The San Francisco call. [volume] (San Francisco [Calif.]) 1895-1913, 1895-12-25

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| Pierre Pinard was a failure. At least
| that is the conclusion he came to on
| Christmas eve as he sat, lonely and de-
pressed, in a corner of a little French
saloon on Jackson street.
| There had been time when the choicest
spirits of the Latin quarter met in that
| little den, with its old-fashioned low
ceiling, sanded floor, oak furnishings and
numerous colored prints-each depicting
the French soldier in various striking yet
doubtless authentic actions. But that
was long ago, and reverses had since come
| to the fat old proprietor, proving that even
| saloons are not superior to the laws OF
change and fate.
| The ceilings and walls were now grimy
and yellow, the furnishings had long lost
| their polish and the prints were so covered
with f1yspecks that an imaginative OBJ
server might mistake them for bullets and
wonder whether there remained a single
soldier to shoulder musket for the glory
and defense of France.
| Then, again, few people came in to sip
their evening cognac or absinthe as they
did in the old days. Trade had been
gradually moving uptown for the last ten
years. ana the only regular visitors to the
old saloon would be few Italian fisher
men, an occasional tramp-fierce of III u.s.
tache, but pitifully weak of stomach-and
the humble but highly obnoxious rat.
| This Christmas eve the proprietor had
dosed off, his chin reposing upon an ex-
pansive but dirty shirt bosom, and his
heart. perhaps. in the glorious vineyards
of Southern France. So Pierre Pinard had
| the place all to himself. A few doors off
| somebody was singing an old French song
| to the accompaniment of an accordion,
and the music sounded very sweet to him,
because it took him back to the days of
his boyhood-over forty years ago-to the
streets of Paris and his little house in the
| Rue San Sebastien.
| Was 1t really forty years ago? The
man passed his hand across his wrinkled
forehead and began to count up the years,
using pieces of broken matches to tally
| them off with.
| Yes, it was forty years ago; and tonight
on Christmas eve-he sat alone in little
saloon, without friends, with nothing ac-
| complished-a complete failure.
| Life to him in the commencement had
| seemed so bright, success so easy OF &C
omphshment, that it seemed terrible to
| be sitting there all alone on such night.
He remembered how, as gamin, Re had
readily acquired the rudiments of that
knowledge which should have enabled him
to do great things. At 20 he was master,
able, had he so wished, to initiate his fol-
| lowers into tie secrets of the higher edu-
| cation. But in his line, as in every other,
attainment had made him selfish, and so
he preferred to keep above them, accept
! ing their praise, but carefully guarding
| those arts by which he ELECTED it.
As his thoughts reverted to the past
Pinard grew bitter. 1t was not given to
| every one to do what he mad done. Flute
playing is in itself an accomplishment;
| but when one operates upon it by means
of higher agency than the mouth, viz. ::
the nose, as Pinard did, then it becomes a
gift of the gods themselves. And when
one adds thereto the art OF making excru-
ciatingly funny or pathetic faces while so
doing, as Pinard did, then ones art bor-
! ders on the supernatural. Moreover, he
| could blow upon his hands and draw
music from them equal, if not superior, to
that of the conch shell or calliope. He
could crack every one of the joints in his
| fingers. He could initiate anything from
| the grunting of pig to the rhetorical
declarations of the most popular Deputy
| in the Chamber. Not that there was much
| difference between the two, as Pinard
would tell his audience, only the pig, by
| some beneficent decree of Providence, was
| kept in happy ignorance of the fact. By
/ the aid OF small piece of soap and numer.
| Gus contortions in the gutter he could give
a realistic portrayal of a man having fit
or, if his endeavors had been sufficiently
rewarded, he would even go so far as tc
| give his masterplece-an exaggerated at
tack of delirium tremens.
This always succeeded in bringing in
business to the house, and, occasionally
the police.
/ And yet, after lifetime spent in educa
ting the leisure classes in the largest cite.
OF Europe and America he had been abso
lutely unable to lay anything aside for 9
rainy day, and found himself, on Christ
mas eve, transient guest in lonesome
saloon, with little hope in his heart and
less cash in his pocket than is considered
requisite to insure happiness on Christina:
day.
1t is not to be supposed that a man O
Pierre Pinard's ability and general tenn
permanent should be proof against the
allurements of the gentler sex. Love
laughs at locksmiths only because he is ,
safe-cracker OF no mean ability himself
and colder men than Pierre Pinard have
had their hearts walls broken in by hi,
nlmble fingers. There is, moreover, nc
man so unfortunate whose life at som,
period or other has not been mellowed b,
one womans influence.
That influence may blossom into love fo
him in this life, or. if he be not who'll,
worthy OF it, it may remain in the bud t.
blossom Tor him in some other. But i
makes itself felt just the same, and lif,
would be pretty dreary without it.