A RIVER FETE
Close alongside of the Prince's boat, waiting also for the opening of the
lock, was one of those great barges which carry wood or charcoal up and
down the Seine.
A whole family often lives on board these big, heavy boats. The smoke of
the kitchen fire issues from a sort of wooden cabin where several human
beings breathe, eat, sleep, are born and die, sometimes without hardly
ever having set foot upon the land. Pots of geranium or begonia give a
bit of bright color to the dingy surroundings; and the boats travel
slowly along the river, impelled by enormous oars, which throw long
shadows upon the water.
It was this motionless barge that Marsa was now regarding.
The hot sun, falling upon the boat, made its brown, wet sides sparkle
like the brilliant wings of some gigantic scarabee; and, upon the
patched, scorched deck, six or seven half-naked, sunburned children, boys
and girls, played at the feet of a bundle of rags and brown flesh, which
was a woman, a young woman, but prematurely old and wasted, who was
nursing a little baby.
A little farther off, two men-one tough and strong, a man of thirty, whom
toil had made forty, the other old, wrinkled, white-haired and with skin
like leather, father and grandfather, doubtless, of the little brats
beyond--were eating bread and cheese, and drinking, turn by turn, out of
a bottle of wine, which they swallowed in gulps. The halt was a rest to
these poor people.
As Marsa watched them, she seemed to perceive in these wanderers of the
river, as in a vision, those other wanderers of the Hungarian desert, her
ancestors, the Tzigani, camped in the puszta, the boundless plain,
crouched down in the long grass beneath the shade of the bushes, and
playing their beautiful national airs. She saw the distant fires of the
bivouac of those unknown Tzigani whose daughter she was; she seemed to
breathe again the air of that country she had seen but once, when upon a
mournful pilgrimage; and, in the presence of that poor bargeman's wife,
with her skin tanned by the sun, she thought of her dead, her cherished
dead, Tisza.
Tisza! To the gipsy had doubtless been given the name of the river on
the banks of which she had been born. They called the mother Tisza, in
Hungary, as in Paris they called the daughter the Tzigana. And Marsa was
proud of her nickname; she loved these Tzigani, whose blood flowed in her
veins; sons of India, perhaps, who had descended to the valley of the
Danube, and who for centuries had lived free in the open air, electing
their chiefs, and having a king appointed by the Palatine--a king, who
commanding beggars, bore, nevertheless, the name of Magnificent;
indestructible tribes, itinerant republics, musicians playing the old
airs of their nation, despite the Turkish sabre and the Austrian police;
agents of patriotism and liberty, guardians of the old Hungarian honor.
These poor people, passing their lives upon the river as the Tzigani
lived in the fields and hedges, seemed to Marsa like the very spectres of
her race. More than the musicians with embroidered vests did the poor
prisoners of the solitary barge recall to her the great proscribed family
of her ancestors.
She called to the children playing upon the sunbeaten deck: "Come here,
and hold up your aprons!"
They obeyed, spreading out their little tattered garments. "Catch
these!" she cried.
They could not believe their eyes. From the steamer she threw down to
them mandarins, grapes, ripe figs, yellow apricots, and great velvety
peaches; a rain of dainties which would have surprised a gourmand: the
poor little things, delighted and afraid at the same time, wondered if
the lady, who gave them such beautiful fruit, was a fairy.
The mother then rose; and, coming toward Marsa to thank her, her sunburnt
skin glowing a deeper red, the poor woman, with tears in her tired eyes,
and a wan smile upon her pale lips, touched, surprised, happy in the
pleasure of her children, murmured, faltering and confused:
"Ah! Madame! Madame! how good you are! You are too good, Madame!"
"We must share what we have!" said Marsa, with a smile. "See how happy
the children are!"
"Very happy, Madame. They are not accustomed to such things. Say 'Thank
you,' to the beautiful lady. Say 'Thank you,' Jean; you are the oldest.
Say like this: 'Thank-you-Ma-dame.'"
"Thank-you-Ma-dame" faltered the boy, raising to Marsa big, timid eyes,
which did not understand why anybody should either wish him ill or do him
a kindness. And other low, sweet little voices repeated, like a refrain:
"Thank-you-Ma-dame."
The two men, in astonishment, came and stood behind the children, and
gazed silently at Marsa.
"And your baby, Madame?" said the Tzigana, looking at the sleeping
infant, that still pressed its rosy lips to the mother's breast. "How
pretty it is! Will you permit me to offer it its baptismal dress?"
"Its baptismal dress?" repeated the mother.
"Oh, Madame!" ejaculated the father, twisting his cap between his
fingers.
"Or a cloak, just as you please," added Marsa.
The poor people on the barge made no reply, but looked at one another in
bewilderment.
"Is it a little girl?" asked the Tzigana.
"No, Madame, no," responded the mother. "A boy."
"Come here, jean," said Marsa to the oldest child. "Yes, come here, my
little man."
Jean came forward, glancing askance at his mother, as if to know whether
he should obey.
"Here, jean," said the young girl, "this is for your baby brother."
And into the little joined hands of the boy, Marsa let fall a purse,
through whose meshes shone yellow pieces of gold.
The people of the barge thought they were dreaming, and stood open-
mouthed in amazement, while Jean cried out:
"Mamma, see, mamma! Mamma! Mamma!"
Then the younger bargeman said to Marsa:
"Madame, no, no! we can not accept. It is too much. You are too good.
Give it back, Jean."
"It is true, Madame," faltered his wife. "It is impossible. It is too
much."
"You will cause me great pain if you refuse to accept it," said Marsa.
"Chance has brought us together for a moment, and I am superstitious.
I would like to have the little children pray that those I love--that the
one I love may be happy." And she turned her eyes upon Prince Andras,
who had returned to the deck, and was coming toward her.
The lock was now opened.
"All aboard!" shouted the captain of the steamer.
The poor woman upon the barge tried to reach the hand of Marsa to kiss
it.
"May you be happy, Madame, and thank you with all our hearts for your
goodness to both big and little."
The two bargemen bowed low in great emotion, and the whole bevy of little
ones blew kisses to the beautiful lady in the black dress, whom the
steamer was already bearing away.
"At least tell us your name, Madame," cried the father. "Your name, that
we may never forget you."
A lovely smile appeared on Marsa's lips, and, in almost melancholy
accents, she said:
"My name!" Then, after a pause, proudly: "The Tzigana!"
The musicians, as she spoke, suddenly struck up one of the Hungarian
airs. Then, as in a flying vision, the poor bargemen saw the steamer
move farther and farther away, a long plume of smoke waving behind it.
Jacquemin, hearing one of those odd airs, which in Hungary start all feet
moving and keeping time to the music, exclaimed:
"A quadrille! Let us dance a quadrille! An Hungarian quadrille!"
The poor people on the barge listened to the music, gradually growing
fainter and fainter; and they would have believed that they had been
dreaming, if the purse had not been there, a fortune for them, and the
fruit which the children were eating. The mother, without understanding,
repeated that mysterious name: "The Tzigana."
And Marsa also gazed after them, her ears caressed by the czardas of the
musicians. The big barge disappeared in the distance in a luminous haze;
but the Tzigana could still vaguely perceive the little beings perched
upon the shoulders of the men, and waving, in sign of farewell, pieces of
white cloth which their mother had given them.
A happy torpor stole over Marsa; and, while the guests of the Baroness
Dinati, the Japanese Yamada, the English heiresses, the embassy attaches,
all these Parisian foreigners, led by Jacquemin, the director of the
gayety, were organizing a ballroom on the deck, and asking the Tzigani
for polkas of Fahrbach and waltzes of Strauss, the young girl heard the
voice of Andras murmur low in her ear:
"Ah! how I love you! And do you love me, Marsa?"
"I am happy," she answered, without moving, and half closing her eyes,
"and, if it were necessary for me to give my life for you, I would give
it gladly."
In the stern of the boat, Michel Menko watched, without seeing them,
perhaps, the fields, the houses of Pecq, the villas of Saint-Germain,
the long terrace below heavy masses of trees, the great plain beside
Paris with Mont Valerien rising in its midst, the two towers of the
Trocadero, whose gilded dome sparkled in the sun, and the bluish-black
cloud which hung over the city like a thick fog.
The boat advanced very slowly, as if Prince Andras had given the order to
delay as much as possible the arrival at Maisons-Lafitte, where the whole
fete would end for him, as Marsa was to land there. Already, upon the
horizon could be perceived the old mill, with its broad, slated roof.
The steeple of Sartrouville loomed up above the red roofs of the houses
and the poplars which fringe the bank of the river. A pale blue light,
like a thin mist, enveloped the distant landscape.
"The dream is over," murmured Marsa.
"A far more beautiful one will soon begin," said Andras, "and that one
will be the realization of what I have waited for all my life and never
found--love."
Marsa turned to the Prince with a look full of passionate admiration and
devotion, which told him how thoroughly his love was returned.
The quadrille had ended, and a waltz was beginning. The little Japanese,
with his eternal smile, like the bronze figures of his country, was
dancing with a pre-raphaelite English girl.
"How well you dance," she said.
"If we only had some favors," replied the Japanese, showing his teeth in
a grin, "I would lead the cotillon."
The boat stopped at last at Maisons-Lafitte. The great trees of the park
formed a heavy mass, amid which the roof of the villa was just
discernible.
"What a pity it is all over," cried the Baroness, who was ruddy as a
cherry with the exercise of dancing. "Let us have another; but Maisons-
Lafitte is too near. We will go to Rouen the next time; or rather, I
invite you all to a day fete in Paris, a game of polo, a lunch, a garden
party, whatever you like. I will arrange the programme with Yamada and
Jacquemin."
"Willingly," responded the Japanese, with a low bow. "To collaborate
with Monsieur Jacquemin will be very amusing."
As Marsa Laszlo was leaving the boat, Michel Menko stood close to the
gangway, doubtless on purpose to speak to her; and, in the confusion of
landing, without any one hearing him, he breathed in her ear these brief
words:
"At your house this evening. I must see you."
She gave him an icy glance. Michel Menko's eyes were at once full of
tears and flames.
"I demand it!" he said, firmly.
The Tzigana made no reply; but, going to Andras Zilah, she took his arm;
while Michel, as if nothing had happened, raised his hat.
General Vogotzine, with flaming face, followed his niece, muttering, as
he wiped the perspiration unsteadily from his face:
"Fine day! Fine day! By Jove! But the sun was hot, though! Ah, and
the wines were good!"
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