IT was nearly midnight when Paragot returned to our inn on the outskirts
of the town. He reeled up to the doorstep where I sat in the moonlight
awaiting his return.
"Why aren't you in bed?"
"It was too hot and I couldn't sleep, Master," said I. As a matter of
fact I had been dismally failing to compose a poem on Joanna after the
style of Maître François Villon. Just as youthful dramatists begin with
a five act tragedy, so do youthful poets begin with a double ballade. In
order to eke out the slender stock of rhymes to Joanna, I had to drag in
Indianna which somehow didn't fit. I remember also that she showered her
favours like manna, which was not very original.
Paragot seated himself heavily by my side.
"The moon has a baleful influence, my son," said he in a thick voice.
"And you'll come under it if you sit too long beneath its effulgence.
That's what has happened to me. It makes one talk unmentionable
imbecility."
He just missed concertina-ing the last two words, and looked at me with
an air of solemn triumph.
"It isn't the Man in the Moon's fault, my little Asticot," he continued.
"I've been having a very interesting conversation with him. He is a most
polite fellow. He said if I would go up and join him he would make room
for me. It's all a lie, you know, about his having been sent there for
gathering sticks on a Sunday. He went of his own accord, because it was
the only place where he could be four thousand miles away from any
woman. Think of it, little Asticot of my heart. There are lots of lies
told about the moon, he says. He looks down on the earth and sees all of
us little worms wriggling in and out and over one another and thinking
ourselves so important and he cracks his sides with laughing; and your
bald-headed idiots with spyglasses take the cracks for mountain ranges
and volcanoes. I'm going to live in the moon, away from female feminine
women, and if you are good my son, you shall come too."
I explained to him as delicately as I could that I should regard such a
change rather as a punishment than as a reward. He broke into a laugh.
"You too--with the milk of the feeding-bottle still wet on your lips?
The trail of the petticoat's over us all! What has been putting the sex
feminine into your little turnip-head? Have you fallen in love with
Blanquette?"
"No, Master," said I. "When I fall in love it will be with a very
beautiful lady."
Paragot pointed upwards. "I see another crack in my friend's sides. We
all fall in love with beautiful ladies, my poor Asticot, one after the
other, plunging into destruction with the comic sheep-headedness of the
muttons of Panurge. Another woolly one over? Ho! ho! laughs the man in
the moon, and crack go his sides."
The door opened behind us and the proprietor of the auberge appeared on
the threshold.
"Give me half a litre of red wine, Monsieur Bonnivard," cried Paragot.
"I am the descendant of Maître Jehan Cotard whose throat was so dry that
in this world he was never known to spit."
"Bien, Monsieur," said the _patron_.
Paragot filled his porcelain pipe and lit it with clumsy fingers, and
did not speak till his wine was brought.
"My son, we are leaving Aix the first thing in the morning."
I started up in alarm. We had not finished our engagement at the
Restaurant du Lac.
"I care no more for the Restaurant du Lac than for the rest of the idiot
universe," he declared.
"But Blanquette--it would break her heart."
"All women's hearts can be mended for twopence."
"And men's?"
"They have to go about with them broken, my son, and the pieces clank
and jangle and chink and jingle inside like a crate of broken crockery.
We leave Aix tomorrow."
"But Master," I cried, "there is no necessity."
"What do you mean?"
"She is leaving Aix herself tomorrow."
"She!" he shouted, quite sober for the moment. "Who the devil do you
mean by 'she'?"
I upbraided myself for a vain idiot. Here was I on the point of breaking
my oath sworn on Joanna's hand. I felt ashamed and frightened. He
grasped my shoulder roughly.
"Who do you mean by 'she'? Tell me."
"The Lady of the Lake, Master," said I.
He looked at me for a moment keenly, then relaxed his grip and shrugged
his shoulders with the ghost of a laugh.
"If you see holes in ladders in this perspicacious fashion you'll have
to forsake the paths of art for the higher walks of the Prefecture of
Police."
He puffed silently at his pipe for a few moments and then turning his
head away asked me in a low voice:
"How can you know that she is leaving tomorrow?"
I lied for the first time to Paragot.
"I overheard her say so while I was waiting with the tambourine."
"Sure?"
"Quite sure."
This seemed to satisfy him, to my great relief. How my poor little oath
would have fared under cross examination I don't know. At any rate
honour was saved. Paragot laid aside his pipe and looked wistfully into
the past over his wine bowl.
"The Lady of the Lake," he murmured. "I have called her many things good
and bad in my time, but never that. You are a genius, my little
Asticot."
He finished his wine slowly, holding the bowl in both hands. The moon
smiled at us in a friendly way, sailing high over the mountains. There
entered my head the novel reflection that he was smiling on all men
alike, the good and the bad, the just and the unjust. He was smiling
just the same on Joanna's beaky-nosed husband.
Her husband! Something caught at my heart. Did Paragot know? I debated
anxiously in my mind whether I should impart the disastrous information.
If he knew that she was a married woman he would put foolish thoughts
out of his head, for it was only in Merovingian and such like romantic
epochs that men loved other men's wives. I touched him timidly on the
arm.
"Master,--I overheard something else."
"Did you?"
"She is married, and that is her husband."
"Did he take off his hat?"
"No, Master."
"He is a scaly-headed vulture," said Paragot dreamily.
"He only gave me five sous," said I, relieved and yet disappointed at
finding that my disclosure produced no agitation.
Paragot fumbled in his pocket. "We will not batten on his charity," said
he, and he cast three or four coppers into the silent street. They
crashed, rolled and fell over with little chinks. Narcisse who had
hitherto been asleep trotted out and sniffed at them. Paragot laughed;
then checked himself, and holding up a long-nailed forefinger looked at
me with an air of awful solemnity.
"Listen to the wisdom of Paragot. There is not a woman worth a clean man
that does not marry a scaly-headed vulture."
He murmured an incoherence or two, and there was then a long silence.
Presently his head knocked sharply against the lintel. I roused him.
"Master, it won't be good for us to sit any longer in the moonshine."
He turned a glazed look on me. "Minerva's Owl," said he, "I am quite
aware of it."
He rose and lumbered into the inn, and I, having guided him up the
narrow staircase to his room, descended to my bunk in a corner of the
tiny salon. My sleeping arrangements were always sketchy.
In the morning when I questioned him as to our departure from Aix, he
affected not to understand, and told me that I had been dreaming and
that the moonshine had affected my brain.
"Consider, my son," said he, "that when I returned last night, I found
you fast asleep on the doorstep, and you never woke up till this
morning."
From this I gathered that for the second time he had dosed the book of
his life to my prying though innocent eyes. I also learned the peculiar
difference between Philip drunk and Philip sober.
When our engagement at Aix was at an end, the proprietor of the
restaurant desired to renew it, but Paragot declined. The sick violinist
whom we had replaced had recovered and Paragot had seen him on the quay
looking through the railings with the hungry eyes of a sort of musical
Enoch Arden. Blanquette had some little difficulty in preventing him
from rushing out there and then and delivering his fiddle into the
other's hands. It was necessary to be reasonable, she said.
"_Nom de Dieu!_" he cried, "if I were reasonable I should be lost.
Reason would set me down in Paris with gloves and an umbrella. Reason
would implant a sunny smile on my face above the red ribbon of the
Legion of Honour. It would marry me to the daughter of one of my
_confrères_ at the Académie des Beaux Arts. It would make me procreate
my species, _cré nom de Dieu_! It would make me send you and Asticot and
Narcisse to the devil. If I were reasonable I should not be Paragot. The
man who lives according to reason has the heart of a sewing-machine."
But out of regard for Blanquette he served his time faithfully at the
Restaurant du Lac, and reconciled his conscience with reason by giving
the hungry violinist his own share of the takings. It was only when
Blanquette suggested the further exploitation of Aix that he showed his
Gascon obduracy. If there was one place in the world where the soul
sickened and festered it was Aix-les-Bains. Mammon was King thereof and
Astarte Queen. He was going to fiddle no more for sons of Belial and
daughters of Aholah. He had set out to travel to the Heart of Truth, and
the way thither did not lead through the Inner Shrine of Dagon and
Astaroth. Blanquette did not in the least know what he was talking
about, and I only had a vague glimmer of his meaning. But I see now that
his sensitive nature chafed at the false position. Among the simple
village folk he was a personality, compelling awe and admiration. Among
the idlers of Aix, whom in his loftiness he despised, he was but the
fiddling mountebank to whom any greasy wallower in riches could cast a
disdainful franc.
So once more we took to the high road, and Paragot threw off the
depressing burden of Mammon (Joanna) and became his irresponsible self
again.
I have but confused memories of our fantastic journeyings. Stretches of
long white road and blazing sun. Laughing valleys and corn fields and
white farmsteads among the trees. Now and then a village fête or wedding
at which we played to the enthusiasm of the sober vested peasantry.
Nights passed in barns, deserted byres, on the floor of cottages and
infinitesimal cafés. Hours of idleness by the wayside after the midday
meal, when the four of us sat round the fare provided by Blanquette,
black bread, cheese, charcuterie and the eternal bottle of thin wine. It
was rough, but there was plenty. Paragot saw to that, in spite of
Blanquette's economical endeavours. Sometimes he would sleep while she
and I chatted in low voices so as not to wake him. She told me of her
wanderings with the old man, the hardness of her former life. Often she
had cried herself to sleep for hunger, shivering in wet rags the long
night through. Now it was all changed: she ate too much and was getting
as fat as a pig. Did I not think so? _Voilà!_ In her artless way she
guided my finger into her waistband and then swelled herself out like
the frog in the fable to prove the increase in her girth. She spoke in
awestricken whispers of the Master himself. Save that he was utterly
kind, impulsive, generous, boastful, and according to her untrained ear
a violinist of the first quality, she knew not what manner of man he
was. She had enough imagination to feel vaguely that he had dropped from
vast spaces into her narrow world. But he was a mystery.
Once, the previous summer, as she was resting by the roadside with the
old man, even as we were doing then, an amiable person, she told me,
with easel and stool and paint-box, came along and requested their
permission to make an oil sketch of them. While he painted he conversed,
telling them of Sicily whither he was going and of Paris whence he came.
In a dim way she associated him with Paragot. The two had the same trick
of voice and manner, and held unusual views as to the value of five
francs. But the amiable painter had been a gentleman elegantly dressed,
such as she saw in the large towns driving in cabs and consuming drinks
in expensive cafés, whereas the Master was attired like a peasant and
slept in barns and did everything that the elegantly dressed gentlemen
in cafés did not do. At all events she was penetrated with the
consciousness of a loftier mind and spirit, and she contented herself
even as I did with being his devoted slave.
Often too she spoke of her own ambitions. If she were rich she would
have a little house of her own. Perhaps for company she would like
someone to stay with her. She would keep it so clean, and would mend all
the linen, and do the cooking, and save to go to market, would never
leave it from one year's end to the other. A good sleek cat to curl up
by the fireside would complete her felicity.
"But Blanquette!" I would cry. "The sun and the stars and the high road
and the smell of spring and the fields and the freedom of this life--you
would miss them."
"_J'aime le ménage, moi_," she would reply, shaking her head.
Of all persons I have ever met the least imbued with the vagabond
instinct was the professional vagabond Blanquette de Veau.
Sometimes, instead of sleeping, Paragot would talk to us from the
curious store of his learning, always bent on my education and desirous
too of improving the mind of Blanquette. Sometimes it was Blanquette who
slept, Narcisse huddled up against her, while Paragot and I read our
tattered books, or sketched, or discussed the theme which I had written
overnight as my evening task. It was an odd school; but though I could
not have passed any examination held by the sons of men, I verily
believe I had a wider culture, in the truest sense of the word, than
most youths of my age. I craved it, it is true, and I drank from an
inexhaustible source; but few men have the power of directing that
source so as to supply the soul's need of a boy of sixteen.
Well, well--I suppose Allah Paragot is great and Mahomet Asticot is his
prophet.
* * * * *
We wandered and fiddled and zithered and tambourined through France
till the chills and rains of autumn rendered our vagabondage less merry.
The end of October found us fulfilling a week's engagement at a
brasserie on the outskirts of Tours. Two rooms over a stable and a
manger in an empty stall below were assigned to us; and every night we
crept to our resting places wearied to death by the evening's work.
I have always found performance on a musical instrument exhausting in
itself: the tambourine, for instance, calls for considerable physical
energy; but when the instrument, tambourine, violin or zither, is
practised for several hours in a little stuffy room filled with three or
four dozen obviously unwashed humans, reeking with bad tobacco and worse
absinthe, and pervaded by the ghosts of inferior meals, it becomes more
penitential than the treadmill. A dog's life, said Paragot. Whereat
Narcisse sniffed. It was not at all the life for a philosopher's dog,
said he.
On the morning of the last day of our engagement, Blanquette entered
Paragot's bedchamber as usual, with the bowls of coffee and hunks of
coarse bread that formed our early meal. I had risen from my manger and
crept into Paragot's room for warmth, and while he slept I sat on the
floor by the window reading a book. As for Blanquette she had dressed
and eaten long before and had helped the servant of the café to sweep
and wash the tables and make the coffee for the household. It was not in
her peasant's nature to be abed, which, now I come to think of it, must
be a characteristic of the artistic temperament. Paragot loved it. He
only woke when Blanquette brought him his coffee. Ordinarily he would
remonstrate with picturesque oaths at being aroused from his slumbers,
and having taken the coffee from her hands, would dismiss her with a
laugh. He observed the most rigid propriety in his relations with
Blanquette. But this morning he directed her to remain.
"Sit down, my child; I have to speak to you."
As there was no chair or stool in the uncomfortable room--it had lean-to
walls and bare dirty boards and contained only the bed and a table--she
sat obediently at the foot of the bed next to Narcisse and folded her
hands in her lap. Paragot broke his bread into his coffee and fed
himself with the sops by means of a battered table-spoon. When he had
swallowed two or three mouthfuls he addressed her.
"My good Blanquette, I have been wandering through the world for many
years in search of the springs of Life. I do not find them by scraping
catgut in the Café Brasserie Dubois."
"It would be better to go to Orléans," said Blanquette. "We were at the
Café de la Couronne there last winter and I danced."
"Not even your dancing at Orléans would help me in my quest," said he.
"I don't understand," murmured Blanquette looking at him helplessly.
"Have the kindness," said he, pointing to the table, "to smash that
confounded violin into a thousand pieces."
"_Mon Dieu!_ What is the matter?" cried Blanquette.
"It does not please me."
"I know it is not a good one," said Blanquette. "We will save money
until we can buy a better."
"I would execrate it were it a Stradivarius," said he, his mouth full of
sop. "Asticot," he called, "don't you loathe your tambourine?"
"Yes, Master," I replied from the floor.
"Do you love playing the zither?"
"But no, Maître," said Blanquette.
"Why then," said my master, "should we pursue a career which is equally
abominable to the three of us? We are not slaves, _nom d'un chien_!"
"We must work," said Blanquette, "or what would become of us?"
Paragot finished his coffee and bread and handed the bowl to Blanquette
who nursed it in her lap, while he settled himself snugly beneath the
bedclothes. The autumn rain beat against the dirty little window and the
wind howled through chinks and crevices, filling the room with cold damp
air. I drew the old blanket which I had brought from my manger-bed
closer round my shoulders. Blanquette with her peasant's indifference to
change of temperature sat unconcerned in her thin cotton dress.
"But what will become of us?" she repeated.
"I shall continue to exist," said he.
"But I, what shall I do?"
"You can fill my porcelain pipe, and let me think," replied Paragot.
She rose in her calm obedient way and, having carried out his orders,
reseated herself at the foot of the bed.
"You are the most patient creature alive," said he, "otherwise you would
not be contented to go on playing the zither, which is not a very
exhilarating instrument, my little Blanquette. I am not patient, and I
am not going to play the violin again for a million years after tonight,
and the violin is superior to the zither."
Blanquette regarded him uncomprehending.
"If I were a king I would live in a palace and you should be my
housekeeper. But as I am a ragged vagabond too idle to work, I am
puzzled as to the disposal of you."
She grew very white and rose to her feet.
"I understand. You are driving me away. If it is your desire I will earn
my living alone. _Je ne vous serai pas sur le dos._"
For all her vulgar asseveration that she would not be on his back, her
manner held a dignity which touched him. He held out his hand.
"But I don't drive you away, little idiot," he laughed. "On the
contrary. You are like Asticot and Narcisse. You belong to me. But
Asticot is going to learn how to become an artist, and Narcisse when he
is bored can hunt for fleas. You are a young woman; things must arrange
themselves differently. But how? _Voilà tout!_"
"It is very simple," said Blanquette.
"How, simple?"
"_Dame!_ I can work for you and Asticot."
"The devil!" cried Paragot.
"But yes," she went on earnestly. "I know that men are men, and
sometimes they do not like to work. It happens very often. _Tiens! mon
maître_, I am alone, all that is most alone. You are the only friends I
have in the world, you and Asticot. You have been kinder to me than any
one I have ever met. I put you in my prayers every night. It is a very
little thing that I should work for you, if it fatigues you to scrape
the fiddle in these holes of cabarets. It is true. True as the _bon
Dieu_. I would tear myself into four pieces for you. _Je suis brave
fille_, and I can work. But no!" she cried, looking deep into his eyes.
"You can't refuse. It is not possible."
"Yes, I refuse," said Paragot.
He had turned on his side, face on palm, elbow on pillow, had regarded
her sternly as she spoke. I saw that he was very angry.
"For what do you take me, little imbecile? Do you know that you insult
me? I to be supported by a woman? _Nom de Dieu de Dieu!_"
His ire blazed up suddenly. He cursed, scolded, boasted all in a breath.
Blanquette looked at him terrified. She could not understand. Great
tears rolled down her cheeks.
"But I have made you angry," she wailed.
The scornful spurning of her devotion hurt her less than the sense of
having caused his wrath. The primitive savage feminine is not
complicated by over-subtlety of feeling. As soon as she could speak she
broke into repentant protestation. She had not meant to anger him. She
had spoken from her heart. She was so ignorant. She would tear herself
into four pieces for him. She was _brave fille_. She was alone and he
was her only friend. He must forgive her.
I, feeling monstrously tearful, jumped to my feet.
"Yes, Master, forgive her."
He burst out laughing. "Oh what three beautiful fools we are! Blanquette
to think of supporting two hulking men, I to be angry, and Asticot to
plead tragically as if I were a tyrant about to cut off her head. My
little Blanquette, you have touched my heart, and who touches the heart
of Paragot can eat Paragot's legs and liver if he is hungry and drink
his blood if he is thirsty. I will remember it all my life, and if you
will bring me my déjeuner I will stay in bed till this afternoon."
"Then I am not to leave you?" she asked, somewhat bewildered.
"Good heavens no!" he cried. "Because I am sick of fiddling do you
suppose I am going to send you adrift? We shall settle down for the
winter. Some capital. Which one would you like, Asticot?"
"Buda-Pesth," said I at random.
"Very well," said Paragot, "the day after tomorrow we start for
Buda-Pesth. Now let me go to sleep."
We took exactly two months getting to Buda-Pesth. The only incident of
our journey which I clearly remember is a week's sojourn at the farm of
La Haye near Chartres where we had carted manure, and where we renewed
our acquaintance with Monsieur and Madame Dubosc.