JEANNE'S VELVET EYES
"These are our potential Troppmanns," said Gaston Cremieux, as we passed
through the grounds of the riding-school. "We must not blame them too
much. It is partly our fault. We have taken their religion from them,
and they have not yet enough moral sense to balance the loss. They have
learned at our meetings and conferences that they have not come to their
own, and they want to break their way to immediate wealth and
independence by the stroke of their own hands. All they can see is that
the rich have pleasures from which they are shut out--wine, women, and
feasting chiefly. This orgy of their imaginations heats the blood so
that the younger of them have come to think such things the only good.
The schoolmasters also are to blame. They have not instructed them in
noble thoughts and duties. The Church which has let them slip without
effort is to blame. But we of the liberating societies are most to
blame, for we have given them nothing to replace the Catechism they
learned, and the mystic trappings of that religion in which we have
taught them not to believe. Hence they are our Troppmanns in haste to be
rich, on edge to taste every sort of forbidden fruit, and in order to
reach their pleasure they are ready to slaughter men, women, and little
children with as much cold-bloodedness as did the murderer of the Kinck
family at Pantin."
Gaston spoke of a terrible crime which had shaken France the year
before, when a young man of twenty, active and intelligent, had with
devilish cunning slain an entire family of eight, his friends and
neighbours, in order that he might "get rich quick," and begin a new
life in a new country.
Cremieux seemed to feel himself in some measure responsible for these
lost sheep, but he made no attempt at present to conciliate them,
feeling perhaps that the pains would be thrown away or his motives
misunderstood.
"If we can keep them from active mischief till we want them, all will be
well," he kept repeating. "A time will come when such as they will be
invaluable, but at present they exist in every town and village in
France--budding 'hooligans' or 'Apaches,' ready for robbery and murder,
counting their own life a light thing and the taking of another's a
jest. If only they would take service with Garibaldi and be made into
men! That is where the North and East are going to outstrip us in the
coming years. Their Troppmanns are all being swept into the fighting
line, and will come out honourable citizens, while we of the South,
untouched by the German armies, have our idle rascals on our hands,
becoming a greater curse and burden every year, and a standing menace to
the next generation.
"But," he paused thoughtfully upon the phrase, "when the day for the
real struggle begins, we can find them work to do, and shoot them if
they will not do it. To keep them quiet in the meantime is the
difficulty."
By the time Gaston Cremieux had thus delivered his soul upon the
question of the town-bred ne'er-do-weels--the Vauriens of the Midi--he
was striding along the edge of the Rhone, till at the end of the quay we
turned in the direction of the Durance, the swift river which comes
rushing from the mountains, and the muddy torrent of which makes
turbulent the clear glaucous-blue of the Rhone from a little below
Avignon.
By this time my stomach, always on campaign, began to remind me that,
though I had been learning the secrets of Communism, particularism was
still rampant within my body.
"Let us go to see Madame Felix," I suggested. "Her husband spoke at the
reunion to-day. He is a chief among the workmen, but his wife is worth a
score of him when a fellow is hungry, and his daughter Jeanne Felix is
the girl best worth looking at in these parts--our friends at the
Chateau alone excepted."
Gaston Cremieux smiled indulgently and with a sort of patient scorn for
my enthusiasms.
"I hardly know what it is to be hungry," he said gently; "and except
some of our brave mothers of the Commune, and of course Rhoda Polly, one
woman is much the same to me as another."
It was on the tip of my tongue to say, as I should have done to
Deventer, "Then the more fool you!" But there was actually something
about the young ex-Procureur of the Republic which made one shrink from
familiarity. Instead, I turned through a growth of tall rushes, the
cane-brakes peculiar to Provence, in the direction of the little
ferry-house. It was war-year, and nobody had thought of cutting them.
The stiff leaves whistled frostily as we pushed our way through, the
supple yellow _cannes_ clattering behind us as they sprang back. After
them came a tangle of withered vines, still clinging to the trellis of a
dismantled house, and then we found ourselves on the river bank
overlooking the cottage belonging to Mere Felix of the Durance Ferry.
The boats were all on the other side, so I was obliged to make a trumpet
of my hands and call loud and long for "Mariana," which besides being
the baptismal name of the lady of the house, is an excellent resonant
word to carry across an estuary. Now the Durance, though an absurdly
tricky river, is no arm of the sea. Its race is short and turbulent,
though it makes as much trouble as possible (which is no little) for
those who dwell on its banks. It plays with inundations, whirlpools,
eddies, and deceitful currents, as a child with toys. You cannot row for
ten strokes straight upon it, for it will bubble up and snatch the oar
out of your hand, or failing in this, it will suddenly send the bow of
your boat deep into a reed-bed as if it were part of a conjuring trick.
I knew somewhat more of the matter than most, for had not Jeanne Felix
taught me? I had often gone over to spend a day there during the long
vacations. For my father, buried among his books, made no objections to
my roaming the country at will.
Cremieux and I presently stood at the top of a rough and tumble-down
flight of steps which led to a pier in somewhat better condition. I
recognised the work of my own hands upon this last. For Jeanne and I had
coopered it up only last year, so that her passengers might land without
risking their lives each time. Paths extended both up and down stream,
but as yet nothing had been done to the flight of rough-hewn steps of
split pinewood leading to the forest above. These things I did not
communicate to my new revolutionary friend, for I was busy wondering
what effect Jeanne Felix would have upon him.
My fourth or fifth shout brought the Mere Felix wrathfully down to the
river edge where her white cap and broad head ribbons showed between the
tall _cannes_. She had a couple of oars upon one shoulder and called
across at us, "Who is making such a noise with their Marianas? There is
no Mariana here except to my husband, the Pere Felix, who is now from
home, doubtless at one of his foolish reunions----"
"Dear Mariana," I answered, showing myself at the end of the little
pier, "push out a boat and you can kiss me for it. My father says you
may. Also send Jeanne quickly, for she and I can row so well together."
"It is that rascal of an English student, Monsieu' Auegoose from Gobelet.
Well, I might have guessed. Yet it is not playtime at St. Andre that I
have heard. I shall have you sent back and whipped. What, they do not
whip at St. Andre? Ah, it is no wonder, then, that you young people wax
so impertinent. If only you were _my_ boy, I should not call upon Pere
Felix to help me. No, no--I would----" and the old lady, smacking one
hard hand upon the other, conveyed her meaning exactly.
"Send Jeanne," I repeated, taking no notice of her pantomime.
"Send Jeanne," she imitated my college-trained voice,
"Jeanne--Jeanne--it is always Jeanne!"
"Perhaps," I ventured, "when you were Jeanne's age it was always
'Mariana'! I'll wager that more people than Pere Felix called you that
in those days, petite mere!"
"Here comes Jeanne at last," she called, so that I could hear. "Do not
put up with his insolence, Jeanne. He is a spoilt schoolboy, nothing
more."
Jeanne stepped sagely into the skiff, with a foot so light and practised
that the frail craft hardly quivered in the water. She was a tall, dark
girl with a supple figure, both light and well-rounded, remarkably
Diana-ish in a land where the women, save a few, are inclined to
shortness, and in addition are already overshadowed by the stoutness
which inevitably overtakes them after marriage.
Jeanne Felix received us without the least embarrassment into her boat.
When I mentioned my friend's name in introducing him, there was one
rapid up-and-down flicker of the drooping eyelashes, a flash of velvet
eyes, and then without a word or a salutation she handed me the bow oar
as if we had parted only the night before.
When we landed on the neat little _embarcadere_, below the Restaurant
Sambre-et-Meuse, Madame Felix had vanished. I knew her to be already
busy with the _menu_ of our dinner, a matter which, in spite of her
abuse of me, she would entrust to nobody.
There was a great chestnut tree before the door, and though the month
was January, my pocket thermometer registered 62 deg. Fahrenheit in our
shadowed nook.
Here we sat and waited, talking with Jeanne till her mother should call
us in to lunch.
The reformer smoked innumerable cigarettes, but he said little. I fancy
he had not much small talk, and at times he seemed so far away that I
wondered whether he heard the light badinage in which Jeanne and I are
fond of engaging. Jeanne is freed from all fear of her mother's reproof
and I do as I like, because I am a choice favourite with that lady,
being the only person in the world she permits herself to abuse grossly,
except her goodman Pere Felix--who, according to her, is still more
_impayable_ and gifted with a faculty of irritation not to be told.
As for me, I am younger and not her husband, but she has known me since
I could really receive from her palm the manual chastisement she had so
familiarly illustrated.
Still, I must admit that so far as Cremieux was concerned, interest in
the Restaurant Sambre-et-Meuse awaked only when from the river-path
along the Durance we heard the sound of voices, and presently Pere Felix
emerged talking eagerly with Pipe-en-Bois Soult, nicknamed the Marshal,
and several of the Old Guard of the Commune. Then his eyes lit up
suddenly. He rose as if throwing a weight from his shoulders. He had
come to his own again. This man bore the weight of a bullet he had
gained on the day of the _coup d-etat_. Pipe-en-Bois had been in front
of the battle about the Luxembourg that morning of 1848 when Cavaignac's
fusillade proved the futility of moderate Republican promises.
In the kitchen was great rattling of dishes, the voice of Mere Felix
calling on her daughter Jeanne, summoning from a great way off her
"torchon" Babette, a kind of scullery-maid gathered chance-wise from
among the numerous squatter families clustered along the river's edge.
Such long-limbed slatterns were plentiful as blackberries and of as rank
a growth all along the Durance. Monsieur Brunet, horsemaster and former
"Red of the Midi," owned the water meadows all about, and smilingly
allowed the little street of wooden houses fringing the banks. A stray
rabbit might be caught out of the pine knolls, but Monsieur's grazing
rights must be respected, and his ponies and brood-mares left in peace.
Probably none except the family Felix all along that riverine sweep of
reed-bed paid a penny of rent or a tax to the Government. The rural
guard with his sash and his great brass plate of office must, of course,
have known of the colony. But for some reason or another he said
nothing, and all the time the huts of the "zoniers" tailed out at both
ends into more and more ramshackle sheds and _bicoques_.
Here arose the danger of the community. They could only exist by
attracting no attention, and many of the ancient inhabitants, in good
odour with the Sieur Brunet, were compelled to replace the fences which
had been torn down to burn, or used as building material by their less
scrupulous neighbours.
Hence came quarrels, sharp words, and occasionally the breaking of
heads. The chief penalty was that no offenders against the unwritten law
of the settlement were allowed to drink under the cool shade of Mere
Felix's vine trellises.
The men who had come back with the proprietor of the Restaurant
Sambre-et-Meuse were, of course, the fine flower of this scattering
Faubourg Durance. They were full of admiration for their host, but every
man of them knew that Pere Felix would occupy a very different position
at the Sambre-et-Meuse from what had been his in the late great meeting
of citizens at the riding-school of Aramon. They seemed to be wishing to
make up to him all the way for the coming loss of prestige.
At the journey's end he would have to submit to his wife's inevitable
dictatorship, and support in his own proper person the reproach of the
whole company. He became responsible (among other things) for the
misdeeds of the half-wild cook-maid, for the uncertainties of the
weather, for the lack of fuel, and for the vicissitudes of the lady's
culinary apparatus. Like many a high officer, colonel, or commandant,
whose word is law to a thousand men in barracks, the Pere Felix came
home to do pack-drill and practise the goose-step under the eye of a
severe drill-sergeant armed with a broomstick.
But the good woman allowed no one except herself to treat her husband
lightly, so that in a measure his self-esteem was re-established before
company. The more guests there were at the Sambre-et-Meuse, the more
consideration was it necessary to show for the proprietor.
A chicken had been set aside for me, and of that I was not to be
deprived, or at least of as great a portion as could be piled on my
plate within her inviolable kitchen, by Mariana of the liberal hand.
Gaston Cremieux, though she looked upon him as a perverter of youth, and
the worst of examples for her husband, was still a guest of honour, and
he had come there in my company. Therefore he should have a share in the
chicken. Roast mutton, soup, and boiled beef out of the soup-pot which
had simmered all day by the fire were good enough for the others. There
was plenty of good bread, better than rich men could buy in Paris at
that moment--let the newcomers "bank up" with that and be thankful.
These, with regard to food supply, were the conclusions of Mariana of
the Restaurant of Sambre-et-Meuse among the reed-beds of the Durance.