An Ugly Customer

by Bernard Capes

 

AN UGLY CUSTOMER.

A GREAT many years ago, Ambroise Polichinelle was an actor at the Comédie Francaise. He was very mean-looking, very ugly, and extremely intelligent (save in the respect that he thought the condition of virtue most admirable to the secret regard of woman); and he loved desperately Mademoiselle Colombine Dolores, who was an unexceptionable ingénue of three-line parts.

“I have more nobility in me than ten marquises,” he said; and that was at a time when “Equality” still echoed in the ears of Paris.

“Doubtless,” said she. “But your patent is from the King of kings, whose prerogatives are not acknowledged by the European Courts. You have the stars in your eyes——”

“I have one, indeed,” said he,

“But you have none on your breast. True, you have honour, and that always is singular; but we women prefer honours in the plural. Then, you are very ugly, except when you play a part——”

“But, the part he plays, does it beautify M. le Comte?” said Polichinelle.

“Par exemple! he has at least lovely hair, and orders on his breast.”

Polichinelle crushed his own. shirt-frill with a blow. “And I, mademoiselle, have orders—but they are to save you from yourself.”

He meant orders from the King of kings; but she jeered at and flouted him.

“You are intolerable when you are not acting,” she said; and “You speak the common thought of woman about man,” he answered, very bitterly for him.

Then she called him insolent and churlish, because he wished to save her from herself, that was the sweetest companion she knew.

“Very well,” he answered; “if he wrongs you, I shall kill him.”

“I must be extremely careful that he does not, then,” she replied, mockingly; “for I do not want an assassin for a champion.”

“I shall insult and challenge him.”

“Mercy! this accomplished duellist! But if he killed you!”

“Never! My heart would be a stone.”

“There are, however, two little difficulties, mon ami: one, that he would not condescend to a lackey; one, that the courage for an affaire d’honneur is only to the high-born.”

“Mademoiselle, I that have played many parts can at least make a show of courage.”

“Before a woman, yes. And still to this there is the postscript, which, as you know, is the précis of all that should have been read between the lines. I detest you.”

“Because I am ill-favoured?”

“Most certainly.”

“Upon the surface. So is the Seine. Perhaps even I may be beautiful underneath.”

“Then I am not a Naiade. I have no gills. It is the air and the sun I desire, and—yes, the stars, but they must hang from ribbons.”

“God inspire me to direct you, mademoiselle!”

So, often spoke Polichinelle; but he was quite unsuccessful in his mission.

 

Frequently it was the way with Polichinelle, when the theatre was closed, to hire a wherry and pull restfully about the Seine in the moonlight. This seemed to recoup him after the mocking ordeal of the show. He need not there confuse his own identity with any puppet of another’s imagining in order to escape from the reproach of being himself. He could look into the face of the night without, as in human countenances, seeing his insignificance reflected and fleeringly cast back upon him.

Once, softly paddling, he entered from the south side an arch of the Pont au Change just as a woman threw herself from the northern parapet above. Polichinelle rescued this unfortunate for the moment; but only to have her die in his arms a little later. The police complimented him on his readiness and capability.

“It is the best part you have ever played, M. Polichinelle,” they said.

“Yes,” he answered, smiling. “Am I not an actor! But, there is still an epilogue to speak. The woman, before she died, dictated it to me.”

They put the woman in the Morgue; but nobody claimed her.

“You go the wrong way to work,” said Polichinelle. “When a jewel has been stolen, you will not catch the thief by exhibiting the casket.”

“What has been thieved here, then?”

“Truly, this woman’s honour.”

“But, that is no theft.”

“Oh! a thousand pardons! I thought it was her best possession.”

“At least it could never be restored.”

“That is to see. I have an idea it may be cut out of somebody’s heart. Then, if I make it mine and her mine, of necessity she possesses it again in me.”

“But she is dead.”

“That is nothing. It is very easy to die also.”

“Well, he is mad,” they said; and, indeed, his behaviour would appear to justify the statement; for—nobody claiming the woman—Polichinelle had her buried in the Madeleine at his own charge; and afterwards would often come and sit upon her gravestone in the moonlight, instead of boating on the Seine.

 

M. le Comte was a privileged habitué of the Comédie Française. He would come behind the scenes and canvass the most adorable figurantes when his appetite for beauty needed stimulating. Once Ambroise, coming off the stage, brushed rudely against him as he stood at the wings. Monsieur gave the actor a good cuff. There was something of a row.

“Polichinelle,” said the Count, “you are intolerable when you are not acting.”

“And you,” said Polichinelle, “are intolerable at all times.”

The next morning Polichinelle sent the Count a challenge. In the afternoon a gentleman called upon the actor at his rooms, and returned the sinister missive, flinging it on the table.

“He will not fight, then?” said Polichinelle. “I am not worth his steel?”

“The question is superfluous,” said the gentleman. “À gens de village trompette de bois.”

He rolled the r as if he were preparing to spit at a dog.

“But, I will tell you what he will do,” he said, with an insolent sternness. “If you continue to annoy him, he will have you removed.”

“Very well,” said Polichinelle.

Polichinelle gave out that he was tired of acting, and that he was going to travel. The manager implored him to stay; for he was often adorable when he was not himself, and he drew big houses. Polichinelle was obdurate.

“I have earned a rest,” he said, “and the money to enjoy it. Besides, in my retirement I shall study a part that is going to make me presently the most notable actor of my day.”

He disappeared; but not, as he had said, to travel. He realised upon his every investment; pouched his entire capital; disguised himself completely (that was a simple matter to one of his experience)—and, withdrawing to the suburbs, took innumerable lessons in fencing and shooting at a mark, until he found himself abominably proficient as a duellist. Then he returned to the centre of operations.

M. de Suleau, of an ancient Belgian family, effected a sensation in Paris. True, he was not of a striking personality; but he spent his money royally and was a capital bon-vivant. M. le Comte struck up quite a friendship with him. He thought him caustic but excessively amusing. Once, at the Rocher de Cangale, when the two were of a merry party, the Count got to boasting of his conquests at the Comédie Française.

“That is a good preserve,” he said. “There were Célie, and little Babet, and most of all the poor Colombine.”

“Her I knew,” said De Suleau. “I had a message from her on her death-bed.”

“Hélas!” exclaimed M. le Comte significantly. “And,” he added in derision, “it is a reproof to my self-sufficiency. I thought I knew the worst of the minette! So, you were poaching, monsieur?”

“Her misfortunes called for pity, M. le Comte.”

“They would seem to have called effectively. Will you tell us the import of the message, monsieur?”

“It was this,” said De Suleau; and he threw a full glass of wine in the other’s face.

“This looks like a guet-apens,” said M. le Comte very quietly, as he mopped the crimson splashes from his eyes and shirt-front.

“It is superfluous to remove them,” said De Suleau. “They are sure to appear again by-and-by. À gens de village trompette de bois.”

 

The meeting took place in the Bois de Boulogne. M. le Comte, a notable shot, chose pistols; and selected for his second the very gentleman who had formerly called upon Polichinelle. The conditions were à la barrière—the first fire at twenty-five paces, and leave to advance twelve to him that had received it. The opening was delayed so long that at last M. le Comte felt his reputation to be at stake. With a laugh and a shrug of his shoulders, he levelled his weapon, and, taking keen aim, discharged it. M. de Suleau gave an agonised jerk. He was hit in the side, just above the hip. With horrible courage, he plugged the spouting wound with the forefinger of his left hand and, death clutching at him, advanced to the limit and stopped.

“M. le Comte,” said he, “Polichinelle is tolerable only when he is acting. What a part he is to play now! He, this inconsiderable fripon, as a pretended aristocrat, to blow the brains out of Mademoiselle Colombine’s betrayer!”

In the madness of his triumph, he raised and flourished his left hand: a spurt of blood hissed from his flank; his pistol cracked and the bullet rushed wide. With a scream he collapsed and fell dead upon the grass.

“Mort de ma vie!” said M. le Comte’s second; “you are spared a fine disgrace, monsieur.”

“Yes,” said M. le Comte. “But poor Polichinelle always failed to convince at the last moment. He was so extremely ugly.”

Bernard Capes