ART AND MUSIC
A league below the castle of Bergenheim, the village of La Fauconnerie
was situated, at the junction of several valleys the principal of which,
by means of an unfrequented road, opened communications between Lorraine
and upper Alsatia. This position had been one of some importance in the
Middle Ages, at the time when the Vosges were beset with partisans from
the two countries, always ready to renew border hostilities, the
everlasting plague of all frontiers. Upon a cliff overlooking the
village were situated the ruins which had given the village its name;
it owed it to the birds of prey [falcons, in French: 'faucons'], the
habitual guests of the perpendicular rocks. To render proper justice to
whom it belongs, we should add that the proprietors of La Fauconnerie had
made it a point at all times to justify this appellation by customs more
warlike than hospitable; but for some time the souvenirs of their feudal
prowess had slept with their race under the ruins of the manor; the
chateau had fallen without the hamlet extending over its ruins; from a
bourg of some importance La Fauconnerie had come down to a small village,
and had nothing remarkable about it but the melancholy ruins of the
chateau.
It would be impossible to imagine anything more miserably prosaic than
the houses that bordered the road, in regular order; their one story with
its thatched roof blackened by rain; the sorry garden surrounded by a
little low wall and presenting as vegetables patches of cabbage and a few
rows of beans, gave an idea of the poverty of its inhabitants. Save the
church, which the Bishop of St.-Die had caused to be built, and the manse
that had naturally shared this fortunate privilege, only one house rose
above the condition of a thatched cottage; this was the tavern called 'La
Femme-sans-Tete', and kept by Madame Gobillot, an energetic woman, who
did not suggest in the least the name of her establishment, "The Headless
Woman."
A large sign shared with the inevitable bunch of juniper, the honor of
decorating the entrance and justified an appellation one might have
regarded as disrespectful to the fair sex. The original design had been
repainted in dazzling colors by the artist charged with restoring the
church. This alliance of the profane with the sacred had, it is true,
scandalized the parish priest, but he did not dare say a word too much,
as Madame Gobillot was one of his most important parishioners. A woman
in a rose-colored dress and large panniers, standing upon very high-
heeled shoes, displayed upon this sign the rejuvenated costume of 1750;
an enormous green fan, which she held in her hand, entirely concealed her
face, and it was through this caprice of the painter that the tavern came
to have the name it bore.
At the right of this original figure was painted, in a very appetizing
manner, a pie out of whose crust peeped a trio of woodcocks' heads. A
little farther, upon a bed of watercresses, floated a sort of marine
monster, carp or sturgeon, trout or crocodile. The left of the sign was
none the less tempting; it represented a roast chicken lying upon its
back with its head under its wing, and raising its mutilated legs in the
air with a piteous look; it had for its companion a cluster of crabs, of
a little too fine a red to have been freshly caught. The whole was
interspersed with bottles and glasses brimful of wine. There were stone
jugs at each extremity, the sergeants of the rear-rank of this
gastronomic platoon, whose corks had blown out and were still flying in
space, while a bubbling white foam issued from their necks and fell
majestically over their sides after describing a long parabola. A
misleading sign, indeed!
A remorseful conscience, or a desire to protect herself from all reproach
of mendacity on the part of the customers, had made the owner of the inn
place a wire cupboard upon the sill of one of the windows near the door;
in which receptacle were some eggs on a plate, a bit of bread with which
David might have loaded his sling, a white glass bottle filled with a
liquid of some color intended to represent kirsch, but which was in
reality only water. This array gave a much more correct idea of the
resources of the establishment and formed a menu like an anchorite's
repast, and even this it was difficult for the kitchen's resources to
maintain.
A carriage-gate led into the yard and to the stables, cart-drivers being
the principal habitues of the place; another entrance, the one which was
crowned with the fantastic sign, was flanked by two stone seats and
opened directly into the kitchen, which also served as parlor for the
guests. A fireplace with an enormous mantel, under which a whole family
might warm themselves, occupied the middle of one side of the room.
There was a large oven in one corner which opened its huge mouth, the
door partly hiding the shovels and tongs employed in its service. Two or
three thoroughly smoked hams, suspended from the beams, announced that
there was no fear of a famine before the gastronomic massacres of
Middlemas. Opposite the window, a large, polished oak dresser displayed
an array of large flowered plates and little octagon-shaped glasses. A
huge kitchen kettle and some wooden chairs completed the furniture of the
room.
From the kitchen one passed into another room, where a permanent table
surrounded by benches occupied its entire length. The wall paper, once
green, was now a dirty gray; it was embellished by half a dozen black
frames representing the story of Prince Poniatowski, who shares the honor
of decorating village inns with Paul and Virginia and Wilhelm Tell.
On the upper floor-for this aristocratic dwelling had a second story--
several sleeping-rooms opened upon a long corridor, at the end of which
was a room with two beds in it. This room was very neat and clean, and
was destined for any distinguished guests whose unlucky star led them
into this deserted country.
That evening the inn presented an unaccustomed lively appearance; the
long seats, each side of the door, were occupied by rustics stripping
hemp, by some village lads, and three or four cart-drivers smoking short
pipes as black as coal. They were listening to two girls who were
singing in a most mournful way a song well known to all in this country:
"Au chateau de Belfort
Sont trois jolies filles, etc."
The light from the hearth, shining through the open door, left this group
in the shadow and concentrated its rays upon a few faces in the interior
of the kitchen. First, there was Madame Gobillot in person, wearing a
long white apron, her head covered with an immense cap. She went from
oven to dresser, and from dresser to fireplace with a very important air.
A fat little servant disappeared frequently through the dining-room door,
where she seemed to be laying the cover for a feast. With that
particular dexterity of country girls, she made three trips to carry two
plates, and puffed like a porpoise at her work, while the look of
frightened amazement showed upon her face that every fibre of her
intelligence was under unaccustomed tension. Before the fire, and upon
the range, three or four stew-pans were bubbling. A plump chicken was
turning on the spit, or, rather, the spit and its victim were turned by a
bright-looking boy of about a dozen years, who with one hand turned the
handle and with the other, armed with a large cooking-ladle, basted the
roast.
But the two principal persons in this picture were a young country girl
and a young man seated opposite her, who seemed busily engaged in making
her portrait. One would easily recognize, from the airs and elegance of
the young woman, that she was the daughter of the house, Mademoiselle
Reine Gobillot, the one whose passion for fashion-plates had excited
Mademoiselle de Corandeuil's anger. She sat as straight and rigid upon
her stool as a Prussian corporal carrying arms, and maintained an
excessively gracious smile upon her lips, while she made her bust more
prominent by drawing back her shoulders as far as she could.
The young painter, on the contrary, was seated with artistic abandon,
balancing himself upon a two-legged chair with his heels resting against
the mantel; he was dressed in a black velvet coat, and a very small Tam
O'Shanter cap of the same material covered the right side of his head,
allowing a luxuriant crop of brown hair to be seen upon the other side.
This head-dress, accompanied by long moustaches and a pointed beard
covering only his chin, gave the stranger's face the mediaeval look he
probably desired. This travelling artist was sketching in an album
placed upon his knees, with a freedom which indicated perfect confidence
in his own talents. A cigar, skilfully held in one corner of his mouth,
did not prevent him from warbling between each puff some snatches of
Italian airs of which he seemed to possess a complete repertoire. In
spite of this triple occupation he sustained a conversation with the ease
of a man who, like Caesar, could have dictated to three secretaries at
once if necessary.
"Dell' Assiria, ai semidei
Aspirar--"
"I have already asked you not to purse up your mouth so, Mademoiselle
Reine; it gives you a Watteau air radically bourgeois."
"What sort of air does it give me?" she asked, anxiously.
"A Watteau, Regence, Pompadour air. You have a large mouth, and we will
leave it natural, if you please."
"I have a large mouth!" exclaimed Reine, blushing with anger; "how
polite you are!"
And she pinched up her lips until she reduced them to nearly the size of
Montmorency cherries.
"Stop this vulgar way of judging of art, queen of my heart. Learn that
there is nothing more appetizing than a large mouth. I do not care for
rosebud mouths!"
"If it is the fashion!" murmured the young girl, in a pleased tone, as
she spread out horizontally her vermillion lips, which might have
extended from ear to ear, not unlike--if we can credit that slanderer,
Bussy-Rabutin-the amorous smile of Mademoiselle de la Valliere.
"Why did you not let me put on my gold necklace?
That would have given my portrait a smarter look. Sophie Mitoux had hers
painted with a coral comb and earrings. How shabby this style is!"
"I beg of you, my good Reine, let me follow my own fancy; an artist is a
being of inspiration and spontaneity. Meanwhile, you make your bust too
prominent; there is no necessity for you to look as if you had swallowed
a whale. L'art n'est pas fait pour toi, tu n'en as pas besoin. Upon my
word, you have a most astonishing bust; a genuine Rubens."
Madame Gobillot was an austere woman, though an innkeeper, and watched
over her daughter with particular care, lest any ill-sounding or
insiduous expression should reach her child's ear. Considering the
company which frequented the house, the task was not easy. So she was
shocked at the young man's last words, and although she did not quite
understand his meaning, for that very reason she thought she scented a
concealed poison more dangerous for Mademoiselle Reine than the awful
words used by the drivers. She dared not, however, show her displeasure
to a customer, and one who seemed disposed to spend money freely; and, as
usual in such circumstances, she vented her displeasure upon the persons
immediately under her charge.
"Hurry now, Catherine! Will you never finish setting the table? I told
you before to put on the Britannia; these gentlemen are used to eating
with silver. Listen to me when I am talking to you. Who washed these
glasses? What a shame! You are as afraid of water as a mad-dog. And
you! what are you staring at that chicken for, instead of basting it?
If you let it burn you shall go to bed without any supper. If it is not
provoking!" she continued, in a scolding tone, visiting her stewpans one
after another, "everything is dried up; a fillet that was as tender as it
could be will be scorched! This is the third time that I have diluted
the gravy. Catherine! bring me a dish. Now, then, make haste."
"One thing is certain," interrupted the artist, "that Gerfaut is making a
fool of me. I do not see what can have become of him. Tell me, Madame
Gobillot, are you certain that an amateur of art and the picturesque,
travelling at this hour, would not be eaten by wolves or plundered by
robbers in these mountains?"
"Our mountains are safe, Monsieur," replied the landlady, with offended
dignity; "except for the pedler who was assassinated six months ago and
whose body was found in the Combe-aux-Renards--"
"And the driver who was stopped three weeks ago in the Fosse," added
Mademoiselle Reine; "the thieves did not quite kill him, but he is still
in the hospital at Remiremont."
"Oh! that is enough to make one's hair stand on end! This is worse than
the forest of Bondy! Truly, if I knew what direction my friend took this
morning, I would follow him with my pistols."
"Here is Fritz," said Madame Gobillot. "He met a stranger in the woods
who gave him ten sous for telling him the way to Bergenheim. From his
description, it seems that it must be the gentleman you speak of. Tell
us about it, Fritz."
The child related in his Alsatian patois his meeting of the afternoon,
and the artist was convinced that it was Gerfaut he had met.
"He must be wandering in the valley," said he, "dreaming about our play.
But did you not say something about Bergenheim? Is there a village near
here by that name?"
"There is a chateau of that name, Monsieur, and it is about a league from
here as you go up the river."
"And does this chateau happen to belong to the Baron de Bergenheim--
a large, blond, good-looking fellow, with rather reddish moustache?"
"That's the picture of its owner, only that the Baron does not wear a
moustache now, not since he left the service. Do you know him,
Monsieur?"
"Yes, I know him! Speaking of service, I once rendered him one which was
of some account. Is he at the castle?"
"Yes, Monsieur, and his lady also."
"Ah! his wife, too. She was a Mademoiselle de Corandeuil, of Provence.
Is she pretty?"
"Pretty," said Mademoiselle Gobillot, pursing up her lips, "that depends
upon tastes. If a person likes a face as white as a ghost, she is. And,
then, she is so thin! It certainly can not be very difficult to have a
slender waist when one is as thin as that."
"Not everybody can have rosy cheeks and a form like an enchantress," said
the painter, in a low voice, as he looked at his model in a seductive
manner.
"There are some people who think that Monsieur's sister is prettier than
Madame," observed Madame Gobillot.
"O mother! how can you say that?" exclaimed Reine with a disdainful
air. "Mademoiselle Aline! A child of fifteen! She certainly is not
wanting in color; her hair is such a blond, such a red, rather! It looks
as if it were on fire."
"Do not say anything against red hair, I beg of you," said the artist,
"it is an eminently artistic shade, which is very popular."
"With some it may be so, but with Christians! It seems to me that black
hair--"
"When it is long and glossy like yours, it is wonderful," said the young
man, darting another killing glance. "Madame Gobillot, would you mind
closing that door? One can not hear one's self think here. I am a
little critical, so far as music is concerned, and you have two sopranos
outside who deafen me with their shrieks."
"It is Marguerite Mottet and her sister. Since our cure has taken to
teaching them, they bore us to death, coming here and singing their fine
songs. One of these days I shall notify them to leave."
As she said these words, Madame Gobillot went to close the door in order
to please her guest; as soon as her back was turned, the latter leaned
forward with the boldness of a Lovelace and imprinted a very loving kiss
upon the rosy cheek of Mademoiselle Reine, who never thought of drawing
back until the offence was committed.
The sole witness to this incident was the little kitchen drudge, whose
blue eyes had been fastened upon the artist's moustache and beard for
some time. They seemed to plunge him into a deep admiration. But at
this unexpected event his amazement was so complete that he dropped his
spoon into the ashes.
"Eh! mein herr, do you wish to go to bed without your supper, as has
been promised you?" said the young man, while the beautiful Reine was
trying to recover her countenance. "Now, then, sing us a little song
instead of staring at me as if I were a giraffe. Your little cook has a
nice voice, Madame Gobillot. Now, then, mein herr, give us a little
German lied. I will give you six kreutzers if you sing in tune, and a
flogging if you grate upon my ears."
He arose and put his album under his arm.
"And my portrait?" exclaimed the young girl, whose cheek was still
burning from the kiss she had just received.
The painter drew near her, smiling, and said in a mysterious tone:
"When I make a portrait of a pretty person like you, I never finish it
the first day. If you will give me another sitting in the morning before
your mother arises I promise to finish this sketch in a way that will not
be displeasing to you."
Mademoiselle Reine saw that her mother was watching her, and walked away
with no reply save a glance which was not discouraging.
"Now, then! You droll little fellow!" exclaimed the artist, as he
whirled on one foot; "triple time; one, two, begin."
The child burst into an Alsatian song in a high, ringing voice.
"Wait a moment! What devilish key are you singing that in? La, la, la,
la; mi, in E major, key of four sharps. By Jove, my little man! here is
a fellow who sings B's and C's away up in the clouds; an E sharp, too!"
he continued, with astonishment, while the singer made a hold upon the
keynote an octave higher in a voice as clear as a crystal.
The artist threw into the fire the cigar which he had just lighted, and
began pacing the kitchen floor, paying no more attention to Mademoiselle
Reine, who felt a little piqued at seeing herself neglected for a kitchen
drudge.
"A rare voice," said he, as he took a great stride; "per Bacco, a very
rare voice. Added to that, he sings very deep; two octaves and a half,
a clear, ringing tone, the two registers are well united. He would make
an admirable 'primo musico'. And the little fellow has a pretty face,
too. After supper I will make him wash his face, and I will sketch it.
I am sure that in less than a year's study, he could make his debut with
the greatest success. By Jove! I have an idea! Why does not that
Gerfaut return? Now, then, he would do very well for 'Pippo' in La
Gazza, or for Gemma in Wilhelm Tell. But we must have a role for him to
make his debut in. What subject could we take properly to introduce a
child's part? Why does not that Gerfaut come? A child, girl or boy; a
boy part would be better. 'Daniel,' of course; viva 'Daniel!' 'The
Chaste Suzannah,' opera in three acts. Madame Begrand would be fine as
Suzannah. By Jove! if Meyerbeer would only take charge of the score!
That falls to him by right as a compatriot. Then, that would give him an
opportunity to break lances with Mehul and Rossini. If that fool of a
Gerfaut would only come! Let us see what would be the three characters:
Soprano, Suzannah; contralto, David; the old men, two basses; as for the
tenor, he would be, of course, Suzannah's husband. There would be a
superb entrance for him upon his return from the army, 'cavatina
guerriera con cori'. Oh! that terrible Gerfaut! the wolves must have
devoured him. If he were here, we would knock off the thing between our
fruit and cheese."
Just at that moment the door opened suddenly. "Is supper ready?" asked
a deep voice.
"Eh, here he is, the dear friend!
"O surprise extreme!
Grand Dieu! c'est lui-meme--
alive and in the flesh."
"And hungry," said Gerfaut, as he dropped into a chair near the fire.
"Would you like to compose an opera in three acts, The Chaste Suzannah,
music by Meyerbeer?"
"I should like some supper first. Madame Gobillot, I beseech you, give
me something to eat. Thanks to your mountain air, I am almost starved."
"But, Monsieur, we have been waiting two hours for you," retorted the
landlady, as she made each stewpan dance in succession.
"That is a fact," said the artist; "let us go into the dining-room, then.
"Gia la mensa a preparata."
"While supping, I will explain my plans to you. I have just found a
Daniel in the ashes--"
"My dear Marillac, drop your Daniel and Suzannah," replied Gerfaut, as he
sat down to the table; "I have something much more important to talk to
you about."
ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:
Evident that the man was above his costume; a rare thing!
Mania for fearing that she may be compromised
Material in you to make one of Cooper's redskins
Recourse to concessions is often as fatal to women as to kings
Those whom they most amuse are those who are best worth amusing
Trying to conceal by a smile (a blush)
When one speaks of the devil he appears
Wiped his nose behind his hat, like a well-bred orator