On Calais quay—At the Custom-house—A lady of the past—Ungallant examiner—Better to reign than serve—Paris—Vanity Fair—Sowing and reaping—Laughing through life—At the Hôtel Chatham—A pleasant picture—In maiden meditation—M. Pascal is wise in his generation—The secrets of the Seine—Notre Dame—Ile St. Louis—A mediæval atmosphere—Victor Hugo—Ghosts of the Hôtel Lambert—H. C. again—His little comedy—M. the Inspector—Outraged ladies—"En voiture, messieurs!"—Mystery not cleared—The Orléanais—La Vendée—Garden of France—A dilemma—Polite Chef de Gare—Crossing the Garonne—Land of corn and wine.
On Calais quay—At the Custom-house—A lady of the past—Ungallant examiner—Better to reign than serve—Paris—Vanity Fair—Sowing and reaping—Laughing through life—At the Hôtel Chatham—A pleasant picture—In maiden meditation—M. Pascal is wise in his generation—The secrets of the Seine—Notre Dame—Ile St. Louis—A mediæval atmosphere—Victor Hugo—Ghosts of the Hôtel Lambert—H. C. again—His little comedy—M. the Inspector—Outraged ladies—"En voiture, messieurs!"—Mystery not cleared—The Orléanais—La Vendée—Garden of France—A dilemma—Polite Chef de Gare—Crossing the Garonne—Land of corn and wine.
THEChannel waters were calm and placid as the blue sky above them. Though late autumn the temperature was that of mid-summer. At Calais every one landed as jauntily as though they had just gone through the pleasure of a short yachting trip. As usual there were all sorts and conditions of men and women, and again the curious, the grotesque, the impossible predominated. They streamed across the new quay in a disordered procession, struggling with all that amount of hand-baggage which gets into everyone's way but their own, as they hurry forward to secure for themselves the best seats and most comfortable corners.
The Custom-house was over. One ancient lady who stood near us was politely demanded by the examiner if she had cigars, tobacco or brandy to declare. Her flaxen wig seemed to stand on end as she asked if they mistook her for a New Woman: Quaker-like answering one question with another. The examiner received her queryau pied de la lettre, and earnestly looked at the lady, who, in spite of flaxen wig,rouge, pencilled brows, was of the Past. All his intelligence in his eyes, he replied: "About the same age as the century, I should say, madame;" then marked her packages and turned to the next in waiting. Had those two found themselves alone together, judging from the lady's expression there would have been terrible paragraphs in the next day's papers. As it was she entered one of the waiting trains and we saw her no more. Evidently she had been a beauty in her day, and it is hard to serve where one has reigned.
So we steamed on to the gay capital, in her day almost to the modern world what Rome was to the ancient. And if not altogether that now, who has she to thank but herself? Nations like people must reap as they sow. Yet, whirling through the broad thoroughfares, we felt she still holds her own. Nowhere such floods of light, turning night into day, making one blink like owls in the sunshine. Nowhere shops so resplendent that a Jew's ransom would not purchase them. Nowhere such a Vanity Fair crowded with a light-hearted people, who dance through the world to the tune ofAway with Melancholy!Passing from the Gare du Nord, the brilliant boulevards were full of life and movement.
Our coachman turned into the Rue Daunou and brought up at the Hôtel Chatham: quiet, comfortable, but like all Parisian hotels terribly in want of air. The manager received us with as much attention as though we had arrived for six months instead of a couple of hours, in order to fortify ourselves for the night journey southwards.
The salle-à-manger opened its hospitable doors, disclosing a number of small tables, snow-white cloths, sparkling glass and silver; a pleasant vision. Richly dressed ladies, blazing with jewels, fanned themselves with lazy grace. In a quiet corner sat two quiet people, evidently mother and daughter, since the one must have been twenty years ago what the other was now. They were English, as one saw and heard, for we were at the next table. No other country could produce that fair specimen of girlhood; no other country own that lovely face, gentle voice, refined tones: charms of inheritance, destined one day to translate some happy swain to fields Elysian, where the sands of life are golden and run swiftly.
Then came up our cunningmaître-d'hôtel, portly and commanding, deigned to glance at the wine card we held, and went in for a little diplomacy.
"A bottle of your excellent '87 St. Julien, M. Pascal;" knowing the wine of old.
"Ah, if monsieur only knew, the Château d'Irrac is superior."
"Is it possible?" incredulous but yielding. "Then let it be Château d'Irrac."
And presently we realised that the '87 St. Julien was growing low in the cellar, whilst many bins of Château d'Irrac cried out to be consumed. We sent for the great man and confided our suspicions, adding, "You cannot compare the two wines." "Monsieur donc knows the St. Julien? Ah," with a keener glance, "I had not remarked. I ask a thousand pardons of monsieur. After all, it is a matter of taste. The Château d'Irrac is much appreciated—especially by the English. Monsieur will allow me to change the wine?"
Amende honorable, but not accepted; and the Château d'Irrac remained.
Presently we entered upon our longer drive to the Gare d'Orléans. Paris had put up her shutters and toned down her illuminations. Shops were closed, lights were out, Vanity Fair had disappeared.
The streets grew more and more empty. Our driver found his way to the river and went down the quays, where on summer evenings lovers of old books spend hours examining long rows of stalls, on which sooner or later every known and unknown literary treasure makes its appearance. Perhaps he was a man who liked the tragic side of life—and where is it more suggested than on the banks of the Seine? Night after night its turbid waters close over the heads of the rashly despairing. The ghastly Morgue is weighted with secrets. Every bridge is surrounded by an atmosphere of sighs. One last look upon the world, the sky, the quiet stars, then the fatal plunge into the silent waters, and another soul has risked the unknown.
Once more in the darkness uprose the outlines of Notre Dame in all the beauty of Gothic refinement; all the delicatelacework and flying buttresses subdued and dreamlike under the night sky.
Who can look upon this architectural wonder without thinking of those historical, twelfth-century days when the first stone was laid, and it slowly rose to perfection? All the centuries that have since rolled on, changing and destroying much of its charm? The perils it went through and did not altogether escape in those terrible days of '93 when, condemned, it was saved by a miracle? That Age of Reason, which drove half the excitable Frenchmen of Paris stark staring mad.
How can we haunt these precincts without thinking of their high priest Victor Hugo, who loved them as Scott and Burns loved their wholesomer banks and braes? Everywhere uprises a vision of the old grey-headed man as we remember him, with pale heavy face, grave earnest manner, deep thoughtful eyes, and on the surface, so little that was light, excitable and French; for ever pondering upon the mysteries of life, human suffering and endurance, broken destinies. His face looks at you from every dark and vacant window in the neighbouring Ile St. Louis. The shadows of Notre Dame fall upon its mediæval roofs; the dark waters of the river wash their foundations, and sometimes flood them also. If they could only whisper their secrets of human sin and suffering, that great army of martyrs who have died, not in defence of the good but in consequence of the evil, the world would surely dissolve and disappear. Many a time has he stood contemplating these problems, planning the destinies of his characters, from the windows of the Hôtel Lambert. Its painted ceilings recall the days of Lebrun, and up and down the old staircases and deserted corridors one hears the cynical laugh of Voltaire and the tripping footsteps of Madame de Châtet.
We left this delightful and romantic atmosphere behind us as our driver pursued his way down the right bank of the Seine.
Another world, inhabited by another people. Darkness reigned; lamps were few and far between; the roar of the great city sounded afar off, and amidst that roar dwelt all the rank and fashion, wealth and intrigue, that turn the heaven-sent manna to ashes of the Dead Sea fruit. Presently he crossed abridge and there was a flash of lamps upon the dark waters below. The Seine was pursuing her relentless course, carrying her burden of sorrows to the far-off sea, burying them in the ocean of eternity, recording them in the books of heaven.
A few moments more, and at the Gare d'Orléans we dismissed our man with hispourboire. We were in good time, and had the place almost to ourselves. "Le train n'est pas encore fait, monsieur," said a polite official. "Ah! there it comes. You will not be over-crowded to-night, I imagine."
Good hearing, for a night journey in a full train without a reserved carriage means martyrdom. We marked our seats, then walked up and down the lighted platform. It was nearly ten o'clock and passengers were arriving.
Presently, missing H. C., we turned and saw him at the lower end of the train examining the last carriage. What did it mean? Evidently mischief of some sort. The hundred-and-one occasions rose up before us in which we had saved him from ladies with matrimony on the brain, from intrigues, from his susceptible self. Only a year ago there had been that narrow escape in the Madrid hotel with the siren who had married the Russian count. He saw us coming, turned and met us with laughter. What now?
"Come and see," placing his arm in ours. "But don't interfere with the liberty of the subject. I will not be controlled. You shall no longer find me weak and yielding as in other years."
All this went in at one ear and out at the other, as the saying runs. Silence is the best reply to incipient rebellion.
At the last carriage the mystery was solved. In one compartment sat two lovely ladies, waiting the departure of the train to draw down the blinds and settle themselves for the night. H. C. silently pointed to the label, which said:Pour Fumeurs.Fortune seemed to favour his humour for we had seldom seen the announcement on a French carriage. Then he went on to the next compartment. Three young men had entered and were laughing, talking, blowing clouds of smoke. This was labelledPour Dames Seules. H. C. had quietly changed the iron labels and turned the world upside down. The inmateswere in blissful ignorance of the frightful thing that had happened.
"We had no time for the theatre to-night, yet I had a mind for a little comedy," said H. C. "Now we have it on the spot, and without paying. I had such trouble to ram the plaques into the grooves that they will never come out again. Here comes the inspector—evidently not to be trifled with; exactly the man for the occasion. Now for it."
We trembled as the great man approached, each particular hair standing on end, the pallor of death on our cheek. Appearances would have condemned us. H. C., on the other hand, looked innocence itself.
Suddenly the inspector gave a start, exactly reproduced in us; on his part, astonishment and indignation; on ours, nervous terror. Then the door of the compartment was thrown open and the scene began. The inspector's powerful bass voice made itself felt and heard.
"Gentlemen," in his deepest diapason, "what is the meaning of this? How dare you enter a compartment reservedFor Ladies Only, fill it with vile smoke, and treat with contempt the rules of our organisation department? For this, gentlemen," waxing wrath and perhaps overstating his case, "I could fine and summons you—and believe I should be justified in handing you over to thePolice Correctionnelle. Your act is infamous—and no doubt designed."
Instead of pouring oil upon troubled waters, the young men were combative and defiant.
"Qu'est-ce que vous nous chantez là?" said one. "Surely, my dear inspector, your sight is failing—time rolls on, you know; or you cannot read; or you have dined too well. But if you have your senses about you and examine the plaque closely, you will see that it states:For Smokers.And we are smokers. My compliments to you, Monsieur the famous Inspector. Like Dumas, we are here and we remain."
"Very good," said H. C. innocently looking on. "As a scene at the Vaudeville it would bring down the house and make the fortune of the piece. You ought to be grateful for this little distraction, but you don't look it. All was done so easily and develops so naturally."
The inspector listened whilst this fuel was being added to the fire of his wrath. "We will see about that," he said. "Come out this instant and read for yourself." He grasped the arm of the young man. As he was strong and the youth weak, the result was that Dumas' famous saying fell to the ground and he with it. In a moment he stood upon the platform and read the fatal notice.
"But it is conjuring, it is a miracle!" he cried. "I can assure you, Monsieur the Inspector, that before entering I read the label with my own eyes—we all did. Anatole—de Verriers—I appeal to you for confirmation. It positively statedFor Smokers. No, oh no, I am certain of it—and I havenotdined too well," laughing in spite of himself. "For Ladies only! It is too good a joke. I assure you we want a quiet night's rest; we don't want to be disturbed by the gentle snoring of the fair sex. An enemy hath done this. Tenez, Monsieur the Inspector," going to the next carriage and reading the label: "look at that. There are the innocent conspirators calmly seated in the compartment. The ladies themselves have done this. I was wrong in saying it was an enemy, for are we not all friends of the lovelier sex? But take my word for it, they are the culprits. Remark how unconscious they look; one sees it is too natural to be real—it is assumed. Poor ladies! They are nervous, perhaps, and want a safeguard about them during the perilous night journey. Or it may be that they even like smoking. After all, it is an innocent little ruse on their part to attain a very harmless end."
"Innocent, sir! harmless!" cried the outraged and perplexed inspector. "We will see!"
He approached the compartment, threw wide the door, addressed the ladies severely, as became his office, but tempered with respect and admiration, as became a man.
"How is this, ladies?" to the startled women. "Allow me to inform you that it is notconvenablefor members of your sex to deliberately compose themselves for the night in a compartment labelledFor Smokers."
"What!" cried the ladies in a breath. "For Smokers?Quel horreur!Monsieur the Inspector, you must be mad, or you have dined too well—l'un ou l'autre.For Smokers!Why,we are horrified at smoke. It makes me cough, it makes my companion sneeze, it gets into our hair, it ruins our complexion. Monsieur the Inspector," shaking out their ruffled plumage, "this is an infamous accusation. We feel ourselves insulted. We shall appeal to the Chef de Gare. You had better at once say that we have done this thing ourselves, whilst the culprits are no doubt those three young men who are laughing behind your back. You have attacked our reputation and we will pursue the matter. When we entered this compartment it was labelledFor Ladies Only, and if you will examine the plaque with sober senses you will find it still readsFor Ladies Only."
"Mesdames," returned the bewildered inspector, "I will trouble you to alight and read for yourselves. No one shall accuse me of dining too well with impunity; and no one, not even such charming women as yourselves, shall exact an apology for an offence never committed."
Apparently there was nothing else for it. The ladies gracefully alighted, assisted by the gallant but uncompromising inspector, and the fatal words stared them in the face.
"But it is conjuring, it is a miracle!" they cried breathlessly, just as the young men had cried. "An enemy hath done this, Monsieur the Inspector, and the enemy is represented by those three young men who doubtless look upon it as apetite plaisanterie. But if there is law in the land they shall suffer for it. It is nothing more or less than an outrage to our feelings. In the meantime, Monsieur the Inspector, not to delay the train, have the kindness to change back the labels to their right positions, and put those three young men under the surveillance of the guard."
"If it is the last word we ever speak we are guiltless in this matter," protested the young men. "Mephistopheles is no doubt on the platform in disguise"—here we felt a nudge from H. C. and a whispered "Complimentary!"—"but we beg to say that we are not Fausts, and we have no reason to suppose these ladies are Marguerites."
The outraged ladies were absolutely speechless with anger; twice they opened their mouths but no sound would come. And as the train was now about to start, there was nothing forit but to re-enter their compartment. The young men did likewise. The doors were closed. The inspector tried to remove the offending labels. They would not budge. He brought all his strength to bear upon them, but they were fixed as the stars in their course. If Mephistopheles had been at work, he had done his work well. The plaques might have been soldered in their sockets. The inspector was guilty of language not quite parliamentary. He felt mystified, baffled; the whole thing was inexplicable.
There came a cry down the platform: "En voiture, messieurs!" Our own carriage was some way off; we went up and entered, hiring pillows for the night. Final doors were slammed; the train moved off. And the ladies were in a compartment labelledFor Smokers, and the three young men had to themselves the carriagePour Dames Seules. They must have been laughing immoderately, for the inspector shook his fist as they slowly rolled away; and the shake said as plainly as though we had heard the words: "There go the culprits! Ah,scélérats!If I only had you now in my grasp!" The young men must have interpreted the action in like manner, for the window was suddenly put down and three hands waved him a derisive farewell.
We rolled away in the darkness. The lights of Paris grew faint and dreamy, then went out. All the old familiar landmarks were invisible, and when we crossed the Seine not a star was reflected in its deep dark waters.
As the night went on we passed through the glorious country of the Orléanais, washed by the waters of the historical and romantic Loire. Who that has gone down its broad winding course can forget the charms of its ancient towns? The halo surrounding Orléans, the pure accents of Tours, the architectural wonders of Loches—home of the Plantagenets—its towers and churches visible even under the stars; and beyond Nantes, the gentle splendours of La Vendée. Porters in the darkness of night shouted "Orléans!" and we felt in the very garden of France, where nature is so bountiful that the labour of man is hardly needed to bring forth the fruits of the earth. In these sunny provinces dwell the happiest, most light-hearted of her sons. The earth abundantly furnishestheir daily bread and wine. It comes without trouble and is eaten without care.
Night and darkness rolled away. We approached Bordeaux. Last year, at this same hour, about this same time, we had found it enveloped in mist, had made the acquaintance of Monsieur le Comte San Salvador de la Veronnière, and wondered how his small body bore the weight of its majestic name. But the wind is tempered to the shorn lamb and the back is fitted to the burden. This time there was no comte and no mist. We had watched the dawn break and a glorious sunrise turn fleecy clouds into flaming swords. The earth awoke and the lovely woods and forests, with their wealth of fern and bracken, were touched with rosy glowing light as the sun shot above the horizon.
Just before reaching Bordeaux we made a discovery. A secret impulse urged us to examine our luggage-ticket, and we were electrified at finding it registered to Irun instead of Portbou. Steaming into the crazy old station, we found out the station-master, and explained the difficulty. He was politeness itself, and once more we could not help contrasting the courtesy of the French officials with the less agreeable manners of the Spanish.
"This would have been serious," said M. le Chef. "I am glad you found it out in time. After Bordeaux it would have been too late. You and your luggage would have gone your separate ways."
Then calling a porter, he handed him the ticket, bade him search the luggage-vans and bring away the numbers indicated.
"A little against the rules," said the Chef smiling; "but life is full of inevitable exceptions, and because we stick to too much red tape, and will not recognise the need of exceptions, half life's worries occur."
Evidently our Chef was a philosopher, and fortunately a man of common-sense.
Presently up came the porter. His search had been successful. The luggage was re-registered for Portbou, and we had the satisfaction of thanking M. le Chef for sparing us an awkward dilemma. "Monsieur," he replied, with a finishedFrench bow, "it is a pleasure to be of use, and I am always at your disposition."
The train left the station and crossed the lordly Garonne. Nothing in the way of river could look more majestic, with all the light of the sky and all the blue of the heavens reflected on its broad surface. Once more we were dazzled by the rich splendour of the autumn tints, glories of colour. In the vineyards the deep purple leaves still lingered upon the branches. White farmhouses, with their green shutters, red-tiled roofs, strings of yellow Indian maize, heaps of pumpkins and cantaloupe melons, stood out in striking contrast with the landscape. Many a vine-laden porch threw its lights and shades upon walls and pavement. Many a field was picturesque with ploughing-oxen. A hardy son of the South guided the furrow, and a woman with red or blue handkerchief tied round the head, followed, sowing the seed. One only wanted twilight and the angelus bell to complete the scene's devotion.
All this we had found a year ago. Nothing was altered—it seemed as yesterday. But now we were changing our direction, and going east instead of westward. Last year Irun and St. Sebastian; now Gerona and Barcelona the bright and pleasant, for ever associated with Majorca the beautiful and beloved.
Carcassonne—In feudal times—Simon de Montfort—Canal du Midi—L'Âge d'or et le Grand Monarque—A modern Golden Fleece—One of earth's fair scenes—Choice of evils—M. le Chef yields—Narbonne—A woman of parts—The course of true love runs smooth—Diner de contrat—Honeyversusthelune de miel—Madame's philosophy—L'Allée des Soupirs—An unfinished cathedral—At the gloaming hour—Mystery and devotion—The Hôtel de Ville—A domestic drama—High festival and champagne—The next morning—H. C. repentant—Madame at her post—Ambrosial breakfast—"Il faut payer pour ses plaisirs"—Dramatic exit—Perpignan—Home of the kings of Majorca—Elne—"Adieu, ma chère France!"—Over the frontier—Gerona—Crowded platform—What H. C. thought—Unpoetical incident—From the sublime to the ridiculous.
Carcassonne—In feudal times—Simon de Montfort—Canal du Midi—L'Âge d'or et le Grand Monarque—A modern Golden Fleece—One of earth's fair scenes—Choice of evils—M. le Chef yields—Narbonne—A woman of parts—The course of true love runs smooth—Diner de contrat—Honeyversusthelune de miel—Madame's philosophy—L'Allée des Soupirs—An unfinished cathedral—At the gloaming hour—Mystery and devotion—The Hôtel de Ville—A domestic drama—High festival and champagne—The next morning—H. C. repentant—Madame at her post—Ambrosial breakfast—"Il faut payer pour ses plaisirs"—Dramatic exit—Perpignan—Home of the kings of Majorca—Elne—"Adieu, ma chère France!"—Over the frontier—Gerona—Crowded platform—What H. C. thought—Unpoetical incident—From the sublime to the ridiculous.
THEhours went on and the sun declined, and we looked upon the wonderful old city of Carcassonne.
Rising out of the plain the great limestone rock was crowned by this fortress of the Middle Ages, its walls and round towers clearly outlined against the blue sky. These enclose a dead world given up to the poor and struggling. Its steep, narrow streets have no longer the faintest echo of military glories. The inner walls date back to the Visigothic kings; the foundations of some of the towers are Roman, but nothing of the outer walls seems later than the twelfth century. Here in 1210 the army of crusaders under Simon de Montfort laid siege, the cruel Abbot of Citeaux most determined of the enemy. The massacre at Béziers had just taken place, de Montfort foremost in eagerness to shed blood. Some had escaped to this little City of Refuge, amongst them the brave Vicomte de Béziers: one of those men of whom the world has seen not a few, saving lives at the cost of their own. The little fortress unable tohold out was taken, and again the massacre was terrible, Béziers himself dying in prison after great suffering.
A hundred and fifty years later it more successfully resisted the Black Prince, who, after scattering terror right and left in the plains of Languedoc, found that he had to retire from these walls baffled and mortified. To-day they still stand, the most perfect mediæval monument in France.
The new town lies in the plain, quietly industrious as the old is silent and dead, modern and commonplace as the other is ancient and romantic. Trees overshadow the boulevards, costly fountains plash through the hot days and nights of summer, running streams make the air musical and reflect the sapphire skies.
On one side runs the great Canal du Midi, Canal des deux Mers, as it is called, uniting the Mediterranean with the Atlantic. Two hundred and fifty years ago it was one of the finest engineering works in the world, and perhaps would never have been finished but for the encouragement of le Grand Monarque, prime mover in thatâge d'orwhen the literary firmament was studded with such stars of the first order as Molière, Corneille, Lafontaine, Bossuet, Fénélon, Pascal, and last, not least, Madame de Sevigné. There came a crowd of splendours, a succession of startling events, into that lengthened reign, our own Marlborough taking his part in such decisive battles as Blenheim and Malplaquet.
This Canal du Midi, reflecting the outlines of Carcassonne, added much to the trade of Southern France. If that has declined amidst the world's chances and changes, its numerous barges plying to and fro with sails set to the evening breeze and the setting sun, still form one of earth's most rare and beautiful scenes, full of calm repose. Corn and wine and oil are their freights; rich Argosies commanded by many a modern Jason, carrying many a Golden Fleece to the fair and flourishing towns that lie in its path between the tideless shores of the Levant and the restless waters of Biscay.
On the other side of the town runs the River Aude, also reflecting the ancient outlines of Carcassonne in waters less placid than those of the great Canal. This takes its way through a fertile valley given up to vines and olives, fig-treesand pomegranates; and here flock crowds of invalids to the mineral baths and waters, penances due to indiscretions of the table or sins of their forefathers.
Our train rolled over both these waterways on its journey towards Narbonne.
By this time we had realised that we had been misinformed as to the hour we should reach Gerona, our first resting-place, adding one more record to the chapter of small accidents. At Narbonne we had the good fortune to find a Chef de Gare civil and obliging as he of Bordeaux, who declared it impossible to reach Gerona that day as there was no railway communication. We should have to spend the night at Portbou, the Spanish frontier, where our quarters would be wretched, and all our sweet turn to bitter against those who had misled us.
We decided at once. "Better remain where there is a good inn, than go on to the miseries of Portbou, Monsieur le Chef."
"That is clear," he replied. "Here you will be comfortable—and on French ground," laughing: "a virtue in my eyes, and I hope in yours also."
We willingly agreed. "But our luggage? It is registered to Portbou."
He looked grave. "That is unfortunate; it must go on to Portbou. I cannot give it to you. It is against all rules, and I greatly regret it."
"Yet we cannot do without it. If you send it on to Portbou, we cannot remain behind. Have you the heart to consign us to thatchambre de tortures?"
He paused a moment, revolving the momentous situation. "No," he laughed at length, "I cannot do that, and for once will make an exception in your favour. Advienne que pourra, you shall have your luggage."
Then in the kindest way he personally superintended the matter, delayed the train until the luggage was found, and carried out sundry forms necessary for the next day's journey.
We discovered very little in Narbonne to repay our change of plans, but the hotel was comfortable and the energetic landlady a character worth studying. Grass never grew under her feet. She seemed gifted with ubiquity, and startled one by her rapid movements. A capable woman, who made her littleworld work with a will, wound them up and set them going. If the machinery flagged, she at once applied the master-key of her energy, and the wheels went on again.
To-day she was on her mettle, as she informed us, having a large wedding dinner on hand. "To-night was thediner de contrat, to-morrow thediner de noce. A hundred and fifty people would sit down to it, and she expected great conviviality."
Nor was she disappointed, if the noise we heard later on was any sign of festive enjoyment. Loud laughter, applause, healths pledged, good wishes bestowed—all indicated the state of the assembled guests.
Madame had taken us into the banquet-room to prove that she was capable of decorating her table very effectively. Glass and silver glittered under the rays of light; flowers perfumed the air; orange-trees stood in corners, fruit and flowers mingled their delights. We asked for whom all this extensive preparation.
"The daughter of an innkeeper, with a magnificent dowry, was marrying one of the most popular doctors of the place. But it was really a mariage d'amour, not merely de convenance. Les mariés were both delightful. One hardly knew which to congratulate the most. In short, it was one of those rare events in life when the social sky is without a cloud."
Madame was almost poetical in her enthusiasm. But she was no less practical, and it was wonderful how everything went smoothly under her guidance.
"Narbonne, famous for its honey." We seemed to remember this as one of our geography lines in days gone by. "But where was the honey?" we asked during the course of our own dinner, which madame was quite equal to in spite of the greater ceremony on hand.
"You may well ask," placing upon the table a choice bottle of the vin-du-pays, which she saw unsealed and uncorked by one of her officials who had just been wound up again and was flying about the room like a firework. "You may well ask, monsieur. No house so badly supplied with coals as the charbonnier, and in Narbonne we see little of our own honey. Like the fish in a seaport, it is all sent away, and you will findmore of it in Paris than here. But I will try to unearth a jar from my stores."
Apparently the quest was unsuccessful, for no honey appeared. Or it may be that in contemplating thelune de mielin the garlanded banqueting-room the more material article was lost sight of. With one hundred and fifty people on her brain, no wonder if small matters were forgotten. And yet madame seemed of those who forget nothing, her faculties embracing both wide organisation and minute detail. A thin, wiry woman, with a quick walk and a light step, dark eyes that nothing escaped, yet without tyranny or sharpness of manner. Only once did we hear her rebuking one of her waiters for the sin of procrastination.
"Leave nothing till to-morrow that can be done to-day," she wound up with, "or you will soon find the world ahead and you left behind in the race. Those are the people that come to poverty and have only themselves to thank for it. That, monsieur," turning to us who waited a direction, "is the reason we cannot very much help what are called the poor. Some great failing brings them to that condition—laziness, stupidity or vice, and your aid will never give them energy, wisdom or virtue."
Then the direction we asked for was bestowed, and the erring waiter ordered to show us the way to the cathedral.
In the town we found very little that was not ordinary and common-place. It is ancient, its streets are badly paved and tortuous, and it possesses scarcely anything in the way of picturesque outlines, nothing in the way of Roman remains. Yet it flourished as far back as the fifth centuryB.C., and in the first century was in the hands of the Romans, great in theatres, baths, temples, and triumphal arches. Of these not a vestige has survived.
It was one of the great ports of the Mediterranean, which flowed up to its foundations, but has gradually receded some eight miles. From one of the great towers of the Hôtel de Ville you may trace the outlines of the Cevennes and Pyrenees on the one side, on the other watch the broad blue waters shimmering in the sunshine, more beautiful than a dream in their deep sapphire; you may count the white-winged boats sailinglazily to and fro upon its flashing surface; and on still, dark nights, when the stars are large and brilliant, watch the lights of fishing fleets clustered together, and hear upon the shore the gentle plash of this tideless sea.
On such summer nights theAllée des Soupirsis the favourite walk of the people. Whence its sad, romantic name? Has it seen many sorrows? Do ghosts of the past haunt it with long-drawn sighs? Has it had more than its share of Abelards and Héloïses, Romeos and Juliets? Has some sorrowful Atala been borne under its branches to a desert grave, some Dante mourned here his lost Beatrice, some Petrarch his Laura?
We knew not, and turning from it climbed the ill-paved streets towards the Cathedral—a Cathedral no longer, for Narbonne, once an Archbishopric, has been shorn of ecclesiastical dignity.
As far as it went, we found it a fine, interesting, but unfinished Gothic building of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. Little beyond the choir exists—a splendid fragment, but a fragment only. It might have been one of the world's wonders.
We entered for the second time in the gloaming, when its great height was lost in shadows. A few lights about the church and on the altar deepened the mystery. A few kneeling figures motionless at their devotions added their quiet pathos to the scene. From the end of the choir it had the effect of a vast church infinitely impressive. An immense nave with aisles and pillars and vaulted roofs might stretch behind us. Such was the intention of the architect, but his plans were not carried out. In reality there was nothing. Within a few feet came the narrow outer passage and the dead wall of the west front; but in the darkness all this was not realised. We only saw the splendid choir, vast height, graceful outlines, groined roof, pointed arches, and slender pillars, steeped in the mystery and shadow of a dim religious light by the few candles gleaming here and there like faint stars in the night. Some of the painted glass was beautiful, as we had seen earlier in the day, and much of the sixteenth century flamboyant tracery was very good. There were many fine tombs and statues.
The Gothic Hôtel de Ville close by is partly modern. A portion of it formed the ancient Archbishop's Palace, and some of this remains, more especially the old towers. The courtyard has a few interesting outlines, and the staircase leading to the museum is of broad, massive marble. Up and down these stairs and corridors was once wont to pass the proud footstep of a primate, with head erect under the cardinal's red hat, whilst the rustle of silken robes, white and scarlet, whispered of greatness and vanity. It now shines by the light of other days. All its pomp and pride has vanished; dead, silent and deserted, its glory has been transferred to Toulouse, now the Archbishop's See.
We discovered the ancient dame who keeps the keys of the Museum. She dwells in almost an underground room of the building, a distant wing in the garden, where in days gone by the Archbishop paced and meditated in the seclusion of impenetrable walls. Looking upwards nothing would arrest the eye but the far-off serene sky and unfinished fragment of the Cathedral. It is still a grey, venerable pile, this wing, silent and empty.
But in the quiet little lodge of the custodian hearts still beat to the tune of life's small dramas. A slight altercation was going on. The dame was laying down the law to a young man, evidently her son. What the transgression we could not tell. Possibly debt, and he had come to draw upon the hard-earned savings in the chimney-corner: a sort of mental and moral earthquake to the frugal mother-mind. Perhaps he was announcing his marriage with one who would make him a bad wife. Or he had grown tired of his narrow world, and pleaded to cross the seas and begin life on a new soil. Whatever it might be, he departed looking very much as if he too had his burden to bear. In passing he saluted, and said, "Bonjour, messieurs," and his looks were comely and his voice was pleasant. He had the air of a sailor, and possibly was a fisherman from the little port eight miles off. When he had disappeared beyond the trees, the old mother, who must also have been comely in her day, took the keys and led the way up the broad marble staircase to the Museum. The shades of evening were gathering, and our visit would almost have been lost labour had therebeen anything else to do. It was too dark to judge fairly, but amidst a great amount of rubbish we thought we discovered a few good old pictures.
Long after the sun had set and the afterglow had faded, we went back to the hotel and madame's hospitable attentions.
She was determined we should not suffer from the demands of the banquet. The whole corridor was now lined with orange trees, whose sheeny green leaves stood out in strong contrast with some strings of red peppers she had artistically festooned against the walls; so that from the entrance to the dining-room the procession would walk through an avenue of peace and plenty. The effect was charming. Nothing could be more beautiful than the luscious perfumed blossoms, richer than the deep foliage, more picturesque than the scented golden fruit hanging gracefully from the branches. As night went on, the sounds of merriment grew louder. Champagne could not run like water without leading to noisy if not brilliant wit. A hundred and fifty sons and daughters of sunny Southern France might be trusted to make the most of their opportunity.
We left them to their rites when by-and-by the clock struck ten, lights began to burn dim, and we realised that a sleepless night in the train is more or less trying. Bidding madamele bonsoir, who flashed to and fro like lightning, yet was neither hurried nor flurried, she politely returned usla bonne nuit; adding, with a certain dry humour, that after all she was glad marriages were not an everyday occurrence—at any rate from her hotel. If profitable, they were fatiguing.
Next morning we rose before dawn. The man came in, lighted our candles, and said it was time to rise. We thought we had slept five minutes; the unconscious hours had passed too quickly. Overnight we had settled to take an early train, and devote a few hours to Perpignan; hours of enforced waiting on our way to Gerona. After an amount of rapping and calling that might have roused the dead, H. C. had risen, lighted his own candles, and protested by going back to bed and to slumber. Fortunately the man went up to his room half an hour after, and seeing the state of affairs upset the fire-irons, knocked down a couple of chairs, and opened the window with a rattle.
"Are those wedding people still at it?" murmured H. C., in his dreams. "It must be past midnight." Then consciousness dawned upon him and the full measure of his iniquity; and presently he came down to a late breakfast, subdued and repentant.
Early as it was, madame was at her post, brisk and wide-awake as though yesterday had been nothing but a very ordinary fête-day. It was that uncomfortable hour when the early morning light creeps in, and candles and gas-lamps show pale and unearthly. The room looked chilly and forsaken; that last-night aspect that is always so ghostlike and unfamiliar. A white mist hung over the outer world.
Then the most comforting thing on earth made its triumphant entry—a brimming teapot; and with the addition of tea tabloids a fine brew of the cup which cheers sent our mental barometer to fair weather. We were even admitted to the internal economy of the establishment. In came the baker with a basket of steaming rolls giving out a delicious odour of bread fresh from the oven; and with new-churned butter—the last we tasted for many a long day—we made an ambrosial breakfast. In a few minutes, madame cloaked and bonneted, came up to wish us bon voyage, with a hope that we should again visit Narbonne. Nothing is certain in this world or we should have told her it was a very forlorn hope.
"I have to go to market," she said, "and the sooner I am there the better my choice of provisions. To-day, too, I have mydiner de noce, and must be back early.Vraiment, c'est une charge!Ah! they amused themselves last night! What headaches to-day, je parie, in spite of the excellence of the wines.Enfin! Il faut payer pour ses plaisirs."
"But, madame, you are perpetual motion. You go to bed late—if you go to bed at all, which we begin to doubt—and rise up early. This morning you look as fresh as a rose. Have you the gift of eternal youth?"
Madame was not above a compliment, and smiled her pleasure. "Quant il y a de la bonne volonté—" she laughed. "There is the whole secret. And now, au revoir, messieurs. Bon voyage. Portez vous bien. My best wishes go with you."
"Au revoir, on one condition, madame. That the next time we come you present us without fail with a pot of Narbonne honey."
Madame uttered a cry, fell back a pace or two, struck her forehead reproachfully, and disappeared like a flash into the street. Up rattled the omnibus, absorbing ourselves and our traps. Narbonne was of the past.
A short journey landed us at an early hour at Perpignan. We had passed nothing very interesting on the road, for just here the sunny South seems to have stayed her bountiful hand. The low bare outlines of the rocky Corbières were traced, and great stretches of heath where bees gathered the famous honey we were not permitted to enjoy. Here and there were immense salt lakes, giving the country a flooded appearance, bringing fever to the neighbourhood. Once, years ago, passing these endless lake districts in the night, weird, solemn, mysterious, we wondered what they could be. One saw nothing but a world under water, reflecting the stars; occasionally the black outline of some small boat with the flash of a low-lying lamp streaming over its surface. And presently, this morning, there was the blue Mediterranean to make up for all other shortcomings.
Then Perpignan. This time we separated from our old-man-of-the-sea; the baggage went on to Portbou to await our afternoon arrival.
We felt we ought to know Perpignan, and with affection, for it was once the residence of the kings of Majorca. But that was seven hundred years ago, and it has gone through many changes at the hands of many masters. For centuries it belonged to Spain, and still looks more Spanish than French. Only in the middle of the seventeenth century was it finally annexed to France by Richelieu. In summer its narrow streets are covered with awnings, many of its buildings are moresque, and its houses have the iron and wooden courts and balconies so common to Spain. Some of its thoroughfares are picturesque and arcaded, and every now and then you come upon an assemblage of wonderful roofs with their red tiles, gorgeous creepers, and enormous vines; but they are the exception. It is strongly fortified, and some of the old gatewaysare interesting. In days gone by these fortifications were needed, for Perpignan was the great point of defence in the Eastern Pyrenees between Spain and France. The Cathedral is chiefly famous for the immense span of its vault. In this it resembles Majorca, but is infinitely less beautiful. Though larger, Perpignan seemed still more quiet and dead than Narbonne. We soon exhausted its merits, and the hour for departure found us ready. At the moment we were in the great courtyard of the inn watching the chef in white cap and apron at a small table on the opposite side, enjoying his dessert and hour of repose, to which coffee and cognac formed the conclusion. For that hour he was a gentleman of leisure and had earned his ease.
There was no time to visit Elne with its old Romanesque Cathedral and cloisters worth a king's ransom; and keen was the regret as we passed it in the train, and noticed its decayed aspect and wonderful outlines rising above the town like a rare twelfth-century vision. Here Hannibal encamped on his way to Rome. Here came Constantine and named it Elena in memory of his mother. Here the Emperor Constantine was assassinated by order of Maxentius. Here came the Moors in the eighth century, the Normans in the eleventh, the kings of France in the thirteenth, fifteenth, and seventeenth centuries; all more or less destructive in their changes.
And now it remains a small dead town; grass grows in its streets, where eternal silence reigns. Passing away, we noted how its clear outlines stood out against the blue sky of the South, whilst beyond it stretched the sapphire waters of the Levant.
The train hurried on, and at Cerbère we bade farewell to pleasant France: a language that rings music in our ears; a people for whom we have a sincere affection. In the space of a few yards we seemed to pass from one country and people and tongue to another. At Cerbère nothing but French was heard. A few minutes afterwards, at Portbou, we spoke in French to one of the officials, who listened to the end, shook his head, and gruffly said "No entendo." We had entered Spain—land of slow trains, abrupt officials, many discomforts,but of romance and beauty. Once more we thought fate was to be against us. As inevitably as the slippers turned up in the Eastern story, so it seemed that our luggage was destined to be thebête noireof our wanderings.