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diff --git a/33867-h/33867-h.htm b/33867-h/33867-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7f692ca --- /dev/null +++ b/33867-h/33867-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,12108 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" /> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of King of Camargue, by Jean Aicard, translated by George B. Ives. + </title> + <style type="text/css"> + + p { margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; + } + hr { width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; + } + + div.centered table {margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;} + + body{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + + a {text-decoration: none;} + + img {border: none;} + + em {font-style: italic;} + + .hidden {display: none;} + + .pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ + /* visibility: hidden; */ + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-style: normal; + font-size: smaller; + text-align: right; + } /* page numbers */ + + .blockquot{margin-left: 8%; margin-right: 8%;} + + .bbox {border: solid 2px; padding: 1em; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + + .center {text-align: center;} + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + .u {text-decoration: underline;} + + .caption {font-style: italic; padding-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; font-size: 90%;} + + .figcenter {margin: auto; text-align: center;} + + .footnote {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.9em;} + .footnote .label {position: absolute; right: 84%; text-align: right;} + .fnanchor {vertical-align: .2em; font-size: .8em; text-decoration: none;} + + .poem {margin-left:30%; margin-right:10%; text-align: left;} + .poem br {display: none;} + .poem .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} + .poem span.i0 {display: block; margin-left: 0em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i1 {display: block; margin-left: 1em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i2 {display: block; margin-left: 2em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + + .tdl {text-align: left; vertical-align: top; padding-right: 2em;} /* left top align cell */ + .tdrt {text-align: right; vertical-align: top;} /* right top align cell */ + .tdr {text-align: right; vertical-align: bottom; padding-left: 2em;} /* right bottom align cell */ + .tdc {text-align: center; vertical-align: bottom;} /* centre bottom align cell */ + + .address {margin-left: 4%;} /* address of letter aligned left, move 2nd line right */ + .sig {text-align: right; margin-right: 4%;} /* sig of letter aligned right */ + + .xlrgfont {font-size: 200%;} + .vlrgfont {font-size: 150%;} + .lrgfont {font-size: 120%;} + .smlfont {font-size: 85%;} + .vsmlfont {font-size: 75%;} + + .padtop {padding-top: 3em;} + .smlpadt {padding-top: 1.5em;} + .padbase {padding-bottom: 3em;} + .ipadtop {padding-top: 2em;} + .ipadboth {padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 2em;} + + .space {padding-left: 1.5em; padding-right: 1.5em;} + + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of King of Camargue, by Jean Aicard + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: King of Camargue + +Author: Jean Aicard + +Illustrator: Louis V. Ruet + George Roux + +Translator: George B. Ives + +Release Date: October 16, 2010 [EBook #33867] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK KING OF CAMARGUE *** + + + + +Produced by Audrey Longhurst, Sam W. and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + + +<div class="figcenter ipadboth" style="width: 416px;"> +<img src="images/king01.jpg" id="coverpage" width="416" height="500" +alt="Cover of the book" /> +</div> + + + +<p class="center padtop vlrgfont">BIBLIOTHÈQUE<br /> +DES CHEFS-D’ŒUVRE<br /> +DU ROMAN<br /> +CONTEMPORAIN</p> + + +<h1 class="padtop"><i>KING OF CAMARGUE</i></h1> + +<p class="center padtop lrgfont">JEAN AICARD</p> + +<p class="center padtop padbase smcap">PRINTED FOR SUBSCRIBERS ONLY BY<br /> +GEORGE BARRIE & SONS, Philadelphia</p> + + + + + +<p class="center vsmlfont padtop padbase">COPYRIGHT, 1901, BY GEORGE BARRIE & SON</p> + + + + +<p class="center padtop"><span class="vsmlfont">THIS EDITION OF</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="lrgfont">KING OF CAMARGUE</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="vsmlfont">HAS BEEN COMPLETELY TRANSLATED</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="vsmlfont">BY</span><br /> +<br /> +GEORGE B. IVES<br /> +<br /> +<span class="vsmlfont">THE ETCHINGS ARE BY</span><br /> +<br /> +LOUIS V. RUET<br /> +<br /> +<span class="vsmlfont">AND DRAWINGS BY</span><br /> +<br /> +GEORGE ROUX</p> + + + +<p class="center padtop padbase">CHEFS-D’ŒUVRE<br /> +<span class="vsmlfont">DU</span><br /> +<span class="lrgfont">ROMAN CONTEMPORAIN</span><br /> +——<br /> +<span class="vsmlfont">ROMANCISTS</span></p> + + + + +<p class="center padtop padbase">THIS EDITION<br /> +<br /> +<span class="vsmlfont">DEDICATED TO THE HONOR OF THE</span><br /> +<br /> +ACADÉMIE FRANÇAISE<br /> +<br /> +<span class="vsmlfont">IS LIMITED TO ONE THOUSAND NUMBERED AND REGISTERED<br /> +SETS, OF WHICH THIS IS</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="vsmlfont">NUMBER</span> <span class="vlrgfont u">358</span></p> + + + + +<p class="center padtop padbase"><span class="lrgfont">THE ROMANCISTS</span><br /> +<br /> +JEAN AICARD<br /> +<br /> +<span class="vsmlfont">KING OF CAMARGUE</span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<div class="figcenter ipadtop" style="width: 401px;"> +<a name="camp" id="camp"></a> +<img src="images/king02.jpg" width="401" height="600" +alt="Rampal and Zinzara at the gipsy camp" /> +</div> + +<div class="figcenter smlpadt" style="width: 117px;"> +<img src="images/head01.png" width="117" height="25" +alt="Chapter 6" /> +</div> + +<p class="caption">This woman had a way of looking at people that disconcerted +them. You would say that a sharp, threatening +flame shot from her eyes. It penetrated your being, +searched your heart, and you were powerless against it.</p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p class="center lrgfont padtop">TO ÉMILE TRÉLAT</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p class="smcap">My Very Dear Friend:</p> + +<p>Permit me to dedicate this book to you, whose incomparable +friendship has been to the poet, obstinate in his +idealism, of hourly assistance, a constant proof of the +reality of true generosity and kindness of heart.</p> + +<p class="sig smcap">Jean Aicard.</p> + +<p class="address"><i>La Garde, near Toulon, April 11, 1890.</i></p> +</div> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<h2>Contents</h2> + +<div class="centered"> +<table border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" summary="Table of contents"> + <tr> + <td class="tdrt"> </td> + <td class="tdl"> </td> + <td class="tdr"><small>PAGE</small></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdrt">I</td> + <td class="tdl">LIVETTE AND ZINZARA</td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#chap01">3</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdrt">II</td> + <td class="tdl">IN CAMARGUE</td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#chap02">13</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdrt">III</td> + <td class="tdl">THE DROVERS</td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#chap03">21</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdrt">IV</td> + <td class="tdl">THE SÉDEN</td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#chap04">27</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdrt">V</td> + <td class="tdl">THE LOVERS</td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#chap05">39</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdrt">VI</td> + <td class="tdl">RAMPAL</td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#chap06">51</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdrt">VII</td> + <td class="tdl">THE MEETING</td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#chap07">57</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdrt">VIII</td> + <td class="tdl">ON THE BENCH</td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#chap08">73</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdrt">IX</td> + <td class="tdl">THE PRAYER</td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#chap09">83</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdrt">X</td> + <td class="tdl">THE TERRACE</td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#chap10">91</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdrt">XI</td> + <td class="tdl">THE HIDING-PLACE</td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#chap11">99</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdrt">XII</td> + <td class="tdl">A SORCERESS</td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#chap12">121</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdrt">XIII</td> + <td class="tdl">THE SNAKE-CHARMER</td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#chap13">143</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdrt">XIV</td> + <td class="tdl">JOUSTING</td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#chap14">165</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdrt">XV</td> + <td class="tdl">MONSIEUR LE CURÉ’S ARCHÆOLOGY</td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#chap15">177</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdrt">XVI</td> + <td class="tdl">ON THE ROOF OF THE CHURCH</td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#chap16">205</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdrt">XVII</td> + <td class="tdl">THE OLD WOMAN</td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#chap17">219</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdrt">XVIII</td> + <td class="tdl">THE BLESSED RELICS</td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#chap18">231</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdrt">XIX</td> + <td class="tdl">THE BRANDING</td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#chap19">247</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdrt">XX</td> + <td class="tdl">THE SNARE</td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#chap20">261</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdrt">XXI</td> + <td class="tdl">HERODIAS</td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#chap21">279</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdrt">XXII</td> + <td class="tdl">IN THE NEST</td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#chap22">291</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdrt">XXIII</td> + <td class="tdl">THE PURSUIT</td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#chap23">303</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdrt">XXIV</td> + <td class="tdl">IN THE GARGATE</td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#chap24">323</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdrt">XXV</td> + <td class="tdl">THE PHANTOM</td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#chap25">331</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdrt"> </td> + <td class="tdl">NOTES</td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#notes">345</a></td> + </tr> +</table> +</div> + + +<h2>List of Illustrations<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smlfont">KING OF CAMARGUE</span></h2> + +<div class="centered"> +<table border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" summary="List of illustrations"> + <tr> + <td class="tdl"> </td> + <td class="tdr"><small>PAGE</small></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl">RAMPAL AND THE GIPSY</td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#camp"><i>Fronts.</i></a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl">RENAUD IN THE TOILS OF THE QUEEN</td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#horse">64</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl">LIVETTE AND RENAUD</td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#stairs">88</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl">LIVETTE WATCHES ON THE CHURCH ROOF</td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#roof">216</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdl">THE GIPSY’S COUCH</td> + <td class="tdr"><a href="#graves">312</a></td> + </tr> +</table> +</div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p class="center padtop xlrgfont">KING OF CAMARGUE</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>3]</a></span></p> + +<h2 class="padtop"><a name="chap01" id="chap01"></a>I<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smlfont">LIVETTE AND ZINZARA</span></h2> + + +<p>A shadow suddenly darkened the narrow window. +Livette, who was running hither and thither, setting the +table for supper, in the lower room of the farm-house of +the Château d’Avignon, gave a little shriek of terror, +and looked up.</p> + +<p>The girl had an instinctive feeling that it was neither +father nor grandmother, nor any of her dear ones, but +some stranger, who sought amusement by thus taking +her by surprise.</p> + +<p>Nor a stranger, either, for that matter,—it was hardly +possible!—But how was it that the dogs did not yelp? +Ah! this Camargue is frequented by bad people, especially +at this season, toward the end of May, on account +of the festival of Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer, which attracts, +like a fair, such a crowd of people, thieves and +gulls, and so many mischievous gipsies!</p> + +<p>The figure that was leaning on the outside of the +window-sill, shutting out the light, looked to Livette +like a black mass, sharply outlined against the blue sky; +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>4]</a></span> +but by the thick, curly hair, surmounted by a tinsel +crown, by the general contour of the bust, by the huge +ear-rings with an amulet hanging at the ends, Livette +recognized a certain gipsy woman who was universally +known as the Queen, and who, for nearly two weeks, +had been suddenly appearing to people at widely distant +points on the island, always unexpectedly, as if she rose +out of the ditches or clumps of thorn-broom or the +water of the swamps, to say to the laborers, preferably +the women: “Give me this or that;” for the Queen, +as a general rule, would not accept what people chose to +offer her, but only what she chose that they should offer +her.</p> + +<p>“Give me a little oil in a bottle, Livette,” said +the young gipsy, darting a dark, flashing glance at the +pretty girl with the fair, sun-flecked hair.</p> + +<p>Livette, charitable as she was at every opportunity, at +once felt that she must be on her guard against this +vagabond, who knew her name. Her father and grandmother +had gone to Arles, to see the notary, who would +soon have to be drawing up the papers for her marriage +to Renaud, the handsomest drover in all Camargue. +She was alone in the house. Distrust gave her strength +to refuse.</p> + +<p>“Our Camargue isn’t an olive country,” said she +curtly, “oil is scarce here. I haven’t any.”</p> + +<p>“But I see some in the jar at the bottom of the +cupboard, beside the water-pitcher.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>5]</a></span> +Livette turned hastily toward the cupboard. It was +closed; but, in truth, the stock of olive oil was there in +a jar beside the one in which they kept Rhône water for +their daily needs.</p> + +<p>“I don’t know what you mean,” said Livette.</p> + +<p>“The lie came from your mouth like a vile black +wasp from a garden-flower, little one!” said the motionless +figure, still leaning heavily on the window-sill, +evidently determined to remain. “The oil is where I +say it is, and more than twenty-five litres too; I can see +it from here. Come, come, take a clean bottle and the +tin funnel and give me quickly what I want. I’ll tell +you, in exchange, what I see in your future.”</p> + +<p>“It’s a deadly sin to seek to know what God doesn’t +wish us to know,” said Livette, “and you can guess +that oil is kept in cupboards and still be no more of a +sorceress than I am. Go about your business, good-wife. +I can give you some of this bread, fresh baked +last night, if you wish, but I tell you I haven’t any +oil.”</p> + +<p>“And why do they call you Livette,” said the Queen +calmly, “if it isn’t on account of the field of old olive-trees—the +oldest and finest in the country—owned by +your father, near Avignon? There you were born. +There you remained until you were ten years old, and at +that age—seven years ago, a mystic number—you came +here, where your father was made farmer, overseer +of drovers, manager of everything, by the Avignonese +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>6]</a></span> +master of this ‘Château d’Avignon,’ the finest in all +Camargue.—‘Livettes! livettes!’ that’s the way you +used to ask for <i>olivettes</i>, olives, when you were a +baby. You were very fond of them, and the nickname +clung to you. A pretty nickname, on my word, +and one that suits you well, for if you’re not dark +like the ripe olive, you’re fair as the virgin oil, a +pearl of amber in the sunlight, and then you are not +yet ripe. Your face is oval, and not stupidly round like +a Norman apple. You have the pallor of the olive-leaves +seen from below.—And that you may soon see them so, +little one, is the blessing I ask for you, as the curés of +your chapels say, where they take us in for pity. Be +compassionate as they are, in the name of your Lord +Jesus Christ, and give me some oil quickly, I say—in the +name of extreme unction and the garden of agony!”</p> + +<p>The gipsy had said all this without stopping to breathe, +in a dull, monotonous, muffled voice, but she added abruptly +in loud, piercing, incisive tones: “Do you understand +what I say?” imparting to those simple words an +extraordinarily imperious and violent expression. Livette +hastily crossed herself.</p> + +<p>“Come, enough of this!” said she, “I have nothing +here for you, and we keep the oil of extreme unction for +better Christians! Begone, pagan, begone!” she added, +trying to counterfeit courage.</p> + +<p>“Of the three holy women,” continued the gipsy, +“who took ship, after the death of Jesus Christ, to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>7]</a></span> +escape the crucifying Jews, one was like myself, an +Egyptian and a fortune-teller. She knew the science +of the Magi, of those with whom great Moses contended +for mastery in witchcraft. She could, at will, +order the frogs to be more numerous than the drops of +water in the swamps, and she held in her hand a rod +which, at her word, would change to a viper. Before +Jesus she bowed, as did Magdalen, and Jesus loved her +too. In the tempest, as they were crossing the sea, +her wand pointed out the course to follow, and, to do +that with safety, had no need to be very long. Must +you have more pledges of my power and my knowledge? +What more must I tell you to induce you to give me the +oil I need so much? If you were a man, I would say: +‘Look! I am dark, but I am beautiful! I am a descendant +of that Sara the Egyptian who, when the boat +of the three holy women drew near the sands of Camargue, +paid the boatman by showing him her undefiled +body, stripped naked, with no thought of evil and without +sin, but knowing well that true beauty is rare and +that the mere sight of it is better than all the treasures +of Solomon. So be it!’”</p> + +<p>Livette was thoroughly alarmed. The gipsy’s assurance, +her hollow, penetrating voice, imperious by fits +and starts, these strange tales filled with evil words on +sacred subjects, this devilish mixture of things pagan +and things mystic, the consciousness of her own loneliness, +all combined to terrify her. She lost her head.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>8]</a></span> +“Away with you, away with you,” she cried, “queen +of robbers! queen of brigands! away with you, or I will +call for help!”</p> + +<p>“Your drover won’t hear you; he’s tending his drove +to-day beside the Vaccarès. Come, give me the oil, I +say, or I’ll throw this black wand on the ground, and +you will see how snakes bite!”</p> + +<p>But Livette, brave and determined, said: “No!” +shuddering as she said it, and, to glean a little comfort, +cast a glance at the low beam along which her father’s +gun was hanging. The gipsy saw the glance.</p> + +<p>“Oh! I am not afraid of your gun,” said she, “and +to prove it—wait a moment!”</p> + +<p>She left the window. The light streamed into the room, +bringing a little courage to Livette’s terrified heart, as +she followed the gipsy with her eyes. In the bright +light of that beautiful May evening, the gipsy woman +stood out, a tall figure, against the distant, unbroken +horizon line of the Camargue desert, which could be +seen through a vista between the lofty trees of the park.</p> + +<p>Livette felt a thrill of joy as she saw a troop of mares +trotting along the horizon, followed by their driver, +spear in air—Jacques Renaud, her fiancé, without +doubt.—But how far away he was! the horses, from +where she stood, looked smaller than a flock of little +goats. And her eyes came back to the gipsy queen. +A few steps from the farm-house, in front of the seigniorial +château, a huge square structure, with numerous +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>9]</a></span> +windows, long closed,—a structure of the sort that +arouses thoughts of neglect and death and the grave,—the +gipsy stood on tiptoe, drawing down the lowest +branch of a thorn-tree. The thorns were long, as long +as one’s finger. With a twig of a tree of that species +the crown of the Crucified One was made.</p> + +<p>She broke off a twig thickset with thorns, bent it into +a circle, twisting the two ends together like serpents, and +returned to the window.</p> + +<p>Livette noticed at that moment that the two watch-dogs +were following the gipsy, with their tails between +their legs, their noses close to her heels, with little +affectionate whines. And she, the gipsy Queen, as +slender as haughty, erect upon her legs, in a ragged +skirt with ample folds through the holes in which could +be seen a bright red petticoat, her bust enveloped in +orange-colored rags crossed below her well-rounded +breasts, her amulets tinkling at her ears, medallions +jangling on her forehead, which was encircled by a gaudy +fillet of copper,—she, the Queen, came forward, holding +in her hand the crown of long stiff thorns, to which +a few tiny green leaves clung in quivering festoons;—and +in a low, very low tone, she murmured the same +caressing plaint that the two great cowed dogs were +murmuring, saying to them, in their own language, +mysterious things they understood.</p> + +<p>“Take this,” said the gipsy, “let your kind heart +be rewarded as it deserves! Misfortune, which is at +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>10]</a></span> +work for you, will soon make itself known to you. How, +may God tell you! In love, the wind that blows for +you is poisoned by the swamps. The charity your +God enjoins is, so they say, another form of love that +brings true love good fortune. And here is my queenly +gift!”</p> + +<p>She threw the crown of thorns through the window at +Livette’s feet.</p> + +<p>“Madame!” exclaimed Livette in dismay.</p> + +<p>But the gipsy had disappeared.</p> + +<p>Infinite distress filled the poor child’s heart. With +her eyes fixed on the crown, Livette recalled the legends +in which the good Lord Jesus appears disguised as a +beggar—and in which He rewards those who have received +Him with sweet compassion.</p> + +<p>In one of those legends, the Poor Man, welcomed +with harsh words, subjected to mockery and cowardly +insults, struck with staves and goblets and bottles thrown +by drunken revellers—at last, standing against the wall, +begins to be transformed into a Christ upon the Cross, +bleeding at the holes in his hands and feet!—And, sick +with terror, she asked herself if she had not received +with unkindness one of the three holy women who, after +the death of Jesus, crossed the sea in a boat to the +shores of Camargue, using their skirts for sails, and +assisted by the oars of a boatman, whom one of their +number, Sara the Egyptian, paid in heathen coin, by +allowing him to see, as the price of a Christian action, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>11]</a></span> +her undefiled body, entirely naked, upon the self-same +spot on which the church stands to-day.</p> + +<p>Slowly she picked up the crown and threw it into the +fire over which the soup was stewing. Before it melted +into ashes, the crown of thorns seemed for a moment to +be pure gold.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12"><!-- blank page --></a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>13]</a></span></p> + +<h2><a name="chap02" id="chap02"></a>II<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smlfont">IN CAMARGUE</span></h2> + + +<p>Every year, at Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer, the village +that stands at the southern end of Camargue, above the +marshes, on a sand beach, the line of which is constantly +changed by the action of the waves and high +winds, every year, the feast of Saintes-Maries is celebrated +on May 24th; and at the time of that festival +the gipsies flock to Camargue in large numbers, impelled +by a curious sort of piety, mingled with a desire +to pilfer the pilgrims.</p> + +<p>Legends, like trees, spring from the soil,—are its +expression, so to speak. They are also its essence. At +every step in Camargue, you find the everlasting legend +of the holy women, just as you everlastingly see there +the same tamarisk-trees, confused, against the horizon, +with the same mirages.</p> + +<p>The two Marys, so runs the legend, Jacobé, Salomé, +and—according to some authorities—Magdalen, and +with them their bondwomen, Marcella and Sara, adrift +on the sea in a boat without masts or sails, pursued by +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>14]</a></span> +the accursed Jews, after the Saviour’s death, spread +to the breeze strips of their skirts and their long, thin +veils, and the wind carried them to this beach at +Camargue.</p> + +<p>There a church was built. The sacred bones, found +by King René, were enclosed in a reliquary, which has +never ceased to perform miracles. And every year, +from every corner of Provence, from the Comtat and +from Languedoc, the last of the believers throng to the +spot, bringing their aspirations and their prayers, dragging +with them their sick friends and kindred, or their +own wretchedness, their wounds and their lamentations.</p> + +<p>Nothing more strange can be imagined than this land +of desolation, traversed every year by a multitude of +cripples on their way to hope!</p> + +<p>From afar, at the end of the desert tract, can be seen +the battlemented church that tells of the wars of long +ago, of Saracen invasions, of the precarious life led by +the poor in the Middle Ages. It stands there with its +turrets and its bell-tower, which, like the stumps of +gigantic masts, tower above the cluster of houses grouped +about it; and the village, cut at about mid-height of +the lower houses by the horizon line of the sea, seems +drifting like a phantom ship among the billows of sand, +like the boat of the holy women of the olden time, +doomed to founder at last in the desolation of the desert.</p> + +<p>In this Camargue everything is strange. There are +ponds like the huge central pond, the Vaccarès, in the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>15]</a></span> +centre of which one can wade with ease; there are tracts +of land where the pedestrian sinks out of sight and is +drowned. Here deception is easy. Yonder green slime +that you take for a level plain—beware!—men are +drowned therein; those vast stretches of water which +seem to you small seas—return that way to-morrow; +they will have evaporated, leaving only a mirror of white +salt that crackles beneath your feet. Yonder, do you see +the calm, deep water? and trees on the shore? Ah! no, +you can run along the surface of that water; it is dry +land; the mirage alone formed those trees, just as it +showed you the little child walking a league away, +apparently near at hand and very tall. A land of +visions, dreams, and hard work. A land of sedentary +folk, who inhabit a vast space on the shore of endless +waters, with an infinity of variations of mirages, sunbeams, +reflections, and bright colors. A land of fever, +where strong men daily bring wild bulls to earth. A +land of leave-takings, for it is on the confines of an +almost uninhabited land, on the shore of that great blue +and white thoroughfare, the sea; just at the point where +the Rhône, coming from the mountains, sets out upon +its long journey to the bottomless waters, where the sun +will take it up again to restore it to its source. An impressive +land, which one feels to be the end of so many +things; of the great city-making river, of the great +expiring Faith, which flies to the sands to breathe its +last, with its dying waves beating at the foundations of a +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>16]</a></span> +poor battlemented church, amid the psalms, mingled +with lamentations of a dying race.</p> + +<p>The ceremony of May 24th, at Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer, +is unquestionably one of the most barbarous spectacles +which men of modern times are permitted to +witness.</p> + +<p>Since science made the conquest of men’s minds, the +faith of the last believers has changed. The most bigoted +know, of course, that God can manifest Himself when +and how He pleases, but they also know that He never +pleases, in our positive days, to modify the movements +of the vast mechanism of His creation, not even for the +lowly pleasure of proving His existence to His creatures. +The faith of civilized men no longer expects anything +from Heaven in this world.</p> + +<p>Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer, on the 24th of May, is the +rendezvous of the last savages of the Faith.</p> + +<p>They who come to pray to the holy women for health +of body and of heart are unpolished creatures of a +primitive belief. They believe, and that is the whole of +it. A cry, a prayer, and, in reply, the saints can give +them what they have not: eyes, legs, arms, life! And +they ask them to perform a miracle as artlessly as a condemned +man implores his pardon from the head of the +State. That their prayers should be granted is quite as +possible, almost more probable, for the saints have more +pity. The few thousands of believers—it is long since +their numbers have been added to—who pay a visit to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>17]</a></span> +the saints every year, see one or two miracles on each +occasion. When the priest, coming from the church, +followed by a procession, stretches out toward the sea +the <em>Silver Arm</em> which contains the relics, they see the +sea recede! That happens every year. Imagine, then, +how strenuously they importune the saints who can do +so much with so little exertion! with what energy they +hurry to the spot! with what sighs they pour out their +hearts! with what a howling they utter their prayers! +with what fervor they raise their eyes, stretch out their +necks and their arms! All, all in vain. The last posturings +of the great, fruitlessly imploring sorrow are to +be seen there, in that desert corner of France, between +the arms of that dying stream, on the shore of the sea +that is eating away the island; beneath the arches +of yonder church, so white without, so black within, +wherein every hand holds a taper, flickering like a star +of human misery, which burns for God and greases the +fingers, and for which the beggar, whose heart would be +made glad by a single sou, must pay five sous.</p> + +<p>The whole region seems to be at once the highway to +exile, and a wild place of refuge. Therefore, the gipsies +love it. It is one of the main cross-roads of their interlacing +highways which envelop the whole world; it is +one of the favorite countries of the race that has no +country.</p> + +<p>And every year, the gipsies come to Camargue to +enjoy their very ancient privilege of occupying a black +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>18]</a></span> +crypt or underground chapel, under the choir of the +church, consecrated to Saint Sara the Egyptian.</p> + +<p>In that cavern they can be seen crouching at the foot +of an altar whereon is a little shrine—Saint Sara’s—all +filthy from much kissing, while above, in the church, the +great shrines of the two Marys are lowered from the +vaulted roof amid vociferous prayers.</p> + +<p>There, in the crypt, the gipsies sit upon their haunches, +curly-headed, hot-lipped, sweating profusely, amid hundreds +of candles, which exude tallow and overheat the +stifling oven, telling their greasy beads, exhaling an +odor similar to that of wild beasts in their den, emitting +from time to time a hoarse appeal to Saint Sara, +wearing the smile of premeditated crime upon their +faces mingled with the grimace due to remorse that +may be sincere; looking with envious eye at every +sou, pilfering handkerchiefs, scratching their wounds, +swarming in a mysterious dunghill, where one feels, in +spite of everything, that some mystic flower is springing +into life, the involuntary aspiration of depravity +toward purity.</p> + +<p>Early in May of this year, the band of gipsies had +brought with them to the saints a young woman whom +they called their “Queen.”</p> + +<p>This “Queen,” pending the arrival of the approaching +fête-day, passed part of her time seated on the +wooden bench under the canopy of thorn-broom erected +by the customs’ officers between two tamarisks, on the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>19]</a></span> +sand-dune just in front of the village; and there she sat +and gazed at the sea.</p> + +<p>Her name was Zinzara.</p> + +<p>Her thick, black, wavy hair was twisted carelessly +into a mass on top of her head. Two locks came forward +to her temples, which were sunken and filled with +shadows. Her piercing black eyes gleamed from beneath +her thick arching eyebrows. A copper circlet with +sequins hanging from it was placed upon her forehead, +slightly at one side, after the manner of a crown.</p> + +<p>The glaringly bright materials in which she enveloped +her figure revealed the outline of her powerful chest, +and her hips that swayed at every step she took. And +the fragment that formed her skirt fell in graceful +folds, beneath which her naked foot peeped out, glistening +with sand.</p> + +<p>Evening surprised her upon her bench beneath the +broom, looking out upon the sea. The sun tinged the +waves and the sand with golden yellow, then with red. +The night wind made the reeds and rushes quiver. +Slowly the gipsy drew a bright-colored handkerchief +from her girdle and arranged it on her head. She put +it over her face to tie the ends together behind the mass +of hair, then raised it and threw it over her head, so +that it fell upon her back. Thus arranged as a head-dress, +it framed the face in stiff, broad folds, falling on +both sides,—and the Egyptian, her hands spread out +upon her knees, her eyes fixed on the horizon, resembled +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>20]</a></span> +some figure of Isis, while about her a flock of red +flamingoes or a solitary ibis, in hieroglyphic cries, told +the sands of Camargue and the rushes of the Rhône +tales of the sands of Libya and the lotus-trees of the +Nile.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>21]</a></span></p> + +<h2><a name="chap03" id="chap03"></a>III<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smlfont">THE DROVERS</span></h2> + + +<p>Jacques Renaud, Livette’s lover, was employed as +drover of bulls and horses in this strange Camargue +country, on the estate of the Château d’Avignon.</p> + +<p>The <i>manades</i>, or droves, of Camargue bulls and +mares live at liberty in the vast moor, leaping the +ditches, splashing through the swamps, browsing on the +bitter grass, drinking from the Rhône, running, jumping, +wallowing, neighing and lowing at the sun or the +mirage, lashing vigorously with their tails the swarms +of gadflies clinging to their sides, then lying down in +groups on the edge of the swamp, knees doubled under +their bulky bodies, tired and sleepy, their dreamy eyes +fixed vaguely on the horizon.</p> + +<p>The mounted drovers leave them at liberty, but keep +a watchful eye on their freedom; and according to the +time of year and the condition of the pasturage, “round +up” their herds, keep them together, and direct their +movements.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>22]</a></span> +In the distance, as they sit motionless, and straight as +arrows, on their saddles <i>à la gardiane</i>, astride their white +horses, with the spear-head resting on the closed stirrup, +they resemble knights of the Middle Ages, awaiting the +flourish of the herald’s trumpet to enter the lists.</p> + +<p>The Camargue horse, with his powerful hind-quarters, +stout shoulders, head a little heavy,—an excellent beast +withal,—is descended from Saracen mares and the palfrey +of the Crusades. He still wears antique trappings. Huge +closed stirrups strike against his sides; the broad strap +of the martingale passes through a heart-shaped piece of +leather on his chest, and the saddle is an easy-chair, +wherein the rider sits between two solid walls, the one +in front as high as that at his back.</p> + +<p>At certain times, when the best pasturage is on the +other bank of the Rhône, the drovers drive their +<i>manades</i> toward the river. When they reach the shore, +they press close upon them to force them in. The +earth-colored water of the river flows bubbling by. +The beasts hesitate. Some slowly put their heads down +to the stream and drink, not knowing what is required +of them. Others suddenly show signs of life at the +“singing” of the water, stretch their necks, breathe +noisily, and low and neigh. A horse, urged forward by +a drover, rebels and rushes back, then rears and falls +backward into the water, which splashes mightily under +the weight of his great body; but he has made a start; +he swims, and all the others follow. Muzzles and nostrils, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>23]</a></span> +manes and horns, wave wildly about above the river, +which is now a swarm of heads. They blow foam and +air and water all around. More than one, in jovial +mood, bites at a neighboring rump. Feet rise upon +backs, to be shaken off again with a quick movement +of the spinal column, and thrown back into the waves. +Sometimes a frightened beast, confused by the plunging +and kicking, tries to return to the bank, and, being +driven in once more by the drovers, loses his head, +follows the current, sails swiftly seaward, feels his +strength failing, drinks, struggles, turns over and over, +plunges, drinks again, founders at last like a vessel and +disappears.</p> + +<p>Finally the bulk of the drove has reached the opposite +bank, and there they shake themselves in the sunlight, +snort with delight, and caper over the fields. Tails lash +sides and buttocks. Some young horses, excited by their +bath, scamper away, side by side, toward the horizon, +biting at the long hairs of each other’s flying manes.</p> + +<p>Then it is the turn of the drovers. Some ride their +horses into the river. Others, in the midst of the rearguard +of the <i>manade</i>, guide, with the paddle, a flat-bottomed +boat that a blow of the foot would shatter, +and their horses, held by their bridles, swim behind.</p> + +<p>At other times, the drovers are employed driving from +the plains of Meyran or Arles, Avignon, Nîmes, Aigues-Mortes +to the branding-places at Camargue the bulls +that are to take part in the sports at the latter place.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>24]</a></span> +These bulls sometimes travel in captivity, in a sort of +high enclosure, without a floor, mounted on wheels and +drawn by horses; the bulls walk along the ground, beating +their horns against the resonant wooden walls.</p> + +<p>Generally the bulls go to the games unconfined, but +under the eye of mounted drovers, spear in hand.</p> + +<p>These journeys are made at night. As they pass +through the villages, the people rush to their windows. +The young men are on the watch for the “cattle” and +try to drive them out of the circle of drovers, who lose +their temper, and swear and strike: that sport is called +the <i>abrivade</i>. In Arles, if the bulls happen to arrive by +daylight, the drovers have a hard task, for all the young +men in the city do their utmost to break the line of +horsemen, in order to cut out one bull, or several, if +possible, and then drive them through the city. The +city assumes a posture of defence. Overturned carts +barricade the ends of the streets. Shops are closed. +The bull, in a frenzy, rushes here and there, stands +musing for a moment at the corners, decides to take a certain +direction, rushes at a passer-by, knocks him down, +and generally selects the shop of a dealer in crockery and +glassware in which to make merry, amid the shouts of an +excited populace.</p> + +<p>The drovers are a free, fearless, savage race, a little +contemptuous of cities, devoted to their desert.</p> + +<p>A drover is at home alike in sun and rain, in the wind +from the land, and the wind from the sea.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>25]</a></span> +A drover knows how to deal blows and to receive +them; he pursues a bull at the gallop, and with a blow +of the spear upon his flank, judiciously selecting his time, +“fells” him unerringly.</p> + +<p>He knows the trick of pursuing a wild bull making +for the open country. His well-trained horse bites the +furious beast on the hind-quarters, and he turns. The +drover, spear in rest, pricks the bull in the nose as he +rushes upon him, and checks him.</p> + +<p>Sometimes a drover, on foot and alone, pursued by a +cow with calf, and apparently in imminent danger from +the furious beast, will suddenly turn about, and—with +arm outstretched, as if he held his spear—point his three +fingers at the animal, separated so as to represent the +three points of the trident. In face of the motionless +man, the cow, seized with terror, recoils, pawing up the +earth, with lowered head and threatening horns; and, as +soon as she thinks she is well out of the man’s reach, she +turns and flies.</p> + +<p>A common performance of the drover, when he is in +good spirits, is this: pursuing the bull, he passes beyond +him some twenty or thirty yards, then stops short and +leaps down from his horse; the bull, taken by surprise, +rushes at the man, who has one knee on the ground. +The bull comes rushing on with lowered horns. Three +sharp hand-claps: the bull has stopped! His hot breath +strikes the face of his subduer, who has already seized +him with both hands by the horns. The man, springing +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>26]</a></span> +instantly to his feet, struggles to throw the beast over to +the right. The bull, resisting, throws himself in the +opposite direction. The two forces neutralize each +other for an instant, almost equal, the result uncertain; +then the man suddenly yields, and the beast, unexpectedly +impelled in the direction of his own efforts, +falls upon his side. Skill is seconded by the creature’s +whole strength in its struggle for victory.</p> + +<p>This is the method adopted at the <i>ferrades</i>, or brandings, +where the sport consists in branding the young +animals with a red-hot iron.</p> + +<p>For a drover, to seize a colt by the nose, and mount +him bareback; to roll with his steed at the bottom of a +ditch and emerge firmly seated in the saddle; to subdue +stallions by fatigue, and, if dismounted and wounded by +a kick, to dress the wound as tranquilly as the cork-cutter +dresses the scratch made by his knife,—all this is mere +child’s-play.</p> + +<p>A drover, caught between two horns—luckily well +separated—and tossed into the air, has but one thought +when he picks himself up after falling to the ground—a +thought so surprising as not to be ridiculous: to rearrange +his breeches and readjust his belt.</p> + +<p>A unique race it is, rough and brutal, which would be +esteemed heroic, like the Corsican race, if it had great +affairs in which to display its great qualities.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>27]</a></span></p> + +<h2><a name="chap04" id="chap04"></a>IV<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smlfont">THE SÉDEN</span></h2> + + +<p>Jacques Renaud, Livette’s betrothed, was, as we have +said, one of the most fearless drovers in Camargue.</p> + +<p>He could pursue and catch and subdue a wild horse, +attack a rebellious bull and master it, as no other could; +he was the king of the moor.</p> + +<p>For occasions of public rejoicing, at Nîmes or Arles, +he was always sent for when they desired a really fine +performance in the arena. And he had so often called +forth the exclamation, in all the arenas throughout +Provence: “Oh! that fellow is <em>the king</em> of them all!” +that the name had clung to him. And he himself had +given to his finest stallion the name of “Prince.”</p> + +<p>Whatever feats of address and strength were performed +by others, he performed better than they.</p> + +<p>And with it all he was a handsome fellow, not too tall +or too short, with a well-shaped head, clear, dark complexion, +short, thick, matted black hair, a well-defined +moustache of the same devil’s black as the hair, and +cheeks and chin always closely shaven, for this savage +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>28]</a></span> +always carried in the leather saddle-bags hanging at the +bow of his saddle a razor-edged knife, a stone to sharpen +it upon, and a little round mirror in a sheep-skin case.</p> + +<p>And when, with his stout and shapely legs encased in +heavy boots, his feet in the closed stirrups, his long +spear resting on his boot, he sat erect and motionless in +his high-backed saddle, his size heightened by the refraction +of the desert, amid his little tribe of mares and +wild bulls, wearing upon his head the round narrow-brimmed +hat that made for him a crown of gleaming +golden straw, indeed the drover did resemble the king +of some outlandish race!</p> + +<p>And yet it was not on the day of a <i>ferrade</i>, nor because +of his great deeds as tamer of wild beasts, that +the gentle, fair-haired girl had come to love him.</p> + +<p>In the first place, she was accustomed to seeing many +of these drovers; and then, being the daughter of a rich +intendant, she might have been inclined rather to look +down upon them a little, as mere herdsmen. Indeed +her father and grandmother did not readily agree to +give her hand to Renaud, who was poor and had no +kindred; but Livette was an only child, and had wept +and prayed so hard, the darling, that at last they had +said <em>yes</em>.</p> + +<p>And this is how it came to pass that the drover +Renaud, who was used to being run after by pretty +girls, had taken Livette’s trembling little heart in his +great hand.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>29]</a></span> +It was one morning when he was making a new <i>séden</i> +for his horse, who had lost his the night before, while +bathing in the Rhône.</p> + +<p>The <i>séden</i>, as it is called in Camargue, is a halter, +but a halter made of mares’ hair braided, it being customary +always to allow the manes and tails of stallions +to grow as long as they will, as a mark of strength and +pride. The <i>séden</i> is generally black and white. It is, +in a word, a long rope, which hangs in a coil about the +horse’s neck, and may serve, as occasion arises, many +purposes, being generally used as a halter, sometimes as +a lasso.</p> + +<p>But the <i>séden</i>, being a thing essentially Camarguese, +should never go from the province. Many a one does +so, no doubt, but it is on account of the contemptible +greed of this or that drover, who snaps his fingers at the +old customs that were good enough for his ancestors.</p> + +<p>Renaud, then, was making a <i>séden</i>. It was in front +of one of the farm-houses appertaining to the Château +d’Avignon, a long, low structure, rather a drover’s +cottage than a farm-house, lost in the moor, and so +squat that it had the appearance of not wanting to be +seen, like an animal burrowing in the ground.</p> + +<p>It was October. The larks were singing merrily. +Mounted upon Blanquet (or Blanchet), her favorite +horse, the little one, in obedience to her father’s +orders, was out in search of Renaud, and she spied him +at a distance, walking backward, playing the rope-maker. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>30]</a></span> +From a piece of canvas tied around his waist and swelling +out in front of him, like an apron turned up to +make a great pocket, he was taking little bunches of +white and black hair alternately, braiding them together +and twisting them into a rope, which grew visibly +longer. A child was turning the thick wooden wheel +upon which the <i>séden</i>, already of considerable length, +was wound; and Renaud—keeping time to the wheel, +which struck a dull blow against something or other at +every revolution—was singing a ballad which floated to +Livette’s ears on the gentle breeze that was blowing, like +a sweet, strong call from the love of which she as yet +knew nothing.</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">“N’use pas sur les routes<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Tes souliers;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Descends plutôt le Rhône<br /></span> +<span class="i1">En bateau.<br /></span> +</div> + +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">“Laisse Lyon, Valence,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">De côté;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Salue-les de la tête<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Sous les ponts.”<br /></span> +</div> +</div> + +<p>He had a fine voice, smooth and clear, powerful without +effort, and of wide range.</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">“Avignon est la reine——<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Passe encor;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tu ne verras qu’en Arles<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Tes amours——<br /></span> +</div> + +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>31]</a></span> +<span class="i0">“La plaine est belle et grande,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Compagnon——<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Prends tes amours en croupe,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">En avant!”<a name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a><br /></span> +</div> +</div> + +<p>Livette had stopped her horse, to hear better. It was +in the morning. In the light there was the reflection +that tells that the day is young, that makes hope dance +in hearts of sixteen, and sows hope anew even in the +hearts of the old.</p> + +<p>A vague hope that is naught but the desire to love; +but its loss, bitterer than death, makes the thought of +death a consolation!</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">“Prends tes amours en croupe——<br /></span> +<span class="i1">En avant!”<br /></span> +</div> +</div> + +<p>the singer repeated, and the little one involuntarily urged +her horse toward the song that called to her to come.</p> + +<p>“Aha!” said Renaud, pausing in his work, “aha! +young lady! you are astir early!—with a white horse +that will soon be all red!”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” she said, laughing, “with gnats and gadflies; +there are swarms of them! too many, by my faith in +God!”</p> + +<p>“You are covered with them, young lady, as a bit +of honey is covered with bees, or a tuft of flowering +genesta! But what brings you here?”</p> + +<p>“I come from my father. You must come with me +at once.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>32]</a></span> +“But comrade Rampal borrowed my horse just now +to go to Saintes. They went off one upon the other.”</p> + +<p>“Take mine, then,” said Livette.</p> + +<p>“And what will you do, young lady?”</p> + +<p>She was ashamed of her thoughtlessness, and blushed +scarlet.</p> + +<p>“I?” said she, and the words of the ballad rang in +her heart:</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">“Prends tes amours en croupe,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">En avant!”<br /></span> +</div> +</div> + +<p>“Unless,” said he, laughing in his turn, “you care +to take me <i>en croupe</i>?”</p> + +<p>“People would never stop talking about it all over +our Camargue,” said she, with laughter in her voice. “A +drover like you, the terror of riders, <i>en croupe</i> like a girl? +No, no; no false shame, that is my place. We will take +off my saddle, and you can bring it to me to-morrow.”</p> + +<p>“Very luckily,” said Renaud, “Rampal didn’t take +mine, which I never lend.”</p> + +<p>Livette jumped down from her horse; and at the +breeze made by her skirt a cloud of great flies and +enormous mosquitoes rose and flew buzzing about her. +Blanchet’s snow-white rump looked as if it were covered +with a net of purple silk, there was such a labyrinth of +little streams of blood crossing and recrossing one +another. Another instant, and gadflies and mosquitoes +settled down again upon the bleeding surface and dotted +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>33]</a></span> +it with a myriad of black spots; but Blanchet, albeit +somewhat cross, was used to that annoyance.</p> + +<p>Livette fastened him to one of the rings in the +wall, and sat down upon the stone bench, waiting until +Renaud had finished his <i>séden</i>.</p> + +<p>The wheel turned and turned, striking its dull blow +with perfect regularity at every turn.</p> + +<p>“That was a pretty song, Renaud,” said Livette +suddenly, answering her thoughts without intention; +“that was a pretty song you were singing just now.”</p> + +<p>“I learned it,” said Renaud, “from a boatman, a +friend of my father, with whom I went up the Rhône +as far as Lyon—and then came down again——”</p> + +<p>“And is all that country very beautiful up there?” +said she.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” he answered, “it is beautiful.”</p> + +<p>And he said nothing more.</p> + +<p>“You don’t look as if you meant what you say, Renaud. +Pray, didn’t you like the city of Lyon we hear +so much about?”</p> + +<p>There was a long silence, broken only by the monotonous +rhythm of the wheel.</p> + +<p>“No sun!” said Renaud abruptly. “It’s a city in +a cold cloud!—The Rhône isn’t fine till you come down +again,” he added.</p> + +<p>Livette looked at him, and her wide-open eyes seemed +to say:</p> + +<p>“Why is that?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>34]</a></span> +He answered her look.</p> + +<p>“When one of us goes up yonder, young lady, you +understand, he leaves everything to go nowhere, and +when he gets there, all he asks is to start back again!—When +he comes from there here, on the contrary, he +leaves nothing at all, and knows that, at the end of the +journey, he will have arrived somewhere! You see, +young lady, the best horse must, of necessity, stop at +the sea—and that is the only place where I am willing +to consent to go no farther. Where the sea is not, you +have all the rest of the journey still to do.—Enough, my +boy!” he added, raising his voice.</p> + +<p>The wheel stopped. He examined the <i>séden</i>. The +rope, of black and white strands in regular alternation, +was finished.</p> + +<p>“That’s a good piece of work,” said he; “look, +young lady.”</p> + +<p>He leaned over, almost against her, to look at a point +in the rope which seemed to him defective; he leaned +over, and a short black curl touched lightly the disordered, +almost invisible, locks that formed a sort of fleecy +golden cloud over Livette’s forehead. And thereupon +it seemed to both of them—young as they were!—that +their hair blazed up and shrivelled softly, like the fine +grass that takes fire in summer, under the hot sun. Ah! +holy youth!</p> + +<p>Then, for the first time, Renaud thought of the girl. +Hitherto he had seen in Livette only the “young lady.” +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>35]</a></span> +They remained bending forward, she over the rope which +she seemed to be examining attentively, he over Livette’s +hair. Livette wore her “morning head-dress,” +consisting of a little white handkerchief which covered +the <i>chignon</i>, and was tied in such fashion that the two +ends stood up like little hollow, pointed ears on top +of her head. When they are in full-dress, the women +of Camargue surround the high <i>chignon</i>, covered by a +fine white linen cap, with a broad velvet ribbon, almost +always black, whose long, unequal ends fall behind the +head, a little at one side.</p> + +<p>Renaud, then, was looking at Livette’s clear flaxen +hair,—in which there was, here and there, a lock of a +darker golden hue,—symmetrically massed on top of +her head, advancing in little waves toward her temples, +coquettishly arranged, but so short and fluffy that some +few locks escaped, here, there, and everywhere, enough +to form the faint golden mist above her head.</p> + +<p>He looked at the pretty, round neck, whence the fair +hair seemed to spring, like a vigorous plant, so slender +and so fine! so long, and full of life! And the temptation +to press his lips upon it drew him on, as, after a +long day’s journey among dry, stony hills, the sight +of the water draws on the horses of Camargue, accustomed +to moist pasturage.</p> + +<p>She felt that she was being stared at too long.</p> + +<p>“Let us go!” she said, suddenly. “My father’s +orders were that you should come as soon as possible.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>36]</a></span> +Renaud felt as if he were waking from a long sleep +and from a dream. He jumped to his feet. Without +a word, he went to Blanchet, took off the woman’s saddle +and carried it into the house, placed his own upon +the beast, which the mosquitoes had at last made restive, +and leaped upon his back.</p> + +<p>Livette, assisted by the drover’s strong hand, leaped +to the croup behind him with one spring; highly amused +she was as she threw one arm around Renaud’s waist. +It is the fashion among the Camarguese young women, +all of whom, on fête-days, ride to the plains of Meyran, +or to Saintes-Maries, “fitted” to the horses of their +promised husbands.</p> + +<p>The drover started Blanchet off at a gallop, gave him +his head, and let him take his own course. Blanchet +left the travelled road, headed straight for the château +across the moor, through the sand thickly sown with +stiff, rounded clumps of saltwort at irregular intervals. +The good horse flew over these clumps, scarcely +touching the tops, landing always between them in +the damp sand, from which, however, by force of +long habit, he withdrew his feet without effort, calculating +in advance the distance between the obstacles, +galloping freely and evenly, changing feet as he chose, +making sport of his heavy burden, happy at being left +to himself.</p> + +<p>And Livette must needs hold tight to the drover’s +waist; he was a lithe, supple fellow, and swayed with +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>37]</a></span> +the horse. And the swift motion, the free air, youth +and love, all combined to intoxicate the two young +people; and without meaning it, without thinking of it, +the horseman repeated his song of a few moments before, +between his teeth, but loud enough to be overheard by +the girl:</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">“Prends tes amours en croupe!<br /></span> +<span class="i1">En avant!”<br /></span> +</div> +</div> + +<p>And it seemed to them as if the whole horizon were +theirs.</p> + +<p>When they dismounted, in front of the farm-house of +the château, they had not spoken a word, but they had +exchanged in silence the subtlest and strongest part of +themselves.</p> + +<p>From that day, Renaud, being sincerely in love, exerted +himself to please. He was careful about his dress, +paid more attention to the adjustment of his neckerchief, +shaved more closely, and had not a single +glance to spare for the other girls, even the prettiest of +them.</p> + +<p>At last, he said to Livette one day:</p> + +<p>“Your father will never be willing!”</p> + +<p>Those were his first words of love.</p> + +<p>“If I am willing, my father will be. And when my +father is willing, grandmother always is!”</p> + +<p>“The good God grant it!” replied Jacques.</p> + +<p>And it had happened as she said. For almost five +months now they had been betrothed.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>38]</a></span> +The fascinating thing about Livette was that she was +just the opposite of Renaud, so slender and delicate, so +fair and such a child,—and, furthermore, that she loved +him with all her might, the sweetheart,—there was no +mistake about that.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>39]</a></span></p> + +<h2><a name="chap05" id="chap05"></a>V<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smlfont">THE LOVERS</span></h2> + + +<p>Livette was so fresh and sweet that people often repeated, +in speaking of her, the Provençal expression: +“You could drink her in a glass of water!”</p> + +<p>In loving Livette, Renaud experienced the pleasant +feeling, so dear to the heart of strong men, of having +some one to protect, a little wife, who was no more than +a child. Because of Livette’s fragility and slender +stature, the rough drover, made for violent passions, +the horseman of the Camargue desert, the hard-fisted +herdsman, the subduer of mares and bulls, felt the love +that is based upon sweet compassion, upon respect for +charming weakness; in a word, he learned the secret +of true tenderness which he could not have felt, perhaps, +for one of his own class.</p> + +<p>It would never have occurred to him to tell her any +of the vulgar jests with a double meaning, with which +he regaled the more robust fair ones of his acquaintance +on branding-days or on race-days. To do that +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>40]</a></span> +would have seemed to him to be a villainous misuse of +his power and his experience as a man. Still less did +Livette cause him to feel the fierce desire, well known +to him, which sometimes, with other girls, went to his +brain like a rush of blood,—the desire to touch with +his hands, to take in his arms, to throw down into +the ditch, laughing at the gentle resistance, at the consent +which repels a little, at the equal struggle between +the youth and the maiden, who have, in reality, a +tacit understanding to be robber and robbed. No: in +Livette’s presence, Renaud felt that he was a new man. +There came to him, in regard to the little damsel +with the golden hair, a tranquillity of heart that surprised +him greatly. Love has a thousand forms. That +which Renaud felt for Livette was a soothing emotion. +He “wished her well.” That was what he kept +repeating to himself as he thought of her. And, as he +desired all the others something after the fashion of the +bulls of his <i>manade</i>, in the season when the germs are +at work, it so happened that he seemed not to desire the +only woman he really loved.</p> + +<p>There was a sweet fascination in the thought, which +he relished like a draught of pure water after a long +day’s walk through the dust in the hot sun. He rejoiced +inwardly in his love as in a halt for rest in the +shade of a great tree, beside a clear, cool spring, while +the birds sang their greeting to the morning. Sometimes, +in the blazing heat of midday, when he was +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>41]</a></span> +riding across the mirror-like waste of sand and salt and +water, his horse plodding wearily along with hanging +head, the thought of Livette would steal softly into his +mind, and it would seem as if a cool breeze were blowing +on his forehead, washing away, in a sense, the dust +and fatigue, like a bath. He would feel refreshed, and +a smile would come unbidden to his lips. His whole +being would thrill with pleasure, and, with renewed +life, he would imperceptibly, with hand and knee alike, +order his horse to raise his head. And the lover’s steed +would raise his head without further bidding, and snort +and toss his mane, scatter, with a sudden lash of his +tail, the gadflies that were streaking his sides with blood, +and, with quickened step, reach the shelter of the hawthorns +and the poplars on the Rhône bank—whose +leaves forever quiver and rustle like the water, like the +heart of man, like everything that lives and hopes and +suffers and then dies!</p> + +<p>Not only by her grace and weakness did she win his +heart, strong and rough as he was; but also by the care +expended on her dress, by the splendor of her surroundings, +she, the wealthy farmer’s daughter, enchanted +him, the poor drover; and she seemed to him a strange, +unfamiliar creature from another world. And so she +was in fact. Of a different quality, he said to himself: +a being outside his sphere, far, far above it.</p> + +<p>That he might one day unloose the latchets of her +little shoes had not occurred to him, and, lo! she was +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>42]</a></span> +his! Livette, the daughter of the intendant of the +Château d’Avignon! she was his fiancée, his betrothed, +his future wife!</p> + +<p>He seemed to himself the heir to a throne. In face +of the mere thought of his future, he felt something +like the embarrassment a beggar feels on the threshold +of a palace, before the carpets over which he must pass +to enter, with shoes heavy with mud.</p> + +<p>She had in his eyes something of the sanctity of the +blessed Madonna, carved from wood, painted blue and +gold, and overladen with pearls and flowers, that he used +to see when a child in the church of Saint-Trophime at +Arles.</p> + +<p>So it was that he felt a secret amazement at finding +himself beloved.</p> + +<p>It did not seem to him that it could really be true; +and as he must needs be convinced of the fact every +time he spoke to her, his love constantly appealed to +him with all the force of novelty.</p> + +<p>He was a little embarrassed, too, in her presence, could +not find his words, contented himself with smiling at +her, with yielding submission to her like a child, with +running to fetch this or that for her, divining her desires +from her glance; mistaking now and then, but rarely; +feeling the same pleasure in being the maiden’s footman +that is felt by the misshapen court dwarf in love with +the king’s fair daughter.</p> + +<p>His sobriquet of <em>The King</em> seemed to him a mockery +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>43]</a></span> +beside her. She embarrassed him; in her presence he +was meek and lowly.</p> + +<p>He was surprised, indignant even, in his heart, at the +familiar tone assumed by others with Livette. It seemed +strange to him that her companions should treat her as +an equal; that her father and her grandmother should +not have the same respect and consideration for his +fiancée that he himself had.</p> + +<p>Frequently, when the grandmother cried to Livette: +“Do this or that; run! be quick!” he would be angry, +and would long to say to her: “Why do you order her +about? She was not made to obey! You’re a bad +grandmother! Don’t you see that she is too delicate +and pretty for such tasks?”</p> + +<p>But this was a feeling kept hidden in his heart; he +would not have dared to avow it, for women are made, +according to our ancestors, to be the slaves of man. So +he said no word of what he felt. He even deemed himself +a little ridiculous to feel it. He contented himself +by doing in a twinkling, in Livette’s stead, the thing +she was bidden to do, if it was something within his +power.</p> + +<p>Ah! but if any man had ventured to indulge in any +ill-sounding pleasantry with Livette, to take any liberty +with her—oh! then, be sure that he would without reflection +have felled him on the spot with his stout fist!</p> + +<p>Why, if any one, man or woman, in the crowd on +a fête-day, happened to make a coarse remark in her +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>44]</a></span> +hearing,—one of the sort that he himself knew how to +make with great effect upon occasion,—he would be +overcome with rage against that person; it seemed to +him that every one should take notice of Livette’s presence, +should feel that she was near, and understand +that, before her, they should show some self-respect.</p> + +<p>All this he would have been incapable of explaining, +but he felt it all, confusedly and vaguely, in his heart.</p> + +<p>Livette, for her part, was keenly conscious of the +drover’s adoration. She revelled in it, without unduly +seeming to do so. She saw very plainly that she had, +without effort, tamed a wild beast. She laughed sometimes, +as she looked at him—a frank, ringing laugh, in +which there was, however, a touch of the triumph of +the mysterious feminine witchery, the marvellous invention +of nature, which decrees that the strong man shall +be vanquished, rolled in the dust, at the pleasure of +fascinating weakness. This miracle, performed by life, +by nature, by love, she believed to be her own work,—hers, +Livette’s,—and the little woman was a bit swollen +with pride! More than frequently she would say to herself: +“What have I done? I don’t deserve this good +fortune; no, indeed, I don’t deserve it!” She saw very +clearly that, in his eyes, she was a being apart: that he +did not treat her by any means as everybody else did: +and, greatly astonished as she was, she was proud of it.</p> + +<p>Thereupon, wondering in her sincere heart what she +had “more” or better than another, and finding no +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>45]</a></span> +answer to the question, it came about that she deemed +her lover a little, just a very little, stupid to be so dominated +by her, and he so strong! And then she would +prettily make fun of him and laugh aloud at him, saying:</p> + +<p>“Ah! great booby!”</p> + +<p>So it was that the whole essence of Woman, profound, +seductive, existed in this simple, obscure peasant-girl, +who could have told nothing as to her own character.</p> + +<p>In time, too, she came to look upon herself as pretty, +beautiful, the prettiest, the loveliest of all, and to admire +her own charms. When such thoughts came to her, and +if the truth must be known, none were more frequent,—ah! +then she felt her pride! And she no longer deemed +her lover stupid in the least degree; on the contrary, +he seemed to her very fortunate, too fortunate! and +then it was he who hardly deserved her! At such times, +she received his attentions, his humility, with the air of +a princess accustomed to homage.</p> + +<p>Then, too, she would wonder why all the others did +not do for her what he did? And, thereupon, she would +conceive a sort of gratitude for him. Such a constant +revolution in our hearts of impressions, often irreconcilable +and ever changing, around a fixed idea, is love.—Yes, +in very truth he deserved to be loved simply because +he had known enough to appreciate her! to choose her! +The other young men were the fools, one and all!</p> + +<p>Warm was his welcome if he arrived at the farm +when that thought was in her mind. She would give +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>46]</a></span> +the little cry of a happy bird, and run to meet her +lover.</p> + +<p>“Good-morning, Monsieur Jacques!”</p> + +<p>“Good-morning, Demoiselle Livette!”</p> + +<p>They would shake hands.</p> + +<p>“Will you come to the Rhône?”</p> + +<p>“With all my heart!”</p> + +<p>And often they would go and sit together beside the +Rhône, beneath the great hawthorn—a tree more than +a hundred years old and known to everybody. The +hawthorn, like the aspen and the birch, is a familiar +Camarguese tree.</p> + +<p>Sometimes, on the way, she would hold out to him +a flexible green twig, broken from a poplar by the roadside, +and they would walk along, united and kept apart +at the same time by the short branch, followed by a +swarm of gnats with their tiny iris-hued wings.</p> + +<p>She was very fond of this sport of making him walk +thus, not too near, not too far away, holding him without +touching him, drawing him nearer or keeping him +at a distance, as her fancy dictated, making of the leafy +wand a whip if he showed signs of rebellion.</p> + +<p>She had the feeling that thus she was indeed his mistress, +remembering how she used sometimes to make her +horse Blanchet follow her docilely in the same way by +holding out to him a small wisp of flowering oats;—how +she had sometimes, by the same means, led back +behind her, quiet as an ox, a vicious bull that had +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>47]</a></span> +escaped, wounded, from the arena, and that she had +encountered by the roadside, in a thicket of thorn-broom, +bathing his foaming tongue in the streams of +blood that were flowing from his nostrils.</p> + +<p>Arrived at the bank of the Rhône, beneath the great +hawthorn with the gnarled black trunk and smooth white +branches, that stretches its abundant rustling foliage well +out over the stream, the lovers would sit down, side by +side, upon the roots protruding from the ground or upon +a bundle of cut reeds.</p> + +<p>And they would watch the water flow. The earthy, +yellowish water, with its whirling masses of foam, rushing +toward the sea.</p> + +<p>They would sit and gaze.</p> + +<p>They would not speak. They would live on in silence, +listening to the plashing of the Rhône, the tiny wavelets +that came rippling in obliquely to the bank, to loiter +there among the feet of countless reeds and poplars, +while the main current in the centre of the stream flowed +swiftly, hurriedly along, as if in haste to reach the sea, +and there be swallowed up.—There they would sit and +dream, not speaking.</p> + +<p>They felt that they were living the same life as everything +about them. From time to time, a kingfisher, +sky-blue and reddish-brown, would pass before them, +light on a low branch, gazing sidewise at the water with +his beak ready to strike, then, suddenly, fly off across +the Rhône. And, with the sky-blue bird, their thoughts +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>48]</a></span> +would cross the river, there to light again upon a +branch, bent like a bow, whose slender point trailed in +the water, vibrating in the current, and surrounded with +a mass of foam, dead leaves, and twigs. And suddenly +the bird, like a sorcerer, had disappeared.</p> + +<p>“How pretty!” Livette would sometimes say.</p> + +<p>And that was all.</p> + +<p>He would make no reply. He knew not what to say +to her. He was too happy. He would not call the +king his cousin!</p> + +<p>In the evening twilight, many little rabbits, young +in that month of May, would run out from the park, +through the wild hedges, almost invisible in their gray +coats, and play in the shadow at the foot of the bushes, +their presence betrayed by the rustling of a tuft of +grass or a low-hanging, horizontal branch that barred +their path.</p> + +<p>To heighten the enjoyment of the lovers, there was the +nightingale’s song, at the rising of the moon. Listen +to it: ’tis always lovely in the darkness, is the nightingale’s +song. It begins with three distinct, long-drawn-out +cries; you would say it was a signal, a preconcerted +call; it enjoins attention. Then the modulations hesitatingly +arise. You would say that it is timid, that it +fears its prayer will not be granted. But soon it takes +courage, self-assurance comes, and the song bursts forth +and soars and fills the air with its melodious uproar. +’Tis love, ’tis youth and love that can no longer be +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>49]</a></span> +restrained, that nothing stays, that claim their rights in +life.—His song is done.</p> + +<p>His song is done, but still the lovers listen on and on +to the bird’s song, echoed in the dark recesses of their +own hearts.</p> + +<p>At last, it would be time to return. They would rise +and walk back toward the farm, not far away.</p> + +<p>The grandmother would be calling from the doorway:</p> + +<p>“Livette! Livette!”</p> + +<p>Her voice would reach their ears, with a plaintive, +caressing accent, tinged with sadness, from the edge of +the vast expanse that rose in the darkness toward the +stars, toward life and love,—a long, melancholy call. +The voice at night upon the moor fills the air and rises +tranquilly, disturbed by no echo, sad to be alone in a +too great solitude.</p> + +<p>Around the lovers as they returned to the farm, in +the orchards, in the park, as the darkness increased, the +deafening clamor of the frogs would soon be heard, a +mighty noise, the sum total of a multitude of feeble +sounds, a frightful din, composed of many minor croakings +of unequal strength, which, massed together, +drowning one another, mount at last into a rhythmic +tumult like the ceaseless roaring of a cataract.</p> + +<p>And amid this formidable everlasting clamor, made +by the voices of myriads of amorous little frogs, accentuated +by the cry of a curlew, or a heron on the watch, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>50]</a></span> +and accompanied by the humming of the two Rhônes and +the plashing of the sea—the lovers, both deeply moved, +heard nothing save the calm beating of their hearts.</p> + +<p>As time went on, their love waxed greater, increased +by the memory of all these hours lived together.</p> + +<p>Renaud was no longer simple Renaud in Livette’s +eyes, but the being by whom she knew what life was, +through whom came to her that overwhelming consciousness +of everything, of the horizons of land and +sea, that sentiment of <em>being</em>, that longing for the future, +for growth, that inflow of vague hopes that comes of +love and gives a zest to life.</p> + +<p>And now, if any one had sought to wrest Jacques +from Livette, she would have died of it, and he who +should try to wrest Livette from Jacques would have +died of it—he would, my friends, even more certainly.</p> + +<p>It is a good and excellent thing that love should be +always busied in making the world younger—and the +nightingale, like the frogs, is never weary of repeating +it.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>51]</a></span></p> + +<h2><a name="chap06" id="chap06"></a>VI<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smlfont">RAMPAL</span></h2> + + +<p>Rampal, who had borrowed Jacques Renaud’s horse, +had not returned.</p> + +<p>Renaud now rode no other horse than Blanchet.</p> + +<p>Rampal was a low rascal, gambler, hanger-on of wine-shops, +well-known at Arles in all the vile haunts scattered +along the Rhône.</p> + +<p>Dismissed by several masters, a drover without a +drove, he passed his life in these days, riding from town +to town, from Aigues-Mortes to Nîmes, from Nîmes to +Arles, from Arles to Martigues, and in each of these +towns plied some doubtful trade, cheated a little at cards, +winning the means of living a week without doing anything, +and returning, for that week, to the Camargue he +loved, where there were, in two or three farm-houses, +women who smiled upon his mysterious, piratical existence.</p> + +<p>For that existence, a horse was essential. Rampal, +serving as a drover on foot, had, in the first place, stolen +a horse from a <i>manade</i>, but he broke his tether the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>52]</a></span> +second night, left his master, swam the Rhône, and rejoined +his fellows. Then it was that the rascal, having, +in truth, important business on hand, had said to +Renaud:</p> + +<p>“I have to go to Saintes, I’ll take your horse, +Cabri.”</p> + +<p>“Take my horse,” Renaud replied.</p> + +<p>It did not occur to him that Rampal would not return. +Jacques relied so surely upon his own reputation +for strength and courage that he did not think that any +one would venture to arouse his wrath.</p> + +<p>And then he had a sort of pity for Rampal, mingled +with a little admiration. He was a bold horseman, was +Rampal, and, except for women and cards, he would +have been, with Renaud, or just after him, a king of the +drovers! So that, if Rampal aroused Renaud’s compassion, +Renaud aroused Rampal’s envy.</p> + +<p>However, the vagaries of this <i>marrias</i>, this good-for-nothing +knave, were the pranks of a free man. Neither +married nor betrothed, fatherless and motherless, with +no one to support or assist, no one whom he must please, +he had a perfect right to live as he pleased! At least, +that is what most people thought.</p> + +<p>Moreover, Renaud, although an honest man, had the +tastes of a vagabond. Before his heart was filled with +his strange affection for Livette, by which he felt as if +he were bound hand and foot, he had, in truth, borne +a part with Rampal in many curious adventures.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>53]</a></span> +More than once they had galloped along side by side +toward the open moor, each having <i>en croupe</i> a laughing +damsel, who, after the close of a bull-fight at Aigues-Mortes +or Arles, had consented to accompany them for +a night.</p> + +<p>But on such occasions Renaud had always dealt frankly, +never promising marriage nor any other thing, but simply +giving the fair one a present, a souvenir, a brass ring, or +a silk handkerchief—a <i>fichu</i> to pleat after the Arlesian +fashion, or a broad velvet ribbon for a head-dress; while +Rampal was treacherous, promised much and did nothing,—in +short, was nothing but <i>féna</i>, a good-for-nothing.</p> + +<p>So Rampal had borrowed Renaud’s horse with the +intention of bringing him back the same evening; but +that evening he had heard of a fête at Martigues and +had ridden away thither without worrying about Renaud.</p> + +<p>“He’ll take a horse out of his <i>manade</i>,” he said to +himself.</p> + +<p>Now, Audiffret, Livette’s father, had insisted that +Renaud should take Blanchet.</p> + +<p>“Take Blanchet,” he said. “I don’t like to have +our girl ride him. He’s a fine horse, but bad-tempered +at times. Finish breaking him for us. I want him to +run in the races at Béziers this year. Take him.”</p> + +<p>Happy to have Blanchet in the hands of “her dear,” +for so she already called Renaud in her heart, Livette, +who was fond of Blanchet, simply said:</p> + +<p>“Take good care of him.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>54]</a></span> +That was more than six months before.</p> + +<p>Rampal, who had caused considerable gossip meanwhile, +and of whom Renaud had heard more than once, +had not brought back the horse.</p> + +<p>Renaud did not lose his patience. Several times, +being informed that Rampal was in this or that place, +he had tried to find him, but had not succeeded.</p> + +<p>“I shall catch him some day!” said Renaud. “He +loses nothing by waiting.”</p> + +<p>He hoped that the fête at Saintes-Maries would bring +the rascal back.</p> + +<p>“He will come back with the thieving gipsies!” he +said; and he was not mistaken.</p> + +<p>Not for an empire would Rampal have missed making +the pilgrimage to Saintes-Maries. The rascal would have +thought himself everlastingly damned. It had been his +habit from childhood to come and ask forgiveness of his +sins from the two Marys and Sara the bondwoman, at +whom he did nothing but laugh in a boastful way, unable +to satisfy himself whether he believed in them or not.</p> + +<p>This year, being affiliated with the gipsies in matters +of horse-trading (every one knows that the gipsies, men +and women,—<i>roms</i> and <i>juwas</i>, as they say,—have a +profound acquaintance with everything connected with +the horse), Rampal had been a fruitful source of information +to them.</p> + +<p>By divers methods they had led him to talk about this +and that, about every one and everything. He had no +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>55]</a></span> +idea himself that he had told so many things. They +had questioned him, sometimes directly, taking him unawares; +sometimes in a slow, roundabout way; when he +was drunk, and when he was asleep. And his replies +had been pitilessly registered in the gipsies’ unfailing +memory—the wherewithal to astonish all Camargue.</p> + +<p>Rampal had not even been questioned by the gipsy +queen, who did not trust his discretion; she learned the +secrets of the province at second-hand.</p> + +<p>Once only had he spoken to her. It was one evening +when the beggar queen began to dance for her own +amusement on the high-road, to the music of her tambourine, +which she hardly ever laid aside.</p> + +<p>“You are beautiful!” he said to her.</p> + +<p>“You are ugly!” she replied, quickly, in a contemptuous +tone.</p> + +<p>“Give me the ring on your finger,” said Rampal, +“and I’ll give you another.”</p> + +<p>She glanced with a gleaming eye at her fantastic ring +of hammered silver, then at the insolent Christian, and +said:</p> + +<p>“A sound cudgelling about your loins is what I will +give you, dog, if you don’t leave me!”</p> + +<p>And she spat fiercely at him as if in disgust.</p> + +<p>Rampal, somewhat abashed, abandoned the game.</p> + +<p>This woman had a way of looking at people that +disconcerted them. You would say that a sharp, threatening +flame shot from her eyes. It penetrated your +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>56]</a></span> +being, searched your heart, and you were powerless +against it. She fathomed your glance, but you could +not fathom hers—which, on the contrary, repelled you, +turned you back like a solid wall. And, at such moments, +she would stand proudly erect, her head thrown +slightly back, her whole body poised, at once so sinuous +and so rigid, that she might have been compared to a +horned viper standing on his tail, fascinating his prey +and preparing to spring.</p> + +<p>“I can’t explain, Jacques, how that woman frightened +me,” said Livette to Renaud. “My blood is still +running cold!—She threatened me! And when that +crown of thorns fell at my feet—Holy Mother!—I +thought I was going to faint!”</p> + +<p>“If I meet her,” Renaud replied, “she’ll find she +has some one to settle with!”</p> + +<p>“Let the heathen alone, Jacques! It isn’t well to +have aught to do with the devil.”</p> + +<p>But the drover loved a fight, and he longed for nothing +so much as to fall in with Rampal and Zinzara, the +gambler and the queen of the cards; “a pair of gipsies, +a pair of thieves,” thought Renaud.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>57]</a></span></p> + +<h2><a name="chap07" id="chap07"></a>VII<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smlfont">THE MEETING</span></h2> + + +<p>The gipsy queen was the first of the two he met.</p> + +<p>Renaud, mounted on Blanchet, was riding along the +beach toward Saintes-Maries.</p> + +<p>The sea was at his right; at his left, the desert. He +was riding through the sand, and from time to time the +waves rolled up under his horse’s feet, surrounding with +sportive foam the rosy hoofs rapidly rising and falling.</p> + +<p>Renaud was thinking of Livette.</p> + +<p>He looked ahead and saw the tall, straight, battlemented +walls of Saintes-Maries, and wondered whether +he would lead his little queen, dressed in white, and +crowned with flowers, to the altar there, or at Saint-Trophime +in Arles.</p> + +<p>He looked at the sea and wondered if nothing would +come to him from that source; if his uncle, captain of +a merchantman, who sailed on his last voyage so many +years ago, would not come into port some day with a +cargo of vague, marvellous things, a million in priceless +stuffs and precious stones? In the poor, ignorant fellow’s +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>58]</a></span> +imagination, the thought of a fortune was a vision of +legendary treasures, like those discovered in caverns in +the Arabian tales.</p> + +<p>For an instant, he seemed to see it with his eyes, to +see his vision realized in the dazzling splendor of the +boundless sea, that lay glistening in the sunlight, with +sharp, fitful flashes, like a mirror broken into narrow, +moving fragments of irregular shape. It was an undulating +sheet of diamonds and sapphires. The sun’s rays, +as he sank lower and lower toward the horizon, assumed +a ruddier hue as they fell obliquely upon the fast-subsiding +waves, and soon the water was like a sheet of old burnished +gold, moving slowly up and down; one would +have said it was a vast melted treasure beneath a polished +vitreous surface! At long intervals, a solitary +wave greater than its fellows fell with a dull roar upon +the beach, and ever and anon a cloud passed overhead; +and in the mist flying from the gold-tipped wave, in the +slow-moving shadow of the cloud, the water seemed a +deep, dark blue. The sun sank lower, and broad bright +red bands began to overshadow the bands of ochre, +amethyst, light green, pale blue, that rose one above +another on the horizon line. The changing sea was +now like a cloak of royal purple, with fringe of azure, +gold, and silver.</p> + +<p>On the desert side, the marshes likewise were changed +to vast floors carpeted with gorgeous drapery and rich +embroidery. Everything was ablaze with sparkles—sea, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>59]</a></span> +sand, and salt. At intervals, a red flamingo rose from +among the reeds, flew heavily along, seeming to carry +on his side a little of the ruddy hue of sky and sea,—then +lighted on the brink of the gleaming water.</p> + +<p>The gulls were like white dream-birds in this enchanted +country. They sat in lines, like brooding +doves, on the crests of the waves in the offing, or on +the hot sands, or on the surface of the ponds.</p> + +<p>And, down in the northwest, Renaud was looking for +the high, square terrace of the Château d’Avignon, for +Livette sometimes went up there to see if she could +not spy Blanchet and her dear Renaud’s straight spear +somewhere in the plain.</p> + +<p>Suddenly Renaud checked his horse and gazed fixedly +at a black object moving on the surface of the water, +rising and falling with the motion of the waves, some +two hundred feet from shore.</p> + +<p>He thought he could descry a woman’s head; a head +covered with dripping black hair and surrounded by a +copper circlet, from which depended glistening Oriental +medallions.</p> + +<p>The gipsy was swimming, disporting herself in the +waves, which, coming from the deep sea, rose and +fell slowly and at long intervals. She glided through +them like a conger-eel, happy in the sensation caused by +the gentle lapping of the salt water caressing her flesh. +Her movements were undulating, like those of the waves +themselves; she writhed and twisted like seaweed tossed +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>60]</a></span> +about by the surf. Now and then a heavier, higher wave +would come upon her. She would turn and face it, put +her hands together in a point above her lowered head, +as divers do, plunge into the broad wave horizontally, +and cleave it through from front to rear.</p> + +<p>From his horse, Renaud watched the dark head emerge +on the other side of the swelling wave, which, as it +approached the shore, curled over with whitening crest, +broke upon the beach in snowy foam and spread out +over the sand, beneath and all about him, in shallow, +transparent, overlapping streams, all studded with sparks. +He could not see the swimmer’s body distinctly. Its +fleeting outlines could scarcely be made out beneath the +clear, transparent water, ere they were blotted out again +by the undulations and reflections.</p> + +<p>Suddenly the swimmer turned toward the shore, apparently +gained a footing, and, raising one arm out of +the water, motioned to Renaud to be gone, shouting:</p> + +<p>“Go your way!”</p> + +<p>But he, who had thus far watched her with curiosity +and with no feeling of anger, was irritated by those +words. Certainly he had forgotten none of Livette’s +grievances against the gipsy. Not a week had passed +since her threatening visit to the Château d’Avignon. +But, in that beautiful evening light, Renaud’s heart felt +at peace, and he had recognized the gipsy queen without +emotion. It may be that curiosity was dominant in +his heart, and urged him toward this mysterious being, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>61]</a></span> +surprised in her bath, in the utter solitude of the desert at +evening; the curiosity of a traveller to examine a strange +animal, of a Christian to investigate a heathen woman. +“Go your way!” This command, hurled at him from +afar by a woman’s voice, wounded him in that part of +his heart where the memory of the gipsy’s threat against +Livette was stored away.</p> + +<p>“Ah! it’s you,” he cried, “you, who go about and +stand in doorways to frighten young girls when they +happen to be left alone! who tell lies and play monkey-tricks +to make them give you what they refuse to give! +Don’t let it happen again, thief! or you’ll find out how +the pitchfork and the goad feel!”</p> + +<p>The insulted queen was absolutely convulsed with furious +rage. If she had been near the drover, she would +have jumped straight at his throat, as the serpent straightens +itself out like an arrow and darts at its prey. She +felt that she grew pale, a shiver ran through her whole +body, and swaying a little, like the adder about to +spring, with her head thrown slightly back, she walked +toward the horseman—but how far away he was!</p> + +<p>“Aha!” he cried, “you are coming near to hear +better! Come on, you heathen, come! I will explain +it all to you!”</p> + +<p>As he remembered how the woman had threatened +Livette, his wrath rose within him. They were not +Christians, these Bohemian creatures, but thieves, bandits, +one and all. Why, it was said that they ate human +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>62]</a></span> +flesh, child’s flesh, when they could find nothing better. +If that were not true, how would they have whole quarters +of bleeding flesh in their kettles so often? Ah! a +race of wolves, of accursed foxes!</p> + +<p>“Come on!” he cried again.</p> + +<p>She came on, but not without difficulty, having to +force her way step by step through the resisting waves. +Her shoulders were not yet visible, and she was accelerating +her speed by using her arms under the water. +She could have made the same distance more quickly +by swimming, but she did not even think of that. She +was thinking of something very different!</p> + +<p>Renaud mechanically cast his eye along the shore, +behind him, and saw, a few steps away, the gipsy’s +clothes lying in a heap out of reach of the waves,—and +her tambourine on top of them; then he looked around +once more at the woman coming toward him. The +water was now up to her armpits, and not until then +did he see that she was entirely naked.</p> + +<p>Her bust slowly emerged from the water. At a hundred +paces from the shore, the water reached only to her +knees. She was beautiful. Her slender, well-knit body +was very youthful. She stood very erect, and seemed as +if she were going into battle without any thought of +shame. She had been assailed: she was rushing at her +assailant, that was the whole of it. Her fists were +clenched, her arms slightly bent, her head still thrown +back a little. Her whole attitude was threatening. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>63]</a></span> +The water was rolling down in glistening pearls from +her neck to her feet, over every part of her swarthy, +bronzed body. Her swelling chest seemed to be put +forward, as if it were ready, like a magic buckler, to +receive the blows that would be powerless to injure it.</p> + +<p>The drover sat still in speechless amazement. He gazed +at the approaching woman, who, as he saw her, springing +from the water, surrounded by white foam, with her unusual +coloring, appeared to him like a supernatural being.</p> + +<p>What was she there for? She came forward, boldly +aggressive; and her witch’s mind was revolving many +evil schemes, no doubt.</p> + +<p>Did she not bend over a moment, as if to pick up +pebbles from beneath the water, with which to stone her +enemy? Was she not holding them now in her clenched +fists. No: the sands of Camargue stretch very far beneath +the water, sloping very gradually, and not the tiniest +pebble meets the swimmer’s bare foot.</p> + +<p>What was she doing then?</p> + +<p>And now she was close beside the horseman, whose +curiosity constantly increased. But he had ceased questioning +himself. He simply stared at her, stupefied and +enchanted.</p> + +<p>He followed her with his eyes, fascinated, forgetting +his spear resting upon his stirrup, forgetting his horse, +forgetting everything.</p> + +<p>And now she was within three paces of him, standing +perfectly straight, insolent in her whole bearing, in +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>64]</a></span> +every undulation of her figure, looking him in the +face, with eyes from which a steely flame shot forth, +and which no other eye could penetrate. And as she +presented her profile to him for a second, he had a +swift, hardly conscious thought that the lower part of +the face—from below the nostrils to the base of the +chin—resembled the head of the lizard of the sand, +and the turtles and snakes of the swamp. There was +the same vertical line, broken by thin, slightly-receding +lips, whence he expected to see a forked, vibrating +tongue come forth, as in a dream of the devil.</p> + +<p>But this impression was but momentary, and he saw +naught but the woman, young, fair, unclothed, seemingly +offering herself voluntarily to his savage lust, in +the security of that deserted shore, amid the plashing +of the waves, in the fresh breeze blowing from the +sea, and the evening sunlight, which, with the salt +water, coursed in streams over the whole lovely body.</p> + +<p>Dazzled, blinded, drunken with the waves of blood, +which from his heart, whither it had rushed at first, +suffocating him and making him waver in his saddle,—now +poured back to his brain, suffusing his face and +bull-like neck with red,—he was about to leap down +from his horse, or perhaps to stoop over only, snatch +up the creature—a mere feather in his hands—by +strength of wrist, and centaur-like carry her away <i>en +croupe</i>,—when she, more prompt to act, darted forward, +stretching out her arms, and with her left hand seized +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>65]</a></span> +and pulled back with all her strength the double rein +of Renaud’s horse, making him rear and fall back. +And with her right hand she struck the creature’s face!</p> + +<div class="figcenter ipadtop" style="width: 385px;"> +<a name="horse" id="horse"></a> +<img src="images/king03.jpg" width="385" height="600" +alt="Zinzara throws herself at Renaud's horse" /> +</div> + +<div class="figcenter smlpadt" style="width: 122px;"> +<img src="images/head02.png" width="122" height="25" +alt="Chapter 7" /> +</div> + +<p class="caption">He saw naught but the woman, young, fair, unclothed, +seemingly offering herself voluntarily to his savage +lust, *** when she, more prompt to act, darted +forward, stretching out her arms, and with her left hand +seized and pulled back with all her strength the double +rein of Renaud’s horse, making him rear and fall back.</p> + +<p>“Go, dog! go and tell your people that a woman has +revenged herself upon you and has struck the horseman +on his horse’s face! Coward! Vile neat-herd! Go +and tell it to your sweetheart! Go, tell her that when +I struck you, you knew not what to do or say!”</p> + +<p>There was no wrath left in Renaud; he had no feeling +but fear mingled with amazement. The woman’s +performance seemed to him in very truth surprising, +diabolical. In coloring, bearing, expression, and audacity, +she was the sorceress to the life. A strange terror +took possession of him. Perhaps he would have gone +astray gaily, without remorse, with any other than this +ill-omened gipsy, who terrified him. He was especially +alarmed for Livette. He felt that she, and he himself +with her, were threatened by some mysterious, obscure +disaster; and the thought of being unfaithful to her +filled him with dismay, as the beginning of the end. +He was afraid of himself; afraid, for Livette, of this +unforeseen, inexplicable creature, who rose up before +him, challenging him to contend with her, for what?—Thus, +malignity and hatred brought the woman to him +as love would not have done!—He was bewildered. +He simply waited till his rein should be let go, ready to +start off at a gallop, feeling no longer in his heart the +wrath a man must feel in order to ride down any woman, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>66]</a></span> +though she were a witch, and trample her beneath his +horse’s feet, at the risk of killing her.</p> + +<p>But why was he no longer angry? Because his eyes, +against his will, followed every movement of that body +with its weird beauty,—the body of an enemy.</p> + +<p>“You would like to fly like a coward, would you?” +she suddenly cried. “You shall not go until I choose!”</p> + +<p>Profiting by the horseman’s open-mouthed stupor, she +had seized with her teeth a hanging end of the lasso that +was coiled about the horse’s neck, and with the assistance +of one hand—the other still holding the rein—had +swiftly passed it about the nostrils and tied it in +a cruel knot. With a fierce pull upon this instrument +of torture, she held the beast fast just where she wished +him to be.</p> + +<p>“You must wait until your comrades pass!” she said. +“They must see a bull-tamer tamed by a woman!”</p> + +<p>“Upon my word,” thought Renaud, “that would be, +as she says, a very absurd thing!” And he drew his +horse back a little, thinking he might release him, but +the horse stretched out his head and neck, balked, +dropped his tail, and stiffened his four legs, as if he +were tied to a wall. The gipsy did not stir. She +laughed, showing an unbroken set of small, white, +pretty, formidable teeth.</p> + +<p>“Take care!” said Renaud at last, “I am going to +ride my horse upon you!”</p> + +<p>“I defy you to do it!” she replied tranquilly.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>67]</a></span> +She saw with her unerring glance signs of confusion +in the drover’s eyes: the charm was working! Through +a mist he now gazed upon this woman, whose captive he +was, by virtue of a burning curiosity already closely akin +to love. She smiled.</p> + +<p>This lasted some time. At last, Renaud felt that his +wits were leaving him. To remain faithful to Livette, +whom he could not betray with the very woman upon +whom he had promised to avenge her, he must not dismount +from his horse, for as soon as he put his foot +to the ground he would have become the stronger of +the two! To remain faithful he must have courage to +remain vanquished in this struggle of beauty against +strength. And he waited.</p> + +<p>She surprised the drover glancing for an instant +toward the moor.</p> + +<p>“Aha! you are afraid some one will see you, coward! +but never fear! Every one shall know what has happened +to you, all the same. I will take care of that! +Some day you shall come and tell me what your pale-faced, +white-blooded blonde had to say to it!”</p> + +<p>Humiliated at being forced thus to obey a woman, but +rendered wavering and weak by the physical delight she +caused him to feel, he remained where he was! His +horse, as he irritated without maddening him, tried +several times to free himself, but without success. Renaud +looked on. Slight, supple as a tiger’s whelp, +active and strong, and accustomed to contend with +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>68]</a></span> +horses, the gipsy, still holding the cruel cord in her left +hand, had seized the long mane and wound it about her +right hand, and when the horse reared, she being thus +made fast to him, allowed herself to be raised from the +ground, standing erect upon the tips of her rigid toes—or +else she would twine her feet about the rider’s leg, +clinging to him as the polypus clings, with its tendons to +the rock, and laughing always, with a wicked, obstinate, +triumphant air.</p> + +<p>“You shall never be rid of me again!”</p> + +<p>At last, becoming more and more alarmed, he came +to have a horror of her, as of a poisonous insect, seen +in a dream, a spider or a dragon-fly, that follows you +obstinately, or of an adder that conceives a strange, +almost human hatred for you, persists in following your +footsteps, with unwearying patience, and becomes an +object of terror, despite his puny size, because of his +supernatural tenacity.</p> + +<p>And in very truth the fierce resolution, the malevolent +perseverance, the demoniacal obstinacy of the woman, +protected as she was by her beauty and her weakness, +were terrifying.</p> + +<p>But the play of the muscles, causing that gleaming +flesh, now moist with perspiration, to throb and undulate, +aroused the man’s interest, in spite of everything, +and pleased him more and more. Desire awoke +in him. And instantly he refused to accept his defeat, +and rebelled.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>69]</a></span> +“Look out!” he cried, and he urged his horse forward, +driving his spurs into his sides; but the beast, +held fast by the nostrils, gave but three leaps and then +stopped short, breathing fire. Poor Blanchet, who was +used to his young mistress’s caresses and sweetmeats! he +was learning now to know woman’s true nature.</p> + +<p>At last, the gipsy released her double prey.</p> + +<p>“Go! you have looked at me enough!” she suddenly +exclaimed.</p> + +<p>Renaud gazed at her an instant longer, without speaking +or moving. The strength and chaotic character of +his temptations held him fast there for another moment. +So this extraordinary experience (which would never be +repeated!) was ended at last!—Mad thoughts, each clear +enough in itself, but confused by their great number, +jostled one another in his brain. Why had he not +sooner put an end to this conflict? What would people +say of him when it was known? How could it be that +he, the king of the moor, had not stooped to pick up +this joy?—But Livette?—ah, yes! Livette!</p> + +<p>He buried his spurs in Blanchet’s flanks, and the beast +flew away toward Saintes-Maries.</p> + +<p>The gipsy stood on the shore a long while, looking +after the fugitive. She smiled. She reviewed in her +mind the varying fortunes of the battle, and gauged the +extent of her victory. She recalled, one by one, to enjoy +them to the full, the thoughts that had passed through +her mind when she was wading toward the shore.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>70]</a></span> +She had not premeditated her assault, as she made +it—her first idea had been to pick up some stones and +throw them at Renaud’s head, being an adept in the +art. But she could find none. So she had continued +her forward movement, not knowing what she would +do, but certain that she must do something to punish +the insolent Christian.</p> + +<p>But when she felt the cool air blowing upon her bare +breast, she had said to herself in her mysterious language, +full of cabalistic words and images, that if a saint +had been able to recompense a boatman—her good +friend—simply by revealing to him her beauty all unclothed, +a heathen might, by similar means, chastise a +brutal drover; for love is the magician’s herb, the bitter-sweet, +the plant with two savors, balm and poison at +once; and woman is bitter as the salt sea water, frightful +as death,—her hands are chains stronger than iron, +and her whole being is as much to be dreaded as an +army!</p> + +<p>Could not she, brown as she was, almost black beside +the white-skinned blondes, domineer over the pale-faced +Livette’s lover, if she chose? Indeed, what more need +she do, to make him unfaithful to his fair fiancée, than +show herself to him, and could she not do it without +seeming to intend it? As she had, beyond question, been +insulted by this Christian, she could pretend to forget +her nudity in her wrath, and thus attack him with that +same nudity!—No, no, there was no need of philters, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>71]</a></span> +magic incantations, or fires lighted at night when the +moon is young, under tripods on which marsh-water, +filled with snakes, is boiling—no need of such things to +bewitch this fellow! She would come forth from the +water, naked and lovely as she was, and the devil, at +her command, would do the rest! What were the +stones she might throw at a young man, compared with +the power that exhaled from herself? Yes, therein +lay the charm of charms. She knew it,—being a witch +like every other woman! Lust for her body was what +she would throw at him like an evil destiny; with +that she would poison his life—and then, she would +calmly watch the ravages of the poison.</p> + +<p>And so she had come forward, small but formidable—the +queen! She knew also that in former times, in the +days of pagan Europe, an immortal goddess had issued +from the sea, had sprung forth, fair and naked, like +a marvellous flower, and, standing on the blue waves, +her feet resting in a shell of mother-of-pearl, had long +held sway over men—before the reign of Jesus Christ.</p> + +<p>Renaud, turning in his saddle, saw the gipsy standing +there, still naked, waving her arms in the sunlight, as if +she wished still, from afar, to hold Livette’s betrothed +spellbound and fascinated by her beauty.</p> + +<p>The sun disappeared below the horizon, and the naked +woman’s figure, even more mysterious in the gathering +twilight, was outlined in black against a coppery red sky.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72"><!-- blank page --></a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>73]</a></span></p> + +<h2><a name="chap08" id="chap08"></a>VIII<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smlfont">ON THE BENCH</span></h2> + + +<p>From Saintes-Maries, whither he went to ask how +many bulls he was expected to bring on the day of +the fête, Renaud rode away at once to the Château +d’Avignon.</p> + +<p>He was in haste to see Livette once more, and sitting +by her side to forget the scene of the afternoon, to which, +despite his efforts, his mind constantly reverted.</p> + +<p>A ride of four or five leagues and he reached his +destination.</p> + +<p>Livette and her father and grandmother were sitting +just outside the farm-house, enjoying the fresh air on the +stone bench against the façade of the château, among +the old climbing rose-bushes which frame the windows +above with their bunches of green leaves interspersed +with flowers.</p> + +<p>This was also one of the favorite resorts of our lovers, +who liked to have above their heads the perfumed foliage, +to which one of the nightingales from the park +often came to sing.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>74]</a></span> +“Ah! good-evening, Jacques.”</p> + +<p>“Good-evening, all.”</p> + +<p>“What brings you so late? You have dined, of +course?”</p> + +<p>“I ate some anchovies at the Saintes——”</p> + +<p>“They’re good for nothing but to give you an appetite. +Would you like something else? you have only +to speak.”</p> + +<p>“Thanks, Master Audiffret. I’ll just go and look +after Blanchet in the stable and then come back. I +won’t go to the <i>jass</i> to-night. I’ll sleep in the hay-loft +with the horses.”</p> + +<p>Master Audiffret, with his pipe between his lips, rose +and followed Renaud as far as the door of the stable, +and from there watched him rub down his horse.</p> + +<p>“Whenever you please, Master Audiffret, you can take +him back for Livette. I don’t find any faults in him; +far from it. He is a good horse, and very gentle.”</p> + +<p>“He is quiet with you because you tire him out, you +see; but she didn’t use him every day, not by any +means; I am always afraid for her. If she takes a +fancy to ride him sometimes, you can lend him to her, +and take the first horse that comes along for yourself. +By the way, I hope you will soon have your Cabri +again. Somebody saw Rampal yesterday in Crau. He +was riding your horse, so he hasn’t sold him, at all +events. It’s fair to suppose he means to bring him +back to you.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>75]</a></span> +“Oh! I will go to meet him,” said Jacques, “for +as to thinking he will bring him back to me—oh! no; +he would have done that before now!—Can you tell me, +Audiffret, where Rampal was seen yesterday?”</p> + +<p>“Between Tibert’s farm and Icard’s in Crau. Right +there, as you know, in the middle of a bog, is a hut +you can only get to by a plank walk built on piles and +covered by the water—you can only tell where it is, +when you know the place, by stakes sticking up at intervals +the whole length of the walk. I have an idea he +means to go in hiding there, the beggar, like the deserter +who went there to pass his time of service——”</p> + +<p>“Aha! he has gone to the Conscript’s Hut, has he? +Very good; I will go to see him there, never fear!” +said Renaud.</p> + +<p>Blanchet, having been well rubbed down, was grinding +the good lucern between his teeth. Renaud went out +of the stable, and with Audiffret sat down beside Livette +and the grandmother.</p> + +<p>All four kept silence for a long moment. Nothing +could be heard but the unceasing, melancholy +croaking of the frogs, and beneath it, but indistinguishable, +the dull murmuring of the two Rhônes and +the sea.</p> + +<p>The sky was swarming with innumerable tiny stars, +which seemed to answer the various noises of the palpitating +moor; and, just as the waters of the Rhône, +after it rushes into the blue ocean, pursue their own +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>76]</a></span> +course for a long while therein, unmingled, without losing +their earthy color; so the Milky-Way, made of a dust +of stars, pursued its course, easily distinguishable, through +the ocean of starry worlds.</p> + +<p>Renaud had a feeling of constraint.</p> + +<p>When he joined his fiancée, he did not feel all that he +ordinarily felt—a joyful impulse to run to meet her, a +sort of oppression at the pit of the stomach, a sudden +delicious rush of the blood to the throbbing heart!—And +Livette, too, so soon, was conscious of a vague +inexplicable feeling at the bottom of her heart that +something was wrong. There was something between +them! Indeed, he had, for the first time, something to +conceal from her; and, thinking that it might, that it +must be apparent, he suddenly said:</p> + +<p>“I am not well to-night.”</p> + +<p>“Look out for the fever!” said Audiffret. “I know +it is not as frequent or as dangerous as it used to be, +but you must be on your guard, all the same! Be on +your guard, and take the remedy. Up in the pharmacy +of the château are the registers of the time the land was +first exploited—the time when the Château d’Avignon +people were gaining a little arable land from the swamps +every day. Why, men went to the hospital, fifteen, +twenty a day. And such doses of quinine, my children! +It is all written down in the <i>Livre de Raison</i> up +there. In those days, all the farms hereabout had the +same kind of a book, called by the same name, just as +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>77]</a></span> +sailors have a log-book. Those were the days of good +order and gallantry. The peasant-women in those days +didn’t try to copy Parisian bourgeoises,—eh, grandmamma?—by +wearing dresses that didn’t suit them, +instead of the old-fashioned gowns that made them +attractive because they were so becoming.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” sighed the grandmother, “this is the age of +pride, and my time has gone by.”</p> + +<p>That is the common remark of all our old peasants.</p> + +<p>“People didn’t read so many newspapers in those +days,” continued Audiffret, “they didn’t worry so much +about the affairs of the whole world, and every man paid +much more attention to his own affairs. Things went +better for it. Landowners lived on their estates and +raised families, instead of going to Paris and dying +there, of pride or debt or something else. The <i>Livre +de Raison</i> up yonder describes our ancestors’ battles +with the swamps and the fever. The pharmacy is still +in good order, with the scales and the jars in the pigeon-holes, +under the dust. And the book tells everything, +diseases and deaths. To-day, hardly any one dies of the +fever in our neighborhood. It is dying out. The dikes +and canals have done good service, and this Cochin +China of France, as that sailor called it that I took to +see the Giraud rice-fields, this Camargue of ours is as +healthy to-day as Crau!—However, be on your guard, I +tell you, and take the remedy! don’t wait till to-morrow; +Livette will give you what you need. Now, I am going +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>78]</a></span> +to bed. Stay up a little longer, young people, if you +choose. Are you coming, grandma?”</p> + +<p>“No, I’ll stay out a moment longer with the young +folks,” said the old woman.</p> + +<p>Audiffret knocked the ashes out of his pipe against +the corner of the bench, and having put it in his pocket, +went up to bed.</p> + +<p>Silence reigned upon the bench.</p> + +<p>The grandmother was tired and sleepy: every little +while she would raise her head as if suddenly awakened,—then +it would begin to fall forward again, slowly, +slowly——</p> + +<p>“A heavy dew is falling,” observed Livette, suddenly.</p> + +<p>“Yes, demoiselle.”</p> + +<p>“See!” said she ingenuously, holding out her arm so +that he could feel the dampness on the sleeve of her +dress. But he did not put out his hand. He was not +all Livette’s that evening, as usual. Strangely enough, +she did not frighten him that evening. He was not, as +usual, overcome with diffidence in her presence. She +no longer dominated him. And he was angry with +himself. He suffered. He realized that his thoughts +were more frequently busied with the memory of the +day than with his sweetheart, who was sitting so near +him.</p> + +<p>“What are you thinking about?” said Livette, who +had had her eyes upon him for a moment past, as if she +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>79]</a></span> +could see his face distinctly, although they were sitting +in the shadow. Beyond question, she felt that his +thoughts were elsewhere. There is nothing more subtle +than a lover’s divination.</p> + +<p>“I am thinking,” said Renaud, a long minute after +the question, “about my horse, which I propose to take +back from Rampal to-morrow if he can be found in +Camargue or Crau.”</p> + +<p>“And then?”</p> + +<p>“And then?” he repeated—“I was thinking of the +Conscript’s Hut, where he is at this moment, perhaps,—in +hiding.”</p> + +<p>“And of what else?” Livette insisted.</p> + +<p>“Oh! how do I know! of the fever—of all we have +just been saying——”</p> + +<p>“Alas!” said the maiden, “and not at all of me, +Renaud? do you not think of me any more?”</p> + +<p>Her voice was sad.</p> + +<p>He shuddered, and the movement did not escape the +little one’s notice. It seemed to him, as Livette uttered +that reproach, that he saw the gipsy again as he had +seen her in the afternoon, standing before him, near at +hand, all naked and so brown! as if she were accustomed +to pass her days naked in the sun, and were +tanned from head to foot by his rays. And how lithe +and sinewy the wild creature was! A genuine animal, +a little Arabian mare, of much finer breed than the +Camargue stock. Alas! for too long a time, through +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>80]</a></span> +fidelity to his fiancée, he had been as virtuous as a girl, +and now the hot-blooded fellow’s continence was taking +its revenge upon him, a cruel revenge, arousing mad, +amorous longings that were not for Livette. And so his +very respect for her—poor child!—turned against her!</p> + +<p>“Jacques?” said Livette, in the hardly audible tone +the sentiment of love imparts to the lover’s voice, a soft, +veiled tone, heard by the heart rather than by the ear.</p> + +<p>Renaud did not hear her. He <em>saw</em>.—He saw the +gipsy as plainly as if she were there before him, even +more plainly. In the darkness of the night, her body, +brown as before, seemed luminous, like an opaque substance +giving forth a pale light. Her naked figure, +obscure and bright at the same time, was standing motionless +before his eyes—then it moved—and he fancied +that he saw the gipsy bathing in the phosphorescent +water peculiar to the summer months,—when swimmers +cause a cold, liquid light to dart hither and thither +through the dark water, following and marking the +outlines of their forms, from which it seems to radiate.</p> + +<p>“Have I the fever?” he said to himself.</p> + +<p>As if in answer to the unspoken question, Livette +took his hand. She felt it from wrist to finger-ends, +to see if it were dry and hot.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said she, “you must look out; father was +right, you have a touch of fever. Come up and find +the medicine.”</p> + +<p>“Come on,” said he, glad of the diversion.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>81]</a></span> +“Come,” she repeated, “but move softly: grandma +has fallen asleep!”</p> + +<p>The old lady was asleep, as she said. She was leaning +against the wall, perfectly motionless. The white +handkerchief, tied in the Arlesian fashion, instead of +covering her <i>chignon</i> only, enveloped almost her whole +head, allowing two tufts of coarse, white hair, all in +disorder, to protrude, like mist, on each side of her face.</p> + +<p>She was asleep, her mouth partly open, a ray of light +shining through upon her teeth, which were still beautiful.</p> + +<p>They left her there.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82"><!-- blank page --></a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>83]</a></span></p> + +<h2><a name="chap09" id="chap09"></a>IX<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smlfont">THE PRAYER</span></h2> + + +<p>Livette opened the farm-house door, which creaked +loudly in the resonant emptiness of the spacious stone +staircase.</p> + +<p>She lighted the lamp, which was hanging on a nail, +and they went up-stairs together, she absorbed by thoughts +of him, and he of her, but no longer in their accustomed +condition of affectionate embarrassment.</p> + +<p>He held the iron lamp, hanging at the end of its +hooked stick; and to relieve his conscience, to do his +duty as a lover, and perhaps in that way to change the +current of his thoughts, perhaps to set at rest the amorous +anxiety with which he was assailed,—to force himself +to return, heart and soul, to Livette, and, who +knows?—so hard to fathom is man with his background +of devil!—perhaps, with her and unknown to her, to +satisfy to some extent the passion kindled by the other—for +all these reasons together, more inextricably mingled +than the twigs of the climbing rose-bushes, he said to +himself: “I will kiss her!” He had never done that +thing,—except in the presence of the old people,—but +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>84]</a></span> +the Renaud of that evening was not the Renaud +of other days, in his feeling for Livette. The powerful +leaven of his wild nature was swelling his veins to bursting. +In very truth, he had the fever,—at all events, a +species of fever. All his nerves were overstrained; in his +eyes, even the most indifferent objects wore an unusual +look. And in Livette he saw, in spite of himself, reproaching +himself bitterly therefor, things which ordinarily +he refused to see. And as, being always dressed +in the Arlesian fashion, she wore the <i>fichu</i> of white +muslin crossed upon her breast so low as to afford a +glimpse, beneath the gold chain and cross, of the white +throat, above the meeting of the stiff folds, laid neatly +one upon another, his passionate gaze fell upon that +spot, amid the modest arrangement of muslin, prettily +called “the chapel.”</p> + +<p>In his left hand was the lamp, which he held shoulder-high, +and as far away as possible, to avoid the drops of +oil,—and he wound his right arm about Livette’s waist +as she placed her hand upon the iron rail.</p> + +<p>At every step they climbed, he felt the play of the +muscles of his fiancée’s youthful frame, imparting to +the arm about her waist a soothing languor that ran +through his whole being,—and yet his heart did not +rejoice thereat; and he realized that, ordinarily, if the +end of the velvet ribbon in Livette’s head-dress touched +his face, it caused a sweeter thrill of pleasure in his +blood, and more than all else, a pleasure which there +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>85]</a></span> +was no mistaking. And, thereupon, he grew vexed with +himself as for a failure of duty, he was oppressed by a +presentiment of disaster, vague but inevitable. And +she felt more and more keenly the rebound of his emotions. +She was conscious that her peace of mind was +endangered. Something certainly was against her. The +arm, which had sometimes been about her waist as now, +no longer seemed to be her lover’s arm, but a mere ordinary +man’s. She suffered, and did not understand. The +look she saw in his eyes was a strange look from him, +without affection, without pity even. She knew him +well, honest Renaud, her promised husband, and yet she +was afraid of him as of a stranger!</p> + +<p>All these thoughts passed very quickly through their +minds, the more quickly because they were simply conscious +of them, and did not stop to try to analyze +them. The all-powerful human electricity, less known +than the other variety, was playing its game, impossible +to follow, in their hearts, with its vast net-work of currents +and connections. In these two creatures of instinct, the +ever-recurring prodigy of love, of natural affinity—of +the sympathies and their opposite—was seen once more, +as mysterious, as marvellous, as profound as ever. So +far as nature is concerned, there are two beings: man +and woman; there are no subdivisions. At the basis +of humanity, all life is the same, all passion is the same. +The student of the higher races labors incessantly to +perfect his reasoning and his powers of expression, but +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>86]</a></span> +there is more overflowing, complicated life in the heart +of his ignorant brother than in the heads of the philosophers, +who, by dint of self-analysis, have lost the +faculty of emotion. They who deem themselves most +skilful in discovering the real man in themselves, do not +perceive that they pervert the secret impulses of their +hearts by keeping too close a watch upon them. The +light of their miner’s lamp changes the psychological +conditions, just as constant light would modify the physiological +condition of human beings and plants. And, +meanwhile, love and death repeat, in the eternal darkness +of their simple hearts, their unwitnessed miracles.</p> + +<p>They had reached the landing on the first floor—as +large as an ordinary room. At the last step, Renaud, +almost lifting Livette to the landing, tried to draw her +to him, but she was seized with an impulse to resist, and +he with a sudden impulse to resist himself; separately, +the two impulses would have had no effect; but combined, +they exerted sufficient force to place an obstacle +between them, as if by mutual consent. That force was +the witchery at work.</p> + +<p>As they did not exchange a word, their embarrassment +increased.</p> + +<p>Hastily, to escape the constraint each imposed upon +the other, she ran to the door at the right and entered. +And he, well pleased to be able to do or say something +to bring them nearer together, called out:</p> + +<p>“Wait for the light, Livette! I am coming.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>87]</a></span> +But Livette had suddenly remembered the gipsy’s +threat. “It is fate,” she said to herself, “I see it +now!” And she felt herself grow pale.</p> + +<p>Then she had an inspiration.</p> + +<p>“Follow me, Renaud.”</p> + +<p>They passed through rooms where furniture of the +time of the Empire was sleeping beneath its covers, +and the long hangings falling from the ceiling in broad, +stiff folds, and withered, as it were, by time; rooms +seldom visited by the master, but kept in order by +Livette and her grandmother.</p> + +<p>At last, Renaud and Livette reached an apartment with +bare, whitewashed walls, once used as a chapel.</p> + +<p>A wooden altar, entirely devoid of fittings and ornament, +stood at one end of the room. Before the white +and gold door of the tabernacle the sacred stone was +missing, leaving a square hole in the wood-work of the +altar.</p> + +<p>But Livette opened a broad door flush with the wall. +It opened into a closet in the wall. When the door +was thrown wide open, they could see, below a shelf +about level with their heads, chasubles and stoles hanging +straight and stiff—with great crosses in heavy gold +embroidery—suns from which the dove came forth; +and mystic triangles, and <i>Agnus Deis</i>. Among all the +others were vestments for use in mourning ceremonies,—black, +with bones and executioners’ ladders, hammers +and nails, in heavy white embroidery; and—to Livette’s +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>88]</a></span> +amazement—there, in the centre of a stole, on silk as +black as night, was worked a crown of thorns in silver, +which, in the lamplight, seemed to emit bright rays.</p> + +<p>On the shelf, above all these priestly vestments—which +were arranged with the backs outward, hung in such +fashion that you seemed to be looking at the priests +standing at the altar—on the shelf, between the goblet +and the pyx, shone the consecrated host, a radiant sun, +mounted upon a pedestal like a candelabrum; and in +the centre of its rays was a gleaming circle of plain +glass, which also reflected, in fantastic guise, the flame +of the lamp.</p> + +<p>“Kneel, Renaud!” said Livette. “Prayer is the +cure for what is happening to us. Kneel and let us +pray!”</p> + +<p>The drover obeyed. He understood that Livette’s +purpose was to exorcise fate.</p> + +<p>She prayed in silence fervently. He, marvelling, +unwonted to the attitude of prayer, and striving to keep +himself in countenance, looked from time to time at +the lamp he held in his hand, raised it to get a better +view of the ecclesiastical treasures, and, diverted for +the moment, by constant effort, from the perplexity that +weighed upon his heart, he was the more wretched when +his mind suddenly reverted to Livette.</p> + +<p>Thereupon he said to himself that she certainly had +guessed the truth; that there was, in fact, a spell upon +him, and, in his heart, he implored the merciful God of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>89]</a></span> +the Cross, the mystic triangle, the symbolical bird and +lamb, to come to his aid.</p> + +<div class="figcenter ipadtop" style="width: 392px;"> +<a name="stairs" id="stairs"></a> +<img src="images/king04.jpg" width="392" height="600" +alt="Livette and Renaud walk up the dark staircase" /> +</div> + +<div class="figcenter smlpadt" style="width: 108px;"> +<img src="images/head03.png" width="108" height="25" +alt="Chapter 9" /> +</div> + +<p class="caption">In his left hand was the lamp, which he held shoulder-high, +and as far away as possible, to avoid the drops of +oil,—and he wound his right arm about Livette’s waist +as she placed her hand upon the iron rail.</p> + +<p>“Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who +trespass against us!” Livette suddenly exclaimed, aloud, +thinking of the gipsy.—“O God,” she added, “we +promise Thee that on Saintes-Maries Day, which is near +at hand, we will each carry three tapers to their church, +and wait, until they are so far consumed, one after the +other, in their honor, that our finger-tips are burned!”</p> + +<p>Then she rose—but before they left the room, they +closed the unpretentious double door upon the objects +of a dead cult, left in the darkness of abandonment—the +goblet without wine, the pyx without bread, and the +consecrated host, whose polished metal case held naught +within.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90"><!-- blank page --></a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>91]</a></span></p> + +<h2><a name="chap10" id="chap10"></a>X<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smlfont">THE TERRACE</span></h2> + + +<p>He was well aware that he needed no fever medicine, +and that his fever did not come from the swamps.</p> + +<p>She said no more about the drug, but as they stood +on the landing and he was preparing to descend, she +said:</p> + +<p>“Suppose we go out on the terrace?”</p> + +<p>Livette wished to prolong the tête-à-tête, to ascertain +if, after her prayer, she would find <em>her</em> Renaud in him +once more.</p> + +<p>He placed his lamp on the floor at the top of the +staircase, and, pushing open the door just above the last +step, they both stood on the terrace that overlooks the +whole château.</p> + +<p>A square terrace, and in the centre the great bell lay +upon its side in its iron cage—the great bell, three feet +in diameter, that in the old days called to work as well +as to prayer, and when it rang the Angelus caused the +fever-haunted farm-laborers to fall upon their knees on +the brink of the miasmatic bogs.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>92]</a></span> +Both of them, one after the other, mechanically struck +the bell with their foot, as it lay there on its side. It +gave forth a short, plaintive note, quickly stifled by +contact with the flag-stones. It was like the sigh of a +mystery-haunted soul.</p> + +<p>With hearts as sad as the bell, they leaned on the +stone parapet in presence of the night.</p> + +<p>Livette and Renaud loved each other, but affection +was no longer enough for him. The sap of the spring-time, +boiling in his veins in lustful desire, gave birth, in +Livette’s heart, to sweet flowers of reverie.</p> + +<p>The swarming of the stars above their heads was +beyond comprehension. They were as many as the +gadflies and frogs in the desert, or the waves of the sea. +They seemed to open and half close, like flowers in a +meadow, waved to and fro by a light, quickly-passing +breath, like eyelids making signs.</p> + +<p>They seemed to have something to say, to move like +lips speaking a living language, telling of something of +great moment that must be known at once—but no +sound coming from them reaches the ears of men, +for human hearing is not keen enough. Nor is the +human sight keen enough to see that the dust of +the Milky-Way (pale as the pollen of flowers) is also +made of stars. Though men have seen it with a different +sight, afforded by man’s inventive genius, that sight +is powerless to pierce farther and deeper—to learn all +there is to know.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>93]</a></span> +Moreover,—and Renaud himself had heard the story +from the shepherds who pass the winter in Camargue +and Crau, and spend their nights in summer counting +the stars upon the summits of the Alps,—there are, in +space, beyond the skies visible to our eyes, fires alight so +far away from us, so far away that their light, now on its +way toward our earth, will not reach us for centuries +to come. The men who follow us centuries hence will +see twinkling stars that even in our day were lighted +and making signs we could not see. And in those days +ideas, which are already kindled in men’s minds, and +are seen to-day by none save those in whom their light +is shed, will shine for all, and one of them will be, for +every mortal, the love and pity of the world.</p> + +<p>Certain it is, that neither Renaud nor Livette could +fathom those infinite depths; but from the vast expanse +of heaven, swarming with tiny lights, a nameless emotion +stole into their hearts, made up of all their hopes +to come.</p> + +<p>Future worlds, lovelier than this of ours, were dreaming +in them, with them.</p> + +<p>In them, too, because they were young and human, +there was a share in the future. In them, too, was the +responsibility for future lives. In them, too, lurked +the mystery of generations to be born, for whom a +single couple, surviving the wreck of the demolished +world, would be enough to bestow upon them the desire +to live and the power.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>94]</a></span> +A spark is the basis of all fire. A man and a woman +are the basis of all love. Infinity is no greater than +the number two. And that is why the great scholars, +who figure like Barrême, know no more of life and +the heart than Livette and Renaud—who knew nothing +at all.</p> + +<p>They knew naught save that they were alive and that +they wished to love each other and that they sought and +shunned each other at the same moment—but they did +not ask each other why. They said nothing. They +felt. They could not say to each other that rivalry and +jealousy, that is to say grief, serve the designs of nature, +whose purpose doubtless is, by arousing those emotions, +to quicken desire, so that creation may be assured by +outbursts of passion, and the future of mankind by the +imperious need of pleasure.</p> + +<p>What does the law care for the weak and the vanquished? +the strong alone, they say, it wishes to perpetuate.</p> + +<p>Pity and justice are human inventions, and will never +triumph until they have been slowly assimilated by the +human mind to the matter of which it is made.</p> + +<p>They suffered, they longed for happiness—beneath +that mystery-laden spring sky. They awaited the coming +of their joy, they summoned their every hope, and +they gazed at the dark horizon, at the desert, where +the tracts of sand shone like mirrors among the dark +reeds, and the ponds glistening with salt between the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>95]</a></span> +black lines of tamarisks. They gazed upon the boundless +expanse in which they seemed lost, and where, +nevertheless, they felt that they alone were an epitome +of everything; they listened, without hearing them, to +the unending noises of the island,—the murmuring +of the water, the rustling of the reeds, the waving +foliage, the growling of wandering beasts, the distant +roaring of two rolling rivers and a restless sea;—and +this combined voice of the whole island formed a +fitting accompaniment, by reason of the extent and +number of the sounds that composed it, to the silent +twinkling of the stars, that no one hears.</p> + +<p>There was in the park, invisible to them at that hour, +a foreign tree, on which the flowers could be seen, by +daylight, opening with a slight noise. They sometimes +amused themselves by watching that tree, said to have +come from Syria. A slight report, as if muffled, and a +tiny cloud, of very powerful odor, would issue from the +bursting cell. The tree continued, during the night, to +send out its dust of passions in quest of prey, and its +strange perfume was wafted upward to the lovers.</p> + +<p>They trembled with joy at the slightest contact with +each other. Ah! if she could but have given him, on +that beautiful May evening, all the love his lusty youth +demanded; if he could but have felt her clinging lips +melt beneath his burning ones, upon that lofty terrace +overlooking the rounded tops of the huge trees in the +park, beneath that dark star-spangled sky, doubtless his +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>96]</a></span> +little betrothed would have remained sole mistress of his +heart!</p> + +<p>But there were too many obstacles between Livette +and Renaud; and as he struggled virtuously to keep +away from her, his thoughts flew off to the other.</p> + +<p>And Livette was already conscious of the heartache +of the deserted lover. All the broad expanse of level +country that her eyes knew so well, and that she felt +about her in the darkness, suddenly seemed empty to +her, a desert in very truth, and thereby to resemble her +own heart. And softly, silently, she began to weep,—whereupon +one of the great farm dogs, her favorite, +who had been seeking her in every direction, came up +to her and licked her hand as it hung at her side.</p> + +<p>And down yonder, far down above the dark line of +the sea, Renaud, meanwhile, fancied that he saw a +naked woman’s form emerge from the water, and await +his coming, suspended in mid-air, or standing on the +surface of the waves.</p> + +<p>“Livette! Livette!”</p> + +<p>It was the grandmother’s voice calling.</p> + +<p>They went down without exchanging a word.</p> + +<p>“Good-night, Monsieur Jacques,” said the maiden.</p> + +<p>“Good-night, mademoiselle,” Renaud replied.</p> + +<p>So they called each other monsieur and mademoiselle +that night, and, a moment after they had parted, Renaud +took his horse from the stable in perfect silence, and +rode away.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>97]</a></span> +His heart did not tell him that Livette, at her window, +watched him depart, her eyes filled with tears.</p> + +<p>“Where is he going?”</p> + +<p>She followed for a moment with her glance the luminous +point (the reflection of a star upon the head of the +drover’s spear) dancing about in the darkness among +the trees like a will-o’-the-wisp,—and when that spark +went out, she no longer saw the stars.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98"><!-- blank page --></a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>99]</a></span></p> + +<h2><a name="chap11" id="chap11"></a>XI<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smlfont">THE HIDING-PLACE</span></h2> + + +<p>Whither he was going he had no idea. He rode at +random under the spur of the energy that was rampant +within him, demanding to be expended.</p> + +<p>Love guided him as he himself guided his horse. He +was the rider of his own steed, and at the same time the +accursed steed of the passion that impelled him, spurred +him on, shouted to him: “Forward!” guided this +way and that, without purpose, his mad race across +the moor. He, too, was mounted, harassed, bridled, +whipped, bit in mouth, raging and powerless. And the +horse shared the mad humor of his master, who was +under the spell of love, so that Blanchet, wearied +though he was by his day’s labor, having had but a very +brief rest, was wild with excitement none the less. Fortunately, +he knew all the ditches and canals and bogs, +and, in his rapid flight with the reins lying on his neck, +he chose his own road. Sometimes he would slacken +his pace on approaching a ditch, in order to walk down +into it, head first, compelling his rider to stand in his +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>100]</a></span> +great stirrups, with his back touching the croup: sometimes +he leaped them at full speed.</p> + +<p>Drunken, bareheaded,—his hat having blown away +somewhere in the darkness,—the wind whistling through +his hair, Renaud rode, for the sake of riding, because +the violence of his pace corresponded to the violence +of the passions that were raging within him. He tore +along as a beast does in the rutting season, from its mad +desire to be alone.</p> + +<p>And he said to himself that it was abominable to +think of the other, when he had for his own that flower +of beauty, chastity and sweetness; but he was thirsting +for something very different; and he was conscious +of an intensely bitter taste in his mouth, a clinging, +dry saliva, a moisture that made his thirst the more +unbearable.</p> + +<p>Powerless to devise a means of escape from all the +evil impulses in his heart, he rode on confessing to two +longings: either to meet Rampal and take vengeance +upon him for everything, or else to fall over backward +into a ditch and rise no more, thus giving a different +turn to his evil destiny;—and a third longing which he +did not admit even to himself: to meet the gipsy at +daybreak, begging at the door of some farm.—And +then?—He did not know!</p> + +<p>Suddenly he thought that he heard a beating of hoofs +behind him, the echo of his own gallop; he turned and +saw—he saw in very truth!—pursuing him at full speed, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>101]</a></span> +the naked gipsy, sitting firmly astride her saddle, man-fashion, +upon a shadowy horse whose feet did not touch +the ground.</p> + +<p>She flew through the air, laughing in mockery as she +cried to him:</p> + +<p>“Stop, coward!”</p> + +<p>He said to himself that it was not real, but he did not +say to himself that it was a vision; he thought: “It is +witchcraft!” and fear seized upon him, fear as powerful +as his desire, and he fled from the image of her he sought.</p> + +<p>He turned to look no more; he fled. He heard the +double gallop still: his own and the other’s. He rode +through the transparent mist that hovered over the damp, +salt sand; and as he cut through those crawling clouds +it seemed to him as if he were riding through the sky, +above the higher clouds. In very truth, his brain was +wandering, for love will be obeyed, and his youthful +passion was like insanity.</p> + +<p>Suddenly Blanchet’s four legs, as he flew over the +ground, became motionless and rigid as stakes, and his +shoeless feet began to slide over an absolutely smooth +surface of clay, hard as iron and as slippery as if it had +been soaped. Swiftly the horse slid along, digging furrows +with his hoofs upon the polished surface, and when +he lost his acquired momentum, he stopped, tried to +resume his former pace, raised one foot and fell heavily +to the ground, exhausted, his mouth and nostrils breathing +despair.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>102]</a></span> +In an instant, Renaud, leaning on his spear, which he +had not let go, stood at his horse’s head, struggling to +lift him up, and encouraging him with his voice. Blanchet, +supported by the rein in his master’s hand, regained +his feet after two fruitless slides.</p> + +<p>Renaud looked about: there was nothing to be seen +save darkness, the desert, the stars,—tatters of pallid +mist that strayed hither and thither, as if clinging to +a bush, a tamarisk, a clump of rushes,—and assumed, +from time to time, the shape of fantastic animals.</p> + +<p>Renaud mounted Blanchet once more, but he was +moved to pity for him. And the horse, sometimes letting +himself slide upon his shoeless feet, his four legs +perfectly stiff, sometimes putting one foot before the +other, testing the ground, which was firm and hard +beneath his weight, but soft beneath his sharp, scaly +hoof, carried him at last away from the clayey tract.</p> + +<p>Pity and remorse at once were awakened in Renaud’s +heart by Livette’s horse.</p> + +<p>What right had he, the drover, to ruin the favorite +steed of his darling fiancée in the service of his passion +for a witch?</p> + +<p>So Renaud dismounted, removed Blanchet’s saddle +and bridle, and said to him: “Go! do what you will.” +Then he cut a bundle of reeds with which he made himself +a bed, and lay upon his back, with his saddle under +his head and a handkerchief over his face, waiting for +dawn.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>103]</a></span> +He fell into a heavy sleep, during which his trouble +swelled and burst within him, forced its way out, and +took on form and feature.—The same vision constantly +returned.</p> + +<p>When he awoke, two hours later, he found his cheeks +wet with tears and his hands over his face. Then he +took pity upon himself, and, having begun to weep in +his dream, he let the tears flow freely that he would +have forced back had they sought an outlet on the +previous day.</p> + +<p>He deemed himself a miserable wretch, and wept over +his fate, at first madly, convulsively, and then with joy, +as if, in weeping, he had poured out all his sorrow forever. +He wept to think that he was caught, powerless, +between two contrary, irreconcilable things: that he +wished for the one, and thirsted, against his will, for the +other. He beat his hands upon the ground; he tore his +cravat, which strangled him; he ground the reeds with +his teeth, and cried aloud like a child,—he, an orphan:</p> + +<p>“O God! my mother!”</p> + +<p>And he would have wept on for a long while, perhaps, +and emptied the springs of bitterness in his heart, had he +not suddenly felt a warm caress—two soft, warm, moist +caresses upon his cheek, his forehead, his closed eyes.</p> + +<p>He half opened his eyelids and saw Blanchet standing +beside him, touching his face with his pendant lip as he +used to touch Livette’s hand when in search of a bit of +sugar.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>104]</a></span> +Another animal had imitated Blanchet; it was the +<i>dondaïre</i>, Le Doux, the drover’s favorite, the leader of +his drove of wild bulls and cows, whose bell he had not +heard, but who had recognized his master.</p> + +<p>The compassion of these two dumb animals aggravated +Renaud’s bitter grief at first. Like children, who begin +to howl as soon as you sympathize with them, he, when he +found he was so wretched as to arouse the pity of beasts, +cried aloud in his heart, but stifled the cry at his throat; +then, touched at the sight of their kindly faces, and distracted +thereby from his own thoughts, he became suddenly +calm, sat up, put out his hand toward the muzzles +of the powerful yet docile creatures, and spoke to them:</p> + +<p>“Good fellows, good fellows! oh! yes, good fellows!”</p> + +<p>Day began to break. And the great black bull and +the white horse, both, as if in answer to the man and in +answer likewise to the first gleam of returning day, +which sent a thrill of delight over all the plain, stretched +out their necks toward the east; and the neighing of the +horse arose, loud and shrill as a flourish of trumpets, +sustained by the bass of the bull’s bellowing.</p> + +<p>Instantly a chorus of neighs and bellows arose on all +sides of Renaud. His free drove had passed the night +in the neighborhood. He was surrounded by the +familiar forms of his own beasts.</p> + +<p>They came at the call of Blanchet and Le Doux and +the drover’s voice. The mares were white as salt. +Some of them came trotting up, some galloping, some +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>105]</a></span> +followed by their foals; and passed their heads between +the reeds, peered curiously in, and stood there,—or else, +with a cunning air, set off again, as who should say: +“There’s the tamer, let us be off!” And there was a +great kicking and flinging of heels away from the man’s +side.</p> + +<p>Some bulls, thin, nervous black fellows, whipping +their sides with their long tails, also came up, took +alarm, remembering that they had been punished for +some shortcoming, and, turning tail, decamped in the +same way, and when they were out of sight, suddenly +stopped.</p> + +<p>But as the <i>dondaïre</i> remained there, few of the horses +and cattle left the spot.</p> + +<p>Some, the oldest or the wisest, slowly assumed a kneeling +posture, as if to resume their interrupted repose, +then, scenting the approaching sun, wound their tongues +about the tufts of salt grass, drew them into their mouths +and chewed placidly, while the silvery foam fell from +their muzzles.</p> + +<p>Others, in the same posture, lazily licked their sides. +A mother, nursing her calf, watched him with a calm, +gentle eye.</p> + +<p>Here a stallion drew near a mare, reached her side in +two bounds, with tail in air and bristling mane, and +bold, sonorous, trumpet-like call—then reared, and when +the mare leaped aside, bit at her and with a sudden +sidewise movement dodged the kick she aimed at him.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>106]</a></span> +More than one bull, too, paid court to the other sex, +rose clumsily on his hind legs, only to fall again on his +four feet, with nothing beneath him.</p> + +<p>The awakening of the drove was not complete. The +animals were still dull and heavy. They were awaiting +the coming of the sun.</p> + +<p>Renaud approached a half-broken stallion he had +sometimes ridden, and threw over his neck the <i>séden</i> he +had just coiled for that purpose—Livette’s <i>séden</i> and +Blanchet’s, all stained with mud from having brought so +many beasts to earth.</p> + +<p>He gave sugar to the wild creature, who allowed himself +to be saddled without overmuch resistance, desirous, +perhaps, to enjoy for a day the abundant supply +of hay in the stables of the château, which he had not +forgotten.</p> + +<p>“Go and rest, old fellow!” said Renaud to Blanchet.</p> + +<p>And he set off on his fresh steed, spear in hand, with +the idea of seeking Rampal.</p> + +<p>The stallion he rode was his favorite, the one he had +named Prince. And he felt a thrill of honest satisfaction +as he said to himself that at all events Livette’s horse +would not have to put up with his whims and follies +as a lover any more. He felt highly pleased at that +thought, being lightened of a threefold responsibility, as +rider, drover, and lover.</p> + +<p>Prince seemed disappointed when Renaud compelled +him to turn his back on the Château d’Avignon.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>107]</a></span> +He rode in the direction of the cabin mentioned by +Audiffret. It was very possible, after all, that Rampal +had taken up his quarters there, and he proposed to find +out. Now, as this cabin was, as we have seen, not in +Camargue, but in Crau, not far from the Icard farm, between +nine and ten leagues to the eastward, it was necessary +to cross the main stream of the Rhône. But, in that +vast plain, men rode long distances for a <em>yes</em> or a <em>no</em>, and +thirty or forty kilomètres had no terrors for Renaud.</p> + +<p>From his present position, it seemed to him that his +shortest road would be to skirt the southern shore of the +Vaccarès.</p> + +<p>The cool, fresh morning air drove away all his black +thoughts, his visions and nightmares; he felt something +like tranquillity. Moreover, he was so overdone with +weariness that he seemed half-asleep, and the feeling +was delicious. He no longer had the strength to follow +his thoughts, still less to guide them, so that he was submissive +as a blade of grass, as any inanimate thing, to +the passing breeze, to the sun’s rays.</p> + +<p>The hour and the coloring of the earth and sky were +in very truth enough to rejoice the heart, and physical +gaiety took possession of him, as he had ceased to +reflect.</p> + +<p>A fresh breeze, smelling of the sea, sent a shiver over +the water and the grass. The sun was rising. A moment +more and he would appear to cast his net of gold +horizontally over the plain. He appeared. The vague +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>108]</a></span> +murmurs became distinct sounds; reflection changed to +brilliant light, drowsiness to activity.</p> + +<p>Renaud, who was galloping along with his spear resting +in his stirrup, his head leaning heavily on the arm that +held it and his eyes closed, under the influence of the +rocking motion of the horse, suddenly reopened them, +and looked about with the joyous glance of a king.</p> + +<p>He paused a moment to gaze at a huge plough drawn +by several horses, which was transforming a wretched +stony field into cleared land ready for the vine.</p> + +<p>The phylloxera, which has done so much harm in rich +and healthy districts, affords Camargue a new opportunity +to fight the fever and to gain ground on the +swamp. The sand is, in fact, very favorable to the vine +and very unfavorable to the parasitic insect, and this +watery country will gradually become, please God, a +genuine land of the vine!</p> + +<p>Renaud watched the ploughman with a feeling of +delight at the thought of his native country being +enriched by honest toil; and with a confused feeling +of regret, too, for he preferred that the moor should +remain uncultivated and wild and free. The idea of a +flat plain, tilled from end to end, where no room was +left for the straying feet of horses as God made them—that +idea saddened him.</p> + +<p>He would always say to himself as he rode through +more civilized regions: “Now there, you know, a man +can neither live nor die.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>109]</a></span> +The fields of wheat or oats, even in the summer +season when they have such a lovely reddish tinge, so +like the overheated earth, so like the turbid, gleaming +waters of the Rhône, had no attraction for him. They +gave him the impression of an obstacle that he must +ride his horse around, and Renaud did not recognize +the respectability of any obstacle—except the sea!</p> + +<p>He was more inclined to look favorably upon the +vine, because it seemed to him that it was a glorious +thing for his country to produce wine, just at the time +when other districts in France had exhausted their producing +power. And then, the Rhône, the <i>mistral</i>, +horses, bulls, and wine, all seemed to him to go together, +as things that told of holiday-making, of manly +strength and courage and joy. They knew how to +drink, never fear, did the men of Saint-Gilles and Arles +and Avignon. Renaud had attended wedding-parties +more than once on the island of Barthelasse in the +middle of the Rhône, opposite Avignon, and there he +had tasted a red wine whose color he could still see. It +was an old Rhône wine, so they had told him, and he +remembered that, being desirous to do honor to the +wine as well as to the bride, and being a little exhilarated, +he had solemnly thrown his cup into the +Rhône after the last bumper. There are, at the bottom +of the Rhône, many such cups, dead but not broken, +from which joy was quaffed but yesterday. They go +gently down, turning over and over, through the water +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>110]</a></span> +to its sandy bed. There they sleep, covered with sand, +and two or three thousand years hence—who knows?—the +venerable scholars of that day will discover them, as +they are discovering amphoræ of baked earth at Trinquetaille +to-day, and now and then beside them a glass +urn, wherein all the colors of the rainbow chase one +another about as soon as its robe of dust is removed.</p> + +<p>Who can say that Renaud’s brittle glass, from which +he drank the best wine of his youth, will not remain for +ages full of the sand and water of the Rhône, and that—in +days to come—other youths will not find therein the +same delight? For everything begins anew.</p> + +<p>Thus did the wanderer’s thoughts wander from point +to point, from vine to glass. Ah! that glass of his, +thrown into the Rhône! His mind recurred once more +to that memory of a debauch. It seemed to him now, +that, by throwing it into the river on the wedding-day, +he had foretold his own destiny, and that he, Livette’s +fiancé, would never be married! He would drink no +more from the discarded glass.</p> + +<p>The first impulse of delight that came to him with +the newness of the morning had already passed; his +sadness had returned as the day lost the charm that +attaches to a thing just beginning.</p> + +<p>Dreaming thus, Renaud rode across the marshes, +Prince splashing through the water up to his thighs.</p> + +<p>Yes, my friends, he forgave the vine, did Renaud, for +invading Camargue.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>111]</a></span> +Moreover, after the harvest was gathered, did not the +red and white vineyards afford excellent pasturage for +the bulls? There are some that are all red in the +autumn, and others all white, or of a light golden +yellow—as if the vines had amused themselves by reproducing +the two colors of the wine under the gorgeous +sunsets. He has seen nothing who has not seen the +beams of the setting sun, in November, now yellow as +gold, now red as blood, spreading over a field of red +vines, over a field of yellow vines, which themselves +spread out as far as the eye can reach. Indeed, is not +Camargue the home of the <i>lambrusque</i>? The <i>lambrusque</i> +is the wild, Camarguese vine, different from +our cultivated vines in that the male and female are on +separate plants. The grapes that grow on the female +<i>lambrusque</i> make a somewhat tart but pleasant wine, +and the shoots of the vine make light, stout staves for +the hand.</p> + +<p>Arrived at Grand Pâtis, Renaud swam the Rhône +three times, from Camargue to Ile Mouton, from Ile +Mouton to Ile Saint-Pierre, and from Ile Saint-Pierre +to the mainland.</p> + +<p>He was now in the swamps of Crau, a stony desert +adjoining Camargue, which is a desert of mud.</p> + +<p>To the eye these two deserts seem to join hands +across the Rhône. From Aigues-Mortes to the pond +of Berre is a pretty stretch of flat country, my friends, +and the sea-eagle, try as he may, cannot make it less +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>112]</a></span> +than twenty good leagues in a straight line! And that +is the kingdom of King Renaud.</p> + +<p>Camargue has its saltwort, its grain and plantains and +burdocks, growing in small clumps, with sandy intervals +between; it has its <i>gapillons</i>, which are green rushes +split into bouquets, with thousands of sharp points finer +than needles; and here and there tamarisk-trees; and, +on the banks of the two Rhônes, great elms, so often +cut and hacked to procure wood to burn, that they +resemble huge caterpillars sitting erect upon their tails, +their short hair bristling as if in anger.</p> + +<p>Crau is a land of naked plains and heather. It is, to +tell the truth, a veritable field of stones. They have +come, people say, from Mont Blanc, all the stones that +now lie sleeping there. The Rhône and the Durance +have borne them down, then changed their beds, after +having jousted together on the vast space at the foot +of the little Alps. From beneath the stones of Crau, +in May, there springs a rare, delicate plant, the <i>paturin</i>, +or dog’s tooth. The sheep push the stone away with +their noses and browse upon the slender stalks while the +shepherd stands and dreams in the wind and sun.</p> + +<p>But this stony Crau is farther away, beyond the pond +of Ligagnou, which skirts the river. Here, in the Crau +that lies along the banks of the Rhône, we are in the +midst of the marshes, which are dry during the greater +part of the year; some of them, however, are very +treacherous, and one should know them well.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>113]</a></span> +Renaud rode in a northeasterly direction, and soon +reached the neighborhood of the Icard farm.</p> + +<p>He drew rein.</p> + +<p>“Where is the hiding-place?” he muttered.</p> + +<p>And he tried with all his eyes to pierce the thick +underbrush of reeds, rushes, cat-tails, sedges, and bull-rushes, +springing from the midst of a deep bog. This +bog did not seem, to the eye, more formidable than +another, but the bulls and mares feared it and carefully +avoided it.</p> + +<p>On the surface of the water was what looked like a +thick crust of mouldy verdure. It was not, however, +the leprous formation of duck-weed that lies sleeping +on our stagnant ponds. It was a sort of felt-like substance, +composed of dead rushes, roots, twined and +twisted weeds, which made a solid but movable crust +upon the water, swaying beneath the feet that ventured +upon it, ready to bear their weight for a moment and +ready to give way beneath them.</p> + +<p>This crust (the <i>transtaïère</i>) was broken with fissures +here and there, through which the water could be seen, +dark as night, its surface flecked with transient specks +of light, gleaming like a mirror of black glass. Around +the edges, at the foot of the scattered tamarisks, grew +reeds innumerable in thick clusters, always rustling +against one another, and incessantly brushed, with a +noise like rustling paper, by the slender wings of the +dragon-flies with their monster-like heads.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>114]</a></span> +Many of these <i>canéous</i> bear white flowers streaked +with purple. As they rise above one another on the +long stalks, you would take them for the flowers of a +tall marsh-mallow. These reeds, with their long leaves, +remind one of the <i>thyrsi</i> of antiquity, left standing +there in the damp earth by bacchantes who have gone +to rest somewhere near at hand in the shade of the tamarisks, +or to abandon themselves to the centaurs. They +make one think, also, of the wand of the fable, which, +when planted in the ground, was at once covered with +flowers, and thereby had power over marriages.</p> + +<p>These <i>thyrsi</i> of the bog are reeds besieged by climbing +plants. The convolvulus fastens itself to the reed, +twines its arms about it, rises in a spiral course, seeks +the sunlight at its summit, and robes the long murmuring +stalk in brilliant and harmonious colors.</p> + +<p>The sharp leaves of the young reeds stand erect like +lance-heads. The older ones break off and fell at right +angles. The delicate, graceful foliage of the tamarisks +is like a transparent cloud, and their little pink flowers, +hanging in clusters that are too heavy for the branches, +especially before they open, cause the flexible plumes +of the gracefully rounded tree-top to bend in every +direction.</p> + +<p>Through the reeds and tamarisks Renaud sought to +discover the hut that he knew, and that Audiffret had +spoken of to him the night before. But he could hardly +distinguish the little inclined cross placed at the highest +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>115]</a></span> +point of the roof of all the Camargue cabins, which are +built of joists, boards, grayish mud (<i>tape</i>), and straw. +The cabin was formerly entirely visible from the spot +where he stood, but the reeds had grown so thickly on +the islet on which it was built, that they completely hid +it. The path leading to it was on the opposite side of +the bog. He must make a wide détour in order to reach +it, the bog <i>de la Cabane</i>, so called, being of a very +erratic shape.</p> + +<p>From the south side of the cabin he went around to +the north side. He no longer had the <i>transtaïère</i> in +front of him; but beneath the surface of the water, where +reeds and thorn-broom flourish, was the <i>gargate</i>, the +slime, wherein he who steps foot is quickly buried.</p> + +<p>There are many other dangers in these accursed bogs. +There are the <i>lorons</i>, a sort of bottomless well found +here and there under the water, the location of which +must be thoroughly understood. The mares and heifers +know them and are clever in avoiding them, but now +and then one of them falls in, and now and then a man +as well. And he who falls in remains. No time for +argument, my man! You are in—adieu!</p> + +<p>The drovers will tell you, and it is the truth, that from +every <i>loron</i> comes a little twisting column of smoke, by +which those mouths of hell can be located. A hundred +<i>lorons</i>, a hundred columns of smoke. There, my friends, +is something to dream about, is it not, when the malignant +fever, bred in the swamps, smites you on the hip?</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>116]</a></span> +Renaud was anxious to know if Rampal was occupying +the cabin, but not to attack him there, for it is a +treacherous spot. “If he is there, he will come out +some time or other. I will wait for him on the solid +ground. Ah! I see the path!”</p> + +<p>It was a winding path hiding under a sheet of shallow +water. The bed of the path was of stones, very narrow +but very firm, the right edge being marked, as far as the +cabin, by stakes at short intervals, just on a level with +the water.</p> + +<p>Renaud dismounted, and looked for the first stake, +holding his horse by the rein. Although he knew its +location, it took him some time to find it. With the end +of his spear he put aside the grass, and when he discovered +the stake, he felt for the solid road whose width +it measured. Bending over, he gazed long and very +closely at the grasses and the reeds, which met in places +above the concealed pathway, and when he rose he was +certain that it had not been used for some time.</p> + +<p>He was not mistaken. In truth, Rampal was a little +suspicious of that hiding-place, which was too well +known, he thought, and to which he could easily be +traced. He often slept in the neighborhood, ready to +take refuge in the <i>cul-de-sac</i>, if it should become necessary, +but he preferred, meanwhile, to feel at liberty, +with plenty of open space about him.</p> + +<p>Renaud remounted Prince, and crossed the Rhône +again an hour later.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>117]</a></span> +That night he lay in one of the great cabins which +serve as stables—winter <i>jasses</i>—for the droves of mares, +in those months when the weather is so bad that the +bulls can find no pasturage except by breaking the ice +with their horns.</p> + +<p>The next day, an hour before noon, he saw before +him the church of Saintes-Maries standing out like a +lofty ship against the blue background of the sea.</p> + +<p>Little black curlews were flying hither and thither +around it, mingled with a flock of great sea-gulls with +gracefully rounded wings.</p> + +<p>A cart was moving slowly over the sandy road.</p> + +<p>“Good-day, Renaud.”</p> + +<p>“Good-day, Marius. Where are you going?”</p> + +<p>“To carry fish to Arles.”</p> + +<p>Marius raised the branches which apparently made up +his load, but which were simply used to shade a dozen +or more baskets and hampers. Well pleased with his +freight, he put aside the cloth that was spread over his +treasure under the branches. Baskets and hampers were +filled to the brim with fish taken in the ponds and the +sea. There were mullet and bream, still alive, animated +prisms with mouths and gills wide open like bright red +marine flowers amid a mass of dark-blue, olive-green, +and gleaming gold. There were enormous eels, too, +caught for the most part in the canals of Camargue, +which are veritable fish-preserves.</p> + +<p>The dark-hued, slippery creatures twisted in and out, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>118]</a></span> +tying and untying endless slip-knots with their snake-like +bodies. By the livid spots upon some of the great eels, +Renaud recognized them as <i>murænæ</i>, possessors of voracious +mouths, well stocked with sharp teeth.</p> + +<p>“See how they all keep moving!” said Marius.</p> + +<p>At that moment, as if to justify his words, a great flat +fish flapped out of one of the baskets and fell to the +ground.</p> + +<p>With the end of his three-pronged spear the mounted +drover nailed him to the earth to prevent his leaping +into the ditch, filled with water, that ran along the +road.</p> + +<p>“Hallo!” said he in surprise, “isn’t that a cramp-fish. +When I spear one of them with my regular fish-spear, +which is longer than this three-pronged one, it +gives me a shock I didn’t feel at all to-day.”</p> + +<p>“That’s because the fish is in the water then, and +your spear is damp,” said Marius, laughing. “But let +the fellow stay there,” he added. “He isn’t worth +much. The snakes will have a feast on him.”</p> + +<p>Thereupon, horseman and fisherman went their respective +ways.</p> + +<p>The drover’s thoughts wandered from the cramp-fish +and the <i>murænæ</i> to the electric fish of America, of which +old sailors had spoken to him. They had told him that +it was charged with electricity like the cramp-fish, but +resembled the conger more in shape, and that it could, +with its overpowering current, kill a horse; in order to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>119]</a></span> +make it exhaust its stock of electricity, so that it can +safely be taken, it is customary to send wild horses into +the water against it; they receive the first shock, and +sometimes die from the effects.</p> + +<p>As he rode on toward Saintes-Maries, Renaud mused +in a vague way upon the miracles of life, which there +is naught to explain.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120"><!-- blank page --></a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>121]</a></span></p> + +<h2><a name="chap12" id="chap12"></a>XII<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smlfont">A SORCERESS</span></h2> + + +<p>Livette did not go to sleep. When Renaud had +passed out of sight in the darkness, she softly closed +her windows, and, throwing herself on the bed with her +face buried in the pillow, wept in dismay.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile,—while Livette was weeping and Renaud, +bewitched, was galloping over the moor, fancying that +he was pursued by the gipsy,—the gipsy herself was +asleep.</p> + +<p>The two beings whose lives she was beginning to +destroy were already suffering a thousand deaths, and +she, lying, fully dressed, under one of the carts of her +tribe, in their regularly pitched camp outside the village, +was sleeping tranquilly, her pretty, puzzling face smiling +at the stars of that lovely May night.</p> + +<p>When Renaud left her, at sunset, all naked on the +beach, she had slowly stretched her sun-burned arms, +taking pleasure in the sense of being naked in the open +air, of feeling the caressing breath of the sea-breeze +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>122]</a></span> +that dried the great drops of water rolling down her +body. Then, still slowly, she had dressed herself,—very +slowly, in order to postpone as long as possible +the renewed subjection to the annoyance of clothes, in +order to enjoy unrestricted freedom of movement, like +a wild beast.</p> + +<p>She had then walked along the beach, leaving the +imprint of her bare, well-shaped foot in the sand, covered +at intervals by a shallow wave that gradually washed +away the mark.</p> + +<p>The last kiss of the sea upon her feet, to which a bit +of sparkling sand clung, delighted her. She laughed +at the water, played with it, avoiding it sometimes with +a sudden leap, and sometimes going forward to meet it, +teasing it.</p> + +<p>She fancied that she could see, in the undulating folds +of the wavelets, the tame snakes which she sometimes +charmed with the notes of a flute, and which would +thereupon come to her and twine about her arms and +neck, and which were at that moment waiting for her, +lying on their bed of wool at the bottom of their box +in her wagon.</p> + +<p>She had already ceased to think of Renaud. She +was always swayed by the dominating thought of the +moment, never feeling regret or remorse for what was +past,—having no power of foresight, except by flashes, +at such times as passion and self-interest bade her exert +it. Her reflection was but momentary, by fits and starts, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>123]</a></span> +so to speak; and her depth, her power, the mystery that +surrounded her, were due to her having no heart, and, +consequently, no conscience.</p> + +<p>The men and women who approached her might hope +or fear something at her hands, imagine that she had +determined upon this or that course, and try to defeat +her plan; but she never had any plan, which fact led +them astray beforehand.</p> + +<p>She routed her enemies and triumphed over them, first +of all, by indifference; and then she would abruptly cast +aside her indolence, like an animal, at the bidding of a +passion or a whim, and would still render naught every +means of defence—her attack, her decisions, her clever +wiles, being always spontaneous, born of circumstances +as they presented themselves.</p> + +<p>No: she made no plans beforehand, in cold blood; +she never concocted any complicated scheme; but she +could, at need, invent one on the spur of the moment +and carry it out instantly, at a breath,—or perhaps she +would begin to execute it in frantic haste, and abandon +it almost immediately from sheer <i>ennui</i>, to think no more +of it until the day that some burst of passion should +suddenly bring it back to her mind.</p> + +<p>She was like a spider spinning its whole web in the +twinkling of an eye to catch the fly on the wing; or +she would spin the first thread only, and forget it until +something happened to remind her to spin a second.</p> + +<p>Thus constituted, she was at the same time better +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>124]</a></span> +and worse than other women, because she was more +changeable than the surface of the water,—because she +was of the color of the moment.</p> + +<p>Being a fatalist, the gipsy said to herself that whatever +is to happen, happens, and she had never taken the +trouble to devise a scheme of revenge. She would +simply utter a threat, knowing well that the terror +inspired by a prediction is the first calamity that prepares +the way for others, by disturbing the mind and +heart and judgment. And then, something always goes +wrong in the course of a year, collaborating, so to +speak, with the sorcerer, and attributed by the victim +to the “evil spell” cast upon him. It is upon him, in +reality, because he believes that it is. In short, if opportunity +offered, she would assist the mischievous propensities +of fate, with a word, a gesture, a trifle—and, +if opportunity did offer, it was because it was decreed +long ages ago, written in the book of destiny that so +it should be!</p> + +<p>A true creature of instinct, the gipsy had no other +secret than that she had none.</p> + +<p>She followed her impulses, satisfied her desire for +revenge, her love or her hate, without stopping to consider +anything or anybody; and, like the wild beast, +she, a human being, became an object of dread to +civilized people, as nature itself is. Such creatures +are implacable. The gipsy loved life, and lived as +animals live, without reflection. It was the paltry yet +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>125]</a></span> +profound mystery of the sphinx repeated. Her actions +were those of a brute, not far removed from the +lower types of mankind, notwithstanding her lovely +human face, in which the eyes, like Pan’s, not clear, +seemed veiled with falsehood because they were veiled +to their own sight with their own lack of knowledge, +their uncertainty and suspense. Look at the eyes of a +goat or a heifer. They are as deep as Bestiality, cunning +and strong, cowering in the shadow of the sacred wood. +Life longs to live. It is lying in ambush there. It is +sure of her and bides its time. The human beast not +only has more craft than the fox or tiger, but has the +power of speech as well. Nothing is more horrible +than words without a conscience.</p> + +<p>After all, Zinzara was always sincere, although she +never appeared so, because her versatility placed her +from moment to moment in contradiction with herself.</p> + +<p>The caress and the wound that one received from her +in rapid succession did not prove that she had feigned +love or hate. She did, in fact, love and hate by turns, +from moment to moment, or rather, without loving or +hating, she acted in accordance with her own fancy, +sincere in her contradictions—and very artlessly withal.</p> + +<p>She bore some resemblance to the ape, as it sits among +the branches, softly rocking its little one in its arms with +an almost human air, then suddenly relaxes its hold and +lets its offspring fall, forgotten, to the ground, in order +to pluck a fruit that hangs near by.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>126]</a></span> +She was a personage of importance in her own eyes, +and she saw nobody but herself at all times and under +all circumstances.</p> + +<p>The gipsy was formidable, as a spirit concealed in an +element whose slave it should be. She had the force of +a thunderbolt, of an earthquake, of any fatal occurrence +impossible to foresee or to ward off.</p> + +<p>The viper is not evil-minded. He does not prepare +his own venom. He finds it all prepared. Disturb +him, and he bites before he makes up his mind to +do it.</p> + +<p>Like the cramp-fish or the electric eel, the gipsy +could discharge a fatal current of electricity as soon as +you approached her,—by virtue of the very necessity of +existence. It might happen to her also to indulge in +the sport of exerting her malignant power around her, +for no reason, simply to watch its effects, because it was +her day and her hour, her whim.</p> + +<p>She had the same means of defence and amusement.</p> + +<p>It was not in her nature to be malignant. It simply +was not necessary for her to think of you, that was all. +As a matter of fact, a man was fortunate if she did not +look at him.</p> + +<p>Although born of a race that holds chastity in high +esteem, she was not chaste; not that she loved debauchery +above everything else, but she used it as a means +of domination,—the more unfailing because she made +little account of it. Always superior, in her coldness, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>127]</a></span> +to the passion she inspired, it was in that more than +all else that she really felt herself a queen, a sorceress—aye, +a goddess, by favor of the devil! The caress of +the water in which she bathed afforded her more pleasure +than it afforded others. She was like the female plant +of the <i>lambrusque</i>, which is fertilized by the wind.</p> + +<p>Like the mares of Camargue, that often assemble on +the shore to breathe the fresh sea air,—when she opened +her lips to the salty breeze, on those fine May evenings, +she was happier than any man’s kiss could make her. +The wandering spirit of her race breathed upon her lips, +in the air, with the freedom of the boundless waste—a +vague hope, vain and unending.</p> + +<p>Being thus constituted, she knew that she exercised a +disturbing influence upon others, and that she was herself +protected by something that relieved her of responsibility. +That thought filled her with pride. There was +a reflection of that pride in her smile. There was also +the constant remembrance of the sensations she had +experienced, known to her alone, and a certain number +of men, who knew nothing of one another.</p> + +<p>Their ignorance, which was her work, also made her +smile. And that smile was a mixture of irony and contempt. +She knew her own strength and their weakness. +So she was always smiling.</p> + +<p>With no other policy than this, she reigned over her +nomadic tribe, changing her favorite, like a genuine +queen, as chance or her own impulses willed, but giving +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>128]</a></span> +each one of them to believe that he was the only man +she had ever really loved, even if he were not her first +lover.</p> + +<p>To deceive the <i>zingari</i>—that was a notable triumph +for a <i>zingara</i>!</p> + +<p>Among the fifteen or twenty children in her party, +there was a young dauphin, the queen’s offspring; but +since he had left her breast, she had bestowed no more +care upon him than the bitch bestows upon her puppy +some day to become her mate.</p> + +<p>When she came near her camping-ground, excited by +her recent contact with the waves and the salt, which, +as it dried upon her, pressed against her soft, velvety +flesh, the gipsy, tingling with warmth in every vein, +cast a sidelong glance at one of the male members of +the tribe, a young man with a bronzed skin and thin, +curly beard.</p> + +<p>And, in the darkness,—when they had eaten the soup +cooked in the kettle that hung from three stakes in the +open air,—the <i>zingaro</i> glided to the <i>zingara’s</i> side.</p> + +<p>At that very moment, by her fault, two human beings +were suffering in the inmost recesses of their consciences, +where Livette and Renaud were gazing at each other +with eyes in which there was no look of recognition.</p> + +<p>The betrothed lovers, her victims, were struggling +under the evil spell cast upon them by her glance, at +the moment that that glance seemed to grow tender in +response to that with which her lover enveloped her, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>129]</a></span> +on the edge of the ditch, beneath the feeble light of +the stars.</p> + +<p>Renaud at that moment was dreaming that he had +seen the naked gipsy again and triumphed over her, +and was asking himself, at the memory of that robust, +youthful form, if she were not a virgin, even though a +child of the high-road; recalling confusedly a strange, +overpowering, absolute passion, the triumphal possession +of a new being, a heifer hitherto wild and vicious, +even to the bulls; of a mare that had never known bit +or saddle, and had maintained a rebellious attitude in +presence of the stallion.</p> + +<p>Renaud was dreaming all that, but Renaud no longer +existed for Zinzara.</p> + +<p>Zinzara, just at that moment, in the dew-drenched +grass, was writhing about like the legendary conger-eel, +that comes out of the sea to abandon itself to the labyrinthine +caresses of the reptiles on the shore.</p> + +<p>Two days Livette waited, wondering what was taking +place. Weary at last of seeking without finding, she +set out for Saintes-Maries on the morning of the third +day.</p> + +<p>“There,” she thought, “I may, perhaps, hear some +news.”</p> + +<p>Her father saddled an honest old horse for her use.</p> + +<p>“You must go to Tonin the fisherman’s at noon,” +said he, “and eat your <i>bouille-abaisse</i>. Send him word, +when you arrive, with a good-day from me.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>130]</a></span> +Livette, as she rode along, looked about her at the +peaceful green fields, joyous and bright in the light that +fell from the sky and the light that rose on all sides +from the water.</p> + +<p>The gnats danced merrily in the sunbeams. When +the gnats dance, they furnish the music for the ball with +their wings, and on calm days there is a sound like the +strumming of a guitar on the golden strings of light +over all the plain. There were also in the air long, +slender threads,—the “threads of the Virgin,” or gossamer,—come +from no one knows where, which waved +gently to and fro, as if some of the fragile strings of +the invisible instrument on which the little musicians +of the air perform, being broken, had become visible, +and were floating away at the pleasure of a breath.</p> + +<p>It may be that those threads came from a long distance. +It may be that the toiling spiders who patiently +spun them lived in the forests of the Moors, in Estérel. +A breath of air had taken them up very gently, and now +they were on their travels.</p> + +<p>Livette watched them floating quietly by, and thought +of a tale her grandmother had told her. According to +the grandmother, the threads came from the cloaks +spread to the wind as sails by the three holy women. +The wind, as it filled them, had unravelled them a little, +very carefully; and the slender threads, taken long ago +from the woof of the miraculous cloaks, hover forever +above the sands of Camargue, where stands the church +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>131]</a></span> +of the holy women.—Above the strand they hover night +and day, as so many tokens of God’s blessing; but they +are rarely visible, and if, by chance, on a fine day, you +do see them, it means that some great good fortune is +in store for you.</p> + +<p>In the transparent azure of the morning sky Livette’s +heart clung to each of the passing threads; but the child +tried in vain to acquire confidence,—her heart was too +heavy to remain long attached to the fleeting things. +She was afraid, poor child, and felt influences at work +against her that she could not see.</p> + +<p>Alas! while the golden threads floated over her head, +the black spider was weaving his web somewhere about, +to catch her like a fly.</p> + +<p>Still musing, Livette rode on, and could distinguish +at last, far before her, the swallows and martins soaring +above the steeple. They were so far away you would +have said they were swarms of gnats. And with the swallows +and martins were numberless sea-mews. This host +of wings, large and small, now dark as seen from below, +now bright and gleaming as seen from above, turned and +twirled and gyrated in countless intricate, interlacing +circles. Instinct with the spirit of the spring-time and +the morning, they were frolicking in the fresh, clear air.</p> + +<p>It occurred to Livette to ride by the public spring in +quest of news, for it was the hour when the women and +maidens of Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer go thither to procure +their daily supply of water.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>132]</a></span> +As she entered the village, she noticed the gipsy camp +at her right hand, but turned her head.</p> + +<p>At that moment, she met two women on their way to +the spring, walking steadily between the two bars, the +ends of which they held in their hands, and from which, +exactly in the middle, the water-jug was suspended by +its two ears.</p> + +<p>“It is just the time for the spring,” said Livette to +herself, and she followed them at a foot-pace.</p> + +<p>“Good-day, mademoiselle,” the women said as they +passed, for the pretty maiden of the Château d’Avignon +was known to everybody.</p> + +<p>There was as yet no one at the spring. The two +women waited, and Livette with them.</p> + +<p>“How do you happen to be riding about so early, +mademoiselle? Are you looking for some one?”</p> + +<p>“I am out for a ride,” said Livette, “and as it’s the +time for drawing water, I thought I would stop here a +moment. My friends will surely come sooner or later.”</p> + +<p>No more was said, and Livette, having nothing else +to do, looked closely for the first time at the carved +stone escutcheon in the centre of the high arched wall +above the spring. It is the town crest, and it is needless +to say that it includes a boat, a boat without mast +or oars, in which the two Maries—Jacobé and Salomé—are +standing.</p> + +<p>“I have often wondered,” said Livette, “why they +put only the figures of two holy women in the boat. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>133]</a></span> +For haven’t our mothers always told us there were three +of them? Were there three or not?”</p> + +<p>“Certainly there were three, my pretty innocent,” +said the older of the two women, “but Sara was the +servant, and no honor is due to her.”</p> + +<p>“If the third was Saint Sara, then there were not +three Marys, eh? But I have always heard it said that +the Magdalen was there, and that she went away from +here and died at Sainte-Baume.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, so she was, and many others besides! Lazarus +was in the boat, too, but when they were once on shore, +every one went his own way: Magdalen went to Baume, +and the two Maries and Sara remained with us. That +was when a spring came out of the sand, by the favor of +our Lord. When they built the church, they walled in +the spring in the centre of it.”</p> + +<p>“Faith, they would have done well to leave the spring +outside the church!”</p> + +<p>“Why so? is the water spoiled by it?”</p> + +<p>“It’s only good on the fête-day.”</p> + +<p>“After so many years! And there’s so little of it!”</p> + +<p>“We ought to have asked the saints to make it pure +and abundant. If we had all set about it with our +prayers, they would have done it for us.”</p> + +<p>“One miracle more or less!”</p> + +<p>“The miracles, my dear, are only for strangers.”</p> + +<p>“And that is just what we need, neighbor. If it +wasn’t so, you see, strangers wouldn’t come any more—and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>134]</a></span> +without them what would the country live on? poor +we! Where are our harvests? Where are our wheat +and our grain, good people, tell me that? If it wasn’t +for the saints, this would be a cursed country! One +fête-day a year, and the pilgrims—God bless them!—fill +our purses for us.”</p> + +<p>“Miracle days are only too few and far between. +We ought to have two fête-days a year!”</p> + +<p>“What are you saying, you foolish woman? Two +fête-days a year! Mother of God! That would mean +death to pilgrimages. To keep the custom going, everything +must be just as it is and nothing change at all. +Our men know that well enough. Remember the visit +the Archbishop of Aix and those great ladies paid us +twenty years ago.”</p> + +<p>And once more the story was told of the visit of the +Archbishop of Aix to Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer twenty +or thirty years before.</p> + +<p>On a certain 24th of May the archbishop arrived at +Saintes-Maries with several elderly ladies of the nobility +of Aix. But it so happened that that 24th of May was +the evening of the 25th! Anybody may be mistaken!—So +that, instead of being lowered at four o’clock, the +reliquaries were raised again on that day, and when +monseigneur entered the church with his fair companions, +it was good-by, saints! They had already been +hoisted up at the end of their ropes to the lofty chapel, +amid the singing of canticles.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>135]</a></span> +“Oh! well!” said the archbishop to the curé, “they +must come down again for us.”</p> + +<p>The curé was about to obey, but a rumor of what was +going on had already spread through the village!—Ah! +bless my soul, what a commotion!</p> + +<p>“What!” said the old villagers. “They would lower +the reliquaries on some other day than the 24th, would +they? Why, if it is such a simple thing and can be +done so often, why do you make the poor devils from +every corner of Provence and all the rest of the world +come hurrying to us on a special day? No, no, it would +be the ruin of the country, that is certain!”</p> + +<p>To make a long story short, the people of Saintes-Maries +took their guns, and under arms, in the church +itself, compelled the prince of the Church to respect the +sovereign will of the people of the town.</p> + +<p>And they did very well, for rarity is the quality by +virtue of which miracles retain their value.</p> + +<p>One of the women having told this anecdote, which +was perfectly well known to them all, they began, as +soon as she had finished, to make up for their long silence +by loud talk, vying with one another in their approval +of the villagers’ revolt against the bishops, who would +have abused the good-will of the two Maries.</p> + +<p>“We are very lucky, all the same,” said one of the +old women, “to have a good well with good stone walls +instead of the brackish spring the saints had to get their +drinking-water from. I can remember the time when +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>136]</a></span> +we got our water from the <i>pousaraque</i> (artificial pond), +as the people on our farms do to-day. The Rhône +water that was brought into them through the canals +was always so thick and muddy you could cut it with a +knife!”</p> + +<p>“Bah! it had time enough to settle in our jars.”</p> + +<p>“It is funny, though, to be so hard up for water in +such a wet country!” said a young woman who had +just arrived. “This water is a nuisance! Saint Sara, +the servant, ought to have known from experience that +a woman has enough work to do at home without wasting +her time waiting in front of closed spigots. Saint Sara, +protect us, and make them turn on the water!”</p> + +<p>The women began to laugh.</p> + +<p>Almost all the housekeepers of Saintes-Maries had +assembled by this time. A last group arrived upon the +scene. Some carried jars, without handles, upon their +heads, balancing them by a graceful swaying of the +whole body. With their hands upon their hips, they +themselves were not unlike living amphoræ. Others, +having one jug upon the head, carried another in each +hand—the stout <i>dourgue</i>, with handle and mouth; others +had wooden pails, others, glass jars, each having selected +a larger or smaller vessel, according to the necessities +of her household.</p> + +<p>“What sort of a pot have you there, Félicité?”</p> + +<p>Whereat there was a general laugh.</p> + +<p>She to whom the question was directed, replied:</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>137]</a></span> +“I broke my jug, poor me! And, as I had to have +some water, I took an old thing I found that has always +been standing behind the door at our house since I can +remember. If it will hold water, it will do for me +to-day, my dear!”</p> + +<p>“Take it to monsieur le curé for his library; it’s an +antique, and is worth money!”</p> + +<p>Félicité had, in fact, come to the spring with a genuine +Roman amphora, found in the sandy bed of the Rhône—a +jar two thousand years old and hardly chipped!</p> + +<p>Each family at Saintes-Maries is entitled to one or +two jars of water each day, according to the number +of its members.—The water had not begun to flow.</p> + +<p>Livette, sitting upon her horse, thoughtful and sad +amid the chatter, was still awaiting her friends.</p> + +<p>“What were you saying just now?” asked some late +comers.</p> + +<p>And having been informed, each one of them proceeded +to expound her ideas upon the subject of the +saints and Sara the bondwoman, paying no heed to +what the others were saying—so that the jabbering of +the women and girls seemed like a <i>Ramadan</i> of magpies +and jays assembled in one of the isolated clumps of +pines so often seen in Camargue.</p> + +<p>“I would like to know if it’s fair,” cried one of the +women, “not to put in Saint Sara’s portrait, too! A +saint’s a saint, and where there’s a saint there isn’t any +servant!”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>138]</a></span> +“The saints aren’t proud! and Saint Sara cares mighty +little whether her picture’s there or not!”</p> + +<p>“She may not care, but it was an insult to her!”</p> + +<p>“Oh!” said another, “good King René and the Pope +knew what they were doing when they arranged things +so. Sara was Pontius Pilate’s wife, and she was the one +who advised her husband to wash his hands of the +heathens’ crime!”</p> + +<p>A murmur of reproof ran from mouth to mouth +among the gossips.</p> + +<p>“Ah! here’s old Rosine, she’ll set us right.”</p> + +<p>Motionless upon her horse Livette listened vaguely. +She was absent-minded, yet interested.</p> + +<p>When old Rosine, who was very deaf, had finally been +made to understand what was wanted of her, and that +she was expected to give her views concerning Sara the +bondwoman, she began:</p> + +<p>“Ah! my children, God knows his own, and Sara +was a great saint, for sure——”</p> + +<p>Here Rosine crossed herself, and was at once imitated +by all the old women.</p> + +<p>“But,” added Rosine, “Sara was a heathen woman +from Egypt, and not a Jewess of Judea; and the heathens, +you see, come a long way after the Jews in the world’s +esteem. Don’t you see that the Jews are scattered all +over the world, but they stay everywhere, and become +masters by force of avarice. That is their way of being +blessed by their Lord. But the heathens of Egypt, on +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>139]</a></span> +the contrary, are wanderers and poor, although they are +thieves, and more scattered and more accursed than the +Jews. Well, you see, my children, Saint Sara is their +saint, the saint of the Egyptian heathens! She wasn’t +a very good Catholic saint, to pay the boatman for her +passage by a sight of her naked body—with the indifference +of an old sinner, I fancy! So it is right that +she should come after the two Marys, for there are +different ranks in heaven. And that is why Saint Sara’s +bones are not between the boards of the great shrine in +the church, but under the glass of the little shrine in the +crypt—or the cellar, you might say. The cellar is a +good enough place—under the feet of Christians—for +miserable gipsies! And it is right that it should +be so.”</p> + +<p>“What Rosine says is true!” cried one of the women. +“These frequent visits of the gipsies are the ruin of the +country. When our pilgrims come, rich and poor, do +you suppose they like to find all these scamps, who are +so clever at stealing folks’ handkerchiefs and purses, +settled here before them? Don’t you suppose that drives +people away from us? How many there are who would +like to come, but don’t care to compromise themselves +by being found in such company!”</p> + +<p>“Bah! such nonsense!” said a humpbacked woman; +“those who have faith don’t stop half-way for such a +small matter! And those who have some troublesome +disease and hope to cure it here aren’t afraid of the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>140]</a></span> +thieves nor their vermin. Take away my hump, mighty +saints, and I will undertake to get rid of my lice and +my fleas one by one, without any assistance!”</p> + +<p>This speech was greeted by a roar of laughter, which +stopped abruptly, as if by enchantment. The little gate +to the spring was opened at last, and, at the sound of +the water rushing from the pipe, all the women ran to +take their places in the line—not without some trifling +disputes for precedence.</p> + +<p>At last, some of Livette’s girl friends arrived. Spying +them at some little distance, she went to meet them.</p> + +<p>“What brings Livette here so early, on horseback?” +said the women, when she had moved away.</p> + +<p>“Why, she’s looking for her rascal of a Renaud, of +course!” said the hunchback. “That fellow isn’t used +to being tied like a goat to a stake, and the little +one will have a hard time to keep him true to her, +for all her fine <i>dot</i>!—The other day, Rampal—you +know, the drover, a good fellow—saw him at a distance +on the beach talking with a gipsy who wasn’t dressed +for winter!”</p> + +<p>“Not dressed for winter? what do you mean?”</p> + +<p>“She wore no furs, nor cloak, nor anything else, poor +me! She was taking a bath as God made her. The +plain isn’t a safe place for that sort of thing. You think +you can’t be seen because you think you can see a long +distance yourself, but a tuft of heather is enough for the +lizard to hide his two eyes behind while he looks.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>141]</a></span> +Again the women began to chuckle and laugh, but for +a moment only.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile, Livette’s friends were saying to her:</p> + +<p>“No, we haven’t seen your sweetheart, my dear; but +they are already putting the benches in place against +the church for the branding, and he can’t fail to be +here soon.”</p> + +<p>At that moment, a strain of weird music arose not far +away. It was produced by a flute, and the notes, softly +modulated at first, were abruptly changed to heart-rending +shrieks. A strange, dull, monotonous accompaniment +seemed to encourage the sick heart, that called +for help with piercing cries.</p> + +<p>“Hark! there are the gipsies and their devil’s music, +Livette. Just go and look—it is such an amusing sight. +We will join you in a little while.”</p> + +<p>“What about my horse?” said Livette.</p> + +<p>“If you haven’t come to stay, there’s a heavy iron +bracelet just set into the wall of the church to hold +the bars of the enclosure for the branding. Tie your +horse to that, and don’t be afraid that he will disappear. +Every one will know he’s yours by those pretty +letters in copper nails you have had put on your saddle-bow.”</p> + +<p>Livette fastened her horse to the ring in the church-wall, +and walked in the direction of the gipsy music. +It seemed to her that she might probably learn something +there.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>142]</a></span> +Now, Zinzara the Egyptian had seen Livette ride +into the village, and her music had no other purpose +than to attract her, and Renaud, her fiancé, with her, +if he were there. Why? to see;—to bring together for +an instant, with no fixed purpose, upon the same point +of the vast world through which she wandered, two of +the personages with whom she “beguiled her time;” +to look on at the comedy of life, and to watch the +sequel, with the inclination to give an evil turn to it, +chance aiding. She loved the anomalies that result +from the chaotic jumbling together of circumstances.</p> + +<p>Zinzara was turning a kaleidoscope whose field was +vast like the horizon of her never-ending travels, and +whose bits of glass, multicolored, were living souls.—She +turned the wheel to see what calamity destiny, with +her assistance, would bring to pass. The amusement of +a woman, of a sorceress.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>143]</a></span></p> + +<h2><a name="chap13" id="chap13"></a>XIII<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smlfont">THE SNAKE-CHARMER</span></h2> + + +<p>Life is an enigma. The everlasting silence of space +is but the endless murmuring of invisible circles which, +twining in and out, part and meet again, lose and never +find one another, or are inextricably interwoven forever. +Life is an enigma. We can see something of its beginning, +nothing of its close; its meaning escapes us, but +all the links make the chain, and some one knows the +rest.</p> + +<p>That there are two ends to the ladder is certain. Day +is not night, and one does not exist without the other. +There are joy and sorrow, health and sickness, happiness +and unhappiness, life and death—in a word, good +and evil, for the beast of flesh and bone. This is a +good man, that a bad. Religion and morals have +nothing to do with it, and afford no explanation; but +little children know that it is so, and fools know it likewise. +They who undertake to reason the thing out +learnedly, befog it. They who pull the thread break it. +There is some one and there is something. Nothing is +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>144]</a></span> +null, I tell you, my good friends, and yonder drivelling +old idiot, sitting on the stone at the foot of the Calvary +before the church, and holding out his hand to Livette, +knows two things better than we—good and evil. The +idiot, when he passed the gipsies’ wagons in the morning, +talked amicably, yes, he talked for some minutes +with two or three gaunt dogs chained up under the +wagons; but when he saw Zinzara, the queen, fix her +eyes upon him, the idiot was afraid and limped away as +fast as he could. He was afraid because <em>there was</em>, in +Zinzara’s look, <em>something not good</em>.</p> + +<p>And now Livette, as she passes by, glances at him, +and the idiot—poor human worm—smiles and holds out +to her a glass pearl,—a treasure in his eyes,—which he +found that morning in the filth of the gutter near by. +The pearl glistens. It is bright blue. The idiot sees +beauty in it, and offers it to the pretty girl passing by. +Livette smiles at him, and he, the drivelling idiot, the +cripple who drags himself along the ground, laughs back +at Livette. He laughs and feels his man’s heart vaguely +opening within him—why?—because of <em>something good</em> +in Livette’s eyes.</p> + +<p>God is above us, and the devil beneath us. God? +what do you mean by God? Kindly humanity, which +is above us and toward which we are ascending; the +ideal, evolved from ourselves which, by dint of declaring +itself and compelling love, will be realized in our children. +The devil? what is that? the obscure beast, the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>145]</a></span> +ravenous, blind worm, which we were, and from which +we are moving farther and farther away.</p> + +<p>There is something nearer the mystery than the mind, +and that something is the instinct. Certainly we are +nearer to our origin than to our end, and instinct almost +explains the origin because it is still near at hand, but +the mind cannot explain the end because it is still so far +away! Whence come we? The crawling beast may +suspect.—Whither go we? How can the beast tell, +when he cannot fly?</p> + +<p>The bond that binds us fast to earth is not cut. Man +bears forever the scar of his birth. He has, therefore, +always before him evidence of how he is connected with +infinity <em>behind</em> him; but how he is connected, by death, +with the life everlasting, <em>before</em> him, he does not see.</p> + +<p>Instinct, like a glow-worm, lights up the depths from +which man comes forth, but intelligence casts no light +into the boundless expanse on high, wherein it loses +itself, just at the point where God begins.—Ah! how +mysterious is God!</p> + +<p>Yes, between the intelligence and man’s origin, instinct +stretches like a bridge. Between the intelligence +and man’s end, there is a yawning chasm. The reason +cannot cross it. There is no way but to leap. Man +finds it easy to imagine what lies below; his own weight +draws him down to a point where he can understand it.</p> + +<p>To understand what is above, it is essential to have a +power of lightening one’s self, a wing which man has +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>146]</a></span> +not. Here instinct acts upon the mind in a direction +opposed to mental effort.</p> + +<p>To some minds this faculty of rising sometimes comes, +but man’s conceptions depend upon his experiences, and +the time has passed when reliance was placed upon the +“wise men,” upon those whose conceptions far outran +their experiences. Perhaps it is better so. Perhaps +every man ought to form his ideas for himself and no +one will know anything <em>for good and all</em> until he has +earned the right.</p> + +<p>Sometimes, for a moment, especially in dreams, but +occasionally in his waking hours, man <em>knows</em>. He has +profound intuition; but nothing is more fleeting than +this sudden glimpse of eternity.</p> + +<p>The best of us are blind men haunted by the memory +of a flash of light.</p> + +<p>Which of us has not known, by personal experience, +how a man can fly away from himself? The sense of +mystery, scarcely detected, has escaped us, but who has +not been conscious of it for a second?</p> + +<p>Truth, like love, reveals itself for a second only, but +we must believe in it—forever.</p> + +<p>These thoughts are properly presented here, for everything +is in everything. One man studies the hyssop, +another the oak; Cuvier the mastodon, and Lubbock +the ant, but they all arrive at the same point, a point +which includes everything.</p> + +<p>Do you know why the gipsies, Bohemians, gitanos, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>147]</a></span> +zincali, zingari, zigeuners, zinganes, tziganes, romani, +romichâl,—all different appellations of the same wandering +race,—arouse such intense interest on the part of +civilized peoples?</p> + +<p>There are two reasons.</p> + +<p>The first is, that the gipsy, being very primitive and +wild, appears among civilized beings as the image of +themselves in the past. It is as if they were our own +ghosts.</p> + +<p>When we see them among us, we amuse ourselves, in +the shelter of our established homes, by thinking regretfully +that we no longer have before us the broad plains +so dear to the beasts we are; that we are no longer in +constant contact with the earth, the plants, the animals, +which are the <em>mothers</em> that bore us, and whom we love +for that reason. They have remained what we were +when we left them, and that touches us.</p> + +<p>The second reason is that they really discovered long +ago something of the meaning of life.</p> + +<p>It is certain that they are magicians. They have seen +the hidden spring and have a vague remembrance of it; +they have retained its dark reflection in their glance.</p> + +<p>The glance! they know its dormant and insinuating +power. They know how to subdue weak minds by a +glance.</p> + +<p>The least skilled in magic among them still believe +that the “secret” of things is hidden away somewhere +under a stone, and in their travels through every country +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>148]</a></span> +on earth they often raise heavy boulders, whose peculiar +shapes seem to indicate that they may conceal the +mystery. They never find under the boulders anything +but toads and snakes and scorpions, but they are skilled +at making powerful potions from the blood and venom +of the reptiles.</p> + +<p>They know, also, the secret properties of plants, and +that the hemlock and belladonna vary in their effects +when cut at certain times of the year and at certain +hours, according to the influence of the seasons and +the moon’s rays.</p> + +<p>The gipsies are skilled in the science of poisons. Men +and women—<i>roms</i> and <i>juwas</i>—excel in the art of giving +diseases to cattle.</p> + +<p>Their trades are only pretexts for calling at the houses +they pass. They are coppersmiths simply because the +art of subjecting metals to the action of fire was invented +by the son of Cain, the progenitor of all accursed +mortals. And they are saddlers because they like to be +about horses, dear to all vagabonds.</p> + +<p>The gipsies, who were originally worshippers of fire, +and now have no religion of their own, but always adopt +that of the country they are passing through, are to +mankind what Lucifer is to the angels.</p> + +<p>“We come from Egypt, if you please,” Zinzara would +sometimes say to the people of her tribe. “Indeed, +that is where we had our homes and were a powerful +race in the days of Moses. Then our ancestors were +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>149]</a></span> +magicians to the kings of Egypt, who overcame death; +but our origin is higher and farther away.</p> + +<p>“We come from a country where the <em>Secret Power +of the World</em> was discovered: a dragon guards the mystery +on the summit of a lofty mountain, in a cavern, out +of reach of whatever floods may come.</p> + +<p>“Our ancestor Çoudra learned from the high-priests +the method of compelling the dragon to obey him. He +entered the cavern and conceived the idea of universal +knowledge, and resolved to avail himself of it in the +outside world, in order that he might become a king +and mighty among men—for why was he poor? Why +does poverty exist, why death?</p> + +<p>“He had no sooner conceived his project of justifiable +rebellion than the dragon sought to devour +him. Our ancestor eluded him, and believed that, +by virtue of the secrets he had discovered, he would +be omnipotent on earth, but suddenly he found that +he had almost forgotten them all, as if by magic. He +no longer remembered any of them except those that +do harm, those that produce disease, sorrow, misery, +and death—all the evils from which he would have +liked to free himself.</p> + +<p>“And the high-priests cursed him and his sons. +Manou spoke against them thus: <i>They shall dwell outside +of cities; they shall possess none but broken vessels; +they shall have nothing of their own, except it be an ass +or a dog. They shall wear the clothes they steal from +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>150]</a></span> +the dead; their plates shall be broken; their jewels shall +be of iron. They shall journey, without rest, from place +to place. Every man who is faithful to his duty shall +hold himself aloof from them. They shall have no dealings +except with one another. And they shall marry +only in their own race.</i></p> + +<p>“And the <i>Tchandalas</i> were able to flee the country, +but not the sentence.</p> + +<p>“And that is our present case.</p> + +<p>“The crown of Çoudra is a broken ring—with sharp +points, like a dog’s collar, and his sceptre is an iron +staff, broken but formidable. For why does want exist, +and pain and death? God is wicked!”</p> + +<p>With this tale, set to music, the gipsy queen sometimes +lulled her son to sleep.</p> + +<p>And when, at the entrance to some château, she cast +a long, malevolent glance upon a young mother, who, +upon catching sight of her, quickly carried her little +child within, such thoughts as these would run through +Zinzara’s head: “The secrets that are known to our +prophets, our dukes and princes and kings, will cause +all your cities, your churches, and your thrones to tremble +on their foundations, for why does want exist, and +pain and death? The hour will come—we await it—when +your nations will be scattered to the winds of +wrath, unless the wise men who invoked a curse on us +become their masters—but you are too far from their +wisdom for that! You will be ours.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>151]</a></span> +“Meanwhile, woe to those of you whom we find +alone! We look fixedly at them, and the spirit of evil +does the rest.”</p> + +<p>And this is what little Livette saw when she approached +the gipsy camp.</p> + +<p>The whole tribe was there. Their numerous wagons +were of different sizes, most of them being made in the +shape of small oblong houses, with little windows, very +like the Noah’s arks made for children in Germany. +The gipsies had arranged their wagons side by side, in +a line, each one opposite a house in the village. Thus +the line of wheeled houses formed with the houses of the +village a winding street, which, if prolonged, would have +surrounded Saintes-Maries like a girdle. Thus, while +their sojourn lasted, the gipsies could cherish the illusion +that they were settled there, that they were inhabitants +of the village, one dwelling opposite the baker, +another opposite the wine-shop; but no one forgot that +the gipsy houses were built upon wheels that turn and +can make the tour of the world.</p> + +<p>“I pity the tree,” says the gipsy, “it looks enviously +at me as I pass. It is jealous of my ass’s feet.”</p> + +<p>Most of the wagons were patched with boards of many +colors, picked up or stolen here and there.</p> + +<p>As a matter of fact, the wagons of the tribe were +placed in the rear of the village houses, so that the +occupants of those houses, the innkeeper or the baker, +being busy in the front part of their establishments, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>152]</a></span> +could naturally dispense with a too frequent appearance +in the gipsy street.</p> + +<p>The nomads alone swarmed there undisturbed. They +passed but little time in the wagons, except when they +were on the road or tired or sick; their days were +passed in the open air, squatting in the dust, or on the +steps of the little ladders which they lowered from the +doors of their wagons to the ground; or else they +passed long hours lying in the shade under the wagon—smoking +their pipes and dreaming.</p> + +<p>For the moment, some of the women here and there +through the camp were intent upon the same occupation: +searching, in the bright morning light, for vermin among +the matted hair of their children, whom they held tightly +between their knees as in a vise.</p> + +<p>From time to time, one of the little fellows would +howl with pain, when his mother inadvertently pulled +or tore out one of his wiry, coal-black hairs. Then he +would wriggle and squirm to get away, but the vise +formed by the knees would nip him again and hold him +tight, and there would be a squealing as of sucking pigs +loth to be bled. Then blows would rain down and the +shrieks redouble. Suddenly the urchin that was howling +most lustily would cease, and follow, with a lively interest, +the movements of a chicken from some neighboring +coop, or the antics of a hunting-dog that had wandered +that way and was well worth stealing.</p> + +<p>The mothers went through with their matutinal task +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>153]</a></span> +in an automatic way that said as clearly as possible: +“It is of no use to try to do this, for the vermin breed +and always will breed; but we must do something. It +is always a good thing to be busy; and then it makes +an excellent impression, here under the eye of civilized +people. They see that we are clean and neat.”</p> + +<p>“Buy my dog,” said one of them with a leer to an +open-mouthed villager. “You will be well satisfied +with his fidelity. He is faithful, I tell you! so faithful +that I have been able to sell him four times.—He always +comes back!”</p> + +<p>All these women had a coppery, sun-burned, almost +black skin, and hair of a peculiar, dull charcoal-like +black.—Some wore it twisted in a heavy coil on top of +the head. Several of the younger women let it hang +in long, snake-like locks over their breasts and backs. +Their eyes also were a curious shade of black, very +bright, like black velvet seen through glass. Life shone +but dully in them, without definite expression. Some +mothers were attending to their duties with a child on +their back, wrapped in a sheet which they wore bandoleer-fashion, +with the ends knotted at the shoulder. +The little one slept with his head hanging, tossed and +shaken by every movement.</p> + +<p>Red, orange, and blue were the prevailing colors of +their tattered garments, but they were tarnished and +faded and almost blotted out by layers of dust and filth;—a +smoke-begrimed Orient.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>154]</a></span> +Many of the women had short pipes between their +teeth. The men who lay about here and there, with +their elbows on the ground, were almost all smoking +placidly, their Sylvanus-like eyes fixed on vacancy. +They made a great show of pride under their rags. +Some were asleep under the rolling cabins.</p> + +<p>The line of wagons along the outskirts of the village +was still in shadow, but at the head of the line, the +first of the wagons, standing a little apart, beyond the +line of the houses, was in the sunlight. This wagon, +which was painted and kept up better than the others, +was Zinzara’s, and a few of the villagers had collected +in the sunshine in front of it, attracted by the notes of +the flute and tambourine.</p> + +<p>Livette, as she approached the group, had no suspicion +that, in the wine-shop facing the wagon, behind the +curtains of a window on the first floor, Renaud had +stationed himself, there, at his ease, to watch the gipsy, +who was playing the flute and dancing at the same +time, her feet and arms bare.</p> + +<p>Zinzara held the flute—a double flute with two reeds +diverging slightly—with much grace, and blew upon it +with full cheeks, raising and lowering her fingers to suit +the requirements of a weird air, sometimes slow, sometimes +furiously fast and jerky. Her head was thrown +back, so that she appeared more haughty and aggressive +than ever.</p> + +<p>As she played upon her flute, Zinzara danced—a dance +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>155]</a></span> +as mysterious as herself. With her bare feet she simply +beat time on the ground. Her dance was naught but +a play of attitudes, so to speak. She constantly varied +the rhythmical undulations of her flexible, vigorous body, +whose outline could be traced at every movement beneath +the clinging material of her dress. When the movement +quickened, she stamped her feet faster, still without +moving from where she stood, as if in haste to reach a +lover’s rendezvous, where languor would replace activity.</p> + +<p>Seated a few steps from the dancer, a young gipsy, +with a vague, dreamy expression, was pounding with +his fist, thinking of other things the while, upon a large +tambourine, to which amulets of divers kinds were attached,—Egyptian +beetles, mother-of-pearl shells, finger-rings, +and great ear-rings,—which danced up and down +as he played.</p> + +<p>And the tambourine seemed to say to the double +flute:</p> + +<p>“Never fear: your mate is watching over you. I am +here, father or betrothed, I, your strong-voiced mate, +and you can sing freely of your joy and sorrow; no one +shall disturb you; I am on the watch, and for you my +heart beats in my great, sonorous breast.”</p> + +<p>But to the gipsy’s ear the music of the tambourine +said something very different; and with a smile upon +her lips, blowing into her flute with its diverging reeds, +raising and lowering her slender fingers over the holes, +Zinzara, exerting a subtle influence over all about her, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>156]</a></span> +dressed in soft rags that clung tightly to her form and +marked the outlines of her hips and of her breast in +turn; displaying her tawny calves beneath her skirts, +which were lifted up and tucked into her belt,—Zinzara +seemed not to see the spectators.</p> + +<p>Twenty or thirty people were looking at her, and +still she seemed to be dancing for her own amusement; +but her witch’s eye followed, without seeming to do so, +the slightest movement of Renaud’s head, the whole of +which could be seen at times between the serge curtains +with red borders, behind the windows of the wine-shop, +under the eaves of the house across the way.</p> + +<p>When she saw Livette approach, the dancer beat her +feet upon the ground more rapidly, as if annoyed, and +the flute emitted a cry, a shrill war-cry, like the sound +made by tearing silk quickly.</p> + +<p>Livette involuntarily shuddered, but she mingled +with the group, momentarily increasing in size, and +looked on.</p> + +<p>Zinzara made a sign, and uttered some strange, guttural +words between two loud notes—words that were, +evidently, a precise command, for a gipsy child, who +had come to her side a moment before, glided under the +wagon, whence he emerged armed with a long white +stick, with which he motioned to the spectators to fall +back a little. Then he stationed himself in front of +Zinzara, in the centre of the first row of spectators, +and, turning toward them, enjoined silence upon them +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>157]</a></span> +by placing his finger on his lips. The word was passed +along, and the bystanders ceased their conversation, +realizing that <em>something</em> was about to happen.</p> + +<p>The dance was at an end.—The tambourine ceased +to beat time. The flute alone sang on in Zinzara’s +hands, as her fingers moved slowly up and down.—Now +it gave forth a thin, clear note, like the prolongation +of the sound made by a drop of water falling +in a fountain; it was a sweet, insinuating appeal, as +melancholy as the croaking of a frog at night, on the +shores of a pond, at the bottom of an echoing, rocky +valley.</p> + +<p>And, with the end of his wand, the child pointed +out to one of the spectators something that came crawling +out from under the wagon. It was a tiny snake, +with red and yellow spots, and it drew near, evidently +attracted by the notes of the flute. Another followed, +and soon there were several of them—five in all.</p> + +<p>When they were in front of the flute-player, between +her and the boy with the wand, they raised their heads +and waved them back and forth, slowly at first, then +more quickly, keeping time with the flute. The serpents +danced, and the mind of every spectator involuntarily +compared their dance with the woman’s that he had +seen a moment before. There was the same undulating +movement, the same evil charm, and every one +was conscious of an uncomfortable feeling at the +sight.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>158]</a></span> +Livette, surprised and strangely moved, thought that +she was dreaming. The spectacle before her was curiously, +deplorably in accord with the state of her heart. +She did not understand its hidden, intimate connection +with her own destiny, but she felt its baleful effects. +Zinzara’s glance, from time to time, swept over the +girl’s face, but did not rest upon it. On the subject of +her own influence, Zinzara knew what she knew.</p> + +<p>Soft, soft as spun silk, the notes of the flute arose, +very soft and prolonged, like threads extending from +the instrument and winding about the necks of the +little snakes; and the little snakes followed the notes +of the flute, which drew them on and on. Zinzara +walked backward. The little snakes followed her as if +they were held fast by the notes of the flute as by silken +threads. The gipsy stopped, and the notes <em>grew shorter</em>, +so to speak, like the threads one winds about a bobbin. +Then the snakes approached the sorceress, and as Zinzara +stooped slowly over them, and put down her hands, +still holding the flute, upon which she did not cease to +play, the snakes twined themselves about her bare arms. +Thence one of them climbed up and wound about her +neck, letting his little head, with its wide open mouth +and quivering tongue, hang down upon her swelling +breast. And when she stood erect again, two others +were seen at her ankles, above the rings she wore on her +legs. Then she laid aside her flute and began to laugh. +Her laugh disclosed her regular, white teeth.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>159]</a></span> +“Now,” said she, “if any one will give me his hand, +I will tell his fortune!”</p> + +<p>But no hand was put forward to meet hers because of +the little snakes.</p> + +<p>Zinzara laughed aloud, and her laugh, in very truth, +recalled certain notes of her double flute.</p> + +<p>At that moment, Livette started to walk away.</p> + +<p>“Come, you!” said the gipsy quickly,—“you refused +to listen to me once, but to-day you must be very +anxious to find out where your lover is, my beauty! +Give me your hand without fear, if you are worthy to +become the wife of a brave horseman.”</p> + +<p>Livette blushed vividly. Her two young friends +arrived just then and heard what was said. “Don’t +you do it!” said one of them in an undertone, pulling +Livette’s skirt from behind; but, Livette, annoyed by +the gipsy’s expression, in which she fancied that she +could detect a touch of mockery, put out her hand, not +without a mental prayer for protection to the sainted +Marys. The gipsy took the proffered hand in her own. +The snakes put out their forked tongues. Livette was +somewhat pale.</p> + +<p>They were both very small, the fortune-teller’s hand +and the maiden’s.</p> + +<p>Renaud looked on from above with all his eyes, +greatly surprised and a little disturbed in mind.</p> + +<p>The gipsy held Livette’s hand in her own a moment, +exulting to feel the palpitations of the bird she was +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>160]</a></span> +fascinating. She had hoped to intimidate Livette, and +the courage the girl displayed annoyed her.</p> + +<p>“Your future husband isn’t far away, my beauty,” +said she, “but he is not here on your account, never +fear! On whose, then? That is for you to guess!”</p> + +<p>Livette, already somewhat pale, became as white as +a ghost.</p> + +<p>“That alone, I fancy, is of interest to you, my pretty +sweetheart! Then I’ll say no more to you except this: +Beware; the serpent on my left wrist just whispered +something to me. Look well to your love!”</p> + +<p>A shudder ran through the spectators like a ripple +over the surface of a swamp. One of the snakes was, +in fact, hissing gently.</p> + +<p>The gipsy released Livette’s hand; as the girl turned +to go away, she came face to face with Rampal. He +had been wandering about the village since early morning, +and had just joined the group, unseen by any one, +even by Renaud.</p> + +<p>Livette recoiled instinctively and in such a marked +way that Rampal might well have taken it for an +affront. Unfortunately, having left the front row, she +was hemmed in by the crowd on all sides of her.</p> + +<p>“Oho! young lady,” said Rampal, “so we don’t +recognize our friends!”</p> + +<p>“Good-day, good-day, Rampal,” replied Livette, +repeating the salutation as the custom is in the province; +“but let me pass! Make room for me, I say!”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>161]</a></span> +“<i>Sur le pont d’Avignon</i>,” sang the gipsy, with a +laugh, “<i>tout le monde paye passage!</i>”<a name="FNanchor_2_2" id="FNanchor_2_2"></a><a href="#Footnote_2_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a></p> + +<p>Renaud, still behind his window, had at last recognized +Rampal. Fuming with rage, but naturally wary, +he considered whether he should rush down at once and +attack him or wait until Livette had gone.</p> + +<p>Rampal did not always need a pretext to kiss a pretty +girl,—but here was one ready-made for him!</p> + +<p>“Do you hear, demoiselle?” said he. “You must +pay the tollman of your own accord, or else he will pay +himself!”</p> + +<p>He threw both arms about the poor child’s waist. +She bent back, holding her body and her head as far +away from him as possible, but the rascal, hot of breath, +holding her firmly and forcing her a little closer, kissed +her twice full upon the lips.</p> + +<p>A fierce oath was uttered behind them in the air. +Everybody turned, and, looking up, discovered Renaud +shaking the old-fashioned window, which was reluctant +to be opened. Two more wrenches and the window +yielded, flew suddenly open with a great noise of breaking +glass, and Renaud, standing on the sill, leaped to +the ground.</p> + +<p>“Ah! the beggar! the beggar! where is the vile +cur?”</p> + +<p>But Rampal had already leaped upon his horse that +was hitched near by to the bars of a low window, and +was off at a gallop.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>162]</a></span> +He rode as if he were riding a race, half-standing in +his stirrups, his body bent forward, and plying incessantly +and very rapidly a thong that was made fast to +his wrist, and that drove his horse wild by the way it +whistled about his ears.</p> + +<p>“Coward! coward!” one of the young men present +could not refrain from shouting after him.</p> + +<p>“Coward? oh! no!” said Renaud—“simply a thief! +for if he weren’t riding a horse he never intends to +return, the fellow wouldn’t run away—I know him!”</p> + +<p>He turned to poor, frightened Livette.</p> + +<p>“Never fear, demoiselle,” said he, “he shall not +carry our horse to paradise with him.”</p> + +<p>Was it Renaud’s purpose, in saying this, to make the +gipsy think that he was bent upon taking vengeance for +the theft of his horse rather than for the insult put upon +his fiancée? Perhaps so; but the devil is so cunning +that Renaud himself had no idea that he was capable +of such craft.</p> + +<p>As to the gipsy, she said to herself that Renaud, by +jumping out of the window, instead of coming quietly +down the stairs, had compromised his prospects of revenge +for the satisfaction of exhibiting his gipsy-like +agility to her. He did, in truth, jump like a wild cat, +and rebound as if he were equipped with elastic paws! +He was as agile as a true <i>zingaro</i>! He was as handsome +and bold as a highwayman! They are gipsies, to all +intents, these wandering guardians of mares and heifers!</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>163]</a></span> +Renaud, who had disappeared long enough to buckle +his horse’s girth, rode by in a few moments upon Prince; +the witnesses of the scene just enacted were still discussing +it.</p> + +<p>“Catch him! catch him! eat him, King!” cried +twenty young men’s voices in chorus.</p> + +<p>“With the King and the Prince arrayed against him, +Rampal is a dead man,” some one remarked, with a +laugh.</p> + +<p>Renaud was already at a distance. He had not looked +at the gipsy, but he felt that her eyes were upon him, +and he felt now that they were following him from +afar; and the feeling caused a pleasurable thrill, of +which he was conscious, and for which he reproved +himself vaguely on Livette’s account, but without seeking +to repress it. Yes, as he galloped along in his +wrath, he galloped in a particular way in order that +his wrath might show to good advantage, so that he +might appear a handsome and graceful horseman, as +he was in fact. He was conscious of every movement +that he made—he fancied that he could see himself, +and was desirous to make a good appearance, he, +the King!</p> + +<p>The peacock, in the mating season, has more gorgeous +plumage, and makes the greatest possible display of it. +The nightingale and the redbreast have sweeter voices. +All alike take pleasure in so arraying themselves as to +give pleasure.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>164]</a></span> +“Where are you going, Livette?” her two friends +asked her.</p> + +<p>“I am going to see monsieur le curé. I must have +a talk with him, poor me! for it was a great sin to listen +to that sorceress, you know!”</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>165]</a></span></p> + +<h2><a name="chap14" id="chap14"></a>XIV<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smlfont">JOUSTING</span></h2> + + +<p>Both Renaud and Rampal had spears.</p> + +<p>As he rode by the Neuf farm, half a league from +Saintes-Maries, Rampal, who owned nothing in the +world but his saddle, and had no spear, being at that +time simply a drover out of a job, had spied one leaning +against a fig-tree, and had appropriated it without dismounting, +had “borrowed it without a word,” thinking +that he should probably need it to defend himself.</p> + +<p>Now he was galloping across the fields, leaning forward +on his horse’s neck, with his thong in his boot +and the spear resting in the stirrup.</p> + +<p>Renaud had mistaken the road in his hot pursuit. +Perhaps the gipsy was the cause of it, for, in spite of +himself, in order to remain within her range of vision, +Renaud had ridden straight toward the Vaccarès, while +Rampal had just taken the road to Arles, avoiding stratagem +in order to mislead his pursuer more effectually, +for he said to himself that Renaud would surely argue +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>166]</a></span> +that he had made for the middle of the island to take +refuge in some deserted <i>jass</i>.</p> + +<p>Renaud divined Rampal’s plan.</p> + +<p>“He will keep to the road,” he suddenly thought, +and feeling certain that he was right, he turned to the +left and rode due west. Rampal, having the start of him +by a full league, drew rein in the vicinity of Grandes-Cabanes, +and having planted his spear-head in the +ground, rested both hands upon it, then placed his feet, +one after the other, on the hind-quarters of his horse, +and stood there for some moments, scanning the plain +behind him. Between two clumps of tamarisks he +caught a glimpse of a horseman, like a flash of light, or +like a rabbit scuttling between two wild thyme bushes—Renaud, +beyond question! Rampal saw that Renaud, +if it were he, was about to take to the road, and he +himself thereupon left it and rode in the opposite direction +on a line parallel to that his enemy was following +in the distance. When Renaud reached the road and +turned into it, Rampal had the Vaccarès in front of +him, and there he turned to the left and followed the +shore. His plan was to cross the main stream of +the Rhône, and reach the Conscript’s Hut, in the +middle of the <i>gargate</i>, the spot where he was confident +of finding safe shelter in times of serious danger. Unluckily +for him, he had been seen—when he was standing +on his horse watching his man—by a fisherman who was +crouching on the edge of the canal, fishing for eels with +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>167]</a></span> +a reed and a short line, at the end of which was a bunch +of worms, strung and twisted together.</p> + +<p>“Have you seen Rampal, friend?” said Renaud, stopping +his horse short as soon as he saw the fisherman, who +was just about changing his place.</p> + +<p>“Ah! King, are you the man who is looking for +him?” said the fisherman, an old man. “If he has +kept to the road he took to get away from you,—for I +saw he was watching some one behind him,—he ought +to be on the shore of the Vaccarès by this time, and +from there, if he doesn’t go back to Saintes-Maries, he +will surely go up toward Notre-Dame-d’Amour. You +have a good horse, and you can catch him between the +Vaccarès and the Grand’ Mar.”</p> + +<p>Renaud darted away as if he had wings.</p> + +<p>After an hour and a half of furious riding,—he was +wise enough, however, to change his gait several times,-he +drew rein, a little discouraged; then, after a brief +halt and a draught of brandy from the flask that never +left his holsters, he resumed his headlong race—but not +until he had thoughtfully allowed his horse to drink a +swallow of water from the canal.</p> + +<p>When he was between the Grand’ Mar swamp and the +Vaccarès, he found his own drove taking their midday +rest there, under the guidance of Bernard, his young +assistant.</p> + +<p>Horses and bulls were lying motionless on the shore +of the Vaccarès, in the twofold glare from sky and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>168]</a></span> +water, for it was well-nigh noon, and the light was +dazzling.</p> + +<p>Bernard was resting likewise, lying on his back with +his head on the saddle, not far from his horse, which +was fettered near by, learning to amble.</p> + +<p>In front of Renaud lay the pearl-gray Vaccarès, +gleaming like a huge table of polished steel, in the +centre of which a veritable white islet of sea-mews were +sleeping, motionless as statues.</p> + +<p>Behind him stretched an ashen-gray plain, which +could be seen only in spots—where the salt emerged in +efflorescent crystals—glistening through a vast violet net-work +of flowering <i>saladelles</i>; for the <i>saladelles</i> spread +out in broad, graceful tufts, with many ramifications, +but without foliage, dotted with a multitude of lilac +blossoms, between which the ground can be seen. And +farther away the fields of glasswort began, with their +plump, juicy leaves; they are a beautiful rich green +when they are young, but the salt air soon turns them +blood-red, so that the oldest and those nearest the sea +are the darkest.</p> + +<p>Here and there the stunted tamarisk, with its gnarled +trunk, dotted the plain, its sparse foliage tinged with +pink by the blossoms hanging in tiny clusters, which, +tiny though they be, are a heavy burden for its flexible +branches.</p> + +<p>And in the dry, seamy bottoms were great patches of +<i>siagnes</i>, <i>triangles</i>, <i>apaïuns</i> of every kind, <i>canéous</i> or +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>169]</a></span> +dwarf reeds used in making roofs and matting, thorn-broom +and all sorts of aquatic plants, bright green, and +straight as fields of grain; their angular battalions, +harvested in summer, go down before the scythe in +broad half-circles. Above these patches of verdure, +which bend and rustle with the faintest breath of air, +hovered dragon-flies with enormous heads,—swallow-like +insects, voracious devourers of gnats. They flew +about with the swallows over the waters where the mosquito +is born, making a metallic sound among the reeds +when their wings of transparent, black-veined mica +came in contact with them.</p> + +<p>Renaud gazed at these familiar things and forgot himself +in them. For a second he fancied that he was +watching his drove there, and that he had nothing else +to do but remain with his beasts, absorbed, as they +were, in calm, unreasoning contemplation of the desert +that surrounded him. He ceased to love, to hate, to +desire, and to pursue.</p> + +<p>The shadow of wings passed him by. He raised his +eyes and saw, above his head, two red flamingoes.</p> + +<p>“They built their nest here this year,” he thought.</p> + +<p>But Prince, the good horse, had recognized his favorite +mares, and, stretching out his neck, opening his +nostrils wide to inhale the fresh breeze of the swamp +and the plain, raising his lips and displaying his teeth, +he gave a neigh that made all the mares spring to their +feet at a single bound, the bulls raise their heads, and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>170]</a></span> +Bernard himself jump up from the ground, spear in +hand.</p> + +<p>Renaud, pressing his knees together and pulling his +horse back, held him in hand, although he trembled +under him and pranced up and down in the soft +sand.</p> + +<p>At the same time, a sudden gust of the <i>mistral</i> swept +across the plain and broke the mirror-like surface of the +Vaccarès into little waves.</p> + +<p>“If it is Rampal you are looking for,” said Bernard, +“he isn’t far away, you may be sure. When he saw me +here, all of a sudden—just a moment ago—he rode off +that way. And as he went out of my sight very soon, I +believe he has gone into some cabin. You had better +look around the Méjeane tower.”</p> + +<p>Renaud was off again.</p> + +<p>Suddenly his eyes fell upon a low cabin with its rush-covered +roof, shaped like a pyramid, or like a stack of +straw, and surmounted, as they all are, by its wooden +cross, bending back as if the <i>mistral</i> were gradually +blowing it over.</p> + +<p>The thought came to him: “Rampal is there! His +horse must be tired. He retraced his steps a short +distance without Bernard’s seeing him, and went into +hiding there—hoping that I should be thrown off the +scent and would ride by. Yes, he is surely there!”</p> + +<p>Renaud turned about, and rode straight toward the +cabin, keeping a sharp lookout; whereupon Rampal, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>171]</a></span> +who was really hidden there, watching his pursuer +through the holes in the wall, rushed out, frightening +an owl that flew away in dismay, and leaped upon his +horse which was browsing in hobbles near by, but out +of sight, at the bottom of a ditch.</p> + +<p>The <i>mistral</i>, which comes like a cannon-ball when it +makes up its mind to blow at that time of day, suddenly +began to roar. Renaud had put his head down to meet +the squall, so that he did not perceive this manœuvre +of the enemy.</p> + +<p>So it was that Rampal seemed suddenly to come up +out of the ground, not twenty feet from Renaud, who +was not taken by surprise, however, but rushed at him, +brandishing his spear, for all the world like one of the +knights of the time of Saint Louis, of whom our legends +tell. (Aigues-Mortes was then in its prime.)</p> + +<p>But Camargue is, as every one knows, the mother of +the <i>mistral</i>—the vast sunny plain, with Crau, which, +after sending the air up by dint of overheating it, is +compelled to summon other air in order to breathe at +all. And thereupon, down the Rhône valley, at the +summons of the desert, comes a torrent of fresh air, +which is the companion of the river, and is called the +<i>mistral</i>. It roared through Renaud’s open vest as in +the belly of a sail, and, taking Prince sidewise, kept +him back a little. It was no easy matter to leap the +ditch. That gave the advantage to Rampal, who was +now trotting freely along, face to the wind.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>172]</a></span> +The ditch was now between the two men, and Rampal’s +only purpose in trotting along the edge of it was +to limber up his horse’s legs. Renaud, abandoning the +idea of crossing the ditch for the moment, decided to +follow along on his side. The two horsemen rode thus +for a few moments. Rampal had prudently protected +his face from the <i>mistral</i> with a red silk handkerchief, +the ends of which flapped about his neck.</p> + +<p>Suddenly, taking advantage of a spot where the banks +came somewhat nearer together, Renaud lifted his horse +and landed on the other side of the ditch at the very +instant that Rampal, having executed the same manœuvre +in the opposite direction, landed on the side Renaud +had left.</p> + +<p>Renaud did not find a favorable spot for crossing at +once, and Rampal gained upon him.</p> + +<p>Having at last crossed the obstacle once more, Renaud +pursued Rampal at full speed, and so rapidly that, when +Rampal turned to judge the distance between them, he +saw Renaud hardly fifty paces behind him.</p> + +<p>He had just time to turn about, and waited for his foe, +with lance in rest, leaning forward in his saddle, his feet +planted firmly in the broad stirrups.</p> + +<p>Renaud, unluckily, was charging against the <i>mistral</i>. +A sort of hail, consisting of sand and of the little snails +that cling in myriads to the leaves of the <i>enganes</i>, beat +into his face and angered him.</p> + +<p>Five hundred feet away, Bernard was looking on—not +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>173]</a></span> +saying a word, for fear of Rampal, but praying fervently +for Renaud, and he fancied that he was watching +two champions standing on the long ladders in the prows +of the jousting boats, with their lances held firmly under +their right arms. Rampal’s spear, being suddenly lowered +too far by a false step of his horse, pricked the +heel of Renaud’s boot and grazed Prince’s flank, whereupon +he jumped violently aside, as if he were avoiding +the horns of a heifer.</p> + +<p>Renaud’s spear tore the sleeve of his enemy’s blue +shirt and carried away the piece.</p> + +<p>The horsemen met and passed each other.</p> + +<p>Rampal was the first to turn, and rode after Renaud, +ready to strike him from behind, while he was struggling +to stop Prince, who had acquired too much momentum; +and Prince, hearing the other horse’s hurried step, and +feeling his hot breath behind him, furious at being held +back, fearing that he would be overtaken, turned about +so quickly and unexpectedly in his wrath, that Rampal +took fright and turned again, but involuntarily.</p> + +<p>Renaud, finding that his pursuer had once more +become a fugitive, gave Prince a free rein.</p> + +<p>The stallion was off like the wind.</p> + +<p>The horsemen sped along, pushed on by the gusts, +the wind being now behind them.</p> + +<p>The mares and heifers, the whole drove, in fact, stood +with their heads in the air, staring eyes, and nostrils +distended, watching the two men come down toward +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>174]</a></span> +them, bending over their horses’ necks, reins flying, as +if pursued by the tempest along the shores of the pond, +whose waters were dancing and rippling in the wind.</p> + +<p>Here and there the little tamarisks, bent almost double, +seemed likewise to be fleeing from the storm. There +were no more gnats or dragon-flies in the air. Above +the Vaccarès the spray was flying. The <i>mistral</i> swept +everything clean.</p> + +<p>Two minutes later, powerless to control their enervated +beasts, excited as they were by the struggle and +the wind, the two adversaries rode at full speed through +the drove.</p> + +<p>Thereupon, inflamed by the sight of their two stallions +racing madly by, alarmed at the sight of the waving +spears, intoxicated by the wild wind that found a way +into their bodies through their fiery nostrils, the mares +neighed and reared and started off together on the +gallop. The heifers followed. Hundreds of hoofs and +cloven feet beat the ground with a noise like the roaring +of a tempest, and the whole drove, lashed by the <i>mistral</i>, +which howled behind them, biting them and urging +them forward, rolled across the plain like a second +Rhône. And while Bernard was saddling his horse in +hot haste to overtake them, the two enemies galloped +in the midst of the hurricane as if borne on by the +stamping of eighty beasts, whose hoofs raised clouds of +sand and showers of spray and mud in the wind that +travelled faster than they!</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>175]</a></span> +At the head of this whirlwind, and still in the midst +of it, Renaud succeeded in overtaking Rampal. When +he was near enough to touch him, he selected the precise +moment when his horse was raising his left hind +foot, to strike him on the right hind-quarter. The right +leg, just as it was about to strike the ground, bent double +under the blow of a spear directed by a man riding at +a gallop, and Rampal and his horse rolled over among +the countless galloping hoofs that shook the earth.</p> + +<p>Bulls and horses leaped over the two bodies lying +there, man and beast, and when the drove, tired and +subdued, came to a stop half a league farther on, +Renaud, still riding Prince, was holding by the bridle +his recaptured horse, bleeding only in the flank and at +the nose.</p> + +<p>Standing beside him, with rage in his heart, stained +with mud and dust, his face bleeding and the skin torn +from the palms of the hands, Rampal, red as fire, was +occupied in rearranging his breeches and fastening his +belt.</p> + +<p>“Wait till next time, Renaud! After this you would +expect a man to seek revenge, eh?”</p> + +<p>But his shrill voice was drowned in the howling of the +<i>mistral</i>.</p> + +<p>“Give me back my saddle!” he shouted in a louder +tone.</p> + +<p>The drover’s saddle is his whole fortune. He cherishes +it, loves it, takes pride in it.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>176]</a></span> +“Your saddle?” rejoined Renaud suspiciously. “Come +with me and get it! Bernard will give it to you.”</p> + +<p>He shrugged his shoulders, and without another word +rode after the drove, leading back to it the emaciated +horse which Rampal had sadly misused.</p> + +<p>He was extremely glad that Blanchet had had no +part in this duel. He recognized Blanchet from afar +in among the mares, but sleeker and better cared for +than the others. A true lady’s horse, staunch as he +was!—And now he would be able to return him to his +mistress, as he had his former horse, in addition to +Prince. And his nostrils dilated with the pride of +victory. He inhaled long draughts of the bracing salt +air.</p> + +<p>He was thinking of two women—yes, of two, not one +only!—who would say of him when they heard what +had taken place: “That is a man!” And Renaud’s +noble horse shared his master’s pride, as he capered +about, in the liberty accorded him to choose his own +pace, with the proud bearing of a stallion that had won +the race in the sight of his whole drove.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>177]</a></span></p> + +<h2><a name="chap15" id="chap15"></a>XV<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smlfont">MONSIEUR LE CURÉ’S ARCHÆOLOGY</span></h2> + + +<p>The curé of Saintes-Maries was a man of about sixty, +well preserved, very tall and stout, with bright eyes +whose light he quenched with spectacles, and energetic +gestures which he purposely restrained.</p> + +<p>The parsonage was near the church, the doorway +shaded by a number of elms. The house, in accordance +with the prevailing custom of the province, was +whitewashed once a year, outside and in, like the houses +of the Arabs.</p> + +<p>The houses in Saintes-Maries are low. The streets +are narrow, and wind about to escape the sun. The +shadows under the awnings of the little shops have a +bluish cast. In front of the doors, which open on the +street, hang transparent curtains of common linen, in +some cases of very fine net-work, to stop the flies and +admit the light after it has passed through the sieve, so +to speak. And, behind them, the maidens of Saintes-Maries +are confined like birdlings in a cage, or like very +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>178]</a></span> +dangerous little wild beasts. Are not all maidens to be +looked upon with more or less suspicion?</p> + +<p>The maidens of Saintes-Maries wear the Arles head-dress +and the neckerchief, with fold upon fold held in +place by hundreds of pins, by as many pins as a rose-bush +has thorns; and where the thick folds of the handkerchief +open, in the depths of the <i>chapelle</i>, you can +see the little golden cross gleaming upon the firm young +flesh rising and falling with the maidenly sigh. The +apron worn over the ample skirt seems like a skirt itself, +it is so broad and full, and slender feet peep out from beneath +it, as agile as the Camargue partridge’s red claws, +that love to scamper swiftly over the fields to escape +the hunter, knowing that Camargue is broad and space +is plentiful.</p> + +<p>Many are the pale faces at Saintes, for, whatever they +may say, the marshes still breed fever, and this country, +to which people come to be miraculously cured, is, +generally speaking, a country of disease; but pallor +goes well with the wavy black hair, worn in broad puffs +on the temples and falling upon the neck in two heavy +masses which are turned up to meet the <i>chignon</i>. To +help them to forget what is depressing in their lives, they +resort, here as elsewhere, to coquetry—and the rest!—And +then they are accustomed to the fever, which gives +birth to dreams and visions; they tame it, as it were; it +is not cruel to the people it knows, and does not lead +them to the cemetery until they are old and gray.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>179]</a></span> +The cemetery is a few steps from the village, a few +steps from the sea. It lies at the foot of the sand-dunes, +surrounded by a low wall. The dead and gone +villagers of Saintes-Maries lie sleeping there between +the sea and the desert of Camargue: many fishermen +who lived in their flat-bottomed boats; many herdsmen +who lived on horseback in the plain.</p> + +<p>All of them alike find there, in death, the things +amid which their lives have been passed: the salt sand, +filled with tiny shells, the <i>enganes</i> that grow in spite of +everything, reddened by the salt-laden winds, and heavy +with soda,—and the thin shadow of the pink-plumed +tamarisk. There they hear the neighing of the wild +mares, the shouts of the herdsmen contending on the +race-course on fête-days, or stirring up the black bulls +in the arena under the walls of the church. They hear +the sails flapping, and the <i>han</i> of the bare-legged fishermen +pushing their flat-bottomed boats or barges into +the water; and night and day, the pounding of the sea +in its efforts to push back the island of Camargue, while +the Rhône, on the other hand, is constantly pushing it +into the sea, and adding to its bulk with mud and stones +brought down from its head-waters. The sea smites the +island as if it would have none of it, but all in vain,—it, +too, can but augment its size with the sand it casts up.</p> + +<p>And the sand from the sea makes a broad hem of +dunes along the shores of Camargue.</p> + +<p>No one can fail to see that the dunes, those shifting, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>180]</a></span> +tomb-like hills of sand, must have served as models for +the massive pyramids, the tombs of kings, in the Egyptian +desert.</p> + +<p>At the feet of the little pyramids of sand sleep the +dead of Camargue.</p> + +<p>But whither has the thought of death led us? Why +do we tarry here, while Livette is timidly lifting the +knocker at monsieur le curé’s door?</p> + +<p>The blow echoed within the house, in the empty hall. +Livette was much perturbed. What was she to say? +Where should she begin? The beginning is always the +most difficult part. She would like to run away now, +but it is too late. She hears steps inside. Marion, the +old servant, opens the door.</p> + +<p>Marion has a practised eye. When any one knocks +at Monsieur le curé’s door, she knows, simply by examining +his face, what he wants, and frames her answers +accordingly, on her own responsibility; for Monsieur +le curé is subject to rheumatism: he suffers from fever, +too, and Marion nurses Monsieur le curé! If he listened +to Marion, he would nurse himself so carefully that all +the sick people would have to die unshriven, without +extreme unction, for Marion would always have a good +reason to give to prevent him from going out by day or +night, when the <i>mistral</i> was blowing or the wind was +from the east, summer or winter, rain or shine.</p> + +<p>But Monsieur le curé would smile and do just what he +chose. He was a good priest. He never failed in his +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>181]</a></span> +duty. He loved his parishioners. He assisted them on +all occasions with his purse and his advice. He was +beloved by them all.</p> + +<p>He loved his parishioners, his commune, and his curious +church, which was once a fortress; he was familiar +with the shape of its every stone. He loved it both as +priest and as archaeologist, for Monsieur le curé is a +scholar, and his church is, in very truth, one of the +most interesting monuments in France, with its abnormally +thick, high, and threatening walls, crowned with +jutting galleries and surmounted by crenelated battlements, +with an unobstructed view of sea and land in all +directions, and overlooked by four turrets, and a tower +in the centre,—the highest of all,—from whose belfry +the alarum bell, in the old days, often aroused the +country-side, repeating in its shrillest tones: “Here +come the heathens, good people of Saintes-Maries! +Attention! Come and shut yourselves up here! Make +ready your arrows and the boiling oil and pitch!”—Or +else: “Hasten to the shore, good people of Saintes-Maries! +A French vessel is sinking!”</p> + +<p>And to this day it seems still to say, to all, far and +near: “I see you! I see you!”</p> + +<p>One could go on forever describing the church of +Saintes-Maries, and relating anecdotes concerning it.</p> + +<p>Behind the battlements at the top, and enclosing the +roof of flat stones, runs a narrow pathway, where the +archers and patrols in the old days used to make their +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>182]</a></span> +rounds, surrounded by countless sea-swallows. Along +the ridge-pole of the roof, of overlapping broad flat +stones, between which thick tufts of <i>nasques</i> are growing, +rises a high carved comb, in ogive-like curves, surmounted +by fleurs-de-lis.</p> + +<p>All this is beautiful and grand, but there is a little +thing of which the villagers are as proud as of the bell-tower +and the turrets, and that is a marble tablet, about +five courses in length by three in height, on which two +lions are represented. One is protecting its whelp; the +other seems to be protecting a little child, as if it were +its own offspring. It seems that this tablet was carved +by a Greek workman long, long ago.</p> + +<p>The marble is set into the southern wall of the church, +beside the small door.</p> + +<p>You enter. The ogive arch of the nave compels you +to raise your eyes to a great height. And as you enter +by the main door, your attention is attracted by a +romanesque arch, directly in front of you, at the far +end of the church, at least five metres below the ogive +arch of the nave; in the centre of this arch are the +blessed reliquaries, resting upon the sill of an opening +like a window, flanked by two columns. From that +position they are lowered once in every year at the ends +of two ropes.</p> + +<p>The choir is some few feet higher than the flagging +of the church. It is reached by two symmetrical staircases, +between which is the grated door leading down +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>183]</a></span> +into Sara’s crypt. That door you can see, directly in +front of you, at the end of the passage through the +centre of the church, between the rows of chairs. One +would say that it was the air-hole of a dungeon.</p> + +<p>Down below, in the damp crypt, with its low arched +roof and naked walls,—a veritable dungeon,—upon a +mutilated marble altar, is the little glass shrine containing +the relics of Saint Sara, the patron saint of the +gipsies. There, amid the smoke of their candles, in an +atmosphere made foul by human exhalations, you can +see them once a year, huddled together in a dense +crowd, mumbling their questionable prayers.</p> + +<p>In the days of the Saracen invasions this crypt served +as a storehouse for supplies, when all the inhabitants of +the little village were forced to take refuge in the fortress-church.</p> + +<p>Aigues-Mortes has her walls and her Constance Tower, +massive as Babel; Nîmes has her Arena and her Fountain—and +the Pont du Gard, superb in its beauty, is also +hers; Avignon her bridges, her ramparts, and her clocks +with figures of armed men to strike the hours; Tarascon +her Château, mirrored in the Rhône; Baux the fantastic +ruins of her houses, hollowed, like the cells of a bee-hive, +out of the solid rock of the hill-side; Montmajour has +her tombs of little children, also dug, side by side, in +the solid rock, and to-day filled with earth and flowers, +like the troughs at which doves drink; Orange has her +theatre and her triumphal arch; Arles has her theatre +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>184]</a></span> +with the two pillars still upright in the centre; she has +Saint-Trophime, too, with its sculptured façade and its +<i>Allée des Alyscamps</i>, bordered with Christian sarcophagi +and lofty poplars. But Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer has her +church, which Monsieur le curé would not give for all +the treasures of the other towns!</p> + +<p>Marion saw plainly that Livette was depressed; +Marion was touched when Livette said: “I must see +Monsieur le curé,” and as her master would not be +seriously discommoded, there being no occasion for him +to leave the house, Marion ushered Livette into the +parlor.</p> + +<p>It was a whitewashed room, but the curé had transformed +it into a veritable museum, and the walls were +completely hidden behind wooden cabinets, made by +himself, and all filled with his collections.</p> + +<p>There were pieces of antique pottery and of rainbow-hued +antique glass. There were old medals.</p> + +<p>One of the latter attracted Livette’s attention. It +represented a bull in the act of falling; one of his fore-legs +had given way. A man, his conqueror, had seized +him by the horns. That Grecian medal was struck +centuries upon centuries ago. A label explained it to +Livette, who thought at first that it was Renaud. Life +is all repetition.</p> + +<p>There were collections of plants and boxes filled with +shells, and also many stuffed birds, all the varieties found +in Camargue. For more than thirty years, fishermen +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>185]</a></span> +and hunters had presented Monsieur le curé with curious +objects and animals. Here was an otter from the Rhône, +there a beaver, with his trowel-shaped tail and hooked +teeth. It is a question of serious importance whether +the beavers do not injure the dikes of the Rhône. The +important point, you see, is that the water from the +swamps should empty into the river or the sea through +the canals, which run in all directions. Therefore, the +dikes must hold firm and not let the Rhône overflow +the swamps. And the beavers, they say, destroy the +dikes. They gnaw into them when the great freshets +come, to avoid the drift, and take refuge inside; and +when the water comes in after them, they make a vertical +hole through which to escape, and there is your +dike, undermined, eaten into by the water! That is a +bad state of affairs.</p> + +<p>Livette raised her eyes. A reptile, with his mouth +open, was hanging from the ceiling; he was very fat, +and well he might be! he was a little crocodile, the last +one killed in Camargue, a very long while ago!</p> + +<p>In every nook left free by the natural curiosities some +pious image was to be seen. Here the two Maries in +their boat. There the Holy Women wrapping the Christ +in his shroud. In another place, Magdalen at La Baume, +kneeling in front of the death’s-head. But Livette saw +no image of Saint Sara.</p> + +<p>Livette sat down and waited. Monsieur le curé did +not come. The fact was, that Monsieur le curé, who +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>186]</a></span> +had already written two monographs, one entitled <i>La +Cure de Boismaux</i>, and the other <i>La Villa de la Mar</i>, +was at that moment at work upon a third: <i>Concordance +of the Legends of the Blessed Maries</i>, with this +sub-title: <i>Concerning the strange and regrettable confusion +that seems to exist between Saint Sara and Marie the +Egyptian.</i></p> + +<p><i>La Cure de Boismaux</i> also had a sub-title: <i>Monograph +concerning the domains of the Château d’Avignon in +Camargue.</i> Monsieur le curé recalled the fact that the +domains of the Château d’Avignon formerly constituted +a separate commune. That commune naturally had a +curé, and in those days the proprietor of the Château +d’Avignon was General Miollis, brother of the Bishop +of Digne mentioned by Monsieur Victor Hugo in <i>Les +Misérables</i> under the name of Myriel.</p> + +<p>In a special chapter, Monsieur le curé sought, to no +purpose, to find a reason, telluric or otherwise, for the +fact that the estates of the Château d’Avignon are particularly +subject to invasion by locusts, which sometimes +have to be fought in Camargue, as in Africa, by regiments.</p> + +<p>As to the <i>Concordance</i>, that was a very important and +very necessary work. It was based, in great measure, +upon the authority of the <i>Black Book</i>. That Latin +work, preserved in the archives of Saintes-Maries, was +written, in 1521, by Vincent Philippon, who signed himself: +2000 Philippon!<a name="FNanchor_3_3" id="FNanchor_3_3"></a><a href="#Footnote_3_3" class="fnanchor">[3]</a> (Jesus himself did not disdain +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>187]</a></span> +the pun.) There is a French translation of the <i>Black +Book</i>. It was published in 1682, and begins thus:</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">“Au nom de Dieu mon œuvre comancée<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Par Jésus-Christ soit toujours advancée.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Le Saint-Esprit conduise sagement<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ma main, ma plume, et mon entendement.”<a name="FNanchor_4_4" id="FNanchor_4_4"></a><a href="#Footnote_4_4" class="fnanchor">[4]</a><br /></span> +</div> +</div> + +<p>Here follows the true version of the story of the patron +saints of Notre-Dame-de-la-Mer.</p> + +<p>Marie Jacobé, mother of Saint James the Less, Marie +Salomé, mother of Saint James the Greater and of Saint +John the Evangelist, came not alone to the shores of +Camargue. The boat without sail or oars contained also +their servants Marcella and Sara, Lazarus and all his +family, and several of the Christ’s disciples.</p> + +<p>Monsieur le curé would prove, with documents to +sustain him, that Mary Magdalen was not in the boat. +She came to Provence by some other means, no one +can say by what miracle.</p> + +<p>With the exception of the two Maries and Sara, all +the passengers upon the miraculous craft dispersed in +different directions, preaching and making converts.</p> + +<p>The holy women did not leave Camargue, the island +in the Rhône, divided at that time into a great number +of small islands by the ponds—a veritable archipelago, +called <i>Sticados</i> and inhabited by heathens. In those +days, all these small islands, formed by the swamps, +were covered with forests and filled with wild beasts. +And this delta of the Rhône was infested with crocodiles.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>188]</a></span> +Now, a long, long time after the death of the holy +women, a hunter, followed by his dogs, was passing over +the spot where they lay buried in unknown graves; he +fell in with a hermit there, beside a spring.</p> + +<p>“My lord,” said the hermit, “I had a revelation +in a dream last night. In the sand beside this spring +repose the bodies of three sainted women!”</p> + +<p>The hunter was a Comte de Provence. His palace +was at Arles, and the curé had every reason to believe +that he was Guillaume I., son of Boson I., famous for his +liberality to the church.</p> + +<p>It was in 981. This Guillaume had overcome the +Saracens, and Conrad I., King of Bourgogne, his suzerain, +loved and respected him.</p> + +<p>The prince, having listened to the hermit’s tale, rode +away musing deeply; not long after, he returned and +caused a church in the form of a citadel to be built at +that point of the coast, in the very centre of a spacious +enclosure surrounded by moats.</p> + +<p>Then he made known throughout Provence that +special privileges would be accorded to all those who +should build houses between the church and the moat.</p> + +<p>Thus was founded the Villa-de-la-Mar—which is in +fact a town (<i>ville</i>), although it is too often spoken of as +a village, under its other name of Saintes-Maries.</p> + +<p>The Comtes de Provence have always granted special +privileges to the town.</p> + +<p>Under Queen Jeanne, a guard was stationed all the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>189]</a></span> +time at the top of the church-tower to watch the ships +and make signals. Sentinels were obliged to call to +one another and answer every hour during the night. +The people of Saintes-Maries were also exempted by the +queen from payment of tolls and the tax upon salt.</p> + +<p>Monsieur le curé explains all these things in his book, +which is very interesting. He also describes therein, +“as in duty bound,” the discovery of the sacred bones. +In 1448, King René, being then at Aix, his capital, +heard a preacher declare that Saintes Marie-Jacobé and +Salomé were certainly buried beneath the church of +Villa-de-la-Mar.</p> + +<p>René at once consulted his confessor, Père Adhémar, +and sent a messenger to the Pope, asking that he be +authorized to make search underground in the church. +The authorization was given in the month of June in the +same year. The Archbishop of Aix, Robert Damiani, +presided at the search.</p> + +<p>They found the spring; near the spring was an earthen +altar; at the foot of the altar a marble tablet with this +inscription, upon which the good curé descants at great +length:</p> + +<p class="center">D. <span class="space"> </span> M.<br /> +IOV. M. L. CORN. BALBUS<br /> +P. ANATILIORUM<br /> +AD RHODANI<br /> +OSTIA SACR. ARAM<br /> +V. S. L. M.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>190]</a></span> +Lastly, they found the bones of the saints, perfectly +recognizable, and, in addition, a head sealed up in a +leaden box, which, according to the curé, was the head +of Saint James the Less, brought from Jerusalem by +Marie-Jacobé, his mother.</p> + +<p>The bones, having been devoutly taken from their +resting-place, were with great ceremony bestowed in +shrines of cypress wood. The king was present with +his court. The papal legate was also there, and an +archbishop, ten or twelve bishops, a great number of +ecclesiastical dignitaries, professors, and learned doctors. +The chancellor of the University of Avignon, too, +and—so the reports of the proceedings set forth—three +prothonotaries of the Holy See and three notaries +public.</p> + +<p>And so nothing is more firmly established than the +authenticity of the relics of the saints.</p> + +<p>But various apocryphal legends had appeared to throw +doubt upon the truth, and Monsieur le curé was at work +upon the following passage while Livette, with increasing +uneasiness, was awaiting him in the parlor.</p> + +<p>“Among the popular fallacies,” wrote the curé, +“which destroy pure tradition, we must stigmatize as +one of the most deplorable, I may say one of the most +pernicious, that one which insists that among the passengers +of the miraculous craft was a third Saint Marie, +surnamed the Egyptian. It is downright heresy! How +could it have taken root, and how far does it extend?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>191]</a></span> +Monsieur le curé proposed to retouch that last phrase +forthwith, and for a very good reason.</p> + +<p>“Without doubt,” he continued, “the Egyptians, +or Bohemians, or gipsies, by manifesting, from remote +times, particular veneration for Saint Sara, who was, +according to their ideas, an Egyptian and the wife of +Pontius Pilate, have contributed to the formation of an +absurd legend, but this one has its source, or its root, +in something different; there is an episode of a boat +in the life of the Egyptian, which assists the error by +causing confusion.”</p> + +<p>Monsieur le curé proposed to return to that paragraph +also.</p> + +<p>“Born in the outskirts of Alexandria, Marie the Egyptian +left her family to lead the life of shame she had +chosen, in the great city. Coming to a river, she desired +to cross it in a boat, and having not the wherewithal for +her passage, she paid the boatman in an impure manner.</p> + +<p>“Later, she undertook a journey to Jerusalem with +a great number of pilgrims, and on that occasion again +she paid the expenses of her journey in diabolical fashion, +especially if we remember that those whom she +enticed into evil ways were devout pilgrims! And so, +when she presented herself at the door of the temple, +an invisible and invincible force held her back. She +could not gain admission there.”</p> + +<p>Monsieur le curé was better satisfied with that, and +took a pinch of snuff.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>192]</a></span> +“She thereupon withdrew to the desert, where she +lived forty-seven years. Her image appeared one day +to the monk Sosimus at Jerusalem. She appeared before +him naked and begged him to come and confess her. +He obeyed, and went into the desert. He found her, +naked, indeed, but very old. And Sosimus was convinced +of her saintliness because she had the power of +walking on the water. He listened to her confession. +She died in the odor of sanctity, as decrepit and horrible +to look upon as she had been fair and pleasant to +the sight. A lion dug a grave for her with his claws +in the sand of the desert.</p> + +<p>“The Egyptian’s long penance had redeemed her +life, therefore, and under Louis IX. the Parisians dedicated +a church to her, which bore the name of Sainte-Marie-l’Égyptienne,—corrupted +at a later period to +<i>La Gypecienne</i> and then to <i>La Jussienne</i>. This church +was on Rue Montmartre, at the corner of Rue de la +Jussienne.</p> + +<p>“The church contained a stained window representing +the saint and the boatman, with this inscription: +<i>How the saint offered her body to the boatman to pay +her passage.</i><a name="FNanchor_5_5" id="FNanchor_5_5"></a><a href="#Footnote_5_5" class="fnanchor">[5]</a></p> + +<p>“We must not, then, in any case, confound Saint +Sara, a contemporary of the Christ, with Marie the +Egyptian, who lived in the fifth century,—a fact that +cuts short all controversy.</p> + +<p>“It is very fortunate,” continued Monsieur le curé, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>193]</a></span> +well pleased with his somewhat tardy conclusion, “that +such a sinner was not among those on board the boat of +our Maries-de-la-Mer, for in that boat, as we have said +above, there were several of the Christ’s disciples. +<i>Spiritus quidem promptus est; caro autem infirma.</i>”<a name="FNanchor_6_6" id="FNanchor_6_6"></a><a href="#Footnote_6_6" class="fnanchor">[6]</a></p> + +<p>Monsieur le curé took snuff, he removed and replaced +his spectacles. Monsieur le curé forgot himself. He +went over all the early pages of his treatise, he struck +out and interlined; he struggled with rebellious words. +From time to time, he adjusted his spectacles more +firmly, and opened and consulted an ancient book of +great size. He was very busy, very deeply absorbed in +his favorite employment. He forgot that somebody +was waiting for him, and poor Livette, all alone in the +parlor, with the dead birds and the shells, was sadly +disturbed in mind. The melancholy that possessed her +was not dissipated—far from it!—by the place in which +she found herself.</p> + +<p>All the dead birds, most of which she recognized as +birds of passage, reminded her of the weariness of +winter, the season when the wave-washed island is immersed +in fog.</p> + +<p>There were screech-owls, the pale-yellow owls that +live in church-steeples and at night drink the oil in the +church-lamps; vultures that come down from the Alps +and Pyrenees in times of excessive cold; the ash-colored +vulture that lives at Sainte-Baume. There are little +tomtits, called <i>serruriers</i> (locksmiths), which are found +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>194]</a></span> +only on the banks of the Rhône, and <i>pendulines</i>, so +called because they hang their nests like little pendulums +from the flexible branches swaying to and fro above the +water; and <i>stocking-makers</i>, whose nests resemble the +tissue of a knitted stocking; and the <i>alcyon</i>, that is to +say, the <i>bleuret</i> or kingfisher; and the <i>siren</i>, of the brilliant +diversified plumage, called also <i>honey-eater</i>, which +flies north in the month of May, and spends its winters +by preference in Camargue. There was a stork, that +probably considered Camargue, between the dikes of +the Rhône, a little like Holland. There, too, was the +heron with its frill of delicate feathers, falling like a +long fringe over its throat. Livette knew it only by +the name of <i>galejon</i>, bestowed upon it in that neighborhood +because the herons’ favorite place of assemblage +was the pond of Galejon. There was one that bore on +its pedestal the date: 1807, and the words: <i>Purchased +at Arles market</i>; it was of a bluish slate color, and had +on its head three slender black feathers, a foot in length. +Then there were flamingoes galore, for they sometimes +build their nests by myriads in the marshes of Crau, +sitting astride their nests which are as tall as their legs. +And the divers! and grebes! and penguins, which are +seldom seen! And the rascally pelican, called by the +people thereabouts <i>grand gousier</i>!</p> + +<p>Livette fancied that she could hear in the distance +the mournful, heart-rending cry of the birds of passage, +rising above the roar of the wind and the sound of the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>195]</a></span> +river shedding its tears into the ocean; dominating +the mysterious sounds that fill the darkness. How +many times had she heard the cries of cranes and petrels +and Egyptian curlews over the Château d’Avignon in +the season when the nights are long, when the sight +of the fire rejoices the heart like a living thing full of +promise, when the blackness of death envelops the +world. The birds remind her also of the Christmas +evenings, the evenings when the logs blazing in the huge +fire-place and the many lamps seem to say: “Courage! +the night will pass.” And it is then that the wheat +shows its green stalk, saying likewise: “Yes, courage! +bad weather, like all other, comes to an end at last.”</p> + +<p>Livette mused thus, and mechanically raised her eyes +to the ceiling, from which the crocodile was hanging.<a name="FNanchor_7_7" id="FNanchor_7_7"></a><a href="#Footnote_7_7" class="fnanchor">[7]</a></p> + +<p>Livette did not say to herself that there was, somewhere +on the other side of the great sea, in the same +Egypt to which Saint Joseph and the Virgin Mary fled +to protect the Child Jesus from the persecution of King +Herod, a great river, the mighty brother of the Rhône, +and that in the hottest hours of the day, on the islands +in the Nile, the crocodiles crawl in great numbers out +upon the overheated sands to expose their backs to the +rays of a sun as hot as any oven.</p> + +<p>She did not say to herself that Saint Sara, the swarthy +patron saint of the gipsies, is called by them the Egyptian, +and that they water their gaunt horses in the Nile +as well as in the Rhône. She could not say to herself—because +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>196]</a></span> +she knew it not—that the Egyptians inherit from +the Hindoos a debased sort of magic, and that it was +the same sort, even more debased without doubt, that +gave Zinzara her power.</p> + +<p>Nor did Livette know that Zinzara carried in one of +the boxes in her ambulatory house—between a crocodile +from the Nile and a sacred ibis, both found in an Egyptian +crypt—the mummy of a young girl, six thousand +years old, whose face, from which the bandages had +been taken, wore a mask of gold. She could conceive +no connection between the ibis of the Nile and yonder +creature of the same name killed within the year on the +shore of the Vaccarès, but she underwent the influence +of all these mysterious connecting currents to which +space and time are naught.</p> + +<p>The lifeless creatures, scattered all about her, lived +again by virtue of the power of retaining their form +forever. And fear seized upon her, for suddenly the +mad idea, at once vague and precise, entered her mind +of a resemblance between the profile of the great reptile +hanging from the ceiling and the lower part of the gipsy +queen’s face.</p> + +<p>Livette thought that she must be ill, and rose to go, +determined to wait no longer, but as she put out her +hand to the door she uttered a cry. A centipede was +crawling along the key, as lively as you please. She +recoiled, and saw upon the white wall, at about the level +of her head, a <i>tarente</i>, that seemed to be watching her +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>197]</a></span> +with its pale-gray eyes. The <i>tarente</i> is inoffensive, but +Livette knew nothing of that. It is the Mauritanian +<i>gecko</i>, which abounds in Provence, a reptile repugnant +to the sight, with gray protuberances on the head and +back like those upon cantaloupe melons. And then +the little fellow, the tiny creature, resembles the crocodile!—Surely, +Livette has the fever.</p> + +<p>“What’s the matter, my child?”</p> + +<p>Monsieur le curé has entered the room. He has a +kindly air that comforts the poor child at once.</p> + +<p>He points to a chair. She sits down and dares not +say a word. Where shall she begin?</p> + +<p>He urges her.</p> + +<p>“Well, my child?”</p> + +<p>He closes his eyes, that he may not embarrass her by +his glance, which he knows to be searching. He has +left his spectacles up-stairs on his great book. He closes +his eyes; and with compressed lips, presses his jaws +against each other to a sort of rhythm, so that you can +see his temples bulge out and subside like a fish’s gills. +It is a nervous affection. His hands are folded on his +waist; he clasps his fingers and plays at making them +revolve about one another, mechanically; but he is +keenly attentive. Monsieur le curé loves the souls of +his fellow-men. He knows that they suffer, that life is +infinite, and that they veer about and call to one another +in the boundless expanse of space and time, like birds +in a storm. He is reflecting. He is a kind-hearted +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>198]</a></span> +priest. He is imbued with the spirit of the Gospel. +He is indulgent. Does he not know that some great +saints have been great sinners? He desires to be kind. +He knows how to be.</p> + +<p>What can be the matter?</p> + +<p>At last, Livette speaks. She tells him everything; the +gipsy’s first appearance, her refusal to give her the oil +she asked for insolently, with jeering remarks about extreme +unction; then of the ominous spell she cast upon +her, realized even now perhaps; the change in her +Renaud’s character, his coldness, his flight; and then, +that very morning, the scene of the snakes; how she +had been attracted—partly by curiosity, no doubt, but +also by her conviction that she should hear something +of Renaud. And how she gave her hand to the gipsy +to have her fortune told! That, she had done against +her inclination! She knew that it was wrong. Who +would have dared say a moment before that she would +commit such a sin? But she was afraid of seeming +cowardly, not because of what the world would say, but +because of <em>her</em>, the gitana, in whose presence she deemed +it her duty to display pride and courage. She felt that +she was very hostile to her. She was afraid of her, and +yet, in her despite, she would defy her. She was the +stronger of the two.—At last, she arrives at her most +shocking avowal—she is jealous. A terrible thought has +come into her mind; is it possible that Renaud could——? +But no. Did he not, to save her from Rampal, risk his +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>199]</a></span> +life by leaping down from a first-floor window the whole +height of the house? To be sure, Rampal had stolen a +horse from Renaud, and Renaud had been looking for +him for a long time——</p> + +<p>Livette is undone. She has glanced at Monsieur le +curé, who, before replying, is listening to his own +thoughts, in order not to be diverted from the matter +in hand. He is still playing with his clasped fingers, +making them revolve about one another.</p> + +<p>Around them the swans, the pelican, the red flamingo, +the petrel, the ibis, look on with their eyes of glass imbedded +in those heads that have lived! There they +stand, those phantom birds, with wings outspread and +one claw put forward, exactly similar in shape, color, +and plumage to the birds that are soaring above the +Nile and the Ganges, beyond seas, at this moment, and +no less like other birds that lived six thousand years +ago.</p> + +<p>The reptile on the ceiling, laughing down at them +with his numerous long, sharp teeth, does, in very truth, +resemble some one a little—but whom?</p> + +<p>Livette, as she puts the question to herself, suddenly +comes to the conclusion that she is insane, utterly +insane, to have had such an idea! She smiles at it +herself. And she seems to <em>feel</em> her smile. She does +feel it. She fancies she can see it!</p> + +<p>And at the moment she is conscious of a sensation—and +a painful sensation it is—of being there, in that +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>200]</a></span> +same room, surrounded by those creatures and in the +presence of a priest—<em>for the second time in her life</em>!</p> + +<p>Yes, all her present surroundings <em>she has seen before</em>—this +that is happening to her <em>has happened before</em>. But +the first time was a long while ago, oh! such a long +while! The great reptile on the ceiling remembers, +perhaps. That is why it laughs.—But she has forgotten +<em>all about it</em>. Why is she here? She no longer knows +even that. She was a fool to come here!</p> + +<p>This Camargue country, you see, is the home of +malignant fever. It rises from the swamps in the sunshine, +with fetid odors, exhalations that disturb the +brain and the action of the blood. From the dead +vegetation, from the dead water, bad dreams and fever +rise like vapor. There is an <em>evil atmosphere</em> there; and +the <em>evil eye</em> too, thinks Livette.</p> + +<p>But who can say of what the mummy lying in Zinzara’s +wagon is thinking all this time—the mummy of +which Livette knows nothing, and which is of the same +age as Livette, plus six thousand years? Like Livette, +it has wavy hair, very long, but somewhat faded by +time. It was once as black as jet like that of the women +of Arles. The mummy is of the same age as Livette, +plus six thousand years! The gipsies believe that so +long as the dead body retains its shape, something of its +spirit continues to dwell within it. Zinzara affirms that +this mummy, which she procured in Egypt, speaks to +her sometimes and tells her things.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>201]</a></span> +Ah! if we should undertake to go to the bottom of +the simplest facts, how they would puzzle us! Our +Saracen mares of Camargue, sisters of Al-Borak, Mahomet’s +white mare, and the bulls of the Vaccarès, brothers +of Apis, sometimes absent-mindedly take into their +mouths, in the heart of the swamps, the long, gently-waving +stalk of the mysterious lotus that lives three +lives at once, in the mud with its root, in the water +with its stalk, in the blue air with its flower.</p> + +<p>Not without reason do the zingari, descendants of +Çoudra, flock to the crypt of the three-storied church, +there to adore the shrine of Sara, Pilate’s wife—the +Egyptian woman.</p> + +<p>Monsieur le curé, who is a profound student, is revolving +all these things confusedly in his mind—with no very clear +understanding of them himself—and pondering them.</p> + +<p>Ah! if he could, how quickly he would sweep the +island clear of the gipsy vermin! But he cannot. Tradition +forbids. Sara in the crypt is their saint. There is a +mixture of pagan and Christian in the affair, painful to +contemplate certainly, but with which he has no right +to interfere. The essential thing is that the Christian +shall triumph over the pagan, that God shall prevail +against Satan—for certain it is, whatever the gipsies may +say, that they are not descended from the wise king who +was a negro and who brought the myrrh to Jesus.</p> + +<p>How to protect Livette?</p> + +<p>“Do not remain alone with your thoughts, my child. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>202]</a></span> +Carry your rosary always with you, and tell your beads +often, not mechanically but with your whole heart. +Confide your sorrows to your good grandmother, whose +Christian sentiments I well know. That simple-minded +old woman has a great heart.</p> + +<p>“Avoid the town. Tell your father—who has always +done as you wished, nor has he had reason to repent of +so doing—to have an eye to his house, and never to +leave you alone. Avoid Renaud for some little time; +at all events, do not seek him. He must have an opportunity +to read his own heart clearly; we must not—by +trying to bring him back to you—help him to mistake +his affection for you, which is not, perhaps, so deep as +it should be. I will speak to him myself when I have +an opportunity. The day after to-morrow is the day of +the fête at Saintes-Maries. Do not fail to be present; +bring us that day a heart filled with faith and with the +desire to do what is right. You will meet many unfortunates +there. Turn your eyes toward those who are +more wretched than yourself, and by comparing their +lot with yours, you will see how fortunate you are, who +have youth and good health.</p> + +<p>“The health of the soul depends upon ourselves. +You will save yours.</p> + +<p>“You will be the one, on the day of the fête, to sing +the solo of invocation just as the reliquaries descend—I +ask you to do it, and, if need be, I will lay the duty +upon you as a penance.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>203]</a></span> +“She who thinks on God and the holy women forgets +all earthly ills. Knock, and it shall be opened unto +you. They who fear shall be reassured. Blessed are +they who weep, for they shall be comforted——”</p> + +<p>Monsieur le curé broke off abruptly. He realized, +the kind-hearted man, that his discourse was, by force +of habit, degenerating into a commonplace sermon, +and, rising from his chair, he walked quickly toward +the door, bestowing an affectionate tap on the trembling +maiden’s cheek with two fingers of the hand +that held his snuff-box, saying to her in a fatherly +tone:</p> + +<p>“Go, little one; you have a good heart. The wicked +can do naught against us. I will pray for you at Mass. +Everybody in the country loves you. Have no fear, +my daughter.”</p> + +<p>Livette took her leave. The curé, left to himself, +sighed. He saw that Livette was confronted by an +ill-defined, strange, diabolical peril, of the kind that +cannot be turned aside, that God alone can avert.</p> + +<p>“It is fate,” he muttered, employing unthinkingly a +word of twofold signification.<a name="FNanchor_8_8" id="FNanchor_8_8"></a><a href="#Footnote_8_8" class="fnanchor">[8]</a> “It is fate,” he repeated. +“Life is a sea of troubles, and God is mysterious.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204"><!-- blank page --></a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>205]</a></span></p> + +<h2><a name="chap16" id="chap16"></a>XVI<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smlfont">ON THE ROOF OF THE CHURCH</span></h2> + + +<p>Renaud, after his victory, dismounted for a moment, +and, sitting down beside Bernard, on the shore of the +Vaccarès, where the cattle and mares of his drove had +resumed their attitude of repose, he set about reviewing +recent events in his mind.</p> + +<p>To overturn his projected marriage, to ruin his future +for the sake of the gipsy, for the sake of the unworthy +passion that was at work within him—most assuredly +Renaud had no such idea.</p> + +<p>When the first fury of his desire was worked off by wild +leaps and bounds, after the fashion of his horse Prince, +he found a way to be reconciled with himself. His +rugged honesty was impaired. He would try to satisfy +his passion for the accursed gipsy when occasion offered; +and that, he felt very sure, would do Livette no wrong!</p> + +<p>Like a clever casuist, he combated his own instinctively +honest impulses with arguments which he invented +with much labor, and then complacently refined and +elaborated, playing tricks upon himself.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>206]</a></span> +Now that he could boast of having fought Rampal +on Livette’s account,—omitting in his thoughts the other +two reasons he had had for fighting, namely, his determination +to recover the stolen horse and his desire to +display his strength and courage to Zinzara,—he could +return to the Château d’Avignon with his head in the air, +and meet his fiancée again as if nothing had happened.</p> + +<p>Why, after all, should he be ashamed? Had he not +established a fresh claim to Livette’s gratitude and the +esteem of her relatives?</p> + +<p>He would take poor Blanchet back to her,—Blanchet, +of whom she was so fond,—and he could tell old Audiffret +that the stolen horse was once more browsing, with +the drove, on the reed-grass of the estate.</p> + +<p>No: after mature reflection, he was sure that there was +nothing that need make him ashamed.</p> + +<p>Indeed, when one is not married, is he required to be +so absolutely faithful? And what is a man to do, when +things fall in his way?</p> + +<p>The eyes see before one has had an opportunity to prevent +them! Even after marriage, can one refrain from +being moved by the sight of youthful loveliness? Can +one control the movements of his blood? Desire is not +a sin, and so long as Livette knew nothing, so long as +she did not suffer through him, what reason had he, in +all frankness, for self-reproach?</p> + +<p>Nothing had come about by his procurement. He +was still determined not to speak to the gipsy woman—but +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>207]</a></span> +he would be a great fool not to put out his hand if +the golden peach should offer itself to him voluntarily.</p> + +<p>And the salt breeze that blew across the rushes, +arousing the passions of the wild cattle, rushed through +his veins, causing the blood to rise in sudden flushes +to his cheeks.</p> + +<p>Of what avail against that breeze, which the heifers +inhale with delight, is the “I will not” of a young +man who feels his youth? The good Lord forgives it +in others. “I have been worrying a great deal over +a very small matter of late,” thought Renaud. And he +sagely concluded that he would return at once to Saintes-Maries, +to set Livette’s mind at rest, as it was his duty +to do first of all, without avoiding or seeking out the +other.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile, what had Livette been doing?</p> + +<p>When she left the curé, almost at the same moment +that Renaud was unhorsing Rampal, Livette had no +wish but to take her horse and ride home at once, +without even waiting for dinner.</p> + +<p>She felt that she was lost in such close proximity to +the ill-omened gipsies.</p> + +<p>Her first thought was that Renaud, if he had overtaken +Rampal, whom he could not fail to master, would +go without loss of time to the Château d’Avignon.</p> + +<p>But her second thought was that he would return to +Saintes-Maries to make the most of his triumph. She +knew Renaud well! He was proud of his strength and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>208]</a></span> +address. He was spoiled by the public at the races, +who applauded with hands and voice, and he loved to +hear the “Bravo, Renaud!”—He would return to the +town, yes, he surely would!</p> + +<p>He might imagine, indeed, that she, Livette, had +remained there, and return on her account—and a little +on the other’s account, at the same time!—Ah! poor +child! suspicion was just beginning to creep into her +mind. Just God! suppose that that zingara woman +should fascinate her Renaud!</p> + +<p>Livette, having found her horse still tied to the church-wall, +sent him to the stable at the inn and went to the +fisherman Tonin’s to share his <i>bouille-abaisse</i>.</p> + +<p>“You did well, Livette,” said Tonin, “you have +avoided a sharp squall of the <i>mistral</i>. But I know what +I’m talking about; it’s nothing but a squall, and you +can go home this afternoon quietly enough. It will +be too hot, if anything. But what’s the matter, that +you’re so thoughtful?”</p> + +<p>Livette heard but little of all that was said at the +fisherman’s table, and, after due reflection, returned to +Monsieur le curé’s after the meal was at an end.</p> + +<p>“Are you still at Saintes-Maries, little one?” he said, +with a sad smile.</p> + +<p>“I had a fright, my father——”</p> + +<p>Livette sometimes addressed the curé thus, because of +the custom in confession.</p> + +<p>“A fright? how was that?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>209]</a></span> +“Suppose they have fought, who knows what may +have happened? <em>Mon Dieu!</em> chance is uncertain, and +that Rampal is so treacherous that Renaud may be the +loser. I would like, with your permission, Monsieur le +curé, to go up on the roof of the church at once; from +there I could see Renaud much sooner if he comes back +here.”</p> + +<p>The happy thought had come to her of watching her +betrothed, as he himself had, that same morning, watched +Rampal from the wine-shop window.</p> + +<p>The curé smiled again and good-humoredly took down +the keys of the little staircase that leads to the upper +chapel and thence to the bell-tower.</p> + +<p>He left the house, followed by Livette.</p> + +<p>At the foot of the great bare wall of the church, so +high and cold,—a veritable rampart with its battlements +sharply defined against the blue of the sky,—the good +curé opened the small door.</p> + +<p>They ascended the stairs.</p> + +<p>When they reached the upper chapel, which is just +above the choir of the church, as we know, the curé +said:</p> + +<p>“I will remain here, little one, to offer up a prayer +to the holy women; you can go on alone.”</p> + +<p>But Livette, without replying, knelt devoutly beside +the curé for an instant, before the relics.</p> + +<p>The relics were there, behind the ropes coiled about +the capstan, by means of which they were lowered into +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>210]</a></span> +the church, as the little jug from which the lips of the +faithful drank so eagerly was lowered into the miraculous +well below;—there they were, on the edge of the +opening through which they were launched into space.</p> + +<p>Through this window-like opening into the body of +the church Livette could see the chairs systematically +arranged below, and, higher up, the galleries, the pulpit, +and the pictures—all well-nigh hidden in the dark +shadow, intersected by two rays of light that darted in, +like arrows, through the narrow loopholes.</p> + +<p>Away down, below the gallery at the rear, opposite +where she stood, the chinks in the great square door +were marked like fine lines of fire by the sunshine +without.</p> + +<p>She gazed for a long moment at the blessed shrines, +and conjured them to turn aside the evil spell that she +could feel about her.</p> + +<p>And, do what she would, as she gazed at the shrines, +which had the appearance of two coffins laid side by +side and welded together, Livette was conscious that +her thoughts became more melancholy than ever. Had +she not seen, year after year, some poor, infirm wretch +in despair lie at full length on cushions in the acute +angle formed by the two lids of the double coffin? And +how many of them had been cured? One in fifty thousand, +and only at long intervals?</p> + +<p>And yet, what scores of votive offerings that lofty +chapel held,—pictures, commemorative marble tablets, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>211]</a></span> +crutches, guns with shattered barrels, and small boats +presented by sailors saved after shipwreck! Aye, but +in how many years have the miracles been performed of +which these offerings are the tokens?—One shudders to +think how many.</p> + +<p>And Livette, well content to divert her thoughts from +such painful subjects, left Monsieur le curé at his prayers, +and went up on the roof of the church.</p> + +<p>The bright glare of the sky, bursting suddenly upon +her, dazzled her. She had to close her eyes; then she +looked down upon the plain. The plain was a flood of +light.</p> + +<p>The rascally <i>mistral</i>, that blows three, six, or nine days +at a time when it has fairly buckled down to work, had +simply taken a whim, as Tonin had foreseen. Not a +leaf was stirring now. The sea had not had time to +grow angry below the surface. It was laughing. The +ponds were as smooth as mirrors. The sun shone hotter +than ever in the clearer air.</p> + +<p>The swallows and martins circled about Livette’s +head, uttering in endless succession shrill, piercing cries +that constantly came nearer and again receded. The +pointed wings of the martins, also called <i>arbalétriers</i> or +cross-bowmen, brushed against the turrets and shot into +the loopholes like arrows.</p> + +<p>Livette looked off into the desert straight before her, +and, not seeing what she expected, she let her glance +wander here and there over the vast expanse, attractive +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>212]</a></span> +but monotonous, which one can traverse, from end to +end, without ever seeing aught but endless repetition +of the same sand, the same tufts of grass, the same +gleaming waters.</p> + +<p>From the top of the church the horizon seemed +almost limitless in every direction, for the golden peaks +of the little Alps, vaguely outlined down in the northeast, +seem to be no more than jagged bits of cloud.</p> + +<p>When you are looking at them from that point, you +have at your right, to the eastward, Crau and the +<i>sansouïres</i>, Martigues, and Marseilles beyond the salt +marshes of Giraud, cut into rectangular mounds of +glistening salt. In the west is little Camargue, with its +temporary ponds, its rare groves of pine, its euphorbium +and branching asphodel, and its Étang des Fournaux, +the father of mirages, and filled with shells, although it +has no connection with the sea.</p> + +<p>In this vast, flat region, the mind and the eye fall +into the habit of looking always to the horizon, embracing +as much space as possible in the hope of finding +some inequality.</p> + +<p>But they cannot escape the unchanging monotony, +even less varied than the monotony of the sea, for the +sea changes color, and is by turns black, blue, pale-green, +dark-purple, or golden.</p> + +<p>In our desert there are everywhere the same tamarisks, +the same reeds, and—round about the six thousand +hectares covered by the waters of the Vaccarès—always +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>213]</a></span> +the same horizon lines, nowhere absolutely unbroken, +but almost everywhere festooned with clumps of tamarisks; +the mirage will always show you a pond gleaming +in some spot of the plain where none is to be found; +and the fisherman, walking along the shore, increases +enormously in size as he recedes, because of the refraction.</p> + +<p>Sometimes the month of May is as hot in Camargue +as August.</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">“Au mois de Mai<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Va comme il te plaît.”<br /></span> +</div> +</div> + +<p>Livette was dazzled by the glare, and lowered her eyes +to scan, with her keen glance, the most distant clumps +of tamarisks, to follow the almost invisible ribbon of +the cart-road that leads from the Vaccarès to Saintes-Maries. +Her eyes are tired, and scorching in her head. +There is nothing in the landscape to give them rest.</p> + +<p>Everywhere the treeless soil exhales a burning breath +that rises in visible vibrations. The spirit of the earth +breaks its bonds and hovers over her. She can see it +ascending in hot waves. Her eyes perceive the transparent +undulations, the heat trembling in the cool air, +the very soul of the interior fire that trembles so to the +sight that one fancies he can hear it rustle. It is the +never-ceasing dance of the reflected light.</p> + +<p>Weary of the glare of the plain, Livette turned toward +the sea, but the sea was simply an immense burnished +mirror which flashed back at the eyes, from the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>214]</a></span> +countless facets of its swiftly moving fragments, the glow +of the blazing sky multiplied beyond expression.</p> + +<p>When she looked down once more upon the plain, she +saw, about a league away, a horseman trotting briskly +toward the Saintes-Maries. By an indefinable something +in the bearing of that tiny speck she recognized +her Renaud.</p> + +<p>So no harm had come to him!</p> + +<p>She was on the point of going down again, when suddenly +she forced herself to bide a little there, to see what +he would do when he arrived.</p> + +<p>He was already passing the public spring. He turned +to the left, and disappeared for a moment behind the +houses. He was coming toward the church.</p> + +<p>From embrasure to embrasure she ran, to follow him +with her eyes; and in a few seconds he rode out into +the square in front of the church, at the foot of the +Calvary erected there.</p> + +<p>She leaned over and watched him. Where was he +going? He had stopped. His tired horse was standing +quite still, simply moving his long tail from side to +side to drive away the gnats and gadflies that were +riddling his bleeding flanks with wounds, for, after +the <i>mistral</i>, the gadflies dance! And then? Nothing. +Absolute silence in the vast glowing expanse. Livette +instinctively noticed that the horse’s dark shadow, clearly +marked upon the ground, was already elongated, indicating +that it was four o’clock.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>215]</a></span> +She continued to question herself as to Renaud’s +attitude—what was he doing there, standing still like +that?—when suddenly the sound of a woman’s voice +singing floated up to her ears.</p> + +<p>In the perfect silence, that voice, clear as a bell, poured +forth outlandish words that neither Renaud nor Livette +could understand.</p> + +<p>The zingara sang:</p> + +<p>“Allow the romichâl, the tzigane, to pass. He is the +spectre of a true king. Kingly is his tattered cloak. +A saddle is his throne. Is the whole earth thy kingdom, +Romichâl?</p> + +<p>“At Bœrenthal they speak the language of the Zend. +Oh! the Çoudra would become pope! Thinkst thou it +was the evil-doer who invented evil? Nay, nay; put +not thy trust in God, and remain free, Romichâl!</p> + +<p>“The Rhine, too, is a Nile. And the Rhône likewise. +But thy mare prefers to drink in the river of +Châl! The Nile alone can make thy hope neigh aloud, +O Romichâl!”</p> + +<p>With her eye, like a migratory bird’s, Zinzara had +long before spied Livette perched up aloft between the +crenelles of the church-roof, and, seeing Renaud riding +toward her, she, in joyous mood as always, had begun to +sing, from mere caprice and bravado, within the circle +of the echo of the lofty walls.</p> + +<p>Like the serpents at the sound of her flute, Renaud +was fascinated. The gipsy suspected as much.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>216]</a></span> +And when she had finished her song she showed +herself.</p> + +<p>“Surely thou hast killed thy foe, romi?” she said. +“But how is it that I do not see his heart at the point +of thy spear? Thy maiden whose blood is like snow +will ask thee for it ere long. Ah! that was a kiss well +avenged—for a Christian! For if thy foe still sat in +his saddle, thou wouldst not be in thine, I suppose? +Listen, then, my beauty—although it be, in very truth, +a crime for us zingari women to deem a Christian fair to +look upon, I must tell thee, none the less: On the honor +of a queen, romi, thou art handsome as a son of my own +race, brave as a highwayman, as fine a horseman as the +best of us, proud as a free man! I regret neither my +anger of the other day, nor my song of a moment ago, +nor the compliment I pay thee now: for I never do +aught save that which pleases me! and my very anger +does me better service than reflection! Adieu, romi, +may thy God guard thee, if He knows me!”</p> + +<p>Livette had heard nothing but the sharp, incisive tone +in which the gipsy spoke; she could not distinguish her +words.</p> + +<p>But as Zinzara went away, she took good care, before +she disappeared at the corner of the square, to send a +kiss to the drover with her finger-tips—a kiss which +seemed to him, because he could see her smile, a bit +of raillery, but which was in Livette’s eyes a token of +requited love. Renaud thereupon admitted to himself +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>217]</a></span> +that he had returned to Saintes-Maries in quest of nothing +else than this compliment from the gipsy—something +that drew him nearer to the seductive creature!</p> + +<div class="figcenter ipadtop" style="width: 388px;"> +<a name="roof" id="roof"></a> +<img src="images/king05.jpg" width="388" height="600" +alt="Livette watches from the church roof" /> +</div> + +<div class="figcenter smlpadt" style="width: 135px;"> +<img src="images/head04.png" width="135" height="25" +alt="Chapter 16" /> +</div> + +<p class="caption">From embrasure to embrasure she ran, to follow him +with her eyes; and in a few seconds he rode out into +the square in front of the church, at the foot of the +Calvary erected there.<br /> +<br /> +She leaned over and watched him. Where was he +going? He had stopped.</p> + +<p>Now he had no choice but to turn back. He preferred +not to see Livette at once! He preferred to +return to the free air of the desert, to set his thoughts in +order, discover his real feelings, reckon up his chances, +and, after that was done, to be left alone with the image +of the gitana, from whom he parted willingly, however, +for he was very glad to be at a distance from her, with +unrestrained freedom of movement, the better to think +of her.</p> + +<p>Before leaving the roof of the church, Livette cast a +glance upon the broad expanse of Camargue at her feet. +Ah! how empty was that immense space! The few +scattered houses which would have delighted her eyes +in the plain, were hidden by the clumps of umbrella-like +pines beneath which they stood. Nothing human +replied to the cry of distress uttered by her poor heart, +which longed to follow the bewitched drover into the +desert, and which seemed to her to flutter down from +the summit of the tower to the ground, where it was +crushed by the fall like a bird fallen from its nest.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218"><!-- blank page --></a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>219]</a></span></p> + +<h2><a name="chap17" id="chap17"></a>XVII<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smlfont">THE OLD WOMAN</span></h2> + + +<p>Renaud rode at a foot-pace to the <i>Ménage</i>, one of the +farms belonging to the Château d’Avignon. He had +ordered Bernard to bring Blanchet to him there, intending +to take him back to the château. It was but a short +distance from one to the other.</p> + +<p>He was exceedingly astonished to find that the more +he reflected upon what had happened to him—and it +was really what he had hoped for—the more dissatisfied +he was.</p> + +<p>He believed that he had finally formed, in spite of +everything, a fairly accurate estimate of the gipsy’s +character—a fact that pleased him. He had simply said +to himself that she was an uncivilized creature, since she +could forget all shame of her nakedness in her haste to +punish as best she could a man she deemed overbold. +From her very immodesty, from the arrogance and +malignity she had exhibited at their first meeting, he +had, strangely enough, evolved a proof of chastity so +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>220]</a></span> +sure of itself, so disdainful of peril, that the shameless +creature seemed to him only the more desirable.</p> + +<p>He knew that the gipsy women esteem thieves, but +not prostitutes, and he had enjoyed seeing in Zinzara a +sort of savage virgin, ferocious as a wild beast of the +Orient, over whom he, the tamer of beasts, would be +the first to enjoy the pride of triumph. And, lo! she +suddenly aroused in him a feeling of repulsion which he +could not explain. Simply because he had heard her +pronounce a few words, of obscure meaning, like all +gipsy words, and threatening in tone as he ought to expect,—more +amiable, in point of fact, than he had any +right to hope,—he believed her, as if it had been revealed +to him in a dream, capable of anything, a <em>wicked +woman</em>! He felt that the devil was in her.</p> + +<p>He had no precise knowledge as to her age. Was +she seventeen or twenty-five? The swarthy tint of her +impassive yet smiling face told nothing, hid blushes +and pallor alike.</p> + +<p>Her face was extremely young, and its expression +was of no age. Renaud had undergone the inexplicable +fascination of that face, whereon the malignity +born of a woman’s experience of the world, false for +the sake of omnipotence, was mingled with something +child-like.</p> + +<p>Stronger men than he would have been caught in the +snare. Neither king nor priest could have escaped +the evil fascination of the gitana! She would have had +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>221]</a></span> +but to will. The very things that repelled one were +attractive!</p> + +<p>So Renaud was caught, and his manner showed it. +Sitting upon his tired horse, upon the stallion whose fiery +nature was subdued by so much hard riding in all directions, +and who carried his head less high, the drover, +supporting the head of his spear upon his stirrup while +the handle rested against his arm, seemed like a vanquished +king, humiliated by the feeling that he was a +prisoner in the free air.</p> + +<p>He found Bernard at the <i>Ménage</i>, in the huge room +on the lower floor, like those in all the farm-houses of the +province, with the high mantelpiece, the long massive +table in the centre, the kneading-trough of well-waxed +walnut, the carved bread-cupboard with little columns, +fastened to the wall like a cage, and the shining copper +pans. Upon the whitewashed wall a few colored pictures +were hanging: the Saintes-Maries in their boat; Napoléon +I. on the Bridge of Arcola, and Geneviève de +Brabant, with the roe, in the depths of a forest.</p> + +<p>An old shepherd was seated at the table, beside +Bernard, slowly eating his slice of bread.</p> + +<p>“Is it you, king?” said he as Renaud entered. “I +have seen you hold your head higher! What’s the +matter with you? you look downhearted. Aren’t you +still a cattle-herder, my boy? A shepherd’s virtue, +young man, is patience, remember that. What you +can’t find in a day you may find in a hundred years.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>222]</a></span> +“Ah! there you are, Sigaud, eh?” Renaud replied, +without answering his questions. “When do you start +for the Alps?”</p> + +<p>“Right away, my son. We are behindhand this +year. I am just getting ready.”</p> + +<p>Nothing more was said. When they had eaten in +silence their bread and sheep’s-milk cheese, and drunk a +cup of sour wine made from the wild grape, they rose.</p> + +<p>The shepherd threw his cloak over his arm, took his +staff from a corner, and having doffed his broad-brimmed +hat before an old image of the Nativity, that hung on the +wall, embellished with a branch laden with cocoons, +and beneath which, on a carved oak stand, stood a little +lamp, long unlighted, he went slowly from the room.</p> + +<p>When Renaud, mounted upon Prince and leading +Blanchet, left the <i>Ménage</i>, he rode some time with the +shepherds, by the side of the enormous flock on their +way to the Alps, where they were to pass the summer +season.</p> + +<p>Two thousand sheep, led by the rams, and arranged +in battalions and companies, under the care of several +shepherds of whom old Sigaud was the chief, were trotting +along the road with hanging heads, making with +their eight thousand feet a dull, smothered pattering, as +of falling hailstones, in the dense clouds of dust. The +Labry dogs ran to and fro along the edges of the flock, +full of business, but frequently turning their eyes toward +their master.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>223]</a></span> +A few asses scattered among the different companies +bore upon their backs, jolting about in double wicker-baskets, +the sleepy, bleating lambs.</p> + +<p>Old Sigaud was in high feather, thinking of the cool, +fresh air of the Alps, where the grass is green and the +water pure, and where he could gaze in peace every +night at Cassiopeia’s Chair and the Three Kings and +the Pleiades in the heavens studded with myriads of +stars.</p> + +<p>“Adieu, Sigaud,” said Renaud, drawing rein when +the time came for him to part from the flock and its +guardians.</p> + +<p>Sigaud also stopped in front of him.</p> + +<p>“Adieu, Renaud,” said he gravely. “There must +be a woman at the bottom of your trouble. You are too +sad. But we called you <em>King</em> to do honor to your +courage, you mustn’t forget that. Remember, too, that +everything is of some use, my boy, and that good may +come out of evil. It takes all kinds to make the world!”</p> + +<p>Renaud found Livette sitting on the stone bench in +front of the door of the château. He had not leaped +down from Prince before she was covering Blanchet +with kisses. Audiffret was very glad to learn that the +stolen horse had returned to the drove, but when Renaud +explained that he had come, on this occasion, to +return Blanchet, Livette showed some feeling.</p> + +<p>“So you are not satisfied with what he has done for +you?” said she. “Such a pretty horse! and so clever!—or +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>224]</a></span> +perhaps you are tired of teaching him for me, of +preventing him from learning bad tricks in the stable, +of training him so that I can have the pleasure of seeing +him return a winner from the races at Béziers, where +my father is anxious to send him next month?”</p> + +<p>“Certainly, Renaud,” said Audiffret, “you ought to +keep him. He gets rusty here in the stable. But I am +surprised at what Livette says. Why, would you believe +that she was regretting him this very morning, saying +that she proposed to ask you to bring him back to-day. +And now she doesn’t want him!—It takes a very shrewd +man to understand these girls!”</p> + +<p>But what Audiffret could not understand, Renaud, +for his part, understood very well. The lovelorn damsel +said to herself that, by returning the horse, her fiancé +would rid himself of a reminder of her, which was a +cause of remorse to him perhaps—whereas, he ought, +like a jealous lover, to have wanted to look after +Blanchet, and take care of him for her, as long as +possible.</p> + +<p>Renaud resisted as best he could. He would have a +deal of hard riding to do at the time of the fêtes, he +said, and he did not want to overwork Blanchet or to +leave him with the drove to become wild again.</p> + +<p>Thereupon, Audiffret, easily influenced by the last who +spoke, agreed with Renaud.</p> + +<p>While the discussion was in progress, Renaud had put +up both horses in the stable. That done, he went slowly +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>225]</a></span> +up to the hay-loft, whence he threw down an armful of +hay into the racks through the openings in the floor.</p> + +<p>When he went down again, Blanchet was standing +alone in front of the mangers, nibbling at the hay.—Renaud +ran to the door. Livette, having removed +Prince’s halter, was shouting at him and waving her +pretty arms to drive him away, naked and free. Honest +Audiffret, delighted at his daughter’s cunning, laughed +and laughed. And Prince, overjoyed to return to the +desert after these few days of slavery, thinking no more +of the oats to be had at the château, stood erect like a +goat, neighed shrilly with delight, shook his luxuriant +mane, flung up his tail and thrashed the air, alive with +the flies he had driven from his flanks—and darted away +toward the horizon through the lane between the trees +in the park.</p> + +<p>Renaud had no choice but to submit with an affectation +of gratitude, and to laugh with the rest;—but it +was more distasteful to him than ever to ride a horse +that belonged to him less than any other in the drove, a +horse that was his fiancée’s.</p> + +<p>Thereupon, Audiffret went about his various tasks; +and, two hours later, when they were all assembled +in the lower room of the farm-house, Renaud, being +suddenly seized with <i>ennui</i> at the thought that he was +likely at any moment to have to endure an embarrassing +tête-à-tête with this same Livette whose company he had +so ardently desired a few days before, spoke of taking his +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>226]</a></span> +leave. Audiffret remonstrated, and invited him to supper. +They would drink a glass in honor of his victory. +Renaud refused awkwardly, conscious how lacking in +courtesy such an utterly motiveless refusal was.</p> + +<p>But when the grandmother, who hardly ever spoke, +urged him to stay, he stayed.</p> + +<p>The old woman rarely spoke, for her thoughts were +always with the dead and gone grandfather, who had +been the faithful companion of her toilsome life. She +was slowly drying up, like wood that is sound in all its +fibres, but has lost its sap. Hers was a lovely old age, +such as are seen in the land of the grasshopper, where +people live sober lives, preserved by the light. Already +advanced in years when she came to Camargue, she had +never suffered from the malevolence of the swamps. It +was too late. The cypress-tree does not allow the worms +to draw their lines upon its surface.</p> + +<p>She was patiently awaiting death, sometimes mumbling +<i>paters</i> upon her rosary of olive-nuts, gazing fearlessly, +with her dimmed eyes, straight before her at the +vague shadow wherein her departed old man, her good, +faithful Tiennet, was waiting for her;—Tiennet, who had +never, in forty years, caused her a pang, and whom she +had never wronged by a smile, even in the days of her +gayest youth. Tiennet, from the depths of the shadow, +sometimes called to her softly, and then the old woman +would be heard to murmur, in a dreamy voice: “I am +coming, good man! I am coming!”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>227]</a></span> +Being left alone for a moment with Livette, just before +supper, Renaud did not know what to say. Nor did she. +He did not dare to lie, and she hoped that he would +open his heart and confess. At one moment, she felt +that the very fact of his silence was sufficient proof of +his treachery, and the next moment, on the contrary, +she said to herself: “If there was an understanding +between them, he would not be here! I was mad! +He loves me.”</p> + +<p>At supper, he was very talkative, told about his battles +and his hunting exploits; how, the year before, with +that rascal of a Rampal, he had beaten up two coveys +of partridges, on horseback, in a single morning. They +had taken twenty-eight, more than twenty being killed +on the wing at a single casting of their staves, Arab-fashion.</p> + +<p>Audiffret, overjoyed at the recovery of a horse he had +thought lost forever, drew from under the woodpile an +old-fashioned bottle, a gift from the masters, those masters +who are always absent—like all the landowners of +Camargue, who prefer to dwell in cities,—Paris, Marseilles, +or Montpellier,—leaving the desert to their +<em>bailiffs</em>.</p> + +<p>“Ah! the masters in old times!” said Audiffret, +“they had more courage and were better served and +better loved!” Renaud, becoming more and more animated, +stood up for the times we live in. The grandmother, +grave and serious as always, said once to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>228]</a></span> +Audiffret at table, speaking of Renaud: “Wait upon +your son, my son.” Well, well, he was decidedly one +of the family.</p> + +<p>And that certainty, which it behooved him to retain +at any price, instead of moving his heart to gratitude, +led him on to play the hypocrite. He was ready to +betray Livette, without renouncing her, for he loved +her so dearly, so sincerely, that he felt that he was ready, +on the other hand, to renounce the gitana, without too +great a pang, if circumstances should make it necessary. +He laughed a great deal, raising his glass with great +frequency, and winking involuntarily at Audiffret, as if +to say: “We are sly fellows!” But honest Audiffret +could not detect his excitement. He had never interested +himself in anything except the farm accounts. +He had never divined anything in all his life, not he!—As +far as the gipsy was concerned, she certainly would +not leave Saintes-Maries before the fête, that is to say, +for a week or more. After that, she could go where +she chose! it would make little difference to him. +What could he hope for from a wandering creature +like that? An hour’s meeting at the cross-roads on the +way to Arles! Nothing more!</p> + +<p>As to Zinzara, he had hopes; as to Livette, he had +certainty. And he was very light of heart.</p> + +<p>So it was, that, when the time came for him to take his +leave, he indulged in an outburst of affection toward +his new family, quite contrary to his usual habit, and to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>229]</a></span> +the habit of all drovers, who are rough-mannered by +profession.</p> + +<p>You must know that the peasants, in general, do not +kiss except on great occasions—weddings or baptisms. +Only the mothers kiss their young children. The man +of the soil is of stern mould.</p> + +<p>“Audiffret,” the grandmother suddenly said to her +son, laying her knitting on the table and her spectacles +on her knitting;—“Audiffret, every day brings me a +little nearer the end, and I would like to see this marriage +take place before I die. You must hurry it as +much as possible, now that it’s decided on. And if I +can’t be present on the wedding-day, don’t forget, my +children, that the old woman blessed you from the +bottom of her heart to-night.”</p> + +<p>And, without another word, she calmly took up the +stockings and needles.</p> + +<p>She had spoken almost without inflection, in a grave, +calm tone, moving her lips only.</p> + +<p>Every one was deeply moved. Livette looked at +Renaud. He, carried away by his emotion, forgot +everything except this new family that offered itself +to him, the orphan. Livette saw it and was grateful +to him for it. She felt that he was won back, like +the stolen horse, and she sprang to her feet in a burst +of enthusiasm.</p> + +<p>“Kiss me, my betrothed!” said she proudly.</p> + +<p>He kissed her with heartfelt sincerity.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>230]</a></span> +The father and the grandmother looked on with eyes +that gradually became dim with tears.</p> + +<p>When he had pressed the father’s hand, Renaud turned +to the grandmother, as she stuck her knitting-needle into +the white hair that fluttered about her temples.</p> + +<p>“Kiss me, grandmother!” he said, with a smile.</p> + +<p>The old woman gave a leap, then stood erect, recoiling +a little as if in fear:</p> + +<p>“Since my husband died, no man has ever kissed +me,” she said, “not even my son there! Let young +people kiss. Life is before them. I,” she added, “am +already with the dead.”</p> + +<p>And with that, the old peasant-woman, straight and +stiff and withered,—the image of a by-gone time, when +it was deemed a praiseworthy thing to remain true to a +single sentiment,—sought the bed of her old age, which +was soon to see her lying dead, with the tranquillity of +a simple, loving, faithful heart upon her parchment-like +face.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>231]</a></span></p> + +<h2><a name="chap18" id="chap18"></a>XVIII<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smlfont">THE BLESSED RELICS</span></h2> + + +<p>The great day has arrived. From all parts of Languedoc +and Provence, pilgrims, rich and poor, have come to +Saintes-Maries. There are fully ten thousand strangers +in the town.</p> + +<p>For three days past they have been arriving in vehicles +of all shapes and of all ages.</p> + +<p>Many of these pilgrims lodge with the villagers at +extraordinary, princely rates. A bunch of straw on the +floor brings twenty francs. The villager himself sleeps +on a chair, or passes the night in the open air on the +warm sand of the dunes. If the bulls arrive during +the night for the sports of the following day, he assists +the drovers to drive them into the compound, in the +wake of the <i>dondaïre</i>, the enormous ox with a bell.</p> + +<p>The houses are soon filled to overflowing. New-comers +are obliged to camp. Tents are pitched. People live +in carts and wagons, in breaks, tilburys, calèches, omnibuses, +as far away as possible, be it understood, from the +gipsy encampment.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>232]</a></span> +Around the little town, the hundreds of vehicles constitute +a roving town of their own, resting there like a +flock of birds of passage around a swamp.</p> + +<p>And on all sides naught can be seen but tattered, +crippled, hunchbacked, deformed, blind, or one-eyed +creatures, broken in health, lame, maimed, scrofulous, +and paralytic, dragging themselves along or dragged by +others, carried in men’s arms or on litters, some with +bandages over their faces, others displaying unhealed +wounds from which one turns aside in horror.</p> + +<p>Here a poor fellow who has been bitten by a mad dog +wanders about with gloomy brow, tormented by insane +anxiety and hope, for a pilgrimage to Saintes-Maries is +especially efficacious against hydrophobia.</p> + +<p>All varieties of misfortune are represented. All the +children of Job and Tobias have journeyed hither to +find the healing angel and the miraculous fish.</p> + +<p>A motley crowd swarms upon the public square in the +bright sunlight, and in the narrow streets, under the luminous +shadow of the awnings. From time to time, it parts, +with loud shouts, before a drover, who rides proudly by, +his sweetheart <i>en croupe</i> with her arms about his waist.</p> + +<p>Here and there flat baskets laden with rosaries, sacred +images, Catalan knives, and handkerchiefs of brilliant +hue stand out like islets in the midst of the sea of promenaders, +and all the merchandise displayed for sale takes +on a pink or pale-blue tint through the great stationary +umbrellas that shield it from the sun.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>233]</a></span> +Amid the fantastic piercing notes of a <i>galoubet</i>, or +high-pitched flute, tambourines can be heard humming +in cadence in the interior of a wine-shop, where young +girls of the province are dancing in Provençal costume, +dark-skinned girls with white teeth beneath their sensuous +lips; very like Moors they are, the descendants of +some Saracen pirate who ravaged the Ligurian shore.</p> + +<p>The town is flooded with joyous light. Everybody is +in his Sunday dress. Upon the fever-haunted strand, +whither a whole people flocks to pray to the Saintes +Maries for bodily health, that joyous sun is dangerous. +The whole scene has the appearance of a hospital ball, +a fête given by dying men. The devil wields the bâton, +it may be. One would think it, to see the faces of the +gipsies, whose expression, notwithstanding certain cunning +leers, is and remains undecipherable.</p> + +<p>In the church with the black, dirt-begrimed walls, +filled with a fetid odor by such an accumulation of +misery, diseased flesh, and perspiring humanity, the +people crowd about the iron balustrade of the little +well, as if it were the Fountain of Youth. The poor, +green, dilapidated pitcher humbly descends at the end +of its cord to bring up from the sand below brackish +water that to-day seems sweet.</p> + +<p>Keep faith with them, O saints!—Faith gives what +one wishes.</p> + +<p>They are waiting for four o’clock, the hour at which +the relics descend.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>234]</a></span> +At four o’clock precisely, the shutter of the high +window up yonder, under the ogive arch of the nave, +will open. The relics will come down toward the outstretched +arms. The little children will be lifted up +toward them. The dead arms of the paralytics will +be raised toward them. The blind will turn toward +them their sightless eyes, or their empty, blood-stained +orbits.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile, Livette, who is standing there in the +centre of the crowd, directly in front of the altar, +facing the grated door through which you go down +into the crypt, is preparing to sing the solo of invocation. +Her fresh, pure voice is to be the voice of all +these wretched creatures, crushed under the weight of +impurity and disease.</p> + +<p>Just below the high altar, which is studded with +tapers, the gipsies are huddled together in their crypt, +with tapers in their hands, invoking Saint Sara. The +vault is dark. The gipsies are black. The little glass +shrine of Saint Sara has become black under the accumulated +filth of years. From the centre of the church +you can see through the grated opening, which resembles +an air-hole of hell, the innumerable twinkling lights of +the tapers below, waving to and fro in the hands that +hold them. A muffled sound of praying comes up +through the opening.</p> + +<p>In the church, every hand now has its taper, and they +are rapidly lighted one from another. The lights dance +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>235]</a></span> +about in the air. But the interior of the nave is dark. +The high walls, pierced by narrow windows, are grimy +with age. And all this obscurity, where suffering and +misery crawl and cower, is studded with stars like heaven. +To the gipsies in the crypt, who will not see the blessed +relics descend, the body of the church, which they can +see from below through the air-hole, is a heaven beyond +their reach, the world of the elect.</p> + +<p>But the elect, alas! are damned. Their heaven is +the chapel up yonder, in which the power they invoke +lies sleeping, beneath the stained wood of the boxes, +like to a double coffin—the power that may remain +deaf, the all-powerful power that will never perhaps +awaken for any one, the marvellous power upon which +cures depend and which withholds happiness!</p> + +<p>Such was the interior of the three-storied church of +Saintes-Maries on that day. And above the lofty +chapel, there was the bell-tower overlooking the whole +country-side. Surrounded by endless numbers of swallows +and sea-gulls, for centuries past it has looked upon +the glistening desert, the dazzling sea, the dumb infinitude +of space, which could explain things if it would, +but only beams and laughs.</p> + +<p>The hour drew near. The crowd was panting with +heat and hope and fear.</p> + +<p>Renaud was not there.</p> + +<p>“Remember—we promised to burn three tapers each +before the relics,” Livette had said to him.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>236]</a></span> +“I will come to-night,” was his reply. “There’s +the branding to-day. I have to look after my bulls.”</p> + +<p>So Livette was a little distraught. She was thinking +of joining Renaud, of being present at the branding, of +keeping an eye on her betrothed. Where was he?</p> + +<p>But Monsieur le curé made a sign: Livette began to +sing. Alas! why was not her lover there? Her voice, +which she knew was pleasant to the ear, might have +some effect on him. How eagerly he listened to the +gipsy’s singing the other day!—Livette sang, and the +buzzing of prayers and litanies and invocations of all +sorts, that every one was indulging in on his or her own +account, subsided as her clear, pure voice arose. O God! +what is this humanity of ours? It is vile and abject, +but it has some sense of shame. The basest know how +to pray that they may be cured of their baseness. And, +however much they may have rolled in the mire of their +natural inclinations, a time comes when they set the +flame alight, when they burn incense, and when all keep +silent to listen to the voice ascending to Heaven, imploring +for them a grace that no one knows, that perhaps +does not exist, but that every one imagines and desires!</p> + +<p>“Eat your excrement, dog!” say the gipsies; “what +care I? There is a light in the dog’s eye that is not +often seen in the eyes of kings.”</p> + +<p>Livette sang. The curé said to himself:</p> + +<p>“O my God, mayhap this child of Thine will obtain +favor in Thy sight!”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>237]</a></span> +Livette’s voice was as fresh as the water of salvation +for which the assembled multitude thirsted. And how +intently they listened! But, at the end of each stanza, +weary of restraining their tumultuous ejaculations of +hope, they sent up from thousands of throats an inarticulate +roar in which only the two words: <em>Saintes +Maries!</em> could be distinguished.</p> + +<p>Livette sang:</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">“Quand vous étiez sur la grande eau,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sans rames à votre bateau,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Saintes Maries!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rien que la mer, rien que les cieux——<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Vous appeliez de tous vos yeux<br /></span> +<span class="i0">La douceur des plages fleuries.”<a name="FNanchor_9_9" id="FNanchor_9_9"></a><a href="#Footnote_9_9" class="fnanchor">[9]</a><br /></span> +</div> +</div> + +<p>“<em>Saintes Maries!</em>” roared the people; uttered at the +same moment by a thousand voices acting upon a common +impulse, the frenzied appeal was like an explosion.</p> + +<p>Every one shouted with all his strength, for the saints +must be made to hear! Every one shouted with all his +lungs, with all his heart, with all his body, one might +say. Heaven is so far away! Open-mouthed, their faces +twitching convulsively, they gazed upward. The veins +in their necks were swollen to the bursting-point. The +muscles swelled and thickened in faces to which the +blood rushed in torrents. The brothers, lovers, husbands, +mothers, fathers, of the sufferers, availed themselves +of their own strength to call for help, howling +like wounded wild beasts turned toward the dawn. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>238]</a></span> +All this suffering multitude, all this swarming heap of +tainted, diseased flesh, uttered the terrifying roar of a +monster in pain—and still the preternaturally shrill +shriek of some doting mother would soar above the +horrid uproar. And all around the church, filled with +the nameless appeals of these damned of earth, lay the +calm, silent desert, the blue, foam-flecked sea, the brilliant +sunlight, insensible to everything.</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">“Sous le soleil, sous les étoiles,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">De vos robes faisant des voiles<br /></span> +<span class="i2">(Vogue, bateau!)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sept jours, sept nuits vous naviguâtes,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sans voir ni trois-ponts ni frégates——<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rien que la mer et la grande eau!”<a name="FNanchor_10_10" id="FNanchor_10_10"></a><a href="#Footnote_10_10" class="fnanchor">[10]</a><br /></span> +</div> +</div> + +<p>“<em>Saintes Maries!</em>” roared the people, and each time +the shout burst forth from thousands of throats, suddenly +and at the same instant, with the effect of a strange kind +of explosion.</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">“Dieu qui fait son fouet d’un éclair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Pour fouetter le ciel et la mer,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Saintes Maries!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Amena la barque à bon port——<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Un ange, qui parut à bord,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Vous montra des plages fleuries!”<a name="FNanchor_11_11" id="FNanchor_11_11"></a><a href="#Footnote_11_11" class="fnanchor">[11]</a><br /></span> +</div> +</div> + +<p>“<em>Saintes Maries!</em>” the people roared again. And +the appealing cry, made up of so many cries, burst forth +with a sound like that made by a great wave that breaks +against a cliff and is instantly scattered about in foam! +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>239]</a></span> +And again the young girl’s voice arose above all the +vociferating, grinning creatures. Might not one fancy +that he saw a sea-swallow, white as the dove of the +Ark, soaring over a bottomless abyss?</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">“Vous pour qui Dieu fit ce miracle,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Voyez, devant son tabernacle,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Tous à genoux,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Souillés du péché de naissance,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nous invoquons votre puissance,——<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Saintes femmes, protégez-nous!”<a name="FNanchor_12_12" id="FNanchor_12_12"></a><a href="#Footnote_12_12" class="fnanchor">[12]</a><br /></span> +</div> +</div> + +<p>And for the last time, the deafening, harsh cry arose:</p> + +<p>“<em>Saintes Maries!</em>”</p> + +<p>Oh! the thousand, two thousand ejaculations of insane +longing that flew upward, at a single flight, flapping all +their wings at once, to fall back, dead, upon themselves.</p> + +<p>It is very certain that there was in that frenzied appeal +all the madness of suffering, all the wrath of unsatisfied +longing, and rage as of unchained beasts, against the +very beings they implored.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile, the double shutter up above had not yet +been thrown open. And Livette, in accordance with +the curé’s instructions, was to repeat the last verse.</p> + +<p>So she began again:</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">“Vous pour qui Dieu fit ce miracle——”<br /></span> +</div> +</div> + +<p>But these first words had hardly passed her lips when +her voice faltered and died away. For a few seconds +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>240]</a></span> +there was a silence as of utter amazement in the church. +Of what was Livette thinking? Of what?—For the +last minute, just God! her eyes had been obstinately +fixed upon the black opening leading to the crypt. In +that opening, on a level with the floor of the church, +she had seen a head: it was the gipsy queen, who had +come up from the crypt, in mischievous mood, curious +to see Livette singing. Immediately below the great +altar she emerged from the dark depths of the cellar +amid the ascending smoke of the tapers. She came from +her kingdom below, and with her copper crown and +gleaming ear-rings, her swarthy skin and her fiery black +eyes, she seemed to Livette a genuine devil from hell.</p> + +<p>Zinzara ascended two steps more and her bust appeared. +She darted a keen, penetrating glance at +Livette. That is why Livette was confused, and why +she called with all her strength upon the women of +compassion, the holy women above, for help against +this woman from the chapel below.</p> + +<p>But the shutters that concealed the shrines were +opened at last. And slowly, very slowly, they descended, +swinging from side to side, with a slight jerky +movement, at the ends of the two ropes, embellished +here and there with little bunches of flowers.</p> + +<p>Is not this the image of every life? Is there aught else +in the world? Something descends from heaven, something +ascends from hell; and we suffer with hope and fear.</p> + +<p>“<em>Saintes Maries!</em>”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>241]</a></span> +Amid the vociferations of the crowd, Livette lost her +head, she forgot to sing, and, carried away by the prevailing +excitement, hope, and terror, she began to cry +aloud with all the rest, like a lost soul, while Zinzara, +from below, continued to gaze fixedly at her.</p> + +<p>What would you say, Monsieur le curé, to Livette’s +thoughts, who,—poor creature of the world we live +in!—between the holy women and the woman devil, +no longer knew which way to turn? Had she not reason +to tremble? For the shrines descend to no purpose, they +bring us naught but dead relics—while the sorceress is +a creature of flesh and blood, whose feet walk, whose +eyes see!</p> + +<p>Far away from us, in the land of dreams, of supernatural +hopes, above the sky and the stars, are the +sainted souls that have pity for mankind; as far from +man as Paradise itself are the chaste women who embalm +the crucified ones in herbs and spices, while <em>she</em> +is close at hand, always ready, always armed against the +repose of Christian souls, she, queen of diabolic love, +who, seeking only to gratify her caprice, makes sport of +everything!</p> + +<p>Livette became more and more confused beneath +Zinzara’s steadfast glance, and she tried in vain, after +silence had at last been restored, to resume the invocation. +She faltered and stopped again.</p> + +<p>Thereupon there was great confusion among the +waiting multitude. All those men and women who +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>242]</a></span> +were holding their peace in order to listen to the outpouring +of their own souls in the maiden’s voice, to +the pure, unspoken prayer which was in their hearts, +but which they could not put in words, had been thrown +back once more, and more despairingly than ever, upon +themselves, upon their own helplessness, when Livette’s +voice died away. Just at the decisive moment, their +interpreter failed them! They were afraid of their profound +silence, so contrary to the impulses of their hearts. +In order to be heard on high, their prayer must be +offered; and, seized by the same thought, every one +began to shout or sing on his own account, some beginning +again at the very beginning, others taking the +stanza they knew by heart or had before them in a +book, others repeating at random bits of the litanies, +one the <i>credo</i>, another the <i>pater</i>, and never did prayers +offered up to God create such a hellish uproar, since the +discordant cries of all the sorrows of mankind ascended +to Heaven.</p> + +<p>Stronger women than Livette would have been disturbed +as she was, would have felt their powers failing. +She put her hand to her forehead to detain her mind +that seemed to be making its escape. Was not she the +cause of all this trouble? What would become of her, +in this state? She was afraid and ashamed at once.</p> + +<p>Instead of looking up, instead of watching the blessed +relics that had now accomplished half of their descent, +she could not refrain from returning the fixed stare of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>243]</a></span> +the gipsy woman below, whose eyes seemed to pierce +her soul.</p> + +<p>Livette suffered keenly. The gipsy’s gaze entered +into her very being, and she felt that she could do +nothing. It seemed to her as if a sharp-toothed beast +were gnawing at her heart. Instead of praying, she +listened to the terrible thoughts within her. She fancied +that she could feel the hatred go out from her with the +glances that shot from her eyes! She tried to stab to +the heart with it that creature who was defying her +down there. Would not somebody kill the witch, who +was the cause of everything? Ah! Saintes Maries! +what thoughts for such a place! at such a time!</p> + +<p>The relics slowly descended, and, amid the roars that +greeted them, Livette, in her overwrought imagination, +fancied that she saw herself clinging to Renaud, beseeching +him to be faithful and kind to her, and not +to go to that other woman; and when he refused and +left her, she leaped at the gipsy’s face and scratched her +and clawed at her like a cat.</p> + +<p>Thus the sorceress’s soul passed into Livette. Already, +without suspecting it, she had begun to resemble her +enemy, the gitana who leaped at the nostrils of Renaud’s +horse the other day. And yet this little fair-haired girl +was not one of the dark-skinned maidens of Arles, who +have African and Asian blood in their veins! No +matter; she, too, has a wild beast’s fits of passion. +Love and jealousy are at work making a woman’s soul.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>244]</a></span> +The relics were still descending; and Livette feverishly +told off <i>paters</i> and <i>aves</i> on her rosary.—Patience! +on the day after the fête, the gipsies, she knows, will +leave the town! Two more days and her agony will be +at an end.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile—she makes this vow in presence of the +relics—she will not gratify Renaud by showing that +she is jealous, as she is, and not until later—when +Zinzara is far away, and there is no chance of her +coming back—will she, perhaps, tell her promised husband +that he lied to her, that he is a traitor, because, +instead of avenging her upon the gipsy, he was false +to his fiancée with her—for of course he is false to +her, as he is not there!—She will tell him, then, not +in a passion, but to punish him. It will be no more +than justice.</p> + +<p>By dint of uncoiling themselves by little jerks, the +ropes have lowered the relics almost within reach of +the hands stretched up to meet them. Thereupon the +rabble of poor devils could contain itself no longer. +Every one was determined to be the first to touch them. +Those who were already in the choir, directly below the +hanging relics, lost their footing, crowded as they were +by those who were pressing in from the body of the +church, jostling and crushing one another with a constant +pressure. Livette was borne along on the wave, +seeing nothing, and with but one thought in her mind—to +touch the consecrated relics herself!—That she felt +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>245]</a></span> +she must do, so that she might escape the influence of +the glance the black woman had cast at her. She +would seek to turn aside the fatal spell that had been +upon her ever since her first meeting with the sorceress! +But would she reach the shrines?—Livette felt that she +was seized by two strong arms. She turned: it was +Renaud! He had just entered the church with two +other drovers, his friends. These three young men, +glowing with the outside sunlight, healthy and strong, +amid the lame and halt and blind, had the insolent +bearing—cruel without meaning to be—of manly beauty, +of life itself. They extricated the girl and made a ring +about her. She was able to breathe.</p> + +<p>“Would you like to touch the relics, demoisellette?”</p> + +<p>Forcing their way before her, without great effort, but +pitilessly, through the crowd of cripples, they cleared +a passage for her. Livette walked quickly, she drew +near the spot, and Renaud, seizing her around the waist, +lifted her up like a child so that she touched the consecrated +relics first of all!</p> + +<p>Still with the three youths as a body-guard, before +whom all were fain to stand aside, and without further +thought—poor you! it is the law of the world—of the +innumerable, nameless perils by which she was encompassed, +she left the church content. Peace had found +its way into her heart once more. Her Renaud was +there by her side. Was all that she had dreaded a +dream and nothing more?</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>246]</a></span> +“Ah! it is good to be outside!” he said, filling his +lungs with the fresh air.</p> + +<p>“Yes, but when will you light the tapers, Renaud, +that you are to burn in the church as I promised for +you?”</p> + +<p>“Oh! I have a whole day before me,” he replied. +“Now let us go to the races.”</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>247]</a></span></p> + +<h2><a name="chap19" id="chap19"></a>XIX<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smlfont">THE BRANDING</span></h2> + + +<p>The relics having descended, the majority of those +present left the dark church and returned to the dazzling +outside world.</p> + +<p>As the crowd poured out through the narrow side-doors, +another crowd was forcing its way in through +the main entrance, making but slow progress,—two or +three steps in a quarter of an hour,—all hot and perspiring, +in a cloud of luminous dust.</p> + +<p>Many young men were there, for the pleasure of being +pressed by the crowd against the pretty girls, their sweethearts, +whose sinuous bodies they could feel against their +own, and who could not escape them there. How many +hands and waists were squeezed which the mothers could +not see!</p> + +<p>And in undertones they said:</p> + +<p>“I love you, Lionnette.”</p> + +<p>“Fie, François!”</p> + +<p>“Let me go, Tiennet!——”</p> + +<p>Thus, beside the infirm and incurable, who know +naught of the good things of life, love saucily sports +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>248]</a></span> +and laughs, feels its own force, and seeks return. The +incense in the church serves only to inflame its desire, +and more than one youth offers his beloved a rosary, +whose boxwood cross he has ardently kissed before her +eyes, so that she may find the kiss with her lips.</p> + +<p>All day long, the pilgrims and invalids enter the +church. Many will pass the night there, keeping vigil +with the tapers, on their knees or prostrate before the +relics; and more than one, each in his turn, will lie +down upon them, on cushions brought expressly for +the purpose.</p> + +<p>For the moment—it is the first day of the fête—nothing +is talked about in the streets of the town save the +bulls and the sports.</p> + +<p>“Are you going to the races?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“Does Prince run? He’s the best horse in all the +droves.”</p> + +<p>“No, he won’t run; Renaud, who usually handles +him, told me that he was too tired.”</p> + +<p>“Pshaw! what a pity!”</p> + +<p>“What about the bulls? Shall we have any that are +a bit ugly?”</p> + +<p>“There’s <i>Sirous</i> and <i>Dogue</i> and <i>Mâchicoulis</i>. I cut +them out myself with Bernard and Renaud. They gave +us a lot of trouble! They refused to leave the herd. +As soon as we got them out, back they would go again. +But we set <i>Martin</i> and <i>Commetoi</i> at them, two bull-dogs +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>249]</a></span> +that can’t be matched anywhere; and even <i>Mâchicoulis</i> +obeyed at last!”</p> + +<p>“<i>Martin</i> and <i>Commetoi</i>?—Those are curious names +for dogs!”</p> + +<p>“It’s a joke. When any one asks: ‘How is your dog +called?’<a name="FNanchor_13_13" id="FNanchor_13_13"></a><a href="#Footnote_13_13" class="fnanchor">[13]</a> The dog’s master replies: ‘<i>Commetoi!</i>’ +[Like yourself.] The other man gets angry, and it +raises a laugh.”</p> + +<p>“And what about the full-blooded Spanish bull, with +the horns twisted like a lyre; shall we see him?”</p> + +<p>“<i>Angel Pastor?</i> He is sick. I like our straight-horned +bulls better. The important thing is that the +horns should be far enough apart for a man’s body to +go between them.”</p> + +<p>“Are there any heifers?”</p> + +<p>“One, a wicked one—<i>Serpentine</i>.”</p> + +<p>“And <i>bioulets</i>?”</p> + +<p>“Young bulls, do you mean? Renaud has kept six +of them, expressly to give the strangers a chance to see +a branding.”</p> + +<p>“When will the branding come off?”</p> + +<p>“In a moment. Suppose we go to see it.”</p> + +<p>The gipsy was present at the branding.</p> + +<p>The arena was against the church, at the end opposite +the main entrance.</p> + +<p>The many-sided irregular enclosure was formed on +one side by the high wall of the church; on another, +by a house standing by itself, against which was a series +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>250]</a></span> +of roughly made benches, one above another; on still +another side by three or four small houses, each of +whose windows formed a frame for a dozen or more +heads of young men and women, crowded together and +all laughing gaily. At the base of one of these houses +was a café with a glass door opening on the arena and +barricaded by tables and overturned chairs. On each +side of the door was drawn, in deepest black, a silhouette +of a bull of the Camargue type, that is to say, with straight +horns of ample proportions.</p> + +<p>On all sides of the enclosure where there were no +stone walls, their place was supplied by wagons bound +firmly together by their shafts.</p> + +<p>At the corner of the wall of the church, there were +three great iron rings one above another, and through +them were thrust three wooden bars, which could be +moved back and forth at will.</p> + +<p>These bars were to be let down for the young bulls +which were to be turned out of the arena, one by one, +after they had been branded, to find their way alone to +the desert. Outside the bars, a system of barricades +closed the streets of the town to them, and—by compelling +them to go behind the few houses facing the arena—guided +them, whether they would or not, to the margin +of the open plain in less than a hundred steps.</p> + +<p>Zinzara was present, as we have said, standing in a +wagon. She followed with impassive glance all the happenings +within the arena, grotesque and heroic alike.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>251]</a></span> +These duels between man and beast are grand or +disgusting according to the character of the adversaries. +It sometimes happens that the man attacks in +a cowardly fashion, or that the beast, from astonishment +it may be, or fatigue, turns about and tries to return to +the stable. Fine contests are rare.</p> + +<p>Sometimes a sharp stone is thrown from a safe distance +by a disloyal foe. The surprised beast receives +it full in the face; the blood flows in long streams +from his nostrils to the ground. He looks straight +before him, his great eyes filled with mirage, and does +not budge, as if he were at once saddened and contemptuous.</p> + +<p>Sometimes a mischievous rascal has the happy thought +of coming very close to him and throwing sand in his +eyes by the handful. Another, more mischievous than +he, covers the bull with filth collected from the gutter! +But the sand-thrower, being spattered thereby, himself +picks up a handful, and the two heroes engage in a fierce +battle with dung picked up smoking from the ground +under the bull’s very tail, amid the laughter and applause +of a whole population, until the champions, reeking with +filth, are abruptly separated by the bull, who bestirs +himself at last and charges them.</p> + +<p>“This way! this way, Livette!”</p> + +<p>Livette had just come into the arena. Her young +friends called her and gladly moved closer together to +make room for her on the benches.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>252]</a></span> +A stable just beside the café had been transformed +into a <i>toril</i>. Just above the door of the stable was the +long window of the hay-loft, level with the floor. Two +herdsmen, sitting in the window with their legs hanging +outside, rose from time to time, and could be seen +pricking the <i>dondaïre</i>, the beloved leader of the herd, +through the holes in the floor above the hay-racks. +The <i>dondaïre</i> would thereupon go out and lead the +tired bull back to the stable. Every time that a new +beast left the <i>toril</i>, or one that was tired out returned, +a dexterous hand swiftly closed the door.</p> + +<p>All these things, which were probably by no means +new to the gipsy, who was doubtless familiar with the +tragic entertainments of Madrid and Seville, left her +unmoved. Her eye did not kindle; it was as dull and +vague as a heifer’s.</p> + +<p>The “amateurs” played with a few bulls. They were +not ill-tempered. Somebody seized one of them by +the tail. A whole party clung to his skirts, dancing the +farandole—but were soon scattered. The performance +thus far was not inspiriting, but it was amusing.</p> + +<p>Behind the glass door of the café, which opened on +the arena, some congenial spirits were emptying a bottle +and smoking while they enjoyed the spectacle. The +door was barricaded by a rampart of overturned tables, +with their legs in the air and passed through a net-work +of broken chairs.</p> + +<p>Suddenly the bull, overturning tables and chairs, put +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>253]</a></span> +the drinkers to flight: he had thrust his bulky head +through a square of glass. The café rang with shouts +of alarm mingled with amusement. The wagons in the +arena shook with the joyous stamping of their occupants; +the planks were torn off by excited hands; the people +at the windows of the little houses rattled the shutters +noisily in their delight. To see the crowds on the roofs +laugh made one fear that they would fall in. Thus was +the frolicsome bull applauded. The gipsy alone did not +smile.</p> + +<p>A great oat-bin stood in a corner of the arena, placed +there purposely perhaps. A very old man,—not too +old to play the merry-andrew,—armed with an old +red umbrella, raised the lid, climbed into the bin, and +opened his umbrella, which was of the most brilliant +shade of red. The bull rushed at him—the old man +let the lid fall. Bin and umbrella closed at the same +moment upon the laughing bald head. The hilarity of +the public was at its height. The gipsy did not seem +amused by the old man’s drollery.—Nor did she laugh +when a manikin was set up in the centre of the arena +and the bull carried him off on his horns and hurled +him into the midst of the spectators; and she did not +even smile when, a window on the ground-floor of one +of the houses being thrown open, a little child was seen +in his mother’s arms, behind the iron bars, teasing the +furious animal. Laughing with glee, he held a plaything +out through the bars, a little pasteboard windmill, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>254]</a></span> +whose pink and blue wings were made to turn by the +monster’s breath.</p> + +<p>Then came a tragic episode. A man—an <em>amateur</em>—struck +by the sharp horns; his thigh pierced from side +to side; the first cowardly movement of flight on the +part of the other contestants; the return of the valiant +fellows, who diverted the bull’s attention and drew him +off while the wounded man was removed, accompanied +by the piercing shrieks of his wife and daughter.</p> + +<p>At last, the serious business of the day began. It was +announced that the branding was about to take place. +Immediately thereafter would come the game of the +“cockades,” which consists in snatching a cockade +suspended between the bull’s horns by a thread. With +his hand or with a hooked stick the rider breaks the +thread, snatches the cockade—<em>Crac!</em> a quick recovery, +and the victor has won the scarf!</p> + +<p>The branding is hard work turned into a game; it +consists in branding young bulls with a red-hot iron, +with their owner’s cipher.</p> + +<p>A young bull having been turned into the arena, +Renaud walked up to him, and, as the beast made a +rush, cleverly avoided him by turning upon his heel. +The bull having, thereupon, stopped short, Renaud +seized him by the horns.</p> + +<p>Clinging to him with his hands, closed like knots of +steel about the horns, the man was dragged for a moment, +standing, over the ground, in which his thick +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>255]</a></span> +soles dug ribbon-like furrows. The spectators clapped +their hands. The bull lowered his head and stood still. +Renaud, with his legs apart and bent a little, and his +feet firmly planted in the ground, threw all his weight +to the left. All the muscles of his chest and arms stood +out beneath his shirt, which was glued to his skin by +perspiration. The bull, with all his sluggish strength, +tried to throw himself in the opposite direction. Suddenly +Renaud gave way, and the bull, losing the support +of his resistance, fell heavily before a sudden contrary +effort. And there he lay at full length on the ground, +gasping for breath.</p> + +<p>The man, who had not released his hold, forced his +head to the ground by sitting on it.</p> + +<p>“Bravo, king! bravo, king!” cried the crowd.</p> + +<p>Bernard took the red-hot iron from a brazier and +carried it to Renaud, who, thereupon, let go one horn, +and kneeling heavily upon the beast’s withers, seized +the iron with his right hand and pressed it against his +shoulder. The hair and flesh smoked and crackled. +Renaud rose quickly, and the bull, springing suddenly +to his feet, shook himself all over, lashed his sides with +his tail, bellowed with anger, pawed the ground with his +foot, and, amid the shouts of the crowd, darted through +the barrier, which was opened at that moment. A moment +later, he could be seen far away on the plain, galloping +at full speed. He soon rejoined the drove which +he or any of his fellows can readily find for themselves, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>256]</a></span> +even if it be on the other side of the Rhône, which they +often swim.</p> + +<p>Six bulls, one after another, were thus thrown down +by Renaud.</p> + +<p>The sport enlivened him, he was intoxicated by the +consciousness of his great strength. Excited even more +by the applause of the people, he trembled from head to +foot. From time to time, he wiped the great beads of +perspiration from his forehead with the back of his +hand.</p> + +<p>A sunbeam fell across one side of the arena, which +lay in the dark shadow of the high church-wall. Renaud +ran thither, hatless, in shirt-sleeves and close-fitting red +breechcloth, shaking the short curly locks of his thick, +jet-black hair.</p> + +<p>The girls applauded, I promise you, more loudly than +the young men, who were somewhat jealous. Zinzara’s +eye—her wagon was standing in the ray of sunlight—kindled +at last.—And Livette, blushing deeply, was +proud of her king.</p> + +<p>When the sixth bull he had thrown was still under his +knee, Renaud made a sign to Bernard. Bernard ran to +him, knelt beside him, and seized the bull by the horns +in his stead. Another drover came to help Bernard hold +the beast, and Renaud rose.</p> + +<p>He walked across the arena, and when he came to +where Livette sat, beckoned to her. Everybody understood +and applauded.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>257]</a></span> +She walked forward to the edge of the platform on +which the benches were built, and lightly placed her +foot on the strong cross-bar that served as a support to +the spectators in the front row; from there she jumped +confidently into Renaud’s arms, who caught her about +the waist and set her down as if she had been a little +child.</p> + +<p>He took her hand and led her toward the bull.</p> + +<p>If Renaud had looked at Zinzara at that moment, he +would have surprised in her eyes a gleam which she did +her best to hide behind her half-closed lids. The smile +vanished from her mocking lips.</p> + +<p>But Livette and Renaud, the pair of comely lovers, +were thinking of naught but the fête, of themselves, of +this strange betrothal at which all their people were +present, and the like of which not even princes could +give, for it required rare strength and address on the +part of the fiancé. It was, in very truth, the triumph +of a manly king.</p> + +<p>“Bravo, king! bravo, queen!”</p> + +<p>As they passed the brazier in the centre of the arena, he +stooped quickly, and seized with his free hand—without +stopping or releasing Livette’s hand—the red-hot iron, +which he handed to her as soon as they were beside the +bull. She took it, and, leaning forward, branded the bull +on the shoulder, and when they saw the flesh smoking +under the iron she held in her strong little hand, when +the bull began to quiver with wrath, the enthusiasm of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>258]</a></span> +the people burst forth. Hats and hands and scarfs were +waved in the air.</p> + +<p>“Bravo, king! bravo, queen!”</p> + +<p>And Renaud, envied by all, escorted the maiden back +to her place, while the bull, set free, rushed from the +arena in his turn and out upon the plain. No, Zinzara +no longer laughed.</p> + +<p>The game of the “cockades” was next on the programme.</p> + +<p>The first two or three were easily carried off—one +from the head of Angel Pastor himself, the Spanish +bull—by the young men of Saintes-Maries, and it had +not occurred to Renaud to take part in the sport.</p> + +<p>At last, Serpentine, a nervous little heifer, was let +loose in the arena. Every one realized instantly that she +was in a bad temper and would defend herself.</p> + +<p>Several tried their fortune against her, but, just as +they put out their hand to the cockade, Serpentine +would turn about so quickly, and with such agility for +a heifer, that they fled. Ah! the hussy! Zinzara suddenly +became interested in the game. Renaud had +gone down into the arena.</p> + +<p>“The king! the king! bravo! king!” shouted the +crowd.</p> + +<p>And Renaud performed prodigies of skill.</p> + +<p>Three times he placed his foot upon Serpentine’s lowered +head, and allowed himself to be hurled into space, +to fall again upon his elastic legs. And as soon as he +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>259]</a></span> +reached the ground the third time, he turned like a +flash, ran straight to the heifer, snatched away the +cockade,—avoiding the blow she aimed at him with her +horns in her rage,—and was calmly walking away, when +the agile creature returned to the charge.</p> + +<p>Renaud ran, as chance guided him, closely pursued +by the beast, and when he had leaped upon the nearest +wagon, he found himself beside the gipsy, whom he +had instinctively seized around the waist.</p> + +<p>The heifer had already turned her attention to some +of the other contestants, and very fortunately, too,—for +the gipsy, who was standing on the edge of her +wagon, leaning against the insecure boarding, lost her +balance, and leaped down, perforce, into the arena, +carrying Renaud with her.</p> + +<p>Livette turned pale as death.</p> + +<p>The heifer came galloping back at full speed toward +Renaud and Zinzara, the latter of whom, being entangled +in the folds of her ragged finery, thought that she +was lost.—Boldly she turned and faced the danger, too +proud to fly, at least when to fly would be useless. But +Renaud had already stepped in front of her to protect +her, and, seized with some insane idea or other,—the +bravado of a horse-breaker, or of a lover, if you +choose,—instead of entering into a contest with the +heifer, instead of seizing her by the horns or the legs, +stopped, and, without taking his eyes from the beast’s +face, quickly knelt upon one knee, squatted upon his +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>260]</a></span> +heel, folded his arms, and, with his head thrown back, +defied her. Like an experienced “trapper,” he counted +upon the beast’s astonishment, and she did, in fact, stop +short, and scrutinize him suspiciously. The gipsy, her +lips pressed tightly together, having regained her place +upon the wagon, looked back and saw her protector +still in that singularly foolhardy attitude. As may be +imagined, everybody was shouting: “Vive Renaud!” +It seemed as if they would never weary of it.</p> + +<p>When he rose, he was again charged by Serpentine, +and had barely time to regain his place of refuge beside +the gitana; and the furious beast attacked the flooring +of the wagon just at their feet with such a fierce blow of +her powerfully armed head, that it was caught there for +a moment by the horns, so that Renaud had to force +them out by stamping upon them with the heel of his +iron-shod boot.</p> + +<p>Then the gipsy smiled, and, bending over toward the +drover’s ear, whispered a word or two that made +the handsome horse-breaker smile with her.</p> + +<p>Livette—who was a long distance away, at the other +end of the arena, but almost opposite them, and so +placed that she could see them in the bright light—had +not lost a single gesture, not a single glance.</p> + +<p>What jealousy does not see, it divines, and that is not +surprising, for it sees what does not exist.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>261]</a></span></p> + +<h2><a name="chap20" id="chap20"></a>XX<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smlfont">THE SNARE</span></h2> + + +<p>The relics were exposed twenty-four hours in the +church.</p> + +<p>The second day, they reascended to their chapel, amid +the howling of the same poor wretches whose hopes they +carried with them.</p> + +<p>At the moment when the relics take their departure, +the spectacle becomes terrifying. What! all is over! +what! they leave us in our misery, our woes sharpened +by the disappointment! And it is all over! over, for +a whole year! And yet the power that can heal is +here, shut up in this box, so near us! among us! They +rush at the shrines and cling to them!—Nails are broken +and bleeding against the iron-bound corners!—And the +inexorable capstan up above turns and turns, tearing +from the writhing crowd at the bottom of the well the +strange coffin, that goes up, up, at the end of the straining +ropes. Standing on tiptoe, jostling, overturning, +crushing one another without pity, the poor devils +struggle for the last touch—the last, supreme touch that +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>262]</a></span> +may, perhaps, because it is the last, secure the coveted +grace.—And all in vain. Amid the sobbing prayers, +the mysterious closed vessel goes up toward the lofty +chapel, carrying the water of salvation of which so +many feverish lips long to drink. And when the shrines +pass out of sight, near the arch, behind the lowered shutters,—then +veritable shrieks of agony go up from the +frenzied crowd who cannot endure the death of hope.</p> + +<p>Then the uproar becomes truly frightful; then selfishness +breaks forth unbridled, each one uttering for his +own behoof the bestial cry that should bring down on +him alone the saints’ compassion; then the lamentation +is wild, the supplication horrible to hear, the prayers are +prayers of rage! And in this deep moat, whose walls +tremble with the noise, there is a great uproar as of +unclean beasts, thirsting for their God as for a physical +blessing, as for a vainly awaited promised land! And, +nailed against one of the bare walls of the fortress-church, +a great crucifix, with open arms and upturned +face, above all those distorted faces, all those raised and +writhing arms, seems to mingle with the fierce lamentations +of the human brutes its divine but no less fruitless +and much more despairing cry!</p> + +<p>And yet, it is almost always at the last moment, at +the precise second when the shrines disappear, that the +miracle takes place, and a paralytic walks or a blind +girl sees. One cries out: “Miracle!”</p> + +<p>Lucky girl! She is surrounded, almost suffocated.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>263]</a></span> +“Can you see?”—“I did see.”—“Can you see +now?”—“Wait—yes!”—“What?”—“A bright red +lily! a flash! an angel!”—“Miracle! miracle!”</p> + +<p>A man, a villager, immediately takes the child in his +arms. Ah! he has seen miracles before! See how he +hurries to take the child away on his shoulders, on the +shield! He carries her thus so that all may see the +miraculously-cured; so that no one shall forget that +genuine miracles are done at Saintes-Maries, and come +again! And the crowd follows, giving thanks. They +hurry to the parsonage; the miracle is recorded in the +presence of several assembled priests.</p> + +<p>“Did you see?”—“Yes, I saw!”</p> + +<p>And the procession moves on.</p> + +<p>Ah! Christophore, the old pirate!—How he hurries +along, with his lie on his shoulders!—He is a poor inhabitant +of Saintes-Maries to whom the presence of so +many strangers every year brings in something, as it +does to all the rest, and he trots joyously off with his +living decoy.</p> + +<p>The next day, the child of the miracle is found alone +at the foot of the Calvary, on the beach, left there for a +moment by the woman or child who acts as her guide.</p> + +<p>“Well, can you see?”—“No.”—“What about the +miracle, then?”</p> + +<p>Poor child! In her plaintive voice, she replies: +“It has gone again!”—“But you did see, yesterday?”—“Yes.”—“If +you could see, why did they +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>264]</a></span> +carry you?”—“Oh! monsieur, I couldn’t see anything +but flowers, bright red lilies; but as to walking—oh! +no, I couldn’t see to do that! And now it is all dark. +I can’t see anything at all any more; yes, the miracle—has +gone away!”</p> + +<p>As soon as the relics had disappeared, everybody left +the church in procession, to go to bless the sea—the +sea that bore the saints to Camargue—the sea whereon +the brave fishermen risk their lives every day.</p> + +<p>The curé walked at the head of the procession. He +held a relic in his hand; it was the Silver Arm, a hollow +object in which some relics of the saints can be seen +through a little square of glass.</p> + +<p>The crowd followed in order. There were hundreds, +yes, thousands of them. Great numbers of pilgrims, +sitting on the dunes, watched the procession winding its +way along the sandy beach where a few flat-boats lay +high and dry.</p> + +<p>Behind Monsieur le curé, six men bore on their shoulders +a carved and painted wooden image, of considerable +size, representing the two saints in the boat. There +was so much jostling, by so many of the crowd, to secure +the honor of replacing the bearers, that the boat pitched +and rolled on their shoulders as if it were at sea in a +high wind.</p> + +<p>Saint Sara, the black saint, came next, borne by dark-haired, +swarthy-faced gipsies, with eyes that glistened +like jet. Their little ones meanwhile glided through +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>265]</a></span> +the crowd like rats, creeping between people’s legs and +stealing handkerchiefs and purses.</p> + +<p>And in the wake of the saints came young men and +maidens, carrying lilies, sweet-smelling lilies, collected +in sheaves every year for the procession of the faithful.</p> + +<p>Others held tapers whose light could not be detected +in the bright sunlight, but the lilies filled the air with +perfume. These lilies were Livette’s delight.</p> + +<p>Monsieur le curé reached the water’s edge. He held +out the Silver Arm. Thereupon, the sea, for an instant, +recoiled—only a little. The poor fishermen’s wives +quickly crossed themselves.</p> + +<p>And all those who were standing on the dunes, watching +the procession pass, saw the bearers marching at +the head loom taller and taller at every step by +reason of the mirage. And the saints on the bearers’ +shoulders gradually increased in size with them, and +seemed to rise heavenward, of prodigious size, as in a +vision.</p> + +<p>“Protect us, great saints! May the sea be kind to +us of Saintes-Maries this year!”</p> + +<p>Poor people, poor souls! Wait till next year.</p> + +<p>Every year it is the same thing. All this returns and +will return, like the seasons.</p> + +<p>On the day following that on which the relics returned +to their retreat, the majority of the pilgrims left the +village. All the camps were struck at almost the same +hour.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>266]</a></span> +The carriages of all sorts, the cabriolets, dog-carts, +<i>chars-à-bancs</i>, <i>jardinières</i>, break-necks, the rich farmers’ +breaks, and the peasants’ wagons, covered with canvas +stretched over hoops, carried away seven, eight, ten +thousand travellers of all ages, sick or well, and the +long line crawled like a serpent over the flat road between +two deserts. Here and there, at the left of the +line, mounted men, many of whom carried a girl <i>en +croupe</i>, rode back and forth, looking for one another, +now waiting, now riding on at a gallop to take the +lead of the caravan.</p> + +<p>This departure of the pilgrims was another spectacle +for the good people of Saintes-Maries, who stood around +in noisy groups on the outskirts of the village, waving +a last adieu to the guests whose presence they had taken +advantage of to the utmost.</p> + +<p>Those who had been compelled to give shelter to +friends and had consequently been unable to put so high +a price on their hospitality, good-humoredly repeated +the amusing sentiment, that certainly smacks less of +Arabia than do the horses of the district: <i>Friends who +come to visit us always afford us pleasure; if not when +they arrive, at all events when they depart.</i></p> + +<p>On the second day following that on which the gipsy +had smiled upon the drover, when the party of zingari +passed in their place at the tail of the procession, some +mounted on sorry nags, others jolting about in their +wretched wagons,—some of the women on foot, the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>267]</a></span> +better to beg, carrying their children slung bandoleer-wise +over their backs,—it was observed that the queen’s +wagon was not among them.</p> + +<p>Zinzara had remained at Saintes-Maries.</p> + +<p>She proposed to give herself the pleasure of administering +a rebuff to the drover, with whom she had made +an assignation for that very evening.</p> + +<p>This is what had taken place.</p> + +<p>During the branding, Renaud had whispered in Zinzara’s +ear:</p> + +<p>“Ah! now I have you, gipsy! what a pity that it is +before all these people!”</p> + +<p>“On my word, I have the same thought <em>at this +moment</em>,” she replied, deeply touched by the grand +presence of mind he had just shown in defending +her.</p> + +<p>“All right,” he said, “I’ll come and speak to you +very soon. These are lovely nights.”</p> + +<p>“No, to-morrow,” said she, “to-morrow, do you +understand? after the wagons have gone.”</p> + +<p>But at the close of the performance, when he saw +Livette coming toward him with pale cheeks, so pale +that she looked like a corpse, he was seized with poignant +remorse.</p> + +<p>“She saw me,” he said to himself, “and she is +suffering from jealousy.”</p> + +<p>And so great was his pity for the poor little girl that +he felt capable of sacrificing to her, once for all, at the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>268]</a></span> +very moment when it had become more difficult than +ever, his insane passion for the other. All the chaste +affection he had felt for Livette from the very first, so +different from passion and so pleasant to the senses, +came back to him like the puff of fresh air that awakens +one from a bad dream.</p> + +<p>Furthermore, he was surprised, almost disconcerted, +to find that the gipsy’s formal promise did not afford +him the pleasure he had expected when he had dreamed +of it in anticipation.</p> + +<p>Livette left him to join her father, who was not to +take her back to the château until the evening of the +following day, two or three hours after the departure +of the pilgrims, in order to remain until the end of +the fête, and to avoid the thick dust and the enforced +slowness of the long procession.</p> + +<p>And that day—in the afternoon—Renaud fell in with +Monsieur le curé.</p> + +<p>“Good-day, drover. What is the matter, my boy? +You seem preoccupied.”</p> + +<p>“Oh! curé,” said Renaud, “sometimes it is difficult +to do what is right!”</p> + +<p>With that he was about to pass on, but the curé seized +his arm and detained him.</p> + +<p>“Eh! curé,” said Renaud, “you have still a powerful +grasp!”</p> + +<p>“Beware, Renaud,” said the curé very slowly, “lest +you become a great sinner. I know what I know. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>269]</a></span> +Your betrothed wife is weeping. She is jealous. Already +rumors are in circulation concerning you. And +for whom, just God! would you betray that virtuous +girl, who, wealthy as she is, gives herself to you, a +poor orphan? You would ruin a whole family, poor +you! and your honor and the repose of your heart, +forever! The devil is crafty, you are right, and to +do right is difficult, but those whom the devil inspires, +when you follow their momentary caprice and your own +fancy, lead you on to abysses deeper than the <i>lorons</i> +of the <i>paluns</i>. You are walking at this moment on +the moving crust! If it bursts, adieu, my man! You +will be engulfed body and soul. As for yourself, that is +a small matter! but by what right do you compel the +little one to run the risk of your downfall? You are +dealing with an accursed creature, a woman who does +not know herself, who is submissive to nobody, and who +cares nothing for the misfortunes of others. Whatever +she does is for her own amusement. I have seen her +and watched her. The saints have taught me many +things. Beware! The little one is brave. Some day +there may be innocent blood on your hands, if you +keep on in the road I forbid you to follow, for the +devil is in the affair, I tell you, and all sorts of monsters +are awaiting you at the turning in the evil road. A +betrothed lover’s infidelity, like a husband’s, lays an +egg filled with ghastly creatures, which sometimes +hatches. If you have a heart, show it, Renaud, take +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>270]</a></span> +my advice, and go back to your horses and cattle in the +solitude of your plains, where the malignant fever is +less to be feared than the disease you are taking here!”</p> + +<p>Renaud, the tall, strong, dashing blade, listened to +these wise words, hanging his head, poor fellow, like a +child scolded for not knowing his catechism.</p> + +<p>“If you are a man, make up your mind at once, and +give me your word as a true-hearted drover.”</p> + +<p>“Take my hand, Monsieur le curé. I give you my +word. I was in a fair way to go wrong. A spell was +on me.”</p> + +<p>The two men exchanged a grasp of the hand.</p> + +<p>The curé walked away with an anxious heart. He +knew that Renaud was sincere, but he knew the strength +of man’s passion and his ingenuity in lying.</p> + +<p>So the curé had been asking questions?—In that case, +to consort with the gipsy was to risk a rupture with +Livette.</p> + +<p>Renaud was about to leave the village,—or, if you +please, the town,—with his mind firmly made up to +renounce the gitana. Yes, he would sacrifice her to +Livette, to his earnest desire to have a peaceful, happy +home and a family, he, the wandering cowherd, the +orphan, the foundling of the desert. That was happiness;—a +roof to shelter one, a roof whose smoke one +can see from afar on the horizon, thinking: the wife and +little ones are there.</p> + +<p>He would renounce the gitana; yes, but he proposed +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>271]</a></span> +to make known his resolution to her himself. At the +thought of leaving Saintes-Maries without <em>seeing her +again</em>, for the purpose of telling her that he would not +<em>see her again</em>, a weary feeling came over him; it seemed +to him that he was suddenly shut up in a narrow space, +and left there without air, without horizon.—But he +would see her again—he must. It would be better so. +Must he not soothe her anger first of all? She would +be angry enough in any event. Why exasperate her?—In +very truth, if he did see her again, it was—he reached +this conclusion after much thought—it was principally +in order to protect poor Livette against her! Yes, yes, +it was for her sake that he would see her again. See +her again! At those words, which he repeated softly +to himself, a joy in living, in moving, in breathing, took +possession of him.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile, Zinzara, for her part, was vowing inwardly +that she would enjoy a hearty laugh at the +drover when he should presently seek her out!</p> + +<p>Why, in that case, had she answered <em>yes</em> to his amorous +questions? Oh! because at the moment when he +whispered them in her ear, if she had been able, upon +the spot, to give herself to this savage, all aglow from +his conflict with bulls and heifers, doubtless she would +have done it. He had awakened desire in her, as heat +awakens thirst, as a summer evening awakens longing +for a bath.—And then it had given her pleasure to say +to herself that, over at the other end of the arena, the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>272]</a></span> +woman to whom he had paid queenly honor by giving +her the smoking, red-hot iron, like the sceptre of a +magician or a wicked zingaro king,—that that woman +was suffering torments.</p> + +<p>But he came too late. The desire had passed away. +And the acme of delight to her now lay in the thought +of refusing the promised favor to the Christian she +detested, while giving Livette to believe that he had +been false to her.</p> + +<p>Sitting upon a stone, alone, at some distance from her +wagon, she awaited the drover. Her resolution to take +vengeance by refusing was written upon her compressed +lips, whose smile became more malicious than ever when +she saw him riding toward her.</p> + +<p>A few steps away he stopped. As he looked at her, +he felt a sudden rushing of the blood in all his veins, +a strange, delicious pressure at the pit of the stomach. +He recognized the characteristic agitation of love; but +he made an effort, and said, in a voice which he felt +to be unsteady: “I expected to be free to-night, but +I am not. The master has sent for me, and I must be +far away from here by night-fall. So I must go at once. +Adieu, gipsy!”</p> + +<p>Zinzara understood instantly that he was running away +from her, and why!—— She rose, like the serpent that +rises on its tail and hisses with anger. All her harsh +resolutions vanished in a twinkling; and, in a short, +sharp, jerky voice, entirely different from her natural +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>273]</a></span> +voice, she said: “I want you, do you hear? No one +else shall give you orders when I have orders for you. +What I want done is done. Are you going to act like +a coward, pray—you, who have taken my fancy because, +when you are on your horse, you resemble a zingaro +who knows neither master nor God? Come, go on!”</p> + +<p>Thus, the same motive of passionate hatred,—as +pleasant to her taste as love,—that a moment before +induced her determination not to go with Renaud, now +threw her into his arms. And to him the love or hatred +of such a woman, at the moment when she gave herself +to him, was one and the same thing; were there not +still her passion, her animated features, her gleaming +eyes, her lips that, as they moved, disclosed two rows +of pearly, sparkling teeth? Was there not her flexible, +ballet-dancer’s body, significantly held out toward him +to whom she laid claim?</p> + +<p>A thrill of savage joy shook Renaud from head to +foot; and, as his rider shuddered, as if he had been +touched by a cramp-fish, the horse seemed to experience +a similar sensation, and pawed the ground an instant, +between the knees that involuntarily pressed closer to +his sides.</p> + +<p>What was he to do? Ah! blessed saints! His betrothal +had kept him virtuous for a long while, you +know; had held him aloof from the frail damsels with +whom he formerly consorted, and his youth was speaking +now. The sea-bull must have the wild heifer. Lions +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>274]</a></span> +that have loved gazelles, so says the Arabian legend, +have died of it. Living creatures, by the law of nature, +crave paroxysms of passion; so long as they have them +not, they seek them; and pay for them, if need be, with +their own and others’ blood. Who of us will blame +them for becoming delirious sometimes, if we remember +that life longs to live, and that that longing overshadows +the fear of death?</p> + +<p>“Come, go on!”</p> + +<p>The queen uttered love’s command. And with one +bound she jumped to the saddle behind him. In a +twinkling she had wound her right arm about the horseman’s +waist: “Go on!” she said again; and then, in +an undertone, in a voice that was no more than a warm, +speaking breath upon the man’s neck, and made him +shudder to the very roots of his hair, she added: “I +want you, do you understand? I want you! So go on, +go on! The man who goes on, arrives!”</p> + +<p>He was caught, fast bound. The sorceress’s arm was +about his loins. He felt it against him, living, trembling, +stronger than aught else.</p> + +<p>The stupefied Renaud tried to regain his self-control,—to +shake off the spell. He sat there, dazed, unable to disentangle +his thoughts, to determine what he should do, +trying to collect his ideas of a moment before, the good +curé’s advice, his word of honor, none of which could +he remember or repeat to himself in his mind, intelligibly. +It had all gone from him, out of reach of the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>275]</a></span> +effort of his memory. When an intense amorous passion +guides our movements, it is as legitimate as physical +force,—honor is not betrayed: it has ceased to exist!</p> + +<p>Those few seconds of hesitation afforded Zinzara +perfect comprehension of what was taking place within +him. His desire was no longer ardent enough to satisfy +her pride, since it was possible for him to waver ever so +little!</p> + +<p>“Where are we going?” said she, resuming her sharp, +jerky tone, in which there was a suspicion of a hiss. +“Where are we going? You must know of a hiding-place +somewhere, some deserted cabin in the midst of +your swamps here,—a perfectly safe place, all your own, +where you have taken other women—what do I care? +<em>Pardi!</em> I don’t suppose that you waited for me, to +<em>learn</em>! I will go wherever you take me. Remember +this—it must be somewhere where nobody can find me, +for my race doesn’t mix with yours: the zingara who +gives herself to a Christian is the only despised one +among us, and if one of our people should see me, there +would be knives in the air, you may be sure, for you and +for me!”</p> + +<p>He still hesitated, remembering that he had reasons +for hesitation, but unable to remember what they were. +Mechanically he held back his horse (it was Blanchet!), +who was acting badly.</p> + +<p>At last, in the hurly-burly of his thoughts, he seized, +at random, upon one thing he had entirely forgotten, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>276]</a></span> +the tapers promised by Livette to the Saintes Maries. He +was to have lighted them devoutly in the church, during +the night before or that morning. Yesterday his fiancée +had reminded him again of the promise. Doubtless, +Livette had lighted them for him, but that was not the +same thing. And so the devil had him, do what he would. +He lost his head. He felt that he was sliding down an +inclined plane, and finding his struggles of no avail, he +abandoned himself to his fate and hastened his fall.</p> + +<p>“I know where we will go,” he said; “to the Conscript’s +Hut, in the swamp.”</p> + +<p>It seemed to him that he was forced to reply, but he no +longer felt any internal revolt against that obligation—far +otherwise.</p> + +<p>“Is it far?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, in Crau, on the other side of the Rhône, near the +Icard farm. The devil couldn’t find me there. Rampal +might come there, no one else——”</p> + +<p>“Wait,” said she at that name, with a sudden gleam +in her cat-like eyes.</p> + +<p>She whistled.</p> + +<p>He said to himself that some one from Saintes-Maries +would certainly see them, and that Livette would learn +the whole story—that it would be better now to start at +once.—Or perhaps—who knows?—the delay was a good +thing! Livette might pass, herself, and all would be +changed. He would hasten to her side. They would +be saved. Who would be saved? and from what? from +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>277]</a></span> +a vague, terrible thing that was before him. He could +not have told what it was; but it was simply the renunciation +of his own will.</p> + +<p>The gitana’s clear, shrill whistle summoned a little +zingaro of some ten years, a veritable wild cat, who +came running to the horse’s side.</p> + +<p>From the saddle she said a few words in the gipsy +language to him, in a short, imperative tone of command. +The gipsy language is composed of German, +Coptic, Egyptian, and Sanscrit. Renaud listened without +the slightest suspicion of the meaning of the words.</p> + +<p>In a fit of amorous hatred, the swarthy queen said to +the little fellow:</p> + +<p>“You know Rampal, the drover? go and find him. +He is in the village; I saw him not long ago. Go at +once and tell him this: he will find me to-night, with +his enemy, whom you see here, in the Conscript’s Hut, +which he knows! And I will join you and the wagon +to-morrow evening, in the town of Arles, by the old +tombs.”</p> + +<p>She thought of everything. The wild cat disappeared.</p> + +<p>“What did you say to him?” Renaud inquired.</p> + +<p>She began to laugh, an insolent laugh.</p> + +<p>He felt that he abhorred her, that he would delight +to see her conquered, under his heel, absolutely in his +power, gipsy queen and sorceress that she was, like an +ordinary woman.</p> + +<p>Each desired the other in hatred.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>278]</a></span> +She laughed as she thought that the man about whom +her arms were thrown like a lover she was luring to his +destruction. That very night—before or after the joys +of love; what cared she for that?—there would be between +him and that other a struggle as of wild beasts, +which she longed to see; a witches’ carnival of love, to +rejoice the souls of the dead; and she laughed.</p> + +<p>“Queens,” said she, “cannot leave their kingdoms +without issuing secret orders. Come, my beast!”</p> + +<p>Was she speaking to the man or the horse?—To the +man, doubtless, in whom she had awakened an animal +like herself.</p> + +<p>She pressed him tighter, and again she whispered:</p> + +<p>“Come, come!”</p> + +<p>He felt the vampire’s breath playing in the short hair +on his neck and descending in hot flushes to his feet, +which were nervously tapping his horse’s flanks. Renaud +trembled. His passion had taken possession of +him once more in all its intensity. It seemed as if a +hurricane were raging in man and horse alike. They +started off at full speed.</p> + +<p>Renaud believed that he had a victim in his grasp, +but he was himself the victim, and he rode away with +the witch clinging fast to him—as the kite sometimes +flies away with the serpent, thinking that he has mastered +it, only to be strangled in its folds at last.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>279]</a></span></p> + +<h2><a name="chap21" id="chap21"></a>XXI<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smlfont">HERODIAS</span></h2> + + +<p>They galloped across the plain. At every step, Renaud +felt the gentle pressure of the woman’s arm. Zinzara +and Renaud galloped away upon Livette’s horse!</p> + +<p>Of what was the drover thinking? Was she girl or +woman? His pride made him persist, in spite of himself, +in wishing that she might be the former, although +it seemed hardly probable, heathen females mature so +early!</p> + +<p>A breath of air blew in their faces. It brought to +their nostrils the pungent smell of tamarisk blossoms. +He slackened his horse’s pace.</p> + +<p>“Go on, go on!” said she, “press on! We will talk +later—by ourselves, romi, where nobody can see us.”</p> + +<p>The horse darted forward afresh.</p> + +<p>Renaud was conscious of a vague yet overmastering +feeling of pride in being there, in trampling the grass +of the plain with four feet, in knowing no obstacles, in +having that woman close beside him—and, over yonder, +another!</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>280]</a></span> +One would run risks and be false to the traditions of +her race for his sake. The other, if she should know, +might die of the knowledge. And, although he loved +her, the thought caused a thrill of savage joy, but he +promptly repressed it. Luckily, however, she would +know nothing of it. And he became intoxicated with +the rapid movement and with pride, man and beast +combined, fairly launched upon his mad career.</p> + +<p>Magnificent was the sky, studded with more stars than +the dunes have grains of sand and the desert waving +flowers clinging to the twigs of the <i>saladelles</i>. The +Milky-Way was as white as the pyramids of salt seen +through the morning mist. One would have said that +a vast bridal veil, torn in strips, was floating above the +whole plain, alive with murmurs of love.</p> + +<p>Innumerable little snails were perched, like blossoms, +upon the stalks of the reeds, and swung to and fro.</p> + +<p>A very gentle breeze was blowing and raising a slight, +uncertain ripple along the edges of the marsh, with the +sound of a furtive kiss among the flowering rushes. At +times, a lark or a flamingo, asleep among the reeds or +in the shallow water, would awaken ever so little and +chirp to let his mate know that he was there, not far +away.</p> + +<p>June is no hotter. Sometimes the smell of roses filled +their nostrils, coming in long puffs from far-off gardens. +Yonder, in the park of the Château d’Avignon, the +Syrian tree was sending forth its pollen.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>281]</a></span> +Renaud, after skirting the sea for some distance, rode +due northeast, beyond the pond of La Dame.</p> + +<p>He was bound for Grand-Pâtis. The people at Sambuc +had some boats that he knew of.</p> + +<p>For a moment, they rode beside a drove. Bulls, +standing in water up to their thighs, hardly noticed, +were feeding on the flowering reeds. White mares fled +at their approach, followed faithfully by stallions anxious +not to lose sight of them. The sap of May was +flowing in the reeds and rushes, in the sambucus and +tamarisk. The very water exhaled a saline odor, stronger +than usual, and more heavily laden with desires. The +wild vine called to its mate, that came borne upon +the heavy breath of the blooming desert.</p> + +<p>Again Renaud stopped, seized with a mild, pleasurable +vertigo.</p> + +<p>The fresh, love-compelling breeze in which they were +bathed laid an imperious command upon him.</p> + +<p>“Get down,” said he, “get down at once! This is +a good place to rest.”</p> + +<p>But she remembered the order she had given.</p> + +<p>“We must go where we were going,” said she. “I +will not get down until we are there. We must cross +the Rhône, you say? Press on, press on!—Gallop! +The gipsy loves the horse.”</p> + +<p>She would have none of his caresses except at the +place appointed. She would not submit to him until +they should be where he was, by her agency, in danger +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>282]</a></span> +of death or suffering. A kiss under other circumstances +would be a triumph for him, and she gave herself to +him for her own pleasure alone. She desired to feel, +in the interchange of caresses, that the moisture of her +lips was poison, that her bite would cause death or +madness.</p> + +<p>Firmly seated <i>en croupe</i>, still clinging fast to the +drover—her victim—with her arm wound about him, +her bare legs hanging in the folds of her skirt which the +wind raised as they sped along, with her head thrown +proudly back, she swayed gracefully with the rocking +motion of the gallop; and her face, which had a sallow +look in the moonlight against the neck of the man +whom she was leading astray, albeit she seemed to be +carried away by him—her face was wreathed in smiles.</p> + +<p>When Herodias had obtained the head of John the +Baptist, she lifted it by the hair from the gold charger, +whereon it lay with a circle of blood around the neck, +raised it to the level of her face, and after gazing upon +it with deep interest, examining the closed eyelids and +long lashes and the transparent pallor of the cheeks, +she suddenly placed her mouth upon that lifeless mouth +and sought to force her tongue between the lips to the +cold teeth too tightly closed in death, esteeming that +kiss, inflicted on her dead foe, more delicious than the +incestuous caresses for which he had reproved her.</p> + +<p>What was left of Renaud’s suspicions of Zinzara, +while she was smiling in the darkness, and the warm +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>283]</a></span> +breath from her lips was playing upon his neck? He +had ceased to reflect; he rode on. He willingly postponed +the longed-for hour, now that he was forced to +go on. He thought no more of violence. His happiness +was secure. He could wait. In the midst of the +deserted plains, still warm from the sunlight though +refreshed by the night air, love came without calling, +but he enjoyed the anticipation more than anything +he had known.—And then she might escape him even +now. He must be careful not to startle her. When they +reached the nest yonder, he would keep her there some +time. And so he rode on, inhaling the saline air of +the desert, which was his—with his stallion’s four shoeless +feet trampling through the sand and water, which +were his also—bound for the horizon, which would soon +be his.</p> + +<p>Once, however, in the midst of a swamp, where the +water was above his horse’s knees, he stopped again.</p> + +<p>“What is it?” said she.</p> + +<p>Renaud turned his head, and throwing himself back, +called her with a smacking of his lips.</p> + +<p>“When I am ready!” said Zinzara in a mocking +tone.</p> + +<p>As she spoke, Blanchet leaped forward, with all four +feet in the air, and made a tremendous splashing in +the water, which fell about their heads in a heavy +shower.</p> + +<p>And, unseen by Renaud, the gipsy smiled against his +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>284]</a></span> +neck, as she replaced in her hair the long gold pin she +had plunged into the beast’s flank.</p> + +<p>Suddenly there was a shout of <i>Qui vive?</i> directly in +front of them, so unexpected in the solitude, that +Blanchet jumped again.</p> + +<p>“<i>Qui vive?</i>” the voice repeated.</p> + +<p>“The king!” Renaud replied gaily.</p> + +<p>“Ah! is it you, Renaud?”</p> + +<p>It was the revenue officers; but Renaud hurried by, +at a safe distance, so that they might not recognize the +gitana.</p> + +<p>They were near the salt spring of Badon. The rectangular +heaps of salt seemed like so many long, low +houses, with sharp roofs. In its shroud-like whiteness +the spot resembled a little town, geometrically laid out, +asleep under dead snow.</p> + +<p>They reached the shore of the main stream of the +Rhône.</p> + +<p>Zinzara was on the ground before Renaud had stopped +his horse.</p> + +<p>He alighted in his turn, and handed the rein to the +gipsy. She held Blanchet while he was drinking in +the river.</p> + +<p>“Now for some oats!” said Renaud.</p> + +<p>He took a small sack that was fastened across his +saddle-bow, from holster to holster, and at Zinzara’s +suggestion emptied it into her dress which she held up +with both hands.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>285]</a></span> +Poor, poor Blanchet! there was only a handful of +grain.</p> + +<p>“Wait for me; I’ll go to find the boat.”</p> + +<p>Renaud disappeared in the darkness behind the reeds +and willows that grew along the bank, drowned in the +mist, floating like pallid spectres in the darkness.</p> + +<p>Zinzara heard nothing save the plashing of the +water, and the crunching of the oats between Blanchet’s +teeth, as he swept them up with his long lip +from the hollow of the dress.—Oh! if Livette could +have seen that!</p> + +<p>“Here I am, come!” said Renaud’s voice.</p> + +<p>He approached, raising the oars. She walked to the +water’s edge.</p> + +<p>“Hold the reins fast. The horse will follow us.”</p> + +<p>She stepped into the boat and stood in the stern. +Blanchet followed, in the wake.</p> + +<p>Renaud knew the current at that spot. He rowed +diagonally across and reached the other shore more +than a hundred yards farther down.</p> + +<p>He tied the boat to the trunk of a willow and tightened +the girths, and they were off again.</p> + +<p>It was necessary to ascend the stream a long distance +to find a place to ford the canal that runs from Arles +to Port-le-Bouc. When they had crossed the canal, +he said:</p> + +<p>“We are almost there.”</p> + +<p>They had ridden nearly five hours.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>286]</a></span> +His desires were approaching fruition. He was seized +with the impatience that comes with the last half-hour. +He had a vision of what was to come.</p> + +<p>“It is in the <i>gargate</i>,” he said. And he explained: +“The <i>gargate</i> is like thickened water. It is about the +same as mud. The cabin we are going to is in the midst +of one of these patches of mud. Ah! we shall be well +protected there, gitana, I promise you. A man once +lived there for a long while; a conscript who wanted +to evade the draft. And later, an escaped convict, a +native of the neighborhood, who knew about the place. +No one could dislodge him there. Others know the +spot; but never fear, I have a way to fool them. Trust +me, gitana, we shall be well guarded there, by death +hidden in the water around us!”</p> + +<p>They reached their destination.</p> + +<p>Renaud tied his horse to a tree, and took Zinzara’s +hand.</p> + +<p>“Follow me,” he said.</p> + +<p>The moon was rising. With the end of a stick, he +pointed out to her, just above the surface of the water, +the heads of the stakes, looming black among the stalks +of thorn-broom and reeds and the broad, spreading +leaves of the water-lily.</p> + +<p>“Always step to the left of the stakes,” he said; +“they mark the right-hand edge of the solid path just +below the surface of the water.”</p> + +<p>Renaud had taken off his shoes and stockings. She +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>287]</a></span> +lifted her skirts and walked with bare legs, and he held +her hand. They walked thus for some time. Her +interest was aroused by her surroundings. The place +pleased her.</p> + +<p>The water was disturbed a little here and there. She +stopped and watched.</p> + +<p>“Turtles,” said he; and added: “Here is the +cabin.”</p> + +<p>The cabin stood in the midst of the bog, built on +piles, as was the path leading to it. Reeds and a few +tamarisks surrounded it, and made it invisible from +almost every direction. On the gray, thatched roof, +shaped like a hay-stack, the little cross gleamed in the +moonlight, bent back as if the wind had tried to blow +it down.</p> + +<p>The back of the cabin was turned to the <i>mistral</i>. +They entered. Renaud took a candle from his wallet +and struck a match. The light danced upon the walls.</p> + +<p>The low walls were of grayish mud, set in a rough +frame-work. The floor was covered with a bed of +reeds. A cotton cloth, to keep out the gnats, hung +before the door. There was a stationary table against +the wall at the right, near the head of the bed; it was a +flat stone supported by four pieces of timber fastened to +the floor.</p> + +<p>Renaud set his candle down on the stone. The +gitana, already seated on the rough bed, watched him +with a savage look in her eyes. She began to feel that +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>288]</a></span> +she was a little too much in his power, that it was a +little too much like being under his roof.</p> + +<p>The cabin was like all the cabins in the district. +From the ceiling bunches of reed blossoms hung like +waving silver plumes. The big cross-timbers of the +ceiling were pinned together with wooden pegs, the large +ends of which projected, and some few scraps of worn-out +clothes were still hanging from them. There was +a fire-place in one corner, made of large stones placed +side by side, and in the roof, directly above it, was a +hole for the smoke.</p> + +<p>Renaud hung his wallet on one of the pegs.</p> + +<p>“Now, wait for me,” he said, with a loud laugh, +“I’m going out to attend to the horse.”</p> + +<p>She was surprised, but after she had glanced at him, +she could think of nothing but Rampal.</p> + +<p>He went out to Blanchet, removed the saddle and laid +it on the ground, then mounted him, bareback, and +rode him to a pasture some distance away, where he +hobbled him and left him.</p> + +<p>A quarter of an hour later, Renaud returned, with +his saddle across his shoulders, to the cabin where Zinzara +was awaiting him. But, as he walked along the +solid path, a black ribbon covered by a sheet of shallow +water, he took up the stakes that marked one edge of +the path, and moved them from the right side to the +left;—so that, if that beggarly Rampal, the only man +likely to follow him to that lair, chose to come there, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>289]</a></span> +he certainly would not go far, but would remain there, +buried up to his neck at least!</p> + +<p>When he had changed the position of the first twenty +stakes, the only ones visible from the shore of the bog, +Renaud stood up and walked swiftly toward the cabin. +His heart at that moment was sad, and more filled with +slime and noxious things than the waters of the swamp, +which, though they glistened in the moonlight, were +black beneath the surface.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290"><!-- blank page --></a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>291]</a></span></p> + +<h2><a name="chap22" id="chap22"></a>XXII<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smlfont">IN THE NEST</span></h2> + + +<p>In the contracted cage, whose thatched roof, with its +peak of red tiles, shone in the moonlight amid the marsh +plants, the two beasts of the same species, Zinzara and +Renaud, were shut up together.</p> + +<p>“I am hungry,” said she, in a hostile tone.</p> + +<p>He took a tin box from his wallet and raised the +cover; it contained the wherewithal to support life; he +cut the bread and uncorked the bottle.</p> + +<p>She ate silently, still with the savage look in her eyes. +He waited upon her, partaking also of the dry bread +himself, and putting his lips to the flat bottle, filled with +the strong wine of the wild grape.</p> + +<p>When they had eaten, he handed her a small flask of +brandy. She drank from it, joyfully, and soon her eyes +began to sparkle. He looked at her, ready to embrace +her. She answered him with a glance so mocking and +unfathomable, that he hesitated, waiting for he knew +not what, weary besides, and feeling that his brain was +confused.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>292]</a></span> +He saw her thereupon take her tambourine, which she +wore fastened to her belt by a small cord, under her +dress; and she began to play upon it. She was sitting +on the bed. She struck regular, monotonous blows upon +the vibrating skin, and at every blow the charms depending +from the tambourine jangled noisily.</p> + +<p>Then she began to sing outlandish words, in slow +measure, beating time with the tambourine. And this +proceeding at length fascinated the drover, who gazed +at her, as completely under the spell as the lizard +listening to the locust in the sunshine on a summer’s +day.</p> + +<p>This lasted an hour. He watched her, enchanted, +proud, thinking of nothing but her, and he felt his heart +leap and quiver in his breast at every touch upon the +tambourine.</p> + +<p>But one would have said that she had drawn about +herself a circle that he could not cross. He waited until +the circle should be broken. He was like one of the +great dogs trained to guard droves of bulls; that are so +fearless of blows from the horns of their charges, but sit +obediently by watching their master at his meals, waiting +for the crumb he tosses them, slaves of the king, of their +god, who is man.</p> + +<p>She had now the effect upon him of a genuine queen, +a queen in some fairy tale, with her studied attitudes +accompanied by the monotonous music, which was accentuated +by the ceaseless motion of the sequins of her +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>293]</a></span> +crown of copper against her swarthy brow and the dead +black of her hair.</p> + +<p>Suddenly she laid her tambourine aside. He started +toward her. She held him back with a stern glance, +and snatching away the silk handkerchief that covered +her shoulders, appeared before him in a rich waist of +many colors; and he saw upon her breast necklaces +of gold pieces—her fortune.</p> + +<p>“Await my pleasure,” said she. “Leave me in +peace a moment.”</p> + +<p>She covered her head with the ample handkerchief +she had taken off and remained hidden behind that veil +for a moment. Renaud heard her muttering unfamiliar +words—<i>mormô</i>, <i>gorgô</i>—words of sorcery, without doubt.</p> + +<p>When she threw back her veil, she was laughing.</p> + +<p>What vision had the sorceress evoked? what had the +seer seen?</p> + +<p>“It will be better than I hoped!” said she. “Now, +look!”</p> + +<p>She rose, and to the accompaniment of the jangling +of the sequins in her diadem and the gold pieces of +her necklace, set in motion by her slow dance, in the +course of which she did not move from where she stood, +she removed her garments, one by one.</p> + +<p>By the flickering light of the candle, that waved back +and forth as a breath of air came in through the door, +Renaud watched the familiar vision reappear.</p> + +<p>Zinzara swayed this way and that as she unfastened, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>294]</a></span> +one after another, her waist, her skirts—and took them +off, bending gracefully forward and backward, raising +her arms above her head or lowering them to her +ankles. And now you would have said it was a bronze +statue, glistening in the half-darkness. Renaud knew +that figure well, from having seen it one day in the +bright sunlight, and so many, many times since then, +in his imagination.</p> + +<p>The necklace tinkled upon her swelling breasts; +several large rings were around her ankles, and upon +her brow, the crown from which the trinkets hung.</p> + +<p>She turned and twisted gracefully about, her dark +skin gleaming like a mirror.</p> + +<p>“You see,” said she, “Zinzara gives herself, no man +takes her, romi. The wild girl belongs to no one but +herself. And even now I could, if I chose, nail you +where you stand, forever!”</p> + +<p>As she spoke, she threw down upon her clothes a +keen-edged stiletto that had gleamed for an instant in +her hand.</p> + +<p>“Come!” said she.</p> + +<p>They lay, side by side, on the floor of that hovel, +upon the crackling reeds.</p> + +<p>At that moment, he looked into the depths of her +eyes, and he saw there vague things by which he had +already on several occasions been profoundly alarmed. +The gitana’s hidden purpose, as to which she herself +had no clear idea, flickered uncertainly in her glance, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>295]</a></span> +making its presence felt, but giving no hint by which +it could be divined.</p> + +<p>Her smile, which was ordinarily visible only at the +corner of her mouth, had spread, more unfathomable +than ever, over her whole face, which wore an expression +of triumphant mockery. More mysterious she appeared +and more desirable. If Renaud had been familiar +with the carved stone animals that lie sleeping in the +Egyptian desert, he would have recognized their expression, +an expression that words cannot describe, upon +the speaking face that gazed at him and called him.</p> + +<p>And, lo! the hatred he had once before felt for that +face, for that glance, returned swiftly, imperiously, to +his mind; an irresistible desire to seize the woman by +the neck and choke her with cruel, unyielding hands.</p> + +<p>Even that feeling was love, for otherwise it would +have occurred to him to part abruptly from the sorceress, +to fly from her; that thought would have come to him, +once at least, and it did not come. On the contrary, +he felt that he could not really possess her except by +some violence of that sort. Is it not true that mares +look upon bites as caresses?—She saw the thought in +his eyes, and began to laugh.</p> + +<p>Again she recognized distinctly, and with delight, +the brute like herself that she had aroused in him. +And she did it to demonstrate her power to subdue +the brute, with a look.</p> + +<p>“Oh! you may!” she said, with a smile.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>296]</a></span> +As she spoke, he caught a rapid glimpse of the part +she was to play in his destiny: the pollution of his life, +the loss of real happiness, of all repose, and the false +love—the strongest of all passions.</p> + +<p>Their glances, laden with amorous hate, met and +struck fire like knife-blades.</p> + +<p>He seized her around the neck and was very near +choking her in good earnest; he thought that he would +strangle her. “Come, come!” she said in a languishing +voice; but, suddenly feeling the pressure of the +hand that was really squeezing her throat, she leaped +up at him, and, with a strangled laugh, hurled her mouth +at his and bit his lips. They could hear their teeth +clash. He uttered a cry which was at once stifled, for +their angry lips had no sooner met than they were +appeased.</p> + +<p>She gazed at him for a long while, looking always +into his eyes. She saw them more than once grow dim +and sightless, and then, exulting in the thought of this +wild bull’s weakness in her hands, she laughed silently; +but no emotion dimmed the brightness of her eyes. +Suddenly, when he had grown calmer, a profound sigh +caused him to look with more attention at the savage +creature he had conquered at last. A pallor as of the +other world overspread her swarthy face; her features +were distended. She was no longer smiling. The +wrinkle that ordinarily raised one corner of her lips +and gave her an air of mockery had vanished. The +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>297]</a></span> +corners of her mouth, on the other hand, drooped a +little, imparting a sad expression to her face. One +would have said she was a different being. There was +no trace of animation upon her features. She no longer +belonged to herself. An attack of vertigo had taken +away her power of thought. She was like a drowned +woman drifting with the tide. Something as everlasting +as death had proved stronger than she.</p> + +<p>As if from the midst of one of those dreams which, +in a second, open eternity to our gaze, she returned to +herself with amazement.</p> + +<p>The snake-charmer realized that she had been defeated +in a way she was unaccustomed to; she experienced a +curious sensation of shame, a sort of proud regret that +she had forgotten herself as never before.—And was he, +without even suspecting the trap she had set for him, +tranquilly to carry off the gratification of his passion +with which she had baited the trap? In that case she +would have betrayed herself! She would be the victim +of her detested lover! of Livette’s betrothed!—The +mere thought was intolerable to her. And in a frenzy +of rage and humiliation she put out her hand and felt +among her clothes that lay in a pile near by, for the +stiletto she had insolently thrown upon them just before.</p> + +<p>Renaud understood only one thing; the beast was +becoming ugly again! He seized her wrists and held +her arms to the ground, crossed above her head, and +then he began to laugh in his turn.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>298]</a></span> +Her insane rage came to the surface; she writhed +about and tried to bite, but could not. She felt that +her power was gone, that she was in the hands of one +stronger than herself. Without understanding her, he +felt that she was dangerous and he mastered her. The +Christian had her in his power! It was too much. She +felt her eyes bursting with the tears that were ready to +gush forth, but she forced them back. A little foam +appeared at the corner of her mouth.</p> + +<p>“Dog!” she exclaimed.</p> + +<p>At that, the man whose face she saw above her own, +bending over and rising again quickly, touched her lips +with his. And he had the feeling that the hand that +grasped the stiletto relaxed its hold.</p> + +<p>At that moment, a wailing cry rent the air above the +cabin, then ceased abruptly, before it had died away in +the distance, as if the bird that uttered that signal of +distress had lighted among the reeds near at hand, and +had at once become mute.</p> + +<p>Renaud took his eyes from the gitana’s face.</p> + +<p>“What is that?” said he.</p> + +<p>“A curlew flying over!” she replied, without moving.—“The +curlew goes south in winter.”</p> + +<p>Renaud was on his feet, pale as death.</p> + +<p>“King,” said she, “do you love your queen? Then +look at her!”</p> + +<p>And, as she lay upon her back, she began to make +her snake-like body undulate and gleam like a mirror, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>299]</a></span> +keeping time with her tambourine, which she held above +her head.</p> + +<p>The bursts of laughter with which she punctuated the +outlandish music displayed her glistening teeth from end +to end.</p> + +<p>“Come back here,” she said, “are you afraid?”</p> + +<p>He was ashamed, and, returning to the straw pallet, +resumed his rôle of subjugated watch-dog in love with a +she-wolf.</p> + +<p>In that one night, the young man felt the whole power +of his youth, learned more of life and realized more +dreams than many real kings.</p> + +<p>The pleasures of love are no greater to the prince +than to the charcoal-burner.</p> + +<p>The day was breaking. Bands of violet along the +horizon changed to pink and then to yellow. An +awakening breeze passed like a shiver over the desert +of sand and water, entered the cabin, and blew out the +flickering light on the stone table.</p> + +<p>A cock in the distance welcomed the dawn.</p> + +<p>Thereupon, Renaud started to go to find his horse. +The wallet was empty, too.</p> + +<p>“At the Icard farm,” said he, “I can get what I +need.”</p> + +<p>“Do you suppose,” said she, “that I intend to stay +here all day like a captive goose?”</p> + +<p>“Is it all over, then?” said he, “and are you going +away, too?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_300" id="Page_300">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>300]</a></span> +“To return may be a pleasure,” said she, “but to +remain is always a bore.”</p> + +<p>She hummed in the gipsy language:</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">“God gave thy mare no rein, Romichâl.”<br /></span> +</div> +</div> + +<p>“If you choose,” she continued, “we will ride together +till night. My horse has wings.”</p> + +<p>“Very good,” said Renaud. “Do you cross over +to solid ground first. We will go together and get my +horse. It will be a fine day.”</p> + +<p>“And a good one! be sure of that!” said she, in +her jerky voice, her voice which resembled <em>another’s</em>.</p> + +<p>He went with her as far as the first of the stakes he +had displaced, to point out the safe road to her, and +when he saw her reach the edge of the swamp sixty feet +beyond, he stooped and began to put the stakes in place +one by one as he walked toward the firm ground.</p> + +<p>When he reached the last, he sprang to his feet with +haggard eyes.</p> + +<p>Livette, with head thrown back, face turned toward +the sky, eyes closed, mouth open, and grass mingled +with her straying hair, was lying among the water-lilies, +as if asleep, and in the throes of a bad dream. He +also saw her two little clenched hands, above the water, +clinging to the reeds.</p> + +<p>Transformed for a moment to a statue, Renaud soon +aroused himself, and, bending over Livette, put his hands +under her armpits. The poor body, buried in the thick, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>301]</a></span> +black ooze, came slowly forth, torn from its bed like the +smooth stalk of a lily.</p> + +<p>When he had the poor body in his arms, inert and +cold, perhaps dead,—the body of the poor, dear child, +whose skirts, entangled in a net-work of long grasses, +clung tightly to her dangling legs,—Renaud suddenly +uttered a roar as of an enraged wild beast, and ran like +a madman at the top of his speed to the nearest farm-house.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_302" id="Page_302"><!-- blank page --></a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>303]</a></span></p> + +<h2><a name="chap23" id="chap23"></a>XXIII<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smlfont">THE PURSUIT</span></h2> + + +<p>One forgives only those whom one loves; only those +who love forgive. Love at its apogee is naught but +the power of inspiring forgiveness and bestowing it; +and the social laws, which are of the mechanism of +human justice, seem to have realized that fact, since +they ignore the testimony of all those who would naturally +be expected to love the culprit.</p> + +<p>Sympathy is simply a laying aside—in favor of those +we love—of the implacable severity which we use but +little in dealing with ourselves, and which attributes to +those who pass judgment an unerring wisdom which is +not human, or a self-confidence which is too much so.</p> + +<p>Livette, as she lay sick upon the best bed in the +Icard farm-house, already had, in her sorrowing heart, +an adorable feeling of indulgence for Renaud, which +would have made the blessed maidens who laid the +Crucified One in his shroud, smile with joy in the mystic +heaven of the lofty chapel. She believed that she +would die by her fiancé’s fault, and she pitied him. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>304]</a></span> +Forgiveness sooner or later redeems him who receives, +and consoles him who accords it. In the sentiment of +compassion is hidden the divine future of mankind.</p> + +<p>Renaud was still ignorant of Livette’s indulgence. +Indeed, he could not deserve it until he had come to +look upon himself as forever unworthy.</p> + +<p>For the moment, he had not gone to the bottom of +the hell of evil thoughts.</p> + +<p>When he found Livette half drowned in the <i>gargate</i>, +his first impulse, born of true love and pity for her, in +absolute forgetfulness of himself, lasted but an instant—but +it had existed. Renaud at first suffered for her and +for her alone.</p> + +<p>His second impulse, almost immediate, and praiseworthy +still, although there was a touch of selfishness in +it, was to condemn himself, through fear of moral responsibility. +Had he not with his own hand displaced +the stakes that marked the path, with the idea, indefensible +at best, that Rampal would be misled by that +treacherous method of defence? Yes, almost immediately +after he uttered his cry of agony, he shuddered +with terror at the thought of the remorse that was in +store for him, as soon as he felt that Livette was like a +dead woman in his arms.</p> + +<p>When he had given her in charge of the women at the +main farm-house of the Icard farm, where there was great +excitement over such an adventure at that time of day, +he questioned two old peasant-women who knew more +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_305" id="Page_305">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>305]</a></span> +than all the doctors in the province. After doing what +was necessary for Livette, they cheerfully declared that +the poor girl would not die of it; they even said that it +was “nothing at all.” He did not even try to understand +how she had come so far to fall into the trap!</p> + +<p>She would not die! That was the essential thing at +that moment. What a relief <em>to him</em>, for he was already +accusing himself of his little sweetheart’s death! He +had been so afraid! And it turned out to be only a +warning! God be praised, and blessed be the mighty +saints who had performed such a miracle!</p> + +<p>But the devil rejoiced when he looked into Renaud’s +conscience, for he saw the course his ideas were about to +take, a course that would lead him from bad to worse.</p> + +<p>Reassured as to Livette,—and as to himself,—he flew +into a passion with the accursed gitana, the indirect +cause, at least, of all this misery.</p> + +<p>“Ah! the beggar! I will kill her!—it will be easy +to find her again. She can’t be far away—I will kill +her!”</p> + +<p>His wrath took full possession of him—he ran for his +horse. Kill her!—kill her! Nothing could be more +righteous.—And he went about it.</p> + +<p>Poor Renaud! the victim of all the involuntary falsehoods +which, starting from ourselves, one engendering +another, sometimes render the best of us irresponsible +and drive us on to disaster when passion makes us +mad.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_306" id="Page_306">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>306]</a></span> +This chain, often undiscoverable, of false but specious +reasons with which men deceive themselves, each fitting +into the last without violence, each explaining and justifying +the one that follows it—leads insensibly to acts +incomprehensible to him who is not able to follow it +back, link by link. It is the chain of <span class="smcap">Fatality</span>, in +which the links, consisting of trifling but suggestive +facts, of decisive circumstances, unknown sometimes to +the culprit, alternate with the fictitious good motives +he has invented for his own benefit in the reflex movements +of his mind. To re-establish the logical sequence +of facts, of sensations suddenly transformed into ideas, +is the work of equity which reasons, or of love which +divines. In default of tracing back the chain of insensible, +imperious transitions, we find between the criminal +who has long been an honest man and his crime, +the abyss at sight of which fools and unthinking folk, +filled with the pride of implacable sinners, never fail to +exclaim: “It is monstrous!” But if God, infinite Love, +does exist, everything is forgiven, because everything is +understood; there are, mayhap, simply the miserable +wretches on one side, and divine pity on the other.</p> + +<p>Yes, Renaud would have killed the sorceress, with +savage joy, to avenge Livette. But was not that desire, +which he deemed a praiseworthy one, simply a pretext +for seeking her out again that same day, for seeing her +once more?—That, at all events, is what the devil +himself thought as he crouched on the floor of the crypt +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_307" id="Page_307">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>307]</a></span> +in the church of Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer, on the spot +occupied the day before by the dark-browed gipsies, +beneath the shrine of Saint Sara.</p> + +<p>And so, mounted upon Blanchet, Renaud galloped +furiously away upon his tracks of the night, intending +to kill Zinzara.</p> + +<p>Livette would not die!—That idea caused him great +joy, so great that he was no sooner out-of-doors, away +from the painful, wearisome spectacle of the poor unconscious +child, than he yielded, alas! to the influence +of the bright sunlight, and breathed at ease. He had +already ceased to think of Livette’s sufferings. His +satisfaction had already ceased to be anything more than +selfishness: not only would he not have to reproach +himself for her death, but, more than that, now that +she knew everything, was he not absolved, as it were? +There was nothing more for him to fear. The worst +that could happen had happened! And he actually +felt as if a weight had been taken from his shoulders, +as if he were once more sincere in his dealings with +Livette, a better man, in short, thanks to what had +happened. Although he did not reason this out, the +thought went through his mind. It was what he felt. +For everything serves the passion of love; it turns to +its own profit the very things that would naturally tend +most to thwart it. Moreover, he need feel no qualms +of conscience, as he was going to chastise the malignant +creature, to kill her, in fact:—a vile race!</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_308" id="Page_308">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>308]</a></span> +No, she could not be far away. Doubtless, if she +had planned the catastrophe, she had concealed herself +near at hand to see the result.</p> + +<p>He rode back toward the bridge over the canal. No +one had seen the gipsy there. He descended the Rhône +to the spot where they had left the boat the night before. +The boat was in the same place, fastened by the same +knot.</p> + +<p>He began to fear that he might not find her. But +when, after searching two hours, he was certain of it, +he was much surprised to find that he did not feel the +righteous wrath of the officer of justice at the thought +of a culprit eluding the vengeance of the law, but the +sudden distress of a betrayed lover. He did not cry +to himself: “I shall not have the pleasure of punishing +her!” but: “I shall never see her again!” And that +cry burst forth in his heart as a fierce revelation of +unpardonable, pitiless love. What! he loved her! he +loved her! and he learned it for the first time at that +moment! he admitted it to himself for the first time!—yes, +beyond cavil he loved her—<em>now</em>! His heart +failed him. He was bewildered. He felt a vague sense +of well-being, due to the mere joy of loving, marred +by a feeling of intense chagrin at the thought of the +certain misery that lay before him. He was horrified +at himself, and, at the same moment, decided upon his +future course in a frenzy of excitement.</p> + +<p>The physical power of love is superb and appalling. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_309" id="Page_309">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>309]</a></span> +It stops at nothing. And the man who is watching +beside the dying or the dead, even though it be some +one who is dear to him, feels a thrill of joy rush to his +heart, if the being he loves with all the force of his +youth passes by.</p> + +<p>Renaud had just held Livette almost dying in his +arms, and already he had no regret save for the other, +for the woman he should have trampled under his feet!</p> + +<p>Thereupon, all the events of the night returned to his +mind, and finished the work of poisoning. He could +not be reconciled to the thought that he should never +again see what he had had for so short a time. No, it +could not be at an end. If she were a criminal, why +then he would love her in her crime, that was all! The +black bull was loose.—But Livette? aha! Livette? a +swan’s feather, or a red flamingo’s, under his horse’s +hoof.</p> + +<p>What was the placid affection the young maid had +inspired in his heart compared to the frenzy of sorrow +and joy the other caused him to feel? Sorrow and joy +combined, that is what love is; and the love men prefer +is not that which contains the greater joy as compared +to the keener sorrow—it is that in which those emotions +are most intense. It was that law of passion to whose +operation Renaud was now being subjected. He realized +that he had definitely chosen the other, the gipsy, +despite the cry of his outraged sense of honor.</p> + +<p>That cry of his honest heart, to which he no longer +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_310" id="Page_310">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>310]</a></span> +lent a willing ear, he still heard, do what he would, and +he suffered half consciously, for many reasons which he +did not distinguish one from another, but which resulted +in producing a confused feeling in his own mind that he +was a monster.</p> + +<p>A monster! for now that he considered the matter +more carefully, it became his settled conviction that the +gitana had intended to kill Livette—and yet it was +that same gitana that he loved!</p> + +<p>Ah! the witch!—She had certainly seen Livette, her +poor little head, like a dead woman’s, lying on the +water among the grass, her mouth open for the last cry +for help, her teeth glistening with water in the sunlight! +She could not have helped seeing her.—And she had +passed her by without a word!—It was because she was +determined to be her ruin. She had evidently led her +into the trap. How? What did it matter! but it was +no longer possible to doubt that it was the fact.</p> + +<p>But in that case—if she was really guilty—there +could be no doubt, either, that having seen her desire +accomplished, she had fled. She would appear no more! +he would have no opportunity to kill her! he would +never see her again! And the thing that moved him +most deeply in connection with Livette’s misfortune was +the thought that it involved Zinzara’s flight. He tried +in vain to put away the abominable regret; it returned +upon him like a wave. What! he should never see her +again!</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_311" id="Page_311">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>311]</a></span> +Oh! those caresses of the night before in the cabin +of the swamp were clinging to his arms and legs like +serpents. They twined about his body as creeping +plants about the branches of the tamarisk, or as one +eel about another: biting at his heart. And he shivered +from head to foot.</p> + +<p>“Ah! the witch!” he repeated. “Ah! the witch! +What! never again!”</p> + +<p>Never again!—Why, did he not think that night that +he should be able to keep her on his island; that it +would last a year at least, until the next year’s fêtes; +that he would have the wild beast to himself in the +desert, in his wild beast’s lair—all to himself, with her +lithe, graceful body, her ankle-rings and bracelets, and +her beggar queen’s crown?</p> + +<p>But did she not love him? Had it all been mere +trickery and craft on her part?</p> + +<p>The horse’s blood flowed freely under the drover’s +spurs; but the horseman’s heart was bleeding within +him a thousand times more cruelly.</p> + +<p>All mere trickery and craft! He repeated it again +and again to himself, and would not believe it.</p> + +<p>That she was false to the core, he firmly believed, +and, by dint of thinking about it, soon ceased to believe +it. That would have been too horrible, really! His +self-pity and the feeling that he must be proud of her +forced back the thought, which, driven away for a +moment, returned again at once with more force as +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_312" id="Page_312">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>312]</a></span> +a sure, proven, established fact. It returned like a flash +of light which hurt his eyes. Yes, yes, she was false +to the core! yes, from pure wantonness the woman had +deceived him again and again since the day of the +bath, when she exhibited her naked body to him with +the deliberate purpose of leading him astray, of leaving +him, some day, stranded in the desert, without his +fiancée, without his love—alone.</p> + +<p>And he struggled desperately to see her again—in his +memory at least—in order to question her crafty features, +but, try as he would, his mind was unable to restore the +picture, drowned as it was beneath a wavering, irritating +mist. He opened his eyes to their fullest extent, as if, +by causing them to express a fixed determination to see +her again, he could compel her to appear before him in +flesh and blood. And he no longer saw the trees or +the moor that lay before him, or the sky or the horizon, +but neither did he see her whose image he sought to +evoke. Then he suddenly closed his eyes, and for a +brief second—in the darkness—he caught a glimpse of +her. Was it really she? He had not time to recognize +her. Once, however, the image became clearer, +and he <em>saw</em> her; but still it was only a shadowy face, +still veiled with falsehood and impenetrable to him.</p> + +<div class="figcenter ipadtop" style="width: 383px;"> +<a name="graves" id="graves"></a> +<img src="images/king06.jpg" width="383" height="600" +alt="Zinzara walks through the graveyard" /> +</div> + +<div class="figcenter smlpadt" style="width: 154px;"> +<img src="images/head05.png" width="154" height="25" +alt="Chapter 23" /> +</div> + +<p class="caption">She went to the farther end of the Allée des Alyscamps, +between the rows of tall poplars, amid the stone monuments, +and lighted a fire of twigs, to give her light +enough to look about and select a spot where she could +sleep comfortably.</p> + +<p>What he was seeking was her real face, <small>WHICH DID +NOT EXIST</small>, for a face is the expression of a soul, and +she had no soul. Had she ever loved him? that is +what he would have liked to ascertain, if nothing more. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_313" id="Page_313">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>313]</a></span> +Had she smiled on Rampal? Perhaps—God! could it +be possible? Who knows? Of what was she not capable +to consummate her crime?—And yet he secretly +admired her for the extraordinary perfidy he attributed +to her. The Saracen blood, the blood of heathen pirates, +did not flow in his veins for nothing.</p> + +<p>Yes, indeed, if, in her hate-inspired work, she had had +need of Rampal, with whom he had several times seen +her talking, was it not possible that she had given herself +to him in order to make him absolutely submissive +to her will? What was he thinking of? Given herself +to him? No, not that!—Not in its fullest meaning, +at all events—but she might have let him steal a kiss—a +long kiss, perhaps—from her lips. And the herdsman +felt the keen point of the spear of jealousy pierce his +heart.</p> + +<p>He thought and thought, feverish with passion, excited +by his excessive exertions for several days past, +and he rode through the fields and swamps, amid the +grass and stones of Crau, surrounded by buzzing insects +maddened by the heat, which was terrible.</p> + +<p>Great God! only the night before, he had believed +that she had a veritable woman’s passion for him, a +passion like those he had often aroused in women, with +his strength, his courage, and his prowess as horse-breaker +and cavalier. And as she was the daughter of +a free race, and queen of her tribe, he had been proud +of his conquest. He had straightened himself up in +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_314" id="Page_314">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>314]</a></span> +his saddle, like a crowned king, conqueror in many +battles. He had handled his spear with a firmer hand. +He had glanced proudly at the other drovers, his +comrades, with a distinct feeling that he was “better +than they,” since this savage queen, who, in her travels, +had doubtless seen so many brave and comely men, had +chosen him—even though he were not the first!—that +she, whom the laws of her people forbade to love a +European dog, the slave of cities, had chosen him, the +drover of Camargue!</p> + +<p>Now that that happiness was gone from him, he suddenly +realized its value. An immense void lay before +him. For the first time, the desert seemed a melancholy +place to him, too vast, too bare. He realized that henceforth +his whole life would lie in the past. He was no +longer the king! He would never be the king again! +She had never loved him! And she had pretended +that she did!</p> + +<p>But when she had cried out and turned pale in his +arms, had she not forgotten that she was acting a lie? +If that were so, she must be very sure of finding elsewhere +such ardent caresses as his, from another. Otherwise +she would not have fled, for he scouted the idea +that she was afraid. Such a one as she could have no +fear! And if, as he thought the night before, he had +really taken her fancy, would she not have remained, +guilty or not, to enjoy his caresses anew, even though +she were to die of them?</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_315" id="Page_315">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>315]</a></span> +But she would not have died of them! She, sorceress +as she was, must have known that he would have forgiven +everything. Therefore she had <em>wanted</em> to go. +She cared nothing for him. If, on the other hand, it +had pleased her to keep him with her, to continue their +liaison, she would have found a way to do it, in spite +of everything. She had only to desire to do it. She +did not <em>desire</em>!—Even so, he desired her!</p> + +<p>He rode away at headlong speed. He must find her +again. Then they would see! And he circled round +the cabin in the swamp like a hawk, examining all the +clumps of thorn-broom, all the tamarisks and reeds. +Oh! he would find her!</p> + +<p>He had been riding for several hours, and he began +to feel that his quest was useless. If she were outside +the limits of the last greater circle that he had described +in his search for her, it was all over! he was too late.</p> + +<p>At last, convinced of his discomfiture, he leaped from +his horse and seated himself on the sloping bank of a +ditch. It was near midday. He was neither hungry +nor thirsty, but the sun told him that it was midday.</p> + +<p>The gnats were humming about his ears, devouring +him, riddling the hide of his horse, who hung his head +and sniffed at a tuft of salt grass without eating it, pulling +a little upon the rein which Renaud, still seated, +held loosely in his hand.</p> + +<p>Renaud was looking straight before him, and now +that he was assured of his misfortune, now that he had +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_316" id="Page_316">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>316]</a></span> +neither betrothed nor mistress, neither present nor future, +he felt that he was becoming cold and hard, and was +astonished to find it so. It seemed to him as if his +misfortune had happened to a piece of wood or stone. +The wood and the stone were himself. How could he +have had such dread of the certainty that had come to +him at last? While he had that dread, he still hoped +and suffered. Now that all was said, he found that he +was insensible to it all—dead, in a measure. And that +gratified him.</p> + +<p>He who had wept so bitterly the night that he tried +to put aside his nascent passion, now, in this final catastrophe, +which should have called forth all the tears in +his body, felt as if the springs had run dry. Instead +of being more deeply moved than ever, he found that +he was strangely composed, as if armed against fate.—He +received the blow like a soldier, like a drover. His +tranquillity became more pronounced and more extraordinary +as the excessive severity of the disaster became +more certain.</p> + +<p>Tranquillity for an hour, perhaps! But what did that +matter? He had no suspicion of it. He found that +he was strong in the face of disaster. Ah! she could +make up her mind to go? She was laughing at me? +Very good! I have no need of her, the vagabond! I +have seen through the sorceress! I know her, I know +her! Good-evening!</p> + +<p>He rose, to return home. As he raised his head, he +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_317" id="Page_317">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>317]</a></span> +saw the gitana—five hundred yards ahead of him.—Her +back was turned to him, and she was walking tranquilly +along.</p> + +<p>In a twinkling, he was in the saddle. “Stop!” +Blanchet, smarting under a blow from the stirrup-leather, +flew over the ground, making the sand and stones fly, +snorting with wrath as the spur tore his flank. In four +minutes they made half a league. The gipsy, still in +front, with her back turned to them, walked quietly +along. It was her orange handkerchief, her copper +crown, her undulating gait. It was certainly she!</p> + +<p>Suddenly, when she reached the shore of a pond, she +walked out, with the same tranquil step, upon the surface +of the water, which bore her weight as if it were +covered with ice; while, not far away, a large brig, +decked out with flags, was bearing down upon him, +with all sail set, through the furze-bushes and prickly +oaks of Crau, across the arid fields.</p> + +<p>Renaud sadly hung his head. The brig explained it +all. It was all a spectre due to the mirage! Discouragement +came upon the man and crushed him.</p> + +<p>Thus, all the strength he had expended, his shameful +acceptance of such a love, his toilsome day of fruitless +search, after the mad ride of the preceding night, the +exhaustion of horse and rider, all came to an end in +the endless trickery of the mirage!</p> + +<p>The sorceress must be far away! And in what direction? +There was nothing for him to do but abandon +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_318" id="Page_318">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>318]</a></span> +the pursuit. He retraced his steps to the Icard farm. +The fruitlessness of the effort affected him more keenly +than the effort itself.</p> + +<p>He no longer looked about, he no longer thought, +he no longer loved or hated. Weariness had suddenly +fallen upon his shoulders and his loins like a weight too +heavy to be borne. He rode on, bent almost double, +swaying like an inert thing, with the motion of his +horse. He felt as if he were falling from a great height +in a sort of sick man’s dream. His eyes, worn out with +gazing over the fields and scrutinizing every bush, closed +in spite of him. His nerveless hand knew not where +the reins were; nor did his brain know what had become +of his ideas.</p> + +<p>Blanchet went forward mechanically, with his head +almost touching the ground. He, too, was without will-power, +overdone, exhausted, his eyes injected with blood; +his breath was short and quick, and his flanks beat the +charge.</p> + +<p>At another time, the careful horseman, who loved his +beasts, would very quickly have noticed that his horse’s +wind was broken, when he felt his sides rise and fall +with that short, hard, jerky breath; but Renaud was +conscious of nothing. There was nothing in his head +but a burning void. He did not even long for shade +or rest. He was suffering from the utter dejection that +follows terrible crises, from the great sorrow caused by +death, from hopeless despair. Overwhelmed as he was +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_319" id="Page_319">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>319]</a></span> +by his selfish weariness, if he had been capable of recognizing +any sentiment in his mind, he would have found +there a vague, cowardly feeling of annoyance at having +to enter a sick-chamber, at having to witness the spectacle +of Livette’s suffering. He would have liked—but +he had not the strength to do it—to dismount from his +horse, to lie down in the fresh air, under a tamarisk, and +sleep there a long, long time; to forget himself, to cease +to see or speak or hear or listen or exist!—He was like +one walking in his sleep.</p> + +<p>Suddenly Blanchet stopped, and began to tremble in +every limb, and, before his rider had come to his senses, +his four legs, planted stiffly like stakes, seemed to be +broken by a single blow, and he fell in a heap.</p> + +<p>Renaud awoke, standing on his feet beside his fallen +horse. Blanchet was dying. It was soon over. The +honest creature opened, to an unnatural width, his great +glazed eyes, green as the stagnant water in the swamps, +and filled with that wondering expression which the +infinite mystery of living or of having lived imparts to +the gaze of little children, animals, and dying men; he +straightened out his four legs, trembling like the reeds +in the marshes. A shiver ran over his whole body, +riddled with the stings of a myriad of gnats and great +flies, some of which flew up into the air and settled +down again in the corners of the dim, wide-open eyes. +Then the poor creature became motionless, with an +indefinable something that was alarming and terrible in +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_320" id="Page_320">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>320]</a></span> +his immobility, something that put joy to flight, that +seemed to imply finality. It was death. Blanchet had +ended his humble Camarguese life in the open desert, +in the bright sunlight. Livette’s horse was dead in the +service of Renaud’s passion for Zinzara!</p> + +<p>The faithful beast did not know what had happened; +he did not know the reason of the forced journeys, the +multiplied wounds inflicted by Renaud’s spurs, by the +stings of the gadflies, and by Zinzara’s pin, buried in +his flesh; he had submitted, without a murmur, to the +destiny that bade him suffer at the hands of those who +might have made life pleasanter for him, and, as he lay +dead, his eyes still expressed his endless amazement at +his failure to understand what was expected of him.</p> + +<p>It was all over. He was dead. The affectionate +creature had fallen a victim to the violence and malignity +of human passions. Man had betrayed him for a +woman’s sake. And now his graceful form, made for +swift movement, was infinitely sad to see, because the +eye could see clearly all that there was in its immobility +contrary to the purpose for which it was designed—and +irreparable.</p> + +<p>Renaud gazed stupidly at him.—He saw again, like so +many reproachful words, Blanchet’s last look, his short, +rapid breath, the shudder that ran over his bleeding skin. +And, restored to his senses by this unforeseen catastrophe +which awoke a thousand salutary thoughts in his mind, +he felt his heart grow soft. He burst into tears.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_321" id="Page_321">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>321]</a></span> +Thus Blanchet served his mistress still by his death. +“Everything is of some use,” said Sigaud.</p> + +<p>Renaud stooped and returned, upon his still warm +nostrils, the kiss he had received from him on the day +of his first despair; then, having removed the saddle and +bridle and concealed them in a safe place, he returned +on foot to the Icard farm, with an intense, affectionate +desire to do his utmost to care for and comfort poor +Livette, for the death of her horse brought him back +to her more quickly than anything else could have +done.</p> + +<p>He promised himself that he would return and bury +Blanchet, but he did not have time. The good horse +belonged to the vulture and the eagle.</p> + +<p>In the evening of that same day, while Livette, sleeping +soundly, seemed to everybody to be out of danger,—while +Renaud lay, like a dog, in front of her door, +determined to defend and save her,—Zinzara arrived at +the Alyscamps at Arles.</p> + +<p>There, thinking that Renaud might, with the devil’s +assistance, succeed in overtaking her,—although she +may have had her reasons for thinking that his horse +was not in condition for service at that time,—she left +her house on wheels, in order that she might not be +taken by surprise therein like a wild beast in its lair,—not +from fear, but because she was desirous, before all +else, not to see him again. She went to the farther end +of the Allée des Alyscamps, between the rows of tall +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_322" id="Page_322">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>322]</a></span> +poplars, amid the stone monuments, and lighted a fire +of twigs, to give her light enough to look about and +select a spot where she could sleep comfortably.</p> + +<p>She went there late, when the lovers who congregate +there on May evenings, to make love upon the tombs, +had returned to the sleeping city.</p> + +<p>Along the whole length of the avenue, between the +tall, straight poplars, run two rows of sarcophagi, some +very high, with massive lids, others low and without +lids, with a few scattered blossoms, sown by the wind, +at the bottom. The dead who once slept there were +sent down to Arles in sealed urns, abandoned to the +current of the Rhône by the cities farther up the river. +Now flowers are springing from their dust; and their +open tombs are nothing more than beds for vagabonds +and lovers.</p> + +<p>By the bright light of her fire, which cast her shadow, +enormously exaggerated, upon the wall of the ruined +chapel, Zinzara selected her couch. She tossed an armful +of grass and leaves upon the bottom of a sarcophagus; +and, while the nightingale, who builds his nest +there every year, was singing for dear life, the strange +creature slept peacefully, with her face to the sky, trusting +in her destiny; and, as a ray of moonlight fell upon +her calm face with its closed eyelids, the sorceress resembled +her black mummy, which concealed and idealized +corruption—embalmed beneath a golden mask.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_323" id="Page_323">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>323]</a></span></p> + +<h2><a name="chap24" id="chap24"></a>XXIV<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smlfont">IN THE GARGATE</span></h2> + + +<p>When he received Zinzara’s message from the gipsy +child, Rampal, who was still suffering from his fall of +a few days before, did not think of going in person to +surprise Renaud. He did better than that. He went +at once to Livette, and told her of the rendezvous at +the cabin.</p> + +<p>“Your lover, Livette, who defends you so fiercely +against a harmless kiss, is with a woman to-night—you +ought to be able to guess who she is—in the Conscript’s +Hut, near the Icard farm.”</p> + +<p>As Livette stood aghast, with pale cheeks, he continued:</p> + +<p>“Your father has good horses; if you want to see +for yourself, you can. It will be worth your while.”</p> + +<p>“Thanks, Rampal,” said Livette.</p> + +<p>Not for an instant did she doubt the truth of what +he told her, and she said to her father:</p> + +<p>“Go with me to the Icard farm, father, as you know +the people there. Let us go to the Icard farm at once; +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_324" id="Page_324">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>324]</a></span> +my happiness depends on it. There is something there +that I want to see to-morrow morning.”</p> + +<p>The poor man did not understand, but he always +yielded to her caprice. They set out at once for the +Château d’Avignon.</p> + +<p>They left the wagon at the château; they harnessed +the best pair of horses to the cabriolet, and made seven +or eight leagues without stopping.</p> + +<p>“Thanks, father. I must be here to-morrow morning. +I will tell you why——”</p> + +<p>It was eleven o’clock at night.</p> + +<p>When all were in bed, Livette, being familiar with “the +place,” which her father had pointed out to her anew at +her request,—Livette furtively left the house to prowl +about the spot where disaster awaited her, for love knows +no obstacles, and we follow our destiny through everything, +and rush on to death in pursuit of our last sorrow.</p> + +<p>And then?—Ah! throughout the visions of her sick-bed +Livette constantly lived over that terrible moment +when she was prowling around the swamp. In truth, +she was still there, in agony of mind.</p> + +<p>About the swamp, in the darkness, Livette hovered +like a sea-gull in distress. Like a lost soul from hell +she flitted about the edges of the bog, trying to pierce +with her gaze the dark clumps of reeds and tamarisks.</p> + +<p>From time to time, according to the spot from which +she looked, she could see the gray roof of the cabin, +silvered by the moonlight.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_325" id="Page_325">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>325]</a></span> +Was any one there? Had Rampal told her the truth? +Ought she to lose this opportunity of convincing herself +with her own eyes of Renaud’s treachery?</p> + +<p>Should she give her life to a traitor without endeavoring +to unmask him, although warned? With her +widely dilated eyes, she imagined that she saw lights +that did not exist; or—if she did really see a feeble +gleam through the chinks in the door—she refused to +believe her eyes.</p> + +<p>The blood was tingling in her ears, and she thought +she could hear voices. It seemed to her at times as if +her head were bursting. She could see, inside her head, +beneath her skull, a great white light, and in the centre +of the light Renaud and the gipsy together. Oh! to +think of not finding out!</p> + +<p>And, if it should be so, what should she do?</p> + +<p>The essential thing was to find out. Afterward, she +would see. If she were strong enough, if she could +do it—she would certainly kill the woman.—How? +Livette did not know. Simply with a look, perhaps.—Madness +rises from the swamps with the miasmatic exhalations +at night. Livette felt that she was going +mad.</p> + +<p>“How do you get to the cabin?” she had asked her +father.</p> + +<p>Ah! yes, the path is marked by stakes, is it not? To +the left of the stakes is the path. She cannot see the +tops of the stakes in the dark water. Frogs were sitting +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_326" id="Page_326">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>326]</a></span> +on them, perhaps, to look at the moon; or turtles on +those that were just level with the surface. But no, it +was grass that covered them all. And Livette’s eyes +ached with her endeavors to open them wider in the +darkness, and find some sign upon the indistinct objects +about her.</p> + +<p>But suppose Rampal had deceived her?</p> + +<p>At one time, it seemed to her that she could hear +something resembling the gipsy music that made the +snakes dance—but so weak! Surely it was in her poor, +tired head,—for if it had been the real music, all the +reptiles in the swamp would have come out to dance, all +at once, in the moonlight.</p> + +<p>Bah! Why should she be afraid? As if there were +so very many of the creatures in the country! They +are not fond of the salt in the bogs, nor the high winds.</p> + +<p>She hovered about the swamp like a sea-gull lost at +sea!</p> + +<p>“Yes, yes, this is the way, here is the path under the +water and the stakes that mark it! I must keep the +stakes at my right as I walk along.”</p> + +<p>She starts to take the first step, and dares not—but +suddenly the sound of voices comes to her ears. She +distinguishes two voices—two!—beyond any question. +And now it is surely the metallic sound of the tambourine +that floats through the reeds in the moonlight, +bringing to her heart the frightful vision of the other’s +joy!</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_327" id="Page_327">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>327]</a></span> +She will go. After all, since her unhappiness is +certain, what matter if she die of it! Ah! how bitter +would be his punishment if, on coming out, at daybreak, +he should find her there, drowned!</p> + +<p>She makes a step; she sinks! but she does not cry out. +No, she will extricate herself unaided—she must. She +clings to the long grass, to the reeds which break in her +hands. She is sinking! Ah! God! is she to die there? +They would be too well pleased, aye, both of them, to +have caused her death! Therefore she must not die! +She will not! She struggles, and sinks deeper. As she +lifts one foot, she rests her weight on the other, which +goes down, down, and the ooze gains upon her. It rises +to her waist; and still she cannot refrain from raising +her feet, one after the other, as if to climb an imaginary +stairway, the solid ladder that she dreams of but cannot +find!</p> + +<p>With every upward effort she sinks lower; it is horrible. +Her hands are so small that she does not grasp +enough grass, enough reeds, at once! Everything about +her yields, everything fails to give support. How the +reeds break between her fingers! like grass threads! It +seems to her that clammy creatures are rubbing against +her legs, her hands—ah! yes, the snakes—the bloodsuckers! +She will be eaten alive by the bloodsuckers.—But +where is the stake, near the edge of the swamp, that +she thought she saw a moment ago? She lets go the +grass to which she is clinging, with the result that she +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_328" id="Page_328">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>328]</a></span> +sinks deeper, still deeper. Now the cold water submerges +her bosom, surrounds her neck, crawls up toward +her mouth. Will she be compelled in a moment to +drink that filthy water? At that thought, she makes one +final effort. Her dishevelled locks cling about her neck, +as if to strangle her, all drenched and cold and slimy, +like veritable snakes!—She struggles, tosses her hands +about this way and that—until one of them comes in +contact with the wooden stake, firmly planted in the +ground.—Saintes Maries!—She seizes it, twines her fingers +about it, digs her nails into it, and does not relax +her hold. Nor will she, even when she is dead! But her +arm no longer has the strength to raise her, and her head +falls heavily back—her eyes close. Is this death?—It +was at that moment, just as she lost consciousness, that +the brave-hearted maid cried out,—not until then. And +her cry rang out over the swamps, like the call of the +birds of passage, which ceaselessly, over all the waters +upon earth, seek the repose that can never be found.</p> + +<p>That ghastly vision recurred again and again to +Livette, while the women of the Icard farm were busying +themselves, a little too noisily, around her bed. At +last, there was silence in her room. She saw her father +come in, but she did not choose to explain anything +to him. She sent word to the grandmother not to be +anxious, that she would return home in three days. +Livette asked to see Renaud. Her father went to find +him. She closed her eyes.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_329" id="Page_329">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>329]</a></span> +She fancied that she could remember, now, certain +things that happened to her during her sleep of death +in the <i>gargate</i>, but were not reproduced in her dream. +She felt Renaud’s arms lifting her out of the mire, and +that, after all, is the one thing to be desired, more than +life itself—the protection of the man she loved, her +lover’s mourning for her, thinking that she was dead.—But +before that, a moment before, had she not felt the +weight of a fixed gaze upon her?—She had looked dimly +forth between her drooping eyelids, through her long +lashes which seemed to her like a thick grating; and +she fancied that she saw the gipsy, the ill-omened gitana, +standing before her. “Yes, it is she, it is really she. +She is standing here beside me. She looks very, very +tall. Her head touches the sky. She is on the path +leading to the cabin. She is just coming from the rendezvous. +She has been kissing Renaud! When will +he come? Will the witch’s black shadow, standing so +straight there, never go? What more do you want, +witch? Don’t you see that I am dead? I must make +you think I am dead. Then you will leave me, at +last!—The wicked woman is always smiling. Ah! there +she goes.—How heavy her glance was! And how tall +she was! She kept all the light from me. Now I can +see the sky again. Is it you, Renaud, is it you, Jacques, +who take me in your arms as if I were dead?—It is you, +at last!”</p> + +<p>Thus cried poor Livette, delirious once more. But +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_330" id="Page_330">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>330]</a></span> +Renaud was sitting beside her bed with his face in his +hands, listening to her.</p> + +<p>“It is you,” she went on; “you think me dead, and +I can feel you take me in your arms and quickly carry +me away. But why do you not weep, when you see me +so? It is you, at last! I am dead, and still I feel +you. You have me in your arms. Your heart beats +fast. Mine has ceased to beat. Where were you, bad +boy? What did you say to her? But that is past and +gone!—Is that woman very dear to your heart?—Why +do you come no more to my father’s house in the evening? +He is very fond of you. Grandma is a dear +old soul. Do you see how faithful she is to her dead +husband? People knew how to love one another better +in her day, she says. Is it true? Do you believe it, +Jacques? And if I die, won’t you keep my memory +sacred, as she keeps grandpa’s?—Why do you make me +suffer so?—Are we two never to walk under the great +elm again? Our pretty stone bench under the rose-bushes +is very sad now, and lonely like a tombstone. +Ah! if you had chosen! I was pretty, yes, pretty, +pretty! And now I shall be ugly. For I have done +with life, even if I am not dead. My life is at an end, +at an end!”</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_331" id="Page_331">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>331]</a></span></p> + +<h2><a name="chap25" id="chap25"></a>XXV<br /> +<br /> +<span class="smlfont">THE PHANTOM</span></h2> + + +<p>Livette, who had been carried back to the Château +d’Avignon many days before, had not left her bed. The +fever clung to her obstinately. Nothing could be done.</p> + +<p>Was it really true, O God, that she was doomed to +die, and he to see it? Was he to lose the future he had +dreamed of, a future of unruffled happiness, of love and +peace, as her husband; the joy he had known for such +a brief space, of having a woman, sweet and dear and +helpless as a child, to cherish and protect?—Was he +condemned never to know the pleasure of having a +family—a pleasure that had been denied to him, an +orphan, and of which he had often dreamed as of one +of the joys of Paradise—was he condemned never to +know it, because he had forgotten his longing for a +single day? The picture, dear to country-folk, of the +chimney with the smoke curling upward, that seems to +say to them, as far as it can be seen: “The soup is hot, +the wife is waiting, the children are calling,” recurred +sometimes to his mind, and he sighed profoundly.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_332" id="Page_332">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>332]</a></span> +The punishment that he saw coming upon him did +not seem to him proportionate to the offence. There +was no justice in it!</p> + +<p>What is the meaning of that most terrible of all mysteries: +that the love of the senses is more powerful +than the love of the heart when separated from its +object, even though the last be recognized as the more +certain and the sweeter?</p> + +<p>Between the lofty chapel and the subterranean crypt +of the church of Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer, on the level +of human life, does the miracle come always from below? +And if it be so, is it any less a miracle? Which of +you has fathomed the meaning of life? Who can say: +“It is unjust,” or: “It is useless,” or: “What I do +not see does not exist”? Who can say if Livette’s +sufferings and Renaud’s, their troubles and their heart-burnings, +all the invisible and inexplicable movements +within themselves,—of which they knew nothing,—were +not preparing the way for realities inconceivable to our +minds? The <em>ideal</em>, the dream of what is best, is the +essential condition of the <em>material</em> development of mankind. +No force is wasted; everything is transformed. +“Everything is of some use,” said the old shepherd +Sigaud. “It takes all kinds to make a world.”</p> + +<p>Livette had forgiven Renaud, Renaud had not forgiven +himself.</p> + +<p>Sometimes he gazed at her, deeply moved, and he +suffered with her for hours at a time. Sometimes he had +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_333" id="Page_333">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>333]</a></span> +sudden fits of rage against her—paroxysms of wickedness, +as it were. Was she not an obstacle in his path? At +such times, he believed that he was possessed by a devil, +and he would kneel by Livette’s bed and pray to the +saints, the women of compassion.</p> + +<p>Ah! how thin she was! Her eyes seemed to have +grown larger, and to have changed from blue to black, +because the pupils were still dilated. Her long, fair hair +no longer shone. It seemed as if the muddy water of +the swamp had taken away its gloss forever.</p> + +<p>She often started at noises that she imagined she heard.</p> + +<p>She, who in the old days used to talk but little, was +constantly telling of the things she had dreamed, and +she would be vexed if they were not remembered.</p> + +<p>The doctors of Arles tried everything. Nothing was +of any avail.</p> + +<p>“I want no more of their medicine,” she said one +day to Renaud. “They might do very well for swamp +fever, but there is something else the matter with me. +It was my heart that you drowned. I never could believe +you again; it is much better that I should die.”</p> + +<p>She had explained nothing to her father or grandmother.</p> + +<p>“They would have turned you out of the house,” she +said, “and I wanted to see you to the end.”</p> + +<p>Her journey to the Icard farm, her nocturnal flight, +her accident, all were attributed to an attack of fever, +which was supposed to have been responsible for her +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_334" id="Page_334">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>334]</a></span> +actions, whereas, on the contrary, her illness was the +result of them all.</p> + +<p>Renaud, by a desperate effort, mastered his passion at +last. Was it forever? He chose to think so, because it +was necessary that it should be so, in order to keep her +alive.</p> + +<p>He tried not to think of the other. He tried to +repent. Every moment he tore from his mind by an +exertion of his will—as he would tear up grass with his +hand—some one of his memories. He told amusing +stories, pretending to laugh loudest at them.</p> + +<p>His heart was filled with a great pity for Livette, but, +for all that, you would not have had to lift a very large +stone to find there, in a spot that he knew well, the +sleeping viper.</p> + +<p>“I shall die, I shall die!”—Livette often said, “but I +want to see the fête of Saintes-Maries once more. I want +to live till then. You must carry me there and lay me +on the relics; that is where I want to die. And at my +burial, I want the drovers, your comrades, to follow on +horseback—promise me this—with their spears reversed, +like the soldiers I saw at Avignon one day, marching to +the cemetery, holding their guns that way.”</p> + +<p>With a sort of gaiety, she often recurred to the subject +of her burial, and embellished it with other details, +saying, with the air of a playful child:</p> + +<p>“There must be lilies, as there are in the procession +at Saintes-Maries when they go to bless the sea; I want +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_335" id="Page_335">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>335]</a></span> +lots of lilies! Lilies are so pretty and white! they are +so proud on their stalks, and they smell so sweet!”</p> + +<p>Meanwhile, the season was hastening away; the +months came and went, like the same months in years +past for centuries.</p> + +<p>Summer set the sky and land and sea ablaze, drawing +the last drop of moisture from the swamps, sowing the +venomous seeds of miasma in the heavy air that people +breathed. The crops ripened; then came the harvest. +It was autumn. The redbreast sang in the park of the +Château d’Avignon. The nights grew long once more. +The leaves fell. The sad days of the year began.</p> + +<p>The buttercups had disappeared. The Vaccarès, which +had been dry all summer, no longer exposed to the sun +its lovely mouse-gray bed; it was once more a sea. The +light golden tint of the September sky was long since +hidden from sight behind the rising mists.</p> + +<p>The birds of passage began anew their flight over the +mirror-like island which promised them abundant prey. +The eagle hurried from the Alps to make war upon the +fish-hawks. And at night, when the wind howled and +the rain fell in torrents, the storks and cranes and geese +passed over in triangular flocks, at a great height in the +drenched atmosphere, uttering cries like cries of alarm.</p> + +<p>Livette’s suffering became more intense. She passed +whole days sitting at her window.</p> + +<p>One evening, Renaud was sitting beside her, in silence, +while the grandmother and Père Audiffret were dining +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_336" id="Page_336">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>336]</a></span> +in the room below. The room was dimly lighted by a +lamp. Suddenly Livette sprang to her feet, then fell +back, crying:</p> + +<p>“There she is! there she is! No! no! don’t go with +her! I don’t want you to! no, no, Jacques!”</p> + +<p>Renaud also had risen, and was staring vacantly at +Livette; following the direction of her gaze, he began to +tremble. Outside the window stood a pale, uncertain, +but very recognizable spectre, the gipsy herself! He had +no sooner recognized her than she disappeared, after +making a significant sign to him, that said: “Come!”</p> + +<p>It was not a vision of the sick girl’s imagination, for +he, too, had seen it!</p> + +<p>Perhaps the fever-laden island had sown its poison in +the blood of both. The germs of fever were taking +root and flourishing in them. The blight of the <i>paluns</i> +implanted in their brains, as in a cloudy mirror, the +image everlastingly repeated of the familiar plaintive +objects of the desert, with which the current of their +thoughts was mingled.</p> + +<p>“Don’t go! don’t go! my Jacques!”</p> + +<p>She dragged herself along the floor on her knees, +shaken with sobs, imploring the drover, as she clung +with both hands to his jacket.</p> + +<p>The father and grandmother had hastened to the room.</p> + +<p>The father, too, was sobbing, and knew not what to +do. The grandmother slowly seated herself by the bed +on which Renaud had gently laid Livette.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_337" id="Page_337">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>337]</a></span> +Calm and silent, the old woman gazed long and with +a beautiful expression of perfect trust upon the copper +crucifix and the images of the saints that hung on the +wall of the recess.</p> + +<p>And, on the bed, Livette, uttering cries like a lost +bird, twining her fingers about her as if clinging to life, +to the reeds in the swamp wherein she still fancied that +she was drowning—Livette breathed her last.</p> + +<p>Livette was dead.</p> + +<p>The drovers, on horseback, with spears reversed, attended +her body to the cemetery. Her favorite dog +followed her thither.</p> + +<p>Renaud placed lilies on her grave. She sleeps in the +cemetery of Saintes-Maries, at the foot of the dunes, +under the cultivated lilies, among the wild asphodels, +on the sea-shore.</p> + +<p>Renaud returned to the desert, too much like the bull +that, when wounded in the arena, returns to the solitude +of the swamps, where he can lick his wounds, give free +vent to his rage, bellow at the clouds, and to no purpose, +but to his heart’s content tear at the steel left +in the wound.</p> + +<p>One day they found, on the shore of the Vaccarès, +Rampal’s bleeding body, pierced by horns in two places. +Bernard alone saw his duel with Renaud one evening, +when the sky was red with the afterglow. They fought +hand to hand, in the midst of the drove, and Renaud, +lifting his enemy from the ground in his arms, laid him +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_338" id="Page_338">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>338]</a></span> +face upward, dead, on the horns of a heifer that came +rushing at them and, with one motion of her bulky +head, tossed a corpse into the air.</p> + +<p>Rampal died without a cry. He lay three days where +he fell. The black bulls, that mourn nine days when +one of their kind falls dead in the pasture, bellowed +for three days around Rampal’s body, at a respectful +distance.</p> + +<p>Bernard alone saw the duel and said nothing; but the +people of the desert knew; they guessed the truth.</p> + +<p>Since that, Renaud has become like a phantom himself.</p> + +<p>In all weathers, summer or winter, rain or shine, he +can be seen here and there, in the Camargue desert, +sitting erect and melancholy on his horse, spear in +hand.</p> + +<p>He regrets Livette. He loves Zinzara. He weeps only +for himself, the wretched creature! He has lost the +paradise of affection he had dreamed of, and the appetizing +hell of savage love he had tasted. He has nothing. +It seems to him that Livette’s death, for which he blames +himself, has left him free to abandon himself to his +passion for the other; but the other is absent—and, +though absent, she tortures him as relentlessly as on the +day when, clinging to his horse’s mane, she defied him +with insulting words, and aroused his passions, while he +dared not shake her off, trample upon her, or seize her.</p> + +<p>The memory of her is upon him like the gadfly that +persists in following back the bloody track of its sting. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_339" id="Page_339">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>339]</a></span> +Vainly does he shake himself; he cannot rid himself +of it. Renaud loves Zinzara; he longs for her without +hope, and, ruled by that single desire, he feels no other, +so that the unexpended power of his youth accumulates +within him and drives him mad.</p> + +<p>The friends’ houses, the fêtes he used formerly to +visit, have no further interest for him, because the only +being he seeks cannot be found. The desert, once +peopled with hopes in his eyes, has become an empty +void. The roads that traverse it no longer lead anywhere.</p> + +<p>He surprises himself sometimes, at night, bellowing +with the bulls, against the wind that annoys them, toward +the distant horizon. He is like one possessed. A devil +dwells within him.</p> + +<p>When he is weary of wandering about and of being +in the saddle, and chooses to lie down and sleep for a +day, he repairs to the cabin of his love, in the <i>gargate</i>, +and there, full sure of being undisturbed, raves like a +wild beast, in his frenzy at being alone. In the morning, +he emerges from his retreat, more depressed, more +miserable, more haunted with visions than ever.</p> + +<p>At times, he fancies that he sees Livette under his +horse’s feet, imploring wildly, with hands outstretched—but +he digs his spurs into his horse and rides on. A +terrible shriek constantly rings in his ears.</p> + +<p>He rides toward another spectre that calls him from +the farthest point of the horizon.—He says, to any one +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_340" id="Page_340">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>340]</a></span> +who cares to listen, that he has come from Egypt, where +he was a king, and that he will return there some day, +King of Camargue.</p> + +<p>His disordered mind seems the very incarnation of the +wild moor. He fancies that he is flying about in circles +with the birds of the swamps that weep in the drizzling +rain. The <i>mistral</i> lashes his wings. When the wind +blows through his hair, he pities the poor grass of the +plains because the <i>mistral</i> is torturing it.</p> + +<p>All the lamentations of the reeds and swamps, of +the river and the sea, are but the ringing in his ears, +and their loud wailing is constantly punctuated by +a shriek—oh! so heart-rending it is!—the shriek of +Livette!</p> + +<p>As the bell-tower of the church of Saintes-Maries is +filled with owls, so his heart is full of the remorse of a +Christian; and the curé’s kindness to him does not drive +it away.</p> + +<p>When he stands upon the sea-shore, many times he +feels an overpowering desire to urge his horse, bleeding +beneath the spur, far out to sea, farther and farther, until +he vanishes in the direction of the country, vaguely seen +in dreams, from which the saints and gipsies come—but +something stops him; his destiny holds him back; he +belongs to his kingdom.</p> + +<p>If he has known one hour’s peace of mind, it was on +a certain morning when, among the usual hideous nightmares +inspired by the memory of Zinzara, he had a +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_341" id="Page_341">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>341]</a></span> +pleasant dream, in which he saw Livette, dressed in +white, with lilies in her hands like the saints in church +pictures, smiling and saying to him: “I have forgiven +you. <span class="smcap">Forgive yourself.</span>”</p> + +<p>The respite was of brief duration, for the herdsman +did not know that excessive repentance is a crime, when +it goes so far as to dry up the springs of will-power in a +man, when it renders sterile his field of activity, when it +bars the way to doing better in the future.</p> + +<p>Self-pardon, at the proper time, after due penance has +been done, is one of the secrets of the wise among men; +for, without it, the first misstep would lead to never-ending +despair, and would render all courage useless +forever.</p> + +<p>Such was the curé’s opinion, which Renaud listened +to, in the confessional, without paying heed to it.</p> + +<p>He suffers, therefore, incessantly, awaiting the hour +when his suffering shall be allayed. He is like the +camping-grounds abandoned by shepherds and flocks, +the <i>jasses</i> of the desert, still black from an old conflagration, +and surrounded by briers where rose-bushes +once flourished. He is like the aloes that wither instantly +in desolation, after the stalk their love has caused +to bloom has risen high into the air.</p> + +<p>The dream in which Renaud saw Livette was explained +to him several times by Monsieur le curé, but +always to no purpose.</p> + +<p>How, indeed, could his remorse cease, when his +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_342" id="Page_342">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>342]</a></span> +passion still endured, and when he was constantly committing +anew, in desire, the sin that caused all the +misery?</p> + +<p>My friends, there is but one wise course to pursue: +“Plant a tree, build a house, rear a child. Be patient—everything +comes in due time. The thing that does not +happen in a hundred years, may happen in six thousand. +The future is still yours!”</p> + +<p>When Renaud, in the dreams of his unhealthy life, +feels, as he sometimes does, that his love is stronger in +him than his passion, it seems to him as if Livette were +drawing him toward death, but truthful, kindly beings +never inspire thoughts of self-destruction.</p> + +<p>Of one thing, at least, he is certain. He feels that +voluntary death would not remove him from the circle +of the accursed. He would, on the contrary, descend +still lower in the spiral pit of mortals damned by love.</p> + +<p>They say that persons drowned in the Rhône, borne +along without doubt by the irresistible current, which +brings them all together at the mouth of the river, +return, on certain evenings, to hold a carnival of despair +on the surface of the water.</p> + +<p>Happy are they since they are, on those occasions, +united.</p> + +<p>But they who are drowned in stagnant waters, and +they who, to join them, die by their own hand, are +never aught but solitary spectres. They seek each other +all the time, but always unavailingly. They are the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_343" id="Page_343">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>343]</a></span> +souls of the damned. They wander through the desert, +calling to one another; but never even approach or see +one another; and at night, in the deserts of Crau and +Camargue, the traveller hears long-drawn, wailing cries, +flying unavailingly hither and thither over the vast +plains, forever and forever.</p> + +<p>Even the clouds call and answer one another in their +aerial flight.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_344" id="Page_344"><!-- blank page --></a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_345" id="Page_345">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>345]</a></span></p> + +<h2><a name="notes" id="notes"></a>NOTES</h2> + + +<div class="footnote"> +<p><a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a></p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">“Do not wear out your shoes on the hard roads;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rather take boat and so descend the Rhône.<br /></span> +</div> + +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">“Leave Lyon and Valence behind;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Salute them with a nod as you pass beneath their bridges.<br /></span> +</div> + +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">“Avignon is the queen,—but pass her by as well;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Not till you come to Arles will you find your love——<br /></span> +</div> + +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">“The plain is fair and broad, O comrade,——<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Take your love <i>en croupe</i>, and off you go!”<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + +<div class="footnote"> +<p><a name="Footnote_2_2" id="Footnote_2_2"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2_2"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> +“On the bridge of Avignon every one must pay toll.”</p> +</div> + +<div class="footnote"> +<p><a name="Footnote_3_3" id="Footnote_3_3"></a><a href="#FNanchor_3_3"><span class="label">[3]</span></a> +The name Vincent is pronounced very much like <i>vingt cent</i>, +twenty hundred, or two thousand.</p> +</div> + +<div class="footnote"> +<p><a name="Footnote_4_4" id="Footnote_4_4"></a><a href="#FNanchor_4_4"><span class="label">[4]</span></a> +“May this work of mine, begun in God’s name, be constantly +blessed with the favor of Jesus Christ. May the Holy Spirit wisely +guide my hand, my pen, and my understanding.”</p> +</div> + +<div class="footnote"> +<p><a name="Footnote_5_5" id="Footnote_5_5"></a><a href="#FNanchor_5_5"><span class="label">[5]</span></a> +What would the good curé have said had he been told that a +contemporary poet, Monsieur Pierre Gauthiez, has adopted the too +common error? According to him, an Egyptian Marie came to +Camargue in the boat with the saints.—When they approached the +shore, it became necessary to reward the devoted boatman who had +helped them to accomplish the prodigious journey. One of them +gave him a sprig of rosemary that had touched the lips of the +Christ; another, a lock of her fair hair. And as to the third—</p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_346" id="Page_346">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>346]</a></span></p> + +<div class="footnote"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">“L’Égyptienne au doux œil sombre,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Debout auprès d’un olivier,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Regarda le beau batelier.<br /></span> +</div> + +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">“Elle prit son voile de lin,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Et découvrit sa chair de vierge<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Pure et luisante, ainsi qu’un cierge,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sous le soleil à son déclin.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Elle fut toute nue, et comme<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sur le sable roux, le jeune homme<br /></span> +<span class="i0">S’agenouillait, la lèvre en feu,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tendant ses bras comme vers Dieu,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">La sainte, sans robe ni voiles,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Pareille aux célestes étoiles,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lui dit: ‘Tu vois, mon batelier,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Je n’ai que Moi pour te payer!’”<br /></span> +</div> +</div> + +<p class="center smcap">(Translation.)</p> + +<p>“The Egyptian of the soft dark eye, standing beside an olive-tree, +gazed upon the comely boatman.</p> + +<p>“She put aside her linen veil and discovered her virgin flesh, all +pure and glistening, like a wax taper, beneath the setting sun. She +was quite naked, and, as the young man knelt on the red sand, with +lips on fire, holding out his arms to her as if to God, the saint, like the +stars in heaven, wearing no gown or veil, said to him: ‘Thou seest, +my boatman, I have naught but Myself wherewith to pay thee!’”</p> +</div> + +<div class="footnote"> +<p><a name="Footnote_6_6" id="Footnote_6_6"></a><a href="#FNanchor_6_6"><span class="label">[6]</span></a> +The spirit, indeed, is willing, but the flesh is weak.</p> +</div> + +<div class="footnote"> +<p><a name="Footnote_7_7" id="Footnote_7_7"></a><a href="#FNanchor_7_7"><span class="label">[7]</span></a> +The <i>tarasque</i>, perhaps, is nothing more than a reproduction of +the crocodile of the Rhône, increased in size to an absurd degree +by the popular imagination. This one, the last that was seen in +Camargue, so they say, is hanging to-day in the <i>Hôpital des Antiquailles</i> +at Lyon, with an inscription stating the source from whence +it came: “Gift of M. le Curé of Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer.”</p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_347" id="Page_347">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>347]</a></span></p> + +<div class="footnote"> +<p><a name="Footnote_8_8" id="Footnote_8_8"></a><a href="#FNanchor_8_8"><span class="label">[8]</span></a> +<i>C’est le sort.</i>—<i>Sort</i> may mean <i>fate</i>, and it may also mean <i>spell</i>, +being used in the latter sense almost synonymously with <i>sortilège</i>. +It may also mean <i>chance</i>.</p> +</div> + +<div class="footnote"> +<p><a name="Footnote_9_9" id="Footnote_9_9"></a><a href="#FNanchor_9_9"><span class="label">[9]</span></a> +“When you were upon the great deep, without oars to row +your boat, Saintes Maries! Naught but the sea and sky about +you—with all your eyes you appealed to the verdant shore to be +gentle.”</p> +</div> + +<div class="footnote"> +<p><a name="Footnote_10_10" id="Footnote_10_10"></a><a href="#FNanchor_10_10"><span class="label">[10]</span></a> +“Beneath the sun, beneath the stars, with sails made of the +gowns you wore—Sail on, O ship!—seven days and nights you +sailed and sailed and saw no vessel, large or small—naught but the +sea and the great deep!”</p> +</div> + +<div class="footnote"> +<p><a name="Footnote_11_11" id="Footnote_11_11"></a><a href="#FNanchor_11_11"><span class="label">[11]</span></a> +“God, who makes of a lightning-flash His scourge, wherewith +to scourge the sky and sea, Saintes Maries! guided the bark to a +safe harbor—an angel, who appeared on board, pointed out the +way to the verdant shore.”</p> +</div> + +<div class="footnote"> +<p><a name="Footnote_12_12" id="Footnote_12_12"></a><a href="#FNanchor_12_12"><span class="label">[12]</span></a> +“Kneeling before God’s tabernacle, we, stained with sin from +birth, do invoke your power, for whom God performed this miracle—Holy +women, protect us!”</p> +</div> + +<div class="footnote"> +<p><a name="Footnote_13_13" id="Footnote_13_13"></a><a href="#FNanchor_13_13"><span class="label">[13]</span></a> +<i>Comment s’appelle ton chien?</i>—In common parlance—What +is your dog’s name? The joke is lost unless it is translated +literally.</p> +</div> + + + +<div class="bbox"> +<p><b>Transcriber's Note</b></p> + +<p>Minor punctuation errors have been repaired.</p> + +<p>Hyphenation and accent usage has been made consistent.</p> + +<p>A single closing quote was omitted on page <a href="#Page_7">7</a>. The transcriber has added one +in what seemed the most appropriate place—"... ‘Look! I am dark, but I +am beautiful! ... So be it!’"</p> + +<p>The following typographic errors have been fixed:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p>Page <a href="#Page_6">6</a>—Carmargue amended to Camargue—"... this ‘Château d’Avignon,’ the +finest in all Camargue."</p> + +<p>Facing page <a href="#horse">64</a> (illustration caption)—Renard’s amended to Renaud’s—"... +and pulled back with all her strength the double rein of Renaud’s horse, +..."</p> + +<p>Page <a href="#Page_111">111</a>—Moveover amended to Moreover—"Moreover, after the harvest was +gathered, ..."</p> + +<p>Page <a href="#Page_300">300</a>—house amended to horse—"... “we will ride together till night. +My horse has wings.”"</p> +</div> + +<p>The frontispiece illustration and introductory front matter has been moved +to follow the title page. Other illustrations have been moved where +necessary so that they are not in the middle of a paragraph.</p> + +<p>The Table of contents has been added by the transcriber for the +convenience of the reader.</p> + +<p>The List of Illustrations has been moved from its original location on page +349 to the beginning of the book.</p> + +<p>Omitted page numbers were blank pages in the original book.</p> +</div> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of King of Camargue, by Jean Aicard + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK KING OF CAMARGUE *** + +***** This file should be named 33867-h.htm or 33867-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/3/8/6/33867/ + +Produced by Audrey Longhurst, Sam W. and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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