Part 18 (1/2)
The drover's saddle is his whole fortune. He cherishes it, loves it, takes pride in it.
”Your saddle?” rejoined Renaud suspiciously. ”Come with me and get it! Bernard will give it to you.”
He shrugged his shoulders, and without another word rode after the drove, leading back to it the emaciated horse which Rampal had sadly misused.
He was extremely glad that Blanchet had had no part in this duel. He recognized Blanchet from afar in among the mares, but sleeker and better cared for than the others. A true lady's horse, staunch as he was!--And now he would be able to return him to his mistress, as he had his former horse, in addition to Prince. And his nostrils dilated with the pride of victory. He inhaled long draughts of the bracing salt air.
He was thinking of two women--yes, of two, not one only!--who would say of him when they heard what had taken place: ”That is a man!” And Renaud's n.o.ble horse shared his master's pride, as he capered about, in the liberty accorded him to choose his own pace, with the proud bearing of a stallion that had won the race in the sight of his whole drove.
XV
MONSIEUR LE CURe'S ARCHaeOLOGY
The cure of Saintes-Maries was a man of about sixty, well preserved, very tall and stout, with bright eyes whose light he quenched with spectacles, and energetic gestures which he purposely restrained.
The parsonage was near the church, the doorway shaded by a number of elms. The house, in accordance with the prevailing custom of the province, was whitewashed once a year, outside and in, like the houses of the Arabs.
The houses in Saintes-Maries are low. The streets are narrow, and wind about to escape the sun. The shadows under the awnings of the little shops have a bluish cast. In front of the doors, which open on the street, hang transparent curtains of common linen, in some cases of very fine net-work, to stop the flies and admit the light after it has pa.s.sed through the sieve, so to speak. And, behind them, the maidens of Saintes-Maries are confined like birdlings in a cage, or like very dangerous little wild beasts. Are not all maidens to be looked upon with more or less suspicion?
The maidens of Saintes-Maries wear the Arles head-dress and the neckerchief, with fold upon fold held in place by hundreds of pins, by as many pins as a rose-bush has thorns; and where the thick folds of the handkerchief open, in the depths of the _chapelle_, you can see the little golden cross gleaming upon the firm young flesh rising and falling with the maidenly sigh. The ap.r.o.n worn over the ample skirt seems like a skirt itself, it is so broad and full, and slender feet peep out from beneath it, as agile as the Camargue partridge's red claws, that love to scamper swiftly over the fields to escape the hunter, knowing that Camargue is broad and s.p.a.ce is plentiful.
Many are the pale faces at Saintes, for, whatever they may say, the marshes still breed fever, and this country, to which people come to be miraculously cured, is, generally speaking, a country of disease; but pallor goes well with the wavy black hair, worn in broad puffs on the temples and falling upon the neck in two heavy ma.s.ses which are turned up to meet the _chignon_. To help them to forget what is depressing in their lives, they resort, here as elsewhere, to coquetry--and the rest!--And then they are accustomed to the fever, which gives birth to dreams and visions; they tame it, as it were; it is not cruel to the people it knows, and does not lead them to the cemetery until they are old and gray.
The cemetery is a few steps from the village, a few steps from the sea. It lies at the foot of the sand-dunes, surrounded by a low wall.
The dead and gone villagers of Saintes-Maries lie sleeping there between the sea and the desert of Camargue: many fishermen who lived in their flat-bottomed boats; many herdsmen who lived on horseback in the plain.
All of them alike find there, in death, the things amid which their lives have been pa.s.sed: the salt sand, filled with tiny sh.e.l.ls, the _enganes_ that grow in spite of everything, reddened by the salt-laden winds, and heavy with soda,--and the thin shadow of the pink-plumed tamarisk. There they hear the neighing of the wild mares, the shouts of the herdsmen contending on the race-course on fete-days, or stirring up the black bulls in the arena under the walls of the church. They hear the sails flapping, and the _han_ of the bare-legged fishermen pus.h.i.+ng their flat-bottomed boats or barges into the water; and night and day, the pounding of the sea in its efforts to push back the island of Camargue, while the Rhone, on the other hand, is constantly pus.h.i.+ng it into the sea, and adding to its bulk with mud and stones brought down from its head-waters. The sea smites the island as if it would have none of it, but all in vain,--it, too, can but augment its size with the sand it casts up.
And the sand from the sea makes a broad hem of dunes along the sh.o.r.es of Camargue.
No one can fail to see that the dunes, those s.h.i.+fting, tomb-like hills of sand, must have served as models for the ma.s.sive pyramids, the tombs of kings, in the Egyptian desert.
At the feet of the little pyramids of sand sleep the dead of Camargue.
But whither has the thought of death led us? Why do we tarry here, while Livette is timidly lifting the knocker at monsieur le cure's door?
The blow echoed within the house, in the empty hall. Livette was much perturbed. What was she to say? Where should she begin? The beginning is always the most difficult part. She would like to run away now, but it is too late. She hears steps inside. Marion, the old servant, opens the door.
Marion has a practised eye. When any one knocks at Monsieur le cure's door, she knows, simply by examining his face, what he wants, and frames her answers accordingly, on her own responsibility; for Monsieur le cure is subject to rheumatism: he suffers from fever, too, and Marion nurses Monsieur le cure! If he listened to Marion, he would nurse himself so carefully that all the sick people would have to die unshriven, without extreme unction, for Marion would always have a good reason to give to prevent him from going out by day or night, when the _mistral_ was blowing or the wind was from the east, summer or winter, rain or s.h.i.+ne.
But Monsieur le cure would smile and do just what he chose. He was a good priest. He never failed in his duty. He loved his paris.h.i.+oners.
He a.s.sisted them on all occasions with his purse and his advice. He was beloved by them all.
He loved his paris.h.i.+oners, his commune, and his curious church, which was once a fortress; he was familiar with the shape of its every stone. He loved it both as priest and as archaeologist, for Monsieur le cure is a scholar, and his church is, in very truth, one of the most interesting monuments in France, with its abnormally thick, high, and threatening walls, crowned with jutting galleries and surmounted by crenelated battlements, with an un.o.bstructed view of sea and land in all directions, and overlooked by four turrets, and a tower in the centre,--the highest of all,--from whose belfry the alarum bell, in the old days, often aroused the country-side, repeating in its shrillest tones: ”Here come the heathens, good people of Saintes-Maries! Attention! Come and shut yourselves up here! Make ready your arrows and the boiling oil and pitch!”--Or else: ”Hasten to the sh.o.r.e, good people of Saintes-Maries! A French vessel is sinking!”
And to this day it seems still to say, to all, far and near: ”I see you! I see you!”
One could go on forever describing the church of Saintes-Maries, and relating anecdotes concerning it.