Ἰλεὼς ἣν δ' ἐγὼ, ἔστω ὁ ἀνδρίας
Καὶ ἤπιος, οὔτως ἀνδρεῖος ὢν.
ΛΟΥΚΙΑΝΟΥ ΦΙΛΟΨΕΥΔΗΣ.
I was descending the last slope of Canigou, and, although the sun had
already set, I could distinguish in the plain below the houses of the
little town of Ille, for which I was bound.
“You know,” I said to the Catalan who had been acting as my guide since
the preceding day, “you know, doubtless, where Monsieur de Peyrehorade
lives?”
“Do I know!” he cried; “why, I know his house as well as I do my own;
and if it wasn’t so dark, I’d show it to you. It’s the finest house in
Ille. He has money, you know, has Monsieur de Peyrehorade; and his son
is going to marry a girl that’s richer than himself.”
“Is the marriage to take place soon?” I asked.
“Soon! It may be that the fiddles are already ordered for the wedding.
To-night, perhaps, or to-morrow, or the day after, for all I know! It’s
to be at Puygarrig; for it’s Mademoiselle de Puygarrig that the young
gentleman is going to marry.”
I had a letter of introduction to M. de Peyrehorade from my friend M.
de P. He was, so my friend had told me, a very learned antiquarian, and
good-natured and obliging to the last degree. He would take pleasure in
showing me all the ruins within a radius of ten leagues. Now, I relied
upon him to accompany me about the country near Ille, which I knew to
be rich in monuments of ancient times and of the Middle Ages. This
marriage, of which I now heard for the first time, might upset all my
plans.
“I shall be an interloper,” I said to myself.
But I was expected; as my arrival had been announced by M. de P., I
must needs present myself.
“I’ll bet you, monsieur,” said my guide, as we reached the foot of the
mountain, “I’ll bet you a cigar that I can guess what you are going to
do at Monsieur de Peyrehorade’s.”
“Why, that is not very hard to guess,” I replied, offering him a cigar.
“At this time of day, when one has walked six leagues over Canigou, the
most urgent business is supper.”
“Yes, but to-morrow? Look you, I’ll bet that you have come to Ille to
see the idol! I guessed that when I saw you drawing pictures of the
saints at Serrabona.”
“The idol! what idol?” The word had aroused my curiosity.
“What! didn’t any one at Perpignan tell you how Monsieur de Peyrehorade
had found an idol in the ground?”
“You mean a terra-cotta, or clay statue, don’t you?”
“No, indeed! I mean a copper one, and it’s big enough to make a lot of
big sous. It weighs as much as a church bell. It was way down in the
ground, at the foot of an olive tree, that we found it.”
“So you were present at the discovery, were you?”
“Yes, monsieur. Monsieur de Peyrehorade told us a fortnight ago, Jean
Coll and me, to dig up an old olive tree that got frozen last year--for
it was a very hard winter, you know. So, while we were at work, Jean
Coll, who was going at it with all his might, dug his pick into the
dirt, and I heard a _bimm_--just as if he’d struck a bell.--‘What’s
that?’ says I. We kept on digging and digging, and first a black hand
showed; it looked like a dead man’s hand sticking out of the ground.
For my part, I was scared. I goes to monsieur, and I says to him: ‘Dead
men under the olive tree, master. You’d better call the curé.’
“‘What dead men?’ he says.
“He went with me, and he’d no sooner seen the hand than he sings out:
‘An antique! an antique!’ You’d have thought he had found a treasure.
And to work he went with the pick and with his hands, and did as much
as both of us together, you might say.”
“Well, what did you find?”
“A tall black woman more than half naked, saving your presence,
monsieur, of solid copper; and Monsieur de Peyrehorade told us that it
was an idol of heathen times--of the time of Charlemagne!”
“I see what it is: a bronze Blessed Virgin from some dismantled
convent.”
“A Blessed Virgin! oh, yes! I should have recognised it if it had been
a Blessed Virgin. It’s an idol, I tell you; you can see that from its
expression. It fastens its great white eyes on you; you’d think it was
trying to stare you out of countenance. Why, you actually lower your
eyes when you look at it.”
“White eyes? They are incrusted on the bronze, no doubt. It may be some
Roman statue.”
“Roman! that’s it. Monsieur de Peyrehorade says she’s a Roman.--Ah! I
see that you’re a scholar like him.”
“Is it whole, well preserved?”
“Oh! it’s all there, monsieur. It’s even handsomer and finished better
than the plaster-of-Paris bust of Louis Philippe at the mayor’s office.
But for all that, I can’t get over the idol’s face. It has a wicked
look--and she is wicked, too.”
“Wicked! what harm has she done you?”
“None to me exactly; but I’ll tell you. We had got down on all fours to
stand her up, and Monsieur de Peyrehorade, he was pulling on the rope,
too, although he hasn’t any more strength than a chicken, the excellent
man! With a good deal of trouble we got her on her feet. I was picking
up a piece of stone to wedge her, when, _patatras!_ down she went
again, all in a heap. ‘Stand from under!’ says I. But I was too late,
for Jean Coll didn’t have time to pull out his leg.”
“And he was hurt?”
“His poor leg broken off short like a stick! _Pécaïre!_ when I saw
that, I was furious. I wanted to smash the idol with my pickaxe, but
Monsieur de Peyrehorade held me back. He gave Jean Coll some money,
but he’s been in bed all the same ever since it happened, a fortnight
ago, and the doctor says he’ll never walk with that leg like the
other. It’s a pity, for he was our best runner, and next to monsieur’s
son, the best tennis player. I tell you, it made Monsieur Alphonse de
Peyrehorade feel bad, for Coll always played with him. It was fine to
see how they’d send the balls back at each other. Paf! paf! They never
touched the ground.”
Chatting thus we entered Ille, and I soon found myself in M. de
Peyrehorade’s presence. He was a little old man, still hale and
active, with powdered hair, a red nose, and a jovial, bantering air.
Before opening M. de P.’s letter, he installed himself in front of a
bountifully spread table, and introduced me to his wife and son as an
illustrious archæologist, who was destined to rescue Roussillon from
the oblivion in which the indifference of scholars had thus far left it.
While eating with a hearty appetite--for nothing is more conducive
thereto than the keen mountain air--I examined my hosts. I have
already said a word or two of M. de Peyrehorade; I must add that he
was vivacity personified. He talked, ate, rose from his chair, ran to
his library, brought books to me, showed me prints, filled my glass;
he was never at rest for two minutes in succession. His wife, who was
a trifle too stout, like all the Catalan women after they have passed
forty, impressed me as a typical provincial, who had no interests
outside of her household. Although the supper was ample for at least
six persons, she ran to the kitchen, ordered pigeons killed, all sorts
of things fried, and opened Heaven knows how many jars of preserves. In
an instant the table was laden with dishes and bottles, and I should
certainly have died of indigestion if I had even tasted everything
that was offered me. And yet, with every new dish that I declined,
there were renewed apologies. She was afraid that I would find myself
very badly off at Ille. One had so few resources in the provinces, and
Parisians were so hard to please!
Amid all the goings and comings of his parents, M. Alphonse de
Peyrehorade sat as motionless as the god Terminus. He was a tall young
man of twenty-six, with a handsome and regular face, which however
lacked expression. His figure and his athletic proportions fully
justified the reputation of an indefatigable tennis player which he
enjoyed throughout the province. On this evening he was dressed in the
height of fashion, exactly in accordance with the engraving in the last
number of the _Journal des Modes_. But he seemed ill at ease in his
clothes; he was as stiff as a picket in his velvet stock, and moved his
whole body when he turned. His rough, sunburned hands and short nails
formed a striking contrast to his costume. They were the hands of a
ploughman emerging from the sleeves of a dandy. Furthermore, although
he scrutinised me with interest from head to foot, I being a Parisian,
he spoke to me but once during the evening, and that was to ask me
where I bought my watch chain.
“Look you, my dear guest,” said M. de Peyrehorade, as the supper drew
to a close, “you belong to me, you are in my house; I shall not let
you go until you have seen everything of interest that we have in our
mountains. You must learn to know our Roussillon, and you must do her
justice. You have no suspicion of all that we are going to show you:
Phœnician, Celtic, Roman, Arabian, Byzantine monuments--you shall see
them all, from the cedar to the hyssop. I will take you everywhere, and
I will not let you off from a single brick.”
A paroxysm of coughing compelled him to pause. I seized the opportunity
to say that I should be distressed to incommode him at a season so
fraught with interest to his family. If he would simply give me the
benefit of his excellent advice as to the excursions it would be well
for me to make, I could easily, without putting him to the trouble of
accompanying me----
“Ah! you refer to this boy’s marriage,” he exclaimed, interrupting
me. “That’s a mere trifle--it will take place day after to-morrow.
You must attend the wedding with us, _en famille_, as the bride is in
mourning for an aunt whose property she inherits. So there are to be
no festivities, no ball. It is too bad, for you might have seen our
Catalan girls dance. They are very pretty, and perhaps you would have
felt inclined to follow my Alphonse’s example. One marriage, they say,
leads to others.--Saturday, when the young people are married, I shall
be free, and we will take the field. I ask your pardon for subjecting
you to the ennui of a provincial wedding. For a Parisian, sated with
parties of all sorts--and a wedding without a ball, at that! However,
you will see a bride--a bride--you must tell me what you think of her.
But you are a serious man, and you don’t look at women any more. I have
something better than that to show you. I will show you something worth
seeing! I have a famous surprise in store for you to-morrow.”
“Mon Dieu!” said I, “it is difficult to keep a treasure in one’s house
without the public knowing all about it. I fancy that I can divine
the surprise that you have in store for me. But if you refer to your
statue, the description of it that my guide gave me has served simply
to arouse my curiosity and to predispose me to admiration.”
“Ah! so he spoke to you about the idol--for that is what they call
my beautiful Venus Tur--but I will tell you nothing now. You shall
see her to-morrow, by daylight, and tell me whether I am justified in
considering her a _chef-d’œuvre_. Parbleu! you could not have arrived
more opportunely! There are some inscriptions which I, poor ignoramus
that I am, interpret after my manner. But a scholar from Paris!
It may be that you will make fun of my interpretation--for I have
written a memoir--I, who speak to you, an old provincial antiquary,
have made a start; I propose to make the printing-presses groan. If
you would kindly read and correct me, I might hope. For example, I am
very curious to know how you will translate this inscription on the
pedestal: CAVE--but I won’t ask you anything yet. Until to-morrow!
until to-morrow! Not a word about the Venus to-day!”
“You are quite right, Peyrehorade,” said his wife, “to let your old
idol rest. You must see that you are keeping monsieur from eating. Bah!
monsieur has seen much finer statues than yours in Paris. There are
dozens of them at the Tuileries, and bronze ones, too.”
“There you have the ignorance, the blessed ignorance of the provinces!”
interrupted M. de Peyrehorade. “Think of comparing an admirable antique
to Coustou’s insipid figures!
“‘With what irreverence
Doth my good wife speak of the gods!’
Would you believe that my wife wanted me to melt my statue and make it
into a bell for our church! She would have been the donor, you see. A
_chef-d’œuvre_ of Myron, monsieur!”
“_Chef-d’œuvre! chef-d’œuvre!_ a pretty _chef-d’œuvre_ she made! to
break a man’s leg!”
“Look you, my wife,” said M. de Peyrehorade in a determined tone,
extending his right leg encased in a stocking of Chinese silk, in her
direction, “if my Venus had broken this leg, I should not regret it.”
“Gracious Heaven! how can you say that, Peyrehorade? Luckily the man is
getting better. Still, I can’t make up my mind to look at the statue
that causes such accidents as that. Poor Jean Coll!”
“Wounded by Venus, monsieur,” said M. de Peyrehorade, with a chuckle,
“wounded by Venus, the clown complains:
“‘Veneris nec præmia noris.’
“Who has not been wounded by Venus?”
M. Alphonse, who understood French better than Latin, winked with a
knowing look, and glanced at me as if to ask:
“And you, Monsieur le Parisien, do you understand?”
The supper came to an end. I had eaten nothing for the last hour. I was
tired and I could not succeed in dissembling the frequent yawns which
escaped me. Madame de Peyrehorade was the first to notice my plight and
observed that it was time to go to bed. Thereupon began a new series
of apologies for the wretched accommodations I was to have. I should
not be as comfortable as I was in Paris. One is so badly off in the
provinces! I must be indulgent for the Roussillonnais. In vain did I
protest that after a journey in the mountains a sheaf of straw would be
a luxurious bed for me--she continued to beg me to excuse unfortunate
country folk if they did not treat me as well as they would have liked
to do. I went upstairs at last to the room allotted to me, escorted by
M. de Peyrehorade. The staircase, the upper stairs of which were of
wood, ended in the centre of a corridor upon which several rooms opened.
“At the right,” said my host, “is the apartment which I intend to
give to Madame Alphonse that is to be. Your room is at the end of the
opposite corridor. You know,” he added, with an expression meant to be
sly, “you know we must put a newly married couple all by themselves.
You are at one end of the house and they at the other.”
We entered a handsomely furnished room, in which the first object
that caught my eye was a bed seven feet long, six feet wide, and so
high that one had to use a stool to climb to the top. My host, having
pointed out the location of the bell, having assured himself that the
sugarbowl was full, and that the bottles of cologne had been duly
placed on the dressing-table, and having asked me several times if I
had everything that I wanted, wished me a good-night and left me alone.
The windows were closed. Before undressing I opened one of them to
breathe the fresh night air, always delicious after a long supper. In
front of me was Canigou, beautiful to look at always, but that evening,
it seemed to me the most beautiful mountain in the world, lighted as
it was by a brilliant moon. I stood for some minutes gazing at its
wonderful silhouette, and was on the point of closing my window when,
as I lowered my eyes, I saw the statue on a pedestal some forty yards
from the house. It was placed at the corner of a quickset hedge which
separated a small garden from a large square of perfectly smooth turf,
which, as I learned later, was the tennis-court of the town. This
tract, which belonged to M. de Peyrehorade, had been ceded by him to
the commune, at his son’s urgent solicitation.
I was so far from the statue that I could not distinguish its attitude
and could only guess at its height, which seemed to be about six
feet. At that moment two young scamps from the town walked across the
tennis-court, quite near the hedge, whistling the pretty Roussillon
air, _Montagnes Régalades_. They stopped to look at the statue, and one
of them apostrophised it in a loud voice. He spoke Catalan; but I had
been long enough in Roussillon to understand pretty nearly what he said.
“So there you are, hussy! (The Catalan term was much more forcible.) So
there you are!” he said. “So it was you who broke Jean Coll’s leg! If
you belonged to me, I’d break your neck!”
“Bah! with what?” said the other. “She’s made of copper, and it’s so
hard that Étienne broke his file, trying to file it. It’s copper of the
heathen times, and it’s harder than I don’t know what.”
“If I had my cold-chisel”--it seemed that he was a locksmith’s
apprentice--“I’d soon dig out her big white eyes, as easy as I’d take
an almond out of its shell. They’d make more than a hundred sous in
silver.”
They walked away a few steps.
“I must bid the idol good-night,” said the taller of the two, suddenly
stopping again.
He stooped, and, I suppose, picked up a stone. I saw him raise his arm
and throw something, and instantly there was a ringing blow on the
bronze. At the same moment the apprentice put his hand to his head,
with a sharp cry of pain.
“She threw it back at me!” he exclaimed.
And my two rascals fled at the top of their speed. It was evident that
the stone had rebounded from the metal, and had punished the fellow for
his affront to the goddess.