THE TOMB OF CHARLEMAGNE
In a few minutes the two travelers reached the side portal of the
hoary temple. It represented the seat of Charlemagne's political and
ecclesiastical power--the capitol of the ancient Franks. The door
was closed. A service was being held. It would be out at five
o'clock.
To occupy the interim Gard and his new friend went over to the
neighboring town hall, located on the site of the emperor's palace.
They found it a gay Gothic edifice, the roof flanked by two pert
towers. Inside they tiptoed about with silent respect in the immense
coronation gallery--one of the largest rooms in the world. Here the
medieval German emperors were crowned and imperial diets held.
When the tourists returned to the cathedral they met two young,
clean-shaven Germans, obviously travelers like themselves, also
wishing to enter. One was tall, the other short. While waiting for
the audience to file out, the four struck up a casual conversation
about the edifice. Gard, full of his guide book, was pleased to
inform them on a subject of which they pleaded ignorance.
They sauntered into the somber, august interior. Above were the
impressive stained glass windows, high-flung in the octagon.
Kirtley's binocular, strung over his shoulders, came in handy to the
others. The Germans seemed somewhat posted on stained glass (Teuton
erudition!) and with Gard's binocular they went off for an
inspection from the exterior.
He preferred to remain and contemplate alone the solemn scene about
him. It was an hour he had looked forward to. He wanted to recall
what he had read of this historic spot and the epic and romantic
associations here of the most celebrated of Carolingians.
In the mosaic flooring at his feet, as he sat down, was the
tombstone which (in the tradition) lies above the imperial victor
who sits below waiting with his scepter in his hand and his white
beard ever growing--the king of the Middle Ages. How many, many
potentates, great and small, during all the intervening centuries,
had bowed their heads and spoken words of reverence in the presence
of the only sepulchre remaining _in situ_ and intact of the
world-conquerors of antiquity! Of all these reputed soliloquies,
that of Don Carlos, in the spacious Alexandrines of Victor Hugo in
"Hernani," Gard remembered as being the most famous. He had heard
what a long and impressive recital it always is as one of the tests
of the dramatic actor at the Théâtre Français.
His thoughts ran on. Without Charlemagne's military successes, his
widespread reorganizations, the political and civil grandeur of his
acts, his picturesque journeys, his union of church and state, what
would the Dark Ages have been? In its mountains of fact and luring
mists of fable he had stood mighty and solitary, inspiring its
imagination, its legends, its superstitions, its songs. He was its
compelling figure. He it was who unified medievaldom and laid the
bases of what had since governed in western Europe and prevented it
from remaining a vast region of large and small tribes fighting
among themselves. And he alone, among the powerful military
chieftains of the old, old past, had died both peacefully and
undefeated.
Why, then, has he faded from view? This was an interesting question
to Kirtley. Why has Cæsar so outshone Charlemagne? Why are Homer and
Vergil, in comparison, coming ever more to the fore? Why has Dante
become the masterly profile of medievalism?
A significant answer had before occurred to Gard. These four
personages could _write_ marvelously well while Charlemagne could
scarcely even write his name. Had he been a great author, why would
not his fame be burning brightly like theirs? In every institution
of education their classic language is kept before both youth and
professor. Their cults accordingly grow. While the Frank so largely
shaped the Middle Ages and furnished leading motives for its
background, the Italian merely pictured it.
And yet the latter has become its most distinct luminary. His art
has surpassed in renown the medieval sword and crown. His pen is a
constant self-advertiser while those emblems of state fall to the
ground. Though every spot associated with the lives of Cæsar, of
Vergil, of Dante, is sought by student and sage, the tomb of
Charlemagne is being forgotten. Who knows that it exists or cares?
And is it all because he had no literary skill? A gigantesque
character, surrounded by his romantic paladins--Roland, Oliver,
Ganelon and the rest--his face turned alike toward west, east and
south--to France and Germany and Italy--he nevertheless has long
been sinking into the ever-darker shadows of a dulled obscurity....
Gard's friend and the other two Germans presently returned and
interrupted his ruminations. They had seen their fill and were
anxious to escape from this gray cavern of a dim oblivion. Outdoors
the party of four found the sun shining, but rain clouds were
hovering in the east. The strangers had plenty of time as they were
without a fixed itinerary. They were very agreeable and it was
suggested that all dine together. Would not a stroll in the environs
be meanwhile a suitable diversion?--out toward the attractive
Lousberg and its belvedere?
Herr Furstenheimer had indicated an inquiry to Kirtley as to whether
he would like to join the other two. Upon his signifying
affirmatively, the four walked northward. The flat face of one of
the young men Gard fancied he had seen before. It was, however, of a
somewhat familiar Teuton variety and lost in the maze of all the
German visages he had seen.
They idled along, recounting their exciting experiences in
traveling. Gard told of the wax image in the train as the singular
incident he had to offer. As it did not appear to appeal to the
curiosity of his companions, he dropped the subject. The Germans are
used to the grotesque and egregious.
At intervals the company changed about by twos, their hats coming
off frequently in the warmth of the evening. On reaching the top of
a small ascent, a summer inn there invited to cooling drinks. It was
a low-storied, straggling construction, with a large green yard and
trees. There were no guests as yet for the approaching meal time.
The cathedral acquaintances took one side of a table under the
branches, and the companionable Furstenheimer with Gard faced them.
With the beer they began comparing the parts of the world they
hailed from. Kirtley belonged to that distant land--America!
Incredible! He had traveled so far. It was a country the two
newcomers wished to visit. They could not credit the surprising
things they had heard concerning the United States. All was so odd
there.
The smaller German, with the broad face, having lost no time in
being full of compliments about Kirtley's accent, went on:
"You Americans learn our language better than we do yours. I could
never get the th in my school. You seem to _do_ everything so
differently in America, too. Now, there's your great game of cards,
for instance. I was on a boat once going down the Danube and some of
your compatriots were playing it. They called it--ach Gott!--what
did they call it? _You_ know."
"Poker," said Gard, amused.
"No, that isn't it."
"Bridge."
"No, the devil, why can't I think of it? They played it--if I had a
pack of cards I would show you what I mean. You could name it then."
The German called the attendant. The latter did not come. The other
hurried into the restaurant and came back waving a deck.
"Now I will try to show you. I can't do it well. I have never seen
it but once."
"Monte," said Gard. It was not the name the German recognized.
Kirtley laughed over this old county fair acquaintance. Three card
monte under the walls of Charlemagne's church! This was bringing the
ancient and the modern together with a vengeance. Furstenheimer
thought the game was droll. He had never seen any played like that.
"How can that be a game!" he exclaimed--"only three cards! You must
have left out something. It looks ridiculous. What's the point?"
"Why, you _bet_!" cried the dealer who was awkwardly manipulating
the cards. The two strangers wagered with each other, and the
Wuerttemberger at last got interested and bet first against one,
then the other. In a few minutes he had lost two hundred marks to
the dealer, and acted as if worried. The dealer won also from his
associate, but not so readily.
"A gambler, and playing clumsily to fool me," Gard had promptly said
to himself. He endeavored to save his friend from falling deeper
into the toils. He nudged him under the table, but the Teuton
stupidly understood nothing. He kept on, more and more distraught,
losing money, then groaning about it and wiping his trickling and
distressed countenance.
When the dealer finally saw that Kirtley would not wager, he grew
noisy.
"Not to play your own national game--is it polite, I say?" He
flaunted the cards before Gard.
"I do not bet," Kirtley repeated as pleasantly as he could, and the
tall German tried to quiet his mate.
The rain, which had been brewing, presently began to come down and
was breaking up the sport. They agreed to dine in the inn and go
back to town when the downpour was over. Gard's friend squared
accounts--four hundred and eighty marks passed across. He looked
unhappy enough. But the dealer was still far from satisfied because
the American had not played. The German had won from the other two.
Could he not win from an American in an American game? He had been
eager to wager at one turn all the money he had gained.
"A pair of cheap gamblers," Gard repeated to himself. He wished his
foolish friend from Wuerttemberg had kept out of it. They were here
on the edge of a strange city, in an unknown inn, at nightfall. It
showed that Furstenheimer was a green country man who, as he
admitted, had seldom been away from home. He had not even seen his
neighboring Rhine in years.
The rain was now pelting them and they scurried indoors.