Читать книгу A Midsummer Drive Through the Pyrenees - Edwin Asa Dix - Страница 29

We spend an idle morning on the projecting point of bluff overlooking the coves and the fishermen's cabins. This promontory uplifts a signal-station, the Atalaye. Down at the left and rear, cutting inland, is the Port Vieux, where the second bathing pavilion stands; and, sending up their cries and shoutings to the heights, we

"see the children sport along the shore,

And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore."

The day is breezy and not too warm. We feel few ambitions. Has the dreamy spirit of the South come upon us so soon?

It will be a perfect spot for a picnic lunch.

We will imitate the fête champêtre of Charles and Catherine held on the isle of the Adour. The ladies give their sanction, and three of us are promptly appointed commissaries. We take the path down to the street, and find a promising little grocery-store. The madame bows a welcome.

"Can one obtain here of the bread?" we ask.

"Ah, no," deprecatingly, "that is only with the baker."

"A little of cheese, then? and some Albert biscuits? And a bottle or two of lemonade, and one of light wine?"

"But yes, without doubt; monsieur shall have these instantly;" and a bright-faced little girl proceeds to collect the supplies.

"Might one carry away the bottles, and afterward return them?" we venture.

Here the madame begins to appear suspicious. It is evidently an irregular purchase at best, and this request seems to make her a trifle frosty.

"A deposit should perhaps be necessary," we suggest; "how much is desired?"

Madame gives the subject a moment's thought. "Monsieur would have to leave at least four sous on each bottle," she finally declares.

"And could madame also lend us some small drinking-glasses, it may be, and a little corkscrew?"

The old lady is visibly hardening. She is clearly averse to mysteries. We may be contrabandists, or political exiles, or any variety of refugee foreigners. She hesitates about the drinking-glasses; is not sure she has a corkscrew. But another deposit is soothingly arranged for and paid, and the articles are found.

"And now could we ask to borrow a basket?—also on deposit."

But here the madame's obligingness quite deserts her. The refusal is flat. She has no basket which can possibly be spared.

It is, we see, plainly time that we should explain our mysterious selections. Confidingly we entrust her with the secret, and lay bare our unconventional plan. At the first she listens unmoved, but the idea of "pique-nique" is soon borne in upon her, and lets in a ray of light. The frost thaws a trifle. "We are with friends," we say; "they are on the bluffs; they have desired to make a luncheon for once without the fork—to eat their little breads in the open air, upon the rocks." Our listener nods, half doubtfully. Then we play our highest trump: "We are but on a visit to Biarritz; we have come from far away; we are Americans."

Instantly the barriers are down; madame is our firmest ally. "Run, Élise, seek the large pannier for our friends! Is it that you are of the fair America?—la belle Amérique. Ah, but monsieur, why have you not said thus before? You should most charmingly have been supplied; are they not indeed always the friends of our country—the Americans! You shall bring here the breads you buy at the bakery; we will add knives and plates and some fruit, and Élise shall herself carry for you the full basket to the place of the pique-nique."

Verily the Stars and Stripes are words to conjure with! The picnic is a complete success. The De Medici fête is more than surpassed; even an attendant nymph, in the person of the rustic Élise, is not wanting; the historical parallel is perfect.

In fact, the parallel finally carries itself too far. So small an affair even as this, it appears, cannot escape the hostility of "envious Fortune,"—the same who untimely cut off its lamented rival. A large, black cloud, coming up over us like a vengeful harpy, forebodes the invariable downpour, and grimly compels us to shorten the feast.

On Sunday, we attend the English service; Britain is sufficiently well represented at Biarritz to support one during both summer and winter. The day is restful and calm, and we stroll out afterward along the beach and over to the deserted villa of the Empress, returning by the path on the bluff. The sound of trowels and hammers is in part stilled about the town, and the afternoon takes on a comfortingly peaceful tone in consequence. The English-speaking contingent keeps the day as quietly as may be; the Continental majority of course does not. In a few weeks, posters will adorn the Saturday bulletins, announcing the next day's bull-fight in San Sebastian, over the border; and if Sunday is quiet at Biarritz in the season, it is simply because all the world spends the day at San Sebastian.