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Page 25
In this congenial vicinity of the Latin Quarter, and in an ancient
building something like those alluded to, at a point midway between the
Palais des Beaux Arts and the College of the Sorbonne, the venerable
American Envoy pitched his tent when not passing his time at his country
retreat at Passy. The frugality of his manner of life did not lose him
the good opinion even of the voluptuaries of the showiest of capitals,
whose very iron railings are not free from gilt. Franklin was not less a
lady's man, than a man's man, a wise man, and an old man. Not only did
he enjoy the homage of the choicest Parisian literati, but at the age of
seventy-two he was the caressed favorite of the highest born beauties of
the Court; who through blind fashion having been originally attracted to
him as a famous _savan_, were permanently retained as his admirers by
his Plato-like graciousness of good humor. Having carefully weighed the
world, Franklin could act any part in it. By nature turned to knowledge,
his mind was often grave, but never serious. At times he had
seriousness--extreme seriousness--for others, but never for himself.
Tranquillity was to him instead of it. This philosophical levity of
tranquillity, so to speak, is shown in his easy variety of pursuits.
Printer, postmaster, almanac maker, essayist, chemist, orator, tinker,
statesman, humorist, philosopher, parlor man, political economist,
professor of housewifery, ambassador, projector, maxim-monger,
herb-doctor, wit:--Jack of all trades, master of each and mastered by
none--the type and genius of his land. Franklin was everything but a
poet. But since a soul with many qualities, forming of itself a sort of
handy index and pocket congress of all humanity, needs the contact of
just as many different men, or subjects, in order to the exhibition of
its totality; hence very little indeed of the sage's multifariousness
will be portrayed in a simple narrative like the present. This casual
private intercourse with Israel, but served to manifest him in his far
lesser lights; thrifty, domestic, dietarian, and, it may be,
didactically waggish. There was much benevolent irony, innocent
mischievousness, in the wise man. Seeking here to depict him in his less
exalted habitudes, the narrator feels more as if he were playing with
one of the sage's worsted hose, than reverentially handling the honored
hat which once oracularly sat upon his brow.
So, then, in the Latin Quarter lived Doctor Franklin. And accordingly in
the Latin Quarter tarried Israel for the time. And it was into a room of
a house in this same Latin Quarter that Israel had been directed when
the sage had requested privacy for a while.
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. Cologne,
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!"
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