint at them, but you will find a packet of love-letters in my old _escriban_. Burn them all--they are from Madame de Brinvilliers.’

Glazer uttered an exclamation of mingled incredulity and surprise.

‘It is true,’ said Camille; ‘she wrote them to me, telling me that I was the only one she ever loved--that all the other attachments had been madness--folly. Pshaw! each avowal was stereotyped, and did for others as well as it will again do for the next. Burn them all. Adieu! and tell Estelle to console herself.’

And, warmly shaking his friend by the hand, Theria flew down stairs, leaving Glazer almost bewildered at the rapidity of the interview and the avowal he had just heard.