Devil Stories Part 10

Gambouge mopped his eyes with his handkerchief--all the company did likewise. Diabolus sobbed audibly, and Mrs. Gambouge sidled up to her husband's side, and took him tenderly by the hand. "Simon!" said she, "is it true? and do you really love your Griskinissa?"

Simon continued solemnly: "Come hither, Diabolus; you are bound to obey me in all things for the six months during which our contract has to run; take, then, Griskinissa Gambouge, live alone with her for half a year, never leave her from morning till night, obey all her caprices, follow all her whims, and listen to all the abuse which falls from her infernal tongue. Do this, and I ask no more of you; I will deliver myself up at the appointed time."

Not Lord G----, when flogged by Lord B----, in the House,--not Mr.

Cartlitch, of Astley's Amphitheatre, in his most pathetic pa.s.sages, could look more crestfallen, and howl more hideously, than Diabolus did now. "Take another year, Gambouge," screamed he; "two more--ten more--a century; roast me on Lawrence's gridiron, boil me in holy water, but don't ask that: don't, don't bid me live with Mrs.

Gambouge!"

Simon smiled sternly. "I have said it," he cried; "do this, or our contract is at an end."

The Devil, at this, grinned so horribly that every drop of beer in the house turned sour: he gnashed his teeth so frightfully that every person in the company wellnigh fainted with the cholic. He slapped down the great parchment upon the floor, trampled upon it madly, and lashed it with his hoofs and his tail: at last, spreading out a mighty pair of wings as wide as from here to Regent Street, he slapped Gambouge with his tail over one eye, and vanished, abruptly, through the keyhole.

Gambouge screamed with pain and started up. "You drunken, lazy scoundrel!" cried a shrill and well-known voice, "you have been asleep these two hours:" and here he received another terrific box on the ear.

It was too true, he had fallen asleep at his work; and the beautiful vision had been dispelled by the thumps of the tipsy Griskinissa.

Nothing remained to corroborate his story, except the bladder of lake, and this was spirted all over his waistcoat and breeches.

"I wish," said the poor fellow, rubbing his tingling cheeks, "that dreams were true;" and he went to work again at his portrait.

My last accounts of Gambouge are, that he has left the arts, and is footman in a small family. Mrs. Gam. takes in was.h.i.+ng; and it is said that her continual dealings with soap-suds and hot water have been the only things in life which have kept her from spontaneous combustion.

BON-BON

BY EDGAR ALLAN POE

Quand un bon vin meuble mon estomac, Je suis plus savant que Balzac-- Plus sage que Pibrac; Mon bras seul faisant l'attaque De la nation cossaque, La mettroit au sac; De Charon je pa.s.serois le lac En dormant dans son bac; J'irois au fier Eac, Sans que mon cur fit tic ni tac, Presenter du tabac.

--_French Vaudeville._

That Pierre Bon-Bon was a _restaurateur_ of uncommon qualifications, no man who, during the reign of ----, frequented the little _cafe_ in the _cul-de-sac_ Le Febvre at Rouen, will, I imagine, feel himself at liberty to dispute. That Pierre Bon-Bon was, in an equal degree, skilled in the philosophy of that period is, I presume, still more especially undeniable. His _pates a la fois_ were beyond doubt immaculate; but what pen can do justice to his essays _sur la Nature_--his thoughts _sur l'Ame_--his observations _sur l'Esprit_? If his _omelettes_--if his _fricandeaux_ were inestimable, what _litterateur_ of that day would not have given twice as much for an "_Idee de Bon-Bon_" as for all the trash of all the "_Idees_" of all the rest of the _savants_? Bon-Bon had ransacked libraries which no other man had ransacked--had read more than any other would have entertained a notion of reading--had understood more than any other would have conceived the possibility of understanding; and although, while he flourished, there were not wanting some authors at Rouen to a.s.sert "that his _dicta_ evinced neither the purity of the Academy, nor the depth of the Lyceum"--although, mark me, his doctrines were by no means very generally comprehended, still it did not follow that they were difficult of comprehension. It was, I think, on account of their self-evidency that many persons were led to consider them abstruse. It is to Bon-Bon--but let this go no further--it is to Bon-Bon that Kant himself is mainly indebted for his metaphysics. The former was indeed not a Platonist, nor strictly speaking an Aristotelian--nor did he, like the modern Leibnitz, waste those precious hours which might be employed in the invention of a _frica.s.see_ or, _facili gradu_, the a.n.a.lysis of a sensation, in frivolous attempts at reconciling the obstinate oils and waters of ethical discussion. Not at all. Bon-Bon was Ionic--Bon-Bon was equally Italic. He reasoned _a priori_--He reasoned _a posteriori_. His ideas were innate--or otherwise. He believed in George of Trebizond--he believed in Bossarion. Bon-Bon was emphatically a--Bon-Bonist.

I have spoken of the philosopher in his capacity of _restaurateur_. I would not, however, have any friend of mine imagine that, in fulfilling his hereditary duties in that line, our hero wanted a proper estimation of their dignity and importance. Far from it. It was impossible to say in which branch of his profession he took the greater pride. In his opinion the powers of the intellect held intimate connection with the capabilities of the stomach. I am not sure, indeed, that he greatly disagreed with the Chinese, who hold that the soul lies in the abdomen. The Greeks at all events were right, he thought, who employed the same word for the mind and the diaphragm.[13] By this I do not mean to insinuate a charge of gluttony, or indeed any other serious charge to the prejudice of the metaphysician. If Pierre Bon-Bon had his failings--and what great man has not a thousand?--if Pierre Bon-Bon, I say, had his failings, they were failings of very little importance--faults indeed which, in other tempers, have often been looked upon rather in the light of virtues.

As regards one of these foibles, I should not even have mentioned it in this history but for the remarkable prominency--the extreme _alto relievo_--in which it jutted out from the plane of his general disposition. He could never let slip an opportunity of making a bargain.

[13] F???e?.

Not that he was avaricious--no. It was by no means necessary to the satisfaction of the philosopher, that the bargain should be to his own proper advantage. Provided a trade could be effected--a trade of any kind, upon any terms, or under any circ.u.mstances--a triumphant smile was seen for many days thereafter to enlighten his countenance, and a knowing wink of the eye to give evidence of his sagacity.

At any epoch it would not be very wonderful if a humour so peculiar as the one I have just mentioned, should elicit attention and remark.

At the epoch of our narrative, had this peculiarity _not_ attracted observation, there would have been room for wonder indeed. It was soon reported that, upon all occasions of the kind, the smile of Bon-Bon was found to differ widely from the downright grin with which he would laugh at his own jokes, or welcome an acquaintance. Hints were thrown out of an exciting nature; stories were told of perilous bargains made in a hurry and repented of at leisure; and instances were adduced of unaccountable capacities, vague longings, and unnatural inclinations implanted by the author of all evil for wise purposes of his own.

The philosopher had other weaknesses--but they are scarcely worthy our serious examination. For example, there are few men of extraordinary profundity who are found wanting in an inclination for the bottle.

Whether this inclination be an exciting cause, or rather a valid proof, of such profundity, it is a nice thing to say. Bon-Bon, as far as I can learn, did not think the subject adapted to minute investigation;--nor do I. Yet in the indulgence of a propensity so truly cla.s.sical, it is not to be supposed that the _restaurateur_ would lose sight of that intuitive discrimination which was wont to characterize, at one and the same time, his _essais_ and his _omelettes_. In his seclusions the Vin de Bourgogne had its allotted hour, and there were appropriate moments for the Cotes du Rhone. With him Sauternes was to Medoc what Catullus was to Homer. He would sport with a syllogism in sipping St. Peray, but unravel an argument over Clos-Vougeot, and upset a theory in a torrent of Chambertin. Well had it been if the same quick sense of propriety had attended him in the peddling propensity to which I have formerly alluded--but this was by no means the case. Indeed to say the truth, _that_ trait of mind in the philosophic Bon-Bon _did_ begin at length to a.s.sume a character of strange intensity and mysticism, and appeared deeply tinctured with the _diablerie_ of his favourite German studies.

To enter the little _cafe_ in the _cul-de-sac_ Le Febvre was, at the period of our tale, to enter the _sanctum_ of a man of genius. Bon-Bon was a man of genius. There was not a _sous-cuisinier_ in Rouen who could not have told you that Bon-Bon was a man of genius. His very cat knew it, and forbore to whisk her tail in the presence of the man of genius. His large water-dog was acquainted with the fact, and upon the approach of his master, betrayed his sense of inferiority by a sanct.i.ty of deportment, a debas.e.m.e.nt of the ears, and a dropping of the lower jaw not altogether unworthy of a dog. It is, however, true that much of this habitual respect might have been attributed to the personal appearance of the metaphysician. A distinguished exterior will, I am constrained to say, have its way even with a beast; and I am willing to allow much in the outward man of the _restaurateur_ calculated to impress the imagination of the quadruped. There is a peculiar majesty about the atmosphere of the little great--if I may be permitted so equivocal an expression--which mere physical bulk alone will be found at all times inefficient in creating. If, however, Bon-Bon was barely three feet in height, and if his head was diminutively small, still it was impossible to behold the rotundity of his stomach without a sense of magnificence nearly bordering upon the sublime. In its size both dogs and men must have seen a type of his acquirements--in its immensity a fitting habitation for his immortal soul.

I might here--if it so pleased me--dilate upon the matter of habiliment, and other mere circ.u.mstances of the external metaphysician. I might hint that the hair of our hero was worn short, combed smoothly over his forehead, and surmounted by a conical-shaped white flannel cap and ta.s.sels--that his pea-green jerkin was not after the fas.h.i.+on of those worn by the common cla.s.s of _restaurateurs_ at that day--that the sleeves were something fuller than the reigning costume permitted--that the cuffs were turned up, not as usual in that barbarous period, with cloth of the same quality and colour as the garment, but faced in a more fanciful manner with the particoloured velvet of Genoa--that his slippers were of bright purple, curiously filigreed, and might have been manufactured in j.a.pan, but for the exquisite pointing of the toes, and the brilliant tints of the binding and embroidery--that his breeches were of the yellow satin-like material called _aimable_--that his sky-blue cloak, resembling in form a dressing-wrapper, and richly bestudded all over with crimson devices, floated cavaliery upon his shoulders like a mist of the morning--and that his _tout ensemble_ gave rise to the remarkable words of Benevenuta, the Improvisatrice of Florence, "that it was difficult to say whether Pierre Bon-Bon was indeed a bird of Paradise, or the rather a very Paradise of perfection." I might, I say, expatiate upon all these points if I pleased,--but I forbear; merely personal details may be left to historical novelists,--they are beneath the moral dignity of matter-of-fact.

I have said that "to enter the _cafe_ in the _cul-de-sac_ Le Febvre was to enter the _sanctum_ of a man of genius"--but then it was only the man of genius who could duly estimate the merits of the _sanctum_.

A sign, consisting of a vast folio, swung before the entrance. On one side of the volume was painted a bottle; on the reverse a _pate_. On the back were visible in large letters _Oeuvres de Bon-Bon_. Thus was delicately shadowed forth the twofold occupation of the proprietor.

Upon stepping over the threshold, the whole interior of the building presented itself to view. A long, low-pitched room, of antique construction, was indeed all the accommodation afforded by the _cafe_.

In a corner of the apartment stood the bed of the metaphysician. An array of curtains, together with a canopy _a la grecque_, gave it an air at once cla.s.sic and comfortable. In the corner diagonally opposite, appeared, in direct family communion, the properties of the kitchen and the _bibliotheque_. A dish of polemics stood peacefully upon the dresser. Here lay an ovenful of the latest ethics--there a kettle of duodecimo _melanges_. Volumes of German morality were hand and glove with the gridiron--a toasting-fork might be discovered by the side of Eusebius--Plato reclined at his ease in the frying-pan--and contemporary ma.n.u.scripts were filed away upon the spit.

In other respects the _Cafe de Bon-Bon_ might be said to differ little from the usual _restaurants_ of the period. A large fireplace yawned opposite the door. On the right of the fireplace an open cupboard displayed a formidable array of labelled bottles.

It was here, about twelve o'clock one night, during the severe winter of ----, that Pierre Bon-Bon, after having listened for some time to the comments of his neighbours upon his singular propensity--that Pierre Bon-Bon, I say, having turned them all out of his house, locked the door upon them with an oath, and betook himself in no very pacific mood to the comforts of a leather-bottomed arm-chair, and a fire of blazing f.a.gots.

It was one of those terrific nights which are only met with once or twice during a century. It snowed fiercely, and the house tottered to its centre with the floods of wind that, rus.h.i.+ng through the crannies of the wall, and pouring impetuously down the chimney, shook awfully the curtains of the philosopher's bed, and disorganized the economy of his _pate_-pans and papers. The huge folio sign that swung without, exposed to the fury of the tempest, creaked ominously, and gave out a moaning sound from its stanchions of solid oak.

It was in no placid temper, I say, that the metaphysician drew up his chair to its customary station by the hearth. Many circ.u.mstances of a perplexing nature had occurred during the day, to disturb the serenity of his meditations. In attempting _des ufs a la Princesse_, he had unfortunately perpetrated an _omelette a la Reine_; the discovery of a principle in ethics had been frustrated by the overturning of a stew; and last, not least, he had been thwarted in one of those admirable bargains which he at all times took such especial delight in bringing to a successful termination. But in the chafing of his mind at these unaccountable vicissitudes, there did not fail to be mingled some degree of that nervous anxiety which the fury of a boisterous night is so well calculated to produce. Whistling to his more immediate vicinity the large black water-dog we have spoken of before, and settling himself uneasily in his chair, he could not help casting a wary and unquiet eye toward those distant recesses of the apartment whose inexorable shadows not even the red fire-light itself could more than partially succeed in overcoming. Having completed a scrutiny whose exact purpose was perhaps unintelligible to himself, he drew close to his seat a small table covered with books and papers, and soon became absorbed in the task of retouching a voluminous ma.n.u.script, intended for publication on the morrow.

He had been thus occupied for some minutes, when "I am in no hurry, Monsieur Bon-Bon," suddenly whispered a whining voice in the apartment.

"The devil!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed our hero, starting to his feet, overturning the table at his side, and staring around him in astonishment.

"Very true," calmly replied the voice.

"Very true!--what is very true?--how came you here?" vociferated the metaphysician, as his eye fell upon something which lay stretched at full length upon the bed.

"I was saying," said the intruder, without attending to the interrogatories,--"I was saying that I am not at all pushed for time--that the business, upon which I took the liberty of calling, is of no pressing importance--in short, that I can very well wait until you have finished your Exposition."

"My Exposition!--there now!--how do _you_ know?--how came _you_ to understand that I was writing an Exposition--good G.o.d!"

"Hus.h.!.+" replied the figure, in a shrill undertone; and, arising quickly from the bed, he made a single step toward our hero, while an iron lamp that depended overhead swung convulsively back from his approach.

The philosopher's amazement did not prevent a narrow scrutiny of the stranger's dress and appearance. The outlines of his figure, exceedingly lean, but much above the common height, were rendered minutely distinct by means of a faded suit of black cloth which fitted tight to the skin, but was otherwise cut very much in the style of a century ago. These garments had evidently been intended for a much shorter person than their present owner. His ankles and wrists were left naked for several inches. In his shoes, however, a pair of very brilliant buckles gave the lie to the extreme poverty implied by the other portions of his dress. His head was bare, and entirely bald, with the exception of the hinder-part, from which depended a _queue_ of considerable length. A pair of green spectacles, with side gla.s.ses, protected his eyes from the influence of the light, and at the same time prevented our hero from ascertaining either their colour or their conformation. About the entire person there was no evidence of a s.h.i.+rt; but a white cravat, of filthy appearance, was tied with extreme precision around the throat, and the ends, hanging down formally side by side gave (although I dare say unintentionally) the idea of an ecclesiastic. Indeed, many other points both in his appearance and demeanour might have very well sustained a conception of that nature.

Over his left ear, he carried, after the fas.h.i.+on of a modern clerk, an instrument resembling the _stylus_ of the ancients. In a breast-pocket of his coat appeared conspicuously a small black volume fastened with clasps of steel. This book, whether accidentally or not, was so turned outwardly from the person as to discover the words "_Rituel Catholique_" in white letters upon the back. His entire physiognomy was interestingly saturnine--even cadaverously pale. The forehead was lofty, and deeply furrowed with the ridges of contemplation. The corners of the mouth were drawn down into an expression of the most submissive humility. There was also a clasping of the hands, as he stepped towards our hero--a deep sigh--and altogether a look of such utter sanct.i.ty as could not have failed to be unequivocally prepossessing. Every shadow of anger faded from the countenance of the metaphysician, as, having completed a satisfactory survey of his visitor's person, he shook him cordially by the hand, and conducted him to a seat.

There would however be a radical error in attributing this instantaneous transition of feeling in the philosopher to any one of those causes which might naturally be supposed to have had an influence. Indeed, Pierre Bon-Bon, from what I have been able to understand of his disposition, was of all men the least likely to be imposed upon by any speciousness of exterior deportment. It was impossible that so accurate an observer of men and things should have failed to discover, upon the moment, the real character of the personage who had thus intruded upon his hospitality. To say no more, the conformation of his visitor's feet was sufficiently remarkable--he maintained lightly upon his head an inordinately tall hat--there was a tremulous swelling about the hinder-part of his breeches--and the vibration of his coat tail was a palpable fact. Judge, then, with what feelings of satisfaction our hero found himself thrown thus at once into the society of a person for whom he had at all times entertained the most unqualified respect. He was, however, too much of the diplomatist to let escape him any intimation of his suspicions in regard to the true state of affairs. It was not his cue to appear at all conscious of the high honour he thus unexpectedly enjoyed; but, by leading his guest into conversation, to elicit some important ethical ideas, which might, in obtaining a place in his contemplated publication, enlighten the human race, and at the same time immortalize himself--ideas which, I should have added, his visitor's great age, and well-known proficiency in the science of morals, might very well have enabled him to afford.

Actuated by these enlightened views, our hero bade the gentleman sit down, while he himself took occasion to throw some f.a.gots upon the fire, and place upon the now re-established table some bottles of Mousseaux. Having quickly completed these operations, he drew his chair _vis-a-vis_ to his companion's, and waited until the latter should open the conversation. But plans even the most skilfully matured are often thwarted in the outset of their application--and the _restaurateur_ found himself _nonplussed_ by the very first words of his visitor's speech.

"I see you know me, Bon-Bon," said he; "ha! ha! ha!--he! he! he!--hi!

hi! hi--ho! ho! ho!--hu! hu! hu!"--and the Devil, dropping at once the sanct.i.ty of his demeanour, opened to its fullest extent a mouth from ear to ear, so as to display a set of jagged and fang-like teeth, and, throwing back his head, laughed long, loudly, wickedly, and uproariously, while the black dog, crouching down upon his haunches, joined l.u.s.tily in the chorus, and the tabby cat, flying off a tangent, stood up on end, and shrieked in the farthest corner of the apartment.

Not so the philosopher: he was too much a man of the world either to laugh like the dog, or by shrieks to betray the indecorous trepidation of the cat. It must be confessed, he felt a little astonishment to see the white letters which formed the words "_Rituel Catholique_" on the book in his guest's pocket, momently changing both their colour and their import, and in a few seconds, in place of the original t.i.tle, the words "_Registre des Cond.a.m.nes_" blaze forth in characters of red.

This startling circ.u.mstance, when Bon-Bon replied to his visitor's remark, imparted to his manner an air of embarra.s.sment which probably might not otherwise have been observed.

"Why, sir," said the philosopher, "why, sir, to speak sincerely--I believe you are--upon my word--the d--dest--that is to say, I think--I imagine--I _have_ some faint--some _very_ faint idea--of the remarkable honour--"

"Oh!--ah!--yes!--very well!" interrupted his Majesty; "say no more--I see how it is." And hereupon, taking off his green spectacles, he wiped the gla.s.ses carefully with the sleeve of his coat, and deposited them in his pocket.