"In that case," said the King, "we will go on."
But he made a conquest for all eternity of the heart of France, of the
_bourgeoisie,_ and of the people, by the finest phrase that prince ever
pronounced,--a real inspiration of genius, full of depth, heartiness,
sharpness, and good sense.
"If God prolongs my life, I hope to see in my kingdom no peasant so
poor, that he cannot put a fowl in the pot for his Sunday's dinner."
It is with words such as these, that enthusiastic and foolish crowds
are flattered and governed. By a couple of clever sayings, Henry IV.
has drawn his own portrait for posterity. One cannot pronounce his
name, without at once having a vision of the white plumes, and of the
delicious flavour of a _poule-au-pot._
Louis XIII. made no happy hits. This dull King had a dull reign.
Louis XIV. created the formula of absolute personal power: "The State
is myself."
He gave the measure of royal pride in its fullest expansion: "I have
almost had to wait."
He set the example of sonorous political phrases, which make alliances
between two nations: "The Pyrenees exist no longer!"
All his reign is in these few phrases.
Louis XV., most corrupt of Kings, elegant and witty, has bequeathed to
posterity that delightful keynote of his supreme indifference: "After
me, the deluge."
If Louis XVI. had been inspired enough to perpetrate one witticism, he
might possibly have saved his kingdom. With one _bon mot,_ might he not
perhaps have escaped the guillotine?
Napoleon I. scattered around him by handfuls, the sayings that were
suited to the hearts of his soldiers.
Napoleon III. extinguished with one brief phrase, all the future
indignation of the French nation in that first promise: "The Empire is
peace." The Empire is peace! superb declaration, magnificent lie! After
having said that, he might declare war against the whole of Europe,
without having anything to fear from his people. He had found a simple,
neat, and striking formula, capable of appealing to all minds, and
against which facts would be no argument.
He made war against China, Mexico, Russia, Austria, against all the
world. What did it matter? There are people yet, who speak with sincere
conviction of the eighteen years of tranquillity he gave to France:
"The Empire is peace."
And it was also with his keen words of satire, phrases more mortal than
bullets, that M. Rochefort laid the Empire low, riddling it with the
arrows of his wit, cutting it to shreds and tatters.
The Maréchal MacMahon himself has left as a souvenir of his career to
power: "Here I am, here I remain!" And it was by a shaft from Gambetta
that he was, in his turn, knocked down: "Submission or dismissal."
With these two words, more powerful than a revolution, more formidable
than the barricades, more invincible than an army, more redoubtable
than all the votes, the tribune turned out the soldier, crushed his
glory, and destroyed his power and prestige.
As to those who govern France at this moment, they must fall, for they
are devoid of wit; they will fall, for in the day of danger, in the day
of disturbance, in the inevitable moment of see-saw, they will not be
capable of making France laugh, and of disarming her.
Of all these historical phrases, there are not ten really authentic.
But what does it matter, so long as they are believed to have been
uttered by those to whom they are attributed:
"Dans le pays des bossus
Il faut l'être
Ou le paraître,"[2]
says the popular song.
Meanwhile the commercial travellers were talking of the emancipation of
women, of their rights, and of the new position in society they longed
for.
Some approved, others were annoyed; the little fat man jested without
ceasing, and ended the breakfast, as well as the discussion, by the
following entertaining anecdote:
"Lately," said he, "there was a great meeting in England, where this
question was discussed. One of the orators had been setting forth
numerous arguments in favour of the women's case, and wound up with
this observation:
"To conclude, gentlemen, I may observe that the difference between man
and woman is after all, very small."
A powerful voice, from an enthusiastic and thoroughly convinced
listener, arose from the audience, crying: "Hurrah for the small
difference!"
[1] Buoy of the oily scuttle-fish!
[2]
In the country of hunchbacks
One must be so,
Or at least appear so.
SAINT-TROPEZ, _April 13th_.
As it was remarkably fine this morning, I started for the _Chartreuse
de la Verne._
Two recollections draw me towards this ruin: that of the sensation of
infinite solitude and the unforgettable melancholy of the deserted
cloister; and also that of an old peasant couple, to whose cottage I
had been taken the year before by a friend who was guiding me across
this country of the Moors.
[Illustration 051]
Seated in a country cart, for the road soon became impracticable for
a vehicle on springs, I followed the line of the bay to its deepest
point. I could see upon the opposite shore the pine woods where the
_Company_ is attempting to create another winter resort. The shore
indeed is exquisite, and the whole country magnificent. Then the
road plunges into the mountains, and soon passes through the town of
Cogolin. A little further on, I quitted it for a rough broken lane,
which was scarcely more than a long rut. A river, or rather a big
stream, runs by the side, and every hundred yards or so, cuts through
the ravine, floods it, wanders away a little, returns, loses itself
again, quits its bed and drowns the track, then falls into a ditch,
strays through a field of stones, appears suddenly to calm down
into wisdom, and for a while follows its due course; but seized all
at once by some wild fancy, it precipitates itself again into the
road, and changes it into a marsh, in which the horse sinks up to the
breast-plate, and the high vehicle up to the driving seat.
There are no more houses; only from time to time, a charcoal burner's
hut; the poorest live in absolute holes. Is it not almost incredible
that men should inhabit holes in the ground, where they live all the
year, cutting wood and burning it to extract the charcoal, eating bread
and onions, drinking water, and sleeping like rabbits in their burrows,
in narrow caverns hewn in the granite rocks. Lately, too, in the midst
of these unexplored valleys, a hermit has been discovered, a real
hermit, hidden there for these thirty years, unknown to anyone, even to
the forest rangers.
The existence of this wild man, revealed by I know not whom, was, no
doubt, mentioned to the driver of the diligence, who spoke of it
to the post-master, who talked of it to the telegraph clerk male or
female, who flew with the wonder to the editor of some little local
paper, who made out of it a sensational paragraph, copied into all the
country journals of Provence.
The police set to work, to hunt out the hermit, without apparently
causing him any alarm, whence we may conclude that he had kept all
needful papers by him. But a photographer, excited by the news, set
off in his turn, wandered three days and three nights amongst the
mountains, and ended by photographing some one, the real hermit some
say, an impostor, others will tell you.
Last year then, the friend who first revealed to me this strangely
quaint country, showed me two creatures infinitely more curious, than
the poor devil who had come to hide in these impenetrable woods, a
grief, a remorse, an incurable despair, or perhaps simply the mere
ennui of living.
This is how he first discovered them. Wandering on horseback among
these valleys, he suddenly came across a prosperous farm: vines,
fields, and a farmhouse, which looked comfortable though humble.
He entered. He was received by a woman, a peasant, about seventy years
old. The husband, seated under a tree, rose and came forward to bow.
"He is deaf," she said.
He was a fine old fellow of eighty, amazingly strong, upright, and
handsome. They had for servants, a labourer and a farm-girl. My friend,
a little surprised to meet these singular persons in the midst of a
desert, enquired about them. They had been there for a long time; they
were much respected, and passed for being comfortably off, that is, for
peasants.
He came back several times to visit them, and little by little became
the confidant of the wife. He brought her papers and books, being
surprised to find that she had some ideas, or rather remains of ideas,
which scarcely seemed those of her class. She was, however, neither
well read, intelligent nor witty, but there seemed to be, in the depths
of her memory, traces of forgotten thoughts, a slumbering recollection
of a bye-gone education. One day, she asked him his name:
"I am the Count de X...," he said. Moved by the obscure vanity which is
lodged deep in all souls, she replied:
"I too am noble."
Then she went on, speaking for certainly the first time in her life, of
this piece of ancient history, unknown to anyone.
"I am the daughter of a colonel. My husband was a non-commissioned
officer in my father's regiment. I fell in love with him, and we ran
away together.
"And you came here?"
"Yes, we hid ourselves."
"And you have never seen your family since?"
"Oh no! don't you see my husband was a deserter."
"You have never written to anyone?"
"Oh no!"
"And you have never heard anyone speak of your family, of your father,
or mother?"
"Oh no, mama was dead."
This woman had preserved a certain childishness, the simplicity of
those who throw themselves into love, as if over a precipice.
He asked again:
"You have never told this to anyone?"
She answered: "Oh no! I can say it now, because Maurice is deaf. As
long as, he could hear, I should not have dared to mention it. Besides,
I have never seen anyone but the peasants since I ran away."
"At least, then, you have been happy?"
"Oh yes; very happy. I have been very happy. I have never regretted
anything."
Well, I also had gone last year to visit this woman, this couple, as
one goes to gaze at some miraculous relic.
I had contemplated with surprise, sadness, and even a little disgust,
this woman who had followed this man, this rustic Adonis, attracted
by his hussar uniform, and who had continued to see him under his
peasant's rags, with the blue dolman slung over his back, sword at his
side, and the high boot with clanking spur.
She had, however, become a peasant herself. In the depths of this
wilderness, she had become perfectly accustomed to this life without
luxuries, without charm, or delicacy of any sort, she had adapted
herself to these simple manners. And she loved him still. She had
become a woman of the people, in cap and coarse petticoat. Seated on
a straw-bottomed chair at a wooden table, she eat a mess of cabbage,
potatoes and bacon from an earthenware plate. She slept on a straw
mattress beside him.
She had never thought of anything but him! She had regretted neither
ornaments, nor silks, nor elegance, nor soft chairs, nor the perfumed
warmth of well-curtained rooms, nor repose in a comfortable bed. She
had never needed anything but him! As long as he was there, she had
wanted nothing else!
She was quite young when she abandoned life, the world, and those who
had brought her up and loved her. Alone with him she had come to this
savage ravine. And he had been everything to her, everything that could
be longed for, dreamt of, expected, ceaselessly hoped for. He had
filled her life with happiness from one end to another. She could not
have been happier.
Now I was going for the second time to see her again, filled with the
surprise, and the vague contempt, with which she inspired me.
[Illustration 052]
She lived near the Hyères road, on the opposite slope of the mountain
on which stands the _Chartreuse de la Verne;_ and another carriage was
awaiting me on this road, for the deep track we had followed, had now
ceased and become a mere footpath, only accessible to pedestrians and
mules.
I started therefore alone, on foot, and with slow steps to climb the
mountains. I was in a delightful wood, a real Corsican thicket, a fairy
tale wood composed of flowering creepers, aromatic plants with powerful
scents, and huge magnificent trees.
[Illustration 053]
The granite fragments in the track sparkled as they rolled beneath my
steps, and in the openings between the branches, I saw sudden peeps
of wide gloomy valleys full of verdure, winding lengthily away to the
distance.
[Illustration 054]
I was warm, the quick blood flowed within my flesh, I felt it coursing
through my veins, burning, rapid, alert, rhythmical and alluring as a
song; the vast song brutish and gay, of life in movement under the
sun. I was happy, I was strong, I quickened my pace, climbed the rocks,
ran, jumped, and discovered every minute a larger view, a more gigantic
network of desert valleys, from whence not one single chimney sent up a
wreath of smoke.
Then I reached the top, dominated by other heights, and after making
some circuit, perceived on the slope of the mountain before me, a
bleak ruin, a heap of dark stones, and of ancient buildings supported
by lofty arcades. To reach it, it was necessary to go round a large
ravine, and to cross a chestnut grove. The trees, old as the abbey
itself, enormous, mutilated and dying, had survived the building. Some
have fallen, no longer able to sustain the weight of years; others,
beheaded, have now only a hollow trunk in which ten men could conceal
themselves. And they look like a formidable army of giants, who in
spite of age and thunderbolts are ready still to attempt the assault
of the skies. In this fantastic wood one feels the mouldy touch of
centuries, the old, old life of the rotting roots, amidst which, at the
feet of these colossal stumps, nothing can grow. For amongst the grey
trunks the ground is of hard stones and a blade of grass is rare.
Here are two fenced springs, or fountains, kept as drinking places for
the cows.
I approach the abbey, and find myself face to face with the old
buildings, the most ancient of which date back to the 12th century,
while the more recent are inhabited by a family of shepherds.
In the first court, one sees by the traces of animals, that a remnant
of life still haunts the spot; then after traversing crumbling and
tumbling halls, like those of all ruins, one reaches the cloister, a
long and low walk still under cover, surrounding a tangled square of
brambles and tall grasses. In no spot in the world, have I felt such
a weight of melancholy press upon my heart, as in this ancient and
sinister cloister, true pacing court of monks. Certainly, the form of
the arcades and the proportions of the place contribute to my emotion,
to my heartache, and sadden my soul by their action on my eyes, exactly
as the happy curve of some cheering bit of architecture would rejoice
them. The man who built this retreat must have been possessed with a
despairing heart, to have an inspiration so desolate and dreary. One
would fain weep and groan within these walls, one longs to suffer, to
reopen all the wounds of one's heart, to enlarge and make the very
utmost of all the sorrows compressed within it.
I climbed upon a breach in the wall to see the view outside, and I
understood my emotion. Nothing living around, nothing anywhere but
death. Behind the abbey, a mountain ascending up to the sky, around
the ruins the chestnut grove, in front a valley, and beyond that, more
valleys,--pines, pines, an ocean of pines, and on the far horizon,
pines still on the mountain tops.
And I left the place.
[Illustration 055]
I crossed next a wood of cork trees, where, a year ago, I had
experienced a shock of strong and moving surprise.
[Illustration 056]
It was on a grey day of October, at the time when they strip the bark
of these trees, to make corks of it. They strip them thus from the foot
to the first branches, and the denuded trunk becomes red, a blood red
as of a flayed limb. They have grotesque and twisted shapes; the look
of maimed creatures writhing in epileptic fits, and I suddenly fancied
myself transported into a forest of tormented beings, a bleeding and
Dantesque forest of hell, where men had roots, where bodies deformed by
torture, resembled trees, where life ebbed incessantly, in never-ending
torment by these bleeding wounds, which produced upon me the tension
of the nerves and faintness that sensitive people feel at the sudden
sight of blood, or the unexpected shock of a man crushed, or fallen
from a roof. And this emotion was so keen, this sensation so vivid,
that I imagined I heard distracting cries and plaints, distant and
innumerable; I touched one of these trees, to reassure my fainting
spirit, and I fancied, I beheld my hand, as I drew it back, covered
with blood.
To-day they are cured--till the next barking.
At length the road appears, passing near the farm which has sheltered
the long happiness of the non-commissioned officer of hussars, and the
Colonel's daughter.
From afar, I recognize the old man walking among the vines. So much the
better; the wife will be alone in the house.
The servant was washing in front of the door.
"Your mistress is here," I said.
[Illustration 057]
She replied, with a singular look, in the accent of the south:
"No, sir; since six months she is no more."
"She is dead?"
"Yes, sir."
"And of what?"
The woman hesitated, then muttered:
"She is dead--dead, I tell you."
"But of what?"
"Of a fall, then!"
"A fall! where from?"
"From the window."