Emile's successor was the fifth acquisition we boasted of in our little company of intimates—Lorenzo Sebastien Quintado—a Spaniard.
Lorenzo was not typically Spanish after the fashion of the story-writers. He was not darkly handsome, languorous, taciturn and irritable, nor meagre, tall, with flashing eyes and raven hair. O! quite different and because so different so likeable. For all the world he made me think of the bachelor Sampson Carrasco in Don Quixote. Do you recall him—"Though Sampson by name this bachelor was no giant in person, but a little mirth-loving man, with a good understanding, about twenty-four years of age, of a pale complexion, round faced, flat-nosed and wide mouthed; all indicating humour, and a native relish for jocularity?"
Yes that does bring back to my mind the way, the poise even, and the sprightly liveliness, the almost expectant jubilation of Lorenzo. He sang well, and in the long dusks, when the quivering lights of the sunset died out of the sky along the burning west, where black fringes of the thick-set trees seemed dipped in fire, his voice rose richly, in caressing and ear-catching melodies. I almost hear him now, singing so carelessly, with an untaught art, a simple song praising the charms of Spanish girls. His voice was a high barytone.
Fair are the vineyards of Seville,
O! fair beyond compare,
But fairer than their fairness still
The eyes of ladies there.
The orange groves of Moguér
Are golden as the sun,
But brighter is the golden hair
Of girls who in them run.
The morning skies of Cordova
Were tinted as in flame,
The cheeks of damsels rosier far
As from the hills they came.
Long live the darling girls of Spain
Untouched by age or time,
Forever free from care or pain,
Ah! may one yet be mine.
I remember on one of the last evenings I passed at home—that was before I went to America—when the fall had come, and the foliage was deepening into splendid colors, not so splendidly indeed as in America I think, but still gloriously vivid. There was Privat Deschat, and Capitaine Bleu-Pistache, and his daughter—we sat together and our hands often crossed—and dear old Emile—he died soon after—and father and mother. We were sitting in our pleasant garden around a little table, directly under the stone wall that shut in our ground on the south—towards Paris—and everywhere lay the drifted leaves of the one big chestnut, that grew just outside the wall, in the sloping ground towards the big green fields, with islands of woods in them. Emile called the yellow leaves as they dropped silently through the sunlight, and shone like lustres in the sunlight, before they touched the ground, pans d'or—gold flakes.
Our red wine was on the table, and that delicious morsel that Hortense made better than anyone, la galette aux amandes, and it was the captain who was talking. He was telling about the awful days when the Germans took possession of the land, when the whole village struck for the woods, and camped there in a sorry fright, for the women and the children said to each other, "Nous savons que Bismarck tue tous les enfants pour qu'il n'y ait plus de Français."
"Well, well, they are over—les scelerats ne puissent—ils faire cela encore—Eh? We are strong now. The army is fitte, as the English say, and—Ah I will never shoulder arms again, mais, I could, Oui! Oui! Je puis tirer."
I leaned over and whispered to Blanchette, "They should never touch you Blanchette—Pourquoi; parce que je t'aime," and she pressed my hand ever so lightly and smiled, and I knew that she was pleased, and then—"Mon Dieu—I could have stopped l'escadron d'allemands tout seul!"
"Tu quoque littoribus nostris, Aeniea nutrix,
Aeternam moriens famam, Caieta, dedisti:
Et nunc servat honos sedem tuus."
It was Emile, of course, talking his indispensable Virgil, though surely the captain was not dead yet. "Yes, captain, France will never forget your service. I know those were hard days. I was sick then at the village of Louvry, not so far you know from the preserve and forests of Villers-Cotterets, and I can tell you that the Huns came to us for champagne, and my people told them there was none in the house, and they swore—terriblement—and said they had seen the bottles empty, and they would show them to us, and they went into the cellar and they—Helas, il était tres drôle—pointed to bottles of eau de Seidlitz which—vous savez—look like champagne bottles a little—a little—n'est ce pas?—and they took them away, and soon they had them empty too—ce sont buveurs monstrueuses—but—splendid, the retribution of the Gods—