THE FESTIVITIES IN HONOUR OF THE BEY
In the regions of the Midi, of bygone civilization, historical castlesstill standing are rare. Only at long intervals on the hillsides someold abbey lifts its tottering and dismembered front, perforated by holesthat once were windows, whose empty spaces look now only to the sky.A monument of dust, burnt up by the sun, dating from the time of theCrusades or of the Courts of Love, without a trace of man among itsstones, where even the ivy no longer clings nor the acanthus, but whichthe dried lavenders and the ferns embalm. In the midst of all thoseruins the castle of Saint-Romans is an illustrious exception. If youhave travelled in the Midi you have seen it, and you are to see it againnow. It is between Valence and Montelimart, on a site just where therailway runs alongside the Rhone, at the foot of the rich slopesof Baume, Raucoule, and Mercurol, where the far-famed vineyards ofl'Ermitage, spreading out for five miles in close-planted rows of vines,which seem to grow as one looks, roll down almost into the river, whichis there as green and full of islands as the Rhine at Basle, but undera sun the Rhine has never known. Saint-Romans is opposite on the otherside of the river; and, in spite of the brevity of the vision, theheadlong rush of the train, which seems trying to throw itself madlyinto the Rhone at each turning, the castle is so large, so well situatedon the neighbouring hill, that it seems to follow the crazy race of thetrain, and stamps on your mind forever the memory of its terraces, itsbalustrades, its Italian architecture; two low stories surmounted by acolonnaded gallery and flanked by two slate-roofed pavilions dominatingthe great slopes where the water of the cascades rebounds, the networkof gravel walks, the perspective of long hedges, terminated by somewhite statue which stands out against the blue sky as on the luminousground of a stained-glass window. Quite at the top, in the middle of thevast lawns whose green turf shines ironically under the scorching sun,a gigantic cedar uplifts its crested foliage, enveloped in black andfloating shadows--an exotic silhouette, upright before this formerdwelling of some Louis XIV farmer of revenue, which makes one think of agreat negro carrying the sunshade of a gentleman of the court.
From Valence to Marseilles, throughout all the Valley of the Rhone,Saint-Romans of Bellaignes is famous as an enchanted palace; and,indeed, in that country burnt up by the fiery wind, this oasis ofgreenness and beautiful rushing water is a true fairy-land.
"When I am rich, mamma," Jansoulet used to say, as quite a small boy,to his mother whom he adored, "I shall give you Saint-Romans ofBellaignes." And as the life of the man seemed the fulfilment of a storyfrom the Arabian Nights, as all his wishes came true, even the mostdisproportionate, as his maddest chimeras came to lie down before him,to lick his hands like familiar and obedient spaniels, he had boughtSaint-Romans to offer it, newly furnished and grandiosely restored, tohis mother. Although it was ten years since then, the dear old woman wasnot yet used to her splendid establishment. "It is the palace of QueenJeanne that you have given me, my dear Bernard," she wrote to her son."I shall never live there." She never did live there, as a matter offact, having stayed at the steward's house, an isolated building ofmodern construction, situated quite at the other end of the grounds,so as to overlook the outbuildings and the farm, the sheepfolds and theoil-mills, with their rural horizon of stacks, olive-trees and vines,extending over the plain as far as one could see. In the great castleshe would have imagined herself a prisoner in one of those enchanteddwellings where sleep seizes you in the midst of your happiness anddoes not let you go for a hundred years. Here, at least, thepeasant-woman--who had never been able to accustom herself tothis colossal fortune, come too late, from too far, and like athunder-clap--felt herself linked to reality by the coming and going ofthe work-people, the letting-out and taking-in of the cattle, their slowmovement to the drinking pond, all that pastoral life which woke her bythe familiar call of the cocks and the sharp cries of the peacocks, andbrought her down the corkscrew staircase of the pavilion before dawn.She looked upon herself only as the trustee of this magnificent estate,which she was taking care of for her son, and wished to give back to himin perfect condition on the day when, rich enough and tired of livingwith the Turks, he would come, according to his promise, to live withher beneath the shade of Saint-Romans.
Then, too, what universal and indefatigable supervision! Through themists of early morning the farm-servants heard her rough and huskyvoice: "Olivier, Peyrol, Audibert. Come on! It is four o'clock." Thenshe would hasten to the immense kitchen, where the maids, heavy withsleep, were heating the porridge over the crackling, new-lit fire.They gave her a little dish of red Marseilles-ware full of boiledchestnuts--frugal breakfast of bygone times, which nothing would haveinduced her to change. At once she was off, hurrying with great strides,her large silver keyring at her belt, whence jingled all her keys, herplate in her hand, balanced by the distaff which she held, in workingorder, under her arm, for she spun all day long, and did not stop evento eat her chestnuts. On the way, a glance at the stables, still dark,where the animals were moving duly, at the stifling pens with their rowsof impatient and outstretched muzzles; and the first glimmers of lightcreeping over the layers of stones that supported the embankment of thepark, lit up the figure of the old woman, running in the dew, with thelightness of a girl, despite her seventy years--verifying exactly eachmorning all the wealth of the domain, anxious to make sure that thenight had not taken away the statues and the vases, uprooted thehundred-year-old quincunx, dried up the springs which filtered intotheir resounding basins. Then the full sunlight of midday, humming andvibrating, showed still, on the sand of an alley, against the white wallof a terrace, the long figure of the old woman, elegant and straightas her spindle, picking up bits of dead wood, breaking off some unevenbranch of a shrub, careless of the shock it caused her and the sweatwhich broke out over her skin. Towards this hour another figure was tobe seen in the park also--less active, less noisy, dragging rather thanwalking, leaning against the walls and railings--a poor round-shoulderedbeing, shaky and stiff, a figure from which life seemed to have goneout, never speaking, when he was tired giving a little plaintive crytowards the servant, who was always near, who helped him to sit down, tocrouch upon some step, where he would stay for hours, motionless, mute,his mouth hanging, his eyes blinking, hushed by the strident monotony ofthe grasshopper's cry--a blotch of humanity in the splendid horizon.
This, this was the first-born, Bernard's brother, the darling child ofhis father and mother, the glorious hope of the nail-maker's family.Slaves, like so many others in the Midi, to the superstition of therights of primogeniture, they had made every possible sacrifice to sendto Paris their fine, ambitious lad, who set out assured of success, theadmiration of all the young women of the town; and Paris, after havingfor six years, beaten, twisted, and squeezed in its great vat thebrilliant southern stripling, after having burnt him with all itsvitriol, rolled him in all its mud, finished by sending him back inthis state of wreckage, stupefied and paralyzed--killing his father withsorrow, and forcing his mother to sell her all, and live as a sort ofchar-woman in the better-class houses of her own country-side. Lucky itwas that just then, when this broken piece of humanity, dischargedfrom all the hospitals of Paris, was sent back by public charity toBourg-Saint-Andeol, Bernard--he whom they called Cadet, as in thesesouthern families, half Arab as they are, the eldest always takes thefamily name, and the last-comer that of Cadet--Bernard was at Tunismaking his fortune, and sending home money regularly. But what pain itwas for the poor mother to owe everything, even the life, the comfortof the sad invalid, to the robust and courageous boy whom his father andshe had loved without any tenderness; who, since he was five years old,they had treated as a "hand," because he was very strong, woolly-headed,and ugly, and even then knew better than any one in the house how todeal in old nails. Ah! how she longed to have him near her, her Cadet,to make some return to him for all the good he did, to pay at last thedebt of love and motherly tenderness that she owed him!
But, you see, these princely fortunes have the burdens, the weari
nessesof royal lives. This poor mother, in her dazzling surroundings, was verylike a real queen: familiar with long exiles, cruel separations, and thetrials which detract from greatness; one of her sons forever stupefied,the other far away, seldom writing, absorbed in his business, saying,"I will come," and never coming. She had only seen him once in twelveyears, and then in the whirl of a visit of the Bey to Saint-Romans--arush of horses and carriages, of fireworks, and of banquets. He had gonein the suite of his monarch, having scarcely time to say good-bye to hisold mother, to whom there remained of this great joy only a few picturesin the illustrated papers, showing Bernard Jansoulet arriving at thecastle with Ahmed, and presenting his mother. Is it not thus that kingsand queens have their family feelings exploited in the journals? Therewas also a cedar of Lebanon, brought from the other end of the world, aregular mountain of a tree, whose transport had been as difficult and ascostly as that of Cleopatra's needle, and whose erection as a souvenirof the royal visit by dint of men, money, and teams had shaken the veryfoundations. But this time, at least, knowing him to be in France forseveral months--perhaps for good--she hoped to have her Bernard toherself. And now he returned to her, one fine evening, enveloped in thesame triumphant glory, in the same official display, surrounded by acrowd of counts, of marquises, of fine gentlemen from Paris, filling,they and their servants, the two large wagonettes she had sent to meetthem at the little station of Giffas on the other side of the Rhone.
"Come, give me a kiss, my dear mother. There is nothing to be ashamedof in giving a good hug to the boy you haven't seen all these years.Besides, all these gentlemen are our friends. This is the Marquisde Monpavon, the Marquis de Bois d'Hery. Ah! the time is past whenI brought you to eat vegetable soup with us, little Cabassu andJean-Batiste Bompain. You know M. de Gery? With my old friendCardailhac, whom I now present, that makes the first batch. There areothers to come. Prepare yourself for a fine upsetting. We entertain theBey in four days."
"The Bey again!" said the old woman, astounded. "I thought he was dead."
Jansoulet and his guests could not help laughing at this comical terror,accentuated by her southern intonation.
"It is another, mamma. There is always a Bey--thank goodness. Butdon't be afraid. You won't have so much bother this time. Our friendCardailhac has undertaken everything. We are going to have magnificentcelebrations. In the meantime, quick--dinner and our rooms. OurParisians are worn out."
"Everything is ready, my son," said the old lady quietly, stiff andstraight under her Cambrai cap, the head-dress with its yellowing flaps,which she never left off even for great occasions. Good fortune had notchanged her. She was a true peasant of the Rhone valley, independent andproud, without any of the sly humilities of Balzac's country folk, tooartless to be purse-proud. One pride alone she had--that of showing herson with what scrupulous care she had discharged her duties as guardian.Not an atom of dust, not a trace of damp on the walls. All the splendidground-floor, the reception-rooms with their hangings of iridescent silknew out of the dust sheets, the long summer galleries cool and sonorous,paved with mosaics and furnished with a flowery lightness in theold-fashioned style, with Louis XIV sofas in cane and silk, the immensedining-room decorated with palms and flowers, the billiard-room with itsrows of brilliant ivory balls, its crystal chandeliers and its suitsof armour--all the length of the castle, through its tall windows, wideopen to the stately terrace, lay displayed for the admiration of thevisitors. The marvellous beauty of the horizon and the setting sun, itsown serene and peaceful richness, were reflected in the panes of glassand in the waxed and polished wood with the same clearness as in themirror-like ornamental lakes, the pictures of the poplars and the swans.The setting was so lovely, the whole effect so grand, that the clamorousand tasteless luxury melted away, disappeared, even to the mosthypercritical eyes.
"There is something to work on," said Cardailhac, the manager, his glassin his eye, his hat on one side, combining already his stage-effect.And the haughty air of Monpavon, whom the head-dress of the old womanreceiving them on the terrace had shocked, gave way to a condescendingsmile. Here was something to work on, certainly, and, guided by personsof taste, their friend Jansoulet could really give his Moorish Highnessan exceedingly suitable reception. All the evening they talked ofnothing else. In the sumptuous dining-room, their elbows on the table,full of meat and drink, they planned and discussed. Cardailhac, who hadgreat ideas, had already his plan complete.
"First of all, you give me _carte-blanche_, don't you, Nabob?_Carte-blanche_, old fellow, and make that fat Hemerlingue burst withenvy."
Then the manager explained his scheme. The festivities were to bedivided into days, as at Vaux, when Fouquet entertained Louis XIV. Oneday a play; another day Provencal games, dances, bull-fights,local bands; the third day--And already the manager's hand sketchedprogrammes, announcements; while Bois l'Hery slept, his hands in hispockets, his chair tilted back, his cigar sunk in the corner ofhis sneering mouth; and the Marquis de Monpavon, always on his bestbehaviour, straightened his shirt-front to keep himself awake.
De Gery had left them early. He had sought refuge beside the oldmother--who had known him as a boy, him and his brothers--in the humbleparlour of the brightly decorated, white-curtained house, where theNabob's mother tried to perpetuate her humble past with the help of afew relics saved from its wreck.
Paul chatted quietly with the fine old woman, admiring her severe andregular features, her white hair massed together like the hemp of herdistaff, as she sat holding herself straight in her seat--never in herlife having leaned back or sat in an arm-chair--a little green shawlfolded tightly across her flat breast. He called her Francoise, and shecalled him M. Paul. They were old friends. And guess what they talkedabout? Of her grandchildren, of Bernard's three sons, whom she did notknow and so much longed to know.
"Ah, M. Paul, if you knew how I long to see them! I should have beenso happy if he had brought them, my three little ones, instead of thesefine gentlemen. Think, I have never seen them, only their portraitswhich are over there. I am a little afraid of their mother, she is quitea great lady, a Miss Afchin. But them, the children, I am sure they arenot proud, and they would love their old granny. It would be like havingtheir father a little boy again, and I would give to them what I did notgive to him. You see, M. Paul, parents are not always just. They havetheir favourites. But God is just, he is. The ones that are most pettedand spoiled at the expense of the others, you should see what he does tothem for you! And the favour of the old often brings misfortune to theyoung!"
She sighed, looking towards the large recess from behind the curtains ofwhich there came, at intervals, a long sobbing breath like the sleepingwail of a beaten child who has cried bitterly.
A heavy step on the staircase, a loud, sweet voice saying, very softly,"It is I; don't move," and Jansoulet appeared. He knew his mother'shabits, how her lamp was the last to go out, so when every one in thecastle was in bed, he came to see her, to chat with her for a little, torejoice her heart with an affection he could not show before the others."Oh, stay, my dear Paul; we don't mind you," and once more a child inhis mother's presence, with loving gestures and words that were reallytouching, the huge man threw himself on the ground at her feet. She wasvery happy to have him there, so dearly near, but she was just a littleshy. She looked upon him as an all-powerful being, extraordinary,raising him, in her simplicity, to the greatness of an Olympiancommanding the thunder and lightning. She spoke to him, asking about hisfriends, his business, but not daring to put the question she had askedde Gery: "Why haven't my grandchildren come?" But he spoke of themhimself. "They are at school, mother. Whenever the holidays begin theyshall be sent with Bompain. You remember Jean-Baptiste Bompain? And youshall keep them for two long months. They will come to you and make youtell them stories, and they will go to sleep with their heads on yourlap--there, like that."
And he himself, putting his heavy, woolly head on her knee, rememberedthe happy evenings of his childhood when he would go to
sleep so, if shewould let him, and his brother had not taken up all the room. He tastedfor the first time since his return to France a few minutes of deliciouspeace away from his restless and artificial life, as he lay pressed tohis old mother's heart, in the deep silence of night and of the countrywhich one feels hovering over him in limitless space; the only soundsthe beating of that old faithful heart and the swing of the pendulum ofthe ancient clock in the corner. Suddenly came the same long sigh, as ofa child fallen asleep sobbing. Jansoulet lifted his head and looked athis mother, and softly asked: "Is it--?" "Yes," she said, "I make himsleep there. He might need me in the night."
"I would like to see him, to embrace him."
"Come, then." She rose very gravely, took the lamp and went to thealcove, of which she softly drew the large curtain, making a sign to herson to draw near quietly.
He was sleeping. And no doubt something lived in him while he slept thatwas not there when he waked, for instead of the flaccid immobility inwhich he was congealed all day, he was now shaken by sudden starts, andon the inexpressive and death-like face there were lines of pain and thecontractions of suffering life. Jansoulet, much affected, looked longat those wasted features, faded and sickly, where the beard grew with asurprising vigour. Then he bent down, put his lips to the damp brow, andfeeling him move, said very gravely and respectfully, as one speaks tothe head of the family, "Good-night, my brother." Perhaps the captivesoul had heard it from the depths of its dark and abject limbo. For thelips moved and a long moan answered him, a far-away wail, a despairingcry, which filled with helpless tears the glance exchanged betweenFrancoise and her son, and tore from them both the same cry in whichtheir sorrow met, "Pecaire," the local word which expressed all pity andall tenderness.
The next day, from early morning, the commotion began with the arrivalof the actors, an avalanche of hats and wigs and big boots, of shortskirts and affected cries, of floating veils and fresh make-ups. Thewomen were in a great majority, as Cardailhac thought that for a Beythe play was of little consequence, and that all that was needful was tohave catchy tunes in pretty mouths, to show fine arms and shapely legsin the easy costume of light opera. All the well-made celebrities of histheatre were there, Amy Ferat at the head of them, a bold young womanwho had already had her teeth in the gold of several crowns. Therewere two or three well-known men whose pale faces made the same kind ofchalky and spectral spots amid the green of the trees as the plaster ofthe statues. All these people, enlivened by the journey, the surprise ofthe country, the overflowing hospitality, as well as the hope of makingsomething out of this sojourn of Beys and Nabobs and other gilded fools,wanted only to play, to jest and sing with the vulgar boisterousnessof a crew of freshly discharged Seine boatmen. But Cardailhac meantotherwise. No sooner were they unpacked, freshened up, and luncheon overthan, quick, the parts, the rehearsals! There was no time to lose. Theyworked in the small drawing-room next the summer gallery, where thetheatre was already being fitted up; and the noise of hammers, the songsfrom the burlesque, the shrill voices, the conductor's fiddle, mingledwith the loud trumpet-like calls of the peacocks, and rose upon the hotsouthern wind, which, not recognising it as only the mad rattle of itsown grasshoppers, shook it all disdainfully on the trailing tip of itswings.
Seated in the centre of the terrace, as in the stage-box of his theatre,Cardailhac watched the rehearsals, gave orders to a crowd of workmenand gardeners, had trees cut down as spoiling the view, designed thetriumphal arches, sent off telegrams, express messengers to mayors, tosub-prefects, to Arles--to arrange for a deputation of girls in nationalcostume; to Barbantane, where the best dancers are; to Faraman, famousfor its wild bulls and Camargue horses. And as the name of Jansoulet,joined to that of the Bey of Tunis, flared at the end of all thesemessages, on all sides they hastened to obey; the telegraph wires werenever still, messengers wore out horses on the roads. And this littleSardanapalus of the stage called Cardailhac repeated ever, "There'ssomething to work on here," happy to scatter gold at random likehandfuls of seed, to have a stage of forty leagues to stir about--thewhole of Provence, of which this rabid Parisian was a native and whosepicturesque resources he knew to the core.
Dispossessed of her office, the old mother never appeared. She occupiedherself with the farm, and her invalid. She was terrified by this crowdof visitors, these insolent servants whom it was difficult to know fromthe masters, these women with their impudent and elegant airs, theseclean-shaven men who looked like bad priests--all these mad-caps whochased each other at night in the corridors with pillows, with wetsponges, with curtain tassels they had torn down, for weapons. Evenafter dinner she no longer had her son; he was obliged to stay with hisguests, whose number grew each day as the _fetes_ approached; not eventhe resource of talking to M. Paul about her grandchildren was left, forJansoulet, a little embarrassed by the seriousness of his friend,had sent him to spend a few days with his brothers. And the carefulhousekeeper, to whom they came every minute asking the keys for linen,for a room, for extra silver, thought of her piles of beautiful dishes,of the sacking of her cupboards and larders, remembered the statein which the old Bey's visit had left the castle, devastated as by acyclone, and said in her _patois_ as she feverishly wet the linen on herdistaff: "May lightning strike them, this Bey and all the Beys!"
At last the day came, the great day which is still spoken of in all thecountry-side. Towards three o'clock in the afternoon, after a sumptuousluncheon at which the old mother presided, this time in a new cap, overa company composed of Parisian celebrities, prefects, deputies, all infull uniform, mayors with their sashes, priests newshaven, Jansoulet infull dress stepped out on to the terrace surrounded by his guests. Hesaw before him in that splendid frame of magnificent natural scenery, inthe midst of flags and arches and coats of arms, a vast swarm of people,a flare of brilliant costumes in rows on the slopes, at corners of thewalks; here, grouped in beds, like flowers on a lawn, the prettiestgirls of Arles, whose little dark heads showed delicately from beneaththeir lace fichus; farther down were the dancers from Barbantane--eighttambourine players in a line, ready to begin, their hands joined,ribbons flying, hats cocked, and the red scarves round their hips;beyond them, on the succeeding terraces were the choral societies inrows, dressed in black with red caps, their standard-bearer in front,grave, important, his teeth clinched, holding high his carved staff;farther down still, on a vast circular space now arranged as anamphitheatre, were the black bulls, and the herdsmen from Camargueseated on their long-haired white horses, their high boots over theirknees, at their wrists an uplifted spear; then more flags, helmets,bayonets, and decorations right down to the triumphal arch at the gates;as far as the eye could see, on the other side of the Rhone (acrosswhich the two railways had made a pontoon bridge that they mightcome straight from the station to Saint-Romans), whole villages wereassembling from every side, crowding to the Giffas road in a cloud ofdust and a confusion of cries, sitting at the hedge-sides, clinging tothe elms, squeezed in carts--a living wall for the procession. Above alla great white sun which scintillated in every direction--on the copperof a tambourine, on the point of a trident, on the fringe of a banner;and in the midst the great proud Rhone carrying to the sea the movingpicture of this royal feast. Before these marvels, where shone all thegold of his coffers, the Nabob had a sudden feeling of admiration and ofpride.
"This is beautiful," he said, paling; and behind him his mothermurmured, "It is too beautiful for man. It is as if God were coming."She was pale, too, but with an unutterable fear.
The sentiment of the old Catholic peasant was indeed that which wasvaguely felt by all those people massed upon the roads as though for thepassing of a gigantic Corpus Christi procession, and whom this visitof an Eastern prince to a child of their own country reminded of thelegends of the Magi, or the advent of Gaspard the Moor, bringing to thecarpenter's son myrrh and the triple crown.
As Jansoulet was being warmly congratulated by every one, Cardailhac,who had not been seen since morning, suddenly appeare
d, triumphant andperspiring. "Didn't I tell you there was something to work on! Eh? Isn'tit fine? What a scene! I bet our Parisians would pay dear to be at sucha first performance as this!" And lowering his voice, on account of themother who was quite near, "Have you seen our country girls? No? Examinethem more closely--the first, the one in front, who is to present thebouquet."
"Why, it is Amy Ferat!"
"Just so. You see, old fellow, if the Bey should throw his handkerchiefamid that group of loveliness there must be some one to pick it up. Theywouldn't understand, these innocents. Oh, I have thought of everything,you will see. Everything is prepared and regulated just as on the stage.Garden side--farm side."
Here, to give an idea of the perfect organization, the manager raisedhis stick. Immediately his gesture was repeated from the top to thebottom of the park, and from the choral societies, from the brass bands,from the tambourines, there burst forth the majestic strains of thepopular southern song, _Grand Soleil de la Provence_. Voices andinstruments rose in the sunlight, the banners filled, the dancers swayedto their first movement, while on the other side of the river a reportflew like a breeze that the Bey had arrived unexpectedly by anotherroute. The manager made another gesture, and the immense orchestra washushed. The response was slower this time, there were little delays, ahail of words lost in the leaves; but one could not expect more from aconcourse of three thousand people. Just then the carriages appeared,the state coaches which had been used on the occasion of the last Bey'svisit--two large chariots, pink and gold as at Tunis. Mme. Jansoulethad tended them almost as holy relics, and they had come out of theircoverings, with their panels, their hangings and their gold fringes,as shining and new as the day they were made. Here again Cardailhac'singenuity had been freely exercised. He had thought horses looked tooheavy for those unreal fragilities, so he had harnessed instead eightmules, with white reins, decorated with bows and pompons and bells, andcaparisoned from head to foot in that marvellous Esparto work--an artProvence has borrowed from the Moors and perfected. How could the Beynot be pleased!
The Nabob, Monpavon, the prefect, and one of the generals got into thefirst coach; the others filled the succeeding carriages. The priests andthe mayors, swelling with importance, rushed to the head of the choralsocieties of their villages which were to go in front, and all moved offalong the road to Giffas.
The weather was magnificent, but hot and heavy, three months in advanceof the season, as often happens in this impetuous country, whereeverything is in a hurry and comes too soon. Although there was not acloud to be seen, the stillness of the atmosphere--the wind hadfallen suddenly like a loose sail--dazzling and heated white, a silentsolemnity hanging over all, foretold a storm brewing in some cornerof the horizon. The immense torpor of things gradually influenced theliving beings. One heard too distinctly the tinkling mule-bells, theheavy steps in the dust of the band of singers whom Cardailhac wasplacing at regular distances in the seething human hedge which borderedthe road and was lost in the distance; a sudden call, children's voices,and the cry of the water-seller, that necessary accompaniment of allopen-air festivals in the Midi.
"Open your window, general, it is stifling," said Monpavon, crimson,fearing for his paint, and the lowered windows exposed to the populacethese high functionaries mopping their august faces, strained, agonized,by the same expression of waiting--waiting for the Bey, for the storm,waiting for something, in short.
Still another trimphal arch. It was at Giffas, its long, stony streetstrewn with green palms, and its sordid houses gay with flowers andbright hangings. The station was outside the village, white and square,stuck like a thimble on the roadside--true type of a little countrystation, lost in the midst of vineyards, never having any one in itexcept perhaps sometimes an old woman and her parcels waiting in acorner, come three hours before the time.
In honour of the Bey this slight building had been rigged out withflags, adorned with rugs and divans; a splendid buffet had been fittedup with sherbets, all ready for his Highness. Once there and out of thecarriage the Nabob tried to dispel the feeling of uneasiness which he,too, had begun to suffer from. Prefects, generals, deputies, peoplein dress-coats and uniforms, were standing about on the platform inimposing groups, their faces solemn, their mouths pursed, their bodiesswaying and jerking in the knowing way of public functionaries who feelpeople are looking at them. And you can imagine how noses were flattenedagainst the windows to see all this hierarchical swelldom. Therewas Monpavon, his shirt-front bulging like a whipped egg. Cardailhacbreathlessly giving his last orders, and the honest face of Jansoulet,whose sparkling eyes, set over his fat, sunburnt cheeks, looked like twogold nails in a goffering of Spanish leather. Suddenly an electricbell rang. The station-master, in a new uniform, ran down the line:"Gentlemen, the train is signalled. It will be here in eight minutes."Every one started, and with the same instinctive movement pulled outtheir watches. Only six minutes more. Then in the great silence some onesaid: "Look over there!" To the right, on the side from which the trainwas to come, two great slopes, covered with vines, made a sort of funnelinto which the track disappeared as though swallowed up. Just then allthis hollow was as black as ink, darkened by an enormous cloud, a bar ofgloom, cutting the blue of the sky perpendicularly, throwing out banksthat resembled cliffs of basalt on which the light broke all white likemoonshine. In the solemnity of the deserted track, over the lines ofsilent rails where one felt that everything was ready for the comingof the prince, it was terrifying to see this aerial crag approaching,throwing its shadow before it, to watch the play of the perspectivewhich gave the cloud a slow, majestic movement, and the shadow therapidity of a galloping horse. "What a storm we shall have directly!"was the thought which came to every one, but none had voice to expressit, for a strident whistle sounded and the train appeared at the end ofthe dark funnel. A real royal train, rapid and short, and decorated withflags. The smoking, roaring engine carried a large bouquet of roses onits breastplate, like a bridesmaid at some leviathan wedding.
It came out of the funnel at full speed, but slowed down as itapproached. The functionaries grouped themselves, straightened theirbacks, hitched their swords and eased their collars, while Jansouletwent down the track to meet the train, an obsequious smile on his lips,his back curved ready for the "Salam Alek." The train proceeded veryslowly. Jansoulet thought it had stopped, and put his hand on the doorof the royal carriage, glittering with gold under the black sky. But,doubtless, the impetus had been too strong, and the train continued toadvance, the Nabob walking beside it, trying to open the accursed doorwhich was stuck fast, and making signs to the engine-driver. Theengine was not answering. "Stop, stop, there!" It did not stop. Losingpatience, he jumped on to the velvet-covered step, and in that fiery,impulsive manner of his which had so delighted the old Bey, he cried,his woolly head at the door, "Saint-Romans station, your Highness."
You know the sort of vague light there is in dreams, the colourlessempty atmosphere where everything has the look of a phantom. Jansouletwas suddenly enveloped in this, stricken, paralyzed. He wanted to speak,words would not come, his nerveless hand held the door so feebly thathe almost fell backward. What had he seen? On a divan at the back ofthe saloon, reposing on his elbow, his beautiful dark head with itslong silky beard leaning on his hand, was the Bey, close wrapped inhis Oriental coat, without other ornaments than the large ribbon of theLegion of Honour across his breast and the diamond in the aigretteof his fez. He was fanning himself impassively with a little fan ofgold-embroidered strawwork. Two aides-de-camp and an engineer of therailway company were standing beside him. Opposite, on another divan,in a respectful attitude, but favoured evidently, as they were the onlyones seated in the Bey's presence, were two owl-like men, their longwhiskers falling on their white ties, one fat and the other thin. Theywere the Hemerlingues, father and son, who had won over his Highnessand were bearing him off in triumph to Paris. What a horrible dream! Allthree men, who knew Jansoulet well, looked at him coldly as though hisface recalled nothing
. Piteously white, his forehead covered with sweat,he stammered, "But, your Highness, are you not going to--" A vivid flashof lightning, followed by a terrible peal of thunder, stopped thewords. But the lightning in the eyes of his sovereign seemed to him asterrible. Sitting up, his arm outstretched, in guttural voice as of oneaccustomed to roll the hard Arab syllables, but in pure French, theBey struck him down with the slow, carefully prepared words: "Go home,swindler. The feet go where the heart guides. Mine will never enter thehouse of the man who has cheated my country."
Jansoulet tried to say something. The Bey made a sign: "Go on." Theengineer pressed a button, a whistle replied, the train, which had neverreally stopped, seemed to stretch itself, making all its iron musclescrack, to take a bound and start off at full speed, the flags flutteringin the storm-wind, and the black smoke meeting the lightning flashes.
Jansoulet, left standing on the track, staggering, stunned, ruined,watched his fortune fly away and disappear, oblivious of the largedrops of rain which were falling on his bare head. Then, when the othersrushed upon him, surrounded him, rained questions upon him, he stutteredsome disconnected words: "Court intrigues--infamous plot." And suddenly,shaking his fist after the train, with eyes that were bloodshot, and afoam of rage upon his lips, he roared like a wild beast, "Blackguards!"
"You forget yourself, Jansoulet, you forget yourself." You guess who itwas that uttered those words, and, taking the Nabob's arm, tried to pullhim together, to make him hold his head as high as his own, conductedhim to the carriage through the rows of stupefied people in uniform,and made him get in, exhausted and broken, like a near relation of thedeceased that one hoists into a mourning-coach after the funeral. Therain began to fall, peals of thunder followed one another. Every one nowhurried into the carriages, which quickly took the homeward road. Thenthere occurred a heart-rending yet comical thing, one of the cruelfarces played by that cowardly destiny which kicks its victims afterthey are down. In the falling day and the growing darkness of thecyclone, the crowd, squeezed round the approaches of the station,thought they saw his Highness somewhere amid the gorgeous trappings, andas soon as the wheels started an immense clamour, a frightful bawling,which had been hatching for an hour in all those breasts, burst out,rose, rolled, rebounded from side to side and prolonged itself in thevalley. "Hurrah, hurrah for the Bey!" This was the signal for the firstbands to begin, the choral societies started in their turn, and thenoise growing step by step, the road from Giffas to Saint-Romans wasnothing but an uninterrupted bellow. Cardailhac and all the gentlemen,Jansoulet himself, leant in vain out of the windows making desperatesigns, "That will do! That's enough!" Their gestures were lost in thetumult and the darkness; what the crowd did see seemed to act only asan excitant. And I promise you there was no need of that. All thesemeridionals, whose enthusiasm had been carefully led since earlymorning, excited the more by the long wait and the storm, shouted withall the force of their voices and the strength of their lungs, minglingwith the song of Provence the cry of "Hurrah for the Bey!" till itseemed a perpetual chorus. Most of them had no idea what a Bey was,did not even think about it. They accentuated the appellation in anextraordinary manner as though it had three b's and ten y's. But it madeno difference, they excited themselves with the cry, holding up theirhands, waving their hats, becoming agitated as a result of their ownactivity. Women wept and rubbed their eyes. Suddenly, from the top of anelm, the shrill voice of a child made itself heard: "Mamma, mamma--I seehim!" He saw him! They all saw him, for that matter! Now even, they willall swear to you they saw him!
Confronted by such a delirium, in the impossibility of imposing silenceand calm on such a crowd, there was only one thing for the people in thecarriages to do: to leave them alone, pull up the windows and dash alongat full speed. It would at least shorten a bitter martyrdom. But thiswas even worse. Seeing the procession hurrying, all the road began togallop with it. To the dull booming of their tambourines the dancersfrom Barbantane, hand in hand, sprang--a living garland--round thecarriage doors. The choral societies, breathless with singing as theyran, but singing all the same, dragged on their standard-bearers, thebanners now hanging over their shoulders; and the good, fat priests, redand panting, shoving their vast overworked bellies before them, stillfound strength to shout into the very ear of the mules, in an unctuous,effusive voice, "Long live our noble Bey!" The rain on all this, therain falling in buckets, discolouring the pink coaches, precipitatingthe disorder, giving the appearance of a rout to this triumphal return,but a comic rout, mingled with songs and laughs, mad embraces, andinfernal oaths. It was something like the return of a religiousprocession flying before a storm, cassocks turned up, surplices overheads, and the Blessed Sacrament put back in all haste, under a porch.
The dull roll of the wheels over the wooden bridge told the poor Nabob,motionless and silent in a corner of his carriage, that they were almostthere. "At last!" he said, looking through the clouded windows at thefoaming waters of the Rhone, whose tempestuous rush seemed calm afterwhat he had just suffered. But at the end of the bridge, when the firstcarriage reached the great triumphal arch, rockets went off, drums beat,saluting the monarch as he entered the estates of his faithful subject.To crown the irony, in the gathering darkness a gigantic flare of gassuddenly illuminated the roof of the castle, and in spite of the windand the rain, these fiery letters could still be seen very plainly,"Long liv' th' B'Y 'HMED!"
"That--that is the wind-up," said the poor Nabob, who could not helplaughing, though it was a very piteous and bitter laugh. But no, he wasmistaken. The end was the bouquet waiting at the castle door. Amy Feratcame to present it, leaving the group of country maidens under theveranda, where they were trying to shelter the shining silks of theirskirts and the embroidered velvets of their caps as they waited forthe first carriage. Her bunch of flowers in her hand, modest, her eyesdowncast, but showing a roguish leg, the pretty actress sprang forwardto the door in a low courtesy, almost on her knees, a pose she hadworked at for a week. Instead of the Bey, Jansoulet got out, stiff andtroubled, and passed without even seeing her. And as she stayed there,bouquet in hand, with the silly look of a stage fairy who has missed hercue, Cardailhac said to her with the ready chaff of the Parisian whois never at a loss: "Take away your flowers, my dear. The Bey is notcoming. He had forgotten his handkerchief, and as it is only with thathe speaks to ladies, you understand--"
Now it is night. Everything is asleep at Saint-Romans after thetremendous uproar of the day. Torrents of rain continue to fall; and inthe park, where the triumphal arches and the Venetian masts still liftvaguely their soaking carcasses, one can hear streams rushing down theslopes transformed into waterfalls. Everything streams or drips. A noiseof water, an immense noise of water. Alone in his sumptuous room, withits lordly bed all hung with purple silks, the Nabob is still awake,turning over his own black thoughts as he strides to and fro. It is notthe affront, that public outrage before all these people, that occupieshim, it is not even the gross insult the Bey had flung at him in thepresence of his mortal enemies. No, this southerner, whose sensationswere all physical and as rapid as the firing of new guns, had alreadythrown off the venom of his rancour. And then, court favourites, byfamous examples, are always prepared for these sudden falls. Whatterrifies him is that which he guesses to lie behind this affront.He reflects that all his possessions are over there, firms,counting-houses, ships, all at the mercy of the Bey, in that lawlessEast, that country of the ruler's good-pleasure. Pressing his burningbrow to the streaming windows, his body in a cold sweat, his hands icy,he remains looking vaguely out into the night, as dark, as obscure ashis own future.
Suddenly a noise of footsteps, of precipitate knocks at the door.
"Who is there?"
"Sir," said Noel, coming in half dressed, "it is a very urgent telegramthat has been sent from the post-office by special messenger."
"A telegram! What can there be now?"
He takes the envelope and opens it with shaking fingers. The god, strucktwice alread
y, begins to feel himself vulnerable, to know the fears,the nervous weakness of other men. Quick--to the signature. MORA! Isit possible? The duke--the duke to him! Yes, it is indeed--M-O-R-A.And above it: "Popolasca is dead. Election coming in Corsica. You areofficial candidate."
Deputy! It was salvation. With that, nothing to fear. No one dares treata representative of the great French nation as a mere swindler. TheHemerlingues were finely defeated.
"Oh, my duke, my noble duke!"
He was so full of emotion that he could not sign his name. Suddenly:"Where is the man who brought this telegram?"
"Here, M. Jansoulet," replied a jolly south-country voice from thecorridor.
He was lucky, that postman.
"Come in," said the Nabob. And giving him the receipt, he took in aheap from his pockets--ever full--as many gold pieces as his hands couldhold, and threw them into the cap of the poor fellow, who stuttered,distracted and dazzled by the fortune showered upon him, in the night ofthis fairy palace.