Delphi complete works of.., p.376
Delphi Complete Works of Alphonse Daudet (Illustrated), page 376
After much time and many efforts we entered, towards evening, a little harbour, silent and barren, where nothing stirred but the circular sweep of a few gulls. Around the shore rose high, scarped rocks and impermeable thickets of shrubs of a dull green, perennial and without season. Low down, near the water, was a little white house with gray shutters, the custom-house post. In the midst of this desert, the government building, numbered like a uniform cap, had something sinister about it.
There poor Palombo was put ashore. Melancholy haven for a sick man. We found the custom-house official in charge of the place supping with his wife and children in the chimney-corner. All these people had haggard, yellow faces, and large eyes circled with fever. The mother, still young, with a baby in her arms, shivered as she spoke to us. “It is a terrible post,” the inspector said to me in a low voice. “We are obliged to renew our men here every two years. The fever of that marsh eats them up.”
It was necessary to get a doctor. There was none nearer than Sartena, and that was six or eight leagues distant. What was to be done? Our sailors were tired out and could do no more, and it was too far to send a child. Then the wife, looking out of the door, called “Cecco! Cecco!” and a tall, well set-up young fellow entered, true type of a smuggler or a bandit, with his brown woollen cap and his goatskin mantle. As we landed I had noticed him sitting before the door, his red pipe in his mouth and his gun between his legs; but he disappeared, I knew not why, at our approach. Perhaps he thought gendarmes were with us. As he entered, the wife coloured a little. “This is my cousin,” she said. “No danger that he will get lost in the thicket.” Then she spoke to him in a low voice and showed him the patient. The man nodded without replying, went out, whistled to his dog, and started, his gun on his shoulder, springing from rock to rock with his long legs.
During this time the children, whom the presence of the inspector seemed to terrify, finished their dinner of chestnuts and bruccio (white cheese). Water, nothing but water on the table! And yet what good a drop of wine would have done them, poor little things. Ah, poverty!.. At last the mother took them up to bed; the father lighted his lantern and went to inspect the coast, and we sat still by the fire to watch our sick man, who tossed on his pallet as if at sea shaken by the waves. To quiet his pountoura a little we warmed pebbles and bricks and laid them at his side. Once or twice when I approached his bed the poor fellow knew me, and to thank me stretched out his hand with difficulty, a large hand, rough and burning as one of those bricks we took from the fire.
Sad watch! Outside, the bad weather had returned with the close of day. All was uproar, the rolling of waves, the dashing of spray, the battle of rocks and water. From time to time the tempest on the open sea succeeded in entering the bay and swirling around the house. We felt it in the sudden rise of the flame which lighted the mournful faces of the sailors grouped around the chimney and looking at the fire with that placidity of expression given by the habitual presence of great expanse and far horizons. Sometimes Palombo gently moaned; and then all eyes were turned to the dark corner where the poor comrade was dying far from his family and without succour; the chests heaved and I heard great sighs. That was all that the sense of their unfortunate lot drew from these gentle and patient toilers of the sea. A sigh, and nothing more! Stay, I am wrong. Passing before me to throw a clod on the fire, one of them said in a low and heart-breaking voice: “You see monsieur, we have sometimes great troubles in our business.”
THE CURÉ OF CUCUGNAN.
EVERY YEAR AT Candlemas the Provençal poets publish at Avignon a jovial little book full to the brim of merry tales and pretty verses. That of this year has just reached me, and in it I find an adorable fabliau which I shall try to translate for you, slightly abridging it. Parisians! hold out your sacks. It is the finest brand of Provençal flour that I serve you this day.
The Abbé Martin was curé of Cucugnan.
Good as bread, honest as gold, he loved his Cucugnanese paternally. To him, Cucugnan would have been heaven upon earth if the Cucugnanese had given him a little more satisfaction. But alas! the spiders spun their webs in his confessional, and on the glorious Easter-day the Host remained in the holy pyx. This harrowed the heart of the worthy priest, and he was always asking God to grant that he might not die until he had brought back to the fold his scattered flock.
Now you shall see how God listened to him.
One Sunday, after the Gospel, M. Martin went up into the pulpit.
“Brethren,” he said, “you may believe me if you like: the other night I found myself, I, a miserable sinner, at the gates of Paradise.
“I rapped; Saint Peter came.
“‘Bless me! is it you, my worthy Monsieur Martin?’ he said to me. ‘What good wind has brought you? what can I do for you?’
“‘Great Saint Peter, you who hold the big book and the keys, would you tell me, if I am not too curious, how many Cucugnanese you have in Paradise?’
“‘I can’t refuse you anything, Monsieur Martin; sit down; we will look the thing out together.’
“And Saint Peter got out his big book, opened it, and put on his spectacles.
“‘Let me see: Cucugnan, did you say? Cu... Cu... Cucugnan. Here we are, Cucugnan... My dear Monsieur Martin, it is a blank page. Not a soul... No more Cucugnanese in Paradise than fishbones in a turkey.’
“‘What! No one from Cucugnan here? No one? It isn’t possible! Do look again.’
“‘No one, holy man. Look yourself if you think I am joking.’
“‘I, pécaïre!’ I stamped my feet and I cried for mercy with clasped hands. Whereupon Saint Peter said: —
“‘Monsieur Martin, you must not turn your heart inside out in this way, or you’ll have a fit of some kind. It isn’t your fault, after all. Those Cucugnanese of yours, don’t you see, they’ll have to do their quarantine in purgatory.’
“‘Oh! for pity’s sake, great Saint Peter, let me just go to purgatory for a minute to see them and comfort them.’
“‘Willingly, my friend... Here, put on these sandals, for the roads are none too good. That’s right. Now go straight before you. Don’t you see a turning a long way down? There you’ll find a silver door all studded with black crosses — on your right. Knock, and they’ll open to you. Adieu! Keep well and lively.’
“Down I went — down, down! What a struggle! My flesh creeps for only thinking of it. A narrow path, full of briers and big shiny beetles and snakes hissing, brought me to the silver door.
“Pan! pan!
“‘Who knocks?’ said a hoarse and dismal voice.
“‘The curé of Cucugnan.’
“‘Of — ?’
“‘Of Cucugnan.’
“‘Ah!.. Come in.’
“I went in. A tall, handsome angel with wings black as night and a garment resplendent as day, and a diamond key hanging to his belt, was writing, cra-cra, in a big book — bigger than that of Saint Peter.
“‘Now then, what do you want?’ asked the angel.
“‘Noble angel of God, I want to know — perhaps you’ll think me very inquisitive — whether my Cucugnanese are here.’
“‘Your — ?’
“‘Cucugnanese, the inhabitants of Cucugnan. I am their prior.’
“‘Ah, yes! the Abbé Martin, isn’t it?’
“‘At your service, Monsieur Angel.’
“‘You say Cucugnan—’
“And the angel opened his big book, wetting his finger with his spittle to turn the leaves easily.
“‘Cucugnan,’ he said, with a heavy sigh. ‘Monsieur Martin, we haven’t a soul in purgatory from Cucugnan.’
“‘Jesu! Marie! Joseph! not a soul from Cucugnan in purgatory! Then, great God! where are they?’
“‘Eh! holy man! they are in paradise. Where the deuce do you suppose they are?’
“‘But I have just come from there, from paradise.’
“‘You have come from there! Well?’
“‘They are not there!.. Ah! merciful mother of angels!..’
“‘But, holy man, if they are not in paradise and not in purgatory, there is no middle place, they are in—’
“‘Holy Cross! Jesus, son of David! Aie! aie! aie! it isn’t possible? Can it be that the great Saint Peter lied to me? I didn’t hear a cock crow... Aie! poor people! and poor me! for how can I go to paradise if my Cucugnanese are not there?’
“‘Listen to me, my poor Monsieur Martin. As you want to be so sure about this thing, cost what it may, and to see with your own eyes what there is to it, take this path and run fast, if you know how to run. You will come to a great big portal on your left. There you can find out everything. God grants it.’
“And the angel shut his gate.
“’Twas a long path, paved all the way with red embers. I tottered as if I were drunk; at every step I stumbled; I was bathed in perspiration; every hair of my body had its drop of sweat; I panted with thirst. But thanks to the sandals that good Saint Peter lent me, I did not burn my feet.
“After I had made many a limping misstep I saw at my left hand a gate — no, a portal, an enormous portal, gaping wide open, like the door of a big oven. O! my children, what a sight! There, no one asked my name; there, no register; In batches, in crowds, people entered, just as you, my brethren, go to the wineshops on Sunday.
“I sweated great drops, and yet I was chilled to the bone and shuddering. My hair stood erect. I smelt burning, roasting flesh, something like the smell that fills all Cucugnan when Eloy the blacksmith burns the hoof of an old donkey as he shoes her. I lost my breath in that stinking, fiery air; I heard an awful clamour, moans, howls, oaths.
“‘Well! are you, or are you not coming in, you?’ said a horned demon, pricking me with his pitchfork.
“‘I? I don’t go in there. I am a friend of God.’ “‘A friend of God! Hey! you scabby rascal! what are you doing here?’
“‘I have come — ah! I can’t talk of it, my legs are giving way under me. I have come — I have come a long way — to humbly ask you — if — if by chance — you have here — some one — some one from Cucugnan—’
“‘ Ha! fire of God! you are playing stupid, are you? Just as if you didn’t know that all Cucugnan is here. There, you ugly crow, look there, and see how we treat ’em here, your precious Cucugnanese—’
“I looked, and saw, in the midst of awful, whirling flames, —
“That long Coq-Galine, — you all knew him, my brethren, — Coq-Galine, who got drunk so often and shook his fleas on his poor Clairette.
“I saw Catarinet — that little slut with her nose in the air — who slept alone in the barn — you remember, you rascals? But that’s enough — enough said.
“I saw Pascal Doigt-de-Pois who made his oil of M. Julien’s olives.
“I saw Babette the gleaner, who, when she gleaned, grabbed handfuls from the sheaves to fill her bundle.
“I saw Maître Grabasi, who oiled the wheel of his barrow so slick; “And Dauphine, who sold the water of his well so dear; “And Tortillard, who, when he met me carrying the Good God, kept on his way as if he had only met a dog, — pipe in his mouth, cap on his head, proud as Artaban.
“And I saw Coulau with his Zette, and Jacques, and Pierre, and Toni...”
Livid with fear, the audience groaned, beholding, through the opened gates of hell, this one his father, that one her mother, some their grandmothers, some their brothers and sisters.
“You feel now, my brethren,” said the good abbé, “that this must not go on any longer. I have the charge of souls, and I wish to save you, I will save you, from the abyss to which you are all rolling head-foremost. To-morrow I shall set to work — no later than to-morrow. And I shall have my hands full. This is what I shall do. In order to do it well, it must be done methodically. We will go row by row, as at Jonquières when you dance.
“To-morrow, Monday, I shall confess the old men and the old women. That’s nothing.
“Tuesday, the children. Soon done.
“Wednesday, the lads and lasses. May take long.
“Thursday, the men. Cut them short.
“Friday, the women. I shall say: No rigmaroles.
“Saturday, the miller! One whole day is not too much for him alone.
“And Sunday it will all be done, and we shall be happy.
“You know, my children, that when the wheat is ripe it must be cut; when the wine is drawn it must be drunk. Here’s a lot of dirty linen to wash, and it must be washed, and well washed.
“That is the good’ I wish you. Amen.”
What was said was done. The wash came off. And since that memorable Sunday the fragrance of the virtues of Cucugnan can be smelt in an area of ten leagues round.
And the good pastor, M. Martin, happy and gay, dreamed the other night that, followed by his whole flock, he mounted, in resplendent procession, amid gleaming torches, and clouds of incense wafted by the choir-boys chanting the Te Deum, the great lighted road to the City of our God.
Now there’s the tale of the curé of Cucugnan, such as that great rascal Roumanille ordered me to tell it to you; he himself having got it from some other good fellow.
AGED FOLK.
“A LETTER, PÈRE Azan?”
“Yes, monsieur; and it comes from Paris.”
He was quite proud, that worthy old Azan, that it came from Paris. I was not. Something told me that that Parisian missive from the rue Jean-Jacques, dropping thus upon my table unexpectedly, and so early in the morning, would make me lose my whole day. I was not mistaken, — and you shall see why.
“You must do me a service, my friend,” said the letter. “Close your mill for a day, and go to Eyguières. Eyguières is a large village, three or four leagues from your mill, — a pleasant walk. When you get there, ask for the Orphans’ Convent. The first house beyond the convent is a low building with gray shutters, and a small garden behind it. Enter without knocking, — the door is always open, — and as you enter, call out very loud: ‘Good-day, worthy people! I am a friend of Maurice.’ On which you will see two little old persons — oh! but old, old, ever so old — stretching out their hands to you from their big armchairs; and you are to kiss them for me, with all your heart, as if they were yours, your own friends. Then you will talk. They will talk to you of me and nothing else; they will say a lot of foolish things, which you are to listen to without laughing. You won’t laugh, will you? They are my grandparents; two beings whose very life I am, and who have not seen me these ten years... Ten years, a long time! But how can I help it? Paris clutches me. And they, they are so old that if they came to see me they would break to bits on the way... Happily, you are there, my dear miller, and, in kissing you, these poor old people will fancy they are kissing me. I have so often told them about you, and of the good friendship that—”
The devil take good friendship! Just this very morning, when the weather is so beautiful! but not at all fit to tramp along the roads; too much mistral, too much sun, a regular Provence day. When that cursed letter came, I had just picked out my shelter between two rocks, where I dreamed of staying all day like a lizard, drinking light and listening to the song of the pines. Well, I could not help myself. I shut up the mill, grumbling, and hid the key. My stick, my pipe, and off I went.
I reached Eyguières in about two hours. The village was deserted; everybody was in the fields. From the elms in the courtyards, white with dust, the grasshoppers were screaming. To be sure, in the square before the mayor’s office, a donkey was sunning himself, and a flock of pigeons were dabbling in the fountain before the church, but no one able to show me the Orphans’ Convent. Happily, an old witch suddenly appeared, crouching and knitting in the angle of her doorway. I told her what I was looking for; and as she was a witch of very great power, she had only to raise her distaff, and, behold! the Orphans’ Convent rose up before me. It was a large, sullen, black house, proud of exhibiting above its arched portal an old cross of red freestone with Latin around it. Beside this house, I saw another, very small; gray shutters, garden behind it. I knew it directly, and I entered without knocking.
All my life I shall remember that long, cool, quiet corridor, the walls rose-tinted, the little garden quivering at the other end, and seen through a thin blind. It seemed to me that I was entering the house of some old bailiff of the olden time of Sedaine. At the end of the passage, on the left, through a half-opened door, I heard the tick-tack of a large clock and the voice of a child — a child in school — who was reading aloud, and pausing at each syllable: “Then — Saint — I-re-ne-us — cri-ed — out — I — am — the — wheat — of — the Lord — I — must — be — ground — by — the — teeth — of — these — an-i-mals.” I softly approached the door and looked in.
In the quiet half-light of a little room, an old, old man with rosy cheeks, wrinkled to the tips of his fingers, sat sleeping in a chair, his mouth open, his hands on his knees. At his feet, a little girl dressed in blue — with a great cape and a linen cap, the orphans’ costume — was reading the life of Saint Irenæus in a book that was bigger than herself. The reading had operated miraculously on the entire household. The old man slept in his chair, the flies on the ceiling, the canaries in their cage at the window, and the great clock snored: tick-tack, tick-tack. Nothing was awake in the room but a broad band of light, which came, straight and white, between the closed shutters, full of lively sparkles and microscopic whirlings.
Amid this general somnolence, the child went gravely on with her reading: —
“Im-me-di-ate-ly — two — li-ons — dart-ed — upon — him — and — ate — him — up.” At this moment I entered the room. The lions of Saint Irenæus darting into the room could not have produced greater stupefaction. A regular stage effect! The little one gave a cry, the big book fell, the flies and the canaries woke, the clock struck, the old man started up, quite frightened, and I myself, being rather troubled, stopped short on the sill of the door, and called out very loud: “Good-day, worthy people! I am Maurice’s friend.”
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