To be sure, I was armed. Father had told us the stories of the Iliad and the Odyssey, the story of Roland and various other tales of adventure, from the hearing of which I would sally forth all on fire, impetuous and heroic. By turns I would be the furious Roland or the magnanimous Hector. With my wooden sword I would give mortal combat to Greeks or Saracens, impersonated by certain shrubs, but of which the peaceable cabbages and unoffending beets sometimes bore the brunt as I cut right and left among them.
My arms were provided by one of the queer labourers we used to employ in the garden or about the vines. There were three of them, each working by himself in his corner, each with his special qualifications but with undefined duties, though care was taken to keep them apart. They detested one another. Where had they been picked up? Their selection was no doubt due to grandfather’s inveterate indifference, for he let every one, including the property, go his own way. Or perhaps it was due to mother’s tender heart, for she was easily capable of having fished up such pitiful wrecks of humanity as these.
The first and earliest in my memory, the one who was my armourer into the bargain, went by the name of Tem Bossette. Both appellations were nicknames, I suppose, and their origin is not hard to discover. Tem must have been derived from Anthelmus, who is a saint venerated in our province. As for the nickname Bossette, I long supposed it to be an indelicate allusion to the curve of his back, due to long leaning over the spade. But I have found an etymology that better suits his character, especially his laziness, and I humbly submit it to messieurs the philologers, who will be able, according to their custom, to consecrate to it several folio volumes. In our country the word bosse has more than one meaning; it especially designates the cask in which the vintage is deposited for convenient removal from the vineyard, and I can still see the bewilderment stamped upon the countenance of a friend to whom I was doing the honours of my native town, on reading a poster, a simple little poster, containing the words For sale, an oval bosse. “Happy region,” he commented, “where hunchbacks can carry their gibbosities to market.” He thought himself very clever when he added, “But do they find purchasers?” I explained to him his mistake. Now Tem was a notable drunkard. Our cellar knew that better than any one. Bossette, little wine cask; he also could contain a grape harvest; and even, toward the close of his life, the diminutive might have been suppressed.
He used to make swords for me out of the stakes on which the vines were tied. In recompense I used to bring him extra bottles of wine, which I procured from Aunt Deen, who had special charge of the cellar, urging upon her the splendour of my armament. From time to time there arose a complaint that the vine trellises were defective and the untrained branches trailing on the ground, absorbing dampness. But grandfather, good naturedly indifferent, never blamed any one, and please reckon up how many stakes were necessary to my complete equipment. I needed them for my panoplies, I needed them for my stables. The number of my horses bore witness to my magnificence. With a stick between my legs I acquired an astonishing velocity, and for each battle I must needs change horses.
Tem Bossette would have been tall if he had stood up straight, but as to his stoutness there was no question, and his round head greatly resembled a pumpkin. “Big head, little wit,” Mimi Pachoux used to say of him, pursing up his lips. Mimi Pachoux was gardener, orchard man, lamp man, smoke doctor, locksmith, cabinet maker, mender of clocks and china, floor-waxer, wood-sawyer, errand man and I know not what more. Oh, yes, in the winter he used to be bearer of the dead. Did any difficulty arise, was any help needed? “Call Mimi!” grandfather would say. And they would call Mimi—a matter of several hours, for no one ever knew where he was, so that when he at last arrived the work would be done; but every one gave him the credit of it.
“That Mimi, he no sooner comes than everything goes well!”
Picture to yourself a little scrap of a man, thin, clean, prompt, lively and invisible into the bargain. Invisible, that is what I mean, unless you would prefer to grant him the gift of ubiquity. Every morning he would begin a half dozen days’ works; here at six o’clock, and perhaps earlier—oh, that Mimi! What zeal!—At five past six at another job, and before the quarter hour at a third, loudly announcing himself at the first, running to the second, flying to the third, slipping in here, stealing out secretly, running back furtively, replying here, explaining there, protesting elsewhere, appearing, disappearing, reappearing, beginning in haste, going on in a hurry, finishing nothing, and at evening getting paid in three places at once. Grandfather used to say that several persons among his acquaintance could see their double. Father would observe that it was a well known malady, requiring nothing but drink for its production. I tried it once, but I saw everything shifting about. It was Tem Bossette who used to drink, but our Mimi Pachoux could see his triple.
As to the third member of our force, it was essential never to lose sight of him for a minute, because of his fixed determination to hang himself. He had made several attempts that had ended in failure. We used to watch him in relays. Mariette would refuse him the slightest bit of cord, however pressing his need of it, and he was carefully assigned to work where the uncovered spaces were largest. In early days he used to be called Dante, but his name was really Beatrix. His nickname was given him by the keeper of our departmental archives, a man of wit. His face was long and woe-begone, and he was so possessed with the desire to hie him to the lower regions that it was continually necessary to cut his rope. By degrees he came to be called Le Pendu, or the Hanged, and was known by no other name. Very few were willing to employ him because of the police force requisite to ward off his catastrophes. Mother was his providence. The heavy jobs were intrusted to him, but he generally gave them over to Aunt Deen, who was strong, active, and capable of moving even the heavy casks, while he looked on with admiration, open-mouthed and with swinging arms. His mouth contained only two teeth, which by marvellous good luck were precisely one above the other, so that when one met the other you might suppose that it was one tooth uniting the two jaws.
You can understand to what a degree our garden was neglected. Should I have loved it more, blooming with flowers and fruits, than in this lamentable condition, in which it seemed to me immense and measureless and mysterious?
Dear old garden, with your crazy weeds, always a little too damp and much too shady because of branches left to their own will, where I have played so much and invented so many games, where I have known the glory of combat, the wonders of exploration, the pride of conquest, the intoxication of freedom; not to mention the friendship of trees and the pleasantness of fruit gathered in secret! Who would recognise you to-day? Raked, reduced to order, pruned, watered, your alleys sanded, your turf cut close around the flower urns, never flatter yourself that you can dazzle me with your beauty!