III
That evening the boulevard had a strange look. One felt that something unusually grave was going to happen. An enormous crowd, serious and anxious, overflowed the pavement, spreading on to the road, which the Paris police, placed at intervals, with great trouble kept free. Before the restaurants, the terraces disproportionately enlarged by the placing of chairs and tables, made the obstruction more complete and rendered circulation impossible. Now and again an onlooker impatiently stood upon his chair for an instant—the time that one could beg him to get down. Evidently all were waiting; one felt without doubt that between the two pavements upon the protected route something was going to pass. Having found a table with great difficulty and paid a large price for it, Angèle and Tityrus installed themselves in front of two glasses of beer and asked the waiter:
—What are they all waiting for?
—Where does your lordship come from? said the waiter. Does not your lordship know that every one is waiting to see Melibœus? He will pass by between 5 and 6 ... and there—listen: I believe one can already hear his flute.
From the depths of the boulevard the frail notes of a pipe were heard. The crowd thrilled with still greater attention. The sound increased, came nearer, grew louder and louder.
—Oh, how it moves me! said Angèle.
The setting sun soon threw its rays from one end of the boulevard to the other. And, as if issuing from the splendour of the setting sun, Melibœus was at last seen advancing—preceded by the simple sound of his flute.
At first nothing could be clearly distinguished but his figure, but when he drew nearer:
—Oh, how charming he is! said Angèle. In the meantime Melibœus as he arrived opposite Tityrus, ceased to play his flute, stopped suddenly, saw Angèle, and every one realized that he was naked.
Oh! said Angèle, leaning upon Tityrus, how beautiful he is! what strong thighs he has! His playing is adorable!
Tityrus felt a little uncomfortable.
—Ask him where he is going, said Angèle.
—Where are you going? questioned Tityrus.
Melibœus replied:—Eo Romam.
—What does he say? asked Angèle.
Tityrus:—You would not understand, my dear.
—But you can explain it to me, said Angèle.
—Romam, insisted Melibœus.... Urbem quam dicunt Romam.
Angèle:—Oh, it sounds delicious! What does it mean?
Tityrus:—But my dear Angèle, I assure you it is not so delightful as it sounds; it means quite simply that he is going to Rome.
—Rome! said Angèle dreamily. Oh, I should love so much to see Rome!
Melibœus, resuming his flute, once more began to play his primæval melody, and at the sound, Angèle, in a passion of excitement, raised herself, stood up, drew near; and as Melibœus’ arm was bent to her hand, she took it, and thus the two together went on their way along the boulevard; further, further they went, gradually vanished from sight, and disappeared into the finality of the twilit dusk.
The crowd, now unbridled in its agitation, became more and more tumultuous. On all sides one heard the questions: What did he say?—What did he do?—Who was that woman?—And when, a few minutes later, the evening papers appeared, a furious curiosity swept over them like a cyclone, and it was suddenly divulged that the woman was Angèle, and that this Melibœus was a naked person who was going to Italy.
Then, all their curiosity having died down, the crowd streamed off like water flowing away and the main boulevards were deserted.
And Tityrus found himself alone, completely surrounded by the swamp.
Let us grant that I have said nothing.
An irrepressible laughter shook the audience for several seconds.
—Gentlemen, I am happy that my story has amused you, said Prometheus, laughing also. Since the death of Damocles I have found the secret of laughter. For the present I have finished, gentlemen. Let the dead bury the dead and let us go quickly to lunch.
He took the waiter by one arm and Cocles by the other; they all left the cemetery; after passing the gates, the rest of the assembly dispersed.
—Pardon me, said Cocles. Your story was charming, and you made us laugh.... But I do not quite understand the connexion....
—If there had been more you would not have laughed so much, said Prometheus. Do not look for too much meaning in all this. I wanted above all to distract you, and I am happy to have done so; surely I owed you that? I wearied you so the other day.
They found themselves on the boulevards.
—Where are we going? said the waiter.
—To your restaurant, if you do not mind, in memory of our first meeting.
—You are passing it, said the waiter.
—I do not recognize it.
—It is all new now.
—Oh, I forgot!... I forgot that my eagle.... Don’t trouble: he will never do it again.
—Is it true, said Cocles, what you say?
—What?
—That you have killed him?
—And that we are going to eat him?... Do you doubt it? said Prometheus. Have you looked at me?—When he was alive, did I dare to laugh?—Was I not horribly thin?
—Certainly.
—He fed on me long enough. I think now that it is my turn.
—A table! Sit down! Sit down, gentlemen!
—Waiter, do not serve us: as a last remembrance, take the place of Damocles.
The meal was more joyful than it is possible to say. The eagle was found to be delicious, and at dessert they all drank his health.
—Has he then been useless? asked one.
—Do not say that, Cocles!—his flesh has nourished us.—When I questioned him he answered nothing, but I eat him without bearing him a grudge: if he had made me suffer less, he would have been less fat; less fat, he would have been less delectable.
—Of his past beauty, what is there left.
—I have kept all his feathers.
It is with one of them that I write this little book. May you, rare friend, not find it too foolish.