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Updated: May 18, 2025
If any member had thought that the sad performance of the fatal Saturday night and the winged words of General Murger were to be the prelude to period of fierce activity and frantic preparation, he was mistaken. It was almost as though Colonel Dearman believed that General Murger would not live to carry out his threat.
"Halt," roared Colonel Dearman. "Oh, don't halt 'em," begged General Murger, "it's the most entertainin' show I have ever seen." The smart and dapper Brigade-Major's mouth was open. Major Pinto and Captain-and-Acting-Adjutant Petropaulovski forgot to cling to their horses with hand and heel and so endangered their lives.
I ran off without waiting for his reply, and whispered to myself, as I went, "And yet Henry Murger is the most talented and the most honest of them all!" Let me continue the story of my misfortunes. The tempest was unchained against me.
Henri Murger, the author, when asked once why he continued to patronize a certain establishment notorious for the inferior quality of its beer, answered, “Yes, the beer is poor, but they keep such good ink!” The use of a café does not imply any great expenditure, a consummation costing but little.
"I shall inspect your corps in camp," General Murger had said, "and the question of its disbandment may wait until I have done so." Disbandment! The question of the disbandment of the fine and far-famed Fusiliers of Gungapur could wait till then, could it? Well and good! Ha! and likewise Ho!
In 1850 Henry Murger published a book in which the manners and customs of people who live by their wits were painted in colors scarcely likely to fascinate healthy imaginations. He declared to the world that the novitiate of our future great authors was nothing but one incessant hunt after a half-dollar and a mutton-chop.
"Why, they are all at it, Monsieur Edmond About, Monsieur Louis Ulbach, Monsieur Paulin Limayrac, Monsieur Henry Murger, Monsieur Taxile Delord," "Ah! by the way, have you seen his article of yesterday?" "No." "You should have read that. Those in the morning's papers are nothing to it. Really, you ought not to leave town without seeing it."
Sing of youth, O Murger! "Well, there I was in Montmartre Cemetery, and was all at once filled with sadness, a sadness that is not all pain, a kind of sadness that makes you think when you are in good health, 'This place is not amusing, but my time has not come yet.
Dismounting and handing their reins to the syces, the two young gentlemen strolled over to the table where presided he of the pimples and number-labels. A burly Sikh was pointing to the name of General Miltiades Murger and asking for the number printed thereagainst. The youth handed Rissaldar-Major Shere Singh two labels each bearing the number 99.
This was intended to be a jolly send-off; only our nearest friends were asked. But what a mockery of mirth! For three mortal hours we strove to affect what Henri Murger so wittily describes as the "gaiete de croque-mort qui s'enterre lui-meme"; and it was a relief when the moment came to make our last preparations. The small party escorted us to the place where we were to board the coach.
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