Bohemian Days: Three American TalesTownsend, George Alfred
General
Bohemian Days: Three American Tales
Townsend, George Alfred
Fiction; Poetry
In the latter part of October, 1863, seven very anxious and dilapidated
personages were assembled under the roof of an old, eight-storied
tenement, near the church of St. Sulpice, in the city of Paris.
The seven under consideration had reached the catastrophe of their
decline--and rise. They had met in solemn deliberation to pass
resolutions to that effect, and take the only congenial means for
replenishment and reform. This means lay in miniature before a caged
window, revealed by a superfluity of light--a roulette-table, whereon
the ball was spinning industriously from the practised fingers of Mr.
Auburn Risque, of Mississippi.
Mr. Auburn Risque had a spotted eye and a bluishly cold face; his
fingers were the only movable part of him, for he performed respiration
and articulation with the same organ--his nose; and the sole words
vouchsafed by this at present were:
"Black--black--black--white--black--white--white--black"--etc.
The five surrounding parties were carefully noting upon fragments of
paper the results of the experiment, and likewise Master Lees, the
lessee of the chamber--a pale, emaciated youth, sitting up in bed, and
ciphering tremulously, with bony fingers; even he, upon whom disease had
made auguries of death, looked forward to gold, as the remedy which
science had not brought, for a wasted youth of dissipation and
incontinence.
They were all representatives of the recently instituted Confederacy.
Most of them had dwelt in Paris anterior to the war, and, habituated to
its luxuries, scarcely recognized themselves, now that they were forlorn
and needy. Note Mr. Pisgah, for example--a Georgian, tall, shapely and
handsome, with the gray hairs of his thirtieth year shading his working
temples; he had been the most envied man in Paris; no woman could resist
the magnetism of his eye; he was almost a match for the great Berger at
billiards; he rode like a centaur on the Boulevards, and counterfeited
Apollo at the opera and the masque. His credit was good for fifty
thousand francs any day in the year. He had travelled in far and
contiguous regions, conducted intrigues at Athens and Damascus, and
smoked his pipe upon the Nile and among the ruins of Sebastopol. Without
principle, he was yet amiable, and with his dashing style and address,
one forgot his worthlessness.
How keenly he is reminded of it now! He cannot work, he has no craft nor
profession; he knew enough to pass for an educated gentleman; not enough
to earn a franc a day. He is the _protege_ at present of his
washerwoman, and can say, with some governments, that his debts are
impartially distributed. He has only two fears--those of starvation in
France, and a soldier's death in America.
The prospect of a debtor's prison at Clichy has long since ceased to be
a terror. There, he would be secure of sustenance and shelter, and of
these, at liberty, he is doubtful every day.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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