CHAPTER X
JEANNE'S VELVET EYES
"These are our potential Troppmanns," said Gaston Cremieux, as we passedthrough the grounds of the riding-school. "We must not blame them toomuch. It is partly our fault. We have taken their religion from them,and they have not yet enough moral sense to balance the loss. They havelearned at our meetings and conferences that they have not come to theirown, and they want to break their way to immediate wealth andindependence by the stroke of their own hands. All they can see is thatthe rich have pleasures from which they are shut out--wine, women, andfeasting chiefly. This orgy of their imaginations heats the blood sothat the younger of them have come to think such things the only good.The schoolmasters also are to blame. They have not instructed them innoble thoughts and duties. The Church which has let them slip withouteffort is to blame. But we of the liberating societies are most toblame, for we have given them nothing to replace the Catechism theylearned, and the mystic trappings of that religion in which we havetaught them not to believe. Hence they are our Troppmanns in haste to berich, on edge to taste every sort of forbidden fruit, and in order toreach their pleasure they are ready to slaughter men, women, and littlechildren with as much cold-bloodedness as did the murderer of the Kinckfamily at Pantin."
Gaston spoke of a terrible crime which had shaken France the yearbefore, when a young man of twenty, active and intelligent, had withdevilish cunning slain an entire family of eight, his friends andneighbours, in order that he might "get rich quick," and begin a newlife in a new country.
Cremieux seemed to feel himself in some measure responsible for theselost sheep, but he made no attempt at present to conciliate them,feeling perhaps that the pains would be thrown away or his motivesmisunderstood.
"If we can keep them from active mischief till we want them, all will bewell," he kept repeating. "A time will come when such as they will beinvaluable, but at present they exist in every town and village inFrance--budding 'hooligans' or 'Apaches,' ready for robbery and murder,counting their own life a light thing and the taking of another's ajest. If only they would take service with Garibaldi and be made intomen! That is where the North and East are going to outstrip us in thecoming years. Their Troppmanns are all being swept into the fightingline, and will come out honourable citizens, while we of the South,untouched by the German armies, have our idle rascals on our hands,becoming a greater curse and burden every year, and a standing menace tothe next generation.
"But," he paused thoughtfully upon the phrase, "when the day for thereal struggle begins, we can find them work to do, and shoot them ifthey will not do it. To keep them quiet in the meantime is thedifficulty."
By the time Gaston Cremieux had thus delivered his soul upon thequestion of the town-bred ne'er-do-weels--the Vauriens of the Midi--hewas striding along the edge of the Rhone, till at the end of the quay weturned in the direction of the Durance, the swift river which comesrushing from the mountains, and the muddy torrent of which makesturbulent the clear glaucous-blue of the Rhone from a little belowAvignon.
By this time my stomach, always on campaign, began to remind me that,though I had been learning the secrets of Communism, particularism wasstill rampant within my body.
"Let us go to see Madame Felix," I suggested. "Her husband spoke at thereunion to-day. He is a chief among the workmen, but his wife is worth ascore of him when a fellow is hungry, and his daughter Jeanne Felix isthe girl best worth looking at in these parts--our friends at theChateau alone excepted."
Gaston Cremieux smiled indulgently and with a sort of patient scorn formy enthusiasms.
"I hardly know what it is to be hungry," he said gently; "and exceptsome of our brave mothers of the Commune, and of course Rhoda Polly, onewoman is much the same to me as another."
It was on the tip of my tongue to say, as I should have done toDeventer, "Then the more fool you!" But there was actually somethingabout the young ex-Procureur of the Republic which made one shrink fromfamiliarity. Instead, I turned through a growth of tall rushes, thecane-brakes peculiar to Provence, in the direction of the littleferry-house. It was war-year, and nobody had thought of cutting them.The stiff leaves whistled frostily as we pushed our way through, thesupple yellow _cannes_ clattering behind us as they sprang back. Afterthem came a tangle of withered vines, still clinging to the trellis of adismantled house, and then we found ourselves on the river bankoverlooking the cottage belonging to Mere Felix of the Durance Ferry.The boats were all on the other side, so I was obliged to make a trumpetof my hands and call loud and long for "Mariana," which besides beingthe baptismal name of the lady of the house, is an excellent resonantword to carry across an estuary. Now the Durance, though an absurdlytricky river, is no arm of the sea. Its race is short and turbulent,though it makes as much trouble as possible (which is no little) forthose who dwell on its banks. It plays with inundations, whirlpools,eddies, and deceitful currents, as a child with toys. You cannot row forten strokes straight upon it, for it will bubble up and snatch the oarout of your hand, or failing in this, it will suddenly send the bow ofyour boat deep into a reed-bed as if it were part of a conjuring trick.I knew somewhat more of the matter than most, for had not Jeanne Felixtaught me? I had often gone over to spend a day there during the longvacations. For my father, buried among his books, made no objections tomy roaming the country at will.
Cremieux and I presently stood at the top of a rough and tumble-downflight of steps which led to a pier in somewhat better condition. Irecognised the work of my own hands upon this last. For Jeanne and I hadcoopered it up only last year, so that her passengers might land withoutrisking their lives each time. Paths extended both up and down stream,but as yet nothing had been done to the flight of rough-hewn steps ofsplit pinewood leading to the forest above. These things I did notcommunicate to my new revolutionary friend, for I was busy wonderingwhat effect Jeanne Felix would have upon him.
My fourth or fifth shout brought the Mere Felix wrathfully down to theriver edge where her white cap and broad head ribbons showed between thetall _cannes_. She had a couple of oars upon one shoulder and calledacross at us, "Who is making such a noise with their Marianas? There isno Mariana here except to my husband, the Pere Felix, who is now fromhome, doubtless at one of his foolish reunions----"
"Dear Mariana," I answered, showing myself at the end of the littlepier, "push out a boat and you can kiss me for it. My father says youmay. Also send Jeanne quickly, for she and I can row so well together."
"It is that rascal of an English student, Monsieu' Auegoose from Gobelet.Well, I might have guessed. Yet it is not playtime at St. Andre that Ihave heard. I shall have you sent back and whipped. What, they do notwhip at St. Andre? Ah, it is no wonder, then, that you young people waxso impertinent. If only you were _my_ boy, I should not call upon PereFelix to help me. No, no--I would----" and the old lady, smacking onehard hand upon the other, conveyed her meaning exactly.
"Send Jeanne," I repeated, taking no notice of her pantomime.
"Send Jeanne," she imitated my college-trained voice,"Jeanne--Jeanne--it is always Jeanne!"
"Perhaps," I ventured, "when you were Jeanne's age it was always'Mariana'! I'll wager that more people than Pere Felix called you thatin those days, petite mere!"
"Here comes Jeanne at last," she called, so that I could hear. "Do notput up with his insolence, Jeanne. He is a spoilt schoolboy, nothingmore."
Jeanne stepped sagely into the skiff, with a foot so light and practisedthat the frail craft hardly quivered in the water. She was a tall, darkgirl with a supple figure, both light and well-rounded, remarkablyDiana-ish in a land where the women, save a few, are inclined toshortness, and in addition are already overshadowed by the stoutnesswhich inevitably overtakes them after marriage.
Jeanne Felix received us without the least embarrassment into her boat.When I mentioned my friend's name in introducing him, there was onerapid up-and-down flicker of the drooping eyelashes, a flash of velveteyes, and then without a word or a salutation she handed
me the bow oaras if we had parted only the night before.
When we landed on the neat little _embarcadere_, below the RestaurantSambre-et-Meuse, Madame Felix had vanished. I knew her to be alreadybusy with the _menu_ of our dinner, a matter which, in spite of herabuse of me, she would entrust to nobody.
There was a great chestnut tree before the door, and though the monthwas January, my pocket thermometer registered 62 deg. Fahrenheit in ourshadowed nook.
Here we sat and waited, talking with Jeanne till her mother should callus in to lunch.
The reformer smoked innumerable cigarettes, but he said little. I fancyhe had not much small talk, and at times he seemed so far away that Iwondered whether he heard the light badinage in which Jeanne and I arefond of engaging. Jeanne is freed from all fear of her mother's reproofand I do as I like, because I am a choice favourite with that lady,being the only person in the world she permits herself to abuse grossly,except her goodman Pere Felix--who, according to her, is still more_impayable_ and gifted with a faculty of irritation not to be told.
As for me, I am younger and not her husband, but she has known me sinceI could really receive from her palm the manual chastisement she had sofamiliarly illustrated.
Still, I must admit that so far as Cremieux was concerned, interest inthe Restaurant Sambre-et-Meuse awaked only when from the river-pathalong the Durance we heard the sound of voices, and presently Pere Felixemerged talking eagerly with Pipe-en-Bois Soult, nicknamed the Marshal,and several of the Old Guard of the Commune. Then his eyes lit upsuddenly. He rose as if throwing a weight from his shoulders. He hadcome to his own again. This man bore the weight of a bullet he hadgained on the day of the _coup d-etat_. Pipe-en-Bois had been in frontof the battle about the Luxembourg that morning of 1848 when Cavaignac'sfusillade proved the futility of moderate Republican promises.
In the kitchen was great rattling of dishes, the voice of Mere Felixcalling on her daughter Jeanne, summoning from a great way off her"torchon" Babette, a kind of scullery-maid gathered chance-wise fromamong the numerous squatter families clustered along the river's edge.
Such long-limbed slatterns were plentiful as blackberries and of as ranka growth all along the Durance. Monsieur Brunet, horsemaster and former"Red of the Midi," owned the water meadows all about, and smilinglyallowed the little street of wooden houses fringing the banks. A strayrabbit might be caught out of the pine knolls, but Monsieur's grazingrights must be respected, and his ponies and brood-mares left in peace.
Probably none except the family Felix all along that riverine sweep ofreed-bed paid a penny of rent or a tax to the Government. The ruralguard with his sash and his great brass plate of office must, of course,have known of the colony. But for some reason or another he saidnothing, and all the time the huts of the "zoniers" tailed out at bothends into more and more ramshackle sheds and _bicoques_.
Here arose the danger of the community. They could only exist byattracting no attention, and many of the ancient inhabitants, in goododour with the Sieur Brunet, were compelled to replace the fences whichhad been torn down to burn, or used as building material by their lessscrupulous neighbours.
Hence came quarrels, sharp words, and occasionally the breaking ofheads. The chief penalty was that no offenders against the unwritten lawof the settlement were allowed to drink under the cool shade of MereFelix's vine trellises.
The men who had come back with the proprietor of the RestaurantSambre-et-Meuse were, of course, the fine flower of this scatteringFaubourg Durance. They were full of admiration for their host, but everyman of them knew that Pere Felix would occupy a very different positionat the Sambre-et-Meuse from what had been his in the late great meetingof citizens at the riding-school of Aramon. They seemed to be wishing tomake up to him all the way for the coming loss of prestige.
At the journey's end he would have to submit to his wife's inevitabledictatorship, and support in his own proper person the reproach of thewhole company. He became responsible (among other things) for themisdeeds of the half-wild cook-maid, for the uncertainties of theweather, for the lack of fuel, and for the vicissitudes of the lady'sculinary apparatus. Like many a high officer, colonel, or commandant,whose word is law to a thousand men in barracks, the Pere Felix camehome to do pack-drill and practise the goose-step under the eye of asevere drill-sergeant armed with a broomstick.
But the good woman allowed no one except herself to treat her husbandlightly, so that in a measure his self-esteem was re-established beforecompany. The more guests there were at the Sambre-et-Meuse, the moreconsideration was it necessary to show for the proprietor.
A chicken had been set aside for me, and of that I was not to bedeprived, or at least of as great a portion as could be piled on myplate within her inviolable kitchen, by Mariana of the liberal hand.Gaston Cremieux, though she looked upon him as a perverter of youth, andthe worst of examples for her husband, was still a guest of honour, andhe had come there in my company. Therefore he should have a share in thechicken. Roast mutton, soup, and boiled beef out of the soup-pot whichhad simmered all day by the fire were good enough for the others. Therewas plenty of good bread, better than rich men could buy in Paris atthat moment--let the newcomers "bank up" with that and be thankful.These, with regard to food supply, were the conclusions of Mariana ofthe Restaurant of Sambre-et-Meuse among the reed-beds of the Durance.