תמונות בעמוד
PDF
ePub

"What o'clock is it, madame?" she said to the hostess.

[ocr errors]

Half-past eleven, mademoiselle."

"And the carriage?"

"It will soon be ready."

"Then please serve breakfast, madame." The hostess left the room, and she was alone with Perondi.

"Susanne! Susanne!" he cried, "you have come-you have kept your promise!"

"I always keep my promises. I make myself some-these I do not tell."

He looked at her keenly; there was something strange in her voice. Her manner was not less singular; she seemed to be listening. In ten minutes breakfast was served; and Perondi sat down and ate ravenously; the girl declared that she had broken her fast, and remained standing.

[ocr errors][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small]

Heavy steps were heard on the staircase leading to the apartment.

"What is the meaning of this?" cried the Piedmontese, drawing his knife.

"It means, Matteo Perondi," said the girl, rising to her full height-" it means that a poor girl is too cunning for you with all your cunning! It means that I have led you into a trap to destroy you!-that my Jacques will no longer undergo punishment for murdering Simon Vernon! It means, miserable creature, that you are in the hands of the law! Do you still disbelieve in God?"

The door flew open, and the chief of police entered, followed by his gendarmes.

"Matteo Perondi, you are my prisoner," he said.

The Italian bounded, knife in hand, toward Susanne, and would have stabbed her, but a blow from the carbine of one of the gendarmes made him stagger back. He rushed toward the window; a gendarme stood below. A moment afterward he was seized and bound.

"For what am I arrested?" he cried. "For the crime provided for in the Penal Code, article 354," said the chief of police.

"What is the crime? he asked, in a hoarse and trembling voice.

"Article 354 provides for the punishment of those who-"

Perondi held his breath.

"who entice and carry off a minor from her parents or guardians," said the chief of police.

An immense load was lifted from the breast of the Piedmontese by these wordsthat was apparent from his face.

"I did not carry off this young girl!" he exclaimed. "She came here of her own accord."

'Well, explain all that at Mende, my friend, before the Judge of Instruction." Perondi grew a little pale. At the same moment the hostess entered, saying:

"The carriage is ready, mademoiselle." "We shall not need it to-day, madame," said Susanne, coolly. "This gentleman has

one.

She pointed to the chief of police, who, scenting a jest, began to laugh. He then directed Perondi to walk before him, and made him enter an open vehicle with four seats, standing in front of the inn. Susanne-having paid the worthy hostess-took her seat beside the chief of police; and the vehicle set out, the horses going at a steady trot, toward Mende.

On the same day, and almost at the same hour, that Matteo Perondi was arrested at Chastagnier, Anselme Costerousse was arrested at his farm-house. The arrest was made so quietly at the isolated grange that Anselme was in prison before anybody heard of it.

At six in the evening he was sent for to appear before M. de Ribière, and, as he entered, he saw before him Susanne and Matteo Perondi, who had arrived a few moments before.

"Anselme Costerousse," said the judge, "do you know of what you are accused?"

Costerousse looked from Perondi to Susanne the former turned away his eyes, the latter returned his glance with one of implacable firmness.

"No, sir," he said.

"You are charged with complicity in the abduction of Susanne Gervaz, an infant under age, by your hired man, Matteo Peron

di."

Costerousse drew a long breath. He was as much relieved as Perondi had been, and in spite of his cunning could not conceal his satisfaction.

"Ah! is that it, sir?" he said; "but, Mr. Judge, I know nothing about this affair. I settled with Matteo Perondi yesterday, and he said nothing of it. If he had, I would have dissuaded him. I would have come right to you, judge-for I am a peaceable and quiet man. I told him this girl would fool him! I his accomplice, sir?—just the contrary! I was always telling him, 'Take care! this Susanne will bewitch you!' But you can't make young men listen to reason!"

M. de Ribière only said "Humph!" and, pointing to Perondi, said to an official:

"Search this man."

Both Perondi and Costerousse turned suddenly pale. In the pockets of the Piedmontese were found fifteen hundred francs.

"What wages did you pay Matteo Perondi?" said the judge to Costerousse.

He stammered something. "It will be best for you to tell the truth." "I paid him fifty crowns a year." "Well, he lived with you four years-he could not have saved more than six hundred francs; where did he get the rest? Did he rob you of it?"

Costerousse was silent.

"I repeat my question." "I don't know-that is-he may haverobbed some one else."

"Wretch!" cried Perondi, doubling up his fist, "you are a scoundrel!"

The judge interposed, and directed Costerousse to be taken back to prison. He then turned to Perondi and said coldly:

"That man murdered Simon Vernon, and you were his accomplice!"

Perondi staggered back, his lips grew ashy, and he stammered out:

"It is not true! it is not true! the mur derer was tried and found guilty!" The judge looked at him coldly, and said:

"Observe that in any event you cannot escape the galleys. Abduction and theft are established against you. It will be best for you to confess. If you do not, I will propose this course to Anselme Costerousse, and he will have the benefit of it."

Perondi hesitated-his frame shook-but he repeated:

"I am innocent! the murderer was tried and found guilty!"

M. de Ribière nodded his head and turned to Susanne.

"Mademoiselle," he said, "you can now say any thing you wish."

Susanne took a step forward, and confronted the Piedmontese.

"So you thought I was insane," she said, "and that I would go with you back to your country that I loved you?"

A low sound full of disgust issued from her lips.

"Loved you !—ah! I knew from the very first that you and this Costerousse had murdered poor Simon Vernon! Yes, from the very first I knew it, or felt convinced of it, at least. Do you remember when you sneered at me that morning when poor Jacques was examined? Your face made me reflect ! Do you remember in the court. room when the jury pronounced his fate? Then I reflected more still, and your two faces said, 'We are the true murderers! Then I began to think. If you had murdered Simon Vernon and robbed him of his money, you would part with it sooner or later, and it was my business to find when and where. Do you begin to understand

[blocks in formation]

"You made your disgusting love to me, and I told you that you were too poor and dirty. You replied that you could buy new clothes at the fair of Vigan, and I went thither, still as a crazy girl, to watch you! As a crazy girl-and do you know why! pretended to be insane-why I leaped from M. d'Estérac's carriage and fled singing, and rambled about the fields till my condition was the talk of the country?-To throw you off your guard, you and Costerousse! To make you unsuspicious and thus betray your secret! To entrap you as you allowed my poor Jacques to be entrapped and to suffer, wretch, in your places!"

Perondi uttered a low moan.
"So I went to the fair at Vigan. I knew

you would never dare to part with Simon's money near Mende or Villefort. Spanish home-traders came to Vigan, and you would there exchange this money; so I went, and watched, and saw you bargaining with Marianno Bedares, and went the next day, when you had bought his horse, and offered to exchange silver money for Spanish gold. He consented readily, and gave me a quadruple, two doubloons, and four piasters. Here they are! Go and return them to the heirs of Simon Vernon-or bury them in his grave!" | She threw the coins in the face of Perondi, and went on with renewed passion:

"You came back with new clotheswith your gold chain and your rings. But I was done with you-I knew your secret; what I required was further proof. I soon had it. Your master, Costerousse, paid his rent, and began to improve his farm. He did more he came to Master Berard, the notary, to discharge an old debt of three hundred francs. I lay in wait and listened-I saw the man's guilt in his face-I found my father was his real creditor; and here is a paper I induced him to give me."

She drew a paper from her apron and read aloud:

ing, and, if you escaped to Italy, Jacques was | ruined. So I laid another trap for you. I promised to fly with you, and meet you at a spot agreed upon. It was necessary to bring some charge against you to have you arrested. The charge fixed on was abduction, punishable by the Penal Code. M. de Ribière showed me the law, which my own father read to me one day-and here you are." Perondi made no response.

"One word more," continued the young girl. "You remember that last evening at the farm. I was present, hid in the shrubbery near the window, when you talked with your master Costerousse. I heard all-all!"

The Piedmontese shuddered, and raised his head quickly.

"You were seated at a table; there was a bag of money between you; you were drinking and quarreling."

Perondi listened, with eyes slowly distending.

"You threatened your master. If he did not pay all you demanded, you would go to the chief of police at Mende. You said you would say to him simply these words: Simon Vernon — Anselme Costerousse - the "Priest's Inclosure"-the 28th of November, 1825.' Do you deny that you said that?"

The Piedmontese uttered no sound. A mortal pallor covered his cheeks; and, see

"I certify that Anselme Costerousse, who owed me three hundred francs, borrowed October 4, 1821, paid the amount on October 4th of the present year, both capi-ing that he was about to faint, the judge dital and two years' back interest.

[ocr errors][merged small]

"ANDRÉ GERVAZ.

"Then I knew," she continued, "that you and the worthy Costerousse had inherited all this money from-Simon Vernon! I had long determined, you see, to entrap you, murderer that you are! And I allowed you to make love to me-you to me-you!"

Her tone of voice was so full of contempt that it stung him to the quick. His eyes, which had glared sidewise, full of a sort of stupor, turned slowly, and darted a livid flame at her.

went on.

"You were no better in my eyes than a venemous reptile-a dirty farm-hand!" she "Love you? I have never loved any one but Jacques, my heart and my soul! He is in the galleys, but he is your master now as always."

Perondi shuddered with rage. This avowal of her love for Jacques seemed to pierce his very heart. He bent down and remained silent.

"Then the days followed each other," she went on. "I had the money you carried to Vigan, and the proof of Costerousse's payments, but this was not proof sufficient. I must alarm your conscience, and make you confess your crime-to me if not to others. There was no time to lose-you were going to leave the country. I swore you should not, and kept my own counsel as to my plans. I could not induce you to confess. I dragged you, pale and trembling, to the house where my poor Jacques was arrestedto the very spot where I dishonored my name, swearing falsely afterward to remain free to act for him. I dragged you on to the 'Priest's Inclosure;' it was dark nearly, the cypresses waved a grave was there: you would not confess. Worse still, you said you were go

rected that he should be removed from the court-room. As he was conducted out, one of the officials holding him by the arm, and supporting him as he staggered along rather than walked, M. de Ribière, who was near M. d'Estérac, leaned over and made a sign to attract his attention. M. d'Estérac inclined his head to listen.

66

Look," said the judge, pointing toward Susanne, "there is a better examining judge than myself!"

Such had been the result of the examination of the Piedmontese. It was now the turn of Costerousse, and on the following day he was sent for, and conducted before the judge.

"Anselme Costerousse," said the judge, "you were interrogated yesterday in reference to the sum of money found on the person of Perondi at the time of his arrest."

Costerousse made no reply; he was evidently standing on his guard.

"You did not urge what is possible, after all-that the money was Susanne's, and that Perondi took it from her."

The face of Costerousse suddenly lit up, and he exclaimed:

"Yes, yes, that must have been the way of it, Mr. Judge! Yes, certainly, the money was poor Susanne's beyond all doubt. She sold flowers, you know-a franc here, a fivesou piece there. A little at a time, but a little often enough makes a pile in our good French money."

[ocr errors][merged small][ocr errors][merged small]

"Very well; and this, what do you say to this?"

He read aloud the certificate of the payment made to André Gervaz. As he listened Costerousse seemed choked by something in his throat.

"Wretched man!" exclaimed the judge, "that gold I showed you was taken from the dead body of Simon Vernon at the Priest's Inclosure' on the morning when you murdered him. Then you sought to conceal your crime, you exchanged the money, you paid your debt to André Gervaz, you paid your landlord M. Claudet, you paid Lamouroux the stone-cutter for work done for you. Where did you obtain this money if not by the murder? And why did you start when Master Berard told you that André Gervaz was your real creditor?"

"Who saw me? His back was turned!" Costerousse cried.

"Confess, unhappy man-confess your crime!"

"Confess what?"

"That, on the morning of the 28th of November, in the year 1825, you, Anselme Costerousse, in company with Matteo Perondi, committed murder on the body of Simon Vernon."

"Never, never!" cried Costerousse. "The crime was committed by Jacques Boucard, who was tried and condemned for it!"

"Very well," the judge said, coldly; and, turning to the officer in attendance, he added, "Take this man back to prison to await his trial."

Three months afterward Costerousse and Perondi were arraigned before the Court of Assizes of the department for the murder of Simon Vernon; and, as before, a great crowd assembled to witness the proceedings in an affair which continued to excite the deepest interest and curiosity throughout the entire region.

The accused persons had obstinately persisted in declaring themselves innocent of the crime, and, although public opinion was al most universally against them, well-grounded doubts were expressed as to the possibility of proving their guilt. At the appointed hour the court-room was closely packed with deeply-interested auditors, and, the case having been called, the examination began.

"Perondi," said the president of the tribunal, "stand up."

The Piedmontese rose slowly. He held his head down, but looked up at the president with sullen and bloodshot eyes. The latter looked over his notes, and then turned again toward the accused.

"The fact has been established,” said the judge, "that, at the time of your arrest, you had upon your person a sum of money three times as great as your wages for the time you lived with your employer Costerousse could have amounted to. Explain how you came to be possessed of this sum."

Perondi, acting by the advice of his counsel, made no response whatever.

"You refuse to explain this circumstance, then?" said the judge.

Perondi remained silent.

"Very well," the judge added, "sit down

and let the witnesses be called. Call first Marianno Bedares."

The horse-dealer promptly came forward and took his place on the witness stand. His presence at the trial was due to the energy of M. d'Estérac. This friend of Susanne had gone all the way to Spain, and represented the state of affairs so strongly to the Castilian that they had returned in company, arriving on the very evening before the trial.

The ordinary questions were first propounded to Marianno Bedares, as to his name, residence, and occupation. These having been answered, the judge proceeded to the main examination.

"Marianno Bedares," he said, "look at the man on the bench-the younger one of the two, with the swarthy face-do you know him?"

"Yes," said Bedares, with his strong Spanish accent, "I know him, but he is much changed since I last saw him."

"Where have you before met him?" "I met him at the last fair at Vigan. I sold him a horse."

"Did he pay you for the horse?"
"He did."

"In French money?"

[ocr errors][merged small]

"State the circumstances of the sale of the horse, and all connected with the transaction from the beginning to the end."

Marianno Bedares, in obedience to this order, proceeded to give a full account of the purchase of the horse, of the payment of the Spanish gold-coin, and of the subsequent exchange of the coin with Susanne Gervaz for French money. A cross-examination by the counsel for the prisoner failed to cast any discredit on his testimony, or elicit any doubtful details.

"The witness will stand aside," said the judge. "Call Susanne Gervaz."

A stir took place in the crowd, and Susanne came forward to the witness stand. She had never appeared so beautiful, and what attracted universal attention in the crowd, adoring her now as their own heroine, was the fact that she had thrown aside her mourning. In her simple dress, with her glowing cheeks and proud attitude, she was superb.

[ocr errors]

She gave her evidence in a calm, distinct voice, unmoved by the least tremor. Whenever, during the progress of it, she was obliged to speak of Matteo Perondi, her face assumed an expression of unspeakable contempt and disgust. Her glance, gestures, and very accent, seemed to say that she regarded him as something even viler than an assassin. Women, in every class of society, possess the secret of these insulting glances, which seem to degrade the man who is their object beneath the level of a beast.

She repeated her former testimony-Perondi glancing at her from time to time, and listening like one in a dream to the murmurs of the great crowd.

"So you were really," said the judge, "in Jacques Boucard's home at the hour of seven in the morning on the 28th of November, 1825 ?"

[merged small][ocr errors][merged small]

this statement on his trial. Do you suppose that he will deny it still?"

"I do not think he will," said Susanne, calmly.

The judge turned to an usher and said: "Call Jacques Boucard to come into court."

At these words a prolonged murmur was heard in the crowd, entirely ignorant of Boucard's presence, and all eyes were fixed upon the door through which the galley-slave was expected to enter. The character of the murmurs and general agitation was unmistakable-the popular sympathy was obviousand, in the midst of this general excitement, Jacques Boucard made his appearance. On his right walked his faithful friend, M. d'Estérac, and on his left the venerable Abbé Vernier, chaplain of the galleys, who had long been convinced of his innocence, and now publicly gave him the benefit and moral support of his presence and countenance. The appearance of Jacques at the trial may be explained in a very few words. The judge had sent a requisition for him to Toulon, stating that his presence was necessary in the interest of public justice; and this application had been promptly responded to by the authorities. The galley-slave was directed to be relieved temporarily from the degrading ball and chain, but not divested of his prisoner's dress, and sent under guard to be present at the trial. He had wrapped himself during his journey, owing to the inclemency of the weather, in an old fisherman's cloak, but as he entered the court-room he voluntarily threw off the cloak, and appeared in his dress of a galley-slave-green cap, red coat, and yellow pantaloons.

At sight of this degrading dress, the impulsive crowd uttered a suppressed cry, and it was easy to perceive that it was a cry of as tonishment and distress. Public opinion had turned completely in favor of Jacques by this time, and there was no disposition in any person in the audience to offer him any indignity, far from it. The presence of M. d'Estérac and the good abbé as his friends was wholly unnecessary.

The judge turned toward the jury.

"It must be plain to all," he said, "that the only real question which the jury is now called upon to decide is the truth or the falsehood of the defense set up on the former trial-that Jacques Boucard was present at his own house on the morning and at the hour when Simon Vernon is known to have been murdered. Boucard, when interrogated, declared that he was, but Susanne Gervaz was not present in his house at that hour; but there is good reason to believe that in so testifying he aimed to protect the good name of a person beloved by him. It is to clear up all doubt upon this one main question that he is now sent for, and I shall interrogate him."

It was perfectly plain that this decision was in accordance with public sentiment, which has its effect even in a court-room; and the judge, addressing himself to Boucard,

said:

"Jacques Boucard, you have been sent for to appear at this trial, not to give your testimony on oath, since an oath cannot be

administered to one condemned to the gal leys-what I require of you is a true statement to which the jury will attach whatever importance they think proper."

Jacques Boucard held up his head, looking calmly and simply at the judge.

"The witness, Susanne Gervaz," continued the judge, "has retracted her former statement that she was not present at your house with you when Simon Vernon was mur dered. It is now ascertained that she made the denial as a friend of your own. She now declares upon her oath that she was present at your house, and held an interview with you at the hour of the murder. Is this statement true or false?"

Jacques was silent. It was easy to see that the trial would turn on his response. The crowd, the jury, even Matteo Perondi, with his pale face and glowing eyes, bent for ward to listen.

Suddenly Susanne went to his side, and clasped his hand in her own. Her cheeks were full of blushes, her eyes flashing through tears expressed the deepest tenderness, and she said to him:

"You can speak now."

The young man's face flushed, and be looked up from Susanne to the judge.

"Yes, sir," he said, "Susanne was at my house. She came at the risk of losing her good name to beg me not to yield to the vio lence of my nature, and seek a quarrel with Simon Vernon!"

"Is that the truth?" "It is the truth, sir, as God sees me! I swear it on my mother's grave!"

As he spoke, Susanne, overcome with jor, threw her arms around his neck, and buried her face in his breast, exclaiming: "My own Jacques!"

A cry and a sudden stir in the crowd fol lowed the words. The origin of this confu sion was soon apparent to all. Matteo Pe rondi, drawing a knife which he had managed to conceal, had stabbed himself; and, when the good Abbé Vernier made his way through the crowd to his side, he was already dying "Poor, unhappy man," cried the good ab bé, "confess your sins!"

"My-sins?" he gasped. "Who murdered Simon Vernon?" "I-and-Anselme Costerousse!" These words came in gasps. Having ut tered them, Matteo Perondi fell back and expired.

A month afterward, Costerousse, who had confessed his participation in the assassination, expiated his crime upon the gallows.

A year from that time, Jacques Boucard, long reinstated in his post of game-keeper, on his release from the galleys, was married to Susanne Gervaz, to whom he owed the proofs of his innocence.

THE PARDON OF ST.NICODEME.

Fany one wants to get on a sudden quite out of the nineteenth century, and to find himself so freed from the surroundings of modern improvement and culture that be is inclined to rub his eyes to make sure be

is not dreaming, let him take the expresstrain from Paris to Auray, in Brittany, and next day find his way to St. Nicodèmealways remembering that this next day must be the first Saturday of August.

There is no very direct access to the fine old solitary church of St.-Nicodème.

The nearest station on the Auray and Pontivy line of railway is at St.-Nicolasdes-Eaux, but even from here there is a tiring walk of some kilometres along the dusty high-road, and, for reasons which will appear, it is not pleasant to drive from St.-Nicolas. It is really more direct, although less interesting, to go from Auray to Baud or Pontivy, and take a carriage from one or other of these places to St.-Nicodème.

At Auray they seemed to know nothing about St.-Nicodème or its fête, and even when we reached Baud and asked for information, the station-master shook his head: "Yes, yes, there is a pardon, but when it occurs, -ma foi, some time in August, that is all I know."

This was discouraging, but, as on the map St.-Nicolas-des-Eaux looked close to St.Nicodème, we decided to go on there in search of more definite tidings.

We crossed the Blauet-a broad river here running through a wooded valley. A little way from the station, up the côte on the left bank of the stream, we came upon the quaint old village of St.-Nicolas. It looks

so primitive, so sequestered, that doubtless it is rarely visited; even Bretons seem to know nothing of it; and yet its position beside the lovely, winding river, its struggling, irregular line of granite cottages shaded by huge spreading chestnut-boughs that cross one another overhead, the quaint costumes of its people-nearly all the women have distaffs in their hands-and the utter isolation in which they seem to live, give it a powerful attraction to the traveler.

These massive granite dwellings are built in twos and threes, with circular-headed doorways, and sometimes only one small, square window. Half the door is kept open to admit light, the lower half is usually kept closed and bolted. Looking over this, we saw that half the space within was given to the family, the other half to the cow-stable, and the floor as usual was uneven earth, on which stood handsome-looking armoires.

The sun was so bright overhead that the inside of the cottages looked very dark, and the absence of white caps increased this gloom-the universal head-gear being a rusty black-velvet or blue-cloth hood, fitting the head closely, and coming down on the shoulders in a pointed cape lined with scarlet, yellow, or green. Under one's feet the ground showed that corn had lately been thrashed there; long-legged white pigs and lean fowls were eagerly picking up the stray grains scattered about, gleaming like gold as the sun found its way down to them through the fan-like leaves of the chestnut-trees above.

Exquisite yellow-green vine-sprays clung about some of the cottages, and flung themselves on the thatch as if they meant to reach the chimneys, and these wreaths in their grace and beauty were in strange conto the clumsy-bodied, large-featured,

trast

coarse faces that stared at us from under the faded black hoods of the women, or the matted locks of the men. On the right a path led to the church, and, as this was locked, we seated ourselves at the foot of a wooden calvary outside, while a woman fetched the key. A good-natured-looking peasant, with her child and distaff, came up shyly and seated herself beside us. She could not speak much French, and the child, who learned it at school, was too shy to talk. But the woman was anxious to know what had brought us to St.-Nicolas. We asked about St.-Nicodème. "But yes, there

is a fair and a pardon there to-morrow; the angel will come down and light the bonfire; he has gold wings, the angel. Ah, that is indeed worth coming to see!" We asked if we could sleep at St.-Nicolas; but our friend shook her head. "There is the cabaret beside the river," she said. But we had already had a glimpse of this, and had decided not even to eat there.

The clumsy woman, who had gone to fetch the key, came back with a red, swollen face and large tears rolling down her cheeks. Her Breton was unintelligible, but we learned that she had a dying sister, who had suddenly grown worse. It was touching to see the sympathy created among the neighbors as the poor woman went back sobbing to her cottage, but they said the sister would linger yet some time.

A group had now collected before the church, almost all dressed alike in black or blue gowns; the square opening of the under body was trimmed with broad black ribbon velvet, velvet also round the cuffs of the tight-fitting black sleeves. Down each front of the corset, worn over the body, was a row of silver buttons set so close that the edges overlapped one another; the armholes of this corset were also trimmed with very broad black velvet-the square opening in front of the body, filled by a white neckerchief, fastened at the throat by a gilt pin. This relieved the otherwise sombre garb, for, except the apron and the silver buttons, all the rest was black or dark blue, unless the wind or any other accident displayed the colored lining of the hood. The apron was of coarse, striped woollen. The women seemed surprised that we should visit the church.

It is an ancient chapel of the priory of St.-Gildas. There are still ruins of this priory on the other side of the Blauet, but the interior is very curious. Projecting from four columns in the centre are four praying figures. A richly-carved wooden frieze runs all round the wagon-headed roof, and in one of the transepts this carving is remarkable; grotesque heads and faces are united by a waving border of serpents and dragons; the whitewashed beams are also carved, the ends fixed into huge dragon-heads that project from the wing. There is a huge bell in one corner of the wainscot. There was not a seat of any kind to be seen in the church; the whitewashed walls were green with damp, and the floor was of uneven clay. There was no sign of daily use about it. It felt so damp that we were glad to get into sunshine again.

Beyond the church, down a narrow green

lane on the right, we came to a flight of old stone steps. These led into a square inclosure paved with broken flag-stones, and surrounded by ruined walls, overgrown ferns springing everywhere from the joints of the stone-work, with trees and ivy. In the centre stood a grand old fountain going fast to decay; brambles flaunted great red arms from the top, and between them showed a richlycrocheted canopy, which surmounted the empty niche of the saint of the fountain.

While we stood wondering whether this had not in former years been the home of some celebrated pilgrimage, a woman came down the steps, carrying a huge pail in one hand, and bearing a large brown pitcher on her head, to get water. She was dressed just like the rest of the villagers, and had the same awkward, half-savage ways. She glared at us for an instant from under her hood, and then knelt down and filled her pail and her pitcher so clumsily, and with such waste of water, that she must have soaked her heavy blue skirt, and filled her sabots with the splashings-certainly she wore no stockings to suffer by the wetting. It was strange not to find a trace of the adroit deftness of the French women in these large-eyed, sad-faced, clumsy village Bretonnes. Coquetry and grace seem equally unknown to them, certainly, as a Frenchman said, "Il n'y a pas l'ombre de séduction chez ces femmes."

Coming down through the pretty little village again, we found several women standing knitting at the cottage-doors, evidently watching for our reappearance, but not one could speak French; a shake of the head and a grin, showing the long front-teeth, and “Ja ja," proved to be the universal answer to our questions.

Now that we were sure about the fête, we resolved to go on to Baud, and return next morning, for it was evidently impossible to get a lodging at St.-Nicolas, and one could not even have eaten a meal in the dirty cabaret. A huge pile of loaves on the filthy floor were, the mistress said, in readiness for to-morrow. We asked about a voiture, and the mistress called a sulky-looking boy to answer us. He came, gnawing a straw.

"A voiture?" he said, contemptuously. "Dame, oui! I should think so. If monsieur et dame will come with me, I will arrange for them with Jean Jacques."

We followed him up the road a few yards. At the door of a cottage sat an old beggar, dressed in a ragged shirt, drab trousers, and gaiters. His long gray hair streamed over his shoulders, and his bare chest showed through his open shirt-front.

A colloquy in Breton, and then, to our dismay, we learned that this dirty old bundle of rags was the Jean Jacques who would drive us to Baud, and that he promised to be ready directly.

"But is there no other vehicle?"

Our sulky lad's contempt was beyond endurance.

"No, there is no other, and monsieur et sa dame may think themselves lucky to get this one. Dame, oui! it is quite possible that other travelers may arrive who will want Jean Jacques and his white horse, and then what becomes of monsieur?"

After this harangue he ran away; and, having settled the bargain with Jean Jacques, who spoke execrable French, we walked disconsolately down to the river, Jean Jacques, in a very cracked voice, calling out something in Breton, which a woman told us signified that he would be ready in five min

utes.

We sauntered on to the bridge, and enjoyed the lovely view up and down the river, but the five minutes grew into thirty at least. At last we heard a shout, and, turning round to look up the road, we saw our vehicle.

On inspection, it proved to be a miserable little cart, without any springs; two sacks stuffed with bean-straw were laid across the seats, and a little white horse stood between the shafts.

Our driver was sweeping the inside of the cart most vigorously with a huge broom made of the green broom-plant.

He had washed himself, and had wonderfully smartened his appearance. He wore a white-flannel jacket, trimmed with black velvet and small brass buttons, and a large, flat black hat, also trimmed with black velvet. But the horse was deplorably small, with drooping head, and looking as if his bones were unset, and he was only kept together by his dirty-white skin.

We clambered into the vehicle with heavy hearts, but no anticipation could justify the reality. Directly we started, the jolting was dreadful, and besides this the horse had a perpetual zigzag movement, which sent us from side to side of the cart, and doubled the length of our journey; one felt just like a shuttlecock, the sides of the cart representing the battledoor.

We tried to speak to our driver, but he shook his head imperiously, and answered in Breton. One might have taken him for a hideous old wizard, with his gleaming eyes and flowing gray hair, but for his religious reverence. At every church and every calvary we passed he slackened his pace, uncovered, and mumbled a long prayer, after which he always whipped his horse violently, and jolted us worse than ever.

That drive was certainly like a "hideous dream," though it lay through a picturesque, hilly country, the road on each side constantly bordered by tall silver-birch-trees, through which we got glimpses of the Montagnes Noires.

Next morning was full of sunshine, and, having secured an easy carriage, we started at an early hour from the hotel for St.-Nicodème. We soon overtook carts of all kinds going in the same direction, chiefly long carts, with three or four benches or planks set across, and these were crammed with men, women, and children, in holiday costumethe salient points in which were the white jackets and huge black hats of the men, and the long, white coiffes of the women, black being the prevailing color of their jackets and skirts. There were also numbers of men and women on foot, trudging along the road, many of them driving their animals to the fair.

The fine gray spire of the church of St.Nicodème was visible for some time before

we reached it. At last we came to a road or lane on the right, shaded by spreading chestnut-trees. These Breton side-roads have a character peculiarly their own. In the north they are deeply sunk between high furze and brake-covered banks, along the top of which is often concealed a foot-path; but in the south these banks are lowered, and, as at St.Nicodème, huge trees grow behind them, and send their branches across from side to side so near the road that certainly the loftyhooded wagons of Normandy would find no room to pass under the leafy roof.

Our driver stopped and told us this road led to the church; and, indeed, without this information, we should have guessed this, as people were hastening into it from all directions. Our driver said the road was too rough for his vehicle to go over, so we dismounted.

The lane was full of people, all hurrying toward the church. We found it necessary to walk heedfully, for the road was channeled with deep cart-ruts, and these were filled with mud and water. At the end of the lane we found ourselves in a bewildering throng of carts, horses, cows, pigs, and people, crowded in front of and against the low stone-wall that fences in the church and its celebrated fountain. At the moment a man quite blocked up further passage by calmly plaiting the cream-colored tail of his horse, so long that it reached across the road, which had widened out as it neared the church.

St.-Nicodème is a handsome stone building of the sixteenth century, with a fine tower and spire; but it is its situation that is so charming. It stands in a sort of hollow; the ground rising from it on three sides is planted with huge chestnut-trees. Under the shade of these, beyond and beside the church, we saw a great crowd of people, all seemingly peasants. There appeared no mixture of bourgeois element, but before going into this crowd we turned aside to see the fountain.

A visit to this is evidently an important part of the duty of the day. Three or four old women came toward us at once with jugs and cups of the holy-water to drink and wash our faces in, for which they expect a few centimes. The fountain is of later date than the church, and is sufficiently picturesque. In one of the three compartments into which it is divided is the figure of St.-Nicodème. On one side of him a man and a woman are kneeling; they offer him an ox. In the other niches are St.-Abilon, with two men, one on horseback, the other kneeling; and St.Gamaliel between two pilgrims, one of whom offers him a pig. These saints are all Jews. Men and women, too, were bathing their faces and eyes in the fountain, and also eagerly drinking the water. It is said to have antiseptic properties. Standing and lying about were dirty, picturesque beggars intent on exhibiting their twisted and withered limbs and incurable wounds to passers-by.

The finely-sculptured portal of the church was thronged with these sufferers, some of them eating their poor breakfasts out of little basins. One ragged child held out a scallopshell for alms, keeping up a chorus of whining supplication. Among these squalid objects a beautiful butterfly was hovering-a

baby-child stretching up its hand and crying for it. The interior of the church had evidently been so recently whitewashed that there had been no time to wash the stains and splashes from the dirty pavement; and, as there were no chairs, this was covered by kneeling worshipers. On the ceiling the sta tions of the cross were painted in very gaudy colors. The high altar was one blaze of lighted candles; grouped round it were some really rich crimson and white banners worked in gold, and at a side-altar a priest was say ing a litany. There were most picturesque figures among the kneeling worshipers, and in and out among them two girls wandered up and down with lighters for the votive candles; several old women, too, carried about bundles of these candles.

Some of the kneelers pulled my skirts to attract attention to a leg or arm, or to inform me in a whisper that they were ready to pray the Blessed Virgin to give me a safe journey if I had a few centimes to give

away.

It was so cool inside the church that the air felt oven-like when we came out again, although the gray old building was surrounded by huge, spreading chestnut-trees. Close to the church, ranged under the green,: fan-like leaves, were booths full of strings of rosaries, crosses, medals, badges, and other jewelry, especially ornamental pieces for fastening the chemi settes and shawls of the peasant-women. Silver rings bearing the image of St.-Nicodème were selling rapidly at a fabulously low price. In other booths (or ranged against the low stonewall at the right side of the church) were set forth a store of large, gaudily-colored prints of various saints and sacred subjects. Chief among them was a gorgeous full-length of St.Nicodème wearing the papal tiara, a violet cassock, green chasuble, and scarlet mantle. Over his head, in a golden nimbus, was a bright-green dove descending on the saint, who stood between a tall poplar-tree and a palm bursting into blossoms of various colors, There were hymns on each side of the paper. A carter with his whip under his arm, th heavy lash twisted round his neck, kne down reverently to look at this wonderful print; and a withered old man leaned over him to explain the words of the hymns, which were in French.

Farther on, the open glen behind the church is thick with people buying, selling, eating, and drinking. Here are booths for clothes, crockery, etc., and open stands for eatables and drinkables. An old man is sell ing sieves and wooden bowls and boxes, heaped up over the grass. Sieves are in grea! demand at their harvest-season.

Hard by the church, against the trunk of an enormous chestnut-tree, several men were seated with lathered faces; two were being shaved, the others patiently waiting their turn. The rapidity of the barbers was mok amusing; two used the soap-brush, and tw the razor. It is customary to let the beari grow some weeks before the festival of St Nicodème, and then to be clean shaved in the early morning. We came upon many of these al-fresco barber-shops under the trees in different parts of the fair.

As we walked through the crowd, we ob

« הקודםהמשך »