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The University of Adelaide Library
University of Adelaide
South Australia 5005
Monsieur Leon Berthelini had a great care of his appearance, and sedulously suited his deportment to the costume of the hour. He affected something Spanish in his air, and something of the bandit, with a flavour of Rembrandt at home. In person he was decidedly small and inclined to be stout; his face was the picture of good humour; his dark eyes, which were very expressive, told of a kind heart, a brisk, merry nature, and the most indefatigable spirits. If he had worn the clothes of the period you would have set him down for a hitherto undiscovered hybrid between the barber, the innkeeper, and the affable dispensing chemist. But in the outrageous bravery of velvet jacket and flapped hat, with trousers that were more accurately described as fleshings, a white handkerchief cavalierly knotted at his neck, a shock of Olympian curls upon his brow, and his feet shod through all weathers in the slenderest of Moliere shoes — you had but to look at him and you knew you were in the presence of a Great Creature. When he wore an overcoat he scorned to pass the sleeves; a single button held it round his shoulders; it was tossed backwards after the manner of a cloak, and carried with the gait and presence of an Almaviva. I am of opinion that M. Berthelini was nearing forty. But he had a boy’s heart, gloried in his finery, and walked through life like a child in a perpetual dramatic performance. If he were not Almaviva after all, it was not for lack of making believe. And he enjoyed the artist’s compensation. If he were not really Almaviva, he was sometimes just as happy as though he were.
I have seen him, at moments when he has fancied himself alone with his Maker, adopt so gay and chivalrous a bearing, and represent his own part with so much warmth and conscience, that the illusion became catching, and I believed implicitly in the Great Creature’s pose.
But, alas! life cannot be entirely conducted on these principles; man cannot live by Almavivery alone; and the Great Creature, having failed upon several theatres, was obliged to step down every evening from his heights, and sing from half-a-dozen to a dozen comic songs, twang a guitar, keep a country audience in good humour, and preside finally over the mysteries of a tombola.
Madame Berthelini, who was art and part with him in these undignified labours, had perhaps a higher position in the scale of beings, and enjoyed a natural dignity of her own. But her heart was not any more rightly placed, for that would have been impossible; and she had acquired a little air of melancholy, attractive enough in its way, but not good to see like the wholesome, sky-scraping, boyish spirits of her lord.
He, indeed, swam like a kite on a fair wind, high above earthly troubles. Detonations of temper were not unfrequent in the zones he travelled; but sulky fogs and tearful depressions were there alike unknown. A well-delivered blow upon a table, or a noble attitude, imitated from Melingne or Frederic, relieved his irritation like a vengeance. Though the heaven had fallen, if he had played his part with propriety, Berthelini had been content! And the man’s atmosphere, if not his example, reacted on his wife; for the couple doated on each other, and although you would have thought they walked in different worlds, yet continued to walk hand in hand.
It chanced one day that Monsieur and Madame Berthelini descended with two boxes and a guitar in a fat case at the station of the little town of Castel-le-Gachis, and the omnibus carried them with their effects to the Hotel of the Black Head. This was a dismal, conventual building in a narrow street, capable of standing siege when once the gates were shut, and smelling strangely in the interior of straw and chocolate and old feminine apparel. Berthelini paused upon the threshold with a painful premonition. In some former state, it seemed to him, he had visited a hostelry that smelt not otherwise, and been ill received.
The landlord, a tragic person in a large felt hat, rose from a business table under the key-rack, and came forward, removing his hat with both hands as he did so.
“Sir, I salute you. May I inquire what is your charge for artists?” inquired Berthelini, with a courtesy at once splendid and insinuating.
“For artists?” said the landlord. His countenance fell and the smile of welcome disappeared. “Oh, artists!” he added brutally; “four francs a day.” And he turned his back upon these inconsiderable customers.
A commercial traveller is received, he also, upon a reduction — yet is he welcome, yet can he command the fatted calf; but an artist, had he the manners of an Almaviva, were he dressed like Solomon in all his glory, is received like a dog and served like a timid lady travelling alone.
Accustomed as he was to the rubs of his profession, Berthelini was unpleasantly affected by the landlord’s manner.
“Elvira,” said he to his wife, “mark my words: Castel-le-Gachis is a tragic folly.”
“Wait till we see what we take,” replied Elvira.
“We shall take nothing,” returned Berthelini; “we shall feed upon insults. I have an eye, Elvira: I have a spirit of divination; and this place is accursed. The landlord has been discourteous, the Commissary will be brutal, the audience will be sordid and uproarious, and you will take a cold upon your throat. We have been besotted enough to come; the die is cast — it will be a second Sedan.”
Sedan was a town hateful to the Berthelinis, not only from patriotism (for they were French, and answered after the flesh to the somewhat homely name of Duval), but because it had been the scene of their most sad reverses. In that place they had lain three weeks in pawn for their hotel bill, and had it not been for a surprising stroke of fortune they might have been lying there in pawn until this day. To mention the name of Sedan was for the Berthelinis to dip the brush in earthquake and eclipse. Count Almaviva slouched his hat with a gesture expressive of despair, and even Elvira felt as if ill-fortune had been personally invoked.
“Let us ask for breakfast,” said she, with a woman’s tact.
The Commissary of Police of Castel-le-Gachis was a large red Commissary, pimpled, and subject to a strong cutaneous transpiration. I have repeated the name of his office because he was so very much more a Commissary than a man. The spirit of his dignity had entered into him. He carried his corporation as if it were something official. Whenever he insulted a common citizen it seemed to him as if he were adroitly flattering the Government by a side wind; in default of dignity he was brutal from an overweening sense of duty. His office was a den, whence passers-by could hear rude accents laying down, not the law, but the good pleasure of the Commissary.
Six several times in the course of the day did M. Berthelini hurry thither in quest of the requisite permission for his evening’s entertainment; six several times he found the official was abroad. Leon Berthelini began to grow quite a familiar figure in the streets of Castel-le-Gachis; he became a local celebrity, and was pointed out as “the man who was looking for the Commissary.” Idle children attached themselves to his footsteps, and trotted after him back and forward between the hotel and the office. Leon might try as he liked; he might roll cigarettes, he might straddle, he might cock his hat at a dozen different jaunty inclinations — the part of Almaviva was, under the circumstances, difficult to play.
As he passed the market-place upon the seventh excursion the Commissary was pointed out to him, where he stood, with his waistcoat unbuttoned and his hands behind his back, to superintend the sale and measurement of butter. Berthelini threaded his way through the market stalls and baskets, and accosted the dignitary with a bow which was a triumph of the histrionic art.
“I have the honour,” he asked, “of meeting M. le Commissaire?”
The Commissary was affected by the nobility of his address. He excelled Leon in the depth if not in the airy grace of his salutation.
“The honour,” said he, “is mine!”
“I am,” continued the strolling-player, “I am, sir, an artist, and I have permitted myself to interrupt you on an affair of business. To-night I give a trifling musical entertainment at the Cafe of the Triumphs of the Plough — permit me to offer you this little programme — and I have come to ask you for the necessary authorisation.”
At the word “artist,” the Commissary had replaced his hat with the air of a person who, having condescended too far, should suddenly remember the duties of his rank.
“Go, go,” said he, “I am busy — I am measuring butter.”
“Heathen Jew!” thought Leon. “Permit me, sir,” he resumed aloud. “I have gone six times already — ”
“Put up your bills if you choose,” interrupted the Commissary. “In an hour or so I will examine your papers at the office. But now go; I am busy.”
“Measuring butter!” thought Berthelini. “Oh, France, and it is for this that we made ’93!”
The preparations were soon made; the bills posted, programmes laid on the dinner-table of every hotel in the town, and a stage erected at one end of the Cafe of the Triumphs of the Plough; but when Leon returned to the office, the Commissary was once more abroad.
“He is like Madame Benoiton,” thought Leon, “Fichu Commissaire!”
And just then he met the man face to face.
“Here, sir,” said he, “are my papers. Will you be pleased to verify?”
But the Commissary was now intent upon dinner.
“No use,” he replied, “no use; I am busy; I am quite satisfied. Give your entertainment.”
And he hurried on.
“Fichu Commissaire!” thought Leon.
The audience was pretty large; and the proprietor of the cafe made a good thing of it in beer. But the Berthelinis exerted themselves in vain.
Leon was radiant in velveteen; he had a rakish way of smoking a cigarette between his songs that was worth money in itself; he underlined his comic points, so that the dullest numskull in Castel-le-Gachis had a notion when to laugh; and he handled his guitar in a manner worthy of himself. Indeed his play with that instrument was as good as a whole romantic drama; it was so dashing, so florid, and so cavalier.
Elvira, on the other hand, sang her patriotic and romantic songs with more than usual expression; her voice had charm and plangency; and as Leon looked at her, in her low-bodied maroon dress, with her arms bare to the shoulder, and a red flower set provocatively in her corset, he repeated to himself for the many hundredth time that she was one of the loveliest creatures in the world of women.
Alas! when she went round with the tambourine, the golden youth of Castel-le-Gachis turned from her coldly. Here and there a single halfpenny was forthcoming; the net result of a collection never exceeded half a franc; and the Maire himself, after seven different applications, had contributed exactly twopence. A certain chill began to settle upon the artists themselves; it seemed as if they were singing to slugs; Apollo himself might have lost heart with such an audience. The Berthelinis struggled against the impression; they put their back into their work, they sang loud and louder, the guitar twanged like a living thing; and at last Leon arose in his might, and burst with inimitable conviction into his great song, “Y a des honnetes gens partout!” Never had he given more proof of his artistic mastery; it was his intimate, indefeasible conviction that Castel-le-Gachis formed an exception to the law he was now lyrically proclaiming, and was peopled exclusively by thieves and bullies; and yet, as I say, he flung it down like a challenge, he trolled it forth like an article of faith; and his face so beamed the while that you would have thought he must make converts of the benches.
He was at the top of his register, with his head thrown back and his mouth open, when the door was thrown violently open, and a pair of new comers marched noisily into the cafe. It was the Commissary, followed by the Garde Champetre.
The undaunted Berthelini still continued to proclaim, “Y a des honnetes gens partout!” But now the sentiment produced an audible titter among the audience. Berthelini wondered why; he did not know the antecedents of the Garde Champetre; he had never heard of a little story about postage stamps. But the public knew all about the postage stamps and enjoyed the coincidence hugely.
The Commissary planted himself upon a vacant chair with somewhat the air of Cromwell visiting the Rump, and spoke in occasional whispers to the Garde Champetre, who remained respectfully standing at his back. The eyes of both were directed upon Berthelini, who persisted in his statement.
“Y a des honnetes gens partout,” he was just chanting for the twentieth time; when up got the Commissary upon his feet and waved brutally to the singer with his cane.
“Is it me you want?” inquired Leon, stopping in his song.
“It is you,” replied the potentate.
“Fichu Commissaire!” thought Leon, and he descended from the stage and made his way to the functionary.
“How does it happen, sir,” said the Commissary, swelling in person, “that I find you mountebanking in a public cafe without my permission?”
“Without?” cried the indignant Leon. “Permit me to remind you — ”
“Come, come, sir!” said the Commissary, “I desire no explanations.”
“I care nothing about what you desire,” returned the singer. “I choose to give them, and I will not be gagged. I am an artist, sir, a distinction that you cannot comprehend. I received your permission and stand here upon the strength of it; interfere with me who dare.”
“You have not got my signature, I tell you,” cried the Commissary. “Show me my signature! Where is my signature?”
That was just the question; where was his signature? Leon recognised that he was in a hole; but his spirit rose with the occasion, and he blustered nobly, tossing back his curls. The Commissary played up to him in the character of tyrant; and as the one leaned farther forward, the other leaned farther back — majesty confronting fury. The audience had transferred their attention to this new performance, and listened with that silent gravity common to all Frenchmen in the neighbourhood of the Police. Elvira had sat down, she was used to these distractions, and it was rather melancholy than fear that now oppressed her.
“Another word,” cried the Commissary, “and I arrest you.”
“Arrest me?” shouted Leon. “I defy you!”
“I am the Commissary of Police,’ said the official.
Leon commanded his feelings, and replied, with great delicacy of innuendo —
“So it would appear.”
The point was too refined for Castel-le-Gachis; it did not raise a smile; and as for the Commissary, he simply bade the singer follow him to his office, and directed his proud footsteps towards the door. There was nothing for it but to obey. Leon did so with a proper pantomime of indifference, but it was a leek to eat, and there was no denying it.
The Maire had slipped out and was already waiting at the Commissary’s door. Now the Maire, in France, is the refuge of the oppressed. He stands between his people and the boisterous rigours of the Police. He can sometimes understand what is said to him; he is not always puffed up beyond measure by his dignity. ’Tis a thing worth the knowledge of travellers. When all seems over, and a man has made up his mind to injustice, he has still, like the heroes of romance, a little bugle at his belt whereon to blow; and the Maire, a comfortable DEUS EX MACHINA, may still descend to deliver him from the minions of the law. The Maire of Castel-le-Gachis, although inaccessible to the charms of music as retailed by the Berthelinis, had no hesitation whatever as to the rights of the matter. He instantly fell foul of the Commissary in very high terms, and the Commissary, pricked by this humiliation, accepted battle on the point of fact. The argument lasted some little while with varying success, until at length victory inclined so plainly to the Commissary’s side that the Maire was fain to reassert himself by an exercise of authority. He had been out-argued, but he was still the Maire. And so, turning from his interlocutor, he briefly but kindly recommended Leon to get back instanter to his concert.
“It is already growing late,” he added.
Leon did not wait to be told twice. He returned to the Cafe of the Triumphs of the Plough with all expedition. Alas! the audience had melted away during his absence; Elvira was sitting in a very disconsolate attitude on the guitar-box; she had watched the company dispersing by twos and threes, and the prolonged spectacle had somewhat overwhelmed her spirits. Each man, she reflected, retired with a certain proportion of her earnings in his pocket, and she saw to-night’s board and to-morrow’s railway expenses, and finally even to-morrow’s dinner, walk one after another out of the cafe door and disappear into the night.
“What was it?” she asked languidly. But Leon did not answer. He was looking round him on the scene of defeat. Scarce a score of listeners remained, and these of the least promising sort. The minute hand of the clock was already climbing upward towards eleven.
“It’s a lost battle,” said he, and then taking up the money-box he turned it out. “Three francs seventy-five!” he cried, “as against four of board and six of railway fares; and no time for the tombola! Elvira, this is Waterloo.” And he sat down and passed both hands desperately among his curls. “O Fichu Commissaire!” he cried, “Fichu Commissaire!”
“Let us get the things together and be off,” returned Elvira. “We might try another song, but there is not six halfpence in the room.”
“Six halfpence?” cried Leon, “six hundred thousand devils! There is not a human creature in the town — nothing but pigs and dogs and commissaires! Pray heaven, we get safe to bed.”
“Don’t imagine things!” exclaimed Elvira, with a shudder.
And with that they set to work on their preparations. The tobacco-jar, the cigarette-holder, the three papers of shirt-studs, which were to have been the prices of the tombola had the tombola come off, were made into a bundle with the music; the guitar was stowed into the fat guitar-case; and Elvira having thrown a thin shawl about her neck and shoulders, the pair issued from the cafe and set off for the Black Head.
As they crossed the market-place the church bell rang out eleven. It was a dark, mild night, and there was no one in the streets.
“It is all very fine,” said Leon; “but I have a presentiment. The night is not yet done.”
The “Black Head” presented not a single chink of light upon the street, and the carriage gate was closed.
“This is unprecedented,” observed Leon. “An inn closed by five minutes after eleven! And there were several commercial travellers in the cafe up to a late hour. Elvira, my heart misgives me. Let us ring the bell.”
The bell had a potent note; and being swung under the arch it filled the house from top to bottom with surly, clanging reverberations. The sound accentuated the conventual appearance of the building; a wintry sentiment, a thought of prayer and mortification, took hold upon Elvira’s mind; and, as for Leon, he seemed to be reading the stage directions for a lugubrious fifth act.
“This is your fault,” said Elvira: “this is what comes of fancying things!”
Again Leon pulled the bell-rope; again the solemn tocsin awoke the echoes of the inn; and ere they had died away, a light glimmered in the carriage entrance, and a powerful voice was heard upraised and tremulous with wrath.
“What’s all this?” cried the tragic host through the spars of the gate. “Hard upon twelve, and you come clamouring like Prussians at the door of a respectable hotel? Oh!” he cried, “I know you now! Common singers! People in trouble with the police! And you present yourselves at midnight like lords and ladies? Be off with you!”
“You will permit me to remind you,” replied Leon, in thrilling tones, “that I am a guest in your house, that I am properly inscribed, and that I have deposited baggage to the value of four hundred francs.”
“You cannot get in at this hour,” returned the man. “This is no thieves’ tavern, for mohocks and night rakes and organ-grinders.”
“Brute!” cried Elvira, for the organ-grinders touched her home.
“Then I demand my baggage,” said Leon, with unabated dignity.
“I know nothing of your baggage,” replied the landlord.
“You detain my baggage? You dare to detain my baggage?” cried the singer.
“Who are you?” returned the landlord. “It is dark — I cannot recognise you.”
“Very well, then — you detain my baggage,” concluded Leon. “You shall smart for this. I will weary out your life with persecutions; I will drag you from court to court; if there is justice to be had in France, it shall be rendered between you and me. And I will make you a by-word — I will put you in a song — a scurrilous song — an indecent song — a popular song — which the boys shall sing to you in the street, and come and howl through these spars at mid-night!”
He had gone on raising his voice at every phrase, for all the while the landlord was very placidly retiring; and now, when the last glimmer of light had vanished from the arch, and the last footstep died away in the interior, Leon turned to his wife with a heroic countenance.
“Elvira,” said he, “I have now a duty in life. I shall destroy that man as Eugene Sue destroyed the concierge. Let us come at once to the Gendarmerie and begin our vengeance.”
He picked up the guitar-case, which had been propped against the wall, and they set forth through the silent and ill-lighted town with burning hearts.
The Gendarmerie was concealed beside the telegraph office at the bottom of a vast court, which was partly laid out in gardens; and here all the shepherds of the public lay locked in grateful sleep. It took a deal of knocking to waken one; and he, when he came at last to the door, could find no other remark but that “it was none of his business.” Leon reasoned with him, threatened him, besought him; “here,” he said, “was Madame Berthelini in evening dress — a delicate woman — in an interesting condition” — the last was thrown in, I fancy, for effect; and to all this the man-at-arms made the same answer:
“It is none of my business,” said he.
“Very well,” said Leon, “then we shall go to the Commissary.” Thither they went; the office was closed and dark; but the house was close by, and Leon was soon swinging the bell like a madman. The Commissary’s wife appeared at a window. She was a thread-paper creature, and informed them that the Commissary had not yet come home.
“Is he at the Maire’s?” demanded Leon.
She thought that was not unlikely.
“Where is the Maire’s house?” he asked.
And she gave him some rather vague information on that point.
“Stay you here, Elvira,” said Leon, “lest I should miss him by the way. If, when I return, I find you here no longer, I shall follow at once to the Black Head.”
And he set out to find the Maire’s. It took him some ten minutes wandering among blind lanes, and when he arrived it was already half-an-hour past midnight. A long white garden wall overhung by some thick chestnuts, a door with a letter-box, and an iron bell-pull, that was all that could be seen of the Maire’s domicile. Leon took the bell-pull in both hands, and danced furiously upon the side-walk. The bell itself was just upon the other side of the wall, it responded to his activity, and scattered an alarming clangour far and wide into the night.
A window was thrown open in a house across the street, and a voice inquired the cause of this untimely uproar.
“I wish the Maire,” said Leon.
“He has been in bed this hour,” returned the voice.
“He must get up again,” retorted Leon, and he was for tackling the bell-pull once more.
“You will never make him hear,” responded the voice. “The garden is of great extent, the house is at the farther end, and both the Maire and his housekeeper are deaf.”
“Aha!” said Leon, pausing. “The Maire is deaf, is he? That explains.” And he thought of the evening’s concert with a momentary feeling of relief. “Ah!” he continued, “and so the Maire is deaf, and the garden vast, and the house at the far end?”
“And you might ring all night,” added the voice, “and be none the better for it. You would only keep me awake.”
“Thank you, neighbour,” replied the singer. “You shall sleep.”
And he made off again at his best pace for the Commissary’s. Elvira was still walking to and fro before the door.
“He has not come?” asked Leon.
“Not he,” she replied.
“Good,” returned Leon. “I am sure our man’s inside. Let me see the guitar-case. I shall lay this siege in form, Elvira; I am angry; I am indignant; I am truculently inclined; but I thank my Maker I have still a sense of fun. The unjust judge shall be importuned in a serenade, Elvira. Set him up — and set him up.”
He had the case opened by this time, struck a few chords, and fell into an attitude which was irresistibly Spanish.
“Now,” he continued, “feel your voice. Are you ready? Follow me!”
The guitar twanged, and the two voices upraised, in harmony and with a startling loudness, the chorus of a song of old Beranger’s:-
Colin bat sa menagere.”
The stones of Castel-le-Gachis thrilled at this audacious innovation. Hitherto had the night been sacred to repose and nightcaps; and now what was this? Window after window was opened; matches scratched, and candles began to flicker; swollen sleepy faces peered forth into the starlight. There were the two figures before the Commissary’s house, each bolt upright, with head thrown back and eyes interrogating the starry heavens; the guitar wailed, shouted, and reverberated like half an orchestra; and the voices, with a crisp and spirited delivery, hurled the appropriate burden at the Commissary’s window. All the echoes repeated the functionary’s name. It was more like an entr’acte in a farce of Moliere’s than a passage of real life in Castel-le-Gachis.
The Commissary, if he was not the first, was not the last of the neighbours to yield to the influence of music, and furiously throw open the window of his bedroom. He was beside himself with rage. He leaned far over the window-sill, raying and gesticulating; the tassel of his white night-cap danced like a thing of life: he opened his mouth to dimensions hitherto unprecedented, and yet his voice, instead of escaping from it in a roar, came forth shrill and choked and tottering. A little more serenading, and it was clear he would be better acquainted with the apoplexy.
I scorn to reproduce his language; he touched upon too many serious topics by the way for a quiet story-teller. Although he was known for a man who was prompt with his tongue, and had a power of strong expression at command, he excelled himself so remarkably this night that one maiden lady, who had got out of bed like the rest to hear the serenade, was obliged to shut her window at the second clause. Even what she had heard disquieted her conscience; and next day she said she scarcely reckoned as a maiden lady any longer.
Leon tried to explain his predicament, but he received nothing but threats of arrest by way of answer.
“If I come down to you!” cried the Commissary.
“Aye,” said Leon, “do!”
“I will not!” cried the Commissary.
“You dare not!” answered Leon.
At that the Commissary closed his window.
“All is over,” said the singer. “The serenade was perhaps ill-judged. These boors have no sense of humour.”
“Let us get away from here,” said Elvira, with a shiver. “All these people looking — it is so rude and so brutal.” And then giving way once more to passion — “Brutes!” she cried aloud to the candle-lit spectators — “brutes! brutes! brutes!”
“Sauve qui peut,” said Leon. “You have done it now!”
And taking the guitar in one hand and the case in the other, he led the way with something too precipitate to be merely called precipitation from the scene of this absurd adventure.
To the west of Castel-le-Gachis four rows of venerable lime-trees formed, in this starry night, a twilit avenue with two side aisles of pitch darkness. Here and there stone benches were disposed between the trunks. There was not a breath of wind; a heavy atmosphere of perfume hung about the alleys; and every leaf stood stock-still upon its twig. Hither, after vainly knocking at an inn or two, the Berthelinis came at length to pass the night. After an amiable contention, Leon insisted on giving his coat to Elvira, and they sat down together on the first bench in silence. Leon made a cigarette, which he smoked to an end, looking up into the trees, and, beyond them, at the constellations, of which he tried vainly to recall the names. The silence was broken by the church bell; it rang the four quarters on a light and tinkling measure; then followed a single deep stroke that died slowly away with a thrill; and stillness resumed its empire.
“One,” said Leon. “Four hours till daylight. It is warm; it is starry; I have matches and tobacco. Do not let us exaggerate, Elvira — the experience is positively charming. I feel a glow within me; I am born again. This is the poetry of life. Think of Cooper’s novels, my dear.”
“Leon,” she said fiercely, “how can you talk such wicked, infamous nonsense? To pass all night out-of-doors — it is like a nightmare! We shall die.”
“You suffer yourself to be led away,” he replied soothingly. “It is not unpleasant here; only you brood. Come, now, let us repeat a scene. Shall we try Alceste and Celimene? No? Or a passage from the ‘Two Orphans’? Come, now, it will occupy your mind; I will play up to you as I never have played before; I feel art moving in my bones.”
“Hold your tongue,” she cried, “or you will drive me mad! Will nothing solemnise you — not even this hideous situation?”
“Oh, hideous!” objected Leon. “Hideous is not the word. Why, where would you be? ‘Dites, la jeune belle, ou voulez-vous aller?’” he carolled. “Well, now,” he went on, opening the guitar-case, “there’s another idea for you — sing. Sing ‘Dites, la jeune belle!’ It will compose your spirits, Elvira, I am sure.”
And without waiting an answer he began to strum the symphony. The first chords awoke a young man who was lying asleep upon a neighbouring bench.
“Hullo!” cried the young man, “who are you?”
“Under which king, Bezonian?” declaimed the artist. “Speak or die!”
Or if it was not exactly that, it was something to much the same purpose from a French tragedy.
The young man drew near in the twilight. He was a tall, powerful, gentlemanly fellow, with a somewhat puffy face, dressed in a grey tweed suit, with a deer-stalker hat of the same material; and as he now came forward he carried a knapsack slung upon one arm.
“Are you camping out here too?” he asked, with a strong English accent. “I’m not sorry for company.”
Leon explained their misadventure; and the other told them that he was a Cambridge undergraduate on a walking tour, that he had run short of money, could no longer pay for his night’s lodging, had already been camping out for two nights, and feared he should require to continue the same manoeuvre for at least two nights more.
“Luckily, it’s jolly weather,” he concluded.
“You hear that, Elvira,” said Leon. “Madame Berthelini,” he went on, “is ridiculously affected by this trifling occurrence. For my part, I find it romantic and far from uncomfortable; or at least,” he added, shifting on the stone bench, “not quite so uncomfortable as might have been expected. But pray be seated.”
“Yes,” returned the undergraduate, sitting down, “it’s rather nice than otherwise when once you’re used to it; only it’s devilish difficult to get washed. I like the fresh air and these stars and things.”
“Aha!” said Leon, “Monsieur is an artist.”
“An artist?” returned the other, with a blank stare. “Not if I know it!”
“Pardon me,” said the actor. “What you said this moment about the orbs of heaven — ”
“Oh, nonsense!” cried the Englishman. “A fellow may admire the stars and be anything he likes.”
“You have an artist’s nature, however, Mr. — I beg your pardon; may I, without indiscretion, inquire your name?” asked Leon.
“My name is Stubbs,” replied the Englishman.
“I thank you,” returned Leon. “Mine is Berthelini — Leon Berthelini, ex-artist of the theatres of Montrouge, Belleville, and Montmartre. Humble as you see me, I have created with applause more than one important ROLE. The Press were unanimous in praise of my Howling Devil of the Mountains, in the piece of the same name. Madame, whom I now present to you, is herself an artist, and I must not omit to state, a better artist than her husband. She also is a creator; she created nearly twenty successful songs at one of the principal Parisian music-halls. But, to continue, I was saying you had an artist’s nature, Monsieur Stubbs, and you must permit me to be a judge in such a question. I trust you will not falsify your instincts; let me beseech you to follow the career of an artist.”
“Thank you,” returned Stubbs, with a chuckle. “I’m going to be a banker.”
“No,” said Leon, “do not say so. Not that. A man with such a nature as yours should not derogate so far. What are a few privations here and there, so long as you are working for a high and noble goal?”
“This fellow’s mad,” thought Stubbs; “but the woman’s rather pretty, and he’s not bad fun himself, if you come to that.” What he said was different. “I thought you said you were an actor?”
“I certainly did so,” replied Leon. “I am one, or, alas! I was.”
“And so you want me to be an actor, do you?” continued the undergraduate. “Why, man, I could never so much as learn the stuff; my memory’s like a sieve; and as for acting, I’ve no more idea than a cat.”
“The stage is not the only course,” said Leon. “Be a sculptor, be a dancer, be a poet or a novelist; follow your heart, in short, and do some thorough work before you die.”
“And do you call all these things ART?” inquired Stubbs.
“Why, certainly!” returned Leon. “Are they not all branches?”
“Oh! I didn’t know,” replied the Englishman. “I thought an artist meant a fellow who painted.”
The singer stared at him in some surprise.
“It is the difference of language,” he said at last. “This Tower of Babel, when shall we have paid for it? If I could speak English you would follow me more readily.”
“Between you and me, I don’t believe I should,” replied the other. “You seem to have thought a devil of a lot about this business. For my part, I admire the stars, and like to have them shining — it’s so cheery — but hang me if I had an idea it had anything to do with art! It’s not in my line, you see. I’m not intellectual; I have no end of trouble to scrape through my exams., I can tell you! But I’m not a bad sort at bottom,” he added, seeing his interlocutor looked distressed even in the dim starshine, “and I rather like the play, and music, and guitars, and things.”
Leon had a perception that the understanding was incomplete. He changed the subject.
“And so you travel on foot?” he continued. “How romantic! How courageous! And how are you pleased with my land? How does the scenery affect you among these wild hills of ours?”
“Well, the fact is,” began Stubbs — he was about to say that he didn’t care for scenery, which was not at all true, being, on the contrary, only an athletic undergraduate pretension; but he had begun to suspect that Berthelini liked a different sort of meat, and substituted something else — “The fact is, I think it jolly. They told me it was no good up here; even the guide-book said so; but I don’t know what they meant. I think it is deuced pretty — upon my word, I do.”
At this moment, in the most unexpected manner, Elvira burst into tears.
“My voice!” she cried. “Leon, if I stay here longer I shall lose my voice!”
“You shall not stay another moment,” cried the actor. “If I have to beat in a door, if I have to burn the town, I shall find you shelter.”
With that he replaced the guitar, and comforting her with some caresses, drew her arm through his.
“Monsieur Stubbs,” said he, taking of his hat, “the reception I offer you is rather problematical; but let me beseech you to give us the pleasure of your society. You are a little embarrassed for the moment; you must, indeed, permit me to advance what may be necessary. I ask it as a favour; we must not part so soon after having met so strangely.”
“Oh, come, you know,” said Stubbs, “I can’t let a fellow like you — “ And there he paused, feeling somehow or other on a wrong tack.
“I do not wish to employ menaces,” continued Leon, with a smile; “but if you refuse, indeed I shall not take it kindly.”
“I don’t quite see my way out of it,” thought the undergraduate; and then, after a pause, he said, aloud and ungraciously enough, “All right. I— I’m very much obliged, of course.” And he proceeded to follow them, thinking in his heart, “But it’s bad form, all the same, to force an obligation on a fellow.”
Leon strode ahead as if he knew exactly where he was going; the sobs of Madame were still faintly audible, and no one uttered a word. A dog barked furiously in a courtyard as they went by; then the church clock struck two, and many domestic clocks followed or preceded it in piping tones. And just then Berthelini spied a light. It burned in a small house on the outskirts of the town, and thither the party now directed their steps.
“It is always a chance,” said Leon.
The house in question stood back from the street behind an open space, part garden, part turnip-field; and several outhouses stood forward from either wing at right angles to the front. One of these had recently undergone some change. An enormous window, looking towards the north, had been effected in the wall and roof, and Leon began to hope it was a studio.
“If it’s only a painter,” he said with a chuckle, “ten to one we get as good a welcome as we want.”
“I thought painters were principally poor,” said Stubbs.
“Ah!” cried Leon, “you do not know the world as I do. The poorer the better for us!”
And the trio advanced into the turnip-field.
The light was in the ground floor; as one window was brightly illuminated and two others more faintly, it might be supposed that there was a single lamp in one corner of a large apartment; and a certain tremulousness and temporary dwindling showed that a live fire contributed to the effect. The sound of a voice now became audible; and the trespassers paused to listen. It was pitched in a high, angry key, but had still a good, full, and masculine note in it. The utterance was voluble, too voluble even to be quite distinct; a stream of words, rising and falling, with ever and again a phrase thrown out by itself, as if the speaker reckoned on its virtue.
Suddenly another voice joined in. This time it was a woman’s; and if the man were angry, the woman was incensed to the degree of fury. There was that absolutely blank composure known to suffering males; that colourless unnatural speech which shows a spirit accurately balanced between homicide and hysterics; the tone in which the best of women sometimes utter words worse than death to those most dear to them. If Abstract Bones-and-Sepulchre were to be endowed with the gift of speech, thus, and not otherwise, would it discourse. Leon was a brave man, and I fear he was somewhat sceptically given (he had been educated in a Papistical country), but the habit of childhood prevailed, and he crossed himself devoutly. He had met several women in his career. It was obvious that his instinct had not deceived him, for the male voice broke forth instantly in a towering passion.
The undergraduate, who had not understood the significance of the woman’s contribution, pricked up his ears at the change upon the man.
“There’s going to be a free fight,” he opined.
There was another retort from the woman, still calm but a little higher.
“Hysterics?” asked Leon of his wife. “Is that the stage direction?”
“How should I know?” returned Elvira, somewhat tartly.
“Oh, woman, woman!” said Leon, beginning to open the guitar-case. “It is one of the burdens of my life, Monsieur Stubbs; they support each other; they always pretend there is no system; they say it’s nature. Even Madame Berthelini, who is a dramatic artist!”
“You are heartless, Leon,” said Elvira; “that woman is in trouble.”
“And the man, my angel?” inquired Berthelini, passing the ribbon of his guitar. “And the man, M’AMOUR?”
“He is a man,” she answered.
“You hear that?” said Leon to Stubbs. “It is not too late for you. Mark the intonation. And now,” he continued, “what are we to give them?”
“Are you going to sing?” asked Stubbs.
“I am a troubadour,” replied Leon. “I claim a welcome by and for my art. If I were a banker could I do as much?”
“Well, you wouldn’t need, you know,” answered the undergraduate.
“Egad,” said Leon, “but that’s true. Elvira, that is true.”
“Of course it is,” she replied. “Did you not know it?”
“My dear,” answered Leon impressively, “I know nothing but what is agreeable. Even my knowledge of life is a work of art superiorly composed. But what are we to give them? It should be something appropriate.”
Visions of “Let dogs delight” passed through the undergraduate’s mind; but it occurred to him that the poetry was English and that he did not know the air. Hence he contributed no suggestion.
“Something about our houselessness,” said Elvira.
“I have it,” cried Leon. And he broke forth into a song of Pierre Dupont’s:-
“Savez-vous ou gite,
Mai, ce joli mois?”
Elvira joined in; so did Stubbs, with a good ear and voice, but an imperfect acquaintance with the music. Leon and the guitar were equal to the situation. The actor dispensed his throat-notes with prodigality and enthusiasm; and, as he looked up to heaven in his heroic way, tossing the black ringlets, it seemed to him that the very stars contributed a dumb applause to his efforts, and the universe lent him its silence for a chorus. That is one of the best features of the heavenly bodies, that they belong to everybody in particular; and a man like Leon, a chronic Endymion who managed to get along without encouragement, is always the world’s centre for himself.
He alone — and it is to be noted, he was the worst singer of the three — took the music seriously to heart, and judged the serenade from a high artistic point of view. Elvira, on the other hand, was preoccupied about their reception; and, as for Stubbs, he considered the whole affair in the light of a broad joke.
“Know you the lair of May, the lovely month?” went the three voices in the turnip-field.
The inhabitants were plainly fluttered; the light moved to and fro, strengthening in one window, paling in another; and then the door was thrown open, and a man in a blouse appeared on the threshold carrying a lamp. He was a powerful young fellow, with bewildered hair and beard, wearing his neck open; his blouse was stained with oil-colours in a harlequinesque disorder; and there was something rural in the droop and bagginess of his belted trousers.
From immediately behind him, and indeed over his shoulder, a woman’s face looked out into the darkness; it was pale and a little weary, although still young; it wore a dwindling, disappearing prettiness, soon to be quite gone, and the expression was both gentle and sour, and reminded one faintly of the taste of certain drugs. For all that, it was not a face to dislike; when the prettiness had vanished, it seemed as if a certain pale beauty might step in to take its place; and as both the mildness and the asperity were characters of youth, it might be hoped that, with years, both would merge into a constant, brave, and not unkindly temper.
“What is all this?” cried the man.
Leon had his hat in his hand at once. He came forward with his customary grace; it was a moment which would have earned him a round of cheering on the stage. Elvira and Stubbs advanced behind him, like a couple of Admetus’s sheep following the god Apollo.
“Sir,” said Leon, “the hour is unpardonably late, and our little serenade has the air of an impertinence. Believe me, sir, it is an appeal. Monsieur is an artist, I perceive. We are here three artists benighted and without shelter, one a woman — a delicate woman — in evening dress — in an interesting situation. This will not fail to touch the woman’s heart of Madame, whom I perceive indistinctly behind Monsieur her husband, and whose face speaks eloquently of a well-regulated mind. Ah! Monsieur, Madame — one generous movement, and you make three people happy! Two or three hours beside your fire — I ask it of Monsieur in the name of Art — I ask it of Madame by the sanctity of womanhood.”
The two, as by a tacit consent, drew back from the door.
“Come in,” said the man.
“Entrez, Madame,” said the woman.
The door opened directly upon the kitchen of the house, which was to all appearance the only sitting-room. The furniture was both plain and scanty; but there were one or two landscapes on the wall handsomely framed, as if they had already visited the committee-rooms of an exhibition and been thence extruded. Leon walked up to the pictures and represented the part of a connoisseur before each in turn, with his usual dramatic insight and force. The master of the house, as if irresistibly attracted, followed him from canvas to canvas with the lamp. Elvira was led directly to the fire, where she proceeded to warm herself, while Stubbs stood in the middle of the floor and followed the proceedings of Leon with mild astonishment in his eyes.
“You should see them by daylight,” said the artist.
“I promise myself that pleasure,” said Leon. “You possess, sir, if you will permit me an observation, the art of composition to a T.”
“You are very good,” returned the other. “But should you not draw nearer to the fire?”
“With all my heart,” said Leon.
And the whole party was soon gathered at the table over a hasty and not an elegant cold supper, washed down with the least of small wines. Nobody liked the meal, but nobody complained; they put a good face upon it, one and all, and made a great clattering of knives and forks. To see Leon eating a single cold sausage was to see a triumph; by the time he had done he had got through as much pantomime as would have sufficed for a baron of beef, and he had the relaxed expression of the over-eaten.
As Elvira had naturally taken a place by the side of Leon, and Stubbs as naturally, although I believe unconsciously, by the side of Elvira, the host and hostess were left together. Yet it was to be noted that they never addressed a word to each other, nor so much as suffered their eyes to meet. The interrupted skirmish still survived in ill-feeling; and the instant the guests departed it would break forth again as bitterly as ever. The talk wandered from this to that subject — for with one accord the party had declared it was too late to go to bed; but those two never relaxed towards each other; Goneril and Regan in a sisterly tiff were not more bent on enmity.
It chanced that Elvira was so much tired by all the little excitements of the night, that for once she laid aside her company manners, which were both easy and correct, and in the most natural manner in the world leaned her head on Leon’s shoulder. At the same time, fatigue suggesting tenderness, she locked the fingers of her right hand into those of her husband’s left; and, half closing her eyes, dozed off into a golden borderland between sleep and waking. But all the time she was not aware of what was passing, and saw the painter’s wife studying her with looks between contempt and envy.
It occurred to Leon that his constitution demanded the use of some tobacco; and he undid his fingers from Elvira’s in order to roll a cigarette. It was gently done, and he took care that his indulgence should in no other way disturb his wife’s position. But it seemed to catch the eye of the painter’s wife with a special significancy. She looked straight before her for an instant, and then, with a swift and stealthy movement, took hold of her husband’s hand below the table. Alas! she might have spared herself the dexterity. For the poor fellow was so overcome by this caress that he stopped with his mouth open in the middle of a word, and by the expression of his face plainly declared to all the company that his thoughts had been diverted into softer channels.
If it had not been rather amiable, it would have been absurdly droll. His wife at once withdrew her touch; but it was plain she had to exert some force. Thereupon the young man coloured and looked for a moment beautiful.
Leon and Elvira both observed the byplay, and a shock passed from one to the other; for they were inveterate match-makers, especially between those who were already married.
“I beg your pardon,” said Leon suddenly. “I see no use in pretending. Before we came in here we heard sounds indicating — if I may so express myself — an imperfect harmony.”
“Sir — “ began the man.
But the woman was beforehand.
“It is quite true,” she said. “I see no cause to be ashamed. If my husband is mad I shall at least do my utmost to prevent the consequences. Picture to yourself, Monsieur and Madame,” she went on, for she passed Stubbs over, “that this wretched person — a dauber, an incompetent, not fit to be a sign-painter — receives this morning an admirable offer from an uncle — an uncle of my own, my mother’s brother, and tenderly beloved — of a clerkship with nearly a hundred and fifty pounds a year, and that he — picture to yourself! — he refuses it! Why? For the sake of Art, he says. Look at his art, I say — look at it! Is it fit to be seen? Ask him — is it fit to be sold? And it is for this, Monsieur and Madame, that he condemns me to the most deplorable existence, without luxuries, without comforts, in a vile suburb of a country town. O non!” she cried, “non — je ne me tairai pas — c’est plus fort que moi! I take these gentlemen and this lady for judges — is this kind? is it decent? is it manly? Do I not deserve better at his hands after having married him and” — (a visible hitch) — “done everything in the world to please him.”
I doubt if there were ever a more embarrassed company at a table; every one looked like a fool; and the husband like the biggest.
“The art of Monsieur, however,” said Elvira, breaking the silence, “is not wanting in distinction.”
“It has this distinction,” said the wife, “that nobody will buy it.”
“I should have supposed a clerkship — “ began Stubbs.
“Art is Art,” swept in Leon. “I salute Art. It is the beautiful, the divine; it is the spirit of the world, and the pride of life. But — “ And the actor paused.
“A clerkship — “ began Stubbs.
“I’ll tell you what it is,” said the painter. “I am an artist, and as this gentleman says, Art is this and the other; but of course, if my wife is going to make my life a piece of perdition all day long, I prefer to go and drown myself out of hand.”
“Go!” said his wife. “I should like to see you!”
“I was going to say,” resumed Stubbs, “that a fellow may be a clerk and paint almost as much as he likes. I know a fellow in a bank who makes capital water-colour sketches; he even sold one for seven-and-six.”
To both the women this seemed a plank of safety; each hopefully interrogated the countenance of her lord; even Elvira, an artist herself! — but indeed there must be something permanently mercantile in the female nature. The two men exchanged a glance; it was tragic; not otherwise might two philosophers salute, as at the end of a laborious life each recognised that he was still a mystery to his disciples.
“Art is Art,” he repeated sadly. “It is not water-colour sketches, nor practising on a piano. It is a life to be lived.”
“And in the meantime people starve!” observed the woman of the house. “If that’s a life, it is not one for me.”
“I’ll tell you what,” burst forth Leon; “you, Madame, go into another room and talk it over with my wife; and I’ll stay here and talk it over with your husband. It may come to nothing, but let’s try.”
“I am very willing,” replied the young woman; and she proceeded to light a candle. “This way if you please.” And she led Elvira upstairs into a bedroom. “The fact is,” said she, sitting down, “that my husband cannot paint.”
“No more can mine act,” replied Elvira.
“I should have thought he could,” returned the other; “he seems clever.”
“He is so, and the best of men besides,” said Elvira; “but he cannot act.”
“At least he is not a sheer humbug like mine; he can at least sing.”
“You mistake Leon,” returned his wife warmly. “He does not even pretend to sing; he has too fine a taste; he does so for a living. And, believe me, neither of the men are humbugs. They are people with a mission — which they cannot carry out.”
“Humbug or not,” replied the other, “you came very near passing the night in the fields; and, for my part, I live in terror of starvation. I should think it was a man’s mission to think twice about his wife. But it appears not. Nothing is their mission but to play the fool. Oh!” she broke out, “is it not something dreary to think of that man of mine? If he could only do it, who would care? But no — not he — no more than I can!”
“Have you any children?” asked Elvira.
“No; but then I may.”
“Children change so much,” said Elvira, with a sigh.
And just then from the room below there flew up a sudden snapping chord on the guitar; one followed after another; then the voice of Leon joined in; and there was an air being played and sung that stopped the speech of the two women. The wife of the painter stood like a person transfixed; Elvira, looking into her eyes, could see all manner of beautiful memories and kind thoughts that were passing in and out of her soul with every note; it was a piece of her youth that went before her; a green French plain, the smell of apple-flowers, the far and shining ringlets of a river, and the words and presence of love.
“Leon has hit the nail,” thought Elvira to herself. “I wonder how.”
The how was plain enough. Leon had asked the painter if there were no air connected with courtship and pleasant times; and having learnt what he wished, and allowed an interval to pass, he had soared forth into
“O mon amante,
O mon desir,
“Pardon me, Madame,” said the painter’s wife, “your husband sings admirably well.”
“He sings that with some feeling,” replied Elvira, critically, although she was a little moved herself, for the song cut both ways in the upper chamber; “but it is as an actor and not as a musician.”
“Life is very sad,” said the other; “it so wastes away under one’s fingers.”
“I have not found it so,” replied Elvira. “I think the good parts of it last and grow greater every day.”
“Frankly, how would you advise me?”
“Frankly, I would let my husband do what he wished. He is obviously a very loving painter; you have not yet tried him as a clerk. And you know — if it were only as the possible father of your children — it is as well to keep him at his best.”
“He is an excellent fellow,” said the wife.
They kept it up till sunrise with music and all manner of good fellowship; and at sunrise, while the sky was still temperate and clear, they separated on the threshold with a thousand excellent wishes for each other’s welfare. Castel-le-Gachis was beginning to send up its smoke against the golden East; and the church bell was ringing six.
“My guitar is a familiar spirit,” said Leon, as he and Elvira took the nearest way towards the inn, “it resuscitated a Commissary, created an English tourist, and reconciled a man and wife.”
Stubbs, on his part, went off into the morning with reflections of his own.
“They are all mad,” thought he, “all mad — but wonderfully decent.”
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