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The Paris Sketch Book

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At first it was very quiet and grave, but the master of the house
brought back the talk to the subject of Poinsinet, and uttered all
sorts of abuse concerning him. He begged the gentleman, who had
introduced such a little scamp into his house, to bring him thither
no more: whereupon the other took up, warmly, Poinsinet's defence;
declared that he was a man of the greatest merit, frequenting the
best society, and remarkable for his talents as well as his
virtues.

"Ah!" said Poinsinet to the magician, quite charmed at what he
heard, "how ever shall I thank you, my dear sir, for thus showing
me who my true friends are?"

The magician promised him still further favors in prospect; and
told him to look out now, for he was about to throw all the company
into a temporary fit of madness, which, no doubt, would be very
amusing.

In consequence, all the company, who had heard every syllable of
the conversation, began to perform the most extraordinary antics,
much to the delight of Poinsinet. One asked a nonsensical
question, and the other delivered an answer not at all to the
purpose. If a man asked for a drink, they poured him out a pepper-
box or a napkin: they took a pinch of snuff, and swore it was
excellent wine; and vowed that the bread was the most delicious
mutton ever tasted. The little man was delighted.

"Ah!" said he, "these fellows are prettily punished for their
rascally backbiting of me!"

"Gentlemen," said the host, "I shall now give you some celebrated
champagne," and he poured out to each a glass of water.

"Good heavens!" said one, spitting it out, with the most horrible
grimace, "where did you get this detestable claret?"

"Ah, faugh!" said a second, "I never tasted such vile corked
burgundy in all my days!" and he threw the glass of water into
Poinsinet's face, as did half a dozen of the other guests,
drenching the poor wretch to the skin. To complete this pleasant
illusion, two of the guests fell to boxing across Poinsinet, who
received a number of the blows, and received them with the patience
of a fakir, feeling himself more flattered by the precious
privilege of beholding this scene invisible, than hurt by the blows
and buffets which the mad company bestowed upon him.

The fame of this adventure spread quickly over Paris, and all the
world longed to have at their houses the representation of
Poinsinet the Invisible. The servants and the whole company used
to be put up to the trick; and Poinsinet, who believed in his
invisibility as much as he did in his existence, went about with
his friend and protector the magician. People, of course, never
pretended to see him, and would very often not talk of him at all
for some time, but hold sober conversation about anything else in
the world. When dinner was served, of course there was no cover
laid for Poinsinet, who carried about a little stool, on which he
sat by the side of the magician, and always ate off his plate.
Everybody was astonished at the magician's appetite and at the
quantity of wine he drank; as for little Poinsinet, he never once
suspected any trick, and had such a confidence in his magician,
that, I do believe, if the latter had told him to fling himself out
of window, he would have done so, without the slightest trepidation.

Among other mystifications in which the Portuguese enchanter
plunged him, was one which used to afford always a good deal of
amusement. He informed Poinsinet, with great mystery, that HE WAS
NOT HIMSELF; he was not, that is to say, that ugly, deformed little
monster, called Poinsinet; but that his birth was most illustrious,
and his real name Polycarte. He was, in fact, the son of a
celebrated magician; but other magicians, enemies of his father,
had changed him in his cradle, altering his features into their
present hideous shape, in order that a silly old fellow, called
Poinsinet, might take him to be his own son, which little monster
the magician had likewise spirited away.

The poor wretch was sadly cast down at this; for he tried to fancy
that his person was agreeable to the ladies, of whom he was one of
the warmest little admirers possible; and to console him somewhat,
the magician told him that his real shape was exquisitely
beautiful, and as soon as he should appear in it, all the beauties
in Paris would be at his feet. But how to regain it? "Oh, for one
minute of that beauty!" cried the little man; "what would he not
give to appear under that enchanting form!" The magician hereupon
waved his stick over his head, pronounced some awful magical words,
and twisted him round three times; at the third twist, the men in
company seemed struck with astonishment and envy, the ladies
clasped their hands, and some of them kissed his. Everybody
declared his beauty to be supernatural.

Poinsinet, enchanted, rushed to a glass. "Fool!" said the
magician; "do you suppose that YOU can see the change? My power to
render you invisible, beautiful, or ten times more hideous even
than you are, extends only to others, not to you. You may look a
thousand times in the glass, and you will only see those deformed
limbs and disgusting features with which devilish malice has
disguised you." Poor little Poinsinet looked, and came back in
tears. "But," resumed the magician,--"ha, ha, ha!--I know a way in
which to disappoint the machinations of these fiendish magi."

"Oh, my benefactor!--my great master!--for heaven's sake tell it!"
gasped Poinsinet.

"Look you--it is this. A prey to enchantment and demoniac art all
your life long, you have lived until your present age perfectly
satisfied; nay, absolutely vain of a person the most singularly
hideous that ever walked the earth!"

"IS it?" whispered Poinsinet. "Indeed and indeed I didn't think it
so bad!"

"He acknowledges it! he acknowledges it!" roared the magician.
"Wretch, dotard, owl, mole, miserable buzzard! I have no reason to
tell thee now that thy form is monstrous, that children cry, that
cowards turn pale, that teeming matrons shudder to behold it. It
is not thy fault that thou art thus ungainly: but wherefore so
blind? wherefore so conceited of thyself! I tell thee, Poinsinet,
that over every fresh instance of thy vanity the hostile enchanters
rejoice and triumph. As long as thou art blindly satisfied with
thyself; as long as thou pretendest, in thy present odious shape,
to win the love of aught above a negress; nay, further still, until
thou hast learned to regard that face, as others do, with the most
intolerable horror and disgust, to abuse it when thou seest it, to
despise it, in short, and treat that miserable disguise in which
the enchanters have wrapped thee with the strongest, hatred and
scorn, so long art thou destined to wear it."

Such speeches as these, continually repeated, caused Poinsinet to
be fully convinced of his ugliness; he used to go about in
companies, and take every opportunity of inveighing against
himself; he made verses and epigrams against himself; he talked
about "that dwarf, Poinsinet;" "that buffoon, Poinsinet;" "that
conceited, hump-backed Poinsinet;" and he would spend hours before
the glass, abusing his own face as he saw it reflected there, and
vowing that he grew handsomer at every fresh epithet that he
uttered.

Of course the wags, from time to time, used to give him every
possible encouragement, and declared that since this exercise, his
person was amazingly improved. The ladies, too, began to be so
excessively fond of him, that the little fellow was obliged to
caution them at last--for the good, as he said, of society; he
recommended them to draw lots, for he could not gratify them all;
but promised when his metamorphosis was complete, that the one
chosen should become the happy Mrs. Poinsinet; or, to speak more
correctly, Mrs. Polycarte.

I am sorry to say, however, that, on the score of gallantry,
Poinsinet was never quite convinced of the hideousness of his
appearance. He had a number of adventures, accordingly, with the
ladies, but strange to say, the husbands or fathers were always
interrupting him. On one occasion he was made to pass the night in
a slipper-bath full of water; where, although he had all his
clothes on, he declared that he nearly caught his death of cold.
Another night, in revenge, the poor fellow


--"dans le simple appareil
D'une beauté, qu'on vient d'arracher au sommeil,"


spent a number of hours contemplating the beauty of the moon on the
tiles. These adventures are pretty numerous in the memoirs of M.
Poinsinet; but the fact is, that people in France were a great deal
more philosophical in those days than the English are now, so that
Poinsinet's loves must be passed over, as not being to our taste.
His magician was a great diver, and told Poinsinet the most
wonderful tales of his two minutes' absence under water. These two
minutes, he said, lasted through a year, at least, which he spent
in the company of a naiad, more beautiful than Venus, in a palace
more splendid than even Versailles. Fired by the description,
Poinsinet used to dip, and dip, but he never was known to make any
mermaid acquaintances, although he fully believed that one day he
should find such.

The invisible joke was brought to an end by Poinsinet's too great
reliance on it; for being, as we have said, of a very tender and
sanguine disposition, he one day fell in love with a lady in whose
company he dined, and whom he actually proposed to embrace; but the
fair lady, in the hurry of the moment, forgot to act up to the
joke; and instead of receiving Poinsinet's salute with calmness,
grew indignant, called him an impudent little scoundrel, and lent
him a sound box on the ear. With this slap the invisibility of
Poinsinet disappeared, the gnomes and genii left him, and he
settled down into common life again, and was hoaxed only by vulgar
means.

A vast number of pages might be filled with narratives of the
tricks that were played upon him; but they resemble each other a
good deal, as may be imagined, and the chief point remarkable about
them is the wondrous faith of Poinsinet. After being introduced to
the Prussian ambassador at the Tuileries, he was presented to the
Turkish envoy at the Place Vendôme, who received him in state,
surrounded by the officers of his establishment, all dressed in the
smartest dresses that the wardrobe of the Opéra Comique could
furnish.

As the greatest honor that could be done to him, Poinsinet was
invited to eat, and a tray was produced, on which was a delicate
dish prepared in the Turkish manner. This consisted of a
reasonable quantity of mustard, salt, cinnamon and ginger, nutmegs
and cloves, with a couple of tablespoonfuls of cayenne pepper, to
give the whole a flavor; and Poinsinet's countenance may be
imagined when he introduced into his mouth a quantity of this
exquisite compound.

"The best of the joke was," says the author who records so many of
the pitiless tricks practised upon poor Poinsinet, "that the little
man used to laugh at them afterwards himself with perfect good
humor; and lived in the daily hope that, from being the sufferer,
he should become the agent in these hoaxes, and do to others as he
had been done by." Passing, therefore, one day, on the Pont Neuf,
with a friend, who had been one of the greatest performers, the
latter said to him, "Poinsinet, my good fellow, thou hast suffered
enough, and thy sufferings have made thee so wise and cunning, that
thou art worthy of entering among the initiated, and hoaxing in thy
turn." Poinsinet was charmed; he asked when he should be
initiated, and how? It was told him that a moment would suffice,
and that the ceremony might be performed on the spot. At this
news, and according to order, Poinsinet flung himself straightway
on his knees in the kennel; and the other, drawing his sword,
solemnly initiated him into the sacred order of jokers. From that
day the little man believed himself received into the society; and
to this having brought him, let us bid him a respectful adieu.




THE DEVIL'S WAGER.


It was the hour of the night when there be none stirring save
churchyard ghosts--when all doors are closed except the gates of
graves, and all eyes shut but the eyes of wicked men.

When there is no sound on the earth except the ticking of the
grasshopper, or the croaking of obscene frogs in the poole.

And no light except that of the blinking starres, and the wicked
and devilish wills-o'-the-wisp, as they gambol among the marshes,
and lead good men astraye.

When there is nothing moving in heaven except the owle, as he
flappeth along lazily; or the magician, as he rides on his infernal
broomsticke, whistling through the aire like the arrowes of a
Yorkshire archere.

It was at this hour (namely, at twelve o'clock of the night,) that
two beings went winging through the black clouds, and holding
converse with each other.

Now the first was Mercurius, the messenger, not of gods (as the
heathens feigned), but of daemons; and the second, with whom he held
company, was the soul of Sir Roger de Rollo, the brave knight. Sir
Roger was Count of Chauchigny, in Champagne; Seigneur of Santerre,
Villacerf and aultre lieux. But the great die as well as the
humble; and nothing remained of brave Rodger now, but his coffin
and his deathless soul.

And Mercurius, in order to keep fast the soul, his companion, had
bound him round the neck with his tail; which, when the soul was
stubborn, he would draw so tight as to strangle him wellnigh,
sticking into him the barbed point thereof; whereat the poor soul,
Sir Rollo, would groan and roar lustily.

Now they two had come together from the gates of purgatorie, being
bound to those regions of fire and flame where poor sinners fry and
roast in saecula saeculorum.

"It is hard," said the poor Sir Rollo, as they went gliding through
the clouds, "that I should thus be condemned for ever, and all for
want of a single ave."

"How, Sir Soul?" said the daemon. "You were on earth so wicked,
that not one, or a million of aves, could suffice to keep from
hell-flame a creature like thee; but cheer up and be merry; thou
wilt be but a subject of our lord the Devil, as am I; and, perhaps,
thou wilt be advanced to posts of honor, as am I also:" and to show
his authoritie, he lashed with his tail the ribbes of the wretched
Rollo.

"Nevertheless, sinner as I am, one more ave would have saved me;
for my sister, who was Abbess of St. Mary of Chauchigny, did so
prevail, by her prayer and good works, for my lost and wretched
soul, that every day I felt the pains of purgatory decrease; the
pitchforks which, on my first entry, had never ceased to vex and
torment my poor carcass, were now not applied above once a week;
the roasting had ceased, the boiling had discontinued; only a
certain warmth was kept up, to remind me of my situation."

"A gentle stewe," said the daemon.

"Yea, truly, I was but in a stew, and all from the effects of the
prayers of my blessed sister. But yesterday, he who watched me in
purgatory told me, that yet another prayer from my sister, and my
bonds should be unloosed, and I, who am now a devil, should have
been a blessed angel."

"And the other ave?" said the daemon.

"She died, sir--my sister died--death choked her in the middle of
the prayer." And hereat the wretched spirit began to weepe and
whine piteously; his salt tears falling over his beard, and
scalding the tail of Mercurius the devil.

"It is, in truth, a hard case," said the daemon; "but I know of no
remedy save patience, and for that you will have an excellent
opportunity in your lodgings below."

"But I have relations," said the Earl; "my kinsman Randal, who has
inherited my lands, will he not say a prayer for his uncle?"

"Thou didst hate and oppress him when living."

"It is true; but an ave is not much; his sister, my niece, Matilda--"

"You shut her in a convent, and hanged her lover."

"Had I not reason? besides, has she not others?"

"A dozen, without doubt."

"And my brother, the prior?"

"A liege subject of my lord the Devil: he never opens his mouth,
except to utter an oath, or to swallow a cup of wine."

"And yet, if but one of these would but say an ave for me, I should
be saved."

"Aves with them are rarae aves," replied Mercurius, wagging his tail
right waggishly; "and, what is more, I will lay thee any wager that
not one of these will say a prayer to save thee."

"I would wager willingly," responded he of Chauchigny; "but what
has a poor soul like me to stake?"

"Every evening, after the day's roasting, my lord Satan giveth a
cup of cold water to his servants; I will bet thee thy water for a
year, that none of the three will pray for thee."

"Done!" said Rollo.

"Done!" said the daemon; "and here, if I mistake not, is thy castle
of Chauchigny."

Indeed, it was true. The soul, on looking down, perceived the tall
towers, the courts, the stables, and the fair gardens of the
castle. Although it was past midnight, there was a blaze of light
in the banqueting-hall, and a lamp burning in the open window of
the Lady Matilda.

"With whom shall we begin?" said the daemon: "with the baron or the
lady?"

"With the lady, if you will."

"Be it so; her window is open, let us enter."

So they descended, and entered silently into Matilda's chamber.


The young lady's eyes were fixed so intently on a little clock,
that it was no wonder that she did not perceive the entrance of her
two visitors. Her fair cheek rested on her white arm, and her
white arm on the cushion of a great chair in which she sat,
pleasantly supported by sweet thoughts and swan's down; a lute was
at her side, and a book of prayers lay under the table (for piety
is always modest). Like the amorous Alexander, she sighed and
looked (at the clock)--and sighed for ten minutes or more, when she
softly breathed the word "Edward!"

At this the soul of the Baron was wroth. "The jade is at her old
pranks," said he to the devil; and then addressing Matilda: "I pray
thee, sweet niece, turn thy thoughts for a moment from that
villanous page, Edward, and give them to thine affectionate uncle."

When she heard the voice, and saw the awful apparition of her uncle
(for a year's sojourn in purgatory had not increased the comeliness
of his appearance), she started, screamed, and of course fainted.

But the devil Mercurius soon restored her to herself. "What's
o'clock?" said she, as soon as she had recovered from her fit: "is
he come?"

"Not thy lover, Maude, but thine uncle--that is, his soul. For the
love of heaven, listen to me: I have been frying in purgatory for a
year past, and should have been in heaven but for the want of a
single ave."

"I will say it for thee to-morrow, uncle."

"To-night, or never."

"Well, to-night be it:" and she requested the devil Mercurius to
give her the prayer-book from under the table; but he had no sooner
touched the holy book than he dropped it with a shriek and a yell.
"It was hotter," he said, "than his master Sir Lucifer's own
particular pitchfork." And the lady was forced to begin her ave
without the aid of her missal.

At the commencement of her devotions the daemon retired, and carried
with him the anxious soul of poor Sir Roger de Rollo.

The lady knelt down--she sighed deeply; she looked again at the
clock, and began--

"Ave Maria."

When a lute was heard under the window, and a sweet voice singing--

"Hark!" said Matilda.


"Now the toils of day are over,
And the sun hath sunk to rest,
Seeking, like a fiery lover,
The bosom of the blushing west--

"The faithful night keeps watch and ward,
Raising the moon, her silver shield,
And summoning the stars to guard
The slumbers of my fair Mathilde!"


"For mercy's sake!" said Sir Rollo, "the ave first, and next the
song."

So Matilda again dutifully betook her to her devotions, and began--

"Ave Maria gratiâ plena!" but the music began again, and the prayer
ceased of course.


"The faithful night! Now all things lie
Hid by her mantle dark and dim,
In pious hope I hither hie,
And humbly chant mine ev'ning hymn.

"Thou art my prayer, my saint, my shrine!
(For never holy pilgrim kneel'd,
Or wept at feet more pure than thine),
My virgin love, my sweet Mathilde!"


"Virgin love!" said the Baron. "Upon my soul, this is too bad!"
and he thought of the lady's lover whom he had caused to be hanged.

But SHE only thought of him who stood singing at her window.

"Niece Matilda!" cried Sir Roger, agonizedly, "wilt thou listen to
the lies of an impudent page, whilst thine uncle is waiting but a
dozen words to make him happy?"

At this Matilda grew angry: "Edward is neither impudent nor a liar,
Sir Uncle, and I will listen to the end of the song."

"Come away," said Mercurius; "he hath yet got wield, field, sealed,
congealed, and a dozen other rhymes beside; and after the song will
come the supper."

So the poor soul was obliged to go; while the lady listened, and
the page sung away till morning.


"My virtues have been my ruin," said poor Sir Rollo, as he and
Mercurius slunk silently out of the window. "Had I hanged that
knave Edward, as I did the page his predecessor, my niece would
have sung mine ave, and I should have been by this time an angel in
heaven."

"He is reserved for wiser purposes," responded the devil: "he will
assassinate your successor, the lady Mathilde's brother; and, in
consequence, will be hanged. In the love of the lady he will be
succeeded by a gardener, who will be replaced by a monk, who will
give way to an ostler, who will be deposed by a Jew pedler, who
shall, finally, yield to a noble earl, the future husband of the
fair Mathilde. So that, you see, instead of having one poor soul
a-frying, we may now look forward to a goodly harvest for our lord
the Devil."

The soul of the Baron began to think that his companion knew too
much for one who would make fair bets; but there was no help for
it; he would not, and he could not, cry off: and he prayed inwardly
that the brother might be found more pious than the sister.

But there seemed little chance of this. As they crossed the court,
lackeys, with smoking dishes and, full jugs, passed and repassed
continually, although it was long past midnight. On entering the
hall, they found Sir Randal at the head of a vast table, surrounded
by a fiercer and more motley collection of individuals than had
congregated there even in the time of Sir Rollo. The lord of the
castle had signified that "it was his royal pleasure to be drunk,"
and the gentlemen of his train had obsequiously followed their
master. Mercurius was delighted with the scene, and relaxed his
usually rigid countenance into a bland and benevolent smile, which
became him wonderfully.

The entrance of Sir Roger, who had been dead about a year, and a
person with hoofs, horns, and a tail, rather disturbed the hilarity
of the company. Sir Randal dropped his cup of wine; and Father
Peter, the confessor, incontinently paused in the midst of a
profane song, with which he was amusing the society.

"Holy Mother!" cried he, "it is Sir Roger."

"Alive!" screamed Sir Randal.

"No, my lord," Mercurius said; "Sir Roger is dead, but cometh on a
matter of business; and I have the honor to act as his counsellor
and attendant."

"Nephew," said Sir Roger, "the daemon saith justly; I am come on a
trifling affair, in which thy service is essential."

"I will do anything, uncle, in my power."

"Thou canst give me life, if thou wilt?" But Sir Randal looked
very blank at this proposition. "I mean life spiritual, Randal,"
said Sir Roger; and thereupon he explained to him the nature of the
wager.

Whilst he was telling his story, his companion Mercurius was
playing all sorts of antics in the hall; and, by his wit and fun,
became so popular with this godless crew, that they lost all the
fear which his first appearance had given them. The friar was
wonderfully taken with him, and used his utmost eloquence and
endeavors to convert the devil; the knights stopped drinking to
listen to the argument; the men-at-arms forbore brawling; and the
wicked little pages crowded round the two strange disputants, to
hear their edifying discourse. The ghostly man, however, had
little chance in the controversy, and certainly little learning to
carry it on. Sir Randal interrupted him. "Father Peter," said he,
"our kinsman is condemned for ever, for want of a single ave: wilt
thou say it for him?" "Willingly, my lord," said the monk, "with
my book;" and accordingly he produced his missal to read, without
which aid it appeared that the holy father could not manage the
desired prayer. But the crafty Mercurius had, by his devilish art,
inserted a song in the place of the ave, so that Father Peter,
instead of chanting an hymn, sang the following irreverent ditty--

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