After the word _tvrbvl_ in the first line several letters seemed to
have become effaced, but _tvrbvl_ was perfectly legible.
“Which means?”--queried my host, with a beaming face, and winking
maliciously, for he had a shrewd idea that I would not easily handle
that _tvrbvl_.
“There is one word here which I do not understand as yet,” I said;
“all the rest is simple. ‘Eutyches made this offering to Venus by her
order.’”
“Excellent. But what do you make of _tvrbvl_? What is _tvrbvl_?”
“_Tvrbvl_ puzzles me a good deal. I have tried in vain to think of
some known epithet of Venus to assist me. What would you say to
_Turbulenta_? Venus, who disturbs, who excites--as you see, I am still
engrossed by her evil expression. _Turbulenta_ is not a very inapt
epithet for Venus,” I added modestly, for I was not very well satisfied
myself with my explanation.
“Turbulent Venus! Venus the roisterer! Ah! so you think that my Venus
is a wine-shop Venus, do you? Not by any means, monsieur; she is a
Venus in good society. But I will explain this _tvrbvl_ to you. Of
course you will promise not to divulge my discovery before my memoir is
printed. You see, I am very proud of this find of mine. You must leave
us poor devils in the provinces a few spears to glean. You are so rich,
you Parisian scholars!”
From the top of the pedestal, whereon I was still perched, I solemnly
promised him that I would never be guilty of the baseness of stealing
his discovery.
“_Tvrbvl_--monsieur,” he said, coming nearer to me and lowering
his voice, for fear that some other than myself might hear--“read
_tvrbvlneræ_.”
“I don’t understand any better.”
“Listen. About a league from here, at the foot of the mountain, is a
village called Boulternère. That name is a corruption of the Latin word
_Turbulnera_. Nothing is more common than such inversions. Boulternère,
monsieur, was a Roman city. I have always suspected as much, but I have
never had a proof of it. Here is the proof. This Venus was the local
divinity of the city of Boulternère; and this word Boulternère, whose
antique origin I have just demonstrated, proves something even more
interesting--namely, that Boulternère, before it became a Roman city,
was a Phœnician city!”
He paused a moment to take breath and to enjoy my surprise. I succeeded
in restraining a very strong inclination to laugh.
“It is a fact,” he continued, “_Turbulnera_ is pure Phœnician; _Tur_,
pronounced _Tour_--_Tour_ and _Sour_ are the same word, are they not?
_Sour_ is the Phœnician name of Tyre; I do not need to remind you of
its meaning. _Bul_ is Baal; Bal, Bel, Bul--slight differences in
pronunciation. As for _nera_--that gives me a little trouble. I am
inclined to believe, failing to find a Phœnician word, that it comes
from the Greek word νηρός, damp, swampy. In that case the word would
be a hybrid. To justify my suggestion of νηρός, I will show you that
at Boulternère the streams from the mountain form miasmatic pools. On
the other hand, the termination _nera_ may have been added much later,
in honour of Nera Pivesuvia, wife of Tetricus, who may have had some
property in the city of Turbul. But on account of the pools I prefer
the etymology from νηρός.”
And he took a pinch of snuff with a self-satisfied air.
“But let us leave the Phœnicians and return to the inscription. I
translate then: ‘To Venus of Boulternère, Myron, at her command,
dedicates this statue, his work.’”
I had no idea of criticising his etymology, but I did desire to exhibit
some little penetration on my own part; so I said to him:
“Stop there a moment, monsieur. Myron dedicated something, but I see
nothing to indicate that it was this statue.”
“What!” he cried, “was not Myron a famous Greek sculptor? The talent
probably was handed down in the family; it was one of his descendants
who executed this statue. Nothing can be more certain.”
“But,” I rejoined, “I see a little hole in the arm. I believe that it
was made to fasten something to--a bracelet, perhaps, which this Myron
presented to Venus as an expiatory offering.--Myron was an unsuccessful
lover; Venus was irritated with him and he appeased her by consecrating
a gold bracelet to her. Observe that _fecit_ is very often used in the
sense of _consecravit_; they are synonymous terms. I could show you
more than one example of what I say if I had Gruter or Orellius at
hand. It would be quite natural for a lover to see Venus in a dream and
to fancy that she ordered him to give a gold bracelet to her statue.
So Myron consecrated a bracelet to her; then the barbarians, or some
sacrilegious thief----”
“Ah! it is easy to see that you have written novels!” cried my host,
giving me his hand to help me descend. “No, monsieur, it is a work of
the school of Myron. Look at the workmanship simply and you will agree.”
Having made it a rule never to contradict outright an obstinate
antiquarian, I hung my head with the air of one fully persuaded, saying:
“It’s an admirable thing.”
“Ah! mon Dieu!” cried M. de Peyrehorade; “still another piece of
vandalism! Somebody must have thrown a stone at my statue!”
He had just discovered a white mark a little above Venus’s breast. I
observed a similar mark across the fingers of the right hand, which I
then supposed had been grazed by the stone; or else that a fragment
of the stone had been broken off by the blow and had bounded against
the hand. I told my host about the insult that I had witnessed, and
the speedy retribution that had followed. He laughed heartily, and,
comparing the apprentice to Diomedes, expressed a hope that, like the
Grecian hero, he might see all his companions transformed into birds.
The breakfast bell interrupted this classical conversation, and I was
again obliged, as on the preceding day, to eat for four. Then M. de
Peyrehorade’s farmers appeared; and while he gave audience to them,
his son took me to see a calèche which he had bought at Toulouse for
his fiancée, and which I admired, it is needless to say. Then I went
with him into the stable, where he kept me half an hour, boasting of
his horses, giving me their genealogies, and telling me of the prizes
they had won at various races in the province. At last he reached the
subject of his future wife, by a natural transition from a gray mare he
intended for her.
“We shall see her to-day,” he said. “I do not know whether you will
think her pretty; but everybody here and at Perpignan considers her
charming. The best thing about her is that she’s very rich. Her aunt
at Prades left her all her property. Oh! I am going to be very happy.”
I was intensely disgusted to see a young man more touched by the dowry
than by the _beaux yeux_ of his betrothed.
“You know something about jewels,” continued M. Alphonse; “what do
you think of this one? This is the ring that I am going to give her
to-morrow.”
As he spoke, he took from the first joint of his little finger a huge
ring with many diamonds, made in the shape of two clasped hands; an
allusion which seemed to me exceedingly poetical. The workmanship was
very old, but I judged that it had been changed somewhat to allow the
diamonds to be set. On the inside of the ring were these words in
Gothic letters: _Sempr’ ab ti_; that is to say, “Always with thee.”
“It is a handsome ring,” I said, “but these diamonds have taken away
something of its character.”
“Oh! it is much handsomer so,” he replied, with a smile. “There are
twelve hundred francs’ worth of diamonds. My mother gave it to me. It
was a very old family ring--of the times of chivalry. It belonged to my
grandmother, who had it from hers. God knows when it was made.”
“The custom in Paris,” I said, “is to give a very simple ring, usually
made of two different metals, as gold and platinum, for instance. See,
that other ring, which you wear on this finger, would be most suitable.
This one, with its diamonds and its hands in relief, is so big that one
could not wear a glove over it.”
“Oh! Madame Alphonse may arrange that as she pleases. I fancy that she
will be very glad to have it all the same. Twelve hundred francs on
one’s finger is very pleasant. This little ring,” he added, glancing
fatuously at the plain one which he wore, “was given me by a woman in
Paris one Mardi Gras. Ah! how I did go it when I was in Paris two
years ago! That’s the place where one enjoys one’s self!”
And he heaved a sigh of regret.
We were to dine that day at Puygarrig with the bride’s parents; we
drove in the calèche to the château, about a league and a half from
Ille. I was presented and made welcome as a friend of the family. I
will say nothing of the dinner or of the conversation which followed
it, and in which I took little part. M. Alphonse, seated beside his
fiancée, said a word in her ear every quarter of an hour. As for her,
she hardly raised her eyes, and whenever her future husband addressed
her she blushed modestly, but replied without embarrassment.
Mademoiselle de Puygarrig was eighteen years of age; her supple and
delicate figure formed a striking contrast to the bony frame of her
athletic fiancé. She was not only lovely, but fascinating. I admired
the perfect naturalness of all her replies; and her good-humoured air,
which however was not exempt from a slight tinge of mischief, reminded
me, in spite of myself, of my host’s Venus. As I made this comparison
mentally, I asked myself whether the superiority in the matter of
beauty which I could not choose but accord to the statue, did not
consist in large measure in her tigress-like expression; for energy,
even in evil passions, always arouses in us a certain surprise and a
sort of involuntary admiration.
“What a pity,” I said to myself as we left Puygarrig, “that such an
attractive person should be rich, and that her dowry should cause her
to be sought in marriage by a man who is unworthy of her!”
On the way back to Ille, finding some difficulty in talking with Madame
de Peyrehorade, whom, however, I thought it only courteous to address
now and then, I exclaimed:
“You are very strong-minded here in Roussillon! To think of having a
wedding on a Friday, madame! We are more superstitious in Paris; no
one would dare to take a wife on that day.”
“Mon Dieu! don’t mention it,” said she; “if it had depended on me,
they certainly would have chosen another day. But Peyrehorade would
have it so, and I had to give way to him. It distresses me, however.
Suppose anything should happen? There must surely be some reason for
the superstition, for why else should every one be afraid of Friday?”
“Friday!” cried her husband; “Friday is Venus’s day! A splendid day
for a wedding! You see, my dear colleague, I think of nothing but my
Venus. On my honour, it was on her account that I chose a Friday.
To-morrow, if you are willing, before the wedding, we will offer a
little sacrifice to her; we will sacrifice two pigeons, if I can find
any incense.”
“For shame, Peyrehorade!” his wife interposed, scandalised to the last
degree. “Burn incense to an idol! That would be an abomination! What
would people in the neighbourhood say about you?”
“At least,” said M. de Peyrehorade, “you will allow me to place a
wreath of roses and lilies on her head:
“‘Manibus date lilia plenis.’
The charter, you see, monsieur, is an empty word; we have no freedom of
worship!”
The order of ceremonies for the following day was thus arranged:
everybody was to be fully dressed and ready at precisely ten o’clock.
After taking a cup of chocolate, we were to drive to Puygarrig. The
civil ceremony would take place at the mayor’s office of that village,
and the religious ceremony in the chapel of the château. Then there
would be a breakfast. After that, we were to pass the time as best we
could until seven o’clock, when we were to return to Ille, to M. de
Peyrehorade’s, where the two families were to sup together. The rest
followed as a matter of course. Being unable to dance, the plan was to
eat as much as possible.
At eight o’clock I was already seated in front of the Venus, pencil
in hand, beginning for the twentieth time to draw the head of the
statue, whose expression I was still absolutely unable to catch.
M. de Peyrehorade hovered about me, gave me advice, and repeated
his Phœnician etymologies; then he arranged some Bengal roses on
the pedestal of the statue, and in a tragi-comic tone addressed
supplications to it for the welfare of the couple who were to live
under his roof. About nine o’clock he returned to the house to dress,
and at the same time M. Alphonse appeared, encased in a tightly fitting
new coat, white gloves, patent-leather shoes, and carved buttons, with
a rose in his buttonhole.
“Will you paint my wife’s portrait?” he asked, leaning over my drawing;
“she is pretty, too.”
At that moment a game of tennis began on the court I have mentioned,
and it immediately attracted M. Alphonse’s attention. And I myself,
being rather tired, and hopeless of being able to reproduce that
diabolical face, soon left my drawing to watch the players. Among them
were several Spanish muleteers who had arrived in the town the night
before. There were Aragonese and Navarrese, almost all wonderfully
skillful at the game. So that the men of Ille, although encouraged by
the presence and counsels of M. Alphonse, were speedily beaten by these
new champions. The native spectators were appalled. M. Alphonse glanced
at his watch. It was only half after nine. His mother’s hair was not
dressed. He no longer hesitated, but took off his coat, asked for a
jacket, and challenged the Spaniards. I watched him, smiling at his
eagerness, and a little surprised.
“I must uphold the honour of the province,” he said to me.
At that moment I considered him really handsome. He was thoroughly
in earnest. His costume, which engrossed him so completely a moment
before, was of no consequence. A few minutes earlier he was afraid to
turn his head for fear of disarranging his cravat. Now, he paid no heed
to his carefully curled locks, or to his beautifully laundered ruff.
And his fiancée?--Faith, I believe that, if it had been necessary, he
would have postponed the wedding. I saw him hastily put on a pair of
sandals, turn back his sleeves, and with an air of confidence take his
place at the head of the beaten side, like Cæsar rallying his legions
at Dyrrhachium. I leaped over the hedge and found a convenient place in
the shade of a plum-tree, where I could see both camps.
Contrary to general expectation, M. Alphonse missed the first ball; to
be sure, it skimmed along the ground, driven with astounding force by
an Aragonese who seemed to be the leader of the Spaniards.
He was a man of some forty years, thin and wiry, about six feet tall;
and his olive skin was almost as dark as the bronze of the Venus.