BY SEA TO THE POULARD INN.
We were being tossed in the air like so many balls. A Normandy _char a
banc_ was proving itself no respecter of nice distinctions in
conditions in life. It phlipped, dashed, and rolled us about with no
more concern than if it were taking us to market to be sold by the
pound. For we were on the _grève_. The promised rivers were before us.
So was the Mont, spectral no longer, but nearing with every plunge
forward of our sturdy young Percheron. Locomotion through any new or
untried medium is certain to bring with the experiment a dash of
elation. Now, driving through water appears to be no longer the fashion
in our fastidious century; someone might get a wetting, possibly, has
been the conclusion of the prudent. And thus a very innocent and
exciting bit of fun has been gradually relegated among the lost arts of
pleasure.
We were taking water as we had never taken it before, and liking the
method. We were as wet as ducks, but what cared we? We were being
deluged with spray; the spume of the sea was spurting in our faces with
the force of a strong wet breeze, and still we liked it. Besides,
driving thus into the white foam of the waters, over the sand ridges,
across the downs, into the wide plains of wet mud, this was the old
classical way of going up to the Mont. Surely, what had been found good
enough as a pathway for kings and saints and pilgrims should be good
enough for two lovers of old-time methods. The dike yonder was built
for those who believe in the devil of haste, and for those who also
serve him faithfully.
Someone else besides ourselves was enjoying our drive through the
waves. Our gay young Normandy driver seemed to find an exquisite relish
in the spectacle of our wet faces and unstable figures. He could not
keep his eyes off us; they fairly glistened with the dew of his
enjoyment. Two ladies pitched and rolled about, exactly as if they were
peasants, and laughing as if they were children--this was a spectacle
and a keen appreciation of a joke that brought joy to a rustic blouse.
"Ah--ah! mesdames!" he cried, exultingly, between the gasps of his own
laughter, as he tossed his own fine head in the air, sitting on his
rude bench, covered with sheepskin, as if it had been an armchair. "Ah,
ah! mesdames, you didn't expect this, _hein_? You hoped for a landau,
and feathers and cushions, perhaps? But soft feathers and springs are
not for the _grève_."
"Is it dangerous? are there deep holes?"
"Oh, the holes, they are as nothing. It is the quicksands we fear. But
it is only a little danger, and danger makes the charm of travel, is it
not so, my ladies? Adventure, that is what one travels for! _Hui!_ Fend
l'Air!"
It had occurred to us before that we had been uncommonly lucky in our
coachmen, as well as in the names of the horses, that had brightened
our journey. In spite of Juliet, whose disdain of the virtue or the
charm that lies in a name is no more worthy of respect than is any
lover's opinion when in the full-orbed foolishness of his lunacy, I
believe names to be a very effective adjunct to life's scenic setting.
Most of the horses we had had along these Normandy high-roads, had
answered to names that had helped to italicize the features of the
country. Could Poulette, the sturdy little mare, with whom only an hour
ago we had parted forever, have been given a better sobriquet by which
to have identified for us the fat landscape? And now here was Fend
l'Air proving good his talent for cleaving through space, whatever of
land or sea lay in his path.
"And he merits his name, my lady," his driver announced with grave
pride, as he looked at the huge haunches with a loving eye. "He can go,
oh, but as the wind! It is he who makes of the crossing but as if it
were nothing!"
The crossing! That was the key-note of the way the coast spoke of the
Mont. The rock out yonder was a country apart, a bit of land or stone
the shore claimed not, had no part in, felt to be as remote as if it
were a foreign province. At Genets the village spoke of the Mont as one
talks of a distant land. Even the journey over the sands was looked
upon with a certain seriousness. A starting forth was the signal for
the village to assemble about the _char-à-banc's_ wheels. Quite a large
company for a small village to muster was grouped about our own
vehicle, to look on gravely as we mounted to the rude seat within. The
villagers gave us their "_bonjours_" with as much fervor as if we were
starting forth on a sea voyage.
"You will have a good crossing!" cackled one of the old men, nodding
toward the peak in the sky.
"The sands may be wet, but they are firm already!" added a huge
peasant--the fattest man in all the canton, whisperingly confided the
landlady, as one proud of possessing a village curiosity.
"_Hui_, Fend l'Air! _attention, toi!_" Fend l'Air tossed his fine mane,
and struck out with a will over the cobbles. But his driver was only
posing for the assembled village. He was in no real haste; there was a
fresh voice singing yonder in his mother's tavern; the sentimentalist
in him was on edge to hear the end of the song.
"Do you hear that, mesdames? There's no such singing as that out of
Paris. One must go to a café--"
"_Allons, toi!_" shrieked his mother's voice, as her face darkened. "Do
you think these ladies want to spend the night on the _grève_?
_Depêches-toi, vaurien!_" And she gave the wheels a shove with her
strong hand, whereat all the village laughed. But the good-for-nothing
son made no haste as the song went on--
"_Le bon vin me fait dormir,
L'amour me réveil--_"
He continued to cock his head on one side and to let his eyes dream a
bit.
Within, a group of peasants was gathered about the inn table. There
were some young girls seated among the blouses; one of them, for the
hour that we had sat waiting for Fend l'Air to be captured and
harnessed, had been singing songs of questionable taste in a voice of
such contralto sweetness as to have touched the heart of a bishop.
"Some young girls from the factories at Avranches, mesdames, who come
here Sundays to get a bit of fresh air; _Dieu soit si elles en ont
besoin, pauvres enfants!_" was the landlady's charitable explanation.
It appeared to us that the young ladies from Avranches were more in
need of a moral than a climatic change. But then, we also charitably
reflected, it makes all the difference in the world, in these nice
questions of taste and morality, whether one has had as an inheritance
a past of Francis I. and a Rabelais, or of Calvin and a Puritan
conscience.
The geese on the green downs, just below the village, had clearly never
even heard of Calvin; they were luxuriating in a series of plunges into
the deep pools in a way to prove complete ignorance of nice sabbatarian
laws.
With our first toss upon the downs, a world of new and fresh
experiences began. Genets was quite right; the Mont over yonder was
another country; even at the very beginning of the journey we learned
so much. This breeze blowing in from the sea, that had swept the
ramparts of the famous rock, was a double extract of the sea essence;
it had all the salt of the sea and the aroma of firs and wild flowers;
its lips had not kissed a garden in high air without the perfume
lingering, if only to betray them. Even this strip of meadow marsh had
a character peculiar to itself; half of it belonged to earth and half
to the sea. You might have thought it an inland pasture, with its herds
of cattle, its flocks of sheep, and its colonies of geese--patrolled by
ragged urchins. But behold, somewhere out yonder the pasture was lost
in high sea-waves; ships with bulging sails replaced the curve of the
cattle's sides, and instead of bending necks of sheep, there were
seagulls swooping down upon the foamy waves.
As the incarnation of this dual life of sea and land, the rock stands.
It also is both of the sea and the land. Its feet are of the
waters--rocks and stones the sea-waves have used as playthings these
millions of years. But earth regains possession as the rocks pile
themselves into a mountain. Even from this distance, one can see the
moving arms of great trees, the masses of yellow flower-tips that dye
the sides of the stony hill, and the strips of green grass here and
there. So much has nature done for this wonderful pyramid in the sea.
Then man came and fashioned it to his liking. He piled the stones at
its base into titanic walls; he carved about its sides the rounded
breasts of bastions; he piled higher and higher up the dizzy heights a
medley of palaces, convents, abbeys, cloisters, to lay at the very top
the fitting crown of all, a jewelled Norman-Gothic cathedral.
Earth and man have thrown their gauntlet down to the sea--this rock is
theirs, they cry to the waves and the might of oceans. And the sea
laughs--as strong men laugh when boys are angry or insistent. She has
let them build and toil, and pray and fight; it is all one to her what
is done on the rock--whether men carve its stones into lace, or rot and
die in its dungeons; it is all the same to her whether each spring the
daffodils creep up within the crevices and the irises nod to them from
the gardens.
It is all one to her. For twice a day she recaptures the Mont. She
encircles it with the strong arm of her tides; with the might of her
waters she makes it once more a thing of the sea.
The tide was rising now.
The fringe of the downs had dabbled in the shoals till they had become
one. We had left behind the last of the shepherd lads, come out to the
edge of the land to search for a wandering kid. We were all at once
plunging into high water. Our road was sunk out of sight; we were
driving through waves as high as our cart-wheels. Fend l'Air was
shivering; he was as a-tremble as a woman. The height of the rivers was
not to his liking.
"_Sacré fainéant!_" yelled his owner, treating the tremor to a mighty
crack of the whip.
"Is he afraid?"
"Yes--when the water is as high as that, he is always afraid. Ah, there
he is--_diantre_, but he took his time!" he growled, but the growl was
set in the key of relief. He was pointing toward a figure that was
leaping toward us through the water. "It is the guide!" he added, in
explanation.
The guide was at Fend l'Air's shoulder. Very little of him was above
water, but that little was as brown as an Egyptian. He was puffing and
blowing like unto a porpoise. In one hand he held a huge pitchfork--the
trident of this watery Mercury.
"Shall I conduct you?" he asked, dipping the trident as if in salute,
into the water, as he still puffed and gasped.
"If you please," as gravely responded our driver. For though up to our
cart-wheels and breasts in deep water, the formalities were not to be
dispensed with, you understand. The guide placed himself at once in
front of Fend l'Air, whose shivers as quickly disappeared.
"You see, mesdames--the guide gives him courage--and he now knows no
fear," cried out with pride our whip on the outer bench. "And what
news, Victor--is there any?" It was of the Mont he was asking. And the
guide replied, taking an extra plunge into deep water:
"Oh, not much. There's to be a wedding tomorrow and a pilgrimage the
next day. Madame Poulard has only a handful as yet. _Ces dames_ descend
doubtless at Madame Poulard's--_celle qui fait les omelettes?_" The
ladies were ignorant as yet of the accomplishments of the said
landlady; they had only heard of her beauty.
"_C'est elle_," gravely chorussed the guide and the driver, both
nodding their heads as their eyes met. "_Fameuse, sa beauté, comme son
omelette_," as gravely added our driver.
The beauty of this lady and the fame of her omelette were very
sobering, apparently, in their effects on the mind; for neither guide
nor driver had another word to say.
Still the guide plunged into the rivers, and Fend l'Air followed him.
Our cart still pitched and tossed--we were still rocked about in our
rough cradle. But the sun, now freed from the banks of clouds, was
lighting our way with a great and sudden glory. And for the rest of our
watery journey we were conscious only of that lighting. Behind the
Mont, lay a vast sea of saffron. But it was in the sky; against it the
great rock was as black as if the night were upon it. Here and there,
through the curve of a flying buttress, or the apertures of a pierced
parapet, gay bits of this yellow world were caught and framed. The sea
lay beneath like a quiet carpet; and over this carpet ships and sloops
swam with easy gliding motion, with sails and cordage dipped in gold.
The smaller craft, moored close to shore, seemed transfigured as in a
fog of gold. And nearer still were the brown walls of the Mont making a
great shadow, and in the shadow the waters were as black as the skin of
an African. In the shoals there were lovely masses of turquoise and
palest green; for here and there a cloudlet passed, to mirror their
complexions in the translucent pools.
But Fend l'Air's hoofs had struck a familiar note. His iron shoes were
clicking along the macadam of the dike. There was a rapid dashing
beneath the great walls; a sudden night of darkness as we plunged
through an open archway into a narrow village street; a confused
impression of houses built into side-walls; of machicolated gateways;
of rocks and roof-tops tumbling about our ears; and within the street
was sounding the babel of a shrieking troop of men and women. Porters,
peasants, lads, and children were clamoring about our cart-wheels like
unto so many jackals. The bedlam did not cease as we stopped before a
wide, brightly-lit open doorway.
Then through the doorway there came a tall, finely-featured brunette.
She made her way through the yelling crowd as a duchess might cleave a
path through a rabble. She was at the side of the cart in an instant.
She gave us a bow and smile that were both a welcome and an act of
appropriation. She held out a firm, soft, brown hand. When it closed on
our own, we knew it to be the grasp of a friend, and the clasp of one
who knew how to hold her world. But when she spoke the words were all
of velvet, and her voice had the cadence of a caress.
"I have been watching you, _chères dames_--crossing the _grève_--but
how wet and weary you must be! Come in by the fire, it is ablaze now--I
have been feeding it for you!" And once more the beautifully curved
lips parted over the fine teeth, and the exceeding brightness of the
dark eyes smiled and glittered in our own. The caressing voice still
led us forward, into the great gay kitchen; the touch of skilful,
discreet fingers undid wet cloaks and wraps; the soft charm of a lovely
and gracious woman made even the penetrating warmth of the huge
fire-logs a secondary feature of our welcome. To those who have never
crossed a _grève_; who have had no jolting in a Normandy _char-à-banc_;
who, for hours, have not known the mixed pleasures and discomfort of
being a part of sea-rivers; and who have not been met at the threshold
of an Inn on a Rock by the smiling welcome of Madame Poulard--all such
have yet a pleasant page to read in the book of travelled experience.
Meanwhile somewhere, in an inner room, things sweet to the nostrils
were cooking. Maids were tripping up and down stairs with covered
dishes; there was the pleasant clicking in the ear of the lids of
things; dishes or pans or jars were being lifted. And more delicious to
the ear than even the promise to starving mouths of food, and of red
wine to the lip, was the continuing music of madame's voice, as she
stood over us purring with content at seeing her travellers drying and
being thoroughly warmed. "The dinner-bell must soon be rung, dear
ladies; I delayed it as long as I dared--I gauged your progress across
from the terrace--I have kept all my people waiting; for your first
dinner here must be hot! But now it rings! Shall I conduct you to your
rooms?"
I have no doubt that, even without this brunette beauty, with her olive
cheek and her comely figure as guides, we should have gone the way she
took us in a sort of daze. One cannot pass under machicolated gateways;
rustle between the walls of fourteenth century fortifications; climb a
stone stairway that begins in a watch-tower and ends in a rampart, with
a great sea view, and with the breadth of all the land shoreward; walk
calmly over the top of a king's gate, with the arms of a bishop and the
shrine of the Virgin beneath one's feet; and then, presently, begin to
climb the side of a rock in which rude stone steps have been cut, till
one lands on a miniature terrace, to find a preposterously
sturdy-looking house affixed to a ridiculous ledge of rock that has the
presumption to give shelter to a hundred or more travellers--ground
enough, also, for rows of plane-trees, for honeysuckles, and rose-vine,
with a full coquettish equipment of little tables and iron chairs--no
such journey as that up a rock was ever taken with entirely sober eyes.
Although her people were waiting below, and the dinner was on its way
to the cloth, Madame Poulard had plenty of time to give to the beauty
about her. How fine was the outlook from the top of the ramparts! What
a fresh sensation, this, of standing on a terrace in mid-air and
looking down on the sea, and across to the level shores! The
rose-vines--we found them sweet--_tiens_--one of the branches had
fallen--she had full time to re-adjust the loosened support. And
"Marianne, give these ladies their hot water, and see to their bags--"
even this order was given with courtesy. It was only when the supple,
agile figure had left us to fly down the steep rock-cut steps; when it
shot over the top of the gateway and slid with the grace of a lizard
into the street far below us, that we were made sensible of there
having been any especial need of madame's being in haste.
That night, some three hours later, a picturesque group was assembled
about this same supple figure. A pretty, and unlooked-for ceremony was
about to take place.
It was the ceremony of the lighting of the lanterns.
In the great kitchen, in the dance of the firelight and the glow of the
lamps, some seven or eight of us were being equipped with Chinese
lanterns. This of itself was an engaging sight. Madame Poulard was
always gay at this performance--for it meant much innocent merriment
among her guests, and with the lighting of the last lantern, her own
day was done. So the brilliant eyes flashed with a fresh fire, and the
olive cheek glowed anew. All the men and women laughed as children
sputter laughter, when they are both pleased and yet a little ashamed
to show their pleasure. It was so very ridiculous, this journey up a
rock with a Chinese lantern! But just because it was ridiculous, it was
also delightful. One--two--three--seven--eight--they were all lit. The
last male guest had touched his cap to madame, exchanging the "_bonne
nuit_" a man only gives to a pretty woman, and that which a woman
returns who feels that her beauty has received its just meed of homage;
madame's figure stood, still smiling, a radiant benedictory presence,
in the doorway, with the great glow of the firelight behind her; the
last laugh echoed down the street--and behold, darkness was upon us!
The street was as black as a cavern. The strip of sky and the stars
above seemed almost day, by contrast. The great arch of the Porte du
Roi engulphed us, and then, slowly groping our way, we toiled up the
steps to the open ramparts. Here the keen night air swept rudely
through our cloaks and garments; the sea tossed beneath the bastions
like some restless tethered creature, that showed now a gray and now a
purple coat, and the stars were gold balls that might drop at any
instant, so near they were. The men shivered and buttoned their coats,
and the women laughed, a trifle shrilly, as they grasped the floating
burnous closer about their faces and shoulders.
And the lanterns' beams danced a strange dance on the stone flagging.
Once more we were lost in darkness. We were passing through the old
guard-house. And then slowly, more slowly than ever, the lanterns were
climbing the steps cut in the rock. Hands groped in the blackness to
catch hold of the iron railing; the laughter had turned into little
shouts and gasps for help. And then one of the lanterns played a
treacherous trick; it showed the backs of two figures groping upward
together--about one of the girlish figures a man's arm was flung. As
suddenly the noise of the cries was stilled.
The lanterns played their fitful light on still other objects. They
illumined now a vivid yellow shrub; they danced upon a roof-top; they
flooded, with a sudden circlet of brilliance, the awful depths below of
the swirling waters and of rocks that were black as a bottomless pit.
Then the terrace was reached. And the lanterns danced a last gay little
dance among the roses and the vines before, Pouffe! Pouffe! and behold!
they were all blown out.
Thus it was we went to bed on the Mont.