MOUNTEBANKS
They reached Alençon at the end of the third day. Soon after
leaving Verneuil their road mounted a rocky country of robust wooded
hills, cleft by gorges and defiles, the uplands of the Perche and
Normandie, from the crests of which the pilgrims had a generous view
of the whole of the Orne. On the first day the company had dined at
St. Maurice and supped and slept near Tourouvre, in the heart of a
primeval forest of oaks and pines. Philidor and Yvonne had followed
close upon the steps of Tomasso the bear, keeping, so to speak, under
the shadow of Cleofonte's protecting wing. There was a difference in
their relations, indefinable yet quite obvious to them both, a reserve
on Philidor's part, marked by consideration and deference; on Yvonne's
a gentleness and amiability which showed him how companionable she
could be. Indeed, her docility was nothing short of alarming, and
Philidor was ever on his guard against a new outbreak which, he was
sure, was to be expected at any moment. But she cajoled him no more.
Perhaps she understood him better now. Who knows? He spoke no more
of love, nor were the roses of Père Guégou again
mentioned.
At Mortagne, which they had reached upon the second day, Philidor and
Yvonne had a first view of a public performance of the Fabiani family,
for, the conditions being agreeable, Cleofonte had pitched their camp
within the limits of the town, and a crowd, augmented by Yvonne and her
orchestra, had made their visit profitable. Yvonne had slept that
night at a small _auberge_, her bed and board paid for with money she
had made, and Philidor, who complained of a lack of sitters, slept
quite comfortably near Clarissa in a stable.
In the morning Yvonne had made some purchases in the town--and later
they had caught up with their friends near La Mesle, along the Sarthe,
down which their road descended by easy stages to their destination.
Alençon was in holiday garb and the tricolor flaunted bravely from
many poles, though the beginning of the fête was not until to-morrow.
The streets were gay with people, the market-place showed a number of
booths, tents and canvas enclosures within which performances were
already in progress. The Fabiani family was late in arriving, but a
spot was found, between the sword-swallower and the Circassian lady,
which suited Cleofonte's purpose. So the _routlotte_ was backed into
place and Cleofonte, his coat off, his brows beading, directed the
erection of the canvas barrier within which the performances were to be
given. For let it be understood the Fabianis were no common
mountebanks for whom one passed a hat. There was to be a gate through
which one only passed upon the payment of ten sous, and within were to
be benches upon which one could sit in luxury while he beheld these
marvels of the age. Philidor and Yvonne helped, too, getting out the
canvas which had been rolled and fastened beneath the wagon, and the
uprights which supported it. Not satisfied with the sign which was to
be fastened over the entrance, Philidor sought out a paint shop and
before dark painted two great posters three mètres in height;--one of
them depicting Cleofonte with bulging muscles (real pink muscles that
one felt like pinching) in the act of breaking into bits with his bare
hands a great iron chain; the other showing the child Stella being
tossed in the air from Cleofonte to Luigi, her heels and head almost
touching. By sunset the paintings were finished and fastened in place,
and when Cleofonte lit the torches upon either side of the entrance
gate, the folk who were passing stopped in wonder to gaze. There were
to be no performances to-night, Cleofonte explained, the company was
weary; but to-morrow--! He pause and the magnificence with which his
huge fist tapped his deep chest were eloquence itself.
Their work done for the night, Philidor set off post haste in search of
quarters for Yvonne; but the inns were full and it was too late to
search elsewhere. So he bought a truss of straw and one of hay (for
Clarissa and the shaggy phantom) and brought them to the _roulotte_
upon his back. The night was mild, and so he made Yvonne's bed and his
own within the enclosure, and amid a babel of sounds, above which the
barrel organ of the carousel near by wheezed tremulously, they dropped
upon the blankets, dead tired, and fell asleep at once.
The sun was not long in the heavens before the barrel organ, silenced
at midnight, renewed its plaint and the business of the day began.
After an early breakfast Cleofonte and Luigi retired to the dressing
tent, emerging after a while in gorgeous costumes of pink fleshings and
spangles, their hair well greased with pomatum, their mustachios
elaborately curled. The Signora and Stella soon followed, their hair
wreathed in tight braids around their heads. The _bambino_, neglected,
was howling lustily, so Yvonne took him in her lap upon the straw and
soothed him to slumber while the carpet was laid and the impediments of
the athletes brought out and placed near by for the day's work.
More than anything else in the world, Yvonne longed for a bath, but she
suppressed this desire as unworthy of a true vagabond and washed in a
bucket of water which Philidor had brought from the pump, sharing at
the last in the suppressed excitement which pervaded the arena. There
was no doubt in the minds of any that the Troupe Fabiani was to be the
great success of the occasion. The duties and destinies of all its
members had already been explained and decided. A girl was hired to
care for the _bambino_. Yvonne was to beat her drum and play her
orchestra on the platform outside, and this would attract the people,
already anxious to behold the wonders within, a foretaste of which
would be given, when the crowd gathered, by Cleofonte, who would life a
few heavy weights and introduce the Signora, the Child Wonder, and
Tomasso, the bear. Philidor was to keep the gate and between the
performances was to make portraits of those who desired them. Their
organization was perfection. Cleofonte was at his best when in the
executive capacity.
At nine o'clock Hermia mounted the platform (a piano box turned on its
side) and began to thump the drum and cymbals. Her position was
conspicuous and she began a little uncertainly, for it was one thing to
choose one's audience among the simple folk of the countryside, another
to face the kind of crowd which now gathered to gaze up at
her--peasants, horse-fanciers, shop people, clerks on a holiday, with
here and there a person of less humble station, but she bent to her
work with a will, encouraged by the example of the Circassian lady next
to her who was selling in brown bottles an elixir which was a cure for
all things except love and the goiter. The sword-swallower next them
was already busy, and the _Homme Sauvage_, a hirsute person, whose
unprofessional mien was both kind and peaceable (as Yvonne had
discovered unofficially last night), was roaring horribly, at two sous
the head, in his enclosure near by.
The wooden horses of the _manège_, upon which some children and a few
soldiers from the garrison were riding, were already whirling on their
mad career.
While Yvonne played, Cleofonte and Philidor "barked." That is, they
proclaimed in loud tones the prodigies that were to be disclosed and
that the performance was about to begin; to the end that, in a little
while, coppers and centime pieces jingled merrily in Philidor's coat
pocket, the benches were filled and a crowd two deep stood behind.
This augured well. Cleofonte beamed as he counted noses, and the
performance began.
Yvonne played a lively air while Tomasso was put through his paces,
walking with a stick and turning somersaults, and at the end Cleofonte
put on a heavy coat to keep himself from being torn by the savage claws
of the beast and wrestled for some minutes with Tomasso, making the act
more realistic by straining from side to side and puffing violently
while Tomasso clung on, his muzzle sniffing the air, to be finally
dragged down upon his master and proclaimed the victor. The applause
from this part of the program was allowed to die and a dignified pause
ensued, after which the signora appeared in her famous juggling act,
unmindful of the cries of the _bambino_ from the _roulotte_ in active
rebellion against the substitute. During Stella's performance, which
followed, the orchestra played jerkily and then stopped, for Yvonne had
never yet succeeded in looking on at the child's contortions without a
pang of the heart. But the act went smoothly enough, and the
entertainment, which lasted nearly an hour, concluded with Cleofonte's
exhibition of prowess and the stone-breaking episode of which he was so
justly proud.
The receipts were four hundred sous--twenty francs--and there were to
be six performances a day! Well might Cleofonte wring Philidor by the
hand and pay him over the five francs which he and Hermia had earned!
There were no portraits to do, so Philidor sat at the entrance with
Yvonne until the time for the next performance. It was tiresome work
and the breathing space was welcome enough. To Philidor his companion
seemed already weary. But when he suggested that perhaps they had
better take to the road again she shook her head.
"No, no. I've reached the soul of things--felt the pulse-beats of
humanity. I delight with Cleofonte, suffer with Stella. I'm learning
to live, that's all."
"I thought you looked a little tired," he said gently.
"I am tired--but not mind-tired, heart-tired, spirit-tired as I once
was. My elbows ache and there's a raw place on my shoulder, but it's
an honorable scar and I'll wear it. And I sleep, O Philidor, I never
knew the luxury of sleep such as mine."
"I don't want you to be ill."
"I can do my share," she finished steadily, "if Stella can."
Toward three o'clock of the afternoon Yvonne mounted her piano box.
The Fabiani family had been so well received that once it had been
necessary for Philidor to draw the flap at the gate because there was
no room in the enclosure for more people. As the time for the
beginning of the fourth performance drew near, a crowd had again
gathered, listening to the _Femme Orchestre_ and moving in groups of
two and three toward the entrance where Philidor in the intervals
between announcements pocketed their coins and watched Yvonne. This
last occupation was one in which of late he had taken great delight.
Her costume, as Monsieur de Folligny had also discovered, became her
admirably, the sun and wind had tanned her face and arms to a rich
warmth, and this color made the blue of her eyes the more tender. The
lines he had discovered in her face were absent now, for it was the
business of a _Femme Orchestre_ to smile.
Cleofonte had come out and was looking over the crowd with an
appraising eye, adding his own voice to the din as Philidor paused for
breath, when in the midst of a lively air the music stopped--stopped so
suddenly that Philidor turned to see what the matter was. Yvonne gave
one startled glance over the crowd, then jumped down behind the box
and, unslinging her orchestra as she dropped, literally dove under the
canvas flap and disappeared. Philidor, who was in the act of making
change, called Cleofonte to take his place and went inside, to find
that Yvonne had fled behind the wagon.
"What is it?" he asked, alarmed. "Are you ill?"
"No, no," breathlessly. "Olga! I saw her. She's out there."
It was Philidor's turn to be perturbed. "Olga Tcherny! You must be
mistaken."
"I'm not. I wish I was. I saw her plainly--and the Renauds, Madeleine
de Cahors and Chandler Cushing. O Philidor, they mustn't see me here!"
She seized his arm and looked up into his eyes appealingly.
His brows drew downward and he glanced toward the entrance.
"They wouldn't come in here."
"They might--"
He glanced irresolutely about him and then opened the door of the
_roulotte_ and helped her up the steps.
"Stay there-and lock the door."
He paused a moment, his hand on the doorknob, looking over the head of
the audience toward the entrance flap, where Cleofonte, oblivious of
the tragedy which threatened the newer members of his family, still
shouted hoarsely. Philidor stopped in the dressing tent and spoke a
few words to the Signora, made his way across the arena, peering over
Cleofonte's shoulder, and then, his course of action chosen, slipped
quickly into his accustomed place outside.
"_Dix sous, Messieurs et Dames!" he shouted. "The greatest act of this
or any age--the _Famille Fabiani_, the world renowned acrobats,
jugglers and strong man! Six great acts of skill and strength, any one
of which is worth the price of admission! _Entrez, Mesdames_, and see
the fight between Signor Cleofonte, the strongest man in the world, and
the savage bear captured from the forests of Siberia! A contest which
thrills the blood--for in spite of the great strength of the
Signor--which has been compared to that of Samson, who once fought and
conquered, single handed, a lion (smiles of approval from Cleofonte at
the eloquence of this comparison), in spite of the great strength of
the Signor--I say--the danger of his destruction is ever present, as
any one who has seen the contest can testify. Come one, come all,
_Messieurs_, only once in a lifetime does one have a chance to see the
Signorina Stella Fabiani, the child wonder, Queen of the Mat and Queen
of the Air, in her extraordinary acts of flight and contortion--"
During this harangue Philidor had felt rather than seen the figure
which had slowly wedged through the crowd at one side and now stood
beside him. He knew that it was Olga Tcherny, but he had not dared to
look at her, though he was quite sure that her head was perched on one
side in the birdlike pose she found effective, and that her eyes,
mocking and mischievous, were searching him intently. But he went on
extravagantly, searching his wits for Barnum-like adjectives.
"_Entrez, Messieurs_, and see the beautiful female Juggler of Naples,
who tosses ten sharp knives and burning brands into the air at one and
the same time, not lets one of them touch the ground--who tosses a
cannon ball, an apple and a piece of paper--who spins two dishes on the
end of a stick, with one hand, while she rolls a hoop with the other--a
lady who has acted before all of the crowned heads of Europe. There
will never again be such great artists, a performance unsurpassed and
even unequaled in the history of the Oire."
Philidor's adjectives had given out--as had his breath--and so he
paused. As he did so he heard Olga's voice beside him in a single but
curiously expressive syllable.
"Well?" it asked.
His eyes met hers without other token of recognition than a slight
twinkle of amusement.
"Mademoiselle wishes to enter? Ten sous, if you please." And then
with a loud voice directed over her head, "_Entrez, Messieurs et
Dames_, and see the hand to hand struggle between a man and a savage
beast! A contest at once magnificent and appalling--one which you will
remember to the end of your days, a spectacle to describe to your
children and to your children's children--"
[Illustration: "Philidor had felt rather than seen the figure which
had slowly wedged through the crowd."]
"John Markham!" Olga's voice sounded shrilly in English. "Stop howling
at once and listen to me."
"_Oui, Mademoiselle_, ten sous, if you please. The performance is
about to begin and--"
"This performance has been going on quite long enough. What on earth
are you doing here in Alençon?"
"Barking," said Markham with a grin. "Also doing crayon portraits at
two francs fifty a head," and he pointed to the sign beside the poster
of Cleofonte breaking the chains which advertised the nature of his
talents in glowing terms. "My name is Philidor, Mademoiselle," bowing;
"itinerant portrait painter--at your service."
"Oh, do stop that nonsense and explain--"
"There's nothing to explain. Here I am. That's all."
"How did you get here--to Alençon?"
"Walked--it's my custom."
"Rom Rouen?"
He nodded. "I'm a member of the Troupe Fabiani of Strolling Acrobats,"
he laughed. "I'm learning the gentle art of bear-baiting. Won't you
come in?"
She searched his face keenly and accepted his invitation, first handing
him her fifty centime piece, which he dropped without comment into his
pocket. The enclosure was already filled, so he closed the entrance
flap and mounted guard over it--and Olga stood beside him, her glance
passing swiftly from one object to another. Cleofonte's bout with
Tomasso was more than usually dramatic, but her eyes roved toward the
dressing tent, eyeing with an uncommon interest the Signora when she
appeared.
"Your troupe is not large," Olga remarked when the program had been
explained to her.
"No, we are few, my dear Olga, but quite select. You have yet to see
Luigi perform and the Child Wonder--and the _Femme Orchestre_--a
remarkable person who plays five instruments at the same time."
Olga watched the show for a while with an abstracted air.
"You surely can't mean that you enjoy this sort of thing?" she
questioned at last.
He laughed. "I do mean just that--otherwise I shouldn't be here,
should I?"
"Oh, you're impossible!" she said impatiently.
"I know it," she laughed with a shrug, "and the worst of it is that I'm
quite shameless about it."
He was really an extraordinary person. She couldn't help wondering how
it was that she could have cared for him at all, and yet she was quite
sure that he had never seemed more interesting to her than at this
moment. But it was quite evident that she did not believe him. The
performance was soon over, the people crowded toward the entrance,
Olga, alone at last, remaining. Indeed, she was making herself very
much at home, and to Philidor's chagrin insisted upon examining the
Signora's knives and torches, the heavy weights of Cleofonte, the
chains and the larger fragments of the stone which Luigi had broken on
Cleofonte's chest. It was all very interesting. Then she sat upon a
bench, her glance still roving restlessly, lighting at last upon the
house wagon.
"And that," she indicated, "is where you sleep?"
"Not I. That's for the women. I sleep out when I can--indoors when I
must."
Still she gazed at it, and while Philidor, his inquietude rapidly
growing, watched her keenly, she rose and walked slowly around the
_roulette_, peering under it where the dogs lay chained, and up at its
small windows and door as though fascinated by a new and interesting
study of contemporary ethnology.
The active members of the Fabiani family had all retired to the
dressing tent and were occupied in the preliminaries to supper.
Philidor's mind was working rapidly, but, think as he would, nothing
occurred to him which might effectually serve to stem the tide of his
visitor's dangerous curiosity. She paused before the door, looking
upward, and Philidor watched the window fearfully.
"It seems absurdly small for so many people. A baby, too, you said?"
she asked coolly.
"Oh, yes, there are beds," he said; "two of them--quite comfortable, I
believe."
"I'm awfully anxious to see what it's like inside. The Signora
wouldn't mind, I'm sure--" She put one foot on the steps and reached
up for the knob.
It was locked he knew, for there was a key on the inside, but the
knowledge of that fact did nothing to decrease his alarm.
"Oh, I wouldn't bother," he muttered helplessly. "There's nothing--"
But before he could move she had stepped up and with a quick movement
had flung the door wide open.
Philidor closed his eyes a second, praying for a miracle, then followed
Olga's gaze within. The beds were there, the shelves of dishes, the
racks of clothing, but of Hermia there was no sign. How the miracle
had happened Philidor knew not, unless she had gone through the roof,
but with the discovery his courage returned to him in a gush, and when
Olga's eyes keenly sought his face he was calmly smoking. Just at this
moment a sound was heard, of merry, rippling laughter, light and
mocking, which had a familiar ring. Olga looked around quickly toward
the spot behind her from which the sounds seemed to come, her gaze
meeting nothing but the canvas wall. They heard the sounds again, this
time faintly, as though receding in the distance overhead. It was most
extraordinary. She glanced toward the dressing tent from which the
Signora was just emerging.
"Would you like to visit the green room?" asked Philidor, amusedly
directing the way. "We are happy family, as you will see."
"Who was laughing, John Markham?" asked his visitor.
His eyes were blanks.
"Laughing? I don't know. Everyone laughs here. Stella perhaps--or
the Circassian lady?"
She shook her head, still eyeing him narrowly, but he only smoked
composedly and, after looking into the tent, threw open the flaps with
a generous gesture and invited her to enter. Cleofonte and Luigi were
counting their money, but when the title of their visitor was
announced, rose and bowed to the ground. It was seldom that the
Fabiani family had been done so great an honor.
Olga returned his compliments with others quite as graceful upon the
quality of the performance she had witnessed, but her eyes, as Philidor
saw, were still roving carelessly but with nice observance of minutiæ,
taking in every object in sight. Upon the ground in the corner where
it had been thrown lay a drum and cymbals fastened to a framework of
wire and straps.
Philidor grew unquiet.
"How curious!" she exclaimed, examining the contrivance.
"It is the music," put in the Signora pleasantly, "of our _Femme
Orchestre_. She is ill. We were forced to leave her yesterday at La
Mesle. To-morrow she will play again. The Contessa will hear her,
perhaps?"
Philidor breathed gratefully. A firmer hand than his now controlled
their destinies. Olga searched the Signora's face, which was as
innocent as that of the _bambino_.
"_Grazia, Signora_," she returned politely; "perhaps I shall."
Philidor accompanied her to the gate, reassured and jocular.
"How long are you going to persist in this foolishness?" she asked at
last irritably.
"Who knows?" he laughed. "I think I've struck my proper level. Did
you see my posters?" he asked, pointing proudly. "Great, aren't they?"
"They're disgusting," said Olga.
He smiled good-humoredly. "That's too bad. I'm sorry. I thought
you'd like 'em."
She only shrugged contemptuously.
"And this is your Valhalla?" she sniffed. "A kingdom of charlatans,
and tinsel and clap-trap, of fricassees and onions, and greasy
mendicants. Ugh! You're rather overdoing the simple life, Monsieur
er--Philidor. You're very ragged and--ah--a trifle soiled."
"Outwardly only, _chère_ Olga," he laughed. "Inwardly my soul is
lily-white."
"I'm not so sure of that. No one's soul can be lily-white whose beard
is two weeks old. Also, _mon ami_, you look half famished."
"My soul--" he began.
"Your stomach!" she broke in. "Come with me. At least I'm going to
see you properly fed."
"You're awfully kind, but--"
"You refuse?"
"I must--besides, you could hardly expect me to appear at your house
party in these."
She turned on her heel and walked away from him.
"I hardly expect you ever to do anything that I want you to do."
"But, Olga,--"
Without turning her head she disappeared in the crowd.