III

Action is my vocation. Leaving a civil college at the age of twenty,

the only way for me to enter the army was by enlisting as a common

soldier; so, weary of the dismal outlook that lay before a lawyer, I

acquired the knowledge needed for a sailor. I imitate Juste, and keep

out of France, where men waste, in the struggle to make way, the

energy needed for the noblest works. Follow my example, friends; I am

going where a man steers his destiny as he pleases.

These great resolutions were formed in the little room in the lodging-

house in the Rue Corneille, in spite of our haunting the Bal Musard,

flirting with girls of the town, and leading a careless and apparently

reckless life. Our plans and arguments long floated in the air.

Marcas, our neighbor, was in some degree the guide who led us to the

margin of the precipice or the torrent, who made us sound it, and

showed us beforehand what our fate would be if we let ourselves fall

into it. It was he who put us on our guard against the time-bargains a

man makes with poverty under the sanction of hope, by accepting

precarious situations whence he fights the battle, carried along by

the devious tide of Paris--that great harlot who takes you up or

leaves you stranded, smiles or turns her back on you with equal

readiness, wears out the strongest will in vexatious waiting, and

makes misfortune wait on chance.

At our first meeting, Marcas, as it were, dazzled us. On our return

from the schools, a little before the dinner-hour, we were accustomed

to go up to our room and remain there a while, either waiting for the

other, to learn whether there were any change in our plans for the

evening. One day, at four o'clock, Juste met Marcas on the stairs, and

I saw him in the street. It was in the month of November, and Marcas

had no cloak; he wore shoes with heavy soles, corduroy trousers, and a

blue double-breasted coat buttoned to the throat, which gave a

military air to his broad chest, all the more so because he wore a

black stock. The costume was not in itself extraordinary, but it

agreed well with the man's mien and countenance.

My first impression on seeing him was neither surprise, nor distress,

nor interest, nor pity, but curiosity mingled with all these feelings.

He walked slowly, with a step that betrayed deep melancholy, his head

forward with a stoop, but not bent like that of a conscience-stricken

man. That head, large and powerful, which might contain the treasures

necessary for a man of the highest ambition, looked as if it were

loaded with thought; it was weighted with grief of mind, but there was

no touch of remorse in his expression. As to his face, it may be

summed up in a word. A common superstition has it that every human

countenance resembles some animal. The animal for Marcas was the lion.

His hair was like a mane, his nose was sort and flat; broad and dented

at the tip like a lion's; his brow, like a lion's, was strongly marked

with a deep median furrow, dividing two powerful bosses. His high,

hairy cheek-bones, all the more prominent because his cheeks were so

thin, his enormous mouth and hollow jaws, were accentuated by lines of

tawny shadows. This almost terrible countenance seemed illuminated by

two lamps--two eyes, black indeed, but infinitely sweet, calm and

deep, full of thought. If I may say so, those eyes had a humiliated

expression.

Marcas was afraid of looking directly at others, not for himself, but

for those on whom his fascinating gaze might rest; he had a power, and

he shunned using it; he would spare those he met, and he feared

notice. This was not from modesty, but from resignation founded on

reason, which had demonstrated the immediate inutility of his gifts,

the impossibility of entering and living in the sphere for which he

was fitted. Those eyes could at times flash lightnings. From those

lips a voice of thunder must surely proceed; it was a mouth like

Mirabeau's.

"I have seen such a grand fellow in the street," said I to Juste on

coming in.

"It must be our neighbor," replied Juste, who described, in fact, the

man I had just met. "A man who lives like a wood-louse would be sure

to look like that," he added.

"What dejection and what dignity!"

"One is the consequence of the other."

"What ruined hopes! What schemes and failures!"

"Seven leagues of ruins! Obelisks--palaces--towers!--The ruins of

Palmyra in the desert!" said Juste, laughing.

So we called him the Ruins of Palmyra.

As we went out to dine at the wretched eating-house in the Rue de la

Harpe to which we subscribed, we asked the name of Number 37, and then

heard the weird name Z. Marcas. Like boys, as we were, we repeated it

more than a hundred times with all sorts of comments, absurd or

melancholy, and the name lent itself to a jest. Juste would fire off

the Z like a rocket rising, /z-z-z-z-zed/; and after pronouncing the

first syllable of the name with great importance, depicted a fall by

the dull brevity of the second.

"Now, how and where does the man live?"

From this query, to the innocent espionage of curiosity there was no

pause but that required for carrying out our plan. Instead of

loitering about the streets, we both came in, each armed with a novel.

We read with our ears open. And in the perfect silence of our attic

rooms, we heard the even, dull sound of a sleeping man breathing.