A NARBONNE HOSTESS.
Carcassonne--In feudal times--Simon de Montfort--Canal du
Midi--L'Age d'or et le Grand Monarque--A modern Golden Fleece--One
of earth's fair scenes--Choice of evils--M. le Chef
yields--Narbonne--A woman of parts--The course of true love runs
smooth--_Diner de contrat_--Honey _versus_ the _lune de
miel_--Madame's philosophy--_L'Allee des Soupirs_--An unfinished
cathedral--At the gloaming hour--Mystery and devotion--The Hotel de
Ville--A domestic drama--High festival and champagne--The next
morning--H. C. repentant--Madame at her post--Ambrosial
breakfast--"Il faut payer pour ses plaisirs"--Dramatic
exit--Perpignan--Home of the kings of Majorca--Elne--"Adieu, ma
chere France!"--Over the frontier--Gerona--Crowded platform--What
H. C. thought--Unpoetical incident--From the sublime to the
ridiculous.
The hours went on and the sun declined, and we looked upon the wonderful
old city of Carcassonne.
Rising out of the plain the great limestone rock was crowned by this
fortress of the Middle Ages, its walls and round towers clearly outlined
against the blue sky. These enclose a dead world given up to the poor
and struggling. Its steep, narrow streets have no longer the faintest
echo of military glories. The inner walls date back to the Visigothic
kings; the foundations of some of the towers are Roman, but nothing of
the outer walls seems later than the twelfth century. Here in 1210 the
army of crusaders under Simon de Montfort laid siege, the cruel Abbot of
Citeaux most determined of the enemy. The massacre at Beziers had just
taken place, de Montfort foremost in eagerness to shed blood. Some had
escaped to this little City of Refuge, amongst them the brave Vicomte de
Beziers: one of those men of whom the world has seen not a few, saving
lives at the cost of their own. The little fortress unable to hold out
was taken, and again the massacre was terrible, Beziers himself dying in
prison after great suffering.
A hundred and fifty years later it more successfully resisted the Black
Prince, who, after scattering terror right and left in the plains of
Languedoc, found that he had to retire from these walls baffled and
mortified. To-day they still stand, the most perfect mediaeval monument
in France.
The new town lies in the plain, quietly industrious as the old is silent
and dead, modern and commonplace as the other is ancient and romantic.
Trees overshadow the boulevards, costly fountains plash through the hot
days and nights of summer, running streams make the air musical and
reflect the sapphire skies.
On one side runs the great Canal du Midi, Canal des deux Mers, as it is
called, uniting the Mediterranean with the Atlantic. Two hundred and
fifty years ago it was one of the finest engineering works in the world,
and perhaps would never have been finished but for the encouragement of
le Grand Monarque, prime mover in that _age d'or_ when the literary
firmament was studded with such stars of the first order as Moliere,
Corneille, Lafontaine, Bossuet, Fenelon, Pascal, and last, not least,
Madame de Sevigne. There came a crowd of splendours, a succession of
startling events, into that lengthened reign, our own Marlborough taking
his part in such decisive battles as Blenheim and Malplaquet.
This Canal du Midi, reflecting the outlines of Carcassonne, added much
to the trade of Southern France. If that has declined amidst the world's
chances and changes, its numerous barges plying to and fro with sails
set to the evening breeze and the setting sun, still form one of earth's
most rare and beautiful scenes, full of calm repose. Corn and wine and
oil are their freights; rich Argosies commanded by many a modern Jason,
carrying many a Golden Fleece to the fair and flourishing towns that lie
in its path between the tideless shores of the Levant and the restless
waters of Biscay.
On the other side of the town runs the River Aude, also reflecting the
ancient outlines of Carcassonne in waters less placid than those of the
great Canal. This takes its way through a fertile valley given up to
vines and olives, fig-trees and pomegranates; and here flock crowds of
invalids to the mineral baths and waters, penances due to indiscretions
of the table or sins of their forefathers.
Our train rolled over both these waterways on its journey towards
Narbonne.
By this time we had realised that we had been misinformed as to the hour
we should reach Gerona, our first resting-place, adding one more record
to the chapter of small accidents. At Narbonne we had the good fortune
to find a Chef de Gare civil and obliging as he of Bordeaux, who
declared it impossible to reach Gerona that day as there was no railway
communication. We should have to spend the night at Portbou, the Spanish
frontier, where our quarters would be wretched, and all our sweet turn
to bitter against those who had misled us.
We decided at once. "Better remain where there is a good inn, than go on
to the miseries of Portbou, Monsieur le Chef."
"That is clear," he replied. "Here you will be comfortable--and on
French ground," laughing: "a virtue in my eyes, and I hope in yours
also."
We willingly agreed. "But our luggage? It is registered to Portbou."
He looked grave. "That is unfortunate; it must go on to Portbou. I
cannot give it to you. It is against all rules, and I greatly regret
it."
"Yet we cannot do without it. If you send it on to Portbou, we cannot
remain behind. Have you the heart to consign us to that _chambre de
tortures?_"
He paused a moment, revolving the momentous situation. "No," he laughed
at length, "I cannot do that, and for once will make an exception in
your favour. Advienne que pourra, you shall have your luggage."
Then in the kindest way he personally superintended the matter, delayed
the train until the luggage was found, and carried out sundry forms
necessary for the next day's journey.
We discovered very little in Narbonne to repay our change of plans, but
the hotel was comfortable and the energetic landlady a character worth
studying. Grass never grew under her feet. She seemed gifted with
ubiquity, and startled one by her rapid movements. A capable woman, who
made her little world work with a will, wound them up and set them
going. If the machinery flagged, she at once applied the master-key of
her energy, and the wheels went on again.
To-day she was on her mettle, as she informed us, having a large wedding
dinner on hand. "To-night was the _diner de contrat_, to-morrow the
_diner de noce_. A hundred and fifty people would sit down to it, and
she expected great conviviality."
Nor was she disappointed, if the noise we heard later on was any sign of
festive enjoyment. Loud laughter, applause, healths pledged, good wishes
bestowed--all indicated the state of the assembled guests.
Madame had taken us into the banquet-room to prove that she was capable
of decorating her table very effectively. Glass and silver glittered
under the rays of light; flowers perfumed the air; orange-trees stood in
corners, fruit and flowers mingled their delights. We asked for whom all
this extensive preparation.
"The daughter of an innkeeper, with a magnificent dowry, was marrying
one of the most popular doctors of the place. But it was really a
mariage d'amour, not merely de convenance. Les maries were both
delightful. One hardly knew which to congratulate the most. In short, it
was one of those rare events in life when the social sky is without a
cloud."
Madame was almost poetical in her enthusiasm. But she was no less
practical, and it was wonderful how everything went smoothly under her
guidance.
"Narbonne, famous for its honey." We seemed to remember this as one of
our geography lines in days gone by. "But where was the honey?" we asked
during the course of our own dinner, which madame was quite equal to in
spite of the greater ceremony on hand.
"You may well ask," placing upon the table a choice bottle of the
vin-du-pays, which she saw unsealed and uncorked by one of her officials
who had just been wound up again and was flying about the room like a
firework. "You may well ask, monsieur. No house so badly supplied with
coals as the charbonnier, and in Narbonne we see little of our own
honey. Like the fish in a seaport, it is all sent away, and you will
find more of it in Paris than here. But I will try to unearth a jar
from my stores."
Apparently the quest was unsuccessful, for no honey appeared. Or it may
be that in contemplating the _lune de miel_ in the garlanded
banqueting-room the more material article was lost sight of. With one
hundred and fifty people on her brain, no wonder if small matters were
forgotten. And yet madame seemed of those who forget nothing, her
faculties embracing both wide organisation and minute detail. A thin,
wiry woman, with a quick walk and a light step, dark eyes that nothing
escaped, yet without tyranny or sharpness of manner. Only once did we
hear her rebuking one of her waiters for the sin of procrastination.
"Leave nothing till to-morrow that can be done to-day," she wound up
with, "or you will soon find the world ahead and you left behind in the
race. Those are the people that come to poverty and have only themselves
to thank for it. That, monsieur," turning to us who waited a direction,
"is the reason we cannot very much help what are called the poor. Some
great failing brings them to that condition--laziness, stupidity or
vice, and your aid will never give them energy, wisdom or virtue."
Then the direction we asked for was bestowed, and the erring waiter
ordered to show us the way to the cathedral.
In the town we found very little that was not ordinary and common-place.
It is ancient, its streets are badly paved and tortuous, and it
possesses scarcely anything in the way of picturesque outlines, nothing
in the way of Roman remains. Yet it flourished as far back as the fifth
century B.C., and in the first century was in the hands of the Romans,
great in theatres, baths, temples, and triumphal arches. Of these not a
vestige has survived.
It was one of the great ports of the Mediterranean, which flowed up to
its foundations, but has gradually receded some eight miles. From one of
the great towers of the Hotel de Ville you may trace the outlines of the
Cevennes and Pyrenees on the one side, on the other watch the broad blue
waters shimmering in the sunshine, more beautiful than a dream in their
deep sapphire; you may count the white-winged boats sailing lazily to
and fro upon its flashing surface; and on still, dark nights, when the
stars are large and brilliant, watch the lights of fishing fleets
clustered together, and hear upon the shore the gentle plash of this
tideless sea.
On such summer nights the _Allee des Soupirs_ is the favourite walk of
the people. Whence its sad, romantic name? Has it seen many sorrows? Do
ghosts of the past haunt it with long-drawn sighs? Has it had more than
its share of Abelards and Heloises, Romeos and Juliets? Has some
sorrowful Atala been borne under its branches to a desert grave, some
Dante mourned here his lost Beatrice, some Petrarch his Laura?
We knew not, and turning from it climbed the ill-paved streets towards
the Cathedral--a Cathedral no longer, for Narbonne, once an
Archbishopric, has been shorn of ecclesiastical dignity.
As far as it went, we found it a fine, interesting, but unfinished
Gothic building of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. Little
beyond the choir exists--a splendid fragment, but a fragment only. It
might have been one of the world's wonders.
We entered for the second time in the gloaming, when its great height
was lost in shadows. A few lights about the church and on the altar
deepened the mystery. A few kneeling figures motionless at their
devotions added their quiet pathos to the scene. From the end of the
choir it had the effect of a vast church infinitely impressive. An
immense nave with aisles and pillars and vaulted roofs might stretch
behind us. Such was the intention of the architect, but his plans were
not carried out. In reality there was nothing. Within a few feet came
the narrow outer passage and the dead wall of the west front; but in the
darkness all this was not realised. We only saw the splendid choir, vast
height, graceful outlines, groined roof, pointed arches, and slender
pillars, steeped in the mystery and shadow of a dim religious light by
the few candles gleaming here and there like faint stars in the night.
Some of the painted glass was beautiful, as we had seen earlier in the
day, and much of the sixteenth century flamboyant tracery was very good.
There were many fine tombs and statues.
The Gothic Hotel de Ville close by is partly modern. A portion of it
formed the ancient Archbishop's Palace, and some of this remains, more
especially the old towers. The courtyard has a few interesting outlines,
and the staircase leading to the museum is of broad, massive marble. Up
and down these stairs and corridors was once wont to pass the proud
footstep of a primate, with head erect under the cardinal's red hat,
whilst the rustle of silken robes, white and scarlet, whispered of
greatness and vanity. It now shines by the light of other days. All its
pomp and pride has vanished; dead, silent and deserted, its glory has
been transferred to Toulouse, now the Archbishop's See.
We discovered the ancient dame who keeps the keys of the Museum. She
dwells in almost an underground room of the building, a distant wing in
the garden, where in days gone by the Archbishop paced and meditated in
the seclusion of impenetrable walls. Looking upwards nothing would
arrest the eye but the far-off serene sky and unfinished fragment of the
Cathedral. It is still a grey, venerable pile, this wing, silent and
empty.
But in the quiet little lodge of the custodian hearts still beat to the
tune of life's small dramas. A slight altercation was going on. The dame
was laying down the law to a young man, evidently her son. What the
transgression we could not tell. Possibly debt, and he had come to draw
upon the hard-earned savings in the chimney-corner: a sort of mental and
moral earthquake to the frugal mother-mind. Perhaps he was announcing
his marriage with one who would make him a bad wife. Or he had grown
tired of his narrow world, and pleaded to cross the seas and begin life
on a new soil. Whatever it might be, he departed looking very much as if
he too had his burden to bear. In passing he saluted, and said,
"Bonjour, messieurs," and his looks were comely and his voice was
pleasant. He had the air of a sailor, and possibly was a fisherman from
the little port eight miles off. When he had disappeared beyond the
trees, the old mother, who must also have been comely in her day, took
the keys and led the way up the broad marble staircase to the Museum.
The shades of evening were gathering, and our visit would almost have
been lost labour had there been anything else to do. It was too dark to
judge fairly, but amidst a great amount of rubbish we thought we
discovered a few good old pictures.
Long after the sun had set and the afterglow had faded, we went back to
the hotel and madame's hospitable attentions.
She was determined we should not suffer from the demands of the banquet.
The whole corridor was now lined with orange trees, whose sheeny green
leaves stood out in strong contrast with some strings of red peppers she
had artistically festooned against the walls; so that from the entrance
to the dining-room the procession would walk through an avenue of peace
and plenty. The effect was charming. Nothing could be more beautiful
than the luscious perfumed blossoms, richer than the deep foliage, more
picturesque than the scented golden fruit hanging gracefully from the
branches. As night went on, the sounds of merriment grew louder.
Champagne could not run like water without leading to noisy if not
brilliant wit. A hundred and fifty sons and daughters of sunny Southern
France might be trusted to make the most of their opportunity.
We left them to their rites when by-and-by the clock struck ten, lights
began to burn dim, and we realised that a sleepless night in the train
is more or less trying. Bidding madame _le bonsoir_, who flashed to and
fro like lightning, yet was neither hurried nor flurried, she politely
returned us _la bonne nuit_; adding, with a certain dry humour, that
after all she was glad marriages were not an everyday occurrence--at any
rate from her hotel. If profitable, they were fatiguing.
Next morning we rose before dawn. The man came in, lighted our candles,
and said it was time to rise. We thought we had slept five minutes; the
unconscious hours had passed too quickly. Overnight we had settled to
take an early train, and devote a few hours to Perpignan; hours of
enforced waiting on our way to Gerona. After an amount of rapping and
calling that might have roused the dead, H. C. had risen, lighted his
own candles, and protested by going back to bed and to slumber.
Fortunately the man went up to his room half an hour after, and seeing
the state of affairs upset the fire-irons, knocked down a couple of
chairs, and opened the window with a rattle.
"Are those wedding people still at it?" murmured H. C., in his dreams.
"It must be past midnight." Then consciousness dawned upon him and the
full measure of his iniquity; and presently he came down to a late
breakfast, subdued and repentant.
Early as it was, madame was at her post, brisk and wide-awake as though
yesterday had been nothing but a very ordinary fete-day. It was that
uncomfortable hour when the early morning light creeps in, and candles
and gas-lamps show pale and unearthly. The room looked chilly and
forsaken; that last-night aspect that is always so ghostlike and
unfamiliar. A white mist hung over the outer world.
Then the most comforting thing on earth made its triumphant entry--a
brimming teapot; and with the addition of tea tabloids a fine brew of
the cup which cheers sent our mental barometer to fair weather. We were
even admitted to the internal economy of the establishment. In came the
baker with a basket of steaming rolls giving out a delicious odour of
bread fresh from the oven; and with new-churned butter--the last we
tasted for many a long day--we made an ambrosial breakfast. In a few
minutes, madame cloaked and bonneted, came up to wish us bon voyage,
with a hope that we should again visit Narbonne. Nothing is certain in
this world or we should have told her it was a very forlorn hope.
"I have to go to market," she said, "and the sooner I am there the
better my choice of provisions. To-day, too, I have my _diner de noce_,
and must be back early. _Vraiment, c'est une charge!_ Ah! they amused
themselves last night! What headaches to-day, je parie, in spite of the
excellence of the wines. _Enfin! Il faut payer pour ses plaisirs._"
"But, madame, you are perpetual motion. You go to bed late--if you go to
bed at all, which we begin to doubt--and rise up early. This morning you
look as fresh as a rose. Have you the gift of eternal youth?"
Madame was not above a compliment, and smiled her pleasure. "Quant il y
a de la bonne volonte--" she laughed. "There is the whole secret. And
now, au revoir, messieurs. Bon voyage. Portez vous bien. My best wishes
go with you."
"Au revoir, on one condition, madame. That the next time we come you
present us without fail with a pot of Narbonne honey."
Madame uttered a cry, fell back a pace or two, struck her forehead
reproachfully, and disappeared like a flash into the street. Up rattled
the omnibus, absorbing ourselves and our traps. Narbonne was of the
past.
A short journey landed us at an early hour at Perpignan. We had passed
nothing very interesting on the road, for just here the sunny South
seems to have stayed her bountiful hand. The low bare outlines of the
rocky Corbieres were traced, and great stretches of heath where bees
gathered the famous honey we were not permitted to enjoy. Here and there
were immense salt lakes, giving the country a flooded appearance,
bringing fever to the neighbourhood. Once, years ago, passing these
endless lake districts in the night, weird, solemn, mysterious, we
wondered what they could be. One saw nothing but a world under water,
reflecting the stars; occasionally the black outline of some small boat
with the flash of a low-lying lamp streaming over its surface. And
presently, this morning, there was the blue Mediterranean to make up for
all other shortcomings.
Then Perpignan. This time we separated from our old-man-of-the-sea; the
baggage went on to Portbou to await our afternoon arrival.
We felt we ought to know Perpignan, and with affection, for it was once
the residence of the kings of Majorca. But that was seven hundred years
ago, and it has gone through many changes at the hands of many masters.
For centuries it belonged to Spain, and still looks more Spanish than
French. Only in the middle of the seventeenth century was it finally
annexed to France by Richelieu. In summer its narrow streets are covered
with awnings, many of its buildings are moresque, and its houses have
the iron and wooden courts and balconies so common to Spain. Some of its
thoroughfares are picturesque and arcaded, and every now and then you
come upon an assemblage of wonderful roofs with their red tiles,
gorgeous creepers, and enormous vines; but they are the exception. It is
strongly fortified, and some of the old gateways are interesting. In
days gone by these fortifications were needed, for Perpignan was the
great point of defence in the Eastern Pyrenees between Spain and France.
The Cathedral is chiefly famous for the immense span of its vault. In
this it resembles Majorca, but is infinitely less beautiful. Though
larger, Perpignan seemed still more quiet and dead than Narbonne. We
soon exhausted its merits, and the hour for departure found us ready. At
the moment we were in the great courtyard of the inn watching the chef
in white cap and apron at a small table on the opposite side, enjoying
his dessert and hour of repose, to which coffee and cognac formed the
conclusion. For that hour he was a gentleman of leisure and had earned
his ease.
There was no time to visit Elne with its old Romanesque Cathedral and
cloisters worth a king's ransom; and keen was the regret as we passed it
in the train, and noticed its decayed aspect and wonderful outlines
rising above the town like a rare twelfth-century vision. Here Hannibal
encamped on his way to Rome. Here came Constantine and named it Elena in
memory of his mother. Here the Emperor Constantine was assassinated by
order of Maxentius. Here came the Moors in the eighth century, the
Normans in the eleventh, the kings of France in the thirteenth,
fifteenth, and seventeenth centuries; all more or less destructive in
their changes.
And now it remains a small dead town; grass grows in its streets, where
eternal silence reigns. Passing away, we noted how its clear outlines
stood out against the blue sky of the South, whilst beyond it stretched
the sapphire waters of the Levant.
The train hurried on, and at Cerbere we bade farewell to pleasant
France: a language that rings music in our ears; a people for whom we
have a sincere affection. In the space of a few yards we seemed to pass
from one country and people and tongue to another. At Cerbere nothing
but French was heard. A few minutes afterwards, at Portbou, we spoke in
French to one of the officials, who listened to the end, shook his head,
and gruffly said "No entendo." We had entered Spain--land of slow
trains, abrupt officials, many discomforts, but of romance and
beauty. Once more we thought fate was to be against us. As inevitably as
the slippers turned up in the Eastern story, so it seemed that our
luggage was destined to be the _bete noire_ of our wanderings.
[Illustration: PEDRO.]
"You wish to go to Gerona," said the station-master; "but your ticket
only states Barcelona. If you break your journey at Gerona, your luggage
must go on to the farther town."
Again we protested--and again conquered. "For once I yield and make you
an exception," said the chef; "but you will have trouble at Gerona." All
this had taken time, and the train moved off as we entered.
At eight o'clock we reached Gerona, and even in the darkness could see
its wonderful outlines; its countless reflections in the river that
rolled below. The station was in an uproar. Crowds of people, young men
and old, surged to and fro. Deafening shouts arose. What was the matter,
and what could it mean? We gave a shrewd guess. Conscripts were going
off, and all this crowd and noise was a farewell ovation, in which the
conscripts joined uproariously. On the platform we almost fell against
two stalwart old men, who stood conspicuously above the multitude. Each
had evidently come to see a son off. One was especially a typical
Catalonian, with strongly marked features, broad-brimmed hat, and
picturesque costume. His friend called him Pedro. They had probably
grown up and grown old together, and life, youth and the heritage of the
world were being handed on to the boys--who no doubt troubled themselves
very little about the matter.
We made way into the luggage-room. "Ah!" cried the porter, looking at
our tickets. "This is incorrect and cannot be passed." And he turned to
the superintendent.
"Diablo!" cried the latter impatiently. "Do you think I can be troubled
with luggage on such a night as this? Take it where the gentlemen desire
you! Maldicion!"
Saved once more. As we walked outside through the crowd, a deafening
cheer went up.
"What can it mean?" said H. C. "Have they discovered that I am a poet,
and all this is a little delicate attention on their part? If so, I
must say they are appreciative. Perhaps my volume of Lyrics, dedicated
to my aunt, Lady Maria, has been translated into Spanish, and
has--ahem!--found more popularity here than at home. Ah!--Oh!"
The exclamation was caused by a sudden tearing away of the omnibus we
had entered, whereby H. C. found himself sprawling in a most unpoetical
attitude. Picking himself up as carefully as if he had been made of
delicate china suffering from a few compound fractures, he rubbed his
bruised knees sympathetically, and quietly asked if we had brought a
supply of Elliman's embrocation.
So quickly one passes from poetry to prose, from the sublime to the
ridiculous.