flight: he had thrust his bulky head through a square of glass. The
cafe rang with shouts of alarm mingled with amusement. The wagons in
the arena shook with the joyous stamping of their occupants; the
planks were torn off by excited hands; the people at the windows of
the little houses rattled the shutters noisily in their delight. To
see the crowds on the roofs laugh made one fear that they would fall
in. Thus was the frolicsome bull applauded. The gipsy alone did not
smile.
A great oat-bin stood in a corner of the arena, placed there purposely
perhaps. A very old man,--not too old to play the merry-andrew,--armed
with an old red umbrella, raised the lid, climbed into the bin, and
opened his umbrella, which was of the most brilliant shade of red. The
bull rushed at him--the old man let the lid fall. Bin and umbrella
closed at the same moment upon the laughing bald head. The hilarity of
the public was at its height. The gipsy did not seem amused by the old
man's drollery.--Nor did she laugh when a manikin was set up in the
centre of the arena and the bull carried him off on his horns and
hurled him into the midst of the spectators; and she did not even
smile when, a window on the ground-floor of one of the houses being
thrown open, a little child was seen in his mother's arms, behind the
iron bars, teasing the furious animal. Laughing with glee, he held a
plaything out through the bars, a little pasteboard windmill, whose
pink and blue wings were made to turn by the monster's breath.
Then came a tragic episode. A man--an _amateur_--struck by the sharp
horns; his thigh pierced from side to side; the first cowardly
movement of flight on the part of the other contestants; the return of
the valiant fellows, who diverted the bull's attention and drew him
off while the wounded man was removed, accompanied by the piercing
shrieks of his wife and daughter.
At last, the serious business of the day began. It was announced that
the branding was about to take place. Immediately thereafter would
come the game of the "cockades," which consists in snatching a cockade
suspended between the bull's horns by a thread. With his hand or with
a hooked stick the rider breaks the thread, snatches the
cockade--_Crac!_ a quick recovery, and the victor has won the scarf!
The branding is hard work turned into a game; it consists in branding
young bulls with a red-hot iron, with their owner's cipher.
A young bull having been turned into the arena, Renaud walked up to
him, and, as the beast made a rush, cleverly avoided him by turning
upon his heel. The bull having, thereupon, stopped short, Renaud
seized him by the horns.
Clinging to him with his hands, closed like knots of steel about the
horns, the man was dragged for a moment, standing, over the ground, in
which his thick soles dug ribbon-like furrows. The spectators clapped
their hands. The bull lowered his head and stood still. Renaud, with
his legs apart and bent a little, and his feet firmly planted in the
ground, threw all his weight to the left. All the muscles of his chest
and arms stood out beneath his shirt, which was glued to his skin by
perspiration. The bull, with all his sluggish strength, tried to throw
himself in the opposite direction. Suddenly Renaud gave way, and the
bull, losing the support of his resistance, fell heavily before a
sudden contrary effort. And there he lay at full length on the ground,
gasping for breath.
The man, who had not released his hold, forced his head to the ground
by sitting on it.
"Bravo, king! bravo, king!" cried the crowd.
Bernard took the red-hot iron from a brazier and carried it to Renaud,
who, thereupon, let go one horn, and kneeling heavily upon the beast's
withers, seized the iron with his right hand and pressed it against
his shoulder. The hair and flesh smoked and crackled. Renaud rose
quickly, and the bull, springing suddenly to his feet, shook himself
all over, lashed his sides with his tail, bellowed with anger, pawed
the ground with his foot, and, amid the shouts of the crowd, darted
through the barrier, which was opened at that moment. A moment later,
he could be seen far away on the plain, galloping at full speed. He
soon rejoined the drove which he or any of his fellows can readily
find for themselves, even if it be on the other side of the Rhone,
which they often swim.
Six bulls, one after another, were thus thrown down by Renaud.
The sport enlivened him, he was intoxicated by the consciousness of
his great strength. Excited even more by the applause of the people,
he trembled from head to foot. From time to time, he wiped the great
beads of perspiration from his forehead with the back of his hand.
A sunbeam fell across one side of the arena, which lay in the dark
shadow of the high church-wall. Renaud ran thither, hatless, in
shirt-sleeves and close-fitting red breechcloth, shaking the short
curly locks of his thick, jet-black hair.
The girls applauded, I promise you, more loudly than the young men,
who were somewhat jealous. Zinzara's eye--her wagon was standing in
the ray of sunlight--kindled at last.--And Livette, blushing deeply,
was proud of her king.
When the sixth bull he had thrown was still under his knee, Renaud
made a sign to Bernard. Bernard ran to him, knelt beside him, and
seized the bull by the horns in his stead. Another drover came to help
Bernard hold the beast, and Renaud rose.
He walked across the arena, and when he came to where Livette sat,
beckoned to her. Everybody understood and applauded.
She walked forward to the edge of the platform on which the benches
were built, and lightly placed her foot on the strong cross-bar that
served as a support to the spectators in the front row; from there she
jumped confidently into Renaud's arms, who caught her about the waist
and set her down as if she had been a little child.
He took her hand and led her toward the bull.
If Renaud had looked at Zinzara at that moment, he would have
surprised in her eyes a gleam which she did her best to hide behind
her half-closed lids. The smile vanished from her mocking lips.
But Livette and Renaud, the pair of comely lovers, were thinking of
naught but the fete, of themselves, of this strange betrothal at which
all their people were present, and the like of which not even princes
could give, for it required rare strength and address on the part of
the fiance. It was, in very truth, the triumph of a manly king.
"Bravo, king! bravo, queen!"
As they passed the brazier in the centre of the arena, he stooped
quickly, and seized with his free hand--without stopping or releasing
Livette's hand--the red-hot iron, which he handed to her as soon as
they were beside the bull. She took it, and, leaning forward, branded
the bull on the shoulder, and when they saw the flesh smoking under
the iron she held in her strong little hand, when the bull began to
quiver with wrath, the enthusiasm of the people burst forth. Hats and
hands and scarfs were waved in the air.
"Bravo, king! bravo, queen!"
And Renaud, envied by all, escorted the maiden back to her place,
while the bull, set free, rushed from the arena in his turn and out
upon the plain. No, Zinzara no longer laughed.
The game of the "cockades" was next on the programme.
The first two or three were easily carried off--one from the head of
Angel Pastor himself, the Spanish bull--by the young men of
Saintes-Maries, and it had not occurred to Renaud to take part in the
sport.
At last, Serpentine, a nervous little heifer, was let loose in the
arena. Every one realized instantly that she was in a bad temper and
would defend herself.
Several tried their fortune against her, but, just as they put out
their hand to the cockade, Serpentine would turn about so quickly, and
with such agility for a heifer, that they fled. Ah! the hussy! Zinzara
suddenly became interested in the game. Renaud had gone down into the
arena.
"The king! the king! bravo! king!" shouted the crowd.
And Renaud performed prodigies of skill.
Three times he placed his foot upon Serpentine's lowered head, and
allowed himself to be hurled into space, to fall again upon his
elastic legs. And as soon as he reached the ground the third time, he
turned like a flash, ran straight to the heifer, snatched away the
cockade,--avoiding the blow she aimed at him with her horns in her
rage,--and was calmly walking away, when the agile creature returned
to the charge.
Renaud ran, as chance guided him, closely pursued by the beast, and
when he had leaped upon the nearest wagon, he found himself beside the
gipsy, whom he had instinctively seized around the waist.
The heifer had already turned her attention to some of the other
contestants, and very fortunately, too,--for the gipsy, who was
standing on the edge of her wagon, leaning against the insecure
boarding, lost her balance, and leaped down, perforce, into the arena,
carrying Renaud with her.
Livette turned pale as death.
The heifer came galloping back at full speed toward Renaud and
Zinzara, the latter of whom, being entangled in the folds of her
ragged finery, thought that she was lost.--Boldly she turned and faced
the danger, too proud to fly, at least when to fly would be useless.
But Renaud had already stepped in front of her to protect her, and,
seized with some insane idea or other,--the bravado of a
horse-breaker, or of a lover, if you choose,--instead of entering into
a contest with the heifer, instead of seizing her by the horns or the
legs, stopped, and, without taking his eyes from the beast's face,
quickly knelt upon one knee, squatted upon his heel, folded his arms,
and, with his head thrown back, defied her. Like an experienced
"trapper," he counted upon the beast's astonishment, and she did, in
fact, stop short, and scrutinize him suspiciously. The gipsy, her lips
pressed tightly together, having regained her place upon the wagon,
looked back and saw her protector still in that singularly foolhardy
attitude. As may be imagined, everybody was shouting: "Vive Renaud!"
It seemed as if they would never weary of it.
When he rose, he was again charged by Serpentine, and had barely time
to regain his place of refuge beside the gitana; and the furious beast
attacked the flooring of the wagon just at their feet with such a
fierce blow of her powerfully armed head, that it was caught there for
a moment by the horns, so that Renaud had to force them out by
stamping upon them with the heel of his iron-shod boot.
Then the gipsy smiled, and, bending over toward the drover's ear,
whispered a word or two that made the handsome horse-breaker smile
with her.
Livette--who was a long distance away, at the other end of the arena,
but almost opposite them, and so placed that she could see them in the
bright light--had not lost a single gesture, not a single glance.
What jealousy does not see, it divines, and that is not surprising,
for it sees what does not exist.
XX
THE SNARE
The relics were exposed twenty-four hours in the church.
The second day, they reascended to their chapel, amid the howling of
the same poor wretches whose hopes they carried with them.
At the moment when the relics take their departure, the spectacle
becomes terrifying. What! all is over! what! they leave us in our
misery, our woes sharpened by the disappointment! And it is all over!
over, for a whole year! And yet the power that can heal is here, shut
up in this box, so near us! among us! They rush at the shrines and
cling to them!--Nails are broken and bleeding against the iron-bound
corners!--And the inexorable capstan up above turns and turns, tearing
from the writhing crowd at the bottom of the well the strange coffin,
that goes up, up, at the end of the straining ropes. Standing on
tiptoe, jostling, overturning, crushing one another without pity, the
poor devils struggle for the last touch--the last, supreme touch that
may, perhaps, because it is the last, secure the coveted grace.--And
all in vain. Amid the sobbing prayers, the mysterious closed vessel
goes up toward the lofty chapel, carrying the water of salvation of
which so many feverish lips long to drink. And when the shrines pass
out of sight, near the arch, behind the lowered shutters,--then
veritable shrieks of agony go up from the frenzied crowd who cannot
endure the death of hope.
Then the uproar becomes truly frightful; then selfishness breaks
forth unbridled, each one uttering for his own behoof the bestial cry
that should bring down on him alone the saints' compassion; then the
lamentation is wild, the supplication horrible to hear, the prayers
are prayers of rage! And in this deep moat, whose walls tremble with
the noise, there is a great uproar as of unclean beasts, thirsting
for their God as for a physical blessing, as for a vainly awaited
promised land! And, nailed against one of the bare walls of the
fortress-church, a great crucifix, with open arms and upturned face,
above all those distorted faces, all those raised and writhing arms,
seems to mingle with the fierce lamentations of the human brutes its
divine but no less fruitless and much more despairing cry!
And yet, it is almost always at the last moment, at the precise second
when the shrines disappear, that the miracle takes place, and a
paralytic walks or a blind girl sees. One cries out: "Miracle!"
Lucky girl! She is surrounded, almost suffocated.
"Can you see?"--"I did see."--"Can you see
now?"--"Wait--yes!"--"What?"--"A bright red lily! a flash! an
angel!"--"Miracle! miracle!"
A man, a villager, immediately takes the child in his arms. Ah! he has
seen miracles before! See how he hurries to take the child away on his
shoulders, on the shield! He carries her thus so that all may see the
miraculously-cured; so that no one shall forget that genuine miracles
are done at Saintes-Maries, and come again! And the crowd follows,
giving thanks. They hurry to the parsonage; the miracle is recorded in
the presence of several assembled priests.
"Did you see?"--"Yes, I saw!"
And the procession moves on.
Ah! Christophore, the old pirate!--How he hurries along, with his lie
on his shoulders!--He is a poor inhabitant of Saintes-Maries to whom
the presence of so many strangers every year brings in something, as
it does to all the rest, and he trots joyously off with his living
decoy.
The next day, the child of the miracle is found alone at the foot of
the Calvary, on the beach, left there for a moment by the woman or
child who acts as her guide.
"Well, can you see?"--"No."--"What about the miracle, then?"
Poor child! In her plaintive voice, she replies: "It has gone
again!"--"But you did see, yesterday?"--"Yes."--"If you could see, why
did they carry you?"--"Oh! monsieur, I couldn't see anything but
flowers, bright red lilies; but as to walking--oh! no, I couldn't see
to do that! And now it is all dark. I can't see anything at all any
more; yes, the miracle--has gone away!"
As soon as the relics had disappeared, everybody left the church in
procession, to go to bless the sea--the sea that bore the saints to
Camargue--the sea whereon the brave fishermen risk their lives every
day.
The cure walked at the head of the procession. He held a relic in his
hand; it was the Silver Arm, a hollow object in which some relics of
the saints can be seen through a little square of glass.
The crowd followed in order. There were hundreds, yes, thousands of
them. Great numbers of pilgrims, sitting on the dunes, watched the
procession winding its way along the sandy beach where a few
flat-boats lay high and dry.
Behind Monsieur le cure, six men bore on their shoulders a carved and
painted wooden image, of considerable size, representing the two
saints in the boat. There was so much jostling, by so many of the
crowd, to secure the honor of replacing the bearers, that the boat
pitched and rolled on their shoulders as if it were at sea in a high
wind.
Saint Sara, the black saint, came next, borne by dark-haired,
swarthy-faced gipsies, with eyes that glistened like jet. Their little
ones meanwhile glided through the crowd like rats, creeping between
people's legs and stealing handkerchiefs and purses.
And in the wake of the saints came young men and maidens, carrying
lilies, sweet-smelling lilies, collected in sheaves every year for the
procession of the faithful.
Others held tapers whose light could not be detected in the bright
sunlight, but the lilies filled the air with perfume. These lilies
were Livette's delight.
Monsieur le cure reached the water's edge. He held out the Silver Arm.
Thereupon, the sea, for an instant, recoiled--only a little. The poor
fishermen's wives quickly crossed themselves.
And all those who were standing on the dunes, watching the procession
pass, saw the bearers marching at the head loom taller and taller at
every step by reason of the mirage. And the saints on the bearers'
shoulders gradually increased in size with them, and seemed to rise
heavenward, of prodigious size, as in a vision.
"Protect us, great saints! May the sea be kind to us of Saintes-Maries
this year!"
Poor people, poor souls! Wait till next year.
Every year it is the same thing. All this returns and will return,
like the seasons.
On the day following that on which the relics returned to their
retreat, the majority of the pilgrims left the village. All the camps
were struck at almost the same hour.
The carriages of all sorts, the cabriolets, dog-carts,
_chars-a-bancs_, _jardinieres_, break-necks, the rich farmers' breaks,
and the peasants' wagons, covered with canvas stretched over hoops,
carried away seven, eight, ten thousand travellers of all ages, sick
or well, and the long line crawled like a serpent over the flat road
between two deserts. Here and there, at the left of the line, mounted
men, many of whom carried a girl _en croupe_, rode back and forth,
looking for one another, now waiting, now riding on at a gallop to
take the lead of the caravan.
This departure of the pilgrims was another spectacle for the good
people of Saintes-Maries, who stood around in noisy groups on the
outskirts of the village, waving a last adieu to the guests whose
presence they had taken advantage of to the utmost.
Those who had been compelled to give shelter to friends and had
consequently been unable to put so high a price on their hospitality,
good-humoredly repeated the amusing sentiment, that certainly smacks
less of Arabia than do the horses of the district: _Friends who come
to visit us always afford us pleasure; if not when they arrive, at all
events when they depart._
On the second day following that on which the gipsy had smiled upon
the drover, when the party of zingari passed in their place at the
tail of the procession, some mounted on sorry nags, others jolting
about in their wretched wagons,--some of the women on foot, the
better to beg, carrying their children slung bandoleer-wise over their
backs,--it was observed that the queen's wagon was not among them.
Zinzara had remained at Saintes-Maries.
She proposed to give herself the pleasure of administering a rebuff to
the drover, with whom she had made an assignation for that very
evening.
This is what had taken place.
During the branding, Renaud had whispered in Zinzara's ear:
"Ah! now I have you, gipsy! what a pity that it is before all these
people!"
"On my word, I have the same thought _at this moment_," she replied,
deeply touched by the grand presence of mind he had just shown in
defending her.
"All right," he said, "I'll come and speak to you very soon. These are
lovely nights."
"No, to-morrow," said she, "to-morrow, do you understand? after the
wagons have gone."
But at the close of the performance, when he saw Livette coming toward
him with pale cheeks, so pale that she looked like a corpse, he was
seized with poignant remorse.
"She saw me," he said to himself, "and she is suffering from
jealousy."
And so great was his pity for the poor little girl that he felt
capable of sacrificing to her, once for all, at the very moment when
it had become more difficult than ever, his insane passion for the
other. All the chaste affection he had felt for Livette from the very
first, so different from passion and so pleasant to the senses, came
back to him like the puff of fresh air that awakens one from a bad
dream.
Furthermore, he was surprised, almost disconcerted, to find that the
gipsy's formal promise did not afford him the pleasure he had expected
when he had dreamed of it in anticipation.
Livette left him to join her father, who was not to take her back to
the chateau until the evening of the following day, two or three hours
after the departure of the pilgrims, in order to remain until the end
of the fete, and to avoid the thick dust and the enforced slowness of
the long procession.
And that day--in the afternoon--Renaud fell in with Monsieur le cure.
"Good-day, drover. What is the matter, my boy? You seem preoccupied."
"Oh! cure," said Renaud, "sometimes it is difficult to do what is
right!"
With that he was about to pass on, but the cure seized his arm and
detained him.
"Eh! cure," said Renaud, "you have still a powerful grasp!"
"Beware, Renaud," said the cure very slowly, "lest you become a great
sinner. I know what I know. Your betrothed wife is weeping. She is
jealous. Already rumors are in circulation concerning you. And for
whom, just God! would you betray that virtuous girl, who, wealthy as
she is, gives herself to you, a poor orphan? You would ruin a whole
family, poor you! and your honor and the repose of your heart,
forever! The devil is crafty, you are right, and to do right is
difficult, but those whom the devil inspires, when you follow their
momentary caprice and your own fancy, lead you on to abysses deeper
than the _lorons_ of the _paluns_. You are walking at this moment on
the moving crust! If it bursts, adieu, my man! You will be engulfed
body and soul. As for yourself, that is a small matter! but by what
right do you compel the little one to run the risk of your downfall?
You are dealing with an accursed creature, a woman who does not know
herself, who is submissive to nobody, and who cares nothing for the
misfortunes of others. Whatever she does is for her own amusement. I
have seen her and watched her. The saints have taught me many things.
Beware! The little one is brave. Some day there may be innocent blood
on your hands, if you keep on in the road I forbid you to follow, for
the devil is in the affair, I tell you, and all sorts of monsters are
awaiting you at the turning in the evil road. A betrothed lover's
infidelity, like a husband's, lays an egg filled with ghastly
creatures, which sometimes hatches. If you have a heart, show it,
Renaud, take my advice, and go back to your horses and cattle in the
solitude of your plains, where the malignant fever is less to be
feared than the disease you are taking here!"
Renaud, the tall, strong, dashing blade, listened to these wise words,
hanging his head, poor fellow, like a child scolded for not knowing
his catechism.
"If you are a man, make up your mind at once, and give me your word as
a true-hearted drover."
"Take my hand, Monsieur le cure. I give you my word. I was in a fair
way to go wrong. A spell was on me."
The two men exchanged a grasp of the hand.
The cure walked away with an anxious heart. He knew that Renaud was
sincere, but he knew the strength of man's passion and his ingenuity
in lying.
So the cure had been asking questions?--In that case, to consort with
the gipsy was to risk a rupture with Livette.
Renaud was about to leave the village,--or, if you please, the
town,--with his mind firmly made up to renounce the gitana. Yes, he
would sacrifice her to Livette, to his earnest desire to have a
peaceful, happy home and a family, he, the wandering cowherd, the
orphan, the foundling of the desert. That was happiness;--a roof to
shelter one, a roof whose smoke one can see from afar on the horizon,
thinking: the wife and little ones are there.