Part 62 (1/2)

AT ”THE CRYING CALF”

”What's your drink?”

”What's your offer?”

Hogshead Geoffrey, also nicknamed ”The Barrel,” thumped the table with a formidable fist, at the risk of upsetting a pile of saucers, which, at this advanced hour of the evening, showed clearly how he had spent the hours pa.s.sed in the wine-shop.

”What do I offer?” he retorted. ”I offer what's wanted. I don't haggle. When I ask a fellow: 'Old man, what do you want to wet your gullet?' that means: 'Choose.' There now!”

Hogshead Geoffrey's companion merely said:

”Pa.s.s the programme!”

Once in possession of the wine-list--if such could be called the crumpled, dirty paper on which the owner of the house had scribbled in pencil the fresh drinks, composed of indescribable mixtures specially recommended to his clients--the guest of Hogshead Geoffrey became absorbed in the list of strange beverages.

So mean-looking an individual was this guest that he had been nicknamed ”The Scrub.” He also answered to the more aristocratic t.i.tle of ”Sacristan.” Once he had been sacristan at the church of Saint-Sulpice, but intemperate habits had led to his dismissal. What odd link there was between this sorry little fellow and the robust Geoffrey?[7]

[Footnote 7: See _Fantomas_: vol. i, Fantomas Series]

The Scrub ordered: ”A thick 'un--jolly thick!” He eyed his host.

”What's been your lay? I haven't clapped eyes on you for days!”

Hogshead Geoffrey emptied his gla.s.s at one go. Leaning his head against the wall, his fists on the table, his legs stretched out, he stared at the ceiling.

The atmosphere of this den in the rue Monge was poisonous with the odours of stale wine and rank tobacco. The musty air was thick, the shop was ill-lighted by one jet of gas in the centre of the room.

”Well, old Scrub,” said Geoffrey at last. ”You haven't seen me because you haven't!... You remember I pa.s.sed the Markets' test and was nominated market porter?”

”Jolly well I do!... We had a famous drinking bout that time!”

”That's so, Scrub!... And my sister Bobinette paid the piper!... You remember I was rejected?... Well, I got into the Markets all the same!... Then--one fine day I gave a tallykeeper a regular knock-down-and-outer!”

”You did?”

”Just didn't I?... I gave him such a oner--just like this!”...

Lifting his enormous hairy fist, Hogshead Geoffrey brought it down on the table with disastrous results: the ancient worm-eaten board was split from end to end!

Flattering remarks were showered on this colossus from all sides.

”Ho! ho! Nothing can resist me!” shouted Hogshead Geoffrey.... ”Give me anything you choose!... Every table in the room! No matter what!

I'll break it in two--man or woman! Wood or stone!... It's all one to me!”

True or not, Hogshead Geoffrey, when not too much in liquor, was a gentle soul, a simple, kind creature; quick-tempered, kind-hearted.

Liable to sudden gusts of anger, he was equally capable of knocking the life out of a comrade with his gigantic fist or of comforting some sniveling street urchin crossing his path.

Well did the Scrub know it. He too was a contradictory mixture. This mean little human specimen had been newsboy, seller of post cards, opener of cab doors, Jack of any little trade, the companion of pickpockets and other light-fingered gentry, also adored the good manners of bygone vestry days, the polished phrases, the benedictory gestures!