Part 2 (1/2)
”It may be so,” replied the waiter. ”But we had no photograph to go by.
We had to allow the artist to exercise his genius, and, above all, we had to gratify the spirit of Jean Bouchon.”
”I see. But the att.i.tude is inexact. Jean Bouchon fell down the steps headlong, and this represents a man staggering backwards.”
”It would have been inartistic to have shown him precipitated forwards; besides, the spirit of Jean might not have liked it.”
”Quite so. I understand. But the flag?”
”That was an idea of the artist. Jean could not be made holding a coffee-cup. You will see the whole makes a superb subject. Art has its exigencies. Monsieur will see underneath is an inscription on the pedestal.”
I stooped, and with some astonishment read--
”JEAN BOUCHON MORT SUR LE CHAMP DE GLOIRE 1870 DULCE ET DECORUM EST PRO PATRIA MORI.”
”Why!” objected I, ”he died from falling a cropper in the back pa.s.sage, not on the field of glory.”
”Monsieur! all Orleans is a field of glory. Under S. Aignan did we not repel Attila and his Huns in 451? Under Jeanne d'Arc did we not repulse the English--monsieur will excuse the allusion--in 1429. Did we not recapture Orleans from the Germans in November, 1870?”
”That is all very true,” I broke in. ”But Jean Bouchon neither fought against Attila nor with la Pucelle, nor against the Prussians. Then '_Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori_' is rather strong, considering the facts.”
”How? Does not monsieur see that the sentiment is patriotic and magnificent?”
”I admit that, but dispute the application.”
”Then why apply it? The sentiment is all right.”
”But by implication it refers to Jean Bouchon, who died, not for his country, but in a sordid coffee-house brawl. Then, again, the date is wrong. Jean Bouchon died in 1869, not in 1870.”
”That is only out by a year.”
”Yes, but with this mistake of a year, and with the quotation from Horace, and with the att.i.tude given to the figure, anyone would suppose that Jean Bouchon had fallen in the retaking of Orleans from the Prussians.”
”Ah! monsieur, who looks on a monument and expects to find thereon the literal truth relative to the deceased?”
”This is something of a sacrifice to truth,” I demurred.
”Sacrifice is superb!” said the waiter. ”There is nothing more n.o.ble, more heroic than sacrifice.”
”But not the sacrifice of truth.”
”Sacrifice is always sacrifice.”
”Well,” said I, unwilling further to dispute, ”this is certainly a great creation out of nothing.”
”Not out of nothing; out of the coppers that Jean Bouchon had filched from us, and which choked up his coffin.”
”Jean Bouchon has been seen no more?”
”No, monsieur. And yet--yes, once, when the statue was unveiled. Our _patron_ did that. The cafe was crowded. All our _habitues_ were there.