I told him to come along with me, that I knew where to look for the best remedy for his complaint; of course neither of us thought for a moment of going home, it was after two o’clock, and we should have found tempers boiling and soup cold, so we made for the Dolphin Inn at the corner of the High Street. It was market day, so the room was crowded, but we managed to get a table, and after all nothing is so appetizing as to see one’s friends around one, unless it be to sit down all alone to a good meal,—both ways are best.
For some time we had better use for our jaws than to talk. A delicate little shoulder of lamb with cabbage fully occupied us; on top of that a pint of the best, just to clear the mist from our eyes,—you know the proverb, “To eat dry, blinds the eye. Food unwined makes a man blind,” but when we had washed the dust out of our throats we had time to look about and enjoy ourselves. At the next table sat a vicar from the country and an old woman, a farmer’s wife, full of respect for his Reverence, bowing and bending her old head and turning up her eyes as if in the confessional; and he too had something of the same air, sitting sidewise, returning bow for bow, but with his mouth full, radiating forgiveness of sins from a full stomach.
Further on was our notary, Pierre Delavau, who was treating a brother lawyer to a good solid meal. The air was thick around them with talk of interest, money, politics, contracts—Roman republics, etc., for he likes to dabble in such things on a holiday, but in everyday life is a conservative loyal subject of the King.
My eye lighted presently on Perrin Le Queux, who caught sight of me at the same moment, and waved his glass towards me with the greatest cordiality,—old fox, in his stiff starched blouse! I’ll bet he saw me the moment I came in, but as he owes me the price of a fine carved oak chest for the last two years, he was conveniently short of sight. He jumped up and came over to our table.
“The best of luck!” said he, holding out his bottle, and when I shook my head he still pressed it on me. “At least you will have a bite of dinner,” he said, thinking of course I would refuse, having already dined, but I took him up at once. “So much to the good on my bill,” thought I to myself.
We began all over again, but this time without undue haste, as the first rage of hunger was abated and the crowd thinning out,—there are always people who leave as soon as they have swallowed their food,—and there remained only men of ripe age and wisdom who know what’s what, and reckon a good dish to be equal to a good deed any day. I sat where I could feel the sunshine and fresh air through the open door, where some chickens were picking at the crumbs, and an old hound lay dozing on the threshold; outside were the street cries, “Fine fish!” “Mend your windows!” and the shrill voices of women. On the other side of the dusty square were two big white oxen lying down with their legs folded under them, peacefully chewing the cud, with their eyes half shut, while from the sunny roofs came the cooing of pigeons. Really I could have cooed or purred myself if any one had stroked my back. We all began to talk from table to table, in perfect good-fellowship, the country vicar, the notary, his partner, the innkeeper (Baiselat by name), and I, and as we were all full, and contented with our lot, we took a certain pleasure in discussing the hard times and the political situation. We all groaned over the bad state of business, the high cost of living, the poverty and ruin of France, general decadence of the race, mistakes in administration, etc., but we were careful to name no names, for the ears of the great are as large as their fortunes, and who knows when an unlucky word may drop into them? Truth, as we know, is at the bottom of a well, so we ran but little risk in abusing those of our masters who were the farthest off, especially that wretched Concini brought from Florence under the fat Queen’s petticoats. Each had something to say against him, and with perfect justice, for if you catch two curs fighting over a bone, you beat your own dog, of course, but you half kill the stranger. However, I took the other side of the argument, partly for love of fair play, and partly out of perversity; so I said the dogs should be treated alike, that any one would suppose, to hear people talk, that all our evils were imported from Italy, whereas if the truth were known plenty of wicked things, and wicked people too, grow in our own garden. To this they all declared with one voice that a scamp from over the Alps was three times worse than one of us, and that three honest Italians were not equal to a third of a good Frenchman. I answered that man is pretty much the same animal wherever you find him, that I knew a good one when I saw him, and liked him, even if he came out of Italy, but this raised a perfect riot, and they all fell on me at once saying they knew I talked like that because I was a wanderer and a gadabout, always stumping along the highroad. I had to admit that there was some truth in this, for in my time I did kick about the world a good deal, when our good lord the old Duke—father of the present man—sent me to Mantua to study the enamels, potteries, and art industries which were afterwards transplanted here. The whole journey from St. Martin’s to St. Andrew’s in Mantua was made on my two feet, with a stick in my hand, so you may guess if I spared shoe-leather! I love to feel the ground under me, and the world before me where to choose, but don’t say another word about it, or I shall be off again, like a true son of those Gauls who pillaged the world. “I should like to know what you ever brought back from your travels by way of booty,” they said. As much as any of my ancestors; all that I could cram into my head or my eyes,—empty pockets if you like, but Lord! what a lot I saw and heard and tasted,—it is a treat only to think of it. A man cannot know all and see all, but he can do his best, and I was like a big sponge in the ocean, or rather like a ripe bunch of grapes full to bursting of the rich juices of the earth; you would have a fine vintage if you could squeeze me, but I mean to keep it for my own particular drinking; you fellows pretend to look down on it, so much the better for me. When I first came home you know I tried to share some of my good things with you, the treasures I had picked up in sunny climes, but people here have no curiosity except about the doings of their neighbors; the rest of the world seems too far off, there is as good at home, and they think those who come from Rome are none the better for their journey. I never try to force a thing down any man’s throat, so I kept what I had for myself, and let people go on in their own way, and I even went along with them, for that is the path of wisdom; you can’t make people happy against the grain, but you can share content with them.
Following this plan I joined in the usual hymn of praise. What pride, what joy to be a Clamecyan! and I believe it, by Heavens! so I sat there furtively drawing Delavau’s nose, and the curate’s long arms which he flaps about when he speaks, and we talked about our good town;—a place where I was born must have merit,—besides, all human plants flourish here, they are not thorny and spiteful, even if their tongues are somewhat long and sharp at the end. No one is the worse for a little gossip, particularly if you get as good as you send; at bottom you love your neighbor as yourself, and would not hurt a hair of his head.
We are all proud of our province, which remained calm in the midst of the excitement everywhere else; our Provost Ragon would not join the Guisards, the League, the heretics, the Catholics, or any of the extremists, persecutors, or rebels; and it was here that St. Bartholomew came to wash his bloody hands, where we all stood firm around our good Duke, like an island of safety against which the waves of trouble dashed themselves in vain.—I cannot speak without emotion of Duke Louis, and our late King,—how we loved them both!—for we really seemed made for one another, in spite of faults on both sides; no one is perfect in this world, of course, but these very faults in them were endearing, and brought us closer together; they were so human! We used to laugh and say, “Nevers is younger than ever,” or “Our good King is once more a father to his people!” Those were the good times, and we can truly say that we had the cream of it then—Delavau knew Duke Louis as well as I, but the honor of having seen King Henry is mine alone, and I love to tell for the hundredth time of how it happened. It always seems a new story to me and to my friends too, for they are Frenchmen of the right sort, and so I told them once more of the gray King mounted on a gray horse with his gray hat, his gray coat,—his elbows sticking through the sleeves,—his gray eyes, the outside all gray, but pure gold within!
Just as I was in the middle of my story the notary’s clerk ran in to call him to a dying client, so I was interrupted, for he had to leave at once, which was all the more annoying as he had a story of his own on the tip of his tongue. I knew he had been hatching it for an hour, but I wanted first to get off my own little tale. I must admit in all fairness that his was funny when it did come; he has not his equal for a story with a dash of salt to it.