To the west of Castel-le-Gâchis four rows of
venerable lime-trees formed, in this starry night, a twilit avenue with two
side aisles of pitch darkness. Here and there stone benches were disposed
between the trunks. There was not a breath of wind; a heavy atmosphere of
perfume hung about the alleys; and every leaf stood stock-still upon its twig.
Hither, after vainly knocking at an inn or two, the Berthelinis came at length
to pass the night. After an amiable contention, Léon insisted on giving his
coat to Elvira, and they sat down together on the first bench in silence. Léon
made a cigarette, which he smoked to an end, looking up into the trees, and,
beyond them, at the constellations, of which he tried vainly to recall the
names. The silence was broken by the church bell; it rang the four quarters on
a light and tinkling measure; then followed a single deep stroke that died
slowly away with a thrill; and stillness resumed its empire.
“One,” said Léon. “Four hours till daylight. It is warm; it
is starry; I have matches and tobacco. Do not let us exaggerate,
Elvira—the experience is positively charming. I feel a glow within me; I
am born again. This is the poetry of life. Think of Cooper’s novels, my
dear.”
“Léon,” she said fiercely, “how can you talk such wicked,
infamous nonsense? To pass all night out-of-doors—it is like a nightmare!
We shall die.”
“You suffer yourself to be led away,” he replied soothingly.
“It is not unpleasant here; only you brood. Come, now, let us repeat a
scene. Shall we try Alceste and Célimène? No? Or a passage from the ‘Two
Orphans’? Come, now, it will occupy your mind; I will play up to you as I
never have played before; I feel art moving in my bones.”
“Hold your tongue,” she cried, “or you will drive me mad!
Will nothing solemnise you—not even this hideous situation?”
“Oh, hideous!” objected Léon. “Hideous is not the word. Why,
where would you be? ‘Dites, la jeune belle, où voulez-vous
aller?’” he carolled. “Well, now,” he went on, opening
the guitar-case, “there’s another idea for you—sing. Sing
‘Dites, la jeune belle!’ It will compose your spirits, Elvira, I am
sure.”
And without waiting an answer he began to strum the symphony. The first chords
awoke a young man who was lying asleep upon a neighbouring bench.
“Hullo!” cried the young man, “who are you?”
“Under which king, Bezonian?” declaimed the artist. “Speak or
die!”
Or if it was not exactly that, it was something to much the same purpose from a
French tragedy.
The young man drew near in the twilight. He was a tall, powerful, gentlemanly
fellow, with a somewhat puffy face, dressed in a grey tweed suit, with a
deer-stalker hat of the same material; and as he now came forward he carried a
knapsack slung upon one arm.
“Are you camping out here too?” he asked, with a strong English
accent. “I’m not sorry for company.”
Léon explained their misadventure; and the other told them that he was a
Cambridge undergraduate on a walking tour, that he had run short of money,
could no longer pay for his night’s lodging, had already been camping out
for two nights, and feared he should require to continue the same manœuvre for
at least two nights more.
“Luckily, it’s jolly weather,” he concluded.
“You hear that, Elvira,” said Léon. “Madame
Berthelini,” he went on, “is ridiculously affected by this trifling
occurrence. For my part, I find it romantic and far from uncomfortable; or at
least,” he added, shifting on the stone bench, “not quite so
uncomfortable as might have been expected. But pray be seated.”
“Yes,” returned the undergraduate, sitting down, “it’s
rather nice than otherwise when once you’re used to it; only it’s
devilish difficult to get washed. I like the fresh air and these stars and
things.”
“Aha!” said Léon, “Monsieur is an artist.”
“An artist?” returned the other, with a blank stare. “Not if
I know it!”
“Pardon me,” said the actor. “What you said this moment about
the orbs of heaven—”
“Oh, nonsense!” cried the Englishman. “A fellow may admire
the stars and be anything he likes.”
“You have an artist’s nature, however, Mr.—I beg your pardon;
may I, without indiscretion, inquire your name?” asked Léon.
“My name is Stubbs,” replied the Englishman.
“I thank you,” returned Léon. “Mine is Berthelini—Léon
Berthelini, ex-artist of the theatres of Montrouge, Belleville, and Montmartre.
Humble as you see me, I have created with applause more than one important
rôle. The Press were unanimous in praise of my Howling Devil of the
Mountains, in the piece of the same name. Madame, whom I now present to you, is
herself an artist, and I must not omit to state, a better artist than her
husband. She also is a creator; she created nearly twenty successful songs at
one of the principal Parisian music-halls. But, to continue, I was saying you
had an artist’s nature, Monsieur Stubbs, and you must permit me to be a
judge in such a question. I trust you will not falsify your instincts; let me
beseech you to follow the career of an artist.”
“Thank you,” returned Stubbs, with a chuckle. “I’m
going to be a banker.”
“No,” said Léon, “do not say so. Not that. A man with such a
nature as yours should not derogate so far. What are a few privations here and
there, so long as you are working for a high and noble goal?”
“This fellow’s mad,” thought Stubbs; “but the
woman’s rather pretty, and he’s not bad fun himself, if you come to
that.” What he said was different. “I thought you said you were an
actor?”
“I certainly did so,” replied Léon. “I am one, or, alas! I
was.”
“And so you want me to be an actor, do you?” continued the
undergraduate. “Why, man, I could never so much as learn the stuff; my
memory’s like a sieve; and as for acting, I’ve no more idea than a
cat.”
“The stage is not the only course,” said Léon. “Be a
sculptor, be a dancer, be a poet or a novelist; follow your heart, in short,
and do some thorough work before you die.”
“And do you call all these things art?” inquired Stubbs.
“Why, certainly!” returned Léon. “Are they not all
branches?”
“Oh! I didn’t know,” replied the Englishman. “I thought
an artist meant a fellow who painted.”
The singer stared at him in some surprise.
“It is the difference of language,” he said at last. “This
Tower of Babel, when shall we have paid for it? If I could speak English you
would follow me more readily.”
“Between you and me, I don’t believe I should,” replied the
other. “You seem to have thought a devil of a lot about this business.
For my part, I admire the stars, and like to have them shining—it’s
so cheery—but hang me if I had an idea it had anything to do with art!
It’s not in my line, you see. I’m not intellectual; I have no end
of trouble to scrape through my exams., I can tell you! But I’m not a bad
sort at bottom,” he added, seeing his interlocutor looked distressed even
in the dim starshine, “and I rather like the play, and music, and
guitars, and things.”
Léon had a perception that the understanding was incomplete. He changed the
subject.
“And so you travel on foot?” he continued. “How romantic! How
courageous! And how are you pleased with my land? How does the scenery affect
you among these wild hills of ours?”
“Well, the fact is,” began Stubbs—he was about to say that he
didn’t care for scenery, which was not at all true, being, on the
contrary, only an athletic undergraduate pretension; but he had begun to
suspect that Berthelini liked a different sort of meat, and substituted
something else—“The fact is, I think it jolly. They told me it was
no good up here; even the guide-book said so; but I don’t know what they
meant. I think it is deuced pretty—upon my word, I do.”
At this moment, in the most unexpected manner, Elvira burst into tears.
“My voice!” she cried. “Léon, if I stay here longer I shall
lose my voice!”
“You shall not stay another moment,” cried the actor. “If I
have to beat in a door, if I have to burn the town, I shall find you
shelter.”
With that he replaced the guitar, and comforting her with some caresses, drew
her arm through his.
“Monsieur Stubbs,” said he, taking of his hat, “the reception
I offer you is rather problematical; but let me beseech you to give us the
pleasure of your society. You are a little embarrassed for the moment; you
must, indeed, permit me to advance what may be necessary. I ask it as a favour;
we must not part so soon after having met so strangely.”
“Oh, come, you know,” said Stubbs, “I can’t let a
fellow like you—” And there he paused, feeling somehow or other on
a wrong tack.
“I do not wish to employ menaces,” continued Léon, with a smile;
“but if you refuse, indeed I shall not take it kindly.”
“I don’t quite see my way out of it,” thought the
undergraduate; and then, after a pause, he said, aloud and ungraciously enough,
“All right. I—I’m very much obliged, of course.” And he
proceeded to follow them, thinking in his heart, “But it’s bad
form, all the same, to force an obligation on a fellow.”
