Authors: Jacques Yonnet
As they were leaving Frédéric Lancelin‚ who was supporting his brother‚ said to Madame Félicienne‚ ‘You know‚ we’ll do our utmost‚ but it’s going to be difficult.’
‘You do everything you can‚ and I’ll take care of you … For a start‚ come and have your meals at my house.’
And while Louisette did the washing-up‚ Madame Félicienne meanwhile busied herself preparing appetizing dishes. She fed the Sleeper most carefully.
‘Truly‚ I wouldn’t let anyone else but you do it‚’ said Frédéric‚ genuinely moved. ‘Since he became paralysed‚ I’ve always been the one to look after him.’
The first day Marius was conscientiously slept for several hours.
Everyone at Le Chat Qui Pêche came by for news. Marius seemed better. His fever hadn’t dropped but he was breathing more deeply and able to talk without too much effort. His eyes had brightened. And everyone was delighted. But whereas Madame Félicienne seemed mostly excited by the Sleeper’s capabilities‚ Louisette couldn’t conceal her joy: Marius was getting better. She was radiant.
This greatly vexed Madame Félicienne‚ who wasted no time in putting her rival in her place.
‘You tried to steal my man. You see where that’s led. Well‚ just you give him back to me. I’ve a rightful claim on him. For a start‚ he’s still legally resident with me. He hasn’t registered any change of address. You don’t seriously believe‚ do you‚ that I’m just going to let you pocket his pension?’
‘I don’t give a damn about his money!’ said Louisette.
Collard‚ you could tell‚ didn’t much care for Félicienne.
‘In any case‚’ he ventured‚ ‘even if he does peg out‚ you can’t count on getting the money. You’d only be his mistress‚ not his widow.’
‘That’s open to discussion. There have been similar cases brought to trial. The law isn’t the same as before‚’ Félicienne declared authoritatively‚ a little put out nevertheless.
Fralicot‚ alias Les Eparges‚ who had reason to be well informed‚ said‚ ‘Well‚ I wouldn’t be so sure myself.’
Félicienne looked thoughtful. Her expression hardened. She directed a spiteful gaze at Louisette.
‘One way or another‚ my girl‚ I’ll get my own back on you‚’ she muttered to herself.
Félicienne only very rarely went to Pignol’s. She happened to be there when Dr Troquemène was called out to see one of the lodgers.
‘Will you have something‚ doctor?’
‘No thanks. I never drink.’
‘Listen‚ you couldn’t tell me … I don’t know what’s wrong with me‚ I’ve not been able to stay awake for the past two days.’
‘Do like me‚ drink less.’
‘That’s not the problem‚ I swear.’
Not bothering to answer‚ the doctor went off shrugging his shoulders. Suzanne‚ proprietress of the Sommerard hotel‚ was there.
‘Oh‚ that guy’s so disagreeable. I’ll ask young Claude‚ one of my lodgers‚ this evening. He’s a medical student.’
‘Oh‚ that’s really sweet of you. I’ll drop by for a little chat later on.’
The next day the patient seemed to be out of danger. And the whole gang‚ confident of the virtues of the two treatments
combined – that of the medical staff‚ and that of the Sleeper – drank to Marius’s health and his speedy return. But all was not well. Along came the Lancelin brothers‚ one supporting the other. The Sleeper looked much weaker than usual. Obviously worried‚ Frédéric sat him down as if he were made of some extraordinarily delicate substance. The Sleeper was shivering slightly. He muttered in gasps‚ ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’ve not been able to sleep. Not at all.’
‘It’s a disaster‚’ Frédéric lamented. ‘For him and for our patients.’
‘The best thing is for him to come and stay with me‚’ said Félicienne. ‘I’ll take good care of him. We’ll sit up all night with him if necessary.’
Over the following days Marius’s condition seriously worsened. But everyone’s attention – except Louisette’s – was somewhat distracted by the state of the paralytic. The Sleeper wasn’t sleeping any more‚ was
unable
to sleep! By day or night. He complained of palpitations. He was no more than a shadow of his former self.
Félicienne made him swallow some gruel.
‘He needs to keep his strength up.’
Louisette offered to help.
‘No‚ no‚ I manage better by myself‚’ the older woman protested peevishly.
When she was told at the Hôtel-Dieu of Marius’s death‚ Félicienne sobbed dry-eyed. Frédéric had stayed behind to look after his brother‚ who was practically unable to breathe. When the women returned he’d go and fetch a doctor – a good one. Maybe a shot of some kind of antispasmodic might bring some relief to the sleep-deprived Sleeper on the verge of exhaustion.
Frédéric went into the kitchen to fetch a glass of water‚ some sugar and a teaspoon. He opened a drawer.
When the two women got back‚ Félicienne said‚ ‘It’s all over.’ She snivelled.
‘It’s all over‚’ echoed Louisette‚ pasty-faced and devastated.
Félicienne went to look for something in the room next door. Frédéric took the opportunity to signal to Louisette
that he had something to tell her. He took four metal tubes out of his pocket – three empty and one half consumed. ORTEDRIN. Louisette didn’t understand straightaway. Frédéric pointed to his brother.
‘It was to stop him sleeping. She could have killed him
as well
.’
Louisette fainted.
The subsequent rumpus roused the neighbourhood. No one could make much sense of it. The temporary fit of madness that overcame Louisette and caused her to round on her rival with unbelievable violence was put down to despair. She tried to attack the older woman. Frédéric restrained her. Incoherent utterances were also heard‚ in which the words ‘murder’ and ‘criminal’ recurred amid sobs and rasps of rage.
Frédéric Lancelin demonstrated remarkable self-control and authority. Having calmed down Louisette‚ he asked her to help him take his brother home. Which she did‚ seemingly brought back to her senses. A car was found for them.
The next day Félicienne and Louisette ran into each other at Le Chat Qui Pêche. For a moment there were fears of another row.
To everyone’s astonishment‚ it was Louisette who apologized.
‘I don’t know what came over me. I don’t really remember. You know‚ I can’t hold my drink very well.’
And for the second time Félicienne and Louisette made peace with each other. Or pretended to.
Friends in the neighbourhood turned out in full force to accompany Marius Labadou’s hearse to Thiais.
People inquired after the Sleeper: he was able to sleep again and was back on the bridge‚ just as before. He had resumed his ‘consultations’. But it was Félicienne who began to fall apart. She often wept without rhyme or reason‚ got drunk and fell into deep depressions.
‘What have I done? What have I done?’
The neighbours would console her and take her home.
Louisette became her closest friend. One day she said to Félicienne‚ ‘You’re becoming a nervous wreck. I think you too should get yourself “slept”.’
Félicienne refused with horror. But she’d lost her willpower. Louisette kept insisting‚ slowly and surely wearing her down. It was on the nape of Félicienne’s neck‚ on her eyes and ears that the Sleeper laid his hands this time. Frédéric observed the procedure with a hardened expression no one recognized in him.
Félicienne has just been admitted to Ste-Anne. She’ll be there till the end of her days – which are numbered. She vegetates‚ sunk in a mindless state of almost permanent lethargy. Which is just as well: whenever she comes to‚ nightmares and hallucinations cause her to utter dreadful cries.
I still go and see Pierre-Luc my friend on the embankment‚ but whenever we’re obliged to walk past the Sleeper‚ I don’t know what makes me take a huge detour.
An historian is a kind detective in seach of the fact – remote or otherwise – that brings to a set of events apparently unconnected with each other‚ the link that unites them‚ their justification‚ their logic.
You cannot imagine what great delights this profession affords. It’s as if‚ in every incunablum‚ consumed by worms and steeped in boredom‚ in every inarticulate scrawl‚ in every collection of forgotten chronicles‚ there presides a mischievous sprite‚ winking at you‚ who at the appropriate time confers on you your reward in the form of renewed wonder.
Round Place Maubert and La Montagne‚ everyone was familiar with this slightly crazy Gypsy who a few years ago used to carve puppets‚ have clothes made for them‚ and sell them at Mayette and Vaubaillon.
Our man confined himself to making glove puppets‚ that’s to say without legs‚ their costume serving to glove the hand of the puppeteer.
It was a labour of love‚ carving the figures‚ painting them‚ dressing their hair‚ ‘finishing’ them. In bars he made no secret of the pleasure he took in working his puppets. He improvised painfully funny playlets to suit his audiences’ sense of humour. But it was all the same to him as long as peals of impersonal laughter – that ‘frank laughter’ Heine speaks of – rang in his ears.
I developed some interest in this woodcarving puppeteer‚ so much so that he inspired me to write some plays for puppets. (It’s pleasant and relaxing‚ now and again‚ to ‘concoct’ folklore.) I penned five farces in the Lyons style. Vaubaillon
and Billaudot published them. Through this entertaining friend of mine‚ I made the acquaintance of his main client: Monsieur Mayette.
About fifty years old. Long-time owner of a successful business‚ who’d started out as a conjurer and illusionist by profession. But above all a kindly and decent man‚ far from being uncultured‚ and most importantly instilled with that delicate sensitivity that does not deceive. What’s all this leading up to? The fact that Monsieur Mayette should have established himself there and not elsewhere. It’s always the same story.
With plenty of orders coming in‚ the Gypsy suddenly stopped making puppets. Yet‚ small-scale though this craftsman’s production was‚ his business was flourishing.
‘I’ve had enough‚’ he said to me one day. ‘I take too much trouble over my puppets. There’s no profit in it.’
‘Raise your prices!’
‘If only it were that simple.’
I wasn’t going to insist. On a previous occasion he told me he was ‘too fond’ of his creations – no two heads he carved were identical – and‚ although he’d produced hundreds of them‚ it was always a kind of wrench for him whenever he parted with one of his ‘children’.
‘I don’t know whose hands they fall into … It’s casting pearls before swine.’
Finally‚ he came out with the real crux of the matter‚ which at the time left me none the wiser.
‘You know‚ a carving‚ especially if it’s polychrome‚ is not meant to move. These faces‚ these half-bodies‚ when you animate them‚ they’re more live than the living. They can be dangerous for those who don’t really understand them. With contained energy‚ no one can predict what will happen when it’s released.’
He began to paint frescoes in cafés and then I lost touch with him.
Some time later I was reading through a number of ancient documents relating to the history of the neighbourhood. Among a great many other things‚ I learned from them that in
the immediate vicinity of the Mayette premises‚ near the Passage du Clos-Bruneau (in 1248 called the Rue Judas)‚ a community of Orientals (Gypsies or Jews) had settled‚ who from before the Middle Ages had been engaged in making articulated dolls.
In my precious little
Privat d’Anglemont
‚ the following can be read on page 33:
‘We had encountered wandering musicians‚ organ grinders‚ exhibitors of monkeys and other live animals: there are some houses here that are veritable menageries‚ and this is where the impresarios of marionette theatre have established their headquarters
.
These people have introduced an entire industry to Rue du Clos- Bruneau. They provide a living for the whole population‚ a quaint‚ gentle‚ kindly‚ almost artistic population vaguely reminiscent of certain characters in Hoffmann’s fantastic tales. They are all employed in the production of puppets. There is first of all the woodcarver who makes the heads. He is both painter and hairdresser. He makes both simple and high-quality products. He sells his high-quality youths’ heads for 2 to 4 francs; those of old men‚ with beards and white hair‚ for 10 to 12 francs; an ordinary wig‚ for 12 sous; curled and trimmed‚ for a woman or a Louis XIII courtier‚ 2 francs
.
Next door is the seamstress who makes the costumes; she is supplied with the fabrics. When she works for a well-established theatre‚ such as that of Monsieur Morin‚ Rue Jean-de-Beauvais‚ she earns 2 francs a day‚ without too much effort. Then come the shoemakers who make the satin slippers for the ballerina marionettes and the leather boots for the chevaliers. The shoes cost 4 sous a pair‚ the boots 15 sous. Finally‚ the real magician of this world‚ the one who wires up the puppet. Wiring up a puppet consists of attaching all the strings to make it move about on stage: that is what will complete the illusion. A certain expertise is required to do the job properly‚ because the person responsible for making the puppet dance must never be able to go wrong and mistake one string for another‚ make an arm move instead of a leg: the way in which the puppet is wired must be such that on seeing the detached strings anyone practised in these matters should be able to say: this one is for the arms‚ that one for the legs
…
So there you have it. And it was by chance that a trip to Switzerland‚ where he is still remembered‚ enabled me to reconstruct Brioché’s adventure.
Jean Brioché‚ round about the year 1650‚ was a famous tooth- puller. In the winter he operated on the Pont-Neuf and travelled round the country during the summer.
The bridge was crowded with charlatans of every kind‚ artisans‚ streetvendors‚ beggars and mountebanks‚ while onlookers gathered to watch in front of the amazing trestle platforms of Mondor and Tabarin. On a kind of scaffold all festooned with multicoloured posters‚ Brioché attracted clients whom he relieved not very gently of their rotten tooth stumps. His victims‚ thus exposed to the gibes – or admiration – of an overexcited public‚ remained as stoical as the painful operation permitted. Brioché‚ whom the populace nicknamed ‘Remover of the Cobbles of Gob Street’‚ deferred to contemporary custom by organizing a colourful and rowdy spectacle before each public extraction. Which was how he came by the idea of putting on a show of dancing puppets.