such an imposing uniform as he wore! For Jules Gustave Adolphe Marie
Clomadoc was a colonel in some regiment stationed at Boulogne. Out he
skipped; in he marched; and, peeping over the banisters, they saw him
salute Madame F. with a stately kiss on the hand, then escort her up to
her _salon_, bowing loftily, and twisting his tawny moustache with an
air that gave him the effect of being six feet in height, and broad in
proportion.
How he greeted his _fiancée_ they knew not, but the murmur of voices
came from the room in steady flow for hours, and Gaston flew in and out
with an air of immense importance.
At dinner the strangers were proudly presented to M. le Colonel, and
received affable bows from the little man, who flattered himself that he
could talk English, and insisted on speaking an unknown tongue,
evidently wondering at their stupidity in not understanding their own
language.
He escorted Madame down, sat between her and Pelagie, but talked only to
her; while the girl sat silent and ate her dinner with an appetite which
no emotion could diminish. It was very funny to see the small warrior do
his wooing of the daughter through the mother; and the buxom widow
played her part so well that an unenlightened observer would have said
_she_ was the bride-elect. She smiled, she sighed, she discoursed, she
coquetted, and now and then plucked out her handkerchief and wept at the
thought of losing the angel, who was placidly gnawing bones and wiping
up the gravy on her plate with bits of bread.
Jules responded with spirit, talked, jested, quoted poetry, paid
compliments right and left, and now and then passed the salt, filled a
glass, or offered a napkin to his _fiancée_ with a French shrug and a
tender glance.
After dinner Madame F. begged him to recite one of his poems; for it
appeared this all-accomplished man was beloved of the muse, and twanged
the lyre as well as wielded the sword. With much persuasion and many
modest apologies, Jules at length consented, took his place upon the
rug, thrust one hand into his bosom, turned up his eyes, and, in a
tremendous voice, declaimed a pensive poem of some twenty stanzas,
called 'Adieu to my past.'
The poet's friends listened with rapt countenances and frequent bursts
of emotion or applause; but the Americans suffered agonies, for the
whole thing was so absurdly melodramatic that it was with great
difficulty they kept themselves from explosions of laughter. When the
little man dropped his voice to a hoarse whisper, in bidding adieu to
the lost loves of his youth, tender-hearted old C. sobbed in her napkin;
while Livy only saved herself from hysterics by drinking a glass of
water, and Pelagie ate sugar, with her round eyes fixed on her lover's
face, without the slightest expression whatever.
When the poet mourned his blighted hopes, and asked wildly of all the
elements if he should live or die, Gaston cast reproachful glances at
the alien charmer who had nipped his passion in the bud; and when Jules
gave a sudden start, slapped his brow, and declared that he would live
for his country, old Marie choked in her coffee, while Madame F. clapped
her fat hands, and cried: 'It is sublime!'
The poem closed there, and the providential appearance of their donkeys
gave the ladies an excuse for retiring to their room, where they laughed
till they could laugh no more.
Each meal was as good as a play, and every glimpse they had of the
little pair gave fresh food for mirth. Everything was so formal and
polite, so utterly unlike the free-and-easy customs of their native
land, that they were kept in alternate states of indignation and
amusement the whole time. Jules never was alone with his Pelagie for an
instant; such a breach of etiquette would have shocked the entire town.
In the walks and drives which the family took together, Madame was
always at the Colonel's side; while Gaston escorted his sister, looking
as if he was fast reaching a state of mind when he would give her away
without a pang. Many guests came and went, much kissing and bowing,
prancing and rustling, went on, up and down stairs. Stately old
gentlemen called, papers were signed, fortunes discussed, and gifts
displayed. Pelagie went much to mass; also to the barber's and the bath.
Agitated milliners flew in and out. A great load of trunks arrived from
Nantes, where Madame formerly lived; and the day before the wedding a
whole carriage full of Clomadocs appeared, and Babel seemed to have come
again.
A great supper was given that evening, and the Three were banished to
their own rooms; where, however, they fared sumptuously, for Madame C.
and good old Marie ate with them, having no place left them but the
kitchen. Madame C. was much hurt that she had not been asked to the
wedding. It seemed the least Madame F. could do after taking possession
of the house, and turning its rightful owner out of every room but the
attic. Madame C. was a gentlewoman; and though a meek old soul, this
rudeness hurt her very much. She said nothing; but Marie fumed and
scolded fiercely, and proposed that the neglected ones should all go
away on the wedding-day, and make a _fête_ for themselves somewhere. So
they decided to drive to Dinare, enjoy the fine views of the sea and St.
Malo, dine, and return at dusk, leaving the house free for the wedding
festivities.
The day was fine, and the ladies were graciously invited to behold the
bride before she left for church. She looked as much like a
fashion-plate as it was possible for a living girl to look; and they
dutifully kissed her on both cheeks, paid their compliments and retired,
thanking their stars that they were not in her place.
Mamma was gorgeous to behold, in royal purple and black lace. Gaston was
so glossy and beruffled and begemmed, that they gazed with awe upon the
French Adonis. But the bridegroom was a sight for gods and men. In full
regimentals with a big sword, so many orders that there was hardly room
for them on his little breast, and a cocked hat, with a forest of
feathers, in which he extinguished himself at intervals. How his tiny
boots shone, his tawny moustache bristled with importance, and his
golden epaulets glittered as he shrugged and pranced! His honoured papa
and mamma were both tall, portly people, beside whom the manikin looked
like a child. Livy quite longed to see Madame Clomadoc take little Jules
on her knee, and amuse him with _bonbons_ when he got impatient at the
delay of the carriage.
The Three peeped out of windows, and over the banisters, and got fine
glimpses of the splendours below. Flocks of elegant ladies went sailing
up the narrow stairs. Gentlemen with orders, dandies wonderful to
behold, and a few children (to play with the bridegroom, as Livy
wickedly said), adorned the hall and _salon_. Every one talked at the
top of his or her voice. Shrieks of rapture, groans of despair, greeted
a fine toilette or a torn glove. Peals of laughter from the gentlemen,
and shrill cries from the infants, echoed through the once peaceful
halls. As Françoise said 'It was truly divine.'
At eleven, every one trooped into the carriages again. How they ever got
so many full-dressed people into one carriage is a mystery to this day.
But in they piled, regardless of trains, corpulency, or height; and
coach after coach lumbered away to the church.
The bride's carriage could not be got very near the door. So she tripped
out to it, leaning on her uncle's arm, while the devoted Gaston bore her
train. Mamma sailed after in a purple cloud; and when two young damsels,
in arsenic green, were packed in, away they went, leaving the bridegroom
to follow.
Then came the catastrophe! Stout papa and mamma were safely in; a friend
of Jules, some six feet high, shut himself up like a jack-knife; and
with a farewell wave of the cocked hat, the small bridegroom skipped in
after them. The coachman cracked his whip, intending to dash under the
arched gateway in fine style. But alas! the harness was old, the big
horses clumsy, and the road half paved. The traces gave way, the beasts
reared, the big coach lurched, and dismal wails arose. Out burst the
fierce little hero of the day, and the tall friend followed by
instalments.
Great was the excitement as the natives gathered about the carriage with
offers of help, murmurs of sympathy, and unseemly mirth on the part of
the boys. Jules did the swearing; and never were heard such big oaths as
fell from the lips of this irate little man. It really seemed as if he
would explode with wrath. He dashed the impressive cocked hat upon the
stones, laid his hand upon his sword, tore his hair, and clutched his
moustache in paroxysms of despair.
His bride was gone, waiting in agitated suspense for him. No other coach
could be had, as the resources of the town had been exhausted. The
harness was in a desperate state, the men at their wit's end how to
mend it, and time flying fast. _Maire_ and priest were waiting, the
whole effect of the wedding was being ruined by this delay, and 'ten
thousand devils' seemed to possess the awkward coachman.
During the flurry, Papa Clomadoc appeared to slumber tranquilly in the
recesses of the carriage. Mamma endeavoured to soothe her boy with cries
of 'Tranquillize yourself, my cherished son. It is nothing.' 'Come,
then, and reassure papa.' 'Inhale the odour of my vinaigrette. It will
compose your lacerated nerves, my angel.'
But the angel wouldn't come, and continued to dance and swear, and slap
his hat about until the damages were repaired, when he flung himself,
exhausted, into the carriage, and was borne away to his bride.
'A lively prospect for poor Pelagie.' 'What a little fiend he is!'
'Spinsters for ever!'
With these remarks, the ladies ordered their own equipage, an infant
omnibus, much in vogue in Dinan, where retired army officers, English or
Scotch, drive about with their little families of eighteen or twenty.
One Colonel Newcome, a grave-looking man, used to come to church in a
bus of this sort, with nine daughters and four sons, like a patriarch.
The strangers thought it was a boarding-school, till he presented the
entire flock, with paternal pride, as 'my treasures.'
Madame C., in a large Leghorn bonnet, trembling with yellow bows, led
the way with an air of lofty indifference as to what became of her house
that day. Marie bore a big basket, full of cold fowls, salad, and wines;
she also was in a new spring hat of purple, which made her rosy old
face look like a china aster. Lavinia reposed upon the other seat; and
the infants insisted on sharing the driver's seat, up aloft, that they
might enjoy the prospect, which freak caused Flabeau's boy to beam and
blush till his youthful countenance was a deep scarlet.
They had a pleasant day; for good old Madame soon recovered her temper,
and beguiled the time with lively tales of her mother's trials during
the Revolution.
Marie concocted spiced drinks, salad that was a thing to dream of, not
to tell, and produced such edible treasures that her big basket seemed
bottomless.
The frisky damsels explored ruins, ran races on the hard beach, sniffed
the salt breezes, and astonished the natives by swarming up and down
'precipices,' as they called the rocks.
That was a fatal day for Flabeau's boy (they never knew his name); for,
as if the wedding had flown to his head, he lost his youthful heart to
one of the lively damsels who invaded his perch. Such tender glances as
his China-blue eyes cast upon her; such grins of joy as he gave when she
spoke to him; such feats of agility as he performed, leaping down to
gather flowers, or hurling himself over thorny hedges, to point out a
_dolmen_ or a _menhir_ (they never could remember which was which).
Alas, alas! for Flabeau's boy! Deeply was he wounded that day by the
unconscious charmer, who would as soon have thought of inspiring love in
the bosom of the broken-nosed saint by the wayside as in the heart that
beat under the blue blouse.
I regret to say that 'the infants,' as Madame C. always called Miss
Livy's charges, behaved themselves with less decorum than could have
been wished. But the proud consciousness that _they_ never could be
disposed of as Pelagie had been had such an exhilarating effect upon
them that they frisked like the lambs in the field.
One drove the bus in a retired spot and astonished the stout horses by
the way in which she bowled them along the fine, hard road. The other
sang college songs, to the intense delight of the old ladies, who
admired the '_chants Amériques_ so gay,' and to the horror of their
duenna, who knew what they meant. A shower came up, and they _would_
remain outside; so the boy put up a leathern hood, and they sat inside
in such a merry mood that the silent youth suddenly caught the
infection, and burst forth into a Breton melody, which he continued to
drone till they got home.
The house was a blaze of light when they arrived, and Françoise, the
maid, came flying out to report sundry breakages and mishaps. How the
salad had precipitated itself downstairs, dish and all. How Monsieur
Gaston was so gay, so inconceivably gay, that he could hardly stand, and
insisted on kissing her clandestinely. That Mademoiselle Pelagie had
wept much because her veil was torn; and Madame F. had made a fresh
toilette, ravishing to behold. Would the dear ladies survey the party,
still at table? Regard them from the little window in the garden, and
see if it is not truly a spectacle the most superb!
They did regard them, and saw the bride at the head of the table, eating
steadily through the dessert; the bridegroom reciting poems with
tremendous effect; Gaston almost invisible behind a barricade of
bottles; and Madame F., in violet velvet, diamonds, plumes, and lace,
more sleek and buxom than ever. The ladies all talked at once, and the
gentlemen drank healths every five minutes. A very French and festive
scene it was; for the room was small, and twenty mortals were stowed
therein. One fat lady sat in the fireplace, Papa Clomadoc leaned his
heavy head upon the sideboard, and the plump shoulders of Madame F. were
half out of the front window. 'But it was genteel. Oh! I assure you,
yes,' as Françoise said.
How long they kept it up the weary trio did not wait to see, but retired
to their beds, and slumbered peacefully, waking only when Gaston was
borne up to his room, chanting the 'Marseillaise' at the top of his
voice.
Next day M. and Madame Clomadoc, Jr., made calls, and Pelagie had the
joy of wearing her shawl. For three days she astonished the natives by
promenading with her lord in a fresh toilette each day. On the fourth
they all piled into a big carriage, and went away to make a round of
visits, before the young people settled down at Boulogne.
The Americans never thought to hear any more of Pelagie; but, as dear
old Madame C. wrote to them several times after they left, the little
story may be finished here, though the sequel did not actually come till
a year later.
Many were the sage predictions of the Three as to the success of this
marriage--Amanda approving of that style of thing, Matilda objecting
fiercely to the entire affair, and Lavinia firmly believing in the good
old doctrine of love as your only firm basis for so solemn a bargain.
Wagers were laid that the fiery little Colonel would shoot some one in a
jealous fit, or that Pelagie would elope, or both charcoal themselves to
death, as the best way out of the predicament. But none of them guessed
how tragically it would really end.
Late in the following spring came a letter from Madame C., telling them
that Jules had gone to the war, and been shot in his first battle; that
Pelagie was with her mother again, comforting herself for her loss with
a still smaller Jules, who never saw his father, and, it is to be hoped,
did not resemble him. So little Pelagie's brief romance ended; and one
would fancy that the experiences of that year would make her quite
content to remain under mamma's wing, with no lord and master but the
little son, to whom she was a very tender mother.
Pleasant days those were in quaint old Dinan; for spring's soft magic
glorified earth and sky, and a delicious sense of rest and freedom gave
a charm to that quiet life. Legends of romance and chivalry hung about
the ruins of castle and _château_, as green and golden as the ivy and
bright wall-flowers that tapestried the crumbling walls, and waved like
banners from the turret tops. Lovely walks into woods, starred with pale
primroses, and fragrant with wild hyacinths; down green lanes, leading
to quaint cottages, or over wide meadows full of pink-tipped daisies and
dear familiar buttercups, the same all the world over.
Sometimes they took gay donkey-drives to visit a solemn dolmen in a
gloomy pine-wood, with mistletoe hanging from the trees, and the ghosts
of ancient Druids haunting the spot. The cavalcade on such occasions was
an imposing spectacle. Matilda being fond of horses likewise affected
donkeys (or thought she did, till she tried to drive one), and usually
went first in a small vehicle like a chair on wheels, drawn by an
animal who looked about the size of a mouse, when the stately Mat in
full array, yellow parasol, long whip, camp-stool, and sketch-book, sat
bolt upright on her perch, driving in the most approved manner.
The small beast, after much whipping, would break into a trot, and go
pattering over the hard, white road, with his long ears wagging, and his
tiny hoofs raising a great dust for the benefit of the other turnout
just behind.
In a double chair sat Lavinia, bundled up as usual, and the amiable
Amanda, both flushed with constant pokings and thrashings of their
steed. A venerable ass, so like an old whity-brown hair trunk as to his
body, and Nick Bottom's mask as to his head, that he was a constant
source of mirth to the ladies. Mild and venerable as he looked, however,
he was a most incorrigible beast, and it took two immortal souls, and
four arms, to get the ancient donkey along.
Vain all the appeals to his conscience, pity, or pride: nothing but a
sharp poke among his ribs, a steady shower of blows on his fuzzy old
back, and frequent 'yanks' of the reins produced any effect. It was
impossible to turn out for anything, and the ladies resigned themselves
to the ignominy of sitting still, in the middle of the road, and letting
other carriages drive over or round them.
On rare occasions the beast would bolt into the ditch as a vehicle drew
near; but usually he paused abruptly, put his head down, and apparently
went to sleep.
Matilda got on better, because little Bernard Du Guesclin, as she named
her mouse, was so very small, that she could take him up, and turn him
round bodily, when other means failed, or pull him half into the chair
if danger threatened in front. He was a sprightly little fellow, and had
not yet lost all the ardour of youth, or developed the fiendish
obstinacy of his kind; so he frequently ran little races--now and then
pranced, and was not quite dead to the emotion of gratitude in return
for bits of bread.
Truly, yes; the fair Mat with her five feet seven inches, and little
Bernard, whose longest ear, when most erect, did not reach much above
her waist, were a sweet pair of friends, and caused her mates great
amusement.
'I must have some one to play with, for I can't improve my mind _all_
the time as 'Mandy does, or cuddle and doze like Livy. I've had
experience with young donkeys of all sorts, and I give you my word
little Bernie is much better fun than some I've known with shorter ears
and fewer legs.'
Thus Matilda, regardless of the jeers of her friends, when they
proposed having the small beast into the _salon_ to beguile the tedium
of a rainy day.
As the summer came on, picnics were introduced, and gay parties would
pile into and on to Flabeau's small omnibus, and drive off to Hunandaye,
Coétquën, La Bellière, Guingamp, or some other unpronounceable but most
charming spot, for a day of sunshine and merrymaking.
The hospitable English came out strong on these occasions, with ''ampers
of 'am-sandwiches, bottled porter and so on, don't you know?' all in
fine style. Even the stout doctor donned his knickerbockers and grey
hose, unfurled his Japanese umbrella, and, with a pretty niece on either
arm, disported himself like a boy.
But pleasantest of all were the daily strolls through the little town
and its environs, getting glimpses of Breton manners and customs.
The houses were usually composed of one room, where, near the open fire,
and fixed against the wall, stands the bedstead or _lit clos_, of old
oak, shut in by carved sliding panels, often bearing an inscription or
some sacred symbol. The mattresses and feather-beds are so piled up,
that there is hardly room to creep in. Before it is the big chest
containing the family wardrobe, answering the double purpose of a seat
and a step by which to ascend the lofty bed. Cupboards on each side
often have wide shelves, where the children sleep. Settles and a long
table complete the furniture; the latter often has little wells hollowed
out in the top to hold the soup instead of plates. Over the table,
suspended by pulleys, are two indispensable articles in a Breton
house,--a large round basket to cover the bread, and a wooden frame to
hold the spoons. Festoons of sausages, hams, candles, onions,
horse-shoes, harness, and tools, all hang from the ceiling. The floor is
of beaten earth. One narrow window lets in the light. There are no
out-houses, and pigs and poultry mingle freely with the family.
The gardens are well kept, and produce quantities of fruit and
vegetables. The chief food of the poorer class is bread or porridge of
buckwheat, with cabbage soup, made by pouring hot water over cabbage
leaves and adding a bit of butter.
They are a home-loving people, and pine like the Swiss, if forced to
leave their native land. They are brave soldiers and good sailors.
'Their vices,' as a Breton writer says, 'are avarice, contempt for
women, and drunkenness; their virtues, love of home and country,
resignation to the will of God, loyalty to each other, and
hospitality.' Their motto is, 'En tout chemin loyauté.'
They are very superstitious, and some of their customs are curious. At
New Year pieces of bread and butter are thrown into the fountains, and
from the way in which they swim the future is foretold. If the buttered
side turns under, it forebodes death; if two pieces adhere together, it
is a sign of sickness; and if a piece floats properly, it is an
assurance of long life and prosperity.
Girls throw pins into the fountain of Saloun to tell, by their manner of
sinking, when they will be married. If the pin goes down head-foremost,
there is little hope; but, if the point goes first, it is a sure sign of
being married that year.
Their veneration for healing-springs is very great, and, though at
times forbidden by the Church, is still felt. Pounded snails, worn in a
bag on the neck, is believed to be a cure for fever; and a certain holy
bell rung over the head, a cure for head-ache. 'If we believe in that
last remedy, what a ceaseless tingling that bell would keep up in
America!' said Lavinia, when these facts were mentioned to her.
In some towns they have, in the cemetery, a bone-house or reliquary. It
is the custom, after a certain time, to dig up the bones of the dead,
and preserve the skulls in little square boxes like bird-houses, with a
heart-shaped opening, to show the relic within. The names and dates of
the deceased are inscribed outside.
Saint Ives or Yves is a favourite saint, and images of him are in all
churches and over many doors. He was one of the remarkable characters
of the thirteenth century. He studied law in Paris, and devoted his
talents to defending the poor; hence, he was called 'the poor man's
advocate:' and so great is the confidence placed in his justice, that,
even now, when a debtor falsely denies his debt, a peasant will pay
twenty _sous_ for a mass to St. Ives, sure that the Saint will cause the
faithless creditor to die within the year or pay up.
His truthfulness was such that he was called 'St. Yves de vérité.' He
was the special patron of lawyers, but he does not seem to be their
model.