THE BAPTISM.
The important day at Aps is Monday because it is market day.
Long before daylight the roads that lead to the city, the great
solitary turnpikes from Arles and Avignon, where the white dust lies
as quiet as a fall of snow, are enlivened by the slow grinding noise
of the carts and the squawking of chickens in their osier crates and
the barking of dogs running alongside; or by that rustling sound of a
shower which the passage of a flock of sheep produces, accompanied by
the long blouse of the shepherd which one perceives as he is carried
along by the bounding wave of his beasts. Then there are cries of the
cow-boys panting in the rear of their cattle and the dull sound of
sticks falling upon humpy backs and outlines of horsemen armed with
cowpunches in trident form. Slowly and gropingly all these phantoms
are swallowed up by the dark gateways whose crenelations are seen in
festoons against the starry sky; thence it spreads wide again into the
_corso_ which surrounds the sleepy city.
At that hour the town takes on itself again its character of an
old Roman and Saracen city, with its irregular roofs and pointed
moucharabies above the broken and dangerous stairways. This confused
murmur of men and sleepy beasts penetrates with but little noise
between the silvery trunks of the big plane-trees, overflows upon
the avenue and even into the courtyards of the houses and stirs up
warm odors of litters and fragrances of herbs and ripe fruit. When it
wakes, therefore, the town discovers that it has been captured in every
quarter by an enormous, lively and noisy market, just as if the entire
agricultural part of Provence, men and beasts, fruits and seeds, had
roused up and come together in one great nocturnal inundation.
In truth it is a magnificent sight, a pouring forth of rustic wealth
that changes with the seasons. In certain places set apart by
immemorial usage the oranges and pomegranates, golden colored quinces,
sorbs, green and yellow melons, are piled up near the booths in
rows and in heaps by the thousand; peaches, figs and grapes destroy
themselves by their own weight in their baskets of transportation side
by side with vegetables in sacks. Sheep and silky pigs and little
_cabris_ (kids) show airs of weariness within the palisades of their
small reservations. Oxen fastened to the yoke stride along before the
buyer, while bulls with smoking nostrils drag at the iron ring which
holds them to the wall. And farther on, quantities of horses, the
little horses from the Camargue--dwarf Arabs--prance about mingling
their brown, white or russet manes; upon being called by name, “_Té!_
Lucifer--_Té!_ l’Esterel--” they run up to eat oats from the hands of
their keepers, veritable Gauchos of the pampas with boots above the
knee. Then come the poultry two by two, red and fastened by the legs,
guinea fowl and chickens lying, not without much banging of the earth
with their wings, at the feet of their mistresses who are drawn up in
a line. Then there is the fish market, with eels alive on fennel and
trout from the Sorgue and the Durance, mixing their shining scales in
rainbow agonies with all the rest of the color. And last of all, at
the very end, in a sort of dry winter forest are the wooden spades and
hay-forks and rakes, new and very white, which rise between the plows
and harrows.
On the other side of the _corso_ against the rampart the unhitched
wagons stand in line, with their canopies and linen covers and high
curtains and dusty wheels, and all through the space left vacant the
noisy crowd circulates with difficulty, with calls and discussions and
chattering in all kinds of dialects and accents--the Provençal accent,
which is refined and full of airs and graces and requires certain
movements of the head and shoulder and a bold sort of mimicry, while
that of Languedoc is harder and heavier and almost Spanish in its
articulation. From time to time this mass of felt hats and head-dresses
from Arles or the Comté, this difficult circulation of a mob of buyers
and sellers, splits in two at the cries from some lagging cart which
comes slowly forward with great difficulty at a snail’s pace.
The burgesses of the city hardly appear, so full of scorn are they at
this invasion from the country, which nevertheless is the occasion of
its originality and the source of its wealth. From morning to night
the peasants are walking through the streets, stopping at the booths,
at the harness-makers, shoemakers and watchmakers, staring at the
metal figures of the clock on the City Hall and into the shop windows,
dazzled by the gilding and mirrors of the restaurants, just as the
rustics in Theocritus stood and stared at the Palace of the Ptolemies.
Some issue from the drug shops laden with parcels and big bottles;
others, and they form a wedding procession, enter the jeweller’s to
choose, after long and cunning bargains, ear-rings with long pendent
pieces and the necklace for the coming bride. And these coarse gowns,
these brown and wild-looking faces and their eager, businesslike manner
make one think of some town in La Vendée taken by the Chouans at the
time of the great wars.
That morning, the third Monday of February, animation was very lively;
the crowd was as thick as on the finest summer days, which indeed it
suggested through its cloudless sky warmed by a golden sun. People
were talking and gesticulating in groups, but what agitated them was
less the buying and selling than a certain event which caused all
traffic to cease and turned all looks and heads and even the broad
eyes of the oxen and the twitching ears of the little Camargue horses
toward the Church of Sainte Perpétue. The fact was that a rumor had
just spread through the market, where it occasioned an emotion that
ran to extraordinary height, to the effect that to-day the son of Numa
would be baptized--that same little Roumestan whose birth three weeks
before had been received with transports of joy in Aps and the entire
Provençal South. Unfortunately this baptism, which had been delayed
because of the deep mourning the family was in, had to preserve the
appearance of incognito for the very same reason, and it is probable
that the ceremony would have passed unperceived had it not been for
certain old sorceresses belonging to the country about Les Baux who
every Monday install upon the front steps of Sainte Perpétue a little
market of aromatic herbs and dried and perfumed simples culled among
the Alpilles. Seeing the coach of Aunt Portal stopping in front of
the church, the old herb-sellers gave the alarm to the women who sell
_aïets_ (garlic), who move about pretty much everywhere from one end
of the _corso_ to the other with their arms crammed with the shining
wreaths of their wares. The garlic women notified the fish dames and
very soon the little street which leads to the church poured forth upon
the little square all the gossip and excitement of the market-place.
They pressed about Ménicle, who sat erect on the box in deep mourning
with crape on his arm and hat and merely answered all questions with a
silent and indifferent play of his shoulders. Spite of everything, they
insisted upon waiting, and in the mercer’s street beneath the bands
of calico the crowd piled itself up to suffocation while the bolder
spirits mounted the well-curb--all eyes fixed on the grand portal of
the church, which at last opened.
There was a murmur of “ah!” as when fireworks are let off, a triumphant
and modulated sound which was cut short by the sight of a tall old
man dressed in black, very much overwhelmed and very melancholy, who
gave his arm to Madame Portal, who as far as she was concerned was
very proud to have served as godmother along with the First President,
proud of their two names side by side on the parish register; but she
was saddened by the recent mourning and the sorrowful impressions
which she had just renewed once more in the church. The crowd had a
feeling of severe deception at sight of this austere couple, who were
followed by the great man of Aps, also entirely in black and with
gloves on--Numa, penetrated by the solitude and cold of this baptism
performed in the midst of four candles without any other music than
the wailing of the little child, upon whom the Latin of the function
and the baptismal water dropping on a tender little head like that of
an unfledged bird had caused the most disagreeable impression. But the
appearance of a richly fed nurse, large, heavy and decked with ribbons
like a prize at an agricultural meet, and the sparkling little parcel
of laces and white embroidery which she carried like a sash, dissipated
the melancholy of the spectators and roused a new cry that sounded
like a mounting rocket, a joy scattered into a thousand enthusiastic
exclamations:
“_Lou vaqui!_--there he is! _Vé! vé!_”
Surprised and dazzled, winking in the bright sunlight, Numa stopped
a moment on the high porch in order to look at these Moorish faces,
this closely packed herding together of a black flock from which a
crazy tenderness mounted up to where he stood. And although tired of
ovations, at that moment he had one of the most lively emotions in his
existence as a public man, a proud intoxication which an entirely new
and already very lively sentiment of paternity ennobled. He was about
to speak and then remembered that this platform in front of the church
was not the place for it.
“Get in, nurse,” said he to the tranquil wet-nurse from Bourgogne,
whose eyes, like those of a milch cow, were staring wide open in
amazement. And while she was bestowing herself with her light burden in
the coach he advised Ménicle to return quickly by the cross streets.
But a tremendous clamor answered him:
“No, no, the grand round--the grand round!”
They meant that he should pass the entire length of the market place.
“Well then, the grand round be it!” said Roumestan after having
consulted his father-in-law with a look; for he wished to spare him
this joyful procession; and so the coach, starting with many crackings
of its ancient and heavy carcass, entered the little street and
debouched upon the _corso_ in the midst of _vivas_ from the crowd,
which grew excited over its own cries and culminated in a whirl
of enthusiasm so as to block the way of horses and wheels at every
moment. With the windows open they marched slowly on through these
acclamations, raised hats, fluttering handkerchiefs and all the odors
and hot breaths which the market exhaled as they passed. The women
stuck their ardent bronzed heads forward right into the carriage and at
seeing no more than the cap of the little baby would exclaim:
“_Diou! lou bèu drôle!_” (My God! what a lovely child!)
“He looks just like his father--_qué?_”
“Already has his Bourbon nose and his fine manners!”
“Show it to us, my darling, show us your beautiful man’s face.”
“He is as lovely as an egg!”
“You could drink him in a glass of water!”
“_Té!_ my treasure!”
“My little quail!”
“My lambkin--my guinea-hen!”
“My lovely pearl!”
And these women wrapped and licked him with the brown flame from their
eyes. But he, a child but one month old, was not scared in the least.
Waked up by all this noise and leaning back on the cushion with its
bows of pink ribbon, he regarded everything with his little cat eyes,
the pupils dilated and fixed, with two drops of milk at the corners
of his lips. And there he lay, calm and evidently pleased at these
apparitions of heads at the windows and these growing noises with
which soon mingled the baaing, mooing and braying of the cattle,
seized as they were by a formidable nervous imitation, all their
necks stretched out and mouths open and jaws yawning to the glory of
Roumestan and his offspring! Even then, at a time when everybody else
in the carriage was holding their stunned ears with both hands, the
little man remained perfectly impassible, so that his coolness even
broke up the solemn features of the old President, who said:
“Well, if that fellow was not born for the forum!”
On leaving the market they hoped to be rid of all this, but the
crowd followed them, being joined as they went by the weavers on the
Chemin-neuf, the yarn-makers in womanly bands and the porters from the
Avenue Berchère. The shopmen ran to the threshold of their stores, the
balcony of the Club of the Whites was flooded with people and presently
with their banners the Orphéons debouched from all the streets singing
their choral songs and giving musical bursts, just as if Numa had
arrived; but along with it all there went something gayer and more
unhackneyed, something beyond the habitual merry-making.
In the finest room belonging to the Portal Mansion, whose white
wainscots and rich silks belonged to the last century, Rosalie was
stretched upon an invalid’s chair, turning her eyes now upon the empty
cradle and then upon the deserted and sunny street; she grew impatient
as she waited for the return of her child. On her fine features,
pale and creased with fatigue and tears, one might see nevertheless
something like a happy restfulness; yet one could read there the whole
history of her existence throughout the last two months, her anxieties
and tortures, her rupture with Numa, the death of her dear Hortense
and at last the birth of the child, which swept everything else into
insignificance.
When this great happiness really came to her she did not believe it
possible; broken by so many blows, she did not believe herself capable
of giving life to anything. During the last days she even imagined that
she no longer felt the impatient movements of the little captive, and
although cradle and layette were all ready she hid them, moved by a
superstitious fear, and merely notified the Englishwoman who took care
of her:
“If child’s clothes are asked for, you will know where to find them.”
It is nothing to abandon oneself to a bed of torture with closed eyes
and clenched teeth for many, many long hours, interrupted every five
minutes by a terrible cry that tears and compels one; it is nothing to
undergo one’s destiny as a victim all of whose happy moments must be
dearly bought--if there is hope at the end of it all. But what horrible
martyrdom in the final pain when, struck by a supreme disillusionment,
the almost animal lamentations of the woman are mingled with the deeper
sobs of deceived maternity! Half dead and bleeding, she kept repeating
from the bottom of her annihilation: “He is dead--he is dead!”--when
she heard that trial of a voice, that respiration and cry in one,
that appeal for light which the newborn infant makes. Ah, with what
overflowing tenderness did she not respond!
“My little one!”
He lived and they brought him to her. So this was hers after all, this
little creature short of breath, dazzled and startled--almost blind!
This small affair in the flesh connected her again with life, and
merely by pressing it against her all the feverishness of her body was
drowned by a sensation of comfortable coolness. No more mourning, no
more wretchedness! Here was her son, that desire and regret which she
had endured for ten years and had burnt her eyes with tears whenever
she saw the children of other people, that very same baby which she
had kissed so often beforehand upon so many other lovely little rosy
cheeks! There he was, and he caused her a new ravishment and surprise
every time that she leaned from her bed over his cradle and swept
aside the covers that hid a slumber that could hardly be heard and the
shivery and contracted positions of a newly born child. She wanted to
have him always near her. When he went out she was anxious and counted
every minute. But never had she experienced quite so much anguish as
upon this morning of the baptism.
“What time is it?” asked she every minute. “How long they are! Heavens,
what a time they take!”
Mme. Le Quesnoy, who had remained behind with her daughter, reassured
her, although she was herself a little anxious; for this grandson, the
first and only one, was very close to the heart of his grandparents
and lighted up their mourning with a hope. A distant clamor which grew
deeper as it approached increased the trouble of the two women. Running
to the window they listened--choral songs, gunshots, clamors, bells
ringing like mad! And all of a sudden the Englishwoman who is looking
out on the street cries: “Madame, it is the baptism!”
And so it was the baptism, this noise like a riot and these howlings as
of cannibals around the stake.
“Oh, this South, this South!” repeated the young mother, now very much
frightened, for she feared that her little one would be suffocated in
the press.
But not at all; here he was, very alive indeed, in splendid case,
waving his short little arms with his eyes wide open, wearing the long
baptismal robe whose decorations Rosalie herself had embroidered and
whose laces she herself had sewed on; it was the robe meant for the
other; and so it is her two sons in one, the dead and the living one,
whom she owns to-day.
“He did not make a cry, or ask for milk a single time the whole
journey!” Aunt Portal affirms, and then goes on to relate in her
picturesque way the triumphal tour of the town, whilst in the old
hotel, which has suddenly become the old house for ovations, all
the doors slam and the servants rush out into the porch where the
musicians are being regaled with _gazeuse_. The musical bursts resound
and the panes tremble in every window. The old Le Quesnoys have gone
out into the garden to get away from this jollity which overwhelms them
with grief, and since Roumestan is about to make a speech from the
balcony, Aunt Portal and Polly the Englishwoman run quickly into the
drawing-room to listen.
“If Madame would be so kind as to hold the baby?” asks the wet-nurse,
as consumed with curiosity as a wild woman. And Rosalie is only too
happy to remain behind with her child upon her knees. From her window
she can see the banners glittering in the wind and the crowd densely
crushed together and spellbound by the words of her great man. Phrases
from his speech reach her now and then, but more than all else she
hears the tone of that captivating and moving voice, and a sorrowful
shudder passes through her at thought of all the evil which has come to
her by way of that eloquence, so ready to lie and to dupe others.
At last it is all over; she feels that she has reached a point where
deceptions and wounds can hurt her no more; she has a child, and that
sums up all her happiness, all her dreams! And holding him up like a
buckler she hugs the dear little creature to her breast and questions
him very low and very near by, as if she were looking for some
response, or some resemblance in the sketchy features of this unformed
little countenance, these dainty lineaments which seem to have been
impressed by a caress in wax and already show a sensual, violent mouth,
a nose curved in search of adventures and a soft and square chin.
“And will you also be a liar? Will you pass your life betraying others
and yourself, breaking those innocent hearts who have never done you
other evil than to believe in and love you? Will you be possessed of a
light and cruel inconstancy, taking life like an amateur and a singer
of cavatinas? Will you make a merchandise of words without bothering
yourself as to their real value and their connection with your thought,
so long as they are brilliant and resounding?”
And putting her lips in a kiss upon that little ear which the light
strands of hair surround:
“Tell me, are you going to be a Roumestan?”
The orator on the balcony had lashed himself up and had reached
the moment of effusiveness when nothing could be heard except the
final chords, accentuated in the Southern manner--“my soul”--“my
blood”--“morals”--“religion”--“our country”--punctuated by the applause
of that audience which was made according to his image and which he
summed up in his own self both in his qualities and his vices--an
effervescing South, mobile and tumultuous like a sea with many
currents, each of which spoke of him!
There was a final _viva_ and then the crowd was heard slowly passing
away. Roumestan came into the room mopping his brow; intoxicated
by his triumph and warmed by this endless tenderness of the whole
people, he approached his wife and kissed her with a sincere effusion
of sentiment. He felt himself very kind to her and as tender as on the
first day of their marriage; never a bit of remorse and never a bit of
rancor!
“_Bé!_ just see how they make much of him! How they applaud your son!”
Kneeling before the sofa the grand personage of Aps played with his
child and touched the little fingers that seized upon everything and
the little feet that kicked out into the air.
With a wrinkle on her brow Rosalie looked at him, trying to define his
contradictory and inexplicable nature. Then suddenly, as if she had
found something:
“Numa, what was that proverb you people use which Aunt Portal repeated
the other day? ‘_Joie de rue_’--how was it?”
“Oh yes, I remember: ‘_Gau de carriero, doulou d’oustau._’” (Happiness
of the street, sorrow of the home.)
“That is it,” said she with an expression of deep thought. And,
letting the words fall one by one as you drop stones into an abyss,
she slowly repeated, putting the while the sorrow of her life into it,
this proverb, in which an entire race has drawn its own portrait and
formulated its own being:
“Happiness of the street, sorrow of the home.”
THE END.
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Transcriber's Note
The following apparent errors have been corrected:
p. 24 "who had been bought up" changed to "who had been brought up"
p. 34 "Wall, poor old chum" changed to "Well, poor old chum"
p. 70 "to lesson their stress" changed to "to lessen their stress"
p. 78 "a muddy subtance" changed to "a muddy substance"
p. 84 "a medicant friar" changed to "a mendicant friar"
p. 139 "“Take it back”" changed to "“Take it back,”"
p. 163 "unfailing if some what" changed to "unfailing if somewhat"
p. 196 "to day either" changed to "to-day either"
p. 200 "cold Northeners" changed to "cold Northerners"
p. 213 "choose out all of" changed to "choose out of all"
p. 224 "trys to propitiate" changed to "tries to propitiate"
p. 226 "tis all up" changed to "’tis all up"
p. 260 "which the Provencal" changed to "which the Provençal"
Inconsistent or archaic language has otherwise been kept as printed.