“Droll people one meets travelling,—strange characters!” was the exclamation of my next neighbor in the Versailles train, as an oddly attired figure, with an enormous beard, and a tall Polish cap, got out at SÈvres; and this, of all the railroads in Europe, perhaps, presents the most motley array of travellers. The “militaire,” the shopkeeper, the actor of a minor theatre, the economist Englishman residing at Versailles for cheapness, the “modiste,” the newspaper writer, are all to be met with, hastening to and from this favorite resort of the Parisians; and among a people so communicative, and so well disposed to social intercourse, it is rare that even in this short journey the conversation does not take a character of amusement, if not of actual interest.

“The last time I went down in this train it was in company with M. Thiers; and, I assure you, no one could be more agreeable and affable,” said one.

“Horace Vernet was my companion last week,” remarked another; “indeed I never guessed who it was, until a chance observation of mine about one of his own pictures, when he avowed his name.”

“I had a more singular travelling-companion still,” exclaimed a third; “no less a personage than Aboul Djerick, the Arab chief, whom the Marshal Bugeaud took prisoner.”

“Ma foi! gentlemen,” said a dry old lady from the corner of the carriage, “these were not very remarkable characters, after all. I remember coming down here with—what do you think?—for my fellow-traveller. Only guess. But it is no use; you would never hit upon it,—he was a baboon!”

“A baboon!” exclaimed all the party, in a breath.

“Sacrebleu! Madame, you must be jesting.”

“No, gentlemen, nothing of the kind. He was a tall fellow, as big as M. le Capitaine yonder; and he had a tail—mon Dieu! what a tail! When the conductor showed him into the carriage, it took nearly a minute to adjust that enormous tail.”

A very general roar of laughter met this speech, excited probably more by the serious manner of the old lady as she mentioned this occurrence than by anything even in the event itself, though all were unquestionably astonished to account for the incident.

“Was he quiet, Madame?” said one of the passengers.

“Perfectly so,” replied she,—“bien poli.”

Another little outbreak of laughter at so singular a phrase, with reference to the manners of an ape, disturbed the party.

“He had probably made his escape from the Jardin des Plantes,” cried a thin old gentleman opposite.

“No, Monsieur; he lived in the Rue St. Denis.”

“Diable!” exclaimed a lieutenant; “he was a good citizen of Paris. Was he in the Garde Nationale, Madame?”

“I am not sure,” said the old lady, with a most provoking coolness.

“And where was he going, may I ask?” cried another.

“To Versailles, Monsieur,—poor fellow, he wept very bitterly.”

“Detestable beast!” exclaimed the old gentleman; “they make a horrid mockery of humanity.”

“Ah! very true, Monsieur; there is a strong resemblance between the two species.” There was an unlucky applicability in this speech to the hook-nose, yellow-skinned, wrinkled little fellow it was addressed to, that once more brought a smile upon the party.

“Was there no one with him, then? Who took care of him, Madame?”

“He was alone, Monsieur. The poor fellow was a ‘garÇon;’ he told me so himself.”

“Told you so!—the ape told you!—the baboon said that!” exclaimed each in turn of the party, while an outburst of laughter filled the carriage.

“‘T is quite true,—just as I have the honor to tell you,” said the old lady, with the utmost gravity; “and although I was as much surprised as you now are, when he first addressed me, he was so well-mannered, spoke such good French, and had so much agreeability that I forgot my fears, and enjoyed his society very much.”

It was not without a great effort that the party controlled themselves sufficiently to hear the old lady’s explanation. The very truthfulness of her voice and accent added indescribably to the absurdity; for while she designated her singular companion always as M. le Singe, she spoke of him as if he had been a naturalized Frenchman, born to enjoy all the inestimable privileges of “La Belle France.” Her story was this—but it is better, as far as may be, to give it in her own words:—

“My husband, gentlemen, is greffier of the Correctional Court of Paris; and although obliged, during the session, to be every day at the Tribunal, we reside at Versailles, for cheapness, using the railroad to bring us to and from Paris. Now, it chanced that I set out from Paris, where I had spent the night at a friend’s house, by the early train, which, you know, starts at five o’clock. Very few people travel by that train; indeed, I believe the only use of it is to go down to Versailles to bring up people from thence. It was a fine cheery morning—cold, but bright—in the month of March, as I took my place alone in one of the carriages of the train. After the usual delay (they are never prompt with this train), the word ‘En route’ was given, and we started; but before the pace was accelerated to a rapid rate, the door was wrenched open by the ‘conducteur’—a large full-grown baboon, with his tail over his arm, stepped in—the door closed, and away we went. Ah! gentlemen, I never shall forget that moment. The beast sat opposite me, just like Monsieur there, with his old parchment face, his round brown eyes, and his long-clawed paws, which he clasped exactly like a human being. Mon Dieu! what agony was mine! I had seen these creatures in the Jardin des Plantes, and knew them to be so vicious; but I thought the best thing to do was to cultivate the monster’s good graces, and so I put my hand in my reticule and drew forth a morsel of cake, which I presented to him.

“‘Merci, Madame,’ said he, with a polite bow, ‘I am not hungry.’

“Ah! when I heard him say this, I thought I should have died. The beast spoke it as plain as I am speaking to you; and he bowed his yellow face, and made a gesture of his hand, if I may call it a hand, just this way. Whether he remarked my astonishment, or perceived that I looked ill, I can’t say; but he observed in a very gentle tone,—

“‘Madame is fatigued.’

“‘Ah! Monsieur,’ said I, ‘I never knew that you spoke French.’

“‘Oui, parbleu!’ said he, ‘I was born in the Pyrenees, and am only half a Spaniard.’

“‘Monsieur’s father, then,’ said I, ‘was he a Frenchman?’

“‘Pauvre bÊte,’ said he; ‘he was from the Basque Provinces. He was a wild fellow.’

“‘I have no doubt of it,’ said I; ‘but it seems they caught him at last.’

“‘You are right, Madame. Strange enough you should have guessed it. He was taken in Estremadura, where he joined a party of brigands. They knew my father by his queue; for, amid all his difficulties, nothing could induce him to cut it off.’

“‘I don’t wonder,’ said I; ‘it would have been very painful.’

“‘It would have made his heart bleed, Madame, to touch a hair of it. He was proud of that old queue; and he might well be,—it was the best-looking tail in the North of Spain.’

“‘Bless my heart,’ thought I, ‘these creatures have their vanities too.’

“‘Ah, Madame, we had more freedom in those days. My father used to tell me of the nights he has passed on the mountains, under the shade, or sometimes in the branches of the cork-trees, with pleasant companions, fellows of his own stamp. We were not hunted down then, as we are now; there was liberty then.’

“‘Well, for my part,’ said I, ‘I should not dislike the Jardin des Plantes, if I was like one of you. It ain’t so bad to have one’s meals at regular times, and a comfortable bed, and a good dry house.’

“‘I don’t know what you mean by the Jardin des Plantes. I live in the Rue St. Denis, and I for one feel the chain about my ankles, under this vile rÉgime we live in at present.’

“He had managed to slip it off this time, anyhow; for I saw the creature’s legs were free.

“‘Ah, Madame,’ exclaimed Le Singe, slapping his forehead with his paw, ‘men are but rogues, cheats, and swindlers.’

“‘Are apes better?’ said I, modestly.

“‘I protest I think they are,’ said he. ‘Except a propensity to petty pilfering, they are honest beasts.’

“‘They are most affectionate,’ said I, wishing to flatter him; but he took no notice of the observation.

“‘Madame,’ exclaimed he, after a pause, and with a voice of unusual energy, ‘I was so near being caught in a trap this very morning.’

“‘Dear me,’ said I, ‘and they laid a trap for you?’

“‘An infernal trap,’ said he. ‘A mistake might have cost me my liberty for life. Do you know M. Laborde, the director of the Gymnase?’

“‘Ihave heard of him, but no more.’

“‘What a “fripon” he is! There is not such a scoundrel living; but I ‘ll have him yet. Let him not think to escape me! Pardon, Madame, does my tail inconvenience you?’

“‘Not at all, sir. Pray don’t stir.’

“I must say that, in his excitement, the beast whisked the appendage to and fro with his paw in a very furious manner.

“‘Only conceive, Madame, I have passed the night in the open air; hunted, chased, pursued,—all on account of the accursed M. Laborde. I that was reared in a warm climate, brought up in every comfort, and habituated to the most tender care,—exposed, during six hours, to the damp dews of a night in the Bois de Boulogne. I know it will fall on my chest, or I shall have an attack of rheumatism. Ah, mon Dieu! if I shouldn’t be able to climb and jump, it would be better for me to be dead.’

“‘No, no,’ said I, trying to soothe him, ‘don’t say that. Here am I, very happy and contented, and could n’t spring over a street gutter if you gave me the Tuileries for doing it.’

“‘"What has that to say to it?’ cried he, fiercely. ‘Our instincts and pursuits are very different.’

“‘Yes, thank God,’ muttered I, below my breath, ‘I trust they are.’

“‘You live at Versailles,’ said he, suddenly. ‘Do you happen to know Antoine Geoffroy, greffier of the Tribunal?’

“‘Yes, parbleu!’ said I; ‘he is my husband.’

“‘Oh, Madame! what good fortune! He is the only man in France can assist me. I want him to catch M. Laborde. When can I see him?’

“‘He will be down in the ten o’clock train,’ said I. ‘You can see him then, Rue du Petit Lait.’

“‘Ah, but where shall I lie concealed till then? If they should overtake me and catch me,—if they found me out, I should be ruined.’

“‘Come with me, then. I ‘ll hide you safe enough.’

“The beast fell on its knees, and kissed my hand like a Christian, and muttered his gratitude till we reached the station.

“Early as it was—only six o’clock—I confess I did not half like the notion of taking the creature’s arm, which he offered me, as we got out; but I was so fearful of provoking him, knowing their vindictive nature, that I assented with as good a grace as I was able; and away we went, he holding his tail festooned over his wrist, and carrying my carpet-bag in the other hand. So full was he of his anger against M. Laborde, and his gratitude to me, that he could talk of nothing else as we went along, nor did he pay the slightest attention to the laughter and jesting our appearance excited from the workmen who passed by.

“‘Madame has good taste in a cavalier,’ cried one.

“‘There ‘ll be a reward for that fellow to-morrow or next day,’ cried another.

“‘Yes, yes,—he is the biggest in the whole Jardin des Plantes,’ said a third.

“Such were the pleasant commentaries that met my ears, even at that quiet hour.

“When we reached the Rue du Petit Lait, however, a very considerable crowd followed us, consisting of laborers and people on their way to work; and I assure you I repented me sorely of the good nature that had exposed me to such consequences; for the mob pressed us closely, many being curious to examine the creature near, and some even going so far as to pat him with their hands, and take up the tip of his tail in their fingers. The beast, however, with admirable tact, never spoke a word, but endured the annoyance without any signs of impatience,—hoping, of course, that the house would soon screen him from their view; but only think of the bad luck. When we arrived at the door, we rung and rung, again and again, but no one came. In fact, the servant, not expecting me home before noon, had spent the night at a friend’s house; and there we were, in the open street, with a crowd increasing every moment around us.

“‘What is to be done?’ said I, in utter despair; but before I had even uttered the words, the beast disengaged himself from me, and, springing to the ‘jalousies,’ scrambled his way up to the top of them. In a moment more he was in the window of the second story, and then, again ascending in the same way, reached the third, the mob hailing him with cries of ‘Bravo, Singe!—well done, ape!—mind your tail, old fellow!—that’s it, monkey!’—and so on, until with a bound he sprung in through an open window, and then, popping out his head, and with a gesture of little politeness, made by his outstretched fingers on his nose, he cried out, ‘Messieurs, j’ai l’honneur de vous saluer.’

“If every beast in the Jardin des Plantes, from the giraffe down to the chimpanzee, had spoken, the astonishment could not have been more general; at first the mob were struck mute with amazement, but, after a moment, burst forth into a roar of laughter.

“‘Ah! I know that fellow,—I have paid twenty sons to see him before now,’ cried one.

“‘So have I,’ said another; ‘and it’s rare fun to look at him cracking nuts, and swinging himself on the branch of a tree by his tail.’

“At this moment the door opened, and I slipped in without hearing farther of the commentaries of the crowd. In a little time the servant returned, and prepared the breakfast; and although, as you may suppose, I was very ignorant what was exactly the kind of entertainment to set before my guest, I got a great dish of apples and a plate of chestnuts, and down we sat to our meal.

“‘That was a ring at the door, I think,’ said he; and as he spoke, my husband entered the room.

“‘Ah! you here?’ cried he, addressing M. le Singe.

‘Parbleu! there’s a pretty work in Paris about you,—it is all over the city this morning that you are off.’

“‘And the Director?’ said the ape.

“‘The old bear, he is off too.’

“‘So, thought I to myself,—’ ‘it would appear the other beasts have made their escape too.’

“‘Then, I suppose,’ said the ape, ‘there will be no catching him.’

“‘I fear not,’ said my husband; ‘but if they do succeed in overtaking the old fox, they ‘ll have the skin off him.’

“Cruel enough, thought I to myself, considering it was the creature’s instinct.

“‘These, however, are the orders of the Court; and when you have signed this one, I shall set off in pursuit of him at once.’ So said my husband, as he produced a roll of papers from his pocket, which the ape perused with the greatest avidity.

“‘He’ll be for crossing the water, I warrant.’

“‘No doubt of it,’ said my husband. ‘France will be too hot for him for a while.’

“‘Poor beast,’ said I, ‘he’ll be happier in his native snows.’

“At this they both laughed heartily; and the ape signed his name to the papers, and brushed the sand over them with the tip of his tail.

“‘We must get back to Paris at once,’ said he, ‘and in a coach too, for I cannot have a mob after me again.’

“‘Leave that to me,’ said my husband. ‘I’ll see you safely home. Meanwhile let me lend you a cloak and a hat;’ and, with these words, he dressed up the creature so that when the collar was raised you would not have known him from that gentleman opposite.

“‘Adieu,’ said he, ‘Madame,’ with a wave of his hand, ‘au revoir, I hope, if it would give you any pleasure to witness our little performances—’

“‘No, no,’ said I, ‘there’s a small creature goes about here, on an organ, in a three-cornered cocked-hat and a red coat, and I can have him for half an hour for two sous.’

“‘Votre serviteur, Madame,’ said he, with an angry whisk of his tail; for although I did not intend it, the beast was annoyed at my remark.

“Away they went, Messieurs, and from that hour to this I never heard more of the creature, nor of his companions; for my husband makes it a rule never to converse on topics relating to his business,—and it seems he was, somehow or other, mixed up in the transaction.”

“But, Madame,” cried one of the passengers, “you don’t mean to palm this fable on us for reality, and make us believe something more absurd than Æsop himself ever invented?”

“If it be only an impertinent allegory,” said the old gentleman opposite, “I must say, it is in the worst possible taste.”

“Or if,” said a little white-faced fat man, with spectacles,—“or if it be a covert attack upon the National Guard of Paris, as the corporal of the 95th legion, of the 37th arrondissement, I repel the insinuation with contempt.”

“Heaven forbid, gentlemen! The facts I have narrated are strictly true; my husband can confirm them in every particular, and I have only to regret that any trait in the ape’s character should suggest uncomfortable recollections to yourselves.”

The train had now reached its destination, and the old lady got out, amid the maledictions of some, and the stifled laughter of others of the passengers,—for only one or two had shrewdness enough to perceive that she was one of those good credulous souls who implicitly believed all she had narrated, and whose judgment having been shaken by the miraculous power of a railroad which converted the journey of a day into the trip of an hour, could really have swallowed any other amount of the apparently impossible it might be her fortune to meet with.

For the benefit of those who may not be as easy of belief as the good Madame Geoffroy, let me add one word as the solution of this mystery. The ape was no other than M. Gouffe, who, being engaged to perform as a monkey in the afterpiece of “La PÉrouse,” was actually cracking nuts in a tree, when he learned from a conversation in “the flats,” that the director, M. Laborde, had just made his escape with all the funds of the theatre, and six months of M. Gouffe’s own salary. Several police-officers had already gained access to the back of the stage, and were arresting the actors as they retired. Poor Jocko had nothing for it, then, but to put his agility to the test, and, having climbed to the top of the tree, he scrambled in succession over the heads of several scenes, till he reached the back of the stage, where, watching his opportunity, he descended in safety, rushed down the stairs, and gained the street. By immense exertions he arrived at the Bois de Boulogne, where he lay concealed until the starting of the early train for Versailles. The remainder of his adventure the reader already knows.

Satisfactory as this explanation may be to some, I confess I should be sorry to make it, if I thought it would reach the eyes or ears of poor Madame Geoffroy, and thus disabuse her of a pleasant illusion, and the harmless gratification of recounting her story to others as unsuspecting as herself.