The following day Coqueville, in rising, found the sun already high
above the horizon. The air was softer still, a drowsy sea under a clear
sky, one of those times of laziness when it is so good to do nothing. It
was a Wednesday. Until breakfast time, Coqueville rested from the fête
of the previous evening. Then they went down to the beach to see.
That Wednesday the fish, the Widow Dufeu, M. Mouchel, all were
forgotten. La Queue and Rouget did not even speak of visiting their
jambins. Toward three o’clock they sighted some casks. Four of them
were dancing before the village. The “Zéphir” and the “Baleine” went in
chase; but as there was enough for all, they disputed no longer. Each
boat had its share. At six o’clock, after having swept all over the
little gulf, Rouget and La Queue came in, each with three casks. And
the fête began again. The women had brought down tables for convenience.
They had brought benches as well; they set up two cafés in the open air,
such as they had at Grandport. The Mahés were on the left; the Floches
on the right, still separated by a bar of sand. Nevertheless, that
evening the Emperor, who went from one group to the other, carried his
glasses full, so at to give every one a taste of the six casks. At about
nine o’clock they were much gayer than the night before.
The next day Coqueville could never remember how it had gone to bed.
Thursday the “Zéphir” and the “Baleine” caught but four casks, two each,
but they were enormous. Friday the fishing was superb, undreamed
of; there were seven casks, three for Rouget and four for La Queue.
Coqueville was entering upon a golden age. They never did anything
any more. The fishermen, working off the alcohol of the night before,
slept till noon. Then they strolled down to the beach and interrogated
the sea. Their sole anxiety was to know what liquor the sea was going
to bring them. They waited there for hours, their eyes strained; they
raised shouts of joy when wreckage appeared.
The women and the children, from the tops of the rocks, pointed with
sweeping gestures even to the least bunch of seaweed rolled in by the
waves. And, at all hours, the “Zéphir” and the “Baleine” stood ready to
leave. They put out, they beat the gulf, they fished for casks, as they
had fished for tun; disdaining now the tame mackerel who capered
about in the sun, and the lazy sole rocked on the foam of the water.
Coqueville watched the fishing, dying of laughter on the sands. Then in
the evening they drank the catch.
That which enraptured Coqueville was that the casks did not cease. When
there were no more, there were still more! The ship that had been lost
must truly have had a pretty cargo aboard; and Coqueville became egoist
and merry, joked over the wrecked ship, a regular wine-cellar, enough
to intoxicate all the fish of the ocean. Added to that, never did they
catch two casks alike; they were of all shapes, of all sizes, of all
colors. Then, in every cask there was a different liquor. So the Emperor
was plunged into profound reveries; he who had drunk everything, he
could identify nothing any more. La Queue declared that never had he
seen such a cargo. The Abbé Radiguet guessed it was an order from some
savage king, wishing to set up his wine-cellar. Coqueville, rocked in
mysterious intoxication, no longer tried to understand.
The ladies preferred the “creams”; they had cream of moka, of cacao, of
mint, of vanilla. Marie Rouget drank one night so much anisette that she
was sick.
Margot and the other young ladies tapped the curaçao, the bénédictine,
the trappistine, the chartreuse. As to the cassis, it was reserved for
the little children. Naturally the men rejoiced more when they caught
cognacs, rums, gins, everything that burned the mouth. Then surprises
produced themselves. A cask of _raki_ of Chio, flavored with mastic,
stupefied Coqueville, which thought that it had fallen on a cask of
essence of turpentine. All the same they drank it, for they must lose
nothing; but they talked about it for a long time. Arrack from Batavia,
Swedish eau-de-vie with cumin, tuica calugaresca from Rumania, slivowitz
from Servia, all equally overturned every idea that Coqueville had of
what one should endure. At heart they had a weakness for kümmel and
kirschwasser, for liqueurs as pale as water and stiff enough to kill a
man.
Heavens! was it possible so many good things had been invented! At
Coqueville they had known nothing but eau-de-vie; and, moreover, not
every one at that. So their imaginations finished in exultation; they
arrived at a state of veritable worship, in face of that inexhaustible
variety, for that which intoxicates. Oh! to get drunk every night on
something new, on something one does not even know the name of!
It seemed like a fairy-tale, a rain, a fountain, that would spout
extraordinary liquids, all the distilled alcohols, perfumed with all the
flowers and all the fruits of creation.
So then, Friday evening, there were seven casks on the beach! Coqueville
did not leave the beach. They lived there, thanks to the mildness of the
season. Never in September had they enjoyed so fine a week. The fête
had lasted since Monday, and there was no reason why it should not last
forever if Providence should continue to send them casks; for the Abbé
Radiguet saw therein the hand of Providence. All business was suspended;
what use drudging when pleasure came to them in their sleep? They were
all bourgeois, bourgeois who were drinking expensive liquors without
having to pay anything at the café. With hands in pocket, Coqueville
basked in the sunshine waiting for the evening’s spree. Moreover, it
did not sober up; it enjoyed side by side the gaieties of kümmel, of
kirsch-wasser, of ratafia; in seven days they knew the wraths of gin,
the tendernesses of curaçao, the laughter of cognac. And Coqueville
remained as innocent as a new-born child, knowing nothing about
anything, drinking with conviction that which the good Lord sent them.
It was on Friday that the Mahés and the Floches fraternized. They were
very jolly that evening. Already, the evening before, distances had
drawn nearer, the most intoxicated had trodden down the bar of sand
which separated the two groups. There remained but one step to take. On
the side of the Floches the four casks were emptying, while the Mahés
were equally finishing their three little barrels; just three liqueurs
which made the French flag; one blue, one white, and one red. The blue
filled the Floches with jealousy, because a blue liqueur seemed to them
something really supernatural. La Queue, grown good-natured since he had
been drunk, advanced, a glass in his hand, feeling that he ought to take
the first step as magistrate.
“See here, Rouget,” he stuttered, “will you drink with me?”
“Willingly,” replied Rouget, who was staggering under a feeling of
tenderness.
And they fell upon each other’s necks. Then they all wept, so great was
their emotion. The Mahés and the Floches embraced, they who had been
devouring one another for three centuries. The Abbé Radiguet, greatly
touched, again spoke of the finger of God. They drank to each other in
the three liqueurs, the blue, the white, and the red.
“_Vive la France!_” cried the Emperor.
The blue was worthless, the white of not much account, but the red was
really a success. Then they tapped the casks of the Floches. Then they
danced. As there was no band, some good-natured boys clapped their
hands, whistling, which excited the girls. The fête became superb. The
seven casks were placed in a row; each could choose that which he liked
best. Those who had had enough stretched themselves out on the sands,
where they slept for a while; and when they awoke they began again.
Little by little the others spread the fun until they took up the whole
beach. Right up to midnight they skipped in the open air. The sea had a
soft sound, the stars shone in a deep sky, a sky of vast peace. It
was the serenity of the infant ages enveloping the joy of a tribe of
savages, intoxicated by their first cask of eau-de-vie.
Nevertheless, Coqueville went home to bed again. When there was nothing
more left to drink, the Floches and the Mahés helped one another,
carried one another, and ended by finding their beds again one way or
another. On Saturday the fête lasted until nearly two o’clock in the
morning. They had caught six casks, two of them enormous. Fouasse and
Tupain almost fought. Tupain, who was wicked when drunk, talked of
finishing his brother. But that quarrel disgusted every one, the Floches
as well as the Mahés. Was it reasonable to keep on quarreling when the
whole village was embracing? They forced the two brothers to drink
together. They were sulky. The Emperor promised to watch them. Neither
did the Rouget household get on well. When Marie had taken anisette she
was prodigal in her attentions to Brisemotte, which Rouget could not
behold with a calm eye, especially since having become sensitive, he
also wished to be loved. The Abbé Radiguet, full of forbearance, did
well in preaching forgiveness; they feared an accident. “Bah!” said La
Queue; “all will arrange itself. If the fishing is good to-morrow, you
will see--Your health!”
However, La Queue himself was not yet perfect. He still kept his eye on
Delphin and leveled kicks at him whenever he saw him approach Margot.
The Emperor was indignant, for there was no common sense in preventing
two young people from laughing. But La Queue always swore to kill his
daughter sooner than give her to “the little one.” Moreover, Margot
would not be willing.
“Isn’t it so? You are too proud,” he cried. “Never would you marry a
ragamuffin!”
“Never, papa!” answered Margot.
Saturday, Margot drank a great deal of sugary liqueur. No one had any
idea of such sugar. As she was no longer on her guard, she soon found
herself sitting close to the cask. She laughed, happy, in paradise; she
saw stars, and it seemed to her that there was music within her, playing
dance tunes. Then it was that Delphin slipped into the shadow of the
casks. He took her hand; he asked: “Say, Margot, will you?”
She kept on smiling. Then she replied: “It is papa who will not.”
“Oh! that’s nothing,” said the little one; “you know the old ones never
will--provided you are willing, you.” And he grew bold, he planted a
kiss on her neck. She bridled; shivers ran along her shoulders. “Stop!
You tickle me.”
But she talked no more of giving him a slap. In the first place, she was
not able to, for her hands were too weak. Then it seemed nice to her,
those little kisses on the neck. It was like the liqueur that enervated
her so deliciously. She ended by turning her head and extending her
chin, just like a cat.
“There!” she stammered, “there under the ear--that tickles me. Oh! that
is nice!”
They had both forgotten La Queue. Fortunately the Emperor was on guard.
He pointed them out to the Abbé.
“Look there, Curé--it would be better to marry them.”
“Morals would gain thereby,” declared the priest sententiously.
And he charged himself with the matter for the morrow. ‘Twas he himself
that would speak to La Queue. Meanwhile La Queue had drunk so much that
the Emperor and the Curé were forced to carry him home. On the way they
tried to reason with him on the subject of his daughter; but they could
draw from him nothing but growls. Behind them, in the untroubled night,
Delphin led Margot home.
The next day by four o’clock the “Zéphir” and the “Baleine” had already
caught seven casks. At six o’clock the “Zéphir” caught two more. That
made nine.
Then Coqueville feted Sunday. It was the seventh day that it had been
drunk. And the fête was complete--a fête such as no one had ever seen,
and which no one will ever see again. Speak of it in Lower Normandy, and
they will tell you with laughter, “Ah! yes, the fête at Coqueville!”
V
In the mean while, since the Tuesday, M. Mouchel had been surprised at
not seeing either Rouget or La Queue arrive at Grandport. What the devil
could those fellows be doing? The sea was fine, the fishing ought to be
splendid. Very possibly they wished to bring a whole load of soles and
lobsters in all at once. And he was patient until the Wednesday.
Wednesday, M. Mouchel was angry. You must know that the Widow Dufeu was
not a commodious person. She was a woman who in a flash came to high
words. Although he was a handsome fellow, blond and powerful, he
trembled before her, especially since he had dreams of marrying her,
always with little attentions, free to subdue her with a slap if he ever
became her master. Well, that Wednesday morning the Widow Dufeu stormed,
complaining that the bundles were no longer forwarded, that the sea
failed; and she accused him of running after the girls of the coast
instead of busying himself with the whiting and the mackerel which
ought to be yielding in abundance. M. Mouchel, vexed, fell back on
Coqueville’s singular breach of honor. For a moment surprise calmed
the Widow Dufeu. What was Coqueville dreaming about? Never had it so
conducted itself before. But she declared immediately that she had
nothing to do with Coqueville; that it was M. Mouchel’s business to look
into matters, that she should take a partner if he allowed himself to be
played with again by the fishermen. In a word, much disquieted, he sent
Rouget and La Queue to the devil. Perhaps, after all, they would come
tomorrow.
The next day, Thursday, neither the one nor the other appeared.
Toward evening, M. Mouchel, desperate, climbed the rock to the left of
Grandport, from which one could see in the distance Coqueville, with
its yellow spot of beach. He gazed at it a long time. The village had a
tranquil look in the sun, light smoke was rising from the chimneys; no
doubt the women were preparing the soup. M. Mouchel was satisfied that
Coqueville was still in its place, that a rock from the cliff had not
crushed it, and he understood less and less. As he was about to descend
again, he thought he could make out two black points on the gulf; the
“Baleine” and the “Zëphir.” After that he went back to calm the Widow
Dufeu. Coqueville was fishing. The night passed. Friday was here. Still
nothing of Coqueville. M. Mouchel climbed to his rock more than ten
times. He was beginning to lose his head; the Widow Dufeu behaved
abominably to him, without his finding anything to reply. Coqueville was
always there, in the sun, warming itself like a lazy lizard. Only, M.
Mouchel saw no more smoke. The village seemed dead. Had they all died in
their holes? On the beach, there was quite a movement, but that might
be seaweed rocked by the tide. Saturday, still no one. The Widow Dufeu
scolded no more; her eyes were fixed, her lips white. M. Mouchel passed
two hours on the rock. A curiosity grew in him, a purely personal need
of accounting to himself for the strange immobility of the village. The
old walls sleeping beatifically in the sun ended by worrying him. His
resolution was taken; he would set out that Monday very early in the
morning and try to get down there near nine o’clock.
It was not a promenade to go to Coqueville. M. Mouchel preferred to
follow the route by land, in that way he would come upon the village
without their expecting him. A wagon carried him as far as Robineux,
where he left it under a shed, for it would not have been prudent to
risk it in the middle of the gorge. And he set off bravely, having to
make nearly seven kilometers over the most abominable of roads. The
route was otherwise of a wild beauty; it descended by continual turns
between two enormous ledges of rock, so narrow in places that three men
could not walk abreast. Farther on it skirted the precipices; the gorge
opened abruptly; and one caught glimpses of the sea, of immense blue
horizons. But M. Mouchel was not in a state of mind to admire the
landscape. He swore as the pebbles rolled under his feet. It was the
fault of Coqueville, he promised to shake up those do-nothings well.
But, in the meantime, he was approaching. All at once, in the turning
at the last rock, he saw the twenty houses of the village hanging to the
flank of the cliff.
Nine o’clock struck. One would have believed it June, so blue and warm
was the sky; a superb season, limpid air, gilded by the dust of the
sun, refreshed by the good smell of the sea. M. Mouchel entered the only
street of the village, where he came very often; and as he passed before
Rouget’s house, he went in. The house was empty. Then he cast his eye
toward Fouasse’s--Tupain’s--Brisemotte’s. Not a soul; all the doors
open, and no one in the rooms. What did it mean? A light chill began to
creep over his flesh. Then he thought of the authorities. Certainly, the
Emperor would reassure him. But the Emperor’s house was empty like the
others. Even to the _garde champêtre_, there was failure! That village,
silent and deserted, terrified him now. He ran to the Mayor’s. There
another surprise awaited him: the house was found in an abominable mess;
they had not made the beds in three days; dirty dishes littered the
place; chairs seemed to indicate a fight. His mind upset, dreaming of
cataclysms, M. Mouchel determined to go on to the end, and he entered
the church. No more curé than mayor. All the authorities, even religion
itself had vanished. Coqueville abandoned, slept without a breath,
without a dog, without a cat. Not even a fowl; the hens had taken
themselves off. Nothing, a void, silence, a leaden sleep under the great
blue sky.
Parbleu! It was no wonder that Coqueville brought no more fish!
Coqueville had moved away. Coqueville was dead. He must notify the
police. The mysterious catastrophe exalted M. Mouchel, when, with the
idea of descending to the beach, he uttered a cry. In the midst of
the sands, the whole population lay stretched. He thought of a general
massacre. But the sonorous snores came to undeceive him. During the
night of Sunday, Coqueville had feasted so late that it had found itself
in absolute inability to go home to bed. So it had slept on the sand,
just where it had fallen, around the nine casks, completely empty.
Yes, all Coqueville was snoring there; I hear the children, the women,
the old people, and the men. Not one was on his feet. There were some on
their stomachs, there were some on their backs; others held themselves
_en chien de fusils_ {3} As one makes his bed so must one lie on it.
And the fellows found themselves, happen what may, scattered in their
drunkenness like a handful of leaves driven by the wind. The men
had rolled over, heads lower than heels. It was a scene full of
good-fellowship; a dormitory in the open air; honest family folk taking
their ease; for where there is care, there is no pleasure.