The Joyous Adventures of Aristide PujolLocke, William John
Philosophy
The Joyous Adventures of Aristide Pujol
Locke, William John
Adventure and adventurers -- Fiction
So Roulard, when the hour of rehearsal drew nigh, conducted Aristide to
the murky recesses of a dirty little theatre in the Batignolles, where
Aristide performed such prodigies of repercussion that he was forthwith
engaged to play the drum, the kettle-drum, the triangle, the cymbals,
the castagnettes and the tambourine, in the orchestra of the Tournée
Gulland at the dazzling salary of thirty francs a week.
To tell how Aristide drummed and cymballed the progress of Les
Huguenots, Carmen, La Juive, La Fille de Madame Angot and L'Arlésienne
through France would mean the rewriting of a "Capitaine Fracasse." To
hear the creature talk about it makes my mouth as a brick kiln and my
flesh as that of a goose. He was the Adonis, the Apollo, the Don Juan,
the Irresistible of the Tournée. Fled truculent bass and haughty tenor
before him; from diva to moustachioed contralto in the chorus, all the
ladies breathlessly watched for the fall of his handkerchief; he was
recognized, in fact, as a devil of a fellow. But in spite of these
triumphs, the manipulation of the drum, kettle-drum, triangle, cymbals,
castagnettes and tambourine, which at first had given him intense and
childish delight, at last became invested with a mechanical monotony
that almost drove him mad. All day long the thought of the ill-lit
corner, on the extreme right of the orchestra, garnished with the
accursed instruments of noise to which duty would compel him at eight
o'clock in the evening hung over him like a hideous doom. Sweet singers
of the female sex were powerless to console. He passed them by, and
haughty tenor and swaggering basso again took heart of grace.
"_Mais, mon Dieu, c'est le métier!_" expostulated Roulard.
"_Sale métier!_" cried Aristide, who was as much fitted for the
merciless routine of a theatre orchestra as a quagga for the shafts of
an omnibus. "A beast of a trade! One is no longer a man. One is just an
automatic system of fog-signals!"
In this depraved state of mind he arrived at Perpignan, where that
befell him which I am about to relate.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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