WE lingered in Moy a good part of the day, for we were fond of being
philosophical, and scorned long journeys and early starts on principle.
The place, moreover, invited to repose. People in elaborate shooting
costumes sallied from the château with guns and game-bags; and this was a
pleasure in itself, to remain behind while these elegant pleasure-seekers
took the first of the morning. In this way, all the world may be an
aristocrat, and play the duke among marquises, and the reigning monarch
among dukes, if he will only outvie them in tranquillity. An
imperturbable demeanour comes from perfect patience. Quiet minds cannot
be perplexed or frightened, but go on in fortune or misfortune at their
own private pace, like a clock during a thunderstorm.
We made a very short day of it to La Fère; but the dusk was falling, and
a small rain had begun before we stowed the boats. La Fère is a
fortified town in a plain, and has two belts of rampart. Between the
first and the second extends a region of waste land and cultivated
patches. Here and there along the wayside were posters forbidding
trespass in the name of military engineering. At last, a second gateway
admitted us to the town itself. Lighted windows looked gladsome, whiffs
of comfortable cookery came abroad upon the air. The town was full of
the military reserve, out for the French Autumn Manœuvres, and the
reservists walked speedily and wore their formidable great-coats. It was
a fine night to be within doors over dinner, and hear the rain upon the
windows.
The _Cigarette_ and I could not sufficiently congratulate each other on
the prospect, for we had been told there was a capital inn at La Fère.
Such a dinner as we were going to eat! such beds as we were to sleep
in!—and all the while the rain raining on houseless folk over all the
poplared countryside! It made our mouths water. The inn bore the name
of some woodland animal, stag, or hart, or hind, I forget which. But I
shall never forget how spacious and how eminently habitable it looked as
we drew near. The carriage entry was lighted up, not by intention, but
from the mere superfluity of fire and candle in the house. A rattle of
many dishes came to our ears; we sighted a great field of table-cloth;
the kitchen glowed like a forge and smelt like a garden of things to eat.
Into this, the inmost shrine and physiological heart of a hostelry, with
all its furnaces in action, and all its dressers charged with viands, you
are now to suppose us making our triumphal entry, a pair of damp
rag-and-bone men, each with a limp india-rubber bag upon his arm. I do
not believe I have a sound view of that kitchen; I saw it through a sort
of glory: but it seemed to me crowded with the snowy caps of cookmen, who
all turned round from their saucepans and looked at us with surprise.
There was no doubt about the landlady, however: there she was, heading
her army, a flushed, angry woman, full of affairs. Her I asked
politely—too politely, thinks the _Cigarette_—if we could have beds: she
surveying us coldly from head to foot.
‘You will find beds in the suburb,’ she remarked. ‘We are too busy for
the like of you.’
If we could make an entrance, change our clothes, and order a bottle of
wine, I felt sure we could put things right; so said I: ‘If we cannot
sleep, we may at least dine,’—and was for depositing my bag.
What a terrible convulsion of nature was that which followed in the
landlady’s face! She made a run at us, and stamped her foot.
‘Out with you—out of the door!’ she screeched. ‘_Sortez_! _sortez_!
_sortez par la porte_!’
I do not know how it happened, but next moment we were out in the rain
and darkness, and I was cursing before the carriage entry like a
disappointed mendicant. Where were the boating men of Belgium? where the
Judge and his good wines? and where the graces of Origny? Black, black
was the night after the firelit kitchen; but what was that to the
blackness in our heart? This was not the first time that I have been
refused a lodging. Often and often have I planned what I should do if
such a misadventure happened to me again. And nothing is easier to plan.
But to put in execution, with the heart boiling at the indignity? Try
it; try it only once; and tell me what you did.
It is all very fine to talk about tramps and morality. Six hours of
police surveillance (such as I have had), or one brutal rejection from an
inn-door, change your views upon the subject like a course of lectures.
As long as you keep in the upper regions, with all the world bowing to
you as you go, social arrangements have a very handsome air; but once get
under the wheels, and you wish society were at the devil. I will give
most respectable men a fortnight of such a life, and then I will offer
them twopence for what remains of their morality.
For my part, when I was turned out of the Stag, or the Hind, or whatever
it was, I would have set the temple of Diana on fire, if it had been
handy. There was no crime complete enough to express my disapproval of
human institutions. As for the _Cigarette_, I never knew a man so
altered. ‘We have been taken for pedlars again,’ said he. ‘Good God,
what it must be to be a pedlar in reality!’ He particularised a
complaint for every joint in the landlady’s body. Timon was a
philanthropist alongside of him. And then, when he was at the top of his
maledictory bent, he would suddenly break away and begin whimperingly to
commiserate the poor. ‘I hope to God,’ he said,—and I trust the prayer
was answered,—‘that I shall never be uncivil to a pedlar.’ Was this the
imperturbable _Cigarette_? This, this was he. O change beyond report,
thought, or belief!
Meantime the heaven wept upon our heads; and the windows grew brighter as
the night increased in darkness. We trudged in and out of La Fère
streets; we saw shops, and private houses where people were copiously
dining; we saw stables where carters’ nags had plenty of fodder and clean
straw; we saw no end of reservists, who were very sorry for themselves
this wet night, I doubt not, and yearned for their country homes; but had
they not each man his place in La Fère barracks? And we, what had we?
There seemed to be no other inn in the whole town. People gave us
directions, which we followed as best we could, generally with the effect
of bringing us out again upon the scene of our disgrace. We were very
sad people indeed by the time we had gone all over La Fère; and the
_Cigarette_ had already made up his mind to lie under a poplar and sup
off a loaf of bread. But right at the other end, the house next the
town-gate was full of light and bustle. ‘_Bazin_, _aubergiste_, _loge à
pied_,’ was the sign. ‘_À la Croix de Malte_.’ There were we received.
The room was full of noisy reservists drinking and smoking; and we were
very glad indeed when the drums and bugles began to go about the streets,
and one and all had to snatch shakoes and be off for the barracks.
Bazin was a tall man, running to fat: soft-spoken, with a delicate,
gentle face. We asked him to share our wine; but he excused himself,
having pledged reservists all day long. This was a very different type
of the workman-innkeeper from the bawling disputatious fellow at Origny.
He also loved Paris, where he had worked as a decorative painter in his
youth. There were such opportunities for self-instruction there, he
said. And if any one has read Zola’s description of the workman’s
marriage-party visiting the Louvre, they would do well to have heard
Bazin by way of antidote. He had delighted in the museums in his youth.
‘One sees there little miracles of work,’ he said; ‘that is what makes a
good workman; it kindles a spark.’ We asked him how he managed in La
Fère. ‘I am married,’ he said, ‘and I have my pretty children. But
frankly, it is no life at all. From morning to night I pledge a pack of
good enough fellows who know nothing.’
It faired as the night went on, and the moon came out of the clouds. We
sat in front of the door, talking softly with Bazin. At the guard-house
opposite, the guard was being for ever turned out, as trains of field
artillery kept clanking in out of the night, or patrols of horsemen
trotted by in their cloaks. Madame Bazin came out after a while; she was
tired with her day’s work, I suppose; and she nestled up to her husband
and laid her head upon his breast. He had his arm about her, and kept
gently patting her on the shoulder. I think Bazin was right, and he was
really married. Of how few people can the same be said!
Little did the Bazins know how much they served us. We were charged for
candles, for food and drink, and for the beds we slept in. But there was
nothing in the bill for the husband’s pleasant talk; nor for the pretty
spectacle of their married life. And there was yet another item
unchanged. For these people’s politeness really set us up again in our
own esteem. We had a thirst for consideration; the sense of insult was
still hot in our spirits; and civil usage seemed to restore us to our
position in the world.
How little we pay our way in life! Although we have our purses
continually in our hand, the better part of service goes still
unrewarded. But I like to fancy that a grateful spirit gives as good as
it gets. Perhaps the Bazins knew how much I liked them? perhaps they
also were healed of some slights by the thanks that I gave them in my
manner?