Cæsar Cascabel/Part 1/Chapter I

CHAPTER I. A FORTUNE REALIZED.
“HAS nobody got any more coppers to give me? Come, children, search your pockets!”

“Here you are, father!” replied the little girl.

And she drew out of her pocket a square-cut piece of greenish paper, all crumpled and greasy.

This paper bore the almost illegible inscription “United States Fractional Currency,” encircling the respectable-looking head of a gentleman in a frock-coat, and likewise the figure 10 repeated six times,—which represented ten cents, say about ten French sous.

“How did you come by that?” inquired the mother.

“It's the remnant of the takings at the last performance,” answered Napoleona.

“Gave me everything, Sander?”

“Yes, father.”

“Nothing left, John?”

“Nothing.”

“Why, how much more do you want, Cæsar?” asked Cornelia of her husband.

“Two cents is all we want to make up a round sum,” replied Cascabel.

“Here they are, boss,” said Clovy, jerking up a small copper coin that he had just worked out from the depths of his waistcoat pocket.

“Well done, Clovy!” exclaimed the little girl.

“That's right! now we're all square,” cried Mr. Cascabel.

And they were indeed “all square,” to use the words of the honest showman. The total in hands amounted to nearly two thousand dollars, say ten thousand francs. Ten thousand francs! Is not such a sum a fortune, when it has been earned out of the public through one's own talents only?

Cornelia put her arms around her husband's neck; the children embraced him in their turn.

“Now,” said Mr. Cascabel, “the question is to buy a chest, a beautiful chest with secret contrivances, to lock up our fortune in it.”

“Can't we really do without it?” suggested Mrs. Cascabel, somewhat alarmed at this expenditure.

“Cornelia, we cannot!”

“Perhaps a little box might do us?—”

“That's woman all over!” sneered Mr. Cascabel. “A little box is meant for jewels! A chest, or at least a safe, that's the thing for money! And as we have a long way to go with our ten thousand francs—”

“Well then, go and buy your safe, but take care you get a good bargain,” interrupted Cornelia.

The “boss of the show” opened the door of that “superb and consequential” wagon, his itinerant dwelling-house; he went down the iron step fastened to the shaft, and made for the streets that converge toward the center of Sacramento.

February is a cold month in California, although this State lies in the same latitude as Spain. Still, wrapped up in his warm overcoat lined with imitation sable, and with his fur cap drawn down to his ears, Mr. Cascabel little cared about the weather, and tripped it lightly. A safe! being the owner of a safe had been his life-long dream; that dream was on the point of being realized at last!

Nineteen years before, the land now occupied by the town of Sacramento was but a vast barren plain. In the middle stood a small fort, a kind of block-house erected by the early settlers, the first traders, with a view to protect their encampments against the attacks of the Far West Indians. But since that time, after the Americans had taken California from the Mexicans, who were incapable of defending it, the aspect of the country had undergone a singular transformation. The small fort had made way for a town,—one of the most important in the United States, although fire and flood had, more than once, destroyed the rising city.

Now, in this year 1867, Mr. Cascabel had no longer to dread the raids of Indian tribes, or even the attacks of that lawless mob of cosmopolitan banditti who invaded the province in 1849 on the discovery of the gold mines which lay a little farther to the northeast, on the Grass Valley plateau, and of the famous Allison ranch mine, the quartz of which yielded twenty cents' worth of the precious metal for every two pound weight.

Yes, those days of unheard-of strokes of fortune, of unspeakable reverses, of nameless sorrows, were over. No more gold-seekers, not even in that portion of British Columbia, the Cariboo, to which thousands of miners flocked, about 1863. No longer was Mr. Cascabel exposed, on his travels, to being robbed of that little fortune which he had earned, well might it be said, in the sweat of his body, and that he carried in the pocket of his overcoat. In truth, the purchase of a safe was not so indispensable to the security of his fortune as he claimed it to be; if he was so desirous to get one, it was with an eye to a long journey through certain Far West territories that were less safe than California,—his journey homeward toward Europe.

Thus easy in his mind, Mr. Cascabel wended his way through the wide, clean streets of the town. Here and there were splendid squares, overhung with beautiful, though still leafless, trees, hotels and private dwellings built with much elegance and comfort, public edifices in the Anglo-Saxon style of architecture, a number of monumental churches, all giving an air of grandeur to this, the capital town of California. On all sides bustled busy looking men, merchants, ship-owners, manufacturers, some awaiting the arrival of vessels that sailed up and down the river whose waters flow to the Pacific, others besieging Folsom depot, from which numerous trains steamed away to the interior of the Confederacy.

It was toward High Street that Mr. Cascabel directed his steps, whistling a French march as he went along. In this street he had already noticed the store of a rival of Fichet & Huret, the celebrated Parisian safe-makers. There did William J. Morlan sell “good and cheap,”—at least, relatively so,—considering the excessive price that is charged for everything in the United States of America.

William J. Morlan was in his store when Mr. Cascabel came in.

“Mr. Morlan,” said the latter, “your humble servant. I'd like to buy a safe.”

William J. Morlan knew Cæser Cascabel: was there a man in Sacramento who did not? Had he not been, for three weeks past, the delight of the population? So, the worthy manufacturer made answer:

“A safe, Mr. Cascabel?—Pray accept all my congratulations—”

“What for?”

“Because buying a safe is a sure sign that a man has a few sackfuls of dollars to make safe in it.”

“Right you are, Mr. Morlan.”

“Well, take this one;” and the merchant's finger pointed to a huge safe, worthy of a site in the offices of Rothschild Brothers or other such bankers, people who have enough and to spare.

“Come—not so fast!” said Mr. Cascabel. “I could take lodging's in there for myself and family!—A real gem, to be sure; but for the time being, I've got something else to lodge in it!—Say, Mr. Morlan, how much money could be stored inside that monster?”

“Several millions in gold.”

“Several millions?—Well then—I'll call again—some other day, when I have them! No, sir, what I want is a really strong little chest that I can carry under my arm and hide away down in my wagon when I am on the road.”

“I have just the thing, Mr. Cascabel.”

And the manufacturer exhibited a small coffer supplied with a safety lock. It was not over twenty pounds in weight, and had compartments inside, after the manner of the cash or deed boxes used in banking-houses.

“This, moreover, is fireproof,” added he, “and I warrant it as such on the receipt I give you.”

“Very good!—can't be better!” answered Mr. Cascabel. “That will do me, so long as you guarantee the lock is all right.”

“It is a combination lock,” interrupted William J. Morlan. “Four letters—a word of four letters, to be made out of four alphabets, which gives you well-nigh four hundred thousand combinations. During the time it would take a thief to guess them, you might hang him a million times at your ease!”

“A million times, Mr. Morlan? That's wonderful indeed! And what about the price? You'll understand, a safe is too dear when it costs more than a man has to put in it!”

“Quite so, Mr. Cascabel. And all I'll ask you for this one is six and a half.”

“Six and a half dollars?” rejoined Cascabel. “I don't care for that ‘six and a half.’ Come, Mr. Morlan, we must knock the corners off that sum! Is it a bargain at five dollars straight?”

“I don't mind, because it is you, Mr. Cascabel.”

The purchase was made, the money was paid down, and W. J. Morlan offered to the showman to have his safe brought home for him, so as not to trouble him with such a burden.

“Come, come, Mr. Morlan! A man like your humble servant who juggles with forty-pounders!”

“Say—what is the exact weight of your forty-pounders, eh?” inquired Mr. Morlan with a laugh.

“Just fifteen pounds, but—mum's the word!”

Thereupon William J. Morlan and his customer parted, delighted with each other.

Half an hour later, the happy possessor of the safe reached Circus Place where his wagon stood, and laid down, not without a feeling of complacency, “the safe of the Cascabel firm.”

Ah! how admired was that safe in its little world! What joy and pride all felt at having it! And how the hinges were worked with the opening and the shutting of it! Young Sander would have dearly liked to dislocate himself into it—just for fun. But that was not to be thought of; it was too small for young Sander!

As to Clovy, never had he seen anything so beautiful, even in dreamland.

“I guess, that lock's no easy job to open,” exclaimed he, “unless it's mighty easy if it doesn't shut right!”

“Never a truer word did you speak,” answered Mr. Cascabel.

Then, in that authoritative tone of voice that brooks no arguing, and with one of those significant gestures which forbid of any delaying:

“Now, children, off you go, the shortest cut,” said he, “and fetch us a breakfast—Ah! Here is a dollar you can spend as you like—It's I will stand the treat to-day!”

Good soul! As though it were not he who “stood the treat” every day! But he was fond of this kind of joking, which he indulged in with a good genial chuckle.

In a trice, John, Sander, and Napoleona were off, accompanied by Clovy, who carried on his arm a large straw basket for the provisions.

“And now we are alone, Cornelia, let us have a few words,” said the boss.

“What about, Cæsar?”

“What about? Why, about the word we are going to choose for the lock of our safe. It is not that I don't trust the children—Good Lord! They are angels!—or that poor fellow Clovy, who is honesty itself! None the less, that must be kept a secret.”

“Take what word you like,” answered the wife; “I'll agree to anything you say.”

“You have no choice?”

“I haven't.”

“Well, I should like it to be a proper name.”

“Yes!—I got it—your own name, Cæsar.”

“That can't be! Mine is too long! It must be a word of four letters only.”

“Well then, take one letter off! Surely you can spell Cæser without an r! We are free to do as we like, I dare say!”

“Bravo, Cornelia! That's an idea!—One of those ideas you often hit on, wifie! But if we decide on cutting one letter out of a name, I'd rather cut out four, and let it be out of yours!”

“Out of my name?”

“Yes! And we'd keep the end of it—e l i a. Indeed, I rather think it would be more select that way; so, it will be just the thing!”

“Ah! Cæsar!”

“It will please you, wont it, to have your name on the lock of our safe?”

“It will, since it is in your heart already!” answered Cornelia, with loving emphasis.

Then, her face beaming with pleasure, she gave a hearty kiss to her good-natured husband.

And that is how, in consequence of this arrangement, any one, unacquainted with the name Elia, would be baffled in his attempts to open the safe of the Cascabel family.

Half an hour after, the children were back with the provisions, ham and salt beef, cut in appetizing slices, not forgetting a few of those wonderful outgrowths of Californian vegetation, heads of cabbage grown on tree-like stalks, potatoes as large as melons, carrots half a yard long and “equaled only,” Mr. Cascabel was fond of saying, “by those leeks that you make people swallow, without having the trouble of growing them?” As to drink, the only puzzle was which to choose among the varieties that nature and art offer to American thirsty lips. On this occasion, not to mention a jugful of beer with a head on it, each one was to have his share of a good bottle of sherry, at dessert.

In the twinkling of an eye, Cornelia, aided by Clovy, her usual help, had prepared breakfast. The table was laid in the second compartment of the van, styled the family parlor, where the temperature was maintained at the right degree by the cooking-stove set up in the next room. If, on that day,—as on every day indeed,—father, mother, and children ate with remarkably keen appetite, the fact was but too easily accounted for by the circumstances.

Breakfast over, Mr. Cascabel, assuming the solemn tone that he gave to his utterances when he spoke to the public, expressed himself as follows:

“To-morrow, children, we shall have bidden farewell to this noble town of Sacramento, and to its noble citizens, with all of whom we have every reason to be satisfied, whatever be their complexion, red, black or white. But, Sacramento is in California, and California is in America, and America is not in Europe. Now, home is home, and Europe is France; and it is not a day too soon, that France should see us once more ‘within its walls,’ after a prolonged absence of many a year. Have we made a fortune? Properly speaking, we have not. Still, we have in hands a certain quantity of dollars that will look uncommonly well in our safe, when we have changed them into French gold or silver. A portion of this sum will enable us to cross the Atlantic Ocean on one of those swift vessels that fly the three-colored flag once borne by Napoleon from capital to capital.—Your health, Cornelia!”

Mrs. Cascabel acknowledged with a bow this token of good feeling which her husband often gave her, as though he meant to thank her for having presented him with Alcides and Hercules in the persons of his children.

Then, the speaker proceeded:

“I likewise drink ‘safe home’ to us all! May favorable winds swell our sails!”

He paused to pour to each one a last glass of his excellent sherry.

“But then,—Clovy may say to me, perhaps,—once our passage-money paid, there will be nothing left in the safe?”

“No such thing, boss,—unless the passage-money added on to the railway fares—”

“Railways, railroads, as the Yankees say!” cried Mr. Cascabel. “Why, you simpleton, you thoughtless fellow, we shan't use them! I quite intend saving the traveling expenses from Sacramento to New York by covering the distance on our own wheels! A few hundred leagues! I guess it would take more than that to frighten the Cascabel family, accustomed as it is to disport itself from one world's end to the other!”

“Of course!” John chimed in.

“And how glad we shall be to see France again!” exclaimed Mrs. Cascabel.

“Our old France that you don't know, my children,” continued Mr. Cascabel, “since you were born in America, our beautiful France that you shall know at last. Ah, Cornelia, what pleasure it will be for you, a child of Provence, and for me, a son of Normandy, after twenty years' absence!”

“It will, Cæser, it will!”

“Do you know, Cornelia? If I were to be offered an engagement now, even at Barnum's theater, I should say no! Putting off our journey home, never! I'd rather go on all fours!—It's homesick we are, and what's needed for that ailment is a trip home!—I know of no other cure!”

Cæsar Cascabel spoke truly. His wife and he no longer cherished but one thought: returning to France; and what bliss it was to be able to do so, now that there was no lack of money!

“So then, we start to-morrow!” said Mr. Cascabel.

“And it may be our last trip!” remarked Cornelia.

“Cornelia,” her husband said with dignity, “the only last trip I know of is the one for which God issues no return ticket!”

“Just so, Cæsar, but before that one, shan't we have a rest, when we have made our fortune?”

“A rest, Cornelia? Never! I don't want any of your fortune, if fortune means doing nothing! Do you think you have a right to lay those talents idly by, that nature has so freely lavished on you? Do you imagine I could live with folded arms and run the risk of letting my joints grow stiff? Do you see John giving up his work as an equilibrist, Napoleona ceasing to dance on the tight rope with or without a pole, Sander standing no more on top of the human pyramid, and Clovy himself no longer receiving his half-dozen dozen slaps on his cheeks per minute, to the great gratification of the public? No, Cornelia! Tell me that the sun's light will be put out by the rain, that the sea will be drunk by the fishes, but do not tell me that the hour of rest will ever strike for the Cascabel family!”

And now, there was nothing more to do but to make the final arrangements for setting out, next morning, as soon as the sun would peep over the horizon of Sacramento.

This was done in the course of the afternoon.

Needless to say the safe was placed out of the way, in the furthest compartment of the wagon.

“In this room,” said Mr. Cascabel, “we shall be able to watch it night and day!”

“Really, Cæsar, I think that was a good idea of yours,” remarked Cornelia, “and I don't begrudge the money we spent on the safe.”

“It may be rather small, perhaps, wifie, but we shall buy a bigger one, if our treasure takes larger proportions!”

César Cascabel/Première partie/Chapitre I