Sauntering out of the sunrise in the morning, between hedge-rows traceried with the fragrant eglantine, free of fancy and free of limb; ruminating the “heureux temps d’anarchie” prophesied by the poète-camarade Laurent Tailhade, “temps où la plèbe baiserait la trace des pas des poètes”; casting about for couplets with a mind attuned to Verlaine’s poetic precept,—
“Que ton vers soit la bonne aventure Eparse au vent crispé du matin Qui va fleurant la menthe et le thym”;
exploring the motionless blue and the scudding white of the sky for a fresh image; exchanging good words and snuff-pinches with passing rustics and smiles and badinage with the rustics’ wives and daughters; halting now and again to quaff from a wayside spring, to catch a thrush’s liquid note, a magpie’s gibe, or a linnet’s whistle, to unshoulder his pack, and, using it as an escritoire, to fix on paper a just-discovered rhyme, or, using it as a pillow, to enjoy the discreet fellowship of a pipe and out of its curling smoke-fantasies fashion Utopias; beguiling the hours of the short shadows with alternate scribblings and siestas; and sauntering into the sunset when the long shadows came,—L’Abruti passed the days.
He dined and supped by the roadside under spicy limes or voluptuous acacias, lavishing his omelettes, his coffee, and his chansons on all chance passers-by.
With his mysterious implements and the aid of flame, in some dusky forest thicket where a witch might weave a spell, he fabricated the wherewithal to buy his eggs and coffee; and he passed the nights, according to the weather, under the stars or in some hospitable grange.
The idyl was rudely interrupted—a fig for civilisation!—by the Philistine-minded gendarmes. L’Abruti was tried, and condemned to prison, though he had never gone beyond the fabrication of the ten-cent piece, instead of being decorated, as certain bourgeois are who deserve no better of society, and counterfeit talent instead of dimes.
Served him right, perhaps, for violating his country’s laws! Served him right, unquestionably,—delicious, whimsical minstrel that he was,—for departing from the good old begging tradition!
It seems a pity, all the same. He was such a jolly good fellow.
