Читать книгу Three Came to Ville Marie - Alan Sullivan - Страница 4

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The long arrowy street of Castellon lay baking under a hot Breton sun when the Abbé Callot stood at his gate talking with a young man whose formidable bulk towered a foot higher than his own head; nor did the contrast end here; in conversation the Abbé was prone to smiles, quick little communicative twinkles as though practically everything one said suggested its humorous angle; his face was rosy, with quick blue eyes and good-natured lips that were always in motion, his skull bald and pinkish, and a comfortable paunch revealed a suave curve beneath his accommodating cassock.

Beside this genial personality loomed Paul de Lorimier of less than half his years, with a large raw-boned body and wide shoulders supporting a head whose delicate modelling seemed at variance with his powerful frame: the head was small, the eyes sombre, the expression grave. Paul looked very substantial, very determined, and he smiled hardly at all.

Fronting the village street with its square white wooden-shuttered cube, the Abbé's house sat a little back in a small, formal garden with rectangular patterns of pebble-bordered beds, and from the gate one might follow whatever life moved in Castellon on a summer afternoon. To the south over gabled roofs rose a low ridge where the Château Marbeau lifted a cluster of conical topped turrets that exactly resembled candle extinguishers, and one could see the line of trimmed junipers marking its wide flagged terrace. East and west ran the street, sliding presently away from the houses into a dwindling ribbon of dust between two endless lines of Lombardy poplars; east to Vitré, west along the calm Vilaine to Rennes and its dark granite walls. This was a view of peace and plenitude, well loved by Abbé Callot, but now he was looking at Paul.

“My son, I have been thinking much of you of late; you have finished our course of reading, you have worked faithfully and know the classics as do but few of your age, yet I'm not quite content.”

“No?”

“Not quite. I think perhaps there has been too much Plato, too little Horace, which without question is my fault, and for a comfortable view of life—one which brings a social poise—Horace is not to be overlooked.”

“You may be right, father, but I do not know—yet.”

“Ah! that one little word—yet. What promise it offers, while I, alas, have no use for it. Now listen, my son, for I am going to surprise you. The time has come when I can offer nothing more, and what you acquire after this must be of your own taking and making; it will be a matter of feeling, of experience and emotion, but first, Paul, there is around you that wall which you must knock down. This is why I commend Horace to you.”

“But, father,——”

“Permit me! you have a comfortable income, you're young, strong and free, so what will you do first?”

“Travel, mon père, I desire to travel—there is Spain and Italy and Greece—then I shall write books.”

“About those countries?”

“Why not?”

The Abbé's blue eyes fixed on the Château Marbeau. “You have discussed this with Jacqueline?”

“Not much as yet, but when affairs are settled between us I shall tell her more.”

“So they are not settled—yet?”

Paul frowned a little. “I wish I could say they were; she is as wayward as she is beautiful, she is capricious, she changes like the wind.”

“Yet you still think she is the right one for you?”

“With all my heart. Last week I thought it was arranged, this week I do not know.”

“What does the Comte say to all this?” The Abbé knew very well how the Comte felt about it.

“He neither consents nor opposes; he simply says nothing, but Jacqueline's mother is on my side.”

“Have you considered whether this future of a writer would be acceptable to her, because, frankly, I doubt it?”

“Why not? She is too young to know her own mind.”

“While you, Paul, for your years, are the oldest man I know. It is curious that I, who am of an age to be your father, should yet feel myself younger than you. Now about this writing I suppose you will make the attempt, but I do not advise classical subjects—enough has been said there for the present—so as an experiment why not write about your own country? why not go to Paris, live there, make your friends there, study what you see, wait till King Louis is dead, and then if you still feel you must write, do so about him? If you have the gift, there is your opportunity.”

“And all his mistresses?” said the young man, dryly.

“Undoubtedly—all of them—but keep space to tell about one who was not a mistress.”

“De Maintenon?”

“Yes, de Maintenon. What a woman! and the greatest of them all.” The curé's eyes were very bright now, and he made a gesture of enthusiasm. “Today a humble daughter of the Church, though once a Protestant, yet she drew the king from how many white arms to be servant of the true God. And when you go to Paris you should be able to kick down that wall of which I spoke.”

Paul appeared unconvinced; his huge body—he came of a long line of Breton farmers—looked almost monumental with its heavy moulding; such a frame might have been hewn in one of the quarries of Rennes, and seemed suited to battle with the elements; it was difficult to imagine a pen in the great muscular hand that now capped the Curé's gatepost. There was, too, a certain adamantine quality about him so that his power suggested stubborn resistance rather than effort. The Abbé Callot had laboured hard over this pupil of his, and he loved the young man.

“I understand what you mean,” rumbled Paul in his deep voice. “I have often seen it in your eyes, but what is natural in you is not so in me. Nature has made us different. I would give much to be able to join my friends with a laugh, I would be glad if they smiled at the sight of me, instead of shrugging, but when I try to be at ease there is something in me that tightens and I become silent. One by one I lose these friends who know nothing of my hunger for their companionship. It is not them I dislike but myself, and today,” he added desperately, “there is just yourself and Jacqueline.”

“Then marry her, my son, marry her as quickly as is permitted. Be less of a rebel against a society that you do not understand. These are modern days we live in, so for a time forget your classics which are useful only so far as they may help you to understand the present. Wisdom may be learned in the arms of a good woman, while experience lies in the embrace of those who are not so good.” The Abbé's eyes twinkled and his lips took on a curve. “Come, come, you are not in the confessional now. There is much in Paris that will attract Jacqueline, so why not go there? and I would be happier if in your expression there was less expectation of, shall we say, suffering. That wall, Paul, that wall, certainly you must kick it down.”

The young man smiled a little. “With Jacqueline perhaps, I hope so; at any rate, I'll try.”

“Be patient when she is yours; leave the door of the cage open, a small flight will do her no harm; if there is true love she will return. Remember that the woman is always more conscious of what she has given than the man who receives it. Also if she be one of spirit and imagination, such as Jacqueline, she will not be content with the attentions of one man only. Do not forget that. There is indeed,” here the Abbé gave another twinkle, “a certain kind of heavy, stolid devotion that most women find stifling. I have often observed it—also has Horace.”

With this he gave the big shoulder a friendly thump. “Enough of my celibate conclusions, which no doubt are quite misleading. Who comes now from Vitré, soldiers?”

He had sharp eyes and, a mile to the east, Paul caught sight of mounted men through a slowly drifting feather of dust. They approached at a trot, the sharp clang of iron sounded over the steeply arched bridge that spanned the Vilaine, and presently came a clatter up the cobbled street. There were four men; in advance a long-curled officer of the Musketeers in scarlet uniform with blue facings and plumed hat; at his heels a grizzled corporal and two troopers. The sun smote on glossy flanks, on a scarlet saddle-cloth with gold fringe, on soft russet leather boots with loose flopping legs, on silver spurs and silvered curb-chains. The sharp sound of this arrival and passage along the narrow street opened rows of shutters that till then had been closed against the noonday glare, a perspective of heads was thrust out, a troop of shouting children raced after the cavalcade, then stood sucking small fingers, staring at these gay visitors from another world.

Approaching the Abbé's gate, the officer pulled up with a jingle of polished chain; young, dark, smiling, his slim legs moulded in their tight-fitting breeches, his body lithe, agile, cat-like, he sat his charger as though he had grown there and, thus poised, made a wide salute.

“Mon père, I desire to find the mairie of Castellon; perhaps you will have the goodness....”

He broke off, eyes suddenly fastened on Paul. He hesitated a moment, then leaned forward with a quick laugh. “Mon Dieu! can this be? yes, it must be! Old Sobersides; is it you in the flesh?” He slid to the ground all in one motion, grasped Paul's hand and wrung it with enthusiasm.

Paul was now smiling. “Yes, Jules, it is I, and I knew you at once. I would know you anywhere; you have hardly changed at all.”

“I'm sorry for that, but you, at least, are one foot wider. What luck this is! Mon père,” he turned swiftly, “forgive my rudeness. I am Lieutenant Jules Vicotte of the Musketeers, at your service, also on present duty to establish certain billeting accommodation in this Breton country. And this solemn old Paul—Paul, you tell his Reverence what a model pupil you were at the seminary, and how bad myself.”

There was an infectious warmth about him, a brightness that Abbé Callot found very welcome; he looked like a good soldier and bubbled with natural joyousness, so that sleepy old Castellon seemed rejuvenated by his coming, and the priest, watching Paul's reserve crumble under his friend's gaiety, thought that nothing could be more opportune. The habitual sombreness had given place to an unaccustomed grin, the whole great bulk of him looked far more human.

“You will be in Castellon for how long, Jules?”

“Perhaps a day, perhaps only a few hours, it does not really matter, my Colonel is a man of consideration.”

“You will stay with me ... yes, you must.”

“I will be enchanted; you live in Castellon?”

“Always; my property is here.”

“Property! that sounds impressive. Not married yet, eh?”

“How did you know that?”

“You are still, shall we say, unmodified,” laughed Jules. “You agree, mon père?”

“I grasp your meaning, lieutenant,” smiled Callot.

“But I shall be ... soon,” countered Paul.

“Alors! there is nothing else to do here, so you must present me,” he turned to his corporal, “Henri, I lodge tonight with Monsieur de Lorimier. Take my horse. Mon père, my salutations. Now, Sobersides, let us inspect this domain of yours.”

With Paul he strode off, a slight gay figure beside a soberly attired man mountain, walking lightly, like a dancer, eyes full of smiles, thinking that here was an experience, but just for a night and no more. Paul, he decided, had not altered a fraction, merely enlarged; there was the same half stubborn, half wistful expression in the small, harshly modelled face balanced so oddly on the elephantine body, the same suggestion of something locked within and trying to get out. One remembered the face, and hardly knew why.

The house was like its master, square, solidly planted, a bare exterior, thick walled, with small windows; inside, a sort of semi-darkness peopled with heavy furniture; the walls were bare save for a few prints, the floors naked and polished; books stood in stiff, methodical rows; nowhere showed any touch of lightness, and Jules began to regret a too prompt acceptance. Picturing the Paul of other days, he might have known better. He found the dining salon gloomy ... it had not altered in a century, but just outside spread a fruited apple orchard, where birds sang and bees were busy.

“Mon vieux! you live here alone?”

“With Joseph, my cook and servant.”

“Your parents are dead?”

“Five years ago, Jules; then the land came to me.”

“Independent now, eh?”

“Yes, but there is little need for money.”

“But Paul, what an absurd philosophy. Tchk—tchk! do you mean it?”

“Why not? the farm has been in the family for hundreds of years; they were all farmers, all my people; they saved, they did not spend. I buy books and clothes, little else.”

Jules, noting the clothes, drained his glass; it was not the wine he had hoped for; he dabbed his lips with a lace-edged kerchief, looked puzzled.

“My friend, you are a strange creature; do you never go to Paris?”

“I do not care for Paris.”

“Come, Sobersides, that is incredible! it is not healthy, it is hardly sane: Paris is life, motion, colour, everything: you hear the heart of France beating in Paris, while in Castellon you catch the thump of the carthorse, the grunt of the pig. One might as well be in Canada, from which God protect us. Tell me, what friends have you in this Breton cemetery? You look satisfied, but I cannot believe you are. How do you amuse yourself, or is it possible you do not ask to be amused? Speak up, Paul, speak up; unburden that hairy bosom of yours.”

He got this out, brows wrinkling, smiling in a way that Paul remembered well, and regarding his gigantic host as though he were some new kind of human exhibit: then——

“Come Paul, something is the matter ... tell me.”

“Nothing, Jules, nothing at all; you ask about my friends here; well, they are few, I admit, but I have my books; I know where to find them, they do not change.”

“What is life without change? but you seem to have provided for that; when do you marry?”

“Perhaps very soon.”

“And the lady?”

“The only daughter of the Comte Marbeau; their château is close by ... that one with the turrets—you passed below it coming from Rennes.”

Jules tossed up his head and laughed. “She has your agricultural instincts, I hope.”

“Not exactly—not as yet—but we have known each other all our lives.”

“Yet she hesitates?” Jules had become restless, his tone held a shade of unnoted mockery, “is there nothing more to tell me? honestly Paul, you do not suggest a joyous lover.”

“You must see her and judge for yourself: she is twenty; her father served under Turenne in Holland; she is gay, like you, and....” he paused with a sudden softening of expression that gave his sternly moulded features a sort of pathos, “Jules, will you tell me something, and not laugh at me?”

“Certainly, if I can.”

“You are perhaps in love yourself?”

“At the moment, no: I am what you call convalescent from the last attack, split between regret and anticipation. Today I am actually interested in the billeting of troops.”

“Well, I am deeply in love, yet make little progress. Jacqueline's mother is on my side, but I am not sure of her father. My resources are sufficient, indeed for a Breton I am a rich man, and Jacqueline's dot is provided. For me there can be no other woman, but, but....”

“You feel at a loss when with her, eh?”

Paul blinked at him. “How did you know that?”

“It is very simple; you lack practice.”

“But my heart speaks.”

“Perhaps her hearing is not of the best,” said Jules, wickedly. “Listen, my friend! one does not question your heart, but obviously your intelligence is at fault. Has she no other admirers?”

“I hope not.”

“Tchk—tchk! Sobersides, you are blind. Now, have I your leave to speak?”

“But, of course, why not?”

Paul, leaning forward on his big arms, looked very serious. “Your visit today may mean much. As for Jacqueline, I'm conscious I do not please her as I would, and when you have seen her you will tell me why. The Abbé advises me to forget the classics and read Horace, he suggests that I go to Paris and....

“That priest strikes me as a wise man and a bonhomme,” chuckled Jules. “For myself I am a stranger to both classics and Horace, but already I perceive in you and this Jacqueline of yours a pair of Castellon cabbages who....”

“She is nothing like a cabbage,” grunted Jacqueline's lover.

“Well, we shall see, but, till then, a pair of cabbages that have grown up beside each other unaware of what goes on beyond the vegetable wall. The garden is well tended, and the life comfortable though undoubtedly dull. You, it seems, are content to go on living like this, but it may seem that in her composition—which is more young and tender than yours, Paul—is a certain something that makes her unwilling to end her days in a Breton soup pot. And this, Sobersides, will certainly happen if she marries you and you do not change. There I think you have the situation.”

Paul gulped back his protest unvoiced; Jules was absurd, perhaps insulting, but his casual assurance had a quality about it that got under one's skin, and now it would be difficult ever to think of Jacqueline and himself without visualising a pair of cabbages. That vexed him, though oddly not as much as he might have expected, and this rediscovered friend of his seemed so immune and experienced in affairs of the heart that it would be foolish not to pick up what one could. He saw something in Jules' personality that he envied, though little in his point of view that one could admire, but there did remain an odd, unexplainable respect for a sagacity that caused him to accept life with such polished and careless grace. It would be a wonderful thing, thought Paul, if he could ever achieve anything like that for himself.

But Jules, glancing restlessly about the depressing apartment so solidly shut off from light and motion outside, had begun to lose all further interest in this old acquaintance of his. Sobersides he would remain to the end of his days, nothing one said could really have any effect here, and the ponderous lover simply could not understand. The girl he wanted, well—she didn't matter, they were both doubtless but half alive, and nothing could matter much in a hole like this. It all made one hungry for the open road and the wind in one's face.

“Jules, I have been thinking that there is perhaps something in your view. I am not unwilling to change if it will help matters, but how is that done?”

“You cannot do it of yourself.”

“Then by whom or what?”

“A woman, mon vieux, or better still, several women: that never fails, and I myself have achieved several transformations. Let us go into your orchard, it is brighter there.”