grasp the situation in its true light. All these little details may be
interesting in themselves, and doubtless the press will take note of
them; but they are entirely beside the point. With the muddleheadedness
of your officials (which I have frequently remarked upon) I have
nothing whatever to do. All I know is, that this young gentleman has
been formally handed over to me for execution, with all the necessary
legal requirements; and executed he has got to be. When my duty has
been performed, you are at liberty to re-open the case if you like; and
any ‘little mistake’ that may have occurred through your stupidity you
can then rectify at your leisure. Meantime, you’ve no _locus standi_
here at all; in fact, you’ve no business whatever lumbering up my
scaffold. So shut up and clear out.”
“Now, Jeanne, do be reasonable,” implored the Mayor. “You women are so
precise. You never will make any allowance for the necessary margin of
error in things.”
“If I were to allow the necessary margin for all _your_ errors, Mayor,”
replied Jeanne, coolly, “the edition would have to be a large-paper
one, and even then the text would stand a poor chance. And now, if
you don’t allow me the necessary margin to swing my axe, there may be
another ‘little mistake’----”
But at this point a hubbub arose at the foot of the scaffold, and
Jeanne, leaning over, perceived sundry tall fellows, clad in the livery
of the Seigneur, engaged in dispersing the municipal guard by the
agency of well-directed kicks, applied with heartiness and anatomical
knowledge. A moment later, there strode on to the scaffold, clad in
black velvet, and adorned with his gold chain of office, the stately
old seneschal of the Château, evidently in a towering passion.
“Now, mark my words, you miserable little bladder-o’-lard,” he roared
at the Mayor (whose bald head certainly shone provokingly in the
morning sun), “see if I don’t take this out of your skin presently!”
And he passed on to where the youth was still kneeling, apparently
quite absorbed in the view.
“My lord,” he said, firmly though respectfully, “your hair-brained
folly really passes all bounds. Have you entirely lost your head?”
“Faith, nearly,” said the young man, rising and stretching himself. “Is
that you, old Thibault? Ow, what a crick I’ve got in my neck! But that
view of the valley was really delightful!”
“Did you come here simply to admire the view, my lord?” inquired
Thibault severely.
“I came because my horse would come,” replied the young Seigneur
lightly: “that is, these gentlemen here were so pressing; they would
not hear of any refusal; and besides, they forgot to mention what my
attendance was required in such a hurry for. And when I got here,
Thibault, old fellow, and saw that divine creature--nay, a goddess,
_dea certé_--so graceful, so modest, so anxious to acquit herself with
credit----Well, you know my weakness; I never could bear to disappoint
a woman. She had evidently set her heart on taking my head; and as she
had my heart already----”
“I think, my lord,” said Thibault with some severity, “you had better
let me escort you back to the Château. This appears to be hardly a safe
place for light-headed and susceptible persons!”
Jeanne, as was natural, had the last word. “Understand me, Mr. Mayor,”
said she, “these proceedings are entirely irregular. I decline to
recognise them, and when the quarter expires I shall claim the usual
bonus!”
V
When, an hour or two later, an invitation arrived--courteously worded,
but significantly backed by an escort of half-a-dozen tall archers--for
both Jeanne and the Mayor to attend at the Château without delay,
Jeanne for her part received it with neither surprise nor reluctance.
She had felt it especially hard that the only two interviews fate had
granted her with the one man who had made some impression on her heart,
should be hampered, the one by considerations of propriety, the other
by the conflicting claims of her profession and its duties. On this
occasion, now, she would have an excellent chaperon in the Mayor; and
business being over for the day, they could meet and unbend on a common
social footing. The Mayor was not at all surprised either, considering
what had gone before; but he was exceedingly terrified, and sought some
consolation from Jeanne as they proceeded together to the Château.
That young lady’s remarks, however, could hardly be called exactly
comforting.
“I always thought you’d put your foot in it some day, Mayor,” she said.
“You are so hopelessly wanting in system and method. Really, under the
present happy-go-lucky police arrangements, I never know whom I may
not be called upon to execute. Between you and my cousin Enguerrand,
life is hardly safe in this town. And the worst of it is, that we other
officials on the staff have to share in the discredit.”
“What do you think they’ll do to me, Jeanne?” whimpered the Mayor,
perspiring freely.
“Can’t say, I’m sure,” pursued the candid Jeanne. “Of course, if it’s
anything in the _rack_ line of business, I shall have to superintend
the arrangements, and then you can feel sure you’re in capable hands.
But probably they’ll only fine you pretty smartly, give you a month
or two in the dungeons, and dismiss you from your post; and you will
hardly grudge any slight personal inconvenience resulting from an
arrangement so much to the advantage of the town.”
This was hardly reassuring, but the Mayor’s official reprimand of the
previous day still rankled in this unforgiving young person’s mind.
On their reaching the Château, the Mayor was conducted aside, to be
dealt with by Thibault; and from the sounds of agonised protestation
and lament which shortly reached Jeanne’s ears, it was evident that
he was having a _mauvais quart d’heure_. The young lady was shown
respectfully into a chamber apart, where she had hardly had time
to admire sufficiently the good taste of the furniture and the
magnificence of the tapestry with which the walls were hung, when the
Seigneur entered and welcomed her with a cordial grace that put her
entirely at her ease.
“Your punctuality puts me to shame, fair mistress,” he said,
“considering how unwarrantably I kept you waiting this morning, and how
I tested your patience by my ignorance and awkwardness.”
He had changed his dress, and the lace round his neck was even richer
than before. Jeanne had always considered one of the chief marks
of a well-bred man to be a fine disregard for the amount of his
washing-bill; and then with what good taste he referred to recent
events--putting himself in the wrong, as a gentleman should!
“Indeed, my lord,” she replied modestly, “I was only too anxious to
hear from your own lips that you bore me no ill-will for the part
forced on me by circumstances in our recent interview. Your lordship
has sufficient critical good sense, I feel sure, to distinguish between
the woman and the official.”
“True, Jeanne,” he replied, drawing nearer; “and while I shrink from
expressing, in their fulness, all the feelings that the woman inspires
in me, I have no hesitation--for I know it will give you pleasure--in
acquainting you with the entire artistic satisfaction with which I
watched you at your task!”
“But, indeed” said Jeanne, “you did not see me at my best. In fact,
I can’t help wishing--it’s ridiculous, I know, because the thing is
hardly practicable--but if I could only have carried my performance
quite through, and put the last finishing touches to it, you would not
have been judging me now by the mere ‘blocking-in’ of what promised to
be a masterpiece!”
“Yes, I wish it could have been arranged somehow,” said the Seigneur
reflectively; “but perhaps it’s better as it is. I am content to let
the artist remain for the present on trust, if I may only take over,
fully paid up, the woman I adore!”
Jeanne felt strangely weak. The official seemed oozing out at her
fingers and toes, while the woman’s heart beat even more distressingly.
“I have one little question to ask,” he murmured (his arm was about her
now). “Do I understand that you still claim your bonus?”
Jeanne felt like water in his strong embrace; but she nerved herself to
answer faintly but firmly: “Yes!”
“Then so do I,” he replied, as his lips met hers.
* * * * *
Executions continued to occur in St. Radegonde; the Radegundians being
conservative and very human. But much of the innocent enjoyment that
formerly attended them departed after the fair Chatelaine had ceased
to officiate. Enguerrand, on succeeding to the post, wedded Clairette,
she being (he was heard to say) a more suitable match in mind and
temper than others of whom he would name no names. Rumour had it,
that he found his match and something over; while as for temper--and
mind (which she gave him in bits)----But the domestic trials of
high-placed officials have a right to be held sacred. The profession,
in spite of his best endeavours, languished nevertheless. Some said
that the scaffold lacked its old attraction for criminals of spirit;
others, more unkindly, that the headsman was the innocent cause, and
that Enguerrand was less fatal in his new sphere than formerly, when
practising in the criminal court as advocate for the defence.
Credo
By Arthur Symons
EACH, in himself, his hour to be and cease
Endures alone, yet few there be who dare
Sole with himself his single burden bear,
All the long day until the night’s release.
Yet, ere the night fall, and the shadows close,
This labour of himself is each man’s lot;
All a man hath, yet living, is forgot,
Himself he leaves behind him when he goes.
If he have any valiancy within,
If he have made his life his very own,
If he have loved and laboured, and have known
A strenuous virtue, and the joy of sin;
Then, being dead, he has not lived in vain,
For he has saved what most desire to lose,
And he has chosen what the few must choose,
Since life, once lived, returns no more again.
For of our time we lose so large a part
In serious trifles, and so oft let slip
The wine of every moment at the lip
Its moment, and the moment of the heart.
We are awake so little on the earth,
And we shall sleep so long, and rise so late,
If there is any knocking at that gate
Which is the gate of death, the gate of birth.
Four Drawings
By Aubrey Beardsley
I. Portrait of Himself
II. Lady Gold’s Escort
III. The Wagnerites
IV. La Dame aux Camélias
[Illustration: PAR LES DIEVX JVMEAVX TOVS LES MONSTRES NE SONT PAS EN
AFRIQVE.]
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
White Magic
By Ella D’Arcy
I SPENT one evening last summer with my friend Mauger, _pharmacien_
in the little town of Jacques-le-Port. He pronounces his name Major,
by-the-bye, it being a quaint custom of the Islands to write proper
names one way and speak them another, thus serving to bolster up that
old, old story of the German savant’s account of the difficulties of
the English language--“where you spell a man’s name Verulam,” says he
reproachfully, “and pronounce it Bacon.”
Mauger and I sat in the pleasant wood-panelled parlour behind the shop,
from whence all sorts of aromatic odours found their way in through the
closed door to mingle with the fragrance of figs, Ceylon tea, and hot
_gôches-à-beurre_, constituting the excellent meal spread before us.
The large old-fashioned windows were wide open, and I looked straight
out upon the harbour, filled with holiday yachts, and the wonderful
azure sea.
Over against the other islands, opposite, a gleam of white streaked
the water, white clouds hung motionless in the blue sky, and a tiny
boat with white sails passed out round Falla Point. A white butterfly
entered the room to flicker in gay uncertain curves above the cloth,
and a warm reflected light played over the slender rat-tailed forks
and spoons, and raised by a tone or two the colour of Mauger’s tanned
face and yellow beard. For, in spite of a sedentary profession, his
preferences lie with an out-of-door life, and he takes an afternoon off
whenever practicable, as he had done that day, to follow his favourite
pursuit over the golf-links at Les Landes.
While he had been deep in the mysteries of teeing and putting, with no
subtler problem to be solved than the judicious selection of mashie and
cleek, I had explored some of the curious cromlechs or _pouquelayes_
scattered over this part of the island, and my thoughts and speech
harked back irresistibly to the strange old religions and usages of the
past.
“Science is all very well in its way,” said I; “and of course it’s an
inestimable advantage to inhabit this so-called nineteenth century;
but the mediæval want of science was far more picturesque. The once
universal belief in charms and portents, in wandering saints, and
fighting fairies, must have lent an interest to life which these
prosaic days sadly lack. Madelon then would steal from her bed on
moonlight nights in May, and slip across the dewy grass with naked
feet, to seek the reflection of her future husband’s face in the first
running stream she passed; now, Miss Mary Jones puts on her bonnet and
steps round the corner, on no more romantic errand than the investment
of her month’s wages in the savings bank at two and a half per cent.”
Mauger laughed. “I wish she did anything half so prudent! That has not
been my experience of the Mary Joneses.”
“Well, anyhow,” I insisted, “the Board school has rationalised them.
It has pulled up the innate poetry of their nature to replace it by
decimal fractions.”
To which Mauger answered “Rot!” and offered me his cigarette-case.
After the first few silent whiffs, he went on as follows: “The innate
poetry of Woman! Confess now, there is no more unpoetic creature under
the sun. Offer her the sublimest poetry ever written and the _Daily
Telegraph’s_ latest article on fashions, or a good sound murder or
reliable divorce, and there’s no betting on her choice, for it’s a dead
certainty. Many men have a love of poetry, but I’m inclined to think
that a hundred women out of ninety-nine positively dislike it.”
Which struck me as true. “We’ll drop the poetry, then,” I answered;
“but my point remains, that if the girl of to-day has no superstitions,
the girl of to-morrow will have no beliefs. Teach her to sit down
thirteen to table, to spill the salt, and walk under a ladder with
equanimity, and you open the door for Spencer and Huxley, and--and all
the rest of it,” said I, coming to an impotent conclusion.
“Oh, if superstition were the salvation of woman--but you are thinking
of young ladies in London, I suppose? Here, in the Islands, I can
show you as much superstition as you please. I’m not sure that the
country-people in their heart of hearts don’t still worship the old
gods of the _pouquelayes_. You would not, of course, find any one to
own up to it, or to betray the least glimmer of an idea as to your
meaning, were you to question him, for ours is a shrewd folk, wearing
their orthodoxy bravely; but possibly the old beliefs are cherished
with the more ardour for not being openly avowed. Now you like bits
of actuality. I’ll give you one, and a proof, too, that the modern
maiden is still separated by many a fathom of salt sea-water from these
fortunate isles.
“Some time ago, on a market morning, a girl came into the shop, and
asked for some blood from a dragon. ‘Some what?’ said I, not catching
her words. ‘Well, just a little blood from a dragon,’ she answered very
tremulously, and blushing. She meant of course, ‘dragon’s blood,’ a
resinous powder, formerly much used in medicine, though out of fashion
now.
“She was a pretty young creature, with pink cheeks and dark eyes, and a
forlorn expression of countenance which didn’t seem at all to fit in
with her blooming health. Not from the town, or I should have known
her face; evidently come from one of the country parishes to sell her
butter and eggs. I was interested to discover what she wanted the
‘dragon’s blood’ for, and after a certain amount of hesitation she
told me. ‘They do say it’s good, sir, if anything should have happened
betwixt you an’ your young man.’ ‘Then you have a young man?’ said I.
‘Yes, sir.’ ‘And you’ve fallen out with him?’ ‘Yes, sir.’ And tears
rose to her eyes at the admission, while her mouth rounded with awe at
my amazing perspicacity. ‘And you mean to send him some dragon’s blood
as a love potion?’ ‘No, sir; you’ve got to mix it with water you’ve
fetched from the Three Sisters’ Well, and drink it yourself in nine
sips on nine nights running, and get into bed without once looking in
the glass, and then if you’ve done everything properly, and haven’t
made any mistake, he’ll come back to you, an’ love you twice as much
as before.’ ‘And la mère Todevinn (Tostevin) gave you that precious
recipe, and made you cross her hand with silver into the bargain,’ said
I severely; on which the tears began to flow outright.
“You know the old lady,” said Mauger, breaking off his narration, “who
lives in the curious stone house at the corner of the market-place? A
reputed witch who learned both black and white magic from her mother,
who was a daughter of Hélier Mouton, the famous sorcerer of Cakeuro.
I could tell you some funny stories relating to la Mère Todevinn, who
numbers more clients among the officers and fine ladies here than in
any other class; and very curious, too, is the history of that stone
house, with the Brancourt arms still sculptured on the side. You can
see them, if you turn down by the Water-gate. This old sinister-looking
building, or rather portion of a building, for more modern houses
have been built over the greater portion of the site, and now press
upon it from either hand, once belonged to one of the finest mansions
in the islands, but through a curse and a crime has been brought down
to its present condition; while the Brancourt family have long since
been utterly extinct. But all this isn’t the story of Elsie Mahy, which
turned out to be the name of my little customer.
“The Mahys are of the Vauvert parish, and Pierre Jean, the father of
this girl, began life as a day-labourer, took to tomato-growing on
borrowed capital, and now owns a dozen glass-houses of his own. Mrs.
Mahy does some dairy-farming on a minute scale, the profits of which
she and Miss Elsie share as pin-money. The young man who is courting
Elsie is a son of Toumes the builder. He probably had something to do
with the putting up of Mahy’s greenhouses, but anyhow, he has been
constantly over at Vauvert during the last six months, superintending
the alterations at de Câterelle’s place.
“Toumes, it would seem, is a devoted but imperious lover, and the
Persian and Median laws are as butter compared with the inflexibility
of his decisions. The little rift within the lute, which has
lately turned all the music to discord, occurred last Monday
week--bank-holiday, as you may remember. The Sunday school to which
Elsie belongs--and it’s a strange anomaly, isn’t it, that a girl going
to Sunday school should still have a rooted belief in white magic?--the
school was to go for an outing to Prawn Bay, and Toumes had arranged to
join his sweetheart at the starting-point. But he had made her promise
that if by any chance he should be delayed, she would not go with the
others, but would wait until he came to fetch her.
“Of course, it so happened that he was detained, and, equally of
course, Elsie, like a true woman, went off without him. She did all
she knew to make me believe she went quite against her own wishes,
that her companions forced her to go. The beautifully yielding nature
of a woman never comes out so conspicuously as when she is being
coerced into following her own secret desires. Anyhow, Toumes, arriving
some time later, found her gone. He followed on, and under ordinary
circumstances, I suppose, a sharp reprimand would have been considered
sufficient. Unfortunately, the young man arrived on the scene to find
his truant love deep in the frolics of kiss-in-the-ring. After tea in
the Câterelle Arms, the whole party had adjourned to a neighbouring
meadow, and were thus whiling away the time to the exhilarating strains
of a French horn and a concertina. Elsie was led into the centre of
the ring by various country bumpkins, and kissed beneath the eyes of
heaven, of her neighbours, and of her embittered swain.
“You may have been amongst us long enough to know that the Toumes family
are of a higher social grade than the Mahys, and I suppose the Misses
Toumes never in their lives stooped to anything so ungenteel as public
kiss-in-the-ring. It was not surprising, therefore, to hear that after
this incident ‘me an’ my young man had words,’ as Elsie put it.
“Note,” said Mauger, “the descriptive truth of this expression ‘having
words.’ Among the unlettered, lovers only do have words when vexed.
At other times they will sit holding hands throughout a long summer’s
afternoon, and not exchange two remarks an hour. Love seals their
tongue; anger alone unlooses it, and, naturally, when unloosened, it
runs on, from sheer want of practice, a great deal faster and farther
than they desire.
“So, life being thorny and youth being vain, they parted late that same
evening, with the understanding that they would meet no more; and to be
wroth with one we love worked its usual harrowing effects. Toumes took
to billiards and brandy, Elsie to tears and invocations of Beelzebub;
then came Mère Todevinn’s recipe, my own more powerful potion, and now
once more all is silence and balmy peace.”
“Do you mean to tell me you sold the child a charm, and didn’t
enlighten her as to its futility?”
“I sold her some bicarbonate of soda worth a couple of _doubles_,
and charged her five shillings for it into the bargain,” said Mauger
unblushingly. “A wrinkle I learned from once overhearing an old lady
I had treated for nothing expatiating to a crony, ‘Eh, but, my good,
my good! dat Mr. Major, I don’t t’ink much of him. He give away his
add-vice an’ his meddecines for nuddin. Dey not wort nuddin’ neider,
for sure.’ So I made Elsie hand me over five British shillings, and
gave her the powder, and told her to drink it with her meals. But
I threw in another prescription, which, if less important, must
nevertheless be punctiliously carried out, if the charm was to have any
effect. ‘The very next time,’ I told her, ‘that you meet your young man
in the street, walk straight up to him without looking to the right or
to the left, and hold out your hand, saying these words: “Please, I so
want to be friends again!” Then if you’ve been a good girl, have taken
the powder regularly, and not forgotten one of my directions, you’ll
find that all will come right.’
“Now, little as you may credit it,” said Mauger, smiling, “the charm
worked, for all that we live in the so-called nineteenth century. Elsie
came into the shop only yesterday to tell me the results, and to thank
me very prettily. ‘I shall always come to you now, sir,’ she was good
enough to say, ‘I mean, if anything was to go wrong again. You know
a great deal more than Mère Todevinn, I’m sure.’ ‘Yes, I’m a famous
sorcerer,’ said I, ‘but you had better not speak about the powder. You
are wise enough to see that it was just your own conduct in meeting
your young man rather more than halfway, that did the trick--eh?’ She
looked at me with eyes brimming over with wisdom. ‘You needn’t be
afraid, sir, I’ll not speak of it. Mère Todevinn always made me promise
to keep silence too. But of course I know it was the powder that worked
the charm.’
“And to that belief the dear creature will stick to the last day of her
life. Women are wonderful enigmas. Explain to them that tight-lacing
displaces all the internal organs, and show them diagrams to illustrate
your point, they smile sweetly, say, ‘Oh, how funny!’ and go out to buy
their new stays half an inch smaller than their old ones. But tell them
they must never pass a pin in the street for luck’s sake, if it lies
with its point towards them, and they will sedulously look for and pick
up every such confounded pin they see. Talk to a woman of the marvels
of science, and she turns a deaf ear, or refuses point-blank to believe
you; yet she is absolutely all ear for any old wife’s tale, drinks it
greedily in, and never loses hold of it for the rest of her days.”
“But does she?” said I; “that’s the point in dispute, and though your
story shows there’s still a commendable amount of superstition in the
Islands, I’m afraid if you were to come to London, you would not find
sufficient to cover a threepenny-piece.”