Author Introduction
The
police files are an abyss where everything gets buried. They are darker and
more instructional than a confessional because the penitents never come out of
the police files. These files hold a registry of everything: vices, crimes,
evil acts, infamies, heroism, kindness, generosity, and glaring mistakes. The
number of things they know is immense. In the middle of all these hidden
stories, I laid my hands on a dossier about an affair whose details were
scattered among thirty reports, official notes, police reports, and
interrogations. From this dossier I extracted the following adventure which I
bequeath to my readers as one of the most unusual they have ever read in these
memoirs.
An Abandoned Wedding
In
Paris in 1807 there lived a shoemaker—a simple, self-employed laborer—by the
name of François Picaud. This poor devil, a young and
handsome boy, was about to marry a gracious, attractive, and lovely young lady
who delighted him immensely. As is the case among many of his class who get to
choose their own mates, he was convinced she was unique among all women. Among
such people, the only way to truly love such a woman is to marry her. As soon
as she consented to his proposal, François Picaud,
dressed in his Sunday best, hurried to a nearby restaurant to share the news
with his friend, the restaurant owner. His friend was a young man of his same
age and social rank but somewhat richer than the shoemaker and known for a
ferocious jealousy of anyone who seemed to be more successful than he was.
Matthew
Loupian, born at Nîmes[i]
like Picaud, ran a very popular Parisian diner next
to Saint-Opportune.[ii]
He was already a widower and had two children by his deceased wife. Three
regulars—all three natives of the Gard province and
all three acquaintances of Picaud—were with him.
“Hey,
what do you know?” exclaimed the master of the establishment, “Look at Picaud! I have never seen him so excited! They say you are
dancing the treilhas!” (The treilles is a popular dance of Languedoc.)
“I am doing better than that, my Loupian:
I am getting married!”
“And whom have you chosen to plant horns[iii]
in your head?” asked one of the others named Allut.
“It must be the second daughter of your mother-in-law,
because in that family you only have to whisper the word, and horns will have
poked up through your hat!”
They looked at him. Picaud’s
jest caused a brief grimace on Allut’s face as the
jokers passed by a repairman with worn out shoes.
“Teasing aside,” said the restaurateur, “who is the lucky
woman, Picaud?”
“Mademoiselle de Figoreux.”
“Marguerite, the rich heiress?”
“She’s the one.”
“But she is worth a hundred thousand francs!” cried the
café owner in astonishment.
“I
will pay her back in love and happiness. Anyway my friends, I invite you to the
mass at St. Leu and to the dance after the reception
which will take place at the Champêtre Ball in
Venus’s Grove, Rue des Ours, at the ballroom of the dance master Mr. Latignac, fifth room from the end.”
The
four friends could say little more than a few insignificant words because the
happiness of their comrade stunned them so much.
“When is the ceremony?” asked Loupian.
“This Tuesday.”
“The day after tomorrow?”
“I am counting on you. See you soon. I am going to City
Hall and then to the priest’s house!”
They watched him leave.
“Is he happy or what, that silly boy!”
“He must have used witchcraft on her.”[iv]
“She’s quite a beautiful girl, and quite rich, too!”
“To a nobody!”
“And this Tuesday is the wedding!”
“I promise,” said Loupian, “to
delay the celebration.”
“How will you do it?”
