THE WORLD THAT CAME TO DIVES.
It was a world of many mixtures, of various ranks and habits of life
that found its way under the old archway, and sat down at the table
d'hôte breakfasts and dinners. Madame and her gifted son were far too
clever to attempt to play the mistaken part of Providence; there was no
pointed assortment made of the sheep and the goats; at least, not in a
way to suggest the most remote intention of any such separation being
premeditated. Such separation as there was came about in the most
natural and in the pleasantest possible fashion. When Petitjean, the
pedler, and his wife drove in under the Gothic sign, the huge lumbering
vehicle was as quickly surrounded as when any of the neighboring
notabilities arrived in emblazoned chariots. Madame was the first to
waddle forward, nodding up toward the open hood as, with a short,
brisk, business "_Bonjour_," she welcomed the head of Petitjean and his
sharp-eyed spouse looking over the aprons.
The pedler is always popular with his world and Dives knew Petitjean to
be as honest as a pedler can ever hope to be in a world where small
pence are only made large by some one being sacrificed on the altar of
duplicity. Therefore it was that Petitjean's hearse-like cart was
always a welcome visitor;--one could at least be as sure of a just
return for one's money in trading with a pedler as from any other
source in this thieving world. In the end, one always got something
else besides the bargain to carry away with one. For Petitjean knew all
the gossip of the province; after dinner, when the stiff cider was
working in his veins, he would be certain to tell all one wanted to
know. Even Madame Le Mois, whose days were too busy in summer to
include the daily reading of her newspaper, had grown dependent, in
these her later years, on such sources of information as the peddler's
garrulous tongue supplied. In the end she had found his talent for
fiction quite as reliable as that of the journalists, besides being
infinitely more entertaining, abounding in personalities which were the
more racy, as the pedler felt himself to be exempt from that curse of
responsibility, which, in French journalism, is so often a barrier to
the full play of one's talent.
Therefore it was that Petitjean and his bright-eyed spouse were always
made welcome at Dives.
"It goes well, Madame Jean? Ah, there you are. Well, _hein_, also? It
is long since we saw you."
"Ah, madame, centuries, it is centuries since we were here. But what
will you have? with the bad season, the rains, the banks failing,
the--but you, madame, are well? And Monsieur Paul?" "_Ah, ça va tout
doucement_ Paul is well, the good God be praised, but I--I perish day
by day" At which the entire court-yard was certain to burst into
laughing protest. For the whole household of Guillaume le Conquérant
was quite sure to be assembled about the great wheels of the pedler's
wagon--only to look, not to buy, not yet. Petitjean, and his wife had
not dined yet, and a pedler's hunger is something to be respected--one
made money by waiting for the hour of digestion. The little crowd of
maids, hostlers, cooks, and scullery wenches, were only here to whet
their appetite, and to greet Petitjean. Nitouche, the head _chef_, put
a little extra garlic in his sauces that day. But in spite of this
compliment to their palate, the pedler and his wife dined in the
smaller room off the kitchen;--Madame was desolated, but the
_salle-à-manger_ was crowded just now. One was really suffocated in
there these days! Therefore it was that the two ate the herbaceous
sauces with an extra relish, as those conscious of having a larger
space for the play of vagrant elbows than their less fortunate
brethren. The gossip and trading came later. On the edge of the fading
daylight there was still time to see; the chosen articles could easily
be taken into the brightly lit kitchen to be passed before the lamps.
After the buying and bargaining came the talking. All the household
could find time to spend the evening on the old benches; these latter
lined the sidewalk just beneath the low kitchen casements. They had
been here for many a long year.
What a history of Dives these old benches could have told! What
troopers, and beggars, and cowled monks, and wayfarers had sat
there!--each sitter helping to wear away the wood till it had come to
have the depressions of a drinking-trough. Night after night in the
long centuries, as the darkness fell upon the hamlet--what tales and
confidences, and what murmured anguish of remorse, what cries for help,
what gay talk and light song must have welled up into the dome of sky!
Once, as we sat within the court-yard, under the stars, a young voice
sang out. It was so still and quiet every word the youth phrased was as
clear as his fresh young voice.
"_Tiens_--it is Mathieu--he is singing _Les Oreillers!_" cried Monsieur
Paul, with an accent of pride in his own tone.
The young voice sang on:
"_J'arrive en ce pays
De Basse Normandie,
Vous dire une chanson,
S'il plaît la compagnie!_"
"It is an old Norman bridal song," Monsieur Paul went on, lowering his
voice. "One I taught a lot of young boys and lads last winter--for a
wedding held here--in the inn."
Still the fresh notes filled the air:
"_Les amours sont partis
Dans un bateau de verre;
Le bateau a cassé
a cassé--
Les amours sont parterre._"
"How the old women laughed--and cried--at once! It was years since they
had heard it--the old song. And when these boys--their sons and
grandsons--sang it, and I had trained them well--they wept for pure
delight."
Again the song went on:
"_Ouvrez la porte, ouvrez!
Nouvelle mariée,
Car si vous ne l'ouvrez
Vous serez accusée_"
"I dressed all the young girls in old costumes," our friend continued,
still in a whisper. "I ransacked all the old chests and closets about
here. I got the ladies of the chateaux near by to aid me; they were so
interested that many came down from Paris to see the wedding. It was a
pretty sight, each in a different dress! Every century since the
thirteenth was represented."
"_Attendez à demain,
La fraîche matinée,
Quand mon oiseau privé
Aura pris sa volée!_"
Clear, strong, free rang the young tenor's voice--and then it broke
into "_Comment--tu dis que Claire est là?_" whereat Monsieur Paul
smiled.
"That will be the next wedding--what shall I devise for that? That will
also be the ending of a long lawsuit. But he should have sung the last
verse--the prettiest of all. Mathieu!" Paul lifted his voice, calling
into the dark.
_"Oui, Monsieur Paul!"_
"Sing us the last verse--"
"_Dans ce jardin du Roi
A pris sa reposée,
Cueillant le romarin
La--vande--bouton--née--_"
The last notes were but faint vibrations, coming from a lengthening
distance.
"Ah!" and Monsieur Paul breathed a sigh. "They don't care about
singing. They are doing it all the time they are so much in love. The
fathers' lawsuit ended only last month. They've waited three
years--happy Claire--happy Mathieu!"