Zilia
08-01-2011, 10:26 PM
Yet he seemed to be amusing to these bourgeoisie in spite of themselves - it was a trait of Marcel’s to corrupt decent people. The men were laughing but for a few who were glaring at him. The women gave him mixed looks of admiration and disgust, and some of them looked snide. But I had come late; and soon, he was giving them a theatrical bow and waving farewell. Some of the women clung to his arms, and I worried for a moment that he might bring company with him. I was relieved to see Marcel shake his head and kiss their cheeks. He was leaving the Restaurant Soleil alone, and miraculously only a few of the restaurant patrons looked offended as they watched him leave.
Outside the restaurant he paused a moment, and seemed to be contemplating which way to turn. He at last turned right, and I was certain in following him he would lead me down dark alleys and passages in the general direction of the Notre Dame de Lorette. He carried himself jauntily, humming a little tune, impervious to the rain and growling thunder. The streetlamps were dim this night, as if overpowered by the oppression of the dark and the weather. We walked, the both of us cloaked in dark and the sound of my footsteps masked by the low, faraway thunder, and the violin or piano music that drifted from the verandas of restaurants and hotels, and the uproarious laughter from bars. He passed all of them. He was heading to a quieter part of town. As I followed him, I appreciated how sober he was though he had consumed so much wine. I loathed to think of my duty to assure that his lighthearted footsteps would be his last in the gay streets of Paris. This duty, to bring the passing of my old friend, had been giving me a sick feeling in my stomach for what seemed ages, though only a few days had passed since I took this unfortunate duty upon myself. The primary question in my mind was this: Is it, in truth, necessary to kill this man? Is there truly no better alternative?
I have always believed, when caught in a dilemma such as this, that one should choose the lesser of two evils. And so I have. I believe that to let Marcel live would be a greater evil than to take his life; after all, I knew him to be devilish since our childhood days when he would hold the younger children’s heads in the toilet until they had almost drowned, and I was obliged to rescue them. He always took our childhood games too far. He always took everything too far. During the revolution of 1848, he stood at the head of the mobs with a gun in his hand, and I behind him. Like the other citizens of Paris, I fought against the oppression of Louis Philippe. We were only eighteen and nineteen, but Marcel would never stop talking about how he was going to assassinate Philippe in those days. I was there, standing behind my bold friend and nervously brandishing a gun with shaking, sweating palms. I meant to fight for my fellow Parisians and all the oppressed of France, to free them from the tyranny of the King. But Marcel was there for no such reason. I remember when he lifted the gun to his shoulder, and squinted one eye to aim.
“What are you doing?” I asked him.
“This fight is taking a bit long to commence,” he said simply.
“Marcel, wait!”
He fired a shot that killed one of the King’s soldiers, who toppled down like a rag doll. All hell broke loose. “Marcel, what have you done!?” I yelled over the tumult. Soldiers and Parisians alike were firing at each other point blank.
“Fight as best you can, Bastien, my friend! Fight for your life! I’ll cover your back, you cover mine!” he shouted. And we fought. I fought as bravely as I could, and all the while I watched his back carefully. Neither of us received so much as a scratch, though almost everyone else was injured. Afterward, Marcel congratulated me on a job well done...
I presently noticed that the streets had grown quiet, but for the distant rumbling of thunder. Now was the perfect time. I reached into my coat pocket and clasped the cold handle of my handgun. Before I could draw it, I saw Marcel lit for an instant by a flash of lightning, in his foolish gypsy hat, and the next instant he had disappeared into a narrow side alley. I let go of the gun, unsure of whether to feel disappointed or relieved.
This part of town was a relic from the days before Napoleon III had come to power and begun the renovation of Paris. It was almost deserted, but I listened carefully outside the alleyway and heard voices in gentle conversation from just inside. I had been to this little Bohemian hideout on many occasions, when Marcel had coaxed me into forsaking my attempts to lead a decent lifestyle and become a Bohemian. It was owned, one might say, by a rather well off art critic, Alexis, and it was a place of excess; here the Bohemians indulged in alcohol, cigars, lewd art, opium and bad poetry. I could not enter Alexis’ den, for if I did Marcel would surely see me. Yet I was loathe to wait outside, where I knew I would wait until near sunrise, or perhaps tomorrow afternoon, since Marcel enjoyed prolonging his stays in that little hole so much. It was much to my surprise when Marcel suddenly sprang from the shadows of the alley and leaped upon me!
“Bastien! Dear old friend, how good of you to see me!” he beamed, hugging me tightly. He gave me a brotherly pat on the back and grinned at me widely. “How delightful that you wanted to surprise me! I noticed you following about halfway from the restaurant.”
I was astounded. Marcel laughed heartily and patted me harder on the back.
“But it seems it is I who have surprised you! Come in, come in! You must be chilled to the bone.”
And indeed, I was. My skin crawled icily whenever I looked upon him, or heard his voice. How could he have known that I was walking behind him? I was nearly silent, and he didn’t turn to look behind him even once!
I forced a polite smile that must have looked more like a cringe and patted him on the back as well. “Ah, Marcel, it would be very good to go inside and have a nice glass of brandy.”
“Fantastic!” he yelled, and his jubilant voice rang in the stillness of the near-abandoned street. I fancied that a sneering gargoyle overhead seemed to be so angered and disgusted by the sound of Marcel’s voice. I followed him down the narrow alley, one my portly baker most certainly could never have made it through, and descended with my old friend Marcel into the warmth of Alexis’ den.
Outside the restaurant he paused a moment, and seemed to be contemplating which way to turn. He at last turned right, and I was certain in following him he would lead me down dark alleys and passages in the general direction of the Notre Dame de Lorette. He carried himself jauntily, humming a little tune, impervious to the rain and growling thunder. The streetlamps were dim this night, as if overpowered by the oppression of the dark and the weather. We walked, the both of us cloaked in dark and the sound of my footsteps masked by the low, faraway thunder, and the violin or piano music that drifted from the verandas of restaurants and hotels, and the uproarious laughter from bars. He passed all of them. He was heading to a quieter part of town. As I followed him, I appreciated how sober he was though he had consumed so much wine. I loathed to think of my duty to assure that his lighthearted footsteps would be his last in the gay streets of Paris. This duty, to bring the passing of my old friend, had been giving me a sick feeling in my stomach for what seemed ages, though only a few days had passed since I took this unfortunate duty upon myself. The primary question in my mind was this: Is it, in truth, necessary to kill this man? Is there truly no better alternative?
I have always believed, when caught in a dilemma such as this, that one should choose the lesser of two evils. And so I have. I believe that to let Marcel live would be a greater evil than to take his life; after all, I knew him to be devilish since our childhood days when he would hold the younger children’s heads in the toilet until they had almost drowned, and I was obliged to rescue them. He always took our childhood games too far. He always took everything too far. During the revolution of 1848, he stood at the head of the mobs with a gun in his hand, and I behind him. Like the other citizens of Paris, I fought against the oppression of Louis Philippe. We were only eighteen and nineteen, but Marcel would never stop talking about how he was going to assassinate Philippe in those days. I was there, standing behind my bold friend and nervously brandishing a gun with shaking, sweating palms. I meant to fight for my fellow Parisians and all the oppressed of France, to free them from the tyranny of the King. But Marcel was there for no such reason. I remember when he lifted the gun to his shoulder, and squinted one eye to aim.
“What are you doing?” I asked him.
“This fight is taking a bit long to commence,” he said simply.
“Marcel, wait!”
He fired a shot that killed one of the King’s soldiers, who toppled down like a rag doll. All hell broke loose. “Marcel, what have you done!?” I yelled over the tumult. Soldiers and Parisians alike were firing at each other point blank.
“Fight as best you can, Bastien, my friend! Fight for your life! I’ll cover your back, you cover mine!” he shouted. And we fought. I fought as bravely as I could, and all the while I watched his back carefully. Neither of us received so much as a scratch, though almost everyone else was injured. Afterward, Marcel congratulated me on a job well done...
I presently noticed that the streets had grown quiet, but for the distant rumbling of thunder. Now was the perfect time. I reached into my coat pocket and clasped the cold handle of my handgun. Before I could draw it, I saw Marcel lit for an instant by a flash of lightning, in his foolish gypsy hat, and the next instant he had disappeared into a narrow side alley. I let go of the gun, unsure of whether to feel disappointed or relieved.
This part of town was a relic from the days before Napoleon III had come to power and begun the renovation of Paris. It was almost deserted, but I listened carefully outside the alleyway and heard voices in gentle conversation from just inside. I had been to this little Bohemian hideout on many occasions, when Marcel had coaxed me into forsaking my attempts to lead a decent lifestyle and become a Bohemian. It was owned, one might say, by a rather well off art critic, Alexis, and it was a place of excess; here the Bohemians indulged in alcohol, cigars, lewd art, opium and bad poetry. I could not enter Alexis’ den, for if I did Marcel would surely see me. Yet I was loathe to wait outside, where I knew I would wait until near sunrise, or perhaps tomorrow afternoon, since Marcel enjoyed prolonging his stays in that little hole so much. It was much to my surprise when Marcel suddenly sprang from the shadows of the alley and leaped upon me!
“Bastien! Dear old friend, how good of you to see me!” he beamed, hugging me tightly. He gave me a brotherly pat on the back and grinned at me widely. “How delightful that you wanted to surprise me! I noticed you following about halfway from the restaurant.”
I was astounded. Marcel laughed heartily and patted me harder on the back.
“But it seems it is I who have surprised you! Come in, come in! You must be chilled to the bone.”
And indeed, I was. My skin crawled icily whenever I looked upon him, or heard his voice. How could he have known that I was walking behind him? I was nearly silent, and he didn’t turn to look behind him even once!
I forced a polite smile that must have looked more like a cringe and patted him on the back as well. “Ah, Marcel, it would be very good to go inside and have a nice glass of brandy.”
“Fantastic!” he yelled, and his jubilant voice rang in the stillness of the near-abandoned street. I fancied that a sneering gargoyle overhead seemed to be so angered and disgusted by the sound of Marcel’s voice. I followed him down the narrow alley, one my portly baker most certainly could never have made it through, and descended with my old friend Marcel into the warmth of Alexis’ den.