and went down to the lower room by a ladder. Then he took the bride by
the hand, the young people of both sexes joined them, and they all began
to dance and utter joyous exclamations, while the matrons sang in
piercing tones and indulged in loud peals of laughter in token of their
scorn and defiance of those who were attempting an assault without.
The besiegers, on their side, raged furiously together: they discharged
their pistols against the doors, made the dogs growl, pounded on the
walls, rattled the shutters, and uttered terror-inspiring yells; in
short, there was such an uproar that you could not hear yourself talk,
such a dust and smoke that you could not see yourself.
The attack was a mere pretence, however: the moment had not come to
violate the laws of etiquette. If they could succeed, by prowling about
the house, in finding an unguarded passage, any opening whatsoever, they
could try to gain an entrance by surprise, and then, if the bearer of
the spit succeeded in placing his bird in front of the fire, that
constituted a taking possession of the hearth-stone, the comedy was at
an end, and the bridegroom was victor.
But the entrances to the house were not so numerous that they were
likely to have neglected the usual precautions, and no one would have
assumed the right to employ violence before the moment fixed for the
conflict.
When they were weary of jumping about and shouting, the hemp-beater
meditated a capitulation. He went back to his window, opened it
cautiously, and hailed the discomfited besiegers with a roar of
laughter:
"Well, my boys," he said, "you're pretty sheepish, aren't you? You
thought that nothing could be easier than to break in here, and you
have discovered that our defences are strong. But we are beginning to
have pity on you, if you choose to submit and accept our conditions."
THE GRAVE-DIGGER.
Speak, my good friends; tell us what we must do to be admitted to your
fireside.
THE HEMP-BEATER.
You must sing, my friends, but sing some song that we don't know, and
that we can't answer with a better one.
"Never you fear!" replied the grave-digger, and he sang in a powerful
voice:
"'_Tis six months since the spring-time_,"
"_When I walked upon the springing grass_," replied the hemp-beater, in
a somewhat hoarse but awe-inspiring voice. "Are you laughing at us, my
poor fellows, that you sing us such old trash? you see that we stop you
at the first word."
"_It was a prince's daughter_--"
"_And she would married be_" replied the hemp-beater. "Go on, go on to
another! we know that a little too well."
THE GRAVE-DIGGER.
What do you say to this:
"_When from Nantes I was returning_--"
THE HEMP-BEATER.
"_I was weary, do you know! oh! so weary_." That's a song of my
grandmother's day. Give us another one.
THE GRAVE-DIGGER.
"_The other day as I was walking_--"
THE HEMP-BEATER.
"_Along by yonder charming wood_!" That's a silly one! Our grandchildren
wouldn't take the trouble to answer you! What! are those all you know?
THE GRAVE-DIGGER.
Oh! we'll sing you so many of them, that you will end by stopping short.
Fully an hour was passed in this contest. As the two combatants were the
most learned men in the province in the matter of ballads, and as their
repertory seemed inexhaustible, it might well have lasted all night,
especially as the hemp-beater seemed to take malicious pleasure in
allowing his opponent to sing certain laments in ten, twenty, or thirty
stanzas, pretending by his silence to admit that he was defeated.
Thereupon, there was triumph in the bridegroom's camp, they sang in
chorus at the tops of their voices, and every one believed that the
adverse party would make default; but when the final stanza was half
finished, the old hemp-beater's harsh, hoarse voice would bellow out the
last words; whereupon he would shout: "You don't need to tire yourselves
out by singing such long ones, my children! We have them at our fingers'
ends!"
Once or twice, however, the hemp-beater made a wry face, drew his
eyebrows together, and turned with a disappointed air toward the
observant matrons. The grave-digger was singing something so old that
his adversary had forgotten it, or perhaps had never known it; but the
good dames instantly sang the victorious refrain through their noses, in
tones as shrill as those of the sea-gull; and the grave-digger, summoned
to surrender, passed to something else.
It would have been too long to wait until one side or the other won the
victory. The bride's party announced that they would show mercy on
condition that the others should offer her a gift worthy of her.
Thereupon, the song of the _livrées_ began, to an air as solemn as a
church chant.
The men outside sang in unison:
"Ouvrez la porte, ouvrez,
Marie, ma mignonne,
_J'ons_ de beaux cadeaux à vous présenter.
Hélas! ma mie, laissez-nous entrer."[3]
To which the women replied from the interior, in falsetto, in doleful
tones:
"Mon père est en chagrin, ma mère en grand' tristesse,
Et moi je suis fille de trop grand' merci
Pour ouvrir ma porte à _cette heure ici_."[4]
The men repeated the first stanza down to the fourth line, which they
modified thus:
"J'ons un beau mouchoir à vous présenter."[5]
But the women replied, in the name of the bride, in the same words as
before.
Through twenty stanzas, at least, the men enumerated all the gifts in
the _livrée_, always mentioning a new article in the last verse: a
beautiful _devanteau_,--apron,--lovely ribbons, a cloth dress, lace, a
gold cross, even to _a hundred pins_ to complete the bride's modest
outfit. The matrons invariably refused; but at last the young men
decided to mention _a handsome husband to offer_, and they replied by
addressing the bride, and singing to her with the men:
"Ouvrez la porte, ouvrez,
Marie, ma mignonne,
C'est un beau man qui vient vous chercher.
Allons, ma mie, laissons-les entrer."[6]
III
THE WEDDING
The hemp-beater at once drew the wooden latch by which the door was
fastened on the inside; at that time, it was still the only lock known
in most of the houses in our village. The bridegroom's party invaded the
bride's dwelling, but not without a combat; for the boys stationed
inside the house, and even the old hemp-beater and the old women, made
it their duty to defend the hearthstone. The bearer of the spit,
supported by his adherents, was bound to succeed in bestowing his bird
in the fire-place. It was a genuine battle, although they abstained from
striking one another, and there was no anger in it. But they pushed and
squeezed one another with such violence, and there was so much
self-esteem at stake in that conflict of muscular strength, that the
results might be more serious than they seemed to be amid the laughter
and the singing. The poor old hemp-beater, who fought like a lion, was
pressed against the wall and squeezed until he lost his breath. More
than one champion was floored and unintentionally trodden under foot,
more than one hand that grasped at the spit was covered with blood.
Those sports are dangerous, and the accidents were so serious in later
years that the peasants determined to allow the ceremony of the
_livrées_ to fall into desuetude. I believe that we saw the last of it
at Françoise Meillant's wedding, and still it was only a mock-battle.
The contest was animated enough at Germain's wedding. It was a point of
honor on one side and the other to attack and to defend La Guillette's
fireside. The huge spit was twisted like a screw in the powerful hands
that struggled for possession of it. A pistol-shot set fire to a small
store of hemp in skeins that lay on a shelf suspended from the ceiling.
That incident created a diversion, and while some hastened to smother
the germ of a conflagration, the grave-digger, who had climbed to the
attic unperceived, came down the chimney and seized the spit, just as
the drover, who was defending it near the hearth, raised it above his
head to prevent its being snatched from him. Some time before the
assault, the matrons had taken care to put out the fire, fearing that
some one might fall in and be burned while they were struggling close
beside it. The facetious grave-digger, in concert with the drover,
possessed himself of the trophy without difficulty, therefore, and threw
it across the fire-dogs. It was done! No one was allowed to touch it
after that. He leaped into the room, and lighted a bit of straw which
surrounded the spit, to make a pretence of cooking the goose, which was
torn to pieces and its limbs strewn over the floor.
Thereupon, there was much laughter and burlesque discussion. Every one
showed the bruises he had received, and as it was often the hand of a
friend that had dealt the blow, there was no complaining or quarrelling.
The hemp-beater, who was half flattened out, rubbed his sides, saying
that he cared very little for that, but that he did protest against the
stratagem of his good friend the grave-digger, and that, if he had not
been half-dead, the hearth would not have been conquered so easily. The
matrons swept the floor, and order was restored. The table was covered
with jugs of new wine. When they had drank together and recovered their
breath, the bridegroom was led into the centre of the room, and, being
armed with a staff, was obliged to submit to a new test.
During the contest, the bride had been concealed with three of her
friends by her mother, her godmother, and aunts, who had seated the four
girls on a bench in the farthest corner of the room, and covered them
over with a great white sheet. They had selected three of Marie's
friends who were of the same height as she, and wore caps of exactly the
same height, so that, as the sheet covered their heads and descended to
their feet, it was impossible to distinguish them from each other.
The bridegroom was not allowed to touch them, except with the end of his
wand, and only to point out the one whom he judged to be his wife. They
gave him time to examine them, but only with his eyes, and the matrons,
who stood by his side, watched closely to see that there was no
cheating. If he made a mistake, he could not dance with his betrothed
during the evening, but only with her whom he had chosen by mistake.
Germain, finding himself in the presence of those phantoms enveloped in
the same winding-sheet, was terribly afraid of making a mistake; and, as
a matter of fact, that had happened to many others, for the precautions
were always taken with scrupulous care. His heart beat fast. Little
Marie tried to breathe hard and make the sheet move, but her mischievous
rivals did the same, pushed out the cloth with their fingers, and there
were as many mysterious signs as there were girls under the veil. The
square caps kept the veil so perfectly level that it was impossible to
distinguish the shape of a head beneath its folds.
Germain, after ten minutes of hesitation, closed his eyes, commended his
soul to God, and stuck his staff out at random. He touched little
Marie's forehead, and she threw the sheet aside with a cry of triumph.
He obtained leave then to kiss her, and, taking her in his strong arms,
he carried her to the middle of the room, and with her opened the ball,
which lasted until two o'clock in the morning.
Then they separated to meet again at eight o'clock. As there was a
considerable number of young people from the neighboring towns, and as
there were not beds enough for everybody, each invited guest among the
women of the village shared her bed with two or three friends, while the
young men lay pell-mell on the hay in the loft at the farm. You can
imagine that there was not much sleep there, for they thought of nothing
but teasing, and playing tricks on one another and telling amusing
stories. At all weddings, there are three sleepless nights, which no one
regrets.
At the hour appointed for setting out, after they had eaten their soup
_au lait_ seasoned with a strong dose of pepper to give them an
appetite, for the wedding-banquet bade fair to be abundant, they
assembled in the farm-yard. Our parish church being suppressed, they
were obliged to go half a league away to receive the nuptial
benediction. It was a lovely, cool day; but, as the roads were very bad,
every man had provided himself with a horse, and took _en croupe_ a
female companion, young or old. Germain was mounted upon Grise, who,
being well groomed, newly shod, and decked out in ribbons, pranced and
capered and breathed fire through her nostrils. He went to the cabin for
his fiancée, accompanied by his brother-in-law Jacques, who was mounted
on old Grise and took Mère Guillette _en croupe_, while Germain returned
triumphantly to the farm-yard with his dear little wife.
Then the merry cavalcade set forth, escorted by children on foot, who
fired pistols as they ran and made the horses jump. Mère Maurice was
riding in a small cart with Germain's three children and the fiddlers.
They opened the march to the sound of the instruments. Petit-Pierre was
so handsome that the old grandmother was immensely proud. But the
impulsive child did not stay long beside her. He took advantage of a
halt they were obliged to make, when they had gone half the distance, in
order to pass a difficult ford, to slip down and ask his father to take
him up on Grise in front of him.
"No, no!" said Germain, "that will make people say unkind things about
us! you mustn't do it."
"I care very little what the people of Saint-Chartier say," said little
Marie. "Take him, Germain, I beg you; I shall be prouder of him than of
my wedding-dress."
Germain yielded the point, and the handsome trio dashed forward at
Grise's proudest gallop.
And, in fact, the people of Saint-Chartier, although very satirical and
a little inclined to be disagreeable in their intercourse with the
neighboring parishes which had been combined with theirs, did not think
of laughing when they saw such a handsome bridegroom and lovely bride,
and a child that a king's wife would have envied. Petit-Pierre had a
full coat of blue-bottle colored cloth, and a cunning little red
waistcoat so short that it hardly came below his chin. The village
tailor had made the sleeves so tight that he could not put his little
arms together. And how proud he was! He had a round hat with a black and
gold buckle and a peacock's feather protruding jauntily from a tuft of
Guinea-hen's feathers. A bunch of flowers larger than his head covered
his shoulder, and ribbons floated down to his feet. The hemp-beater, who
was also the village barber and wig-maker, had cut his hair in a circle,
covering his head with a bowl and cutting off all that protruded, an
infallible method of guiding the scissors accurately. Thus accoutred, he
was less picturesque, surely, than with his long hair flying in the wind
and his lamb's fleece _à la_ Saint John the Baptist; but he had no such
idea, and everybody admired him, saying that he looked like a little
man. His beauty triumphed over everything, and, in sooth, over what
would not the incomparable beauty of childhood triumph?
His little sister Solange had, for the first time in her life, a real
cap instead of the little child's cap of Indian muslin that little girls
wear up to the age of two or three years. And such a cap! higher and
broader than the poor little creature's whole body. And how lovely she
considered herself! She dared not turn her head, and sat perfectly
straight and stiff, thinking that people would take her for the bride.
As for little Sylvain, he was still in long dresses and lay asleep on
his grandmother's knees, with no very clear idea of what a wedding might
be.
Germain gazed affectionately at his children, and said to his fiancée,
as they arrived at the mayor's office:
"Do you know, Marie, I ride up to this door a little happier than I was
the day I brought you home from the woods of Chanteloube, thinking that
you would never love me; I took you in my arms to put you on the ground
just as I do now, but I didn't think we should ever be together again on
good Grise with this child on our knees. I love you so much, you see, I
love those dear little ones so much, I am so happy because you love me
and love them and because my people love you, and I love my mother and
my friends and everybody so much to-day, that I wish I had three or four
hearts to hold it all. Really, one is too small to hold so much love and
so much happiness! I have something like a pain in my stomach."
There was a crowd at the mayor's door and at the church to see the
pretty bride. Why should we not describe her costume? it became her so
well. Her cap of white embroidered muslin had flaps trimmed with lace.
In those days, peasant-women did not allow themselves to show a single
hair; and although their caps conceal magnificent masses of hair rolled
in bands of white thread to keep the head-dress in place, even in these
days it would be considered an immodest and shameful action to appear
before men bareheaded. They do allow themselves now, however, to wear a
narrow band across the forehead, which improves their appearance very
much. But I regret the classic head-dress of my time: the white lace
against the skin had a suggestion of old fashioned chastity which seemed
to me more solemn, and when a face was beautiful under those
circumstances, it was a beauty whose artless charm and majesty no words
can describe.
Little Marie still wore that head dress, and her forehead was so white
and so pure that it defied the white of the linen to cast a shadow upon
it. Although she had not closed her eyes during the night, the morning
air, and above all things the inward joy of a soul as spotless as the
sky, and a little hidden fire, held in check by the modesty of youth,
sent to her cheeks a flush as delicate as the peach-blossom in the early
days of April.
Her white fichu, chastely crossed over her bosom, showed only the
graceful contour of a neck as full and round as a turtle-dove's; her
morning dress of fine myrtle-green cloth marked the shape of her slender
waist, which seemed perfect, but was likely to grow and develop, for she
was only seventeen. She wore an apron of violet silk, with the pinafore
which our village women have made a great mistake in abolishing, and
which imparted so much modesty and refinement to the chest. To-day, they
spread out their fichus more proudly, but there is no longer that sweet
flower of old-fashioned pudicity in their costume that made them
resemble Holbein's virgins. They are more coquettish, more graceful. The
correct style in the old days was a sort of unbending stiffness which
made their infrequent smiles more profound and more ideal.
At the offertory, Germain, according to the usual custom, placed the
_treizain_--that is to say, thirteen pieces of silver--in his fiancée's
hand. He placed on her finger a silver ring of a shape that remained
invariable for centuries, but has since been replaced by the _band of
gold._ As they left the church, Marie whispered: "Is it the ring I
wanted? the one I asked you for, Germain?"
"Yes," he replied, "the one my Catherine had on her finger when she
died. The same ring for both my marriages."
"Thank you, Germain," said the young wife in a serious tone and with
deep feeling. "I shall die with it, and if I die before you, you must
keep it for your little Solange."
IV
THE CABBAGE
They remounted their horses, and rode rapidly back to Belair. The
banquet was a sumptuous affair, and lasted, intermingled with dancing
and singing, until midnight. The old people did not leave the table for
fourteen hours. The grave-digger did the cooking, and did it very well.
He was renowned for that, and he left his ovens to come and dance and
sing between every two courses. And yet he was epileptic, was poor Père
Bontemps. Who would have suspected it? He was as fresh and vigorous and
gay as a young man. One day we found him lying like a dead man in a
ditch, all distorted by his malady, just at nightfall. We carried him to
our house in a wheelbarrow, and passed the night taking care of him.
Three days later, he was at a wedding, singing like a thrush, leaping
like a kid, and frisking about in the old-fashioned way. On leaving a
marriage-feast, he would go and dig a grave and nail up a coffin. He
performed those duties devoutly, and although they seemed to have no
effect on his merry humor, he retained a melancholy impression which
hastened the return of his attacks. His wife, a paralytic, had not left
her chair for twenty years. His mother is a hundred and forty years old
and is still alive. But he, poor man, so jovial and kind-hearted and
amusing, was killed last year by falling from his loft to the pavement.
Doubtless he was suddenly attacked by his malady, and had hidden himself
in the hay, as he was accustomed to do, in order not to frighten and
distress his family. Thus ended, in a tragic way, a life as strange as
himself, a mixture of gloom and folly, of horror and hilarity, amid
which his heart remained always kind and his character lovable.
But we are coming to the third day of the wedding-feast, which is the
most interesting of all, and has been retained in full vigor down to our
own day. We will say nothing of the slice of toast that is carried to
the nuptial bed; that is an absurd custom which offends the modesty of
the bride, and tends to destroy that of the young girls who are present.
Moreover, I think that it is a custom which obtains in all the provinces
and has no peculiar features as practised among us.
[Illustration: Chapter IV (Appendix)
_He fell on his knees in the furrow through which he was about to run
his plough once more, and repeated the morning prayer with such emotion
that the tears rolled down his cheeks, still moist with perspiration_]
Just as the ceremony of the _livrées_ is the symbol of the taking
possession of the bride's heart and home, that of the _cabbage_ is the
symbol of the fruitfulness of the union. After breakfast on the day
following the marriage-ceremony, comes this strange performance, which
is of Gallic origin, but, as it passed through the hands of the
primitive Christians, gradually became a sort of _mystery_, or burlesque
morality-play of the Middle Ages.
Two youths--the merriest and most energetic of the party--disappear
during the breakfast, don their costumes, and return, escorted by the
musicians, dogs, children, and pistol-shots. They represent a couple of
beggars, husband and wife, covered with the vilest rags. The husband is
the dirtier of the two: it is vice that has degraded him; the woman is
unhappy simply and debased by her husband's evil ways.
They are called the _gardener_ and the _gardener's wife_, and claim to
be fitted to watch and cultivate the sacred cabbage. But the husband is
known by several appellations, all of which have a meaning. He is
called, indifferently, the _pailloux_,[7] because he wears a wig made of
straw or hemp, and, to hide his nakedness, which is ill protected by his
rags, he surrounds his legs and a part of his body with straw. He also
provides himself with a huge belly or a hump by stuffing straw or hay
under his blouse. The _peilloux_ because he is covered with _peille_
(rags). And, lastly, the _païen_ (heathen), which is the most
significant of all, because he is supposed, by his cynicism and his
debauched life, to represent in himself the antipodes of all the
Christian virtues.
He arrives with his face daubed with grease and wine lees, sometimes
swallowed up in a grotesque mask. A wretched, cracked earthen cup, or an
old wooden shoe, hanging by a string to his belt, he uses to ask alms in
the shape of wine. No one refuses him, and he pretends to drink, then
pours the wine on the ground by way of libation. At every step, he falls
and rolls in the mud; he pretends to be most disgustingly drunk. His
poor wife runs after him, picks him up, calls for help, tears out the
hempen hair that protrudes in stringy locks from beneath her soiled cap,
weeps over her husband's degradation, and reproaches him pathetically.