There was one, a.s.suredly, who had not failed in his duty to his parents. Monsieur Paul's whole life, as we learned later, had been a willing sacrifice to the unconscious tyranny of his mother's affection.

The son was gifted with those gifts which, in a Parisian atelier, would easily have made him successful, if not famous. He had the artistic endowment in an unusual degree; it was all one to him, whether he modelled in clay, or carved in wood, or stone, or built a house, or restored old bric-a-brac. He had inherited the old world roundness of artistic ability--his was the plastic renascent touch that might have developed into that of a Giotto or a Benvenuto.

It was such a sacrifice as this that he had lain at his mother's feet.

Think you for an instant the clever, witty, canny woman in Madame Le Mois looked upon her son's renouncing the world of Paris, and holding to the glories of Dives and their famous inn in the light of a sacrifice? "_Parbleu!_" she would explode, when the subject was touched on, "it was a lucky thing for him that Paul had had an old mother to keep him from burning his fingers. Paris! What did the provinces want with Paris? Paris had need enough of them, the great, idle, shiftless, dissipated, cruel old city, that ground all their sons to powder, and then scattered their ashes abroad like so many cinders. Oh, yes, Paris couldn't get along without the provinces, to plunder and rob, to seduce their sons away from living good, pure lives, and to suck these lives as a pig would a trough of fresh water! But the provinces, if they valued their souls, shunned Paris as they would the devil. And as for artists--when it came to the young of the provinces, who thought they could paint or model--

"_Tenez, madame_--this is what Paris does for our young. My neighbor yonder," and she pointed, as only Frenchwomen point, sticking her thumb into the air to designate a point back of her bench, "my neighbor had a son like Paul. He too was always niggling at something. He niggled so well a rich cousin sent him up to Paris. Well, in ten years he comes back, famous, rich, too, with a wife and even a child. The establishment is complete. Well, they come here to breakfast one fine morning, with his mother, whom he put at a side table, with his nurse--he is ashamed of his mother, you see. Well, then his wife talks and I hear her. '_Mais, mon Charles, c'est toi qui est le plus fameux--il n'y a que toi! Tu es un dieu, tu sais--il n'y a pas deux comme toi!_' The famous one deigns to smile then, and to eat of his breakfast. His digestion had gone wrong, it appears. The _Figaro_ had placed his name second on a certain list, _after_ a rival's! He alone must be great--there must not be another G.o.d of painting save him! He!

He! that's fine, that's greatness--to lose one's appet.i.te because another is praised, and to be ashamed of one's old mother!"

Madame Le Mois's face, for a moment, was terrible to look upon. Even in her kindliest moments hers was a severe countenance, in spite of the true Norman curves in mouth and nostril--the laughter-loving curves.

Presently, however, the fierceness of her severity melted; she had caught sight of her son. He was pa.s.sing her, now, with the wine bottles for dinner piled up in his arms.

"You see," croaked the mother, in an exultant whisper, "I've saved him from all that--he's happy, for he still works. In the winter he can amuse himself, when he likes, with his carving and paintbrushes. Ah, _tiens, du monde qui arrive!_" And the old woman seated herself, with an air of great dignity, to receive the new-comers.

The world that came in under the low archway was of an altogether different character from any we had as yet seen. In a satin-lined victoria, amid the cushions, lay a young and lovely-eyed Anonyma.

Seated beside her was a weak-featured man, with a huge flower decorating his coat lappel. This latter individual divided the seat with an army of small dogs who leaped forth as the carriage stopped.

Madame Le Mois remained immovable on her bench. Her face was as enigmatic as her voice, as it gave Suzette the order to show the lady to the salon bleu. The high Louis XV. slipper, as it picked its way carefully after Suzette, never seemed more distinctly astray than when its fair wearer confided her safety to the insecure footing of the rough, uneven cobbles. In a brief half-hour the frou-frou of her silken skirts was once more sweeping the court-yard. She and her companion and the dogs chose the open air and a tent of sky for their banqueting-hall. Soon all were seated at one of the many tables placed near the kitchen, beneath the rose-vines.

Madame gave the pair a keen, dissecting glance. Her verdict was delivered more in the emphasis of her shrug and the humor of her broad wink than in the loud-whispered "_Comme vous voyez, chere dame, de toutes sortes ici, chez nous--mais--toujours bon genre!_"

The laughter of one who could not choose her world was stopped, suddenly, by the dipping of the thick fingers into an old snuff-box.

That very afternoon the court-yard saw another arrival; this one was treated in quite a different spirit.

A dog-cart was briskly driven into the yard by a gentleman who did not appear to be in the best of humor. He drew his horse up with a sudden fierceness; he as fiercely called out for the hostler. Monsieur Paul bit his lip; but he composedly confronted the disturbed countenance perched on the driver's seat. The gentleman wished.

"I want indemnity--that is what I want. Indemnity for my horse," cried out a thick, coa.r.s.e voice, with insolent authority.

"For your horse? I do not think I understand--"

"O--h, I presume not," retorted the man, still more insolently; "people don't usually understand when they have to pay. I came here a week ago, and stayed two days; and you starved my horse--and he died--that is what happened--he died!"

The whole court-yard now rang with the cries of the a.s.sembled household. The high, angry tones had called together the last serving-man and scullery-maid; the cooks had come out from their kitchens; they were brandishing their long-handled saucepans. The peasant-women were shrieking in concert with the hostlers, who were raising their arms to heaven in proof of their innocence. Dogs, cats, c.o.c.katoes swinging on their perches, peac.o.c.ks, parrots, pelicans, and every one of the c.o.c.ks swarmed from the barnyards and garden and cellars, to add their shrill cries and shrieks to the universal babel.

Meanwhile, calm and unruffled as a Hindoo G.o.ddess, and strikingly similar in general ma.s.siveness of structure and proportion to the common reproduction of such deities, sat Madame Le Mois. She went on with her usual occupation; she was dipping fresh-cut salad leaves into great bowls of water as quietly as if only her own little family were a.s.sembled before her. Once only she lifted her heavily-moulded, sagacious eyebrow at the irate dog-cart driver, as if to measure his pitiful strength. She allowed the fellow, however, to touch the point of abuse before she crushed him.

Her first sentence reduced him to the ignominy of silence. All her people were also silent. What, the deep sarcastic voice chanted on the still air--what, this gentleman's horse had died--and yet he had waited a whole week to tell them of the great news? He was, of a truth, altogether too considerate. His own memory, perhaps, was also a short one, since it told him nothing of the condition in which the poor beast had arrived, dropping with fatigue, wet with sweat, his mouth all blood, and an eye as of one who already was past the consciousness of his suffering? Ah no, monsieur should go to those who also had short memories.

"For we use our eyes--we do. We are used to deal with gentlemen--with Christians" (the Hebrew nose of the owner of the dead horse, even more plainly abused the privilege of its pedigree in proving its race, by turning downward, at this onslaught of the mere's satire), "as I said, with Christians," continued the mere, pitilessly. "And do those gentlemen complain and put upon us the death of their horses? No, my fine sir, they return--_ils reviennent, et sont revenus depuis la Conquete!_"

With this fine climax madame announced the court as closed. She bowed disdainfully, with a grand and magisterial air, to the defeated claimant, who crept away, sulkily, through the low archway.

"That is the way to deal with such vermin, Paul; whip them, and they turn tail." And the mere shook out a great laugh from her broad bosom, as she regaled her wide nostrils with a fresh pinch of snuff. The a.s.sembled household echoed the laugh, seasoning it with the glee of scorn, as each went to his allotted place.

CHAPTER XVII.

THE WORLD THAT CAME TO DIVES.

It was a world of many mixtures, of various ranks and habits of life that found its way under the old archway, and sat down at the table d'hote breakfasts and dinners. Madame and her gifted son were far too clever to attempt to play the mistaken part of Providence; there was no pointed a.s.sortment made of the sheep and the goats; at least, not in a way to suggest the most remote intention of any such separation being premeditated. Such separation as there was came about in the most natural and in the pleasantest possible fashion. When Pet.i.tjean, the pedler, and his wife drove in under the Gothic sign, the huge lumbering vehicle was as quickly surrounded as when any of the neighboring notabilities arrived in emblazoned chariots. Madame was the first to waddle forward, nodding up toward the open hood as, with a short, brisk, business "_Bonjour_," she welcomed the head of Pet.i.tjean and his sharp-eyed spouse looking over the ap.r.o.ns.

The pedler is always popular with his world and Dives knew Pet.i.tjean to be as honest as a pedler can ever hope to be in a world where small pence are only made large by some one being sacrificed on the altar of duplicity. Therefore it was that Pet.i.tjean's hea.r.s.e-like cart was always a welcome visitor;--one could at least be as sure of a just return for one's money in trading with a pedler as from any other source in this thieving world. In the end, one always got something else besides the bargain to carry away with one. For Pet.i.tjean knew all the gossip of the province; after dinner, when the stiff cider was working in his veins, he would be certain to tell all one wanted to know. Even Madame Le Mois, whose days were too busy in summer to include the daily reading of her newspaper, had grown dependent, in these her later years, on such sources of information as the peddler's garrulous tongue supplied. In the end she had found his talent for fiction quite as reliable as that of the journalists, besides being infinitely more entertaining, abounding in personalities which were the more racy, as the pedler felt himself to be exempt from that curse of responsibility, which, in French journalism, is so often a barrier to the full play of one's talent.

Therefore it was that Pet.i.tjean and his bright-eyed spouse were always made welcome at Dives.

"It goes well, Madame Jean? Ah, there you are. Well, _hein_, also? It is long since we saw you."

"Ah, madame, centuries, it is centuries since we were here. But what will you have? with the bad season, the rains, the banks failing, the--but you, madame, are well? And Monsieur Paul?" "_Ah, ca va tout doucement_ Paul is well, the good G.o.d be praised, but I--I perish day by day" At which the entire court-yard was certain to burst into laughing protest. For the whole household of Guillaume le Conquerant was quite sure to be a.s.sembled about the great wheels of the pedler's wagon--only to look, not to buy, not yet. Pet.i.tjean, and his wife had not dined yet, and a pedler's hunger is something to be respected--one made money by waiting for the hour of digestion. The little crowd of maids, hostlers, cooks, and scullery wenches, were only here to whet their appet.i.te, and to greet Pet.i.tjean. Nitouche, the head _chef_, put a little extra garlic in his sauces that day. But in spite of this compliment to their palate, the pedler and his wife dined in the smaller room off the kitchen;--Madame was desolated, but the _salle-a-manger_ was crowded just now. One was really suffocated in there these days! Therefore it was that the two ate the herbaceous sauces with an extra relish, as those conscious of having a larger s.p.a.ce for the play of vagrant elbows than their less fortunate brethren. The gossip and trading came later. On the edge of the fading daylight there was still time to see; the chosen articles could easily be taken into the brightly lit kitchen to be pa.s.sed before the lamps.

After the buying and bargaining came the talking. All the household could find time to spend the evening on the old benches; these latter lined the sidewalk just beneath the low kitchen cas.e.m.e.nts. They had been here for many a long year.

What a history of Dives these old benches could have told! What troopers, and beggars, and cowled monks, and wayfarers had sat there!--each sitter helping to wear away the wood till it had come to have the depressions of a drinking-trough. Night after night in the long centuries, as the darkness fell upon the hamlet--what tales and confidences, and what murmured anguish of remorse, what cries for help, what gay talk and light song must have welled up into the dome of sky!

Once, as we sat within the court-yard, under the stars, a young voice sang out. It was so still and quiet every word the youth phrased was as clear as his fresh young voice.

"_Tiens_--it is Mathieu--he is singing _Les Oreillers!_" cried Monsieur Paul, with an accent of pride in his own tone.

The young voice sang on:

"_J'arrive en ce pays De Ba.s.se Normandie, Vous dire une chanson, S'il plait la compagnie!_"

"It is an old Norman bridal song," Monsieur Paul went on, lowering his voice. "One I taught a lot of young boys and lads last winter--for a wedding held here--in the inn."

Still the fresh notes filled the air:

"_Les amours sont partis Dans un bateau de verre; Le bateau a ca.s.se a ca.s.se-- Les amours sont parterre._"

"How the old women laughed--and cried--at once! It was years since they had heard it--the old song. And when these boys--their sons and grandsons--sang it, and I had trained them well--they wept for pure delight."

Again the song went on:

"_Ouvrez la porte, ouvrez!

Nouvelle mariee, Car si vous ne l'ouvrez Vous serez accusee_"

"I dressed all the young girls in old costumes," our friend continued, still in a whisper. "I ransacked all the old chests and closets about here. I got the ladies of the chateaux near by to aid me; they were so interested that many came down from Paris to see the wedding. It was a pretty sight, each in a different dress! Every century since the thirteenth was represented."

"_Attendez a demain, La fraiche matinee, Quand mon oiseau prive Aura pris sa volee!_"

Clear, strong, free rang the young tenor's voice--and then it broke into "_Comment--tu dis que Claire est la?_" whereat Monsieur Paul smiled.

"That will be the next wedding--what shall I devise for that? That will also be the ending of a long lawsuit. But he should have sung the last verse--the prettiest of all. Mathieu!" Paul lifted his voice, calling into the dark.

_"Oui, Monsieur Paul!"_

"Sing us the last verse--"

"_Dans ce jardin du Roi A pris sa reposee, Cueillant le romarin La--vande--bouton--nee--_"