He placed a heavy hand on my shoulder, and, stooping, peered into my face.
“Air you sick, m’ friend?” he asked.
“I, governor? Why, no.”
“Ain’t been bit by that there paltry camuel nor nothin’, hev ye?”
“No; do I look ill?”
“Peaked – kind o’ peaked. White, with dark succles under your eyes. Air you nervous?”
“About the lions? Oh no. Don’t worry about me, governor.”
He sighed, adjusted his spectacles, and blew his nose.
“Mr. Speed – he’s worriting, too; he says that Empress Khatoun means to hev ye one o’ these days.”
“You tell Mr. Speed to worry over his own affairs – that child, Jacqueline, for instance. I suppose she made her jump without trouble to-day? I was too nervous to stay and watch her.”
“M’ friend,” said Byram, in solemn ecstasy, “I take off my hat to that there kid!” And he did so with a flourish. “You orter seen her; she hung on that flying trap, jest as easy an’ sassy! We was all half crazy. Speed he grew blue around the gills; Miss Crystal, a-swingin’ there in the riggin’ by her knees, kept a swallerin’ an’ lickin’ her lips, she was that scared.
“‘Ready?’ she calls out in a sort o’ quaver.
“‘Ready!’ sez little Jacqueline, cool as ice, swingin’ by her knees. ‘Go!’ sez Miss Crystal, an’ the kid let go, an’ Miss Crystal grabbed her by the ankles. ‘Ready?’ calls up Speed, beside the tank.
“‘Ready!’ sez the kid, smilin’. ‘Drop!’ cries Speed. An’ Jacqueline shot down like a blazing star – whir! swish! splash! All over! An’ that there nervy kid a floatin’ an’ a sportin’ like a minnie-fish at t’other end o’ the tank! Oh, gosh, but it was grand! It was jest – ”
Speech failed; he walked away, waving his arms, his rusty silk hat on the back of his head.
A few moments later drums began to roll from the square. Speed, passing, called out to me that the conscripts were leaving for Lorient; so I walked down to the bridge, where the crowd had gathered and where a tall gendarme stood, his blue-and-white uniform distinct in the early evening light. The mayor was there, too, dressed in his best, waddling excitedly about, and buttonholing at intervals a young lieutenant of infantry, who appeared to be extremely bored.
There were the conscripts of the Garde Mobile, an anxious peasant rabble, awkward, resigned, docile as cattle. Here stood a farmer, reeking of his barnyard; here two woodsmen from the forest, belted and lean; but the majority were men of the sea, heavy-limbed, sun-scorched fellows, with little, keen eyes always half closed, and big, helpless fists hanging. Some carried their packets slung from hip to shoulder, some tied their parcels to the muzzles of their obsolete muskets. A number wore the boatman’s smock, others the farmer’s blouse of linen, but the greater number were clad in the blue-wool jersey and cloth béret of the sailor.
Husbands, sons, lovers, looked silently at the women. The men uttered no protest, no reproach; the women wept very quietly. In their hearts that strange mysticism of the race predominated – the hopeless acceptance of a destiny which has, for centuries, left its imprint in the sad eyes of the Breton. Generations of martyrdom leave a cowed and spiritually fatigued race which breeds stoics.
Like great white blossoms, the spotless head-dresses of the maids of Paradise swayed and bowed above the crowd.
A little old woman stood beside a sailor, saying to anybody who would listen to her: “My son – they are taking my son. Why should they take my son?”
Another said: “They are taking mine, too, but he cannot fight on land. He knows the sea; he is not afraid at sea. Can nobody help us? He cannot fight on land; he does not know how!”
A woman carrying a sleeping baby stood beside the drummers at the fountain. Five children dragged at her skirts and peered up at the mayor, who shrugged his shoulders and shook his fat head.
“What can I do? He must march with the others, your man,” said the mayor, again and again. But the woman with the baby never ceased her eternal question: “What can we live on if you take him? I do not mean to complain too much, but we have nothing. What can we live on, m’sieu the mayor?”
But now the drummers had stepped out into the centre of the square and were drawing their drum-sticks from the brass sockets in their baldricks.
“Good-bye! Good-bye!” sobbed the maids of Paradise, giving both hands to their lovers. “We will pray for you!”
“Pray for us,” said the men, holding their sweethearts’ hands.
“Attention!” cried the officer, a slim, hectic lieutenant from Lorient.
The mayor handed him the rolls, and the lieutenant, facing the shuffling single rank, began to call off:
“Roux of Bannalec?”
“Here, monsieur – ”
“Don’t say, ‘Here, monsieur!’ Say, ‘Present!’ Now, Roux?”
“Present, monsieur – ”
“Idiot! Kedrec?”
“Present!”
“That’s right! Penmarch?”
“Present!”
“Rhuis of Sainte-Yssel?”
“Present!”
“Hervé of Paradise Beacon?”
“Present!”
“Laenec?”
“Present!”
“Duhamel?”
“Present!”
The officer moistened his lips, turned the page, and continued:
“Carnac of Alincourt?”
There was a silence, then a voice cried, “Crippled!”
“Mark him off, lieutenant,” said the mayor, pompously; “he’s our little hunchback.”
“Shall I mark you in his place?” asked the lieutenant, with a smile that turned the mayor’s blood to water. “No? You would make a fine figure for a forlorn hope.”
A man burst out laughing, but he was half crazed with grief, and his acrid mirth found no response. Then the roll-call was resumed:
“Gestel?”
“Present!”
“Garenne!”
There was another silence.
“Robert Garenne!” repeated the officer, sharply. “Monsieur the mayor has informed me that you are liable for military duty. If you are present, answer to your name or take the consequences!”
The poacher, who had been lounging on the bridge, slouched slowly forward and touched his cap.
“I am organizing a franc corps,” he said, with a deadly sidelong glance at the mayor, who now stood beside the lieutenant.
“You can explain that at Lorient,” replied the lieutenant. “Fall in there!”
“But I – ”
“Fall in!” repeated the lieutenant.
The poacher’s visage became inflamed. He hesitated, looking around for an avenue of escape. Then he caught my disgusted eye.
“For the last time,” said the lieutenant, coolly drawing his revolver, “I order you to fall in!”
The poacher backed into the straggling rank, glaring.
“Now,” said the lieutenant, “you may go to your house and get your packet. If we have left when you return, follow and report at the arsenal in Lorient. Fall out! March!”
The poacher backed out to the rear of the rank, turned on his heel, and strode away towards the coast, clinched fists swinging by his side.
There were not many names on the roll, and the call was quickly finished. And now the infantry drummers raised their sticks high in the air, there was a sharp click, a crash, and the square echoed.
“March!” cried the officer; and, drummers ahead, the long single rank shuffled into fours, and the column started, enveloped in a throng of women and children.
“Good-bye!” sobbed the women. “We will pray!”
“Good-bye! Pray!”
The crowd pressed on into the dusk. Far up the darkening road the white coiffes of the women glimmered; the drum-roll softened to a distant humming.
The children, who did not understand, had gathered around a hunchback, the exempt cripple of the roll-call.
“Ho! Fois!” I heard him say to the crowd of wondering little ones, “if I were not exempt I’d teach these Prussians to dance the farandole to my biniou! Oui, dame! And perhaps I’ll do it yet, spite of the crooked back I was not born with – as everybody knows! Oui, dame! Everybody knows I was born as straight as the next man!”
The children gaped, listening to the distant drumming, now almost inaudible.
The cripple rose, lighted a lantern, and walked slowly out toward the cliffs, carrying himself with that uncanny dignity peculiar to hunchbacks. And as he walked he sang, in his thin, sharp voice, the air of “The Three Captains”:
“J’ai eu dans son cœur la plac’ la plus belle,La plac’ la plus belle.J’ai passé trois ans, trois ans avec elle,Trois ans avec elle.J’ai eu trois enfants qui sont capitaines,Qui sont capitaines.L’un est à Bordeaux, l’autre à la Rochelle,L’autre à la Rochelle.Le troisième ici, caressent les belles,Caressent les belles.”Far out across the shadowy cliffs I heard his lingering, strident chant, and caught the spark of his lantern; then silence and darkness fell over the deserted square; the awed children, fingers interlocked, crept homeward through the dusk; there was no sound save the rippling wash of the river along the quay of stone.
Tired, a trifle sad, thinking perhaps of those home letters which had come to all save me, I leaned against the river wall, staring at the darkness; and over me came creeping that apathy which I had already learned to recognize and even welcome as a mental anæsthetic which set that dark sentinel, care, a-drowsing.
What did I care, after all? Life had stopped for me years before; there was left only a shell in which that unseen little trickster, the heart, kept tap-tapping away against a tired body. Was that what we call life? The sorry parody!
A shape slunk near me through the dusk, furtive, uncertain. “Lizard,” I said, indifferently. He came up, my gun on his ragged shoulder.
“You go with your class?” I asked.
“No, I go to the forest,” he said, hoarsely. “You shall hear from me.”
I nodded.
“Are you content?” he demanded, lingering.
The creature wanted sympathy, though he did not know it. I gave him my hand and told him he was a brave man; and he went away, noiselessly, leaving me musing by the river wall.
After a long while – or it may only have been a few minutes – the square began to fill again with the first groups of women, children, and old men who had escorted the departing conscripts a little way on their march to Lorient. Back they came, the maids of Paradise silent, tearful, pitifully acquiescent; the women of Bannalec, Faöuet, Rosporden, Quimperlé chattering excitedly about the scene they had witnessed. The square began to fill; lanterns were lighted around the fountain; the two big lamps with their brass reflectors in front of the mayor’s house illuminated the pavement and the thin tree-foliage with a yellow radiance.
The chatter grew louder as new groups in all sorts of gay head-dresses arrived; laughter began to be heard; presently the squealing of the biniou pipes broke out from the bowling-green, where, high on a bench supported by a plank laid across two cider barrels, the hunchback sat, skirling the farandole. Ah, what a world entire was this lost little hamlet of Paradise, where merrymakers trod on the mourners’ heels, where the scream of the biniou drowned the floating note of the passing bell, where Misery drew the curtains of her bed and lay sleepless, listening to Gayety dancing breathless to the patter of a coquette’s wooden shoes!
Long tables were improvised in the square, piled up with bread, sardines, puddings, hams, and cakes. Casks of cider, propped on skids, dotted the outskirts of the bowling-green, where the mayor, enthroned in his own arm-chair, majestically gave his orders in a voice thickened by pork, onions, and gravy.
Truly enough, half of Finistère and Morbihan was gathering at Paradise for a fête. The slow Breton imagination had been fired by our circus bills and posters; ancient Armorica was stirring in her slumber, roused to consciousness by the Yankee bill-poster.
At the inn all rooms were taken; every house had become an inn; barns, stables, granaries had their guests; fishermen’s huts on coast and cliff were bright with coiffes and embroidered jerseys.
In their misfortune, the lonely women of Paradise recognized in this influx a godsend – a few francs to gain with which to face those coming wintry months while their men were absent. And they opened their tiny houses to those who asked a lodging.
The crowds which had earlier in the evening gathered to gape at our big tent were now noisiest in the square, where the endless drone of the pipes intoned the farandole.
A few of our circus folk had come down to enjoy the picturesque spectacle. Speed, standing with Jacqueline beside me, began to laugh and beat time to the wild music. A pretty maid of Bannalec, white coiffe and scarlet skirts a-flutter, called out with the broad freedom of the chastest of nations: “There is the lover I could pray for – if he can dance the farandole!”
“I’ll show you whether I can dance the farandole, ma belle!” cried Speed, and caught her hand, but she snatched her brown fingers away and danced off, laughing: “He who loves must follow, follow, follow the farandole!”
Speed started to follow, but Jacqueline laid a timid hand on his arm.
“I dance, M’sieu Speed,” she said, her face flushing under her elf-locks.
“You blessed child,” he cried, “you shall dance till you drop to your knees on the bowling-green!” And, hand clasping hand, they swung out into the farandole. For an instant only I caught a glimpse of Jacqueline’s blissful face, and her eyes like blue stars burning; then they darkened into silhouettes against the yellow glare of the lanterns and vanished.
Byram rambled up for a moment, to comment on the quaint scene from a showman’s point of view. “It would fill the tent in old Noo York, but it’s n. g. in this here country, where everybody’s either a coryphee or a clown or a pantaloon! Camuels ain’t no rara avises in the Sairy, an’ no niggers go to burnt-cork shows. Phylosophy is the thing, Mr. Scarlett! Ruminate! Ruminate!”
I promised to do so, and the old man rambled away, coat and vest on his arm, silk hat cocked over his left eye, the lamp-light shining on the buckles of his suspenders. Dear old governor! – dear, vulgar incarnation of those fast vanishing pioneers who invented civilization, finding none; who, self-taught, unashamed taught their children the only truths they knew, that the nation was worthy of all good, all devotion, and all knowledge that her sons could bring her to her glory that she might one day fulfil her destiny as greatest among the great on earth.
The whining Breton bagpipe droned in my ears; the dancers flew past; laughter and cries arose from the tables in the square where the curate of St. Julien stood, forefinger wagging, soundly rating an intoxicated but apologetic Breton in the costume of Faöuet.
I was tired – tired of it all; weary of costumes and strange customs, weary of strange tongues, of tinsel and mummers, and tarnished finery; sick of the sawdust and the rank stench of beasts – and the vagabond life – and the hopeless end of it all – the shabby end of a useless life – a death at last amid strangers! Soldiers in red breeches, peasants in embroidered jackets, strolling mountebanks all tinselled and rouged – they were all one to me… I wanted my own land… I wanted my own people… I wanted to go home … home! – and die, when my time came, under the skies I knew as a child… under that familiar moon which once silvered my nursery windows…
I turned away across the bridge out into the dark road. Long before I came to the smoky, silent camp I heard the monotonous roaring of my lions, pacing their shadowy dens.
XVII
THE CIRCUS
A little after sunrise on the day set for our first performance, Speed sauntered into my dressing-room in excellent humor, saying that not only had the village of Paradise already filled up with the peasantry of Finistère and Morbihan, but every outlying hamlet from St. Julien to Pont Aven was overflowing; that many had even camped last night along the roadside; in short, that the country was unmistakably aroused to the importance of the Anti-Prussian Republican circus and the Flying Mermaid of Ker-Ys.
I listened to him almost indifferently, saying that I was very glad for the governor’s sake, and continued to wash a deep scratch on my left arm, using salt water to allay the irritation left by Aïcha’s closely pared claws – the vixen.
But the scratch had not poisoned me; I was in fine physical condition; rehearsals had kept us all in trim; our animals, too, were in good shape; and the machinery started without a creak when, an hour later, Byram himself opened the box-office at the tent-door and began to sell tickets to an immense crowd for the first performance, which was set for two o’clock that afternoon.
I had had an unpleasant hour’s work with the lions, during which Marghouz, a beast hitherto lazy and docile, had attempted to creep behind me. Again I had betrayed irritation; again the lions saw it, understood it, and remembered. Aïcha tore my sleeve; when I dragged Timour Melek’s huge jaws apart he endured the operation patiently, but as soon as I gave the signal to retire he sprang snarling to the floor, mane on end, and held his ground, just long enough to defy me. Poor devils! Who but I knew that they were right and I was wrong! Who but I understood what lack of freedom meant to the strong – meant to caged creatures, unrighteously deprived of liberty! Though born in captivity, wild things change nothing; they sleep by day, walk by night, follow as well as they can the instincts which a caged life cannot crush in them, nor a miserable, artificial existence obliterate.
They are right to resist.
I mentioned something of this to Speed as I was putting on my coat to go out, but he only scowled at me, saying: “Your usefulness as a lion-tamer is ended, my friend; you are a fool to enter that cage again, and I’m going to tell Byram.”
“Don’t spoil the governor’s pleasure now,” I said, irritably; “the old man is out there selling tickets with both hands, while little Griggs counts receipts in a stage whisper. Let him alone, Speed; I’m going to give it up soon, anyway – not now – not while the governor has a chance to make a little money; but soon – very soon. You are right; I can’t control anything now – not even myself. I must give up my lions, after all.”
“When?” said Speed.
“Soon – I don’t know. I’m tired – really tired. I want to go home.”
“Home! Have you one?” he asked, with a faint sneer of surprise.
“Yes; a rather extensive lodging, bounded east and west by two oceans, north by the lakes, south by the gulf. Landlord’s a relation – my Uncle Sam.”
“Are you really going home, Scarlett?” he asked, curiously.
“I have nothing to keep me here, have I?”
“Not unless you choose to settle down and … marry.”
I looked at him; presently my face began to redden; and, “What do you mean?” I asked, angrily.
He replied, in a very mild voice, that he did not mean anything that might irritate me.
I said, “Speed, don’t mind my temper; I can’t seem to help it any more; something has changed me, something has gone wrong.”
“Perhaps something has gone right,” he mused, looking up at the flying trapeze, where Jacqueline swung dangling above the tank, watching us with sea-blue eyes.
After a moment’s thought I said: “Speed, what the devil do you mean by that remark?”
“Now you’re angry again,” he said, wearily.
“No, I’m not. Tell me what you mean.”
“Oh, what do you imagine I mean?” he retorted. “Do you think I’m blind? Do you suppose I’ve watched you all these years and don’t know you? Am I an ass, Scarlett? Be fair; am I?”
“No; not an ass,” I said.
“Then let me alone – unless you want plain speaking instead of a bray.”
“I do want it.”
“Which?”
“You know; go on.”
“Am I to tell you the truth?”
“As you interpret it – yes.”
“Very well, my friend; then, at your respectful request, I beg to inform you that you are in love with Madame de Vassart – and have been for months.”
I did not pretend surprise; I knew he was going to say it. Yet it enraged me that he should think it and say it.
“You are wrong,” I said, steadily.
“No, Scarlett; I am right.”
“You are wrong,” I repeated.
“Don’t say that again,” he retorted. “If you do not know it, you ought to. Don’t be unfair; don’t be cowardly. Face it, man! By Heaven, you’ve got to face it some time – here, yonder, abroad, on the ocean, at home – no matter where, you’ve got to face it some day and tell yourself the truth!”
His words hurt me for a moment; then, as I listened, that strange apathy once more began to creep over me. Was it really the truth he had told me? Was it? Well – and then? What meaning had it to me?.. Of what help was it?.. of what portent?.. of what use?.. What door did it unlock? Surely not the door I had closed upon myself so many years ago!
Something of my thoughts he may have divined as I stood brooding in the sunny tent, staring listlessly at my own shadow on the floor, for he laid his hand on my shoulder and said: “Surely, Scarlett, if happiness can be reborn in Paradise, it can be reborn here. I know you; I have known you for many years. And in all that time you have never fallen below my ideal!”
“What are you saying, Speed?” I asked, rousing from my lethargy to shake his hand from my shoulder.
“The truth. In all these years of intimacy, familiarity has never bred contempt in me; I am not your equal in anything; it does not hurt me to say so. I have watched you as a younger brother watches, lovingly, jealous yet proud of you, alert for a failing or a weakness which I never found – or, if I thought I found a flaw in you, knowing that it was but part of a character too strong, too generous for me to criticise.”
“Speed,” I said, astonished, “are you talking about me – about me– a mountebank – and a failure at that? You know I’m a failure – a nobody – ” I hesitated, touched by his kindness. “Your loyalty to me is all I have. I wish it were true that I am such a man as you believe me to be.”
“It is true,” he said, almost sullenly. “If it were not, no man would say it of you – though a woman might. Listen to me, Scarlett. I tell you that a man shipwrecked on the world’s outer rocks – if he does not perish – makes the better pilot afterwards.”
“But … I perished, Speed.”
“It is not true,” he said, violently; “but you will if you don’t steer a truer course than you have. Scarlett, answer me!”
“Answer you? What?”
“Are you in love?”
“Yes,” I said.
He waited, looked up at me, then dropped his hands in his pockets and turned away toward the interior of the tent where Jacqueline, having descended from the rigging, stood, drawing her slim fingers across the surface of the water in the tank.
I walked out through the tent door, threading my way among the curious crowds gathered not only at the box-office, but even around the great tent as far as I could see. Byram hailed me with jovial abandon, perspiring in his shirt-sleeves, silk hat on the back of his head; little Grigg made one of his most admired grimaces and shook the heavy money-box at me; Horan waved his hat above his head and pointed at the throng with a huge thumb. I smiled at them all and walked on.
Cloud and sunshine alternated on that capricious November morning; the sea-wind was warm; the tincture of winter had gone. On that day, however, I saw wavering strings of wild ducks flying south; and the little hedge-birds of different kinds were already flocking amiably together in twittering bands that filled the leafless blackthorns on the cliffs; – true prophets, all, of that distant cold, gathering somewhere in the violet north.
I walked fast across the moors, as though I had a destination. And I had; yet when I understood it I sheered off, only to turn again and stare fascinated in the direction of the object that frightened me.
There it rose against the seaward cliffs, the little tower of Trécourt farm, sea-smitten and crusted, wind-worn, stained, gray as the lichened rocks scattered across the moorland. Over it the white gulls pitched and tossed in a windy sky; beyond crawled the ancient and wrinkled sea.
“It is a strange thing,” I said aloud, “to find love at the world’s edge.” I looked blindly across the gray waste. “But I have found it too late.”
The wind blew furiously; I heard the gulls squealing in the sky, the far thunder of the surf.
Then, looking seaward again, for the first time I noticed that the black cruiser was gone, that nothing now lay between the cliffs and the hazy headland of Groix save a sheet of lonely water spreading league on league to meet a flat, gray sky.
