In narrating these few episodes in the undulatory, not to say
switchback, career of my friend Aristide Pujol, I can pretend to no
chronological sequence. Some occurred before he (almost literally)
crossed my path for the first time, some afterwards. They have been
related to me haphazard at odd times, together with a hundred other
incidents, just as a chance tag of association recalled them to his
swift and picturesque memory. He would, indeed, make a show of fixing
dates by reference to his temporary profession; but so Protean seem to
have been his changes of fortune in their number and rapidity that I
could never keep count of them or their order. Nor does it matter. The
man's life was as disconnected as a pack of cards.
My first meeting with him happened in this wise.
I had been motoring in a listless, solitary fashion about Languedoc. A
friend who had stolen a few days from anxious business in order to
accompany me from Boulogne through Touraine and Guienne had left me at
Toulouse; another friend whom I had arranged to pick up at Avignon on
his way from Monte Carlo was unexpectedly delayed. I was therefore
condemned to a period of solitude somewhat irksome to a man of a
gregarious temperament. At first, for company's sake, I sat in front
by my chauffeur, McKeogh. But McKeogh, an atheistical Scotch mechanic
with his soul in his cylinders, being as communicative as his own
differential, I soon relapsed into the equal loneliness and greater
comfort of the back.
In this fashion I left Montpellier one morning on my leisurely eastward
journey, deciding to break off from the main road, striking due south,
and visit Aigues-Mortes on the way.
Aigues-Mortes was once a flourishing Mediterranean town. St. Louis and
his Crusaders sailed thence twice for Palestine; Charles V. and Francis
I. met there and filled the place with glittering state. But now its
glory has departed. The sea has receded three or four miles, and left
it high and dry in the middle of bleak salt marshes, useless, dead and
desolate, swept by the howling mistral and scorched by the blazing sun.
The straight white ribbon of road which stretched for miles through the
plain, between dreary vineyards--some under water, the black shoots of
the vines appearing like symmetrical wreckage above the surface--was at
last swallowed up by the grim central gateway of the town, surmounted
by its frowning tower. On each side spread the brown machicolated
battlements that vainly defended the death-stricken place. A soft
northern atmosphere would have invested it in a certain mystery of
romance, but in the clear southern air, the towers and walls standing
sharply defined against the blue, wind-swept sky, it looked naked and
pitiful, like a poor ghost caught in the daylight.
At some distance from the gate appeared the usual notice as to
speed-limit. McKeogh, most scrupulous of drivers, obeyed. As there was a
knot of idlers underneath and beyond the gate he slowed down to a crawl,
sounding a patient and monotonous horn. We advanced; the peasant folk
cleared the way sullenly and suspiciously. Then, deliberately, an
elderly man started to cross the road, and on the sound of the horn
stood stock still, with resentful defiance on his weather-beaten face.
McKeogh jammed on the brakes. The car halted. But the infinitesimal
fraction of a second before it came to a dead stop the wing over the
near front wheel touched the elderly person and down he went on the
ground. I leaped from the car, to be instantly surrounded by an
infuriated crowd, which seemed to gather from all the quarters of
the broad, decaying square. The elderly man, helped to his feet by
sympathetic hands, shook his knotted fists in my face. He was a dour and
ugly peasant, of splendid physique, as hard and discoloured as the walls
of Aigues-Mortes; his cunning eyes were as clear as a boy's, his lined,
clean-shaven face as rigid as a gargoyle; and the back of his neck,
above the low collar of his jersey, showed itself seamed into glazed
irregular lozenges, like the hide of a crocodile. He cursed me and my
kind healthily in very bad French and apostrophized his friends in
Provencal, who in Provencal and bad French made responsive clamour. I
had knocked him down on purpose. He was crippled for life. Who was I to
go tearing through peaceful towns with my execrated locomotive and
massacring innocent people? I tried to explain that the fault was his,
and that, after all, to judge by the strength of his lungs, no great
damage had been inflicted. But no. They would not let it go like that.
There were the gendarmes--I looked across the square and saw two
gendarmes striding portentously towards the scene--they would see
justice done. The law was there to protect poor folk. For a certainty I
would not get off easily.
[Illustration: I HAD KNOCKED HIM DOWN ON PURPOSE. HE WAS CRIPPLED
FOR LIFE]
I knew what would happen. The gendarmes would submit McKeogh and myself
to a _proces-verbal_. They would impound the car. I should have to go
to the Mairie and make endless depositions. I should have to wait,
Heaven knows how long, before I could appear before the _juge de paix_.
I should have to find a solicitor to represent me. In the end I should
be fined for furious driving--at the rate, when the accident happened,
of a mile an hour--and probably have to pay a heavy compensation to the
wilful and uninjured victim of McKeogh's impeccable driving. And all the
time, while waiting for injustice to take its course, I should be the
guest of a hostile population. I grew angry. The crowd grew angrier. The
gendarmes approached with an air of majesty and fate. But just before
they could be acquainted with the brutal facts of the disaster a
singularly bright-eyed man, wearing a hard felt hat and a blue serge
suit, flashed like a meteor into the midst of the throng, glanced with
an amazing swiftness at me, the car, the crowd, the gendarmes and the
victim, ran his hands up and down the person of the last mentioned, and
then, with a frenzied action of a figure in a bad cinematograph rather
than that of a human being, subjected the inhabitants to an infuriated
philippic in Provencal, of which I could not understand one word. The
crowd, with here and there a murmur of remonstrance, listened to him in
silence. When he had finished they hung their heads, the gendarmes
shrugged their majestic and fateful shoulders and lit cigarettes, and
the gargoyle-visaged ancient with the neck of crocodile hide turned
grumbling away. I have never witnessed anything so magical as the effect
produced by this electric personage. Even McKeogh, who during the
previous clamour had sat stiff behind his wheel, keeping expressionless
eyes fixed on the cap of the radiator, turned his head two degrees of a
circle and glanced at his surroundings.
The instant peace was established our rescuer darted up to me with the
directness of a dragon-fly and shook me warmly by the hand. As he had
done me a service, I responded with a grateful smile; besides, his
aspect was peculiarly prepossessing. I guessed him to be about
five-and-thirty. He had a clear olive complexion, black moustache and
short silky vandyke beard, and the most fascinating, the most humorous,
the most mocking, the most astonishingly bright eyes I have ever seen in
my life. I murmured a few expressions of thanks, while he prolonged the
handshake with the fervour of a long-lost friend.
"It's all right, my dear sir. Don't worry any more," he said in
excellent English, but with a French accent curiously tinged with
Cockney. "The old gentleman's as sound as a bell--not a bruise on his
body." He pushed me gently to the step of the car. "Get in and let me
guide you to the only place where you can eat in this accursed town."
Before I could recover from my surprise, he was by my side in the car
shouting directions to McKeogh.
"Ah! These people!" he cried, shaking his hands with outspread fingers
in front of him. "They have no manners, no decency, no self-respect.
It's a regular trade. They go and get knocked down by automobiles on
purpose, so that they can claim indemnity. They breed dogs especially
and train them to commit suicide under the wheels so that they can get
compensation. There's one now--_ah, sacree bete!_" He leaned over the
side of the car and exchanged violent objurgation with the dog. "But
never mind. So long as I am here you can run over anything you like with
impunity."
"I'm very much obliged to you," said I. "You've saved me from a deal of
foolish unpleasantness. From the way you handled the old gentleman I
should guess you to be a doctor."
"That's one of the few things I've never been," he replied. "No; I'm not
a doctor. One of these days I'll tell you all about myself." He spoke
as if our sudden acquaintance would ripen into life-long friendship.
"There's the hotel--the Hotel Saint-Louis," he pointed to the sign a
little way up the narrow, old-world, cobble-paved street we were
entering. "Leave it to me; I'll see that they treat you properly."
The car drew up at the doorway. My electric friend leaped out and met
the emerging landlady.
"_Bonjour, madame._ I've brought you one of my very good friends,
an English gentleman of the most high importance. He will have
_dejeuner--tout ce qu'il y a de mieux_. None of your cabbage-soup and
eels and _andouilles_, but a good omelette, some fresh fish, and a bit
of very tender meat. Will that suit you?" he asked, turning to me.
"Excellently," said I, smiling. "And since you've ordered me so charming
a _dejeuner_, perhaps you'll do me the honour of helping me to eat it?"
"With the very greatest pleasure," said he, without a second's
hesitation.
We entered the small, stuffy dining-room, where a dingy waiter, with a
dingier smile, showed us to a small table by the window. At the long
table in the middle of the room sat the half-dozen frequenters of the
house, their napkins tucked under their chins, eating in gloomy silence
a dreary meal of the kind my new friend had deprecated.
"What shall we drink?" I asked, regarding with some disfavour the thin
red and white wines in the decanters.
"Anything," said he, "but this _piquette du pays_. It tastes like a
mixture of sea-water and vinegar. It produces the look of patient
suffering that you see on those gentlemen's faces. You, who are not
used to it, had better not venture. It would excoriate your throat. It
would dislocate your pancreas. It would play the very devil with you.
Adolphe"--he beckoned the waiter--"there's a little white wine of the
Cotes du Rhone----" He glanced at me.
"I'm in your hands," said I.
As far as eating and drinking went I could not have been in better. Nor
could anyone desire a more entertaining chance companion of travel. That
he had thrust himself upon me in the most brazen manner and taken
complete possession of me there could be no doubt. But it had all been
done in the most irresistibly charming manner in the world. One entirely
forgot the impudence of the fellow. I have since discovered that he did
not lay himself out to be agreeable. The flow of talk and anecdote, the
bright laughter that lit up a little joke, making it appear a very
brilliant joke indeed, were all spontaneous. He was a man, too, of some
cultivation. He knew France thoroughly, England pretty well; he had a
discriminating taste in architecture, and waxed poetical over the
beauties of Nature.
"It strikes me as odd," said I at last, somewhat ironically, "that so
vital a person as yourself should find scope for your energies in this
dead-and-alive place."
He threw up his hands. "I live here? I crumble and decay in
Aigues-Mortes? For whom do you take me?"
I replied that, not having the pleasure of knowing his name and quality,
I could only take him for an enigma.
He selected a card from his letter-case and handed it to me across the
table. It bore the legend:--
ARISTIDE PUJOL,
Agent.
213 bis, Rue Saint-Honore, Paris.
"That address will always find me," he said.
Civility bade me give him my card, which he put carefully in his
letter-case.
"I owe my success in life," said he, "to the fact that I have never lost
an opportunity or a visiting-card."
"Where did you learn your perfect English?" I asked.
"First," said he, "among English tourists at Marseilles. Then in
England. I was Professor of French at an academy for young ladies."
"I hope you were a success?" said I.
He regarded me drolly.
"Yes--and no," said he.
The meal over, we left the hotel.
"Now," said he, "you would like to visit the towers on the ramparts. I
would dearly love to accompany you, but I have business in the town. I
will take you, however, to the _gardien_ and put you in his charge."
He raced me to the gate by which I had entered. The _gardien des
remparts_ issued from his lodge at Aristide Pujol's summons and listened
respectfully to his exhortation in Provencal. Then he went for his keys.
"I'll not say good-bye," Aristide Pujol declared, amiably. "I'll get
through my business long before you've done your sight-seeing, and
you'll find me waiting for you near the hotel. _Au revoir, cher ami._"
He smiled, lifted his hat, waved his hand in a friendly way, and darted
off across the square. The old _gardien_ came out with the keys and took
me off to the Tour de Constance, where Protestants were imprisoned
pell-mell after the revocation of the Edict of Nantes; thence to the
Tour des Bourguignons, where I forget how many hundred Burgundians were
massacred and pickled in salt; and, after these cheery exhibitions,
invited me to walk round the ramparts and inspect the remaining eighteen
towers of the enceinte. As the mistral, however, had sprung up and was
shuddering across the high walls, I declined, and, having paid him his
fee, descended to the comparative shelter of the earth.
There I found Aristide Pujol awaiting me at the corner of the narrow
street in which the hotel was situated. He was wearing--like most of
the young bloods of Provence in winter-time--a short, shaggy, yet natty
goat-skin coat, ornamented with enormous bone buttons, and a little cane
valise stood near by on the kerb of the square.
He was not alone. Walking arm in arm with him was a stout, elderly woman
of swarthy complexion and forbidding aspect. She was attired in a
peasant's or small shopkeeper's rusty Sunday black and an old-fashioned
black bonnet prodigiously adorned with black plumes and black roses.
Beneath this bonnet her hair was tightly drawn up from her forehead;
heavy eyebrows overhung a pair of small, crafty eyes, and a tuft of hair
grew on the corner of a prognathous jaw. She might have been about
seven-and-forty.
Aristide Pujol, unlinking himself from this unattractive female,
advanced and saluted me with considerable deference.
"Monseigneur----" said he.
As I am neither a duke nor an archbishop, but a humble member of the
lower automobiling classes, the high-flown title startled me.
"Monseigneur, will you permit me," said he, in French, "to present to
you Mme. Gougasse? Madame is the _patronne_ of the Cafe de l'Univers, at
Carcassonne, which doubtless you have frequented, and she is going to do
me the honour of marrying me to-morrow."
[Illustration: ANYTHING LESS CONGRUOUS AS THE BRIDE-ELECT OF THE
DEBONAIR ARISTIDE PUJOL IT WAS IMPOSSIBLE TO IMAGINE]
The unexpectedness of the announcement took my breath away.
"Good heavens!" said I, in a whisper.
Anyone less congruous as the bride-elect of the debonair Aristide Pujol
it was impossible to imagine. However, it was none of my business. I
raised my hat politely to the lady.
"Madame, I offer you my sincere felicitations. As an entertaining
husband I am sure you will find M. Aristide Pujol without a rival."
"_Je vous remercie, monseigneur_," she replied, in what was obviously
her best company manner. "And if ever you will deign to come again to
the Cafe de l'Univers at Carcassonne we will esteem it a great honour."
"And so you're going to get married to-morrow?" I remarked, by way of
saying something. To congratulate Aristide Pujol on his choice lay
beyond my power of hypocrisy.
"To-morrow," said he, "my dear Amelie will make me the happiest of men."
"We start for Carcassonne by the three-thirty train," said Mme.
Gougasse, pulling a great silver watch from some fold of her person.
"Then there is time," said I, pointing to a little weather-beaten cafe
in the square, "to drink a glass to your happiness."
"_Bien volontiers_," said the lady.
"_Pardon, chere amie_," Aristide interposed, quickly. "Unless
monseigneur and I start at once for Montpellier, I shall not have time
to transact my little affairs before your train arrives there."
Parenthetically, I must remark that all trains going from Aigues-Mortes
to Carcassonne must stop at Montpellier.
"That's true," she agreed, in a hesitating manner. "But----"
"But, idol of my heart, though I am overcome with grief at the idea of
leaving you for two little hours, it is a question of four thousand
francs. Four thousand francs are not picked up every day in the street.
It's a lot of money."
Mme. Gougasse's little eyes glittered.
"_Bien sur._ And it's quite settled?"
"Absolutely."
"And it will be all for me?"
"Half," said Aristide.
"You promised all to me for the redecoration of the ceiling of the
cafe."
"Three thousand will be sufficient, dear angel. What? I know these
contractors and decorators. The more you pay them, the more abominable
will they make the ceiling. Leave it to me. I, Aristide, will guarantee
you a ceiling like that of the Sistine Chapel for two thousand francs."
She smiled and bridled, so as to appear perfectly well-bred in my
presence. The act of smiling caused the tuft of hair on her jaw to
twitch horribly. A cold shiver ran down my back.
"Don't you think, monseigneur," she asked, archly, "that M. Pujol should
give me the four thousand francs as a wedding-present?"
"Most certainly," said I, in my heartiest voice, entirely mystified by
the conversation.
"Well, I yield," said Aristide. "Ah, women, women! They hold up their
little rosy finger, and the bravest of men has to lie down with his chin
on his paws like a good old watch-dog. You agree, then, monseigneur, to
my giving the whole of the four thousand francs to Amelie?"
"More than that," said I, convinced that the swarthy lady of the
prognathous jaw was bound to have her own way in the end where money was
concerned, and yet for the life of me not seeing how I had anything to
do with the disposal of Aristide Pujol's property--"More than that,"
said I; "I command you to do it."
"_C'est bien gentil de votre part_," said madame.
"And now the cafe," I suggested, with chattering teeth. We had been
standing all the time at the corner of the square, while the mistral
whistled down the narrow street. The dust was driven stingingly into our
faces, and the women of the place who passed us by held their black
scarves over their mouths.
"Alas, monseigneur," said Mme. Gougasse, "Aristide is right. You must
start now for Montpellier in the automobile. I will go by the train for
Carcassonne at three-thirty. It is the only train from Aigues-Mortes.
Aristide transacts his business and joins me in the train at
Montpellier. You have not much time to spare."
I was bewildered. I turned to Aristide Pujol, who stood, hands on hips,
regarding his prospective bride and myself with humorous benevolence.
"My good friend," said I in English, "I've not the remotest idea of what
the two of you are talking about; but I gather you have arranged that I
should motor you to Montpellier. Now, I'm not going to Montpellier. I've
just come from there, as I told you at _dejeuner_. I'm going in the
opposite direction."
He took me familiarly by the arm, and, with a "_Pardon, chere amie_," to
the lady, led me a few paces aside.
"I beseech you," he whispered; "it's a matter of four thousand francs, a
hundred and sixty pounds, eight hundred dollars, a new ceiling for the
Cafe de l'Univers, the dream of a woman's life, and the happiest omen
for my wedded felicity. The fair goddess Hymen invites you with uplifted
torch. You can't refuse."
He hypnotized me with his bright eyes, overpowered my will by his
winning personality. He seemed to force me to desire his companionship.
I weakened. After all, I reflected, I was at a loose end, and where I
went did not matter to anybody. Aristide Pujol had also done me a
considerable service, for which I felt grateful. I yielded with good
grace.
He darted back to Mme. Gougasse, alive with gaiety.
"_Chere amie_, if you were to press monseigneur, I'm sure he would come
to Carcassonne and dance at our wedding."
"Alas! That," said I, hastily, "is out of the question. But," I added,
amused by a humorous idea, "why should two lovers separate even for a
few hours? Why should not madame accompany us to Montpellier? There is
room in my auto for three, and it would give me the opportunity of
making madame's better acquaintance."
"There, Amelie!" cried Aristide. "What do you say?"
"Truly, it is too much honour," murmured Mme. Gougasse, evidently
tempted.
"There's your luggage, however," said Aristide. "You would bring that
great trunk, for which there is no place in the automobile of
monseigneur."
"That's true--my luggage."
"Send it on by train, _chere amie_."
"When will it arrive at Carcassonne?"
"Not to-morrow," said Pujol, "but perhaps next week or the week after.
Perhaps it may never come at all. One is never certain with these
railway companies. But what does that matter?"
"What do you say?" cried the lady, sharply.
"It may arrive or it may not arrive; but you are rich enough, _chere
amie_, not to think of a few camisoles and bits of jewellery."
"And my lace and my silk dress that I have brought to show your parents.
_Merci!_" she retorted, with a dangerous spark in her little eyes. "You
think one is made of money, eh? You will soon find yourself mistaken, my
friend. I would give you to understand----". She checked herself
suddenly. "Monseigneur"--she turned to me with a resumption of the
gracious manner of her bottle-decked counter at the Cafe de
l'Univers--"you are too amiable. I appreciate your offer infinitely; but
I am not going to entrust my luggage to the kind care of the railway
company. _Merci, non._ They are robbers and thieves. Even if it did
arrive, half the things would be stolen. Oh, I know them."
She shook the head of an experienced and self-reliant woman. No doubt,
distrustful of banks as of railway companies, she kept her money hidden
in her bedroom. I pitied my poor young friend; he would need all his
gaiety to enliven the domestic side of the Cafe de l'Univers.
The lady having declined my invitation, I expressed my regrets; and
Aristide, more emotional, voiced his sense of heart-rent desolation,
and in a resigned tone informed me that it was time to start. I left the
lovers and went to the hotel, where I paid the bill, summoned McKeogh,
and lit a companionable pipe.
The car backed down the narrow street into the square and took up its
position. We entered. McKeogh took charge of Aristide's valise, tucked
us up in the rug, and settled himself in his seat. The car started and
we drove off, Aristide gallantly brandishing his hat and Mme. Gougasse
waving her lily hand, which happened to be hidden in an ill-fitting
black glove.
"To Montpellier, as fast as you can!" he shouted at the top of his lungs
to McKeogh. Then he sighed as he threw himself luxuriously back. "Ah,
this is better than a train. Amelie doesn't know what a mistake she has
made!"
The elderly victim of my furious entry was lounging, in spite of the
mistral, by the grim machicolated gateway. Instead of scowling at me he
raised his hat respectfully as we passed. I touched my cap, but Aristide
returned the salute with the grave politeness of royalty.
"This is a place," said he, "which I would like never to behold again."
In a few moments we were whirling along the straight, white road between
the interminable black vineyards, and past the dilapidated homesteads
of the vine-folk and wayside cafes that are scattered about this
unjoyous corner of France.
"Well," said he, suddenly, "what do you think of my _fiancee_?"
Politeness and good taste forbade expression of my real opinion. I
murmured platitudes to the effect that she seemed to be a most sensible
woman, with a head for business.
"She's not what we in French call _jolie, jolie_; but what of that?
What's the good of marrying a pretty face for other men to make love to?
And, as you English say, there's none of your confounded sentiment about
her. But she has the most flourishing cafe in Carcassonne; and, when the
ceiling is newly decorated, provided she doesn't insist on too much gold
leaf and too many naked babies on clouds--it's astonishing how women
love naked babies on clouds--it will be the snuggest place in the world.
May I ask for one of your excellent cigarettes?"