WHEN _Funiculi Funiculà_ was over he sat on the wooden chair provided
for him and wiped his face. His hands shook. He beckoned me to come
near.
"Do I look too grotesque a mountebank Tomfool?" he asked in English.
He was wearing the pearl-buttoned velveteen suit whose magnificence he
had enhanced by newly purchased steel-buckled shoes and black stockings,
and to a less bigoted worshipper than me I suppose he must have looked a
mountebank Tomfool; but I only gaped at his question.
"Do I?" he repeated almost fiercely.
"You look beautiful, Master," said I.
He passed his lean fingers wearily over his eyes. "Pardon, my little
Asticot. There are things in Heaven and Earth etc. Myriads of Mysteries.
As many in the heart of man as in your Wonder Houses yonder. Get me some
brandy. Three _petits verres_ poured into a tumbler."
I went off to the restaurant and obtained the drink. When I returned
they were playing the mocking chorus that runs through "Orphée aux
Enfers."
The number over, Paragot drained the glass at one gulp. The company
broke into unusual applause. Some one shouted "_Bis!_"
"Get me some more," said he. "Do you know why I chose that tune?"
"No, Master."
"Because twenty devils entered into me and played leapfrog over one
another."
"I am very fond of that little tune. It is so gay," said Blanquette, as
if she were introducing a fresh topic of conversation.
"I detest it," said my master.
The maître d'hôtel came up and asked that the chorus should be played
again as an encore. I fetched Paragot's drink and having set it down
beside him on the platform, went round with my tambourine. When I
reached the table at which the four new comers were seated I found that
they spoke English. They were a young man in a straw hat, a young girl,
a forbidding looking man of forty with a beaky nose, and the loveliest
lady I have ever seen in my life. She had the complexion of a sea-shell.
Her eyes were the blue of glaciers, and they shone cold and steadfast;
but her lips were kind. Her black hair under the large white tulle hat
had the rare bluish tinge, looking as if cigarette smoke had been blown
through it. Small and exquisitely made she sat the princess of my boyish
dreams.
"I call it a ripping tune," cried the young girl.
"I hate it more than any other tune in the world," said the lovely lady
with a shiver.
Her voice was like a peal of bells or running water or whatever silvery
sounding things you will.
"It is very absurd to have such prejudices," said the beaky-nosed man of
forty. He spoke like a Frenchman, and like a very disagreeable
Frenchman. How dared he address my princess in that tone?
I extended my tambourine.
"_Qu'est-ce que vous désirez?_" asked the straw-hatted young man in an
accent as Britannic as the main deck of the Bellerophon.
"Anything that the ladies will kindly give me, Sir," I replied in our
native tongue.
"Hullo! English? What are you knocking about France for?"
I glanced at the lovely lady. She was crumbling bread and not taking the
least notice of me. I was piqued.
"My Master thinks it the best way to teach me philosophy, Sir," said I
politely. If I had not learned much philosophy from him I had at least
learned politeness. The lady looked up with a smile. The young girl
exclaimed that either my remark or myself--I forget which--was ripping.
I paid little heed to her. I have always disregarded the people of one
adjective; they seem poverty-stricken to one who has sunned himself in
the wealth of Paragot's epithets.
"Your master is the gentleman in the pearl buttons?" enquired the young
man.
"Yes, Sir."
"What's his name?"
"Berzélius Nibbidard Paragot, Sir," said I so proudly that the lovely
princess laughed.
"I must look at him," she said turning round in her chair.
I too glanced at the familiar group on the platform: Laripet with his
back to us, working his arms and shoulders at the piano; Blanquette
seated on the other side, thrumming away at the zither on her lap;
Narcisse lolling his tongue in that cynical grin of his; and Paragot
fiddling in front, like a fiddler possessed, his clear eyes fixed on the
lady in a most uncanny stare.
When she turned again, she shivered once more. She did not look up but
went on crumbling bread. It shocked me to notice that the pink of her
sea-shell face had gone and that her fingers trembled. Then a wild
conjecture danced through my brain and I forgot my tambourine.
"You still here?" laughed the young man. "What are you waiting for?"
I started. "I beg your pardon, Sir," said I moving away. He laughed and
called me back.
"Here are two francs to buy a philosophy book."
"And here are five sous not to come and worry us again," said the older
man in French. While I was wondering why they tolerated such a
disagreeable man in the party my beautiful lady's fingers flew to the
gilt chain purse by her side. "And here are five francs because you are
English!" she exclaimed; and as she held me for a second with her eyes I
saw in them infinite depths of sadness and longing.
When I returned to the platform the piece had just been brought to an
end. Paragot poured his second brandy down his throat and sat with his
head in his hands. I shed, as usual, my takings into Blanquette's lap.
On seeing the five-franc piece her eyes equalled it in size.
"_Tiens! Cent sous!_ who gave it you?"
I explained. The most beautiful lady in the world. Paragot raised his
head and looked at me haggardly.
"Why did she give you five francs?"
"Because I was English, she said."
"Did she talk to you?"
"Yes, Master, and I have never heard anyone speak so beautifully."
Paragot made no answer, but began to tune his violin.
During the next interval my quartette left the restaurant. I ran to the
gate, and bowed as they passed by.
The young fellow gave me a friendly nod, but the lovely lady swept out
cold-eyed, looking neither to right nor left. A large two-horsed cab
with a gay awning awaited them on the quay. As my lady entered, her
skirt uplifted ever so little disclosed the most delicately shaped, tiny
foot that has ever been attached to woman, and then I felt sure.
"Those little feet so adored." The haunting phrase leaped to my brain
and I stood staring at the departing carriage athrill with excitement.
It was Joanna--lovelier than I had pictured her in my Lotus Club dreams,
more gracious than Ingonde or Chlodoswinde or any of the _belles dames
du temps jadis_ whose ballade by Maître François Villon my master had
but lately made me learn by heart and whose names were so many "sweet
symphonies." It was Joanna, "pure and ravishing as an April dawn";
Joanna beloved of Paragot in those elusive days when I could not picture
him, before he smashed his furniture with a crusader's mace and started
on his wanderings under the guidance of Henri Quatre. It was Joanna whom
he had an agonized desire to see in Madrid and whose silvery English
voice he had longed to hear. And I, Asticot, had seen her and had heard
her silvery voice. Among boys assuredly I was the most blessed.
But Paragot seemed that day of all men the most miserable, and I more
dog-like than Narcisse in my sympathy with his moods, almost lifted up
my nose and whined for woe. All my thrill died away. I felt guilty,
oddly ashamed of myself. I took a pessimistic view of life. What,
thought I, are Joannas sent into the world for, save to play havoc with
men's happiness? Maître François Villon was quite right. Samson,
Sardanapalus, David, Maître François himself, all came to grief over
Joannas. "_Bien heureux qui rien n'y a._" Happy is he who has nothing to
do with 'em.
As soon as we were free Paragot left us, and went off by himself;
whereupon I, mimetic as an ape, rejected the humble Blanquette's
invitation to take a walk with her, and strolled moodily into the town
with Narcisse at my heels. A dog fight or two and a Byronic talk with a
little towheaded flower-seller who gave me a dusty bunch of cyclamen--as
a _porte-bonheur_ she said prettily--whiled away the time until the
people began to drift out of the Wonder Houses to dress for dinner. I
lingered at the gates, going from one to the other, in the unavowed
hope, little idiot that I was, of seeing Joanna. At last, at the main
entrance to the Villa des Fleurs I caught sight of Paragot. He had
changed from the velveteens into his vagabond clothes, and was evidently
on the same errand as myself. I did not venture near, respecting his
desire for solitude, but lounged at the corner of the main street and
the road leading down to the Villa, playing with Narcisse and longing
for something to happen. You see it is not given every day to an
impressionable youngster, his brain stuffed with poetry, pictures, and
such like delusive visionary things, to tumble head first into the
romance of the actual world. For the moment the romance was at a
standstill. I longed for a further chapter. It was a pity, I reflected,
that we did not live in Merovingian times. Then Paragot and I could have
lain in wait with our horses--everyone had horses in knightly days--and
when Joanna came near, we should have killed the beaky-nosed man, and
Paragot would have swung her on his saddlebow and we should have
galloped away to his castle in the next kingdom, where Paragot, and
Joanna and I, with Blanquette to be tirewoman to our princess, would
have lived happy ever after. What I expected to get for myself, heaven
knows: it did not strike me that perennial contemplation of another's
bliss might wear out the stoutest altruism.
Then suddenly out of the door of the Villa came two ladies, one of whom
I recognised as Joanna and the other as the young girl of the luncheon
party. The façade of the villa stretches across the road and is about a
hundred yards from the corner. I saw Paragot stand rigid, and make no
sign of recognition as she passed him by, with her head up, like a proud
queen. I felt an odd pain at my heart. Why was she so cruel? Her eyes
were of the blue of glaciers, but all the rest of her face had seemed
tender and kind. I was aware, in a general way, that radiantly attired
ladies do not shake hands with ragamuffins in public places, but you
must please to remember that I no more considered Paragot a ragamuffin
than I thought Blanquette the equal of Joanna. Paragot to me was the
peer of kings.
I turned away sorrowing and sauntered up the little street that leads to
the Etablissement des Bains. I was disappointed in Joanna and did not
want to see her again. She should be punished for her cruelty. I sat
down on one of the benches on the Place, and looking at the Mairie clock
stolidly thought of supper. They made famous onion soup at the little
auberge where we lodged, and Paragot, himself a connoisseur, had
pronounced their _tripes à la mode de Caen_ superior to anything that
Mrs. Housekeeper had executed for the Lotus Club. Besides I was getting
hungry. With youth a full heart rarely compensates an empty stomach, and
now even my heart was growing empty.
Presently who should emerge into the Place but the two ladies. I sat on
my bench and watched them cross. They were evidently going up the hill
to one of the hotels behind the Etablissement. In her white dress and
white tulle hat coloured by three great roses, with her beautiful hair
and sea-shell face and swaying supple figure, she looked the incarnation
of all that was worshipful in woman. I could have knelt and prayed to
her. Why was she so cruel to my master? I regarded her with mingled
reproach and adoration. But the mixed feeling gave place to one of
amazement when I saw her separate from her companion, who continued her
way up the hill, and strike straight across the Place in my direction.
_She was coming to me._
I rose, took off my ragged hat and twirled it in my fingers, which was
the way that Paragot had taught me to be polite in France.
"I want to speak to you," she said quickly. "You are the boy with the
tambourine, aren't you?"
"Yes, Mademoiselle."
Paragot had threatened to shoot me if I called any young lady "Miss."
"What is the name of the--the gentleman who played the violin?"
"Berzélius Nibbidard Paragot."
"That is not his real name?"
"No, Mademoiselle," said I.
"What is it?"
"I don't know," said I. "This is a new name; he has only had it a week."
"How long have you known him?"
"A long, long time, Mademoiselle. He adopted me when I was quite small."
"You are not very big now," she said with a smile.
"I am nearly sixteen," said I proudly.
To herself she murmured, "I don't think I can be mistaken."
In a different tone she continued, "You spoke some nonsense about his
being your master and teaching you philosophy."
"It wasn't nonsense," I replied stoutly. "He teaches me everything. He
teaches me history and Shakespeare and François Villon, and painting and
Schopenhauer and the tambourine."
Her pretty lips pouted in a little gasp of astonishment as she leaned on
her long parasol and looked at me.
"You are the oddest little freak I have come across for a long time."
I smiled happily. She could have called me anything opprobrious in that
silvery voice of hers and I should have smiled. Now I come to think of
it "smile" is the wrong word. The man smiles, the boy grins. I grinned
happily.
"Has your master always played the violin in orchestras like this?"
"Oh, no, Mademoiselle," said I. "Of course not. He only began four days
ago."
"What was his employment till then?"
"Why, none," said I.
It seemed absurd for Paragot to have employment like a man behind a
shop-counter. I remembered acquaintances of my mother's who were "out of
employment" and their unspeakable vileness. Then, echo of Paragot (for
what else could I be?), I added: "We just walk about Europe for the sake
of my education. My master said I was to learn Life from the Book of the
Universe."
The lovely lady sat down.
"I believe you are nothing more nor less than an amazing little parrot.
I'm sure you speak exactly like your master."
"Oh, no, Mademoiselle," said I modestly, "I wish I could. There is no
one who can talk like him in all the world."
She gave me a long, steady, half-frightened look out of her blue eyes. I
know now that I had struck a chord of memory; that I had established
beyond question in her mind Paragot's identity with the man who had
loved her in days past; that old things sweet and terrifying surged
within her heart. Even then, holding their secret, I saw that she had
recognised Paragot.
"You must think me a very inquisitive lady," she said, with a forced
smile; "but you must forgive me. What you said this morning about your
master teaching you philosophy interested me greatly. One thing I should
like to know," and she dug at the gravel with the point of her parasol,
"and that I hardly like to ask. Is he--are you--very poor?"
"Poor?" It was a totally new idea. "Why, no, Mademoiselle; he has a
great bank in London which sends him bank-notes whenever he wants them.
I once went with him. He has heaps of money."
The lady rose. "So this going about as a mountebank is only a
masquerade," she said, with a touch of scorn.
"He did it to help Blanquette," said I.
"Blanquette?"
"The girl who plays the zither. My master has adopted her too."
"Oh, has he?" said the lady, the blue of her eyes becoming frosty again.
I dimly perceived that in mentioning Blanquette I had been indiscreet.
In what respect, I know not. I had intended my remark to be a tribute to
Paragot's wide-heartedness. She took it as if I had told her of a crime.
Women, even the loveliest of dream Joannas, are a mystifying race.
"_Bien heureux qui rien n'y a._"
"Goodbye," she said.
"Goodbye, Mademoiselle."
She must have read mortification in my face, for she turned after a step
or two, and said more kindly.
"You're not responsible, anyway." Then she paused, as if hesitating,
while I stood hat in hand, as I had done during our conversation.
"I wonder if I can trust you."
She took her purse from the bag hanging at her waist and drew out a gold
piece.
"I will give you this if you promise not to tell your Master that you
have spoken to me this afternoon."
I shrank back. Remember I had been for three years in the hourly
companionship of a man of lofty soul for all his waywardness, and he had
modelled me like wax to his liking. The gold piece was tempting. I had
never owned a gold piece in my life--and all the frost had melted from
Joanna's eyes. But I felt I should be dishonored in taking money.
"I promise without that," I said.
She put the coin back in her purse and held out her delicately gloved
hand.
"Promise with this, then," she said.
And then I knew for the first time what an exquisite sensitive thing is
a sweet, high-bred lady. Only such a one could have performed that act
of grace. She converted me into a besotted little imbecile weltering in
bliss. I would have pledged my soul's welfare to execute any
phantasmagoric behest she had chosen to ordain.
"I am leaving Aix tomorrow morning--but if you are ever in any
trouble--by the way what is your name?"
"Asticot Pradel," said I, reflecting for the first time that though
Polydore Pradel had perished and Berzélius Nibbidard Paragot reigned in
his stead, my own borrowed or invented name remained unaltered. Augustus
Smith lingered in my memory as a vague, mythical creature of no account.
Joanna smiled. "You are a little masquerader too. Well--if you are ever
in any trouble, and I can help you--remember the Comtesse de Verneuil, 7
Avenue de Messine, Paris."
This offer of friendship took my breath away. I grinned stupidly at her.
I was also puzzled.
"What is the matter?" she laughed.
"The Comtesse de Verneuil?--but you are English," I stammered.
"Yes. But my husband is French. He is the Comte de Verneuil. Remember 7
Avenue de Messine."
She nodded graciously and turned away leaving a stupefied Asticot
twirling his hat. Her husband! And I had been calling her Mademoiselle
all the time! And I had been weaving fairy tales of our riding off with
her to Paragot's castle! She was married. Her husband was the Comte de
Verneuil! Worse than that. Her husband was the disagreeable beaky-nosed
man who gave me five sous to go away.
A sense of desolation, disaster, disillusionment overwhelmed me. I sat
on the bench and burst out crying and Narcisse jumped up and licked my
face.