It was by the merest chance that Monsieur and Madame Tousseau came to
Saint-Germain-en-Laye in the early days of September.
Four weeks ago they had been married in Lyons, which was their home; but
where they had passed these four weeks they really could not have told
you. The time had gone hop skip-and-jump; a couple of days had entirely
slipped out of their reckoning, and, on the other hand, they remembered
a little summer-house at Fontainebleau, where they had rested one
evening, as clearly as if they had passed half their lives there.
Paris was, strictly speaking, the goal of their wedding journey, and
there they established themselves in a comfortable little _hôtel garni_.
But the city was sultry and they could not rest; so they rambled about
among the small towns in the neighborhood, and found themselves, one
Sunday at noon, in Saint-Germain.
“Monsieur and Madame have doubtless come to take part in the fête?” said
the plump little landlady of the Hôtel Henri Quatre, as she ushered her
guests up the steps.
The fête? They knew of no fête in the world except their own wedded
happiness; but they did not say so to the landlady.
They soon learned that they had been lucky enough to drop into the very
midst of the great and celebrated fair which is held every year, on the
first Sunday of September, in the Forest of Saint-Germain.
The young couple were highly delighted with their good hap. It seemed as
though Fortune followed at their heels, or rather ran ahead of them, to
arrange surprises. After a delicious tête-à-tête dinner behind one of
the clipped yew trees in the quaint garden, they took a carriage and
drove off to the forest.
In the hotel garden, beside the little fountain in the middle of the
lawn, sat a ragged condor which the landlord had bought to amuse his
guests. It was attached to its perch by a good strong rope. But when the
sun shone upon it with real warmth, it fell a-thinking of the snow-peaks
of Peru, of mighty wing-strokes over the deep valleys--and then it
forgot the rope.
Two vigorous strokes with its pinions would bring the rope up taut, and
it would fall back upon the sward. There it would lie by the hour, then
shake itself and clamber up to its little perch again.
When it turned its head to watch the happy pair, Madame Tousseau burst
into a fit of laughter at its melancholy mien.
The afternoon sun glimmered through the dense foliage of the
interminable straight-ruled avenue that skirts the terrace. The young
wife’s veil fluttered aloft as they sped through the air, and wound
itself right round Monsieur’s head. It took a long time to put it in
order again, and Madame’s hat had to be adjusted ever so often. Then
came the relighting of Monsieur’s cigar, and that, too, was quite a
business; for Madame’s fan would always give a suspicious little flirt
every time the match was lighted; then a penalty had to be paid, and
that, again, took time.
The aristocratic English family which was passing the summer at
Saint-Germain was disturbed in its regulation walk by the passing of the
gay little equipage. They raised their correct gray or blue eyes; there
was neither contempt nor annoyance in their look--only the faintest
shade of surprise. But the condor followed the carriage with its
eyes, until it became a mere black speck at the vanishing-point of the
straight-ruled interminable avenue.
“La joyeuse fête des Loges” is a genuine fair, with gingerbread cakes,
sword-swallowers, and waffles piping hot. As the evening falls, colored
lamps and Chinese lanterns are lighted around the venerable oak which
stands in the middle of the fairground, and boys climb about among its
topmost branches with maroons and Bengal lights.
Gentlemen of an inventive turn of mind go about with lanterns on their
hats, on their sticks, and wherever they can possibly hang; and the
most inventive of all strolls around with his sweetheart under a great
umbrella, with a lantern dancing from each rib.
On the outskirts, bonfires are lighted; fowls are roasted on spits,
while potatoes are cut into slices and fried in dripping. Each aroma
seems to have its amateurs, for there are always people crowding round;
but the majority stroll up and down the long street of booths.
Monsieur and Madame Tousseau had plunged into all the fun of the fair.
They had gambled in the most lucrative lottery in Europe, presided over
by a man who excelled in dubious witticisms. They had seen the fattest
goose in the world, and the celebrated flea, “Bismarch,” who could
drive six horses. Furthermore, they had purchased gingerbread, shot at
a target for clay pipes and soft-boiled eggs, and finally had danced a
waltz in the spacious dancing-tent.
They had never had such fun in their lives. There were no great people
there--at any rate, none greater than themselves. As they did not know a
soul, they smiled to every one, and when they met the same person twice
they laughed and nodded to him.
They were charmed with everything. They stood outside the great circus
and ballet marquees and laughed at the shouting buffoons. Scraggy
mountebanks performed on trumpets, and young girls with well-floured
shoulders smiled alluringly from the platforms.
Monsieur Tousseau’s purse was never at rest; but they did not grow
impatient of the perpetual claims upon it. On the contrary, they only
laughed at the gigantic efforts these people would make to earn--perhaps
half a franc, or a few centimes.
Suddenly they encountered a face they knew. It was a young American whom
they had met at the hotel in Paris.
“Well, Monsieur Whitmore!” cried Madame Tousseau, gayly, “here at last
you’ve found a place where you can’t possibly help enjoying yourself.”
“For my part,” answered the American, slowly, “I find no enjoyment in
seeing the people who haven’t money making fools of themselves to please
the people who have.”
“Oh, you’re incorrigible!” laughed the young wife. “But I must
compliment you on the excellent French you are speaking to-day.”
After exchanging a few more words, they lost each other in the crowd;
Mr. Whitmore was going back to Paris immediately.
Madame Tousseau’s compliment was quite sincere. As a rule the grave
American talked deplorable French, but the answer he had made to Madame
was almost correct. It seemed as though it had been well thought out
in advance--as though a whole series of impressions had condensed
themselves into these words. Perhaps that was why his answer sank so
deep into the minds of Monsieur and Madame Tousseau.
Neither of them thought it a particularly brilliant remark; on the
contrary, they agreed that it must be miserable to take so gloomy a view
of things. But, nevertheless, his words left something rankling. They
could not laugh so lightly as before, Madame felt tired, and they began
to think of getting homewards.
Just as they turned to go down the long street of booths in order to
find their carriage, they met a noisy crew coming upward.
“Let us take the other way,” said Monsieur.
They passed between two booths, and emerged at the back of one of the
rows. They stumbled over the tree-roots before their eyes got used to
the uncertain light which fell in patches between the tents. A dog,
which lay gnawing at something or other, rose with a snarl, and dragged
its prey further into the darkness, among the trees.
On this side the booths were made up of old sails and all sorts of
strange draperies. Here and there light shone through the openings, and
at one place Madame distinguished a face she knew.
It was the man who had sold her that incomparable gingerbread--Monsieur
had half of it still in his pocket.
But it was curious to see the gingerbread-man from this side. Here was
something quite different from the smiling obsequiousness which had said
so many pretty things to her pretty face, and had been so unwearied in
belauding the gingerbread--which really was excellent.
Now he sat crouched together, eating some indescribable mess out of a
checked pocket-handkerchief--eagerly, greedily, without looking up.
Farther down they heard a muffled conversation. Madame was bent upon
peeping in; Monsieur objected, but he had to give in.
An old mountebank sat counting a handful of coppers, grumbling and
growling the while. A young girl stood before him, shivering and
pleading for pardon; she was wrapped in a long water-proof.
The man swore, and stamped on the ground. Then she threw off the
water-proof and stood half naked in a sort of ballet costume. Without
saying a word, and without smoothing her hair or preening her finery,
she mounted the little steps that led to the stage.
At that moment she turned and looked at her father. Her face had already
put on the ballet-simper, but it now gave place to a quite different
expression. The mouth remained fixed, but the eyes tried, for a second,
to send him a beseeching smile. The mountebank shrugged his shoulders,
and held out his hand with the coppers; the girl turned, ducked under
the curtain, and was received with shouts and applause.
Beside the great oak-tree the lottery man was holding forth as fluently
as ever. His witticisms, as the darkness thickened, grew less and less
dubious. There was a different ring, too, in the laughter of the crowd;
the men were noisier, the mountebanks leaner, the women more brazen, the
music falser--so it seemed, at least, to Madame and Monsieur.
As they passed the dancing-tent the racket of a quadrille reached their
ears. “Great heavens!--was it really there that we danced?” said Madame,
and nestled closer to her husband.
They made their way through the rout as quickly as they could; they
would soon reach their carriage, it was just beyond the circus-marquee.
It would be nice to rest and escape from all this hubbub.
The platform in front of the circus-marquee was now vacant. Inside, in
the dim and stifling rotunda, the performance was in full swing.
Only the old woman who sold the tickets sat asleep at her desk. And a
little way off, in the light of her lamp, stood a tiny boy.
He was dressed in tights, green on one side, red on the other; on his
head he had a fool’s cap with horns.
Close up to the platform stood a woman wrapped in a black shawl. She
seemed to be talking to the boy.
He advanced his red leg and his green leg by turns, and drew them back
again. At last he took three steps forward on his meagre shanks and held
out his hand to the woman.
She took what he had in it, and disappeared into the darkness.
He stood motionless for a moment, then he muttered some words and burst
into tears.
Presently he stopped, and said: “Maman m’a pris mon sou!”--and fell to
weeping again.
He dried his eyes and left off for a time, but as often as he repeated
to himself his sad little history--how his mother had taken his sou from
him--he was seized with another and a bitterer fit of weeping.
He stooped and buried his face in the curtain. The stiff, wrinkly
oil-painting must be hard and cold to cry into. The little body shrank
together; he drew his green leg close up under him, and stood like a
stork upon the red one.
No one on the other side of the curtain must hear that he was crying.
Therefore he did not sob like a child, but fought as a man fights
against a broken heart.
When the attack was over, he blew his nose with his fingers, and wiped
them on his tights. With the dirty curtain he had dabbled the tears all
over his face until it was streaked with black; and in this guise, and
dry-eyed, he gazed for a moment over the fair.
Then: “Maman m’a pris mon sou”--and he set off again.
The backsweep of the wave leaves the beach dry for an instant while
the next wave is gathering. Thus sorrow swept in heavy surges over the
little childish heart.
His dress was so ludicrous, his body so meagre, his weeping was so
wofully bitter, and his suffering so great and man-like----But at home
at the hotel--the Pavillon Henri Quatre, where the Queens of France
condescended to be brought to bed there the condor sat and slept upon
its perch.
And it dreamed its dream--its only dream--its dream about the snow-peaks
of Peru and the mighty wing-strokes over the deep valleys; and then it
forgot its rope.
It uplifted its ragged pinions vigorously, and struck two sturdy
strokes. Then the rope drew taut, and it fell back where it was wont to
fall--it wrenched its claw, and the dream vanished.----Next morning the
aristocratic English family was much concerned, and the landlord himself
felt annoyed, for the condor lay dead upon the grass.