“THERE is six o’clock striking and those English have not yet arrived.”
Thus spake Gaspard-Marie Bigourdin, landlord of the Hôtel des Grottes, a
vast man clad in a brown holland suit and a soft straw hat with a
gigantic brim. So vast was he that his person overlapped in all
directions the Austrian bent-wood rocking-chair in which he was taking
the cool of the evening.
“They said they would come in time for dinner, _mon oncle_,” said
Félise.
She was a graceful slip of a girl, dark-eyed, refined of feature.
Fortinbras with paternal fondness, if you remember, had likened her to
the wild flowers from which Alpine honey was made. And indeed, she
suggested wild fragrance. Her brown hair was done up on the top of her
head and fastened by a comb like that of all the peasant girls of the
district; but she wore the blouse and stuff skirt of the well-to-do
bourgeoisie.
“Six o’clock is already time for dinner in Brantôme,” remarked Monsieur
Bigourdin.
“They are accustomed to the hours of London and Paris, where I’ve heard
they dine at eight or nine or any time that pleases them.”
“In London and Paris they get up at midday and go to bed at dawn. They
are coming here purposely to dis-habilitate themselves from the ways of
London and Paris. At least so your father gives me to understand. It is
a bad beginning.”
“I am longing to see them,” said Félise.
“Don’t you see enough English? Ten years ago an Englishman at Brantôme
was a curiosity. All the inhabitants, you among them, _ma petite_
Félise, used to run two kilometres to look at him. But now, with the
automobile, they are as familiar in the eyes of the good Brantômois as
truffles.”
By this simile Monsieur Bigourdin did not mean to convey the idea that
the twelve hundred inhabitants of Brantôme were all gastronomic
voluptuaries. It is true that Brantôme battens on _pâté de foie gras_;
but it is the essence of its existence, seeing that Brantôme makes it
and sells it and with pigs and dogs hunts the truffles without which
_pâté de foie gras_ would be a comestible of fat absurdity.
“But no English have been sent before by my father,” said Félise.
“That’s true,” replied Bigourdin, with a capacious smile, showing white
strong teeth.
“They are the first people—French or English, I shall have met who know
my father.”
“That’s true also,” said Bigourdin. “And they must be droll types like
your excellent father himself. _Tiens_, let me see again what he says
about them.” He searched his pockets, a process involving convulsions of
his frame which made the rocking-chair creak. “It must be in my black
jacket,” said he at last.
“I’ll get it,” said Félise, and went into the house.
Bigourdin rolled and lit a cigarette and gave himself up to comfortable
reflection. The Hôtel des Grottes was built on the slope of a rock and
the loggia or verandah on which Bigourdin was taking his ease, hung over
a miniature precipice. At the bottom ran the River Dronne encircling
most of the old-world town and crossed here and there by flashing little
bridges. Away to the northeast loomed the mountains of the Limousin
where the river has its source. The tiny place slumbered in the slanting
sunshine. The sight of Brantôme stretched out below him was inseparable
from Bigourdin’s earliest conception of the universe. In the Hôtel des
Grottes he had been born; there, save for a few years at Lyons whither
he had been sent by his mother in order to widen his views on hotel
keeping, he had spent all his life, and there he sincerely hoped to die
full of honour and good nourishment. Brantôme contented him. It belonged
to him. It was so diminutive and compact that he could take the whole of
it in at once. He was familiar with all the little tragedies and
comedies that enacted themselves beneath those red-tiled roofs. Did he
walk down the Rue de Périgueux his hand went to his hat as often as that
of the President of the Republic on his way to a review at Longchamps.
He was a man of substance and consideration, and he was just forty years
of age. And Félise adored him, and anticipated his commands.
She returned with the letter. He glanced through it, reading portions
aloud:
“I am sending you a young couple whom I have taken to my heart. They are
not relations, they are not married and they are not lovers. They are
Arcadians of the pavement, more innocent than doves, and of a ferocious
English morality. She is a painter without patrons, he a professor
without classes. They are also candidates for happiness performing their
novitiate. Later they will take the vows.”
“What does he mean? What vows?”
“Perhaps they are pious people and are going to enter the convent,”
Félise suggested.
“I can see your father—anti-clerical that he is—interesting himself in
little nuns and monks.”
“Yet he and Monsieur le Curé are good friends.”
“That is because Monsieur le Curé has much wisdom and no fear. He would
have tried to convert Voltaire himself. . . . Let us continue——”
“As they are poor and doing this out of obedience——”
“_Saprelotte!_” he laughed, “they seem to have taken the three vows
already!”
He read on:“—— they do not desire the royal suite in your Excelsior
Palace. Corinna Hastings has lived under the roofs in Paris, Martin
Overshaw over a baker’s shop in a vague quarter of London. All the
luxury they ask is to be allowed to wash themselves all over in cold
water once a day.”
“I was sure you had not written to my father about the bathroom,” said
Félise.
She was right. But the omission was odd. For Bigourdin took inordinate
pride in the newly installed bathroom and all the touring clubs of
Europe and Editors of Guide Books had heard of it and he had offered it
to the admiring inspection of half Brantôme. Monsieur le Maire himself
had visited it, and if he had only arrived girt with his tricolour sash,
Bigourdin would have jumped in and demanded an inaugural ceremony.
“I must have forgotten,” said Bigourdin. “But no matter. They can have
plenty of cold water. But if I am to feed them and lodge them and wash
them for the derisory price your father stipulates, they must learn that
six o’clock is the hour of table d’hôte at the Hôtel des Grottes. It is
only people in automobiles who can turn the place upside down, and then
they have to pay four francs for their dinner.”
He rose mountainously, and, standing, displayed the figure of a
vigorous, huge proportioned, upright man. On his face, large and ruddy,
a small black moustache struck a startling note. His eyes were brown and
kindly, his mouth too small and his chin had a deep cleft, which on a
creature of lesser scale would have been a pleasing dimple.
“_Allons dîner_,” said he.
In the patriarchal fashion, now unfortunately becoming obsolete,
Monsieur Bigourdin dined with his guests. The _salle-à-manger_—off the
loggia—was furnished with the long central table sacred to commercial
travellers, and with a few side tables for other visitors. At one of
these, in the corner between the service door and the dining-room door,
sat Monsieur Bigourdin and his niece. As they entered the room five
bagmen, with anticipatory napkins stuck cornerwise in their collars,
half rose from their chairs and bowed.
“_Bon soir, messieurs_,” said Bigourdin, and he passed with Félise to
his table.
Euphémie, the cook, fat and damp, entered with the soup tureen, followed
by a desperate-looking, crop-headed villain bearing plates. The latter,
who viewed half a mile off through a telescope might have passed for an
orthodox waiter, appeared, at close quarters, to be raimented in grease
and grime. He served the soup; first to the five commercial
travellers,—and then to Bigourdin and Félise. On Félise’s plate he left
a great thumb-mark. She looked at it with an expression of disgust.
“_Regarde, mon oncle._”
Bigourdin alluding to him as a sacred animal, asked what she could
expect. He was from Bourdeilles, a place of rocks some five miles
distant, condemned by Brantôme, chef-lieu du Canton. He summoned him.
“Polydore.”
“_Oui, monsieur._”
“You have made a mistake. You are no longer in the hands of the police.”
“_Monsieur veut dire——?_”
“I am not the Commissaire who desires to photograph your finger-prints.”
“Ah, pardon,” said Polydore, and with a soiled napkin he erased the
offending stain.
“_Sacré animal!_” repeated Bigourdin, attacking his soup. “I wonder why
I keep him.”
“I too,” said Félise.
“If his grandmother and my grandmother had not been foster-sisters——”
said Bigourdin, waving an indignant spoon.
“You would have kept him just because he is ugly,” smiled Félise. “You
would have found a reason.”
“One of these days I’ll throw him into the river,” Bigourdin declared.
“I am patient. I am slow to anger. But when I am roused I am like a
lion. Polydore,” said he serenely, as the dilapidated menial removed the
plates, “if you can’t keep your hands clean I’ll make you wear gloves.”
“People would laugh at me,” said Polydore.
“So much the better,” said Bigourdin.
The meal was nearly over when the expected guests were announced. Uncle
and niece slipped from the dining room into the little vestibule to
welcome them. An elderly man in a blouse, name Baptiste, was already
busying himself with their luggage—the knapsacks fastened to the back
of the bicycles.
“Mademoiselle, Monsieur,” said Bigourdin, “it is a great pleasure to me
to meet friends of my excellent brother-in-law. Allow me to present
Mademoiselle Félise Fortinbras” (he gave the French pronunciation), “my
niece. As dinner is not yet over and as you must be hungry, will you
give yourselves the trouble to enter the _salle-à-manger_.”
“I should like to have a wash first,” said Corinna.
Bigourdin glanced at Félise. They were beginning early.
“There is a bathroom upstairs fitted with every modern luxury.”
Corinna laughed. “I only want to tidy up a bit.”
“I will show you to your room,” said Félise, and conducted her up the
staircase beside the bureau.
“And monsieur?”
Martin went over to the little lavabo against the wall beside which hung
the usual damp towel.
“This will do quite well,” said he.
Bigourdin breathed again. The new arrivals were quite human; and they
spoke French perfectly. The men conversed a while until the two girls
descended. Bigourdin led his guests into the _salle-à-manger_ and
installed them at a table by one of the windows looking on the loggia.
“Like this,” said he, “you will be cool and also enjoy the view.”
“I think,” said Corinna, looking up at him, “you have the most delicious
little town I have seen in France.”
Bigourdin’s eyes beamed with gratification. He bowed and went back to
his unfinished meal.
“Behold over there,” said he to Félise, “a young girl of extraordinary
good sense. She is also extremely pretty; a combination which is rare in
women.”
“Yes, uncle,” said Félise demurely.
The five commercial travellers rose, and, bowing as they passed their
host, went out in search, after the manner of their kind, of coffee and
backgammon at the Café de l’Univers in the Rue de Périgueux. It is only
foreigners who linger over coffee, liqueurs and tobacco in the little
inns of France. Presently Félise went off to the bureau to make up the
day’s accounts, and Bigourdin, having smoked a thoughtful cigarette,
crossed over to Martin and Corinna. After the good hotel-keeper’s
enquiry as to their gastronomic satisfaction, he swept his hand through
his inch-high standing stubble of black hair, and addressed Martin.
“Monsieur Over—Oversh—forgive me if I cannot pronounce your name——”
“Overshaw,” said Martin distinctly.
“Auvershaud—Auverchat—_non—c’est bigrement difficile_.”
“Then call me Monsieur Martin, _à la française_.”
“And me, Mademoiselle Corinne,” laughed Corinna.
“_Voilà!_” cried Bigourdin, delighted. “Those are names familiar to
every Frenchman.” Then his brow clouded. “Well, Monsieur Martin, there
is something I would say to you. What profession does my good
brother-in-law exercise in Paris?”
Martin and Corinna exchanged glances.
“I scarcely know,” said Corinna.
“Nor I,” said Martin.
“It is on account of my niece, his daughter, that I ask. You permit me
to sit down for a moment?” He drew a chair. “You must understand at
once,” said he, “that I have nothing against Monsieur Fortinbras. I love
him like myself. But, on the other hand, I also love my little niece.
She is very simple, very innocent, and does not appreciate the
subtleties of the great world. She adores her father.”
“I can quite understand that,” said Martin, “and I am sure that he
adores her.”
“Precisely,” said Bigourdin. “That is why I would like you to have no
doubt as to the profession of my brother-in-law. You have never, by any
chance, Mademoiselle Corinne, heard him called ‘_Le Marchand de
Bonheur_’?”
“Never,” said Corinna, meeting his eyes.
“Never,” echoed Martin.
“Not even when he advised you to come here? It is for Félise that I
ask.”
“No,” said Corinna.
“Certainly not,” said Martin.
“But you have heard that he is an _avoué_?”
“An English solicitor practising in Paris. Of course,” said Martin.
“A very clever solicitor,” said Corinna.
Bigourdin smote his chest with his great hand. “I thank you with all my
heart for your understanding. You are the first persons she has met who
know her father—it is somewhat embarrassing, what I say—and she, in
her innocence, will ask you questions, which he did not foresee——”
“There will be no difficulty in answering them,” replied Martin.
“_Encore merci_,” said Bigourdin. “You must know that Félise came to us
at five years old, when my poor wife was living—she died ten years
ago—I am a widower. She is to me like my own daughter. Although,” he
added, with a smile and a touch of vanity, “I am not quite so old as
that. My sister, her mother, is older than I.”
“She is alive then?” asked Corinna.
“Certainly,” replied Bigourdin. “Did you not know that? But she has been
an invalid for many years. That is why Félise lives here instead of with
her parents. I hope, Mademoiselle, you and she will be good friends.”
“I am sure we shall,” replied Corinna.
A little while later the two wanderers sat over their coffee by the
balustrade of the covered loggia and looked out on the velvet night,
filled with contentment. They had reached their goal. Here they were to
stay until it pleased Fortinbras to come and direct them afresh.
Hitherto, their resting-places, mere stages on their journey, had lacked
the atmosphere of permanence. The still nights when they had talked
together, as now, beneath the stars, had throbbed with a certain fever,
the anticipation of the morrow’s dawn, the morrow’s adventures in
strange lands. But now they had come to their destined haven. Here they
would remain to-morrow, and the morrow after that, and for morrows
indefinite. A phase of their life had ended with curious suddenness.
As the intensity of silence falls on ears accustomed to the whirr of
machinery, so did an intensity of peace encompass their souls. And the
dim-lit valley itself brought solace. Not here stretched infinite
horizons such as those of the plains of La Beauce through which they had
passed, horizons whence sprang a whole hemisphere of stars, horizons
which embracing nothing set the heart aching for infinite things beyond,
horizons in the centre of which they stood specks of despair overwhelmed
by immensities. Here the comfortable land had taken them to its bosom.
Near enough to be felt, the vague bluish mass of the Limousin mountains
sweeping from north to east assured them of the calm protection of
eternal forces. Beyond them who need look or crave to look? To the
fevered spirit they brought in their mothering shelter all that was
needed by man for his happiness: fruitfulness of cornfields, mystery of
beech-woods faintly revealed by the rays of a young moon, a quiet town
for man’s untroubled habitation, guarded by its encircling river, rather
guessed than seen and betrayed only here and there by a streak of
quivering light. And as the distant glare of great cities—the lights of
London reflected in the heavens—in the days of wandering youths seeking
their fortunes, compelled them moth-like to the focus, so in its dreamy
microcosm did the lights of the little town, a thousand flickering
points from the outskirts and a line of long illumination marking the
main street athwart the dark mass of roofs and dissipating itself hazily
in midair, appeal to the imagination—set it wondering as to the myriad
joyous affairs of men.
In low voices they talked of Fortinbras. His spirit seemed to have
emerged from the welter of Paris into this pool of the world’s
tranquillity. In spite of his magnetic force his words had been but
words. What they were to meet at Brantôme they knew not. They scarce had
thought. What to them had been the landlord of a tiny provincial inn but
a good-natured common fellow unworthy of speculation? And what the
daughter of the seedy Paris Bohemian, snapper up of unconsidered
trifles, but a serving girl of no account, plain and redolent of the
scullery? Bigourdin’s courteous bearing and delicacy of speech had come
upon them as a surprise. So had the refinement of Félise. They had to
readjust their conception of Fortinbras. They were amazed, simple souls,
to find that he had ties in life so indubitably respectable. And he had
a wife, too, a chronic invalid, with whom he lived in the jealous
obscurity of Paris. It was pathetic. . . . They had obeyed him hardly
knowing why. At the back of their minds he had been but a charlatan of
peculiar originality—at the same time a being almost mythical, so
remote from them was his life. And now he became startlingly real. They
heard his voice soft and persuasive whispering by their side with a
touch of gentle mockery.
Then silence fell upon them; their minds drifted apart and they lost
themselves in their separate dreams.
At last, Polydore coming to remove the coffee tray and to enquire as to
their further wants, broke the spell. When he had gone, Corinna leaned
her elbow on the little iron table and asked in her direct fashion:
“What have you been thinking of, Martin?”
He drew his hand across his eyes, and it was a moment or two before he
answered.
“When I was in London,” said he, “I seem to have lived in a tiny
provincial town. Now that I come to a tiny provincial town I have an odd
feeling that the deep life of a great city is before me. That’s the best
I can do by way of explanation. Thoughts like that are a bit formless
and elusive, you know.”
“What do you think you’re going to find here?”
“I don’t know. Why not happiness in some form or other?”
“You expect a lot for five francs,” she laughed.
“And you?”
“I——?”
“Yes, what have you been thinking of?”
She pointed, and in the gloom he followed the direction of white-bloused
arm and white hand.
“Do you see that little house on the quay? The one with the lights and
the loggia. You can just get a glimpse of the interior. See? There’s a
picture and below a woman sitting at a piano. If you listen you can
catch the sound. It’s Schubert’s ‘Moment Musical.’ Well, I’ve been
wishing I were that woman with her life full of her home and husband and
children. Sheltered—protected—love all around her—nothing more to ask
of God. It was a beautiful dream.”
“You too,” said Martin, “feel about this place somewhat as I do.”
“I suppose it’s the night. It turns one into a sentimental lunatic.
Fancy living here for the rest of one’s days and concentrating one’s
soul on human stomachs.”
“What do you mean, Corinna?”
“Isn’t that what woman’s domestic life comes to? She must fill her
husband’s stomach properly or he’ll beat her or run off with somebody
else, and she must fill her babies’ stomachs properly or they’ll get
cramps and convulsions and bilious attacks and die. It was a beautiful
dream. But the reality would drive me stick, stark, staring mad.”
“My ideas of married life,” said Martin sagely, “are quite different.”
“Of course!” she cried. “You’re one of the creatures with the stomach.”
“I’ve never been aware of it,” said Martin.
“It strikes me you’re too good for this world,” said Corinna.
Martin rolled a cigarette from a brown packet of Maryland tobacco—his
supply of English ‘Woodbines’ had long since given out.
“I have my ideals as to love—and so forth,” said he.
“And so have I. ‘All for Love and the World Well Lost.’ That’s the title
of an old play, isn’t it? I can understand it. I would give my soul for
it. But it happens once in a blue moon. Meanwhile one has to live. And
connubiality and maternity in a little lost hole in Nowhere like this
aren’t life.”
“What the dickens is life?” asked Martin.
But her definition he did not hear, for the vast figure of Bigourdin
loomed in the doorway of the _salle-à-manger_.
“I wish you good night,” said he.
Martin rose and looked at his watch. “I think it’s time to go to bed.”
“So do I,” yawned Corinna.