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by Corry Shores
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[Dumas. The Wolf-Leader (Le meneur de loups), entry directory]
[The following is summary. Boldface, underlining, bracketed commentary, and section subdivisions are my own. Proofreading is incomplete, so please forgive my mistakes. Text is copied from online sources (see bibliography below).]
Summary of
Alexandre Dumas
Le meneur de loups
The Wolf-Leader
11
“David et Goliath”
“David and Goliath”
Brief summary:
__(11.1)__ (Recall from section 10 that Thibault the sabot-maker is accompanying Monsieur Magloire the bailiff and his wife who will host him over wine.) Bailiff Népomucène Magloire welcomes Thibault into his home. Madame Magliore notices how stunned Thibault is with the nice furnishings of the house. Instead of hosting Thibault, she retires to her room. Before departing, she wishes Thibault find his way home well, “ending her speech with a smile which displayed a row of charming teeth. Thibault responded with so much lively pleasure in his voice that it rendered any roughness of speech less noticeable, swearing that he would sooner lose the power to eat and drink than the remembrance of a lady who was as courteous as she was beautiful.” Monsieur Magloire is relieved at her absence, as it will allow the two men to get on with their wine drinking. Monsieur Magloire goes to the wine cellar to pick the wine. He brings back sparkling Sillery, a very old Chambertin, and a bottle of Hermitage. They go now to the dining room where the maid Perrine has laid out a “little supper [...] quite a simple one, and yet it pleases me more, I am sure, than would have Belshazzar’s feast [le festin de Balthazar].” (This feast is discussed in chapter 11 of Maurice Leblanc’s La vie extravagante de Balthazar.) The table is full of a variety of modest but very appetizing foods. Previously Monsieur Magloire sent the maid Perrine to ask if Madame Magliore would join them. When she returns now to say Madame Magliore will not join on account of a sick-headache, Monsieur Magloire rejoices at the prospect of enjoying the dinner and especially the wine without restraint. They proceed to enjoy their dinner and wine with relish. __(11.2)__ As they continue dining, Thibault learns about Monsieur Népomucène Magloire’s past. He was from an early age and for thirty years the “head-cook with Louis’ son, his Highness the Duke of Orleans.” He grew so fat by the age of 55 that out of fear of getting stuck in a doorway or passage, he asked permission to resign. The Duke is grateful for his long and competent service and promises him a healthy retirement income of a thousand livres a month along with Magloire’s pick of some of the Duke’s furniture. Madame Suzanne Magliore is his fourth wife, whom he married for her exceptional beauty. She does not care for Monsieur Magloire’s wine drinking and “did everything she could, even using physical force, to prevent his too frequent visits to the cellar.” She loves fine clothing. While Monsieur Magloire speaks of her better traits, Thibault reflects on her beauty. When it is Thibault’s turn to talk about himself, he “felt that it was very necessary to disguise the truth; and accordingly gave himself out as a man living at ease in the country, on the revenues of two farms and of a hundred acres of land, situated near Vertefeuille. There was, he continued, a splendid warren on these hundred acres, with a wonderful supply of red and fallow deer, boars, partridges, pheasants and hares, of which the bailiff should have some to taste.” Monsieur Magloire is excited at the prospect of enjoying Thibault’s venison. They finish their seventh bottle of wine, and Monsieur Magloire affectionately sends Thibault off with the promise of them seeing each other tomorrow. __(11.3)__ It is midnight, and Thibault is a little drunk from all the wine. “What followed next was as vague and mysterious to him as the phantasmagoria of a dream.” He leans against a wall below a window. A large man exits that window, presumably leaving his lover secretly, using Thibault’s shoulders like a ladder. Thibault resents this and confronts the man, who then calls Thibault a drunk and idiot. Thibault says he wants to punch the man, and instantly the man punches Thibault first in the face. They exchange blows until Thibault falls to the ground. He throws a stone at the man’s head, who then collapses unconscious or dead. “Not knowing whether he had killed, or only wounded his adversary, Thibault took to his heels and fled, not even turning to look behind him.”
[Monsieur Magloire Hosting Thibault for Dinner and Wine
[Thibault’s and Monsieur Magloire’s Dinner Conversation]
[Thibault’s Fight with a Stranger]
Summary
[Monsieur Magloire Hosting Thibault for Dinner and Wine]
[(Recall from section 10 that Thibault the sabot-maker is accompanying Monsieur Magloire the bailiff and his wife who will host him over wine.) Bailiff Népomucène Magloire welcomes Thibault into his home. Madame Magliore notices how stunned Thibault is with the nice furnishings of the house. Instead of hosting Thibault, she retires to her room. Before departing, she wishes Thibault find his way home well, “ending her speech with a smile which displayed a row of charming teeth. Thibault responded with so much lively pleasure in his voice that it rendered any roughness of speech less noticeable, swearing that he would sooner lose the power to eat and drink than the remembrance of a lady who was as courteous as she was beautiful.” Monsieur Magloire is relieved at her absence, as it will allow the two men to get on with their wine drinking. Monsieur Magloire goes to the wine cellar to pick the wine. He brings back sparkling Sillery, a very old Chambertin, and a bottle of Hermitage. They go now to the dining room where the maid Perrine has laid out a “little supper [...] quite a simple one, and yet it pleases me more, I am sure, than would have Belshazzar’s feast [le festin de Balthazar].” (This feast is discussed in chapter 11 of Maurice Leblanc’s La vie extravagante de Balthazar.) The table is full of a variety of modest but very appetizing foods. Previously Monsieur Magloire sent the maid Perrine to ask if Madame Magliore would join them. When she returns now to say Madame Magliore will not join on account of a sick-headache, Monsieur Magloire rejoices at the prospect of enjoying the dinner and especially the wine without restraint. They proceed to enjoy their dinner and wine with relish.]
[ditto]
On traversa tout le village et l’on s’arrêta, entre la route de Longpré et d’Haramont, devant une maison de belle apparence.
Le petit bonhomme, galant comme un chevalier français, arrivé à vingt pas de cette maison, prit les devants, monta plus lestement qu’on n’eût pu croire les cinq ou six marches du perron, et, en se haussant sur la pointe des pieds, arriva à atteindre du bout des doigts la sonnette.
Il est vrai que, lorsqu’une fois il la tint, il lui imprima une secousse qui indiquait la rentrée du maître.
C’était en effet, non seulement une rentrée, mais un triomphe. Le bailli ramenait un convive !
Une fille de chambre proprement endimanchée vint ouvrir.
Le bailli lui dit quelques mots tout bas, et Thibault, qui adorait les jolies femmes, mais qui ne détestait pas les bons dîners, crut comprendre que ces quelques mots avaient pour but de recommander le menu à Perrine.
Puis, se retournant :
– Soyez le bienvenu, mon cher hôte, dit le premier, dans la maison du bailli Népomucène Magloire.
Thibault fit respectueusement passer devant lui madame la baillive et fut introduit par le petit homme dans le salon. Là, le sabotier fit une faute.
Encore peu accoutumé au luxe, l’homme de la forêt ne fut point assez adroit pour dissimuler l’admiration que lui causait l’intérieur du bailli.
C’était la première fois que Thibault se trouvait en face de rideaux de damas et de fauteuils de bois doré.
Il croyait qu’il n’y avait que le roi, ou tout au plus monseigneur le duc d’Orléans, qui eût de pareils fauteuils et de pareils rideaux.
Thibault ne s’apercevait pas qu’il était épié par Mme Magloire, et qu’aucun de ses airs ébahis et de ses naïfs étonnements n’échappait à la fine mouche.
Cependant, depuis qu’elle avait si profondément réfléchi, elle paraissait regarder plus favorablement le cavalier que maître Magloire lui avait imposé.
Elle s’efforçait d’adoucir pour lui la dureté de ses noires prunelles.
Mais son affabilité n’alla point jusqu’à condescendre aux instances de maître Magloire, qui voulait que sa femme doublât la saveur et le bouquet du vin de Champagne en le versant elle-même à son hôte.
Quelques instances que lui fit son auguste époux, madame la baillive refusa, et, prenant le prétexte de la fatigue que lui avait causée la promenade, elle remonta dans sa chambre.
Toutefois, avant de sortir, elle dit à Thibault qu’ayant des torts à expier envers lui, elle espérait qu’il n’oublierait point le chemin d’Erneville.
Un sourire qui découvrit des dents charmantes servit de péroraison à ce discours.
Thibault y répondit avec une vivacité d’expression qui atténua un peu ce que son langage pouvait avoir de trop rude, lui jurant qu’il perdrait plutôt la pensée du boire et du manger que le souvenir d’une dame aussi courtoise qu’elle était belle.
Dame Magloire fit une révérence qui sentait d’une lieue madame la baillive, et sortit.
Elle n’avait pas tiré la porte derrière elle, que maître Magloire entreprit et acheva à son honneur une pirouette moins légère, mais presque aussi significative que celle d’un écolier débarrassé de son pédagogue, et, venant à Thibault et lui prenant les mains :
– Oh ! mon cher ami, lui dit-il, comme nous allons bien boire, du moment que nous n’avons plus de femme pour nous gêner ! Oh ! les femmes ! c’est charmant à la messe et au bal ; mais à table, ventre du diable ! il n’y a que les hommes, n’est-ce pas, compère ?
Perrine entra pour demander à son maître quel vin il fallait monter.
Mais le joyeux petit bonhomme était trop fin gourmet pour charger une femme de ces sortes de commissions.
Les femmes, en effet, n’ont jamais pour certaines bouteilles vénérables tout le respect qu’elles méritent et toute la délicatesse avec laquelle elles aiment à être maniées.
Il tira Perrine comme s’il voulait lui parler à l’oreille. La bonne fille s’inclina pour se mettre à la portée du petit bonhomme. Mais il lui appliqua un bon gros baiser sur une joue encore fraîche, qui ne rougit point assez pour faire croire que ce baiser était une nouveauté pour elle.
– Eh bien, monsieur, qu’y a-t-il donc ? demanda en riant la grosse fille.
– Il y a, Perrinette, ma mie, dit le bailli, que moi seul connais les bons tas, et comme, vu leur multiplicité, tu pourrais t’égarer au milieu d’eux, il y a que je vais à la cave moi-même.
Et le bonhomme disparut en trottinant sur ses petites jambes, gai, alerte et fantastique comme ces joujoux de Nuremberg qui sont montés sur une machine que l’on remonte avec une clef, et qui, une fois remontés, tournent en rond, ou vont à droite et à gauche, tant que le ressort est tendu.
Seulement, le cher petit bonhomme semblait remonté par la main du Bon Dieu lui-même, et ne devoir s’arrêter jamais.
Thibault demeura seul.
Il se frottait les mains, et se félicitait d’être tombé dans une si bonne maison, entre une si belle femme et un si aimable mari.
Cinq minutes après, la porte se rouvrit.
C’était le bailli qui rentrait, une bouteille de chaque main et une bouteille sous chaque bras.
Les deux bouteilles qu’il tenait sous chaque bras étaient deux bouteilles de sillery mousseux première qualité, qui, n’ayant point crainte d’être secouées, pouvaient conserver la position horizontale.
Les deux qu’il portait à la main, et qu’il tenait avec un respect qui faisait plaisir à voir, étaient, l’une une bouteille de chambertin haut cru, l’autre une bouteille de l’ermitage.
L’heure du souper était venue.
À l’époque où nous en sommes, on dînait, on se le rappelle, à midi, et l’on soupait à six heures.
D’ailleurs, à six heures, dans le mois de janvier, il fait nuit depuis longtemps, et, quand on mange aux lumières, qu’il soit six heures ou minuit, il me semble toujours que l’on soupe.
Le bailli posa délicatement ses quatre bouteilles sur une table, puis il sonna.
Perrinette entra.
– Quand pourrons-nous nous mettre à table, la belle enfant ? demanda Magloire.
– Quand monsieur voudra, répondit Perrine. Comme je sais que monsieur n’aime point à attendre, tout est prêt.
– Alors, demandez à madame si elle ne viendra pas ; dites-lui, Perrine, que nous ne voulons pas nous mettre à table sans elle.
Perrine sortit.
– Passons toujours dans la salle à manger, dit le petit bonhomme ; vous devez avoir faim, mon cher hôte, et, quand j’ai faim, moi, j’ai l’habitude de réjouir l’appétit des yeux avant l’appétit de l’estomac.
– Oh ! dit Thibault, vous me faites l’effet d’un fier gourmand, vous !
– Gourmet, gourmet, point gourmand ; ne pas confondre. Je passe devant, mais c’est pour vous montrer le chemin.
Et, ce disant, maître Magloire passait en effet du salon dans la salle à manger.
– Ah ! fit-il en entrant et en frappant joyeusement des mains sur sa bedaine, dites-moi si cette fille n’est pas un cordon bleu digne de servir un cardinal ? Voyez-moi l’aspect de ce petit souper ; il est bien simple, et cependant il me réjouit plus la vue que n’eût fait, certes, le festin de Balthazar.
– Par ma foi ! dit Thibault, vous avez raison, bailli, et voilà un réjouissant spectacle.
Et les yeux de Thibault commencèrent, de leur côté, à briller comme des escarboucles.
Et cependant c’était, ainsi que le disait le bailli, un petit souper, mais si appétissant, que c’était merveilleux.
Il se composait d’une belle carpe cuite au bleu avec sa laitance couchée de chaque côté d’elle sur un lit de persil tout constellé de branches de carottes.
Elle tenait un des bouts de la table. L’autre bout était occupé par un jambon de bête rousse, ou, pour ceux qui ne seraient pas familiers avec cette dénomination, de sanglier d’un an, moelleusement posé sur un plat d’épinards, nageant comme une île de verdure dans un océan de jus.
Le milieu était occupé par un fin pâté de perdreaux, de deux perdreaux seulement, dont chacun passait la tête par la croûte supérieure et paraissait prêt à attaquer son adversaire à coups de bec.
Les intervalles étaient remplis par des raviers contenant des tranches de saucisson d’Arles, des carrés de thon baignant dans une belle huile verte de Provence ; des filets d’anchois traçant des caractères inconnus et fantastiques sur un lit de jaunes et de blancs d’œufs hachés menu, et par des coquilles d’un beurre qui avait dû être battu dans la journée.
Comme accessoire, il y avait deux ou trois sortes de fromage choisies parmi celles dont la principale qualité est de provoquer la soif, des biscuits de Reims craquant d’avance sous la dent, et quelques poires conservées avec un bonheur qui prouvait que c’était la main du maître lui-même qui s’était donné la peine de les retourner sur la planche du fruitier.
Thibault était tellement absorbé par la contemplation de ce petit souper d’amateur, qu’il entendit à peine la réponse de Perrine, qui disait que madame, étant atteinte de la migraine, présentait pour la seconde fois ses excuses à son hôte et se promettait un dédommagement à la prochaine visite.
Le petit bonhomme écouta la réponse avec une joie visible, respira bruyamment, et, frappant des mains en homme qui applaudit :
– Elle a la migraine ! elle a la migraine ! dit-il ; allons, à table ! à table !
Et, à côté des deux bouteilles de mâcon vieux, déjà placées en qualité de vin ordinaire à la portée de la main de chacun des convives, entre les raviers de hors-d’œuvre et les assiettes de dessert, il intercala les quatre autres bouteilles qu’il venait de monter de la cave.
C’était, je crois, sagement fait à madame la baillive de ne pas s’être mise à table avec ces rudes champions, dont la faim et la soif étaient telles, que la moitié de la carpe et les deux bouteilles de vin disparurent sans qu’il y eût aucune autre parole échangée que ces quelques mots :
– Bonne ! n’est-ce pas ?
– Parfaite !
– Bon ! n’est-ce pas ?
– Excellent !
Le féminin se rapportait à la carpe. Le masculin, au vieux mâcon. De la carpe et du mâcon, on passa au pâté et au chambertin.
Là, les langues commencèrent à se délier.
Surtout celle du bailli.
(145-152)
AFTER walking the whole length of the village, they stopped before an imposing looking house at the junction of the roads leading to Longpré and Haramont. As they neared the house—the little host, with all the gallantry of a “preux chevalier” went on ahead, mounted the flight of five or six steps with an agility which one could not have expected, and, by dint of standing on tip-toe, managed to reach the bell with the tips of his fingers. It should be added, that having once got hold of it, he gave it a pull which unmistakeably announced the return of the master. It was, in short, no ordinary return, but a triumphal one, for the Bailiff was bringing home a guest.
A maid, neatly dressed in her best clothes, opened the door. The Bailiff gave her an order in a low voice, and Thibault, whose adoration of beautiful women did not prevent him from liking a good dinner, gathered that these few whispered words referred to the menu which Perrine was to prepare. Then turning round, his host addressed Thibault:
“Welcome, my dear guest, to the house of Bailiff Népomucène Magloire.”
Thibault politely allowed Madame to pass in before him, and was then introduced into the drawing-room.
But the shoe-maker now made a slip. Unaccustomed as yet to luxury, the man of the forest was not adroit enough to hide the admiration which he felt on beholding the bailiff’s home. For the first time in his life he found himself in the midst of damask curtains and gilt armchairs; he had not imagined that any one save the King, or at least his Highness the Duke of Orleans, had curtains and armchairs of this magnificence. He was unconscious that all the while Madame Magloire was closely watching him, and that his simple astonishment and delight did not escape her detective eye. However, she appeared now, after mature reflexion, to look with greater favour on the guest whom her husband had imposed upon her, and endeavoured to soften for him the glances of her dark eyes. But her affability did not go so far as to lead her to comply with the request of Monsieur Magloire, who begged her to add to the flavour and bouquet of the champagne by pouring it out herself for her guest. Notwithstanding the entreaties of her august husband, the Bailiff’s wife refused, and under the pretext of fatigue from her walk, she retired to her own room. Before leaving the room, however, she expressed a hope to Thibault, that, as she owed him some expiation, he would not forget the way to Erneville, ending her speech with a smile which displayed a row of charming teeth. Thibault responded with so much lively pleasure in his voice that it rendered any roughness of speech less noticeable, swearing that he would sooner lose the power to eat and drink than the remembrance of a lady who was as courteous as she was beautiful.
Madame Magloire gave him a curtsey which would have made her known as the Bailiff’s wife a mile off, and left the room.
She had hardly closed the door behind her, when Monsieur Magloire went through a pirouette in her honour, which though less light, was not less significant than the caper a school-boy executes when once he has got rid of his master.
“Ah! my dear friend,” he said, “now that we are no longer hampered by a woman’s presence, we will have a good go at the wine! Those women, they are delightful at mass or at a ball; but at table, heaven defend me, there is nobody like the men! What do you say, old fellow?”
Perrine now came in to receive her master’s orders as to what wine she was to bring up. But the gay little man was far too fastidious a judge of wines to trust a woman with such a commission as this. Indeed, women never show that reverential respect for certain old bottles which is their due, nor that delicacy of touch with which they love to be handled. He drew Perrine down as if to whisper something in her ear; instead of which he gave a good sound kiss to the cheek which was still young and fresh, and which did not blush sufficiently to lead to the belief that the kiss was a novelty to it.
“Well, sir,” said the girl laughing, “What is it?”
“This is it, Perrinette, my love,” said the Bailiff, “that I alone know the good brands, and as they are many in number, you might get lost among them, and so I am going to the cellar myself.” And the good man disappeared trundling off on his little legs, cheerful, alert and fantastic as those Nuremberg toys mounted on a stand, which you wind up with a key, and which, once set going, turn round and round, or go first one way and then the other, till the spring has run down; the only difference being, that this dear little man seemed wound up by the hand of God himself, and gave no sign of ever coming to a standstill.
Thibault was left alone. He rubbed his hands together, congratulating himself on having chanced upon such a well-to-do house, with such a beautiful wife, and such an amiable husband for host and hostess. Five minutes later the door again opened, and in came the bailiff, with a bottle in either hand, and one under each arm. The two under his arms were bottles of sparkling Sillery, of the first quality, which, not being injured by shaking, were safe to be carried in a horizontal position. The two which he carried in his hands, and which he held with a respectful care which was a pleasure to behold, were, one a bottle of very old Chambertin, the other a bottle of Hermitage.
The supper hour had now come; for it must be remembered, that at the period of which we are writing, dinner was at mid-day, and supper at six. Moreover, it had already been dark for some time before six o’clock, in this month of January, and whether it be six, or twelve o’clock at night, if one has to eat one’s meal by candle or lamp-light, it always seems to one like supper.
The Bailiff put the bottles tenderly down on the table and rang the bell. Perrinette came in.
“When will the table be ready for us, my pretty?” asked Magloire.
“Whenever Monsieur pleases,” replied Perrine. “I know Monsieur does not like waiting; so I always have everything ready in good time.”
“Go and ask Madame, then, if she is not coming; tell her, Perrine, that we do not wish to sit down without her.”
Perrine left the room.
“We may as well go into the dining-room to wait,” said the little host; “you must be hungry, my dear friend, and when I am hungry, I like to feed my eyes before I feed my stomach.”
“You seem to me to be a fine gourmand, you,” said Thibault.
“Epicure, epicure, not gourmand—you must not confuse the two things. I go first, but only in order to show you the way.”
And so saying, Monsieur Magloire led his guest into the dining-room.
“Ah!” he exclaimed gaily as he went in, patting his corporation, “tell me now, do you not think this girl of mine is a capital cook, fit to serve a Cardinal? Just look now at this little supper she has spread for us; quite a simple one, and yet it pleases me more, I am sure, than would have Belshazzar’s feast [le festin de Balthazar].”
“On my honour, Bailiff,” said Thibault, “you are right; it is a sight to rejoice one’s heart.” And Thibault’s eyes began to shine like carbuncles.
And yet it was, as the Bailiff described it, quite an unpretentious little supper, but withal so appetising to look upon, that it was quite surprising. At one end of the table was a fine carp, boiled in vinegar and herbs, with the roe served on either side of it on a layer of parsley, dotted about with cut carrots. The opposite end was occupied by a boar-ham, mellow-flavoured, and deliciously reposing on a dish of spinach, which lay like a green islet surrounded by an ocean of gravy.
A delicate game-pie, made of two partridges only, of which the heads appeared above the upper crust, as if ready to attack one another with their beaks, was placed in the middle of the table; while the intervening spaces were covered with side-dishes holding slices of Arles sausage, pieces of tunny-fish, swimming in beautiful green oil from Provence, anchovies sliced and arranged in all kinds of strange and fantastic patterns on a white and yellow bed of chopped eggs, and pats of butter that could only have been churned that very day. As accessories to these were two or three sorts of cheese, chosen from among those of which the chief quality is to provoke thirst, some Reims biscuits, of delightful crispness, and pears just fit to eat, showing that the master himself had taken the trouble to preserve them, and to turn them about on the store-room shelf.
Thibault was so taken up in the contemplation of this little amateur supper, that he scarcely heard the message which Perrine brought back from her mistress, who sent word that she had a sick-headache, and begged to make her excuses to her guest, with the hope that she might have the pleasure of entertaining him when he next came.
The little man gave visible signs of rejoicing on hearing his wife’s answer, breathed loudly and clapped his hands, exclaiming:
“She has a headache! she has a headache! Come along then, sit down! sit down!” And thereupon, besides the two bottles of old Mâcon, which had already been respectively placed within reach of the host and guest, as vin ordinaire, between the Hors-d’œuvres and the dessert plates, he introduced the four other bottles which he had just brought up from the cellar.
Madame Magloire had, I think, acted not unwisely in refusing to sup with these stalwart champions of the table, for such was their hunger and thirst, that half the carp and the two bottles of wine disappeared without a word passing between them except such exclamations as:
“Good fish! isn’t it?”
“Capital!”
“Fine wine! isn’t it?”
“Excellent!”
The carp and the Mâcon being consumed, they passed on to the game pie and the Chambertin, and now their tongues began to be unloosed, especially the Bailiff’s.
(55-57)
[Thibault’s and Monsieur Magloire’s Dinner Conversation]
[As they continue dining, Thibault learns about Monsieur Népomucène Magloire’s past. He was from an early age and for thirty years the “head-cook with Louis’ son, his Highness the Duke of Orleans.” He grew so fat by the age of 55 that out of fear of getting stuck in a doorway or passage, he asked permission to resign. The Duke is grateful for his long and competent service and promises him a healthy retirement income of a thousand livres a month along with Magloire’s pick of some of the Duke’s furniture. Madame Suzanne Magliore is his fourth wife, whom he married for her exceptional beauty. She does not care for Monsieur Magloire’s wine drinking and “did everything she could, even using physical force, to prevent his too frequent visits to the cellar.” She loves fine clothing. While Monsieur Magloire speaks of her better traits, Thibault reflects on her beauty. When it is Thibault’s turn to talk about himself, he “felt that it was very necessary to disguise the truth; and accordingly gave himself out as a man living at ease in the country, on the revenues of two farms and of a hundred acres of land, situated near Vertefeuille. There was, he continued, a splendid warren on these hundred acres, with a wonderful supply of red and fallow deer, boars, partridges, pheasants and hares, of which the bailiff should have some to taste.” Monsieur Magloire is excited at the prospect of enjoying Thibault’s venison. They finish their seventh bottle of wine, and Monsieur Magloire affectionately sends Thibault off with the promise of them seeing each other tomorrow.]
[ditto]
À la moitié du premier perdreau et à la fin de la première bouteille de chambertin, Thibault savait l’histoire de maître Népomucène Magloire. Cette histoire n’était, du reste, aucunement compliquée.
Maître Magloire était le fils d’un fabricant d’ornements d’église qui avait travaillé pour la chapelle de monseigneur le duc d’Orléans, lequel brûla, par religion, pour quatre à cinq cent mille francs de tableaux de l’Albane et du Titien.
Chrysostome Magloire plaça Népomucène Magloire, son fils, comme premier chef de bouche chez monseigneur Philippe d’Orléans, fils de Louis.
Le jeune homme avait eu, tout enfant, une vocation décidée pour la cuisine ; il était particulièrement attaché au château de Villers-Cotterêts, et, pendant trente ans, ce fut lui qui présida aux dîners de monseigneur, lequel présentait Magloire à ses amis comme un véritable artiste et, de temps en temps, le faisait monter pour causer cuisine avec M. le maréchal de Richelieu.
À l’âge de cinquante-cinq ans, Magloire se trouva tellement arrondi, que ce ne fut plus qu’avec une certaine difficulté qu’il put passer par les petites portes des corridors et des offices.
Il craignit de se voir pris un jour comme la belette de La Fontaine dans son grenier, et demanda sa retraite.
Le duc la lui accorda, non pas sans regrets, mais avec moins de regrets que dans toute autre circonstance.
Il venait d’épouser madame de Montesson ; et ce n’était plus que rarement qu’il venait à Villers-Cotterêts.
Monseigneur avait la religion des vieux serviteurs.
Il fit monter Magloire près de lui.
Il lui demanda combien il avait économisé à son service.
Magloire répondit qu’il avait le bonheur de ne pas se retirer dans le besoin.
Le prince insista pour savoir le chiffre de sa petite fortune.
Magloire avoua neuf mille livres de rente.
– À un homme qui m’a si bien fait manger pendant trente ans, dit le prince, il faut de quoi bien manger pendant le reste de sa vie.
Et il porta la rente à douze mille livres par an, afin que maître Magloire eût mille livres à dépenser par mois.
En outre, il lui permit de choisir un ameublement complet dans le vieux garde-meuble.
De là venaient les rideaux de damas et les fauteuils dorés qui, quoique un peu passés, avaient conservé ce grand air dont Thibault avait été émerveillé.
À la fin du premier perdreau et à la moitié de la seconde bouteille, Thibault savait que madame Magloire était la quatrième femme de son hôte, chiffre qui semblait grandir le majordome d’une coudée à ses propres yeux.
Il savait, en outre, qu’il l’avait épousée, non pour sa fortune, mais pour sa beauté, ayant toujours été aussi amateur de jolis visages et de belles statues que de bons vins et d’appétissante victuaille.
Et maître Magloire ajoutait résolument que, tout vieux qu’il était, si sa femme venait à mourir, un cinquième mariage ne l’effrayerait pas le moins du monde.
En passant du chambertin à l’ermitage et en alternant avec du sillery, maître Magloire en vint à parler des qualités de sa femme.
Ce n’était point la douceur en personne, non, il s’en fallait du tout au tout ; elle contrariait un peu l’admiration de son époux pour les différents vins de France ; elle s’opposait par tous les moyens possibles, et souvent même physiquement, à ses trop fréquentes visites au cellier ; elle affectionnait, de son côté, plus qu’il n’était agréable pour un partisan du sans-gêne, les chiffons, les bavolets, les points d’Angleterre et autres fanfreluches faisant partie de l’arsenal militaire des femmes ; elle eût volontiers mis, à ses bras en dentelles et à son cou en colliers, les douze muids de vin qui faisaient le fonds de la cave de son époux, si maître Magloire eût été homme à permettre leur métamorphose ; mais, à cela près, il n’était pas une vertu que Suzanne ne possédât, et ses vertus étaient portées, s’il fallait en croire le bailli, sur des jambes si parfaites, que, si par malheur elle en perdait une, il serait impossible d’appareiller dans tout le canton celle qui lui resterait.
Le bonhomme ressemblait aux baleines franches : il soufflait son bonheur par tous ses évents, comme celles-ci font de l’eau de la mer.
Mais, avant même qu’il fût instruit de toutes ses secrètes perfections, que le bon bailli, comme un autre roi Candaule, était tout prêt à révéler au moderne Gygès, la beauté de la baillive avait produit sur notre sabotier une si profonde impression, qu’il en était resté, nous l’avons vu, rêveur pendant toute la route, et que, depuis qu’il était à table, rêvant toujours à cette même beauté, il ne faisait qu’écouter, en mangeant bien entendu, mais sans répondre, les phrases que maître Magloire, enchanté d’avoir un auditeur si bénin, enfilait les unes aux autres comme des chapelets de perles.
Cependant, le digne bailli, ayant exécuté un second voyage au cellier, et le second voyage lui ayant fait ce qu’on appelle un petit nœud au bout de la langue, il commença d’apprécier un peu moins cette rare qualité que Pythagore exigeait de ses disciples.
Il laissa, en conséquence, entendre à Thibault qu’il lui avait dit à peu près tout ce qu’il désirait lui dire sur lui et sa femme, et que c’était au tour de Thibault de lui donner quelques renseignements sur lui-même.
Il ajoutait galamment, le bon petit homme, que, désirant le hanter, il désirait le connaître.
Thibault alors jugea qu’il était urgent de farder un peu la vérité.
Il se donna comme un campagnard aisé, vivant du produit de deux fermes et d’une centaine d’arpents de terre situés du côté de Verte-feuille.
Dans ces cent arpents de terre, disait-il, était enclose une garenne miraculeuse pour ses produits en daims, chevreuils, sangliers, perdrix rouges, faisans et lièvres.
Il ferait goûter de tout cela au bailli.
Le bailli était émerveillé.
On a vu, au menu du dîner, qu’il ne détestait pas la venaison, et l’idée que cette venaison allait lui venir sans qu’il eût besoin de recourir aux braconniers, et par le canal de son nouvel ami, le transportait de joie.
Sur ce, et le septième flacon étant loyalement égoutté dans les deux verres, on jugea qu’il était temps de se quitter.
Le champagne rosé – premier cru d’Aï et dernier flacon vidé – avait fait tourner en tendresse la bonhomie habituelle de Népomucène Magloire.
Il était enchanté de son nouvel ami, qui sifflait la bouteille presque aussi proprement que lui-même.
Il tutoyait, il embrassait Thibault ; il lui faisait jurer qu’une si charmante fête aurait son lendemain.
Lorsqu’il le reconduisit à la porte, il se dressa une seconde fois sur ses orteils pour lui donner une dernière accolade.
Ce à quoi, du reste, Thibault, en se courbant, se prêta, de son côté, de la meilleure grâce du monde.
(152-156)
By the time half the game pie, and the first bottle of Chambertin were finished, Thibault knew the history of Népomucène Magloire; not a very complicated one, it must be confessed.
Monsieur Magloire was son to a church ornament manufacturer who had worked for the chapel belonging to his Highness the Duke of Orleans, the latter, in his religious zeal having a burning desire to obtain pictures by Albano and Titian for the sum of four to five thousand francs.
Chrysostom Magloire had placed his son Népomucène Magloire, as head-cook with Louis’ son, his Highness the Duke of Orleans.
The young man had, from infancy almost, manifested a decided taste for cooking; he had been especially attached to the Castle at Villers-Cotterets, and for thirty years presided over his Highness’s dinners, the latter introducing him to his friends as a thorough artist, and from time to time, sending for him to come upstairs to talk over culinary matters with Marshal Richelieu.
When fifty-five years of age, Magloire found himself so rounded in bulk, that it was only with some difficulty he could get through the narrow doors of the passages and offices. Fearing to be caught some day like the weasel of the fable, he asked permission to resign his post.
The Duke consented, not without regret, but with less regret than he would have felt at any other time, for he had just married Madame de Montesson, and it was only rarely now that he visited his castle at Villers-Cotterets.
His Highness had fine old-fashioned ideas as regards superannuated retainers. He, therefore, sent for Magloire, and asked him how much he had been able to save while in his service. Magloire replied that he was happily able to retire with a competence; the Prince, however, insisted upon knowing the exact amount of his little fortune, and Magloire confessed to an income of nine thousand livres.
“A man who has provided me with such a good table for thirty years,” said the Prince, “should have enough to live well upon himself for the remainder of his life.” And he made up the income to twelve thousand, so that Magloire might have a thousand livres a month to spend. Added to this, he allowed him to choose furniture for the whole of his house from his own old lumber-room; and thence came the damask curtains and gilt arm chairs, which, although just a little bit faded and worn, had nevertheless preserved that appearance of grandeur which had made such an impression on Thibault.
By the time the whole of the first partridge was finished, and half the second bottle had been drunk, Thibault knew that Madame Magloire was the host’s fourth wife, a fact which seemed in his own eyes to add a good foot or two to his height.
He had also ascertained that he had married her not for her fortune, but for her beauty, having always had as great a predilection for pretty faces and beautiful statues, as for good wines and appetising victuals, and Monsieur Magloire further stated, with no sign of faltering, that, old as he was, if his wife were to die, he should have no fear in entering on a fifth marriage.
As he now passed from the Chambertin to the Hermitage, which he alternated with the Sillery, Monsieur Magloire began to speak of his wife’s qualities. She was not the personification of docility, no, quite the reverse; she was somewhat opposed to her husband’s admiration for the various wines of France, and did everything she could, even using physical force, to prevent his too frequent visits to the cellar; while, for one who believed in living without ceremony, she on her part was too fond of dress, too much given to elaborate head-gears, English laces, and such like gewgaws, which women make part of their arsenal; she would gladly have turned the twelve hogsheads of wine, which formed the staple of her husband’s cellar, into lace for her arms, and ribands for her throat, if Monsieur Magloire had been the man to allow this metamorphosis. But, with this exception, there was not a virtue which Suzanne did not possess, and these virtues of hers, if the Bailiff was to be believed, were carried on so perfectly shaped a pair of legs, that, if by any misfortune she were to lose one, it would be quite impossible throughout the district to find another that would match the leg that remained. The good man was like a regular whale, blowing out self-satisfaction from all his air-holes, as the former does sea-water. But even before all these hidden perfections of his wife had been revealed to him by the Bailiff, like a modern King Candaules ready to confide in a modern Gyges, her beauty had already made such a deep impression on the shoe-maker, that, as we have seen, he could do nothing but think of it in silence as he walked beside her, and since he had been at table, he had continued to dream about it, listening to his host,—eating the while of course,—without answering, as Monsieur Magloire, delighted to have such an accommodating audience, poured forth his tales, linked one to another like a necklace of beads.
But the worthy Bailiff, having made a second excursion to the cellar, and this second excursion having produced, as the saying is, a little knot at the tip of his tongue, he began to be rather less appreciative of the rare quality which was required in his disciples by Pythagons. He, therefore, gave Thibault to understand that he had now said all that he wished to tell him concerning himself and his wife, and that it was Thibault’s turn to give him some information as regards his own circumstances, the amiable little man adding that wishing often to visit him, he wished to know more about him. Thibault felt that it was very necessary to disguise the truth; and accordingly gave himself out as a man living at ease in the country, on the revenues of two farms and of a hundred acres of land, situated near Vertefeuille.
There was, he continued, a splendid warren on these hundred acres, with a wonderful supply of red and fallow deer, boars, partridges, pheasants and hares, of which the bailiff should have some to taste. The bailiff was astonished and delighted. As we have seen, by the menu for his table, he was fond of venison, and he was carried away with joy at the thought of obtaining his game without having recourse to the poachers, and through the channel of this new friendship.
And now, the last drop of the seventh bottle having been scrupulously divided between the two glasses, they decided that it was time to stop.
The rosy champagne—prime vintage of Aï, and the last bottle emptied—had brought Népomucène Magloire’s habitual good nature to the level of tender affection. He was charmed with his new friend, who tossed off his bottle in almost as good style as he did himself; he addressed him as his bosom friend, he embraced him, he made him promise that there should be a morrow to their pleasant entertainment; he stood a second time on tiptoe to give him a parting hug as he accompanied him to the door, which Thibault on his part, bending down, received with the best grace in the world.
(57-59)
[Thibault’s Fight with a Stranger]
[It is midnight, and Thibault is a little drunk from all the wine. “What followed next was as vague and mysterious to him as the phantasmagoria of a dream.” He leans against a wall below a window. A large man exits that window, presumably leaving his lover secretly, using Thibault’s shoulders like a ladder. Thibault resents this and confronts the man, who then calls Thibault a drunk and idiot. Thibault says he wants to punch the man, and instantly the man punches Thibault first in the face. They exchange blows until Thibault falls to the ground. He throws a stone at the man’s head, who then collapses unconscious or dead. “Not knowing whether he had killed, or only wounded his adversary, Thibault took to his heels and fled, not even turning to look behind him.”]
[ditto]
Minuit sonnait à l’église d’Erneville au moment où la porte se refermait derrière le sabotier.
Les fumées du vin capiteux qu’il avait bu l’avaient déjà un peu suffoqué dans l’intérieur de la maison ; mais ce fut bien pis lorsqu’il se trouva atteint par l’air extérieur.
Thibault chancela, tout étourdi, et alla s’adosser au mur.
Ce qui se passa alors fut pour lui vague et mystérieux comme les événements qui s’accomplissent en rêve.
Au-dessus de sa tête et à six ou huit pieds du sol était une fenêtre qui, dans le mouvement qu’il avait fait pour s’adosser à la muraille, lui avait paru éclairée, quoique sa lumière fût voilée par de doubles rideaux.
À peine était-il adossé à la muraille, qu’il lui sembla que cette fenêtre s’ouvrait.
Il crut que c’était le digne bailli qui ne voulait pas se séparer de lui sans lui envoyer un dernier adieu.
Il essaya, en conséquence, de se détacher de la muraille pour faire honneur à cette gracieuse intention.
Mais l’effort qu’il fit fut inutile.
Il crut un instant y être collé comme un lierre ; il comprit bientôt qu’il était dans l’erreur.
Il sentit se poser sur son épaule droite d’abord, puis sur son épaule gauche, un poids si lourd, qu’il plia sur ses genoux et glissa le long du mur comme pour s’asseoir.
Cette manœuvre parut conforme au désir de l’individu, qui se servait de Thibault comme d’une échelle.
Nous sommes forcé d’avouer que ce poids était celui d’un homme.
Il descendit à ce mouvement de génuflexion imprimé à Thibault, en disant :
– Très bien, l’Éveillé ! très bien ! Là !
Et, en prononçant la dernière syllabe, il sautait à terre, tandis que le grincement d’une fenêtre qui se ferme se faisait entendre.
Thibault comprit deux choses :
La première, qu’on le prenait pour un nommé l’Éveillé, qui, probablement, dormait dans quelque coin aux alentours du château ; la seconde, qu’il venait de faire la courte échelle à un amoureux.
Deux choses qui humilièrent vaguement Thibault.
En conséquence, il saisit machinalement une étoffe flottante qui lui parut être le manteau de l’amoureux, et, avec la persistance des gens ivres, il se cramponna à ce manteau.
– Que fais-tu donc là, drôle ? dit une voix qui ne sembla point étrangère aux souvenirs du sabotier. On dirait que tu as peur de me perdre.
– Oui, certainement, que j’ai peur de vous perdre, répondit Thibault, attendu que je veux savoir quel est l’impertinent qui se sert de mes épaules pour faire une courte échelle.
– Ouais ! dit l’inconnu. Ce n’est donc pas toi, l’Éveillé ?
– Non, ce n’est pas moi, répondit Thibault.
– Eh bien, que ce soit toi ou pas toi, merci !
– Comment, merci ? Ah ! elle est bonne ! merci ! Vous croyez donc que cela va se passer comme cela, vous ?
– Certainement, que j’y compte.
– Ah bien, vous comptez sans votre hôte.
– Allons, lâche-moi, maroufle ! Tu es ivre !
– Ivre ? Allons donc ! Nous n’avons bu que sept bouteilles à deux, et encore le bailli en a bien bu quatre pour son compte.
– Je te dis de me lâcher, ivrogne !
– Ivrogne ! Vous m’appelez ivrogne ! Ivrogne pour avoir bu trois bouteilles de vin ?
– Je t’appelle ivrogne, non parce que tu as bu trois bouteilles de vin, mais parce que tu t’es laissé griser par ces trois malheureuses bouteilles.
Et, avec un geste plein de commisération, essayant pour la troisième fois d’arracher son manteau des mains de Thibault :
– Ah çà ! reprit l’inconnu, lâcheras-tu mon manteau, oui ou non, imbécile ?
Thibault, en toute circonstance, avait l’oreille chatouilleuse.
Mais, dans la disposition d’esprit où il était, cette susceptibilité allait jusqu’à l’irritation.
– Ventre-gai ! s’écria-t-il, apprenez, mon beau monsieur, qu’il n’y a d’imbécile ici que celui qui, s’étant servi des gens, les insulte pour les remercier ; c’est pourquoi je ne sais qui me retient de vous bailler mon poing par le beau milieu du visage.
À peine Thibault avait-il achevé cette menace, qu’avec la même rapidité que le canon part au moment où la flamme de la mèche touche la poudre, le coup de poing dont il avait menacé l’inconnu, lui arriva à lui-même sur la tête.
– Tiens, grimaud ! dit cette voix qui rappelait à Thibault certains souvenirs en harmonie avec le coup de poing qu’il recevait ; tiens, je suis bon juif et te rends ta monnaie avant d’avoir pesé ta pièce.
Thibault riposta par un coup de poing dans la poitrine. Le coup de poing était bien appliqué, et, dans son for intérieur, Thibault lui-même en était content.
Mais l’inconnu n’en parut pas plus ébranlé qu’un chêne ne le serait de la chiquenaude d’un enfant.
Il riposta par un second coup de poing qui dépassait de si loin le premier comme vigueur, que Thibault comprit que, si la force du géant allait toujours ainsi croissant, il serait, lui Thibault, infailliblement assommé par le troisième.
Mais la violence même de son coup de poing porta malheur, à l’inconnu.
Thibault étant tombé sur un genou, sa main porta à terre et ses doigts se meurtrirent à un caillou.
Il se redressa furieux, tenant le caillou à la main et le lança à la tête de son ennemi.
Le colosse poussa un ouf ! qui ressemblait au mugissement d’un bœuf.
Il pivota sur lui-même, et, s’abattant comme un chêne coupé dans sa racine, il tomba sur le sol, où il resta privé de sentiment.
Ignorant s’il avait tué ou seulement blessé son adversaire, Thibault prit la fuite en courant et sans même regarder derrière lui.
(156-159)
The church clock of Erneville was striking midnight as the door closed behind the shoe-maker. The fumes of the heady wine he had been drinking had begun to give him a feeling of oppression before leaving the house, but it was worse when he got into the open air. He staggered, overcome with giddiness, and went and leant with his back against a wall. What followed next was as vague and mysterious to him as the phantasmagoria of a dream. Above his head, about six or eight feet from the ground, was a window, which, as he moved to lean against the wall, had appeared to him to be lighted, although the light was shaded by double curtains. He had hardly taken up his position against the wall when he thought he heard it open. It was, he imagined, the worthy bailiff, unwilling to part with him without sending him a last farewell, and he tried to step forward so as to do honour to this gracious intention, but his attempt was unavailing. At first he thought he was stuck to the wall like a branch of ivy, but he was soon disabused of this idea. He felt a heavy weight planted first on the right shoulder and then on the left, which made his knees give way so that he slid down the wall as if to seat himself. This manœuvre on Thibault’s part appeared to be just what the individual who was making use of him as a ladder wished him to do, for we can no longer hide the fact that the weight so felt was that of a man. As Thibault made his forced genuflexion, the man was also lowered; “That’s right, l’Eveillé! that’s right!” he said, “So!” and with this last word, he jumped to the ground, while overhead was heard the sound of a window being shut.
Thibault had sense enough to understand two things: first, that he was mistaken for someone called l’Eveillé, who was probably asleep somewhere about the premises; secondly, that his shoulders had just served some lover as a climbing ladder; both of which things caused Thibault an undefined sense of humiliation.
Accordingly, he seized hold mechanically of some floating piece of stuff which he took to be the lover’s cloak, and, with the persistency of a drunken man, continued to hang on to it.
“What are you doing that for, you scoundrel?” asked a voice, which did not seem altogether unfamiliar to the shoe-maker. “One would think you were afraid of losing me.”
“Most certainly I am afraid of losing you,” replied Thibault, “because I wish to know who it is has the impertinence to use my shoulders for a ladder.”
“Phew!” said the unknown, “it’s not you then, l’Eveillé?”
“No, it is not,” replied Thibault.
“Well, whether it is you or not you, I thank you.”
“How, thank you? Ah! I dare say! thank you, indeed! You think the matter is going to rest like that, do you?”
“I had counted upon it being so, certainly.”
“Then you counted without your host.”
“Now, you blackguard, leave go of me! you are drunk!”
“Drunk! What do you mean? We only drank seven bottles between us, and the Bailiff had a good four to his share.”
“Leave go of me, you drunkard, do you hear!”
“Drunkard! you call me a drunkard, a drunkard for having drunk three bottles of wine!”
“I don’t call you a drunkard because you drank three bottles of wine, but because you let yourself get tipsy over those three unfortunate bottles.”
And, with a gesture of commiseration, and trying for the third time to release his cloak, the unknown continued:
“Now then, are you going to let go my cloak or not, you idiot?”
Thibault was at all times touchy as to the way people addressed him, but in his present state of mind his susceptibility amounted to extreme irritation.
“By the devil!” he exclaimed, “let me tell you, my fine sir, that the only idiot here is the man who gives insults in return for the services of which he has made use, and seeing that is so, I do not know what prevents me planting my fist in the middle of your face.”
This menace was scarcely out of his mouth, when, as instantly as a cannon goes off once the flame of the match has touched the powder, the blow with which Thibault had threatened his unknown adversary, came full against his own cheek.
“Take that, you beast,” said the voice, which brought back to Thibault certain recollections in connection with the blow he received. “I am a good Jew, you see, and pay you back your money before weighing your coin.”
Thibault’s answer was a blow in the chest; it was well directed, and Thibault felt inwardly pleased with it himself. But it had no more effect on his antagonist than the fillip from a child’s finger would have on an oak tree. It was returned by a second blow of the fist which so far exceeded the former in the force with which it was delivered, that Thibault felt certain if the giant’s strength went on increasing in the same ratio, that a third of the kind would level him with the ground.
But the very violence of his blow brought disaster on Thibault’s unknown assailant. The latter had fallen on to one knee, and so doing, his hand, touching the ground, came in contact with a stone. Rising in fury to his feet again, with the stone in his hand, he flung it at his enemy’s head. The colossal figure uttered a sound like the bellowing of an ox, turned round on himself, and then, like an oak tree cut off by the roots, fell his whole length on the ground, and lay there insensible.
Not knowing whether he had killed, or only wounded his adversary, Thibault took to his heels and fled, not even turning to look behind him.
(59-60)
Dumas, Alexandre. 1868. Le meneur de loups. (Nouvelle édition). Paris: Lévy.
PDF at:
https://archive.org/det ails/bub_gb_BhlMAAAAMAAJ/page/n5
and:
https://beq.ebooksgratuits.com/vents/Dumas-meneur.pdf
Online text at:
https://fr.wikisource.org/wik i/Le_Meneur_de_loups
and
https://fr.wikisource.org/wiki/Livre:Dumas_- _Le_Meneur_de_loups_(1868).djvu
Dumas, Alexandre. 1921. The Wolf-Leader. Translated by Alfred Allinson. London: Methuen.
PDF at:
https://archive.org/details/wolfle ader00duma
or:
https://archive.org/details/wo lfleader00dumauoft
Online text at:
.
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