BIARRITZ
After a frühstück of coffee and honey, to which the inn-keeper, out of
compliment to the nationality of his guest, had added an ear of green
corn--a combination, be it said, that no one but a German could have
imagined--Mr. Incoul went in search of his friend.
He had questioned Karl, and the courier had spoken of Ostend with such
enthusiasm that his employer suspected him of some personal interest
in the place and struck it at once from the list of possible resorts
which he had been devising. On the subject of other _bains de mer_ the
man was less communicative. There was, he said, nothing attractive
about Travemunde, except the name; Scheveningen was apt to be chilly;
Trouville he rather favored, but to his thinking Ostend was preferable.
When the courier had gone Mr. Incoul ran his eye down a mental map
of the coast of France, and just as it reached the Spanish frontier
he remembered that some one in his hearing had recently sounded the
attractions of Biarritz. On that seaboard he ultimately decided, and
it was with the idea that Blydenburg might go further and fare worse
that he sought his friend and suggested the advantages of a trip to the
Basque country.
Mr. Blydenburg had few objections to make. He had taken very kindly
to the consumption of beer, but beer had not agreed with him, and he
admitted, did he stay in Baden, that, in spite of the ill effects,
he would still be unable to resist the allurements of that insidious
beverage. “Act like a man, then,” said Mr. Incoul, encouragingly; “act
like a man and flee from it.”
There was no gainsaying the value of this advice, but between its
adoption and a journey to Biarritz the margin was wide. “It is
true,” he said, reflectively, “I could study the language at the
fountain-head.” (Mr. Blydenburg, it may be explained, was a gentleman
who plumed himself on his familiarity with recondite tongues, but one
whose knowledge of the languages that are current in polite society was
such as is gleaned from the appendices of guide-books.)
Mr. Incoul nodded approvingly, “Certainly there would be no difficulty
about that.”
Blydenburg looked at him musingly for a moment and nodded, too. “The
name Biarritz,” he said, “comes, I am inclined to believe, from bi
haritz--two oaks. Minucius thinks that it comes from bi harri--two
rocks; but I have detected Minucius in certain errors which has made me
wary of accepting his opinion. For instance, he claims that the Basques
are descendants of the Phœnicians. Nothing could be more preposterous.
They are purely Iberian, and probably the most ancient race in Europe.
Why, you would be surprised”--
Mr. Incoul interrupted him cruelly--“I often am,” he said; “now tell
me, will you be ready this afternoon?”
“The laundress has just taken my things.”
“Send after them, then. I make no doubt that there you can find another
on the Bay of Biscay.”
“I wonder what Biscay comes from? bi scai, two currents, perhaps. Yes,
of course, I will be ready.” And as his friend moved away, he pursed
his lips abstractedly and made a note of the derivation.
A courier aiding, the journey from Baden to Biarritz can be accomplished
without loss of life or reason. It partakes something of the character
of a zigzag, the connections are seldom convenient, the wayside inns are
not of the best, but if people go abroad to be uncomfortable, what more
can the heart desire? The Incoul-Blydenburg party, impeded by Karl, a
body-servant, and two maids, received their allotted share of discomfort
with the very best grace in the world. They reached Bayonne after five
days, not, it is true, of consecutive motion, but of such consecutive
heat that they were glad to descend at the station of that excitable
little city and in the fresh night air drive in open carriages over the
few kilometres that remained to be traversed.
It was many hours before the journey was sufficiently a part of the
past to enable the travelers to look about them, but on the evening
succeeding their arrival, after a dinner on the verandah of the
Continental, they sat with much contentment of spirit enjoying the
intermittent showers of summer stars and the boom and rustle of the
waves. Baden was unregretted. To the left, high above, on the summit of
a projecting eminence, the white and illuminated Casino glittered like
an ærian palace. To the right was the gardened quadrangle of the former
Empress of the French, in the air was the scent of seaweed and before
them the Infinite.
“It’s quite good enough for me,” Blydenburg confided to his companions,
and the confidence in its inelegant terseness conveyed the sentiments
of them all.
A week passed without bringing with it any incident worthy of record.
In the mornings they met at the Moorish Pavilion which stands on the
shore and there lounged or bathed. Maida’s beauty necessarily attracted
much attention, and when she issued in a floating wrapper from the
sedan-chair in which she allowed herself to be carried from the
Pavilion to the sea, a number of amateurs who stood each day just out
of reach of the waves, expressed their admiration in winning gutturals.
She was, assuredly, very beautiful, particularly so in comparison with
the powdered sallowness of the ladies from Spain, and when, with a
breezy gesture of her own, she tossed her wrap to the bather and with
sandaled feet and a white and clinging costume of serge she stepped to
the water there was one on-looker who bethought him of a nymph of the
Ægean Sea. She was a good swimmer, as the American girl often is, and
she breasted and dived through the wonderful waves with an intrepidity
such as the accompanying _baigneur_ had been rarely called upon to
restrain.
From the shade of beach chairs, large and covered like wicker tents,
her husband and the Blydenburgs would watch her prowess, and when,
after a final ride on the crest of some great billow, she would be
tossed breathless and deliciously disheveled into the steadying arms of
the bather, the amateurs were almost tempted to applaud.
In the afternoons there were drives and excursions. One day to Bayonne
along the white, hard road that skirts the Chambre d’Amour, through the
peace and quiet of Aiglet and on through kilometres of pines to the
Adour, a river so beautiful in itself that all the ingenuity of man has
been unable to make it wholly hideous, and thence by its banks to the
outlying gardens of the city.
On other days they would loiter on the cliffs that overhang the Côte
des Basques, or push on to Bidart, a chromatic village where the
inhabitants are so silent that one might fancy them enchanted by the
mellow marvels of their afternoons.
But of all other places Maida preferred Saint Jean-de-Luz. It lies
near the frontier on a bay of the tenderest blue, and for background
it has the hazy amethyst of the neighborly Pyrenees. The houses are
rainbows of blended colors; from the open door-ways the passer, now and
then, catches a whiff of rancid oil, the smell of victuals cooked in
fat, from a mouldering square a cathedral casts an unexpected chill,
but otherwise the town is charming, warm and very bright. On the shore
stands an inn and next to it a toy casino.
To this exotic resort the little party drove one afternoon. It had been
originally arranged to pass the day there, but on the day for which the
excursion was planned, a _Course Landaise_ was announced at Biarritz,
and it was then decided that they should first view the _course_ and
dine afterwards at Saint Jean. At first both Maida and Miss Blydenburg
refused to attend the performance and it was not until they were
assured that it was a bull-fight for ladies in which there was no
shedding of blood that they consented to be present. The spectacle
which they then witnessed was voted most agreeable. The bulls, which
turned out to be heifers, very lithe and excitable, were housed
in boxed stalls, which bore their respective names: Isabel, Rosa,
Paquita, Adelaide, Carlota and Sofia. The ring itself was an improvised
arrangement constructed in a great racquet court. The spectators,
according to their means, found seats on either side, the poorer in
the sun and the more wealthy in the shaded Tribune d’Honneur. After a
premonitory blare from municipal brass the quadrille entered the arena.
They were a good-looking set of men, more plainly dressed than their
bloodier brothers of Spain, and very agile. Two of them carrying long
poles stationed themselves at the sides, one, armed with a barb laid
himself down a few feet from Isabel’s door, and a fourth threw his soft
hat in the middle of the ring, put his feet in it and stood expectant.
In a moment a latch was drawn, Isabel leaped from her stall, bounded
over the prostrate form that pricked her on her way and made a straight
rush for the motionless figure in the centre of the ring. When she
reached him he was in the air and over her with his feet still in the
hat. Isabel was bewildered, instead of goring a man she had run her
horns into empty space and in her annoyance she turned viciously at one
of the pole-bearing gentlemen who vaulted over her as easily as were
he crossing a gutter, but in vaulting the pole slipped from him, and
amid the applause of the audience Isabel chased him across the ring to
a high fence opposite, and to which he rose like a bird with Isabel’s
horns on his heels. There was more of this amusement, and then Isabel,
a trifle tired, was lured back to her box; Rosa was loosed and the
performance repeated.
The escapes seemed so hairbreadth that Mr. Blydenburg announced his
intention of witnessing a genuine bull fight, and on the way to Saint
Jean urged his companions to accompany him over the border and view
the real article. “There is one announced for next Sunday,” he said,
“at San Sebastian, a stone’s throw from here.” The appetite of all
had been whetted, and during the rest of the drive, Mr. Blydenburg
discoursed on the subject with such learning and enthusiasm that even
his daughter consented to forget her Sabbath principles and make one of
the projected party.
When the meal was done, they went into the toy Casino. There was a
band playing at one end of the hall, the which was so narrow that
the director had been obliged to select thin musicians, and beyond
was a paperless reading-room, a vague café, a dwarf theatre, and a
salle-de-jeu in white and gamboge. In the latter division, where the
high life of Saint Jean had assembled, stood a table that resembled
a roulette. In its centre were miniature revolving bulls, which
immediately attracted Mr. Blydenburg’s attention, and on the green
baize were painted the names of cities.
“Banderilla! Ruego! Sevilla!” the croupier called, as the party
entered. In one hand he held a rake, with which he possessed himself of
the stakes of those who had lost, and with the other hand he tossed out
coin to those who had won. The machinery was again set in motion, and
when the impulse had ceased to act he called out anew, “Espada! Nero!
Madrid!”
Mr. Blydenburg was thoroughly interested. In the residue of twenty-five
French lessons, which he had learned in his boyhood from a German, he
made bold to demand information.
“It’s the neatest game in the world,” the croupier replied; “six
for one on the cities, even on the colors, even on banderilla or
espada, and twenty for one on Frascuelo.” And, as he gave the latter
information, he pointed to a little figure armed with a sword, which
was supposed to represent that famous matador. “The minimum,” he added,
obligingly, “is fifty centimes; the maximum, forty sous.”
“I’ll go Frascuelo,” said Blydenburg, and suiting the action to the
word, he placed a coin on the table. Maida, meanwhile, had put money
on everything--cities, colors, banderilla, espada, and Frascuelo as
well. To the surprise of every one, but most to that of the croupier,
Frascuelo won. Maida saw twenty francs swept from her and forty
returned. Blydenburg, who had played a closer game, received forty
also, but he lost nothing, and he beamed as joyously as had the
University of Copenhagen crowned an essay of his own manufacture.
It was by means of these mild amusements that the first week of their
sojourn was helped away. Through the kindness of an international
acquaintance, Mr. Incoul had been made welcome at the Cercle de
Biarritz, and in that charming summer club, where there is much high
play and perfect informality, he had become acquainted with a Spaniard,
the Marquis of Zunzarraga.
One day when the latter gentleman had wearied of the columns of the
_Epoca_ and Mr. Incoul, and sought in vain for some refreshment from
_Galignani_, they drew their chairs together and exchanged cigarettes.
In answer to the question which is addressed to every new-comer, Mr.
Incoul expressed himself pleased with the country, adding that were
not hotel life always distasteful he would be glad to remain on
indefinitely.
“You might take a villa,” the marquis suggested. To this Mr. Incoul
made no reply. The nobleman fluttered his fingers a moment and then
said, “take mine, you can have it, servants and all.”
The Villa Zunzarraga was near the hotel and its airy architecture had
already attracted Mr. Incoul’s eye. It was a modern improvement on a
feudal château, there were turreted wings in which the machicoulis were
replaced by astragals and a broad and double stairway of marble led up
to the main entrance.
“If you have nothing better to do to-day,” the marquis continued, “go
in and take a look at it. I have never rented it before, but this
summer the marquesa is with the queen, my mistress, and I would be glad
to have it off my hands.”
After consulting Maida in regard to her wishes, Mr. Incoul determined
to act on the suggestion, and that afternoon they went together to view
the villa. In its appointments there was little fault to be found.
There was no vestibule, unless, indeed, the entrance hall, which was
large enough to accommodate a small cotillon, could be so considered;
on the right were reception-rooms, to the left a dining-room, all
facing the sea, while at the rear, overlooking a quiet garden that
seemed to extend indefinitely and lose itself in the lilac fringes of
the tamaris, was a library. On the floor above were bed and sitting
rooms. In one wing were the offices, kitchen and servants’ quarters, in
another was the coach-house and stables.
Under the guidance of the host, Mr. Incoul went to explore the place,
while Maida remained in the library. It was a satisfactory room, lined
on three sides with low, well-filled book-cases, the windows were
doors and extended nearly to the ceiling, but the light fell through
pink awnings under which was a verandah, with steps that led to the
garden below. From the walls hung selections of Goya’s Proverbios and
Tauromaquia, a series of nightmares in black and white. Among them was
a picture of a lake of blood haunted by evil spirits; a vertiginous
flight of phantoms more horrible than any Doré ever saw; a reunion of
sorcerers with cats for steeds; women tearing teeth from the mouths of
the gibbeted; a confusion of demons and incubes; a disordered dance
of delirious manolas; caricatures that held the soul of Hoffmann;
the disembowelment of fantastic chulos; horses tossed by bulls with
chimerical horns; but best of all, a skeleton leaning with a leer from
the tomb and scrawling on it the significant legend, _Nada_, nothing.
In one corner, on a pedestal, there glittered a Buddha, the legs
crossed and a smile of indolent apathy on its imbecile features. Behind
it was a giant crucifix with arms outstretched like the wings of woe.
Maida wandered from book-case to book-case, examining the contents
with incurious eye. The titles were strange to her and new. In one
division were the works of Archilaus, Albert le Grand, Raymond Lulle,
Armand de Villenova, Nostradamus, and Paracelsus, the masters of occult
science. Another was given up to Spanish literature. There were the
poems of Berceo, the romancero of the church; the codex of Alphonso X.,
the Justinian of mediæval Spain; El Tesoro, a work on alchemy by the
same royal hand and the Conquista d’ultramar. There was the Libro de
consejos, by Sanchez IV.; and Bicerro, the armorial of the nobility,
by his son, Alphonso XI. Therewith was a collection of verse of the
troubadours, the songs of Aimeric de Bellinsi, Foulque de Lunel,
Carbonel, Nat de Tours, and Riquier, the last of the knight-errants.
Then came the poems of Juan de Mena, the Dante of Castille; the
Rabelaisian relaxations of the Archbishop of Hita; the cancionero of
Ausias March, that of Baena, of Stuñiga, and that of Ixar.
Another book-case was filled with the French poets, from Villon to
Soulary. The editions were delicious, a pleasure to hold, and many of
them bore the imprint of Lemerre. Among them was the Fleurs du Mal, an
unexpurgated copy, and by it were the poems of Baudelaire’s decadent
descendants, Paul Verlaine and Mallarmé.
There were other book-cases, and of these there was one of which the
door was locked. In it were Justine and Juliette, by the Marquis de
Sade; the works of Piron; the works of Beroalde de Verville; a copy
of Mercius; a copy of Thérèse Philosophe; the De Arcanis Amoris;
Mirabeau’s Rideau levé; Gamaini, by Alfred de Musset and George Sand;
Boccaccio; the Heptameron; Paphian Days; Crébillon’s Sopha; the
Erotika Biblion; the Satyricon of Petronius; an illustrated catalogue
of the Naples Museum; Voltaire’s Pucelle; a work or two of Diderot’s;
Maiseroy’s Deux Amies; the Clouds; the Curée; everything, in fact, from
Aristophanes to Zola.
The collection was meaningless to Maida, and she turned aside and
went out on the verandah. Below, on the gravel walk, was a cat with
a tail like a banner, and a neck furred like a ruff. Maida crumpled a
bit of paper and threw it down. The cat jumped at it at once, toyed
with it for a moment, and then, sliding backwards with a crab-like
movement, its back arched, and its ears drawn down, it caught a glimpse
of Maida’s unfamiliar figure, and fled to the bushes with a shriek of
feigned terror. A servant passed, and ignorant of Maida’s presence,
apostrophized the retreating feline as a loafer and a liar.
A moment later Mr. Incoul and the marquis reappeared.
“I have been admiring your Angora,” Maida said, “but I fear I startled
it.”
The marquis rubbed his hands together thoughtfully. “It is a wonderful
animal,” he answered, “but it is not an Angora, it is a Thibetian cat,
and though it does not talk, at least it converses. It is so odd in its
ways that I called it Mistigris, as one might a familiar spirit, but
my children prefer Ti-Mi; they think it more Thibetian, I fancy.” He
coughed slightly and looking at the points of his fingers, he added, “I
will leave it with you of course.”
And then Maida understood that the matter was settled and that the
house was hers.