Part 15 (1/2)
”Hush--wretched man----! You blaspheme! Have you not just inherited?”
”Ah, you mean those five hundred francs? Wait a bit, _Monsieur le cure_, you shall have your share.”
”You will have ma.s.ses said?”
”No, I have not enough for that.”
”But for the small sum of twenty francs, I will say----”
”Impossible, _Monsieur le cure_, it is impossible.”
”You grieve me, Jean Piot. You will die like a heathen.”
”I wish you a good day, _Monsieur le cure_.”
When this conversation was retailed, everyone wondered. What! not even twenty francs to the Church? Jean Piot surely had some plan. What was he going to do?
Soon they knew, for without solicitation orders began to be placed with the best tradespeople. Jean Piot had engaged and paid for the largest stable in the village. Tables were being set up in it, and covered with a miscellaneous collection of dishes, as if for a Camacho's banquet, such as was never seen outside of Cervantes' romance.
The two village inn keepers had received gigantic orders for food and drink. And Jean Piot, his eyes sparkling with pride, went with a kindly smile from door to door, no longer to beg, but to let everyone know that ”in remembrance of their good friends.h.i.+p” he was going to treat the entire countryside for three days. Sat.u.r.day, Sunday, and Monday there was feasting, junketing, merrymaking--and everyone invited! There were cauldrons of soup; cabbage, potatoes, and beef at will, and fish, and fowls, and cakes and coffee. As for wine, casks of it were tapped, and it was of the best; on top of that, little gla.s.ses of spirits, ”as much as you liked.”
Amazement! Exclamations! Certainly Jean Piot was an extraordinary man.
It was perhaps unwise to spend all that money at once, when he must necessarily be penniless on the day after. But who was there to blame him, when everybody was taking his share of the feast? Only the _cure_ shook his head, regretting his ma.s.ses. But public opinion was set in Jean Piot's favour, and not even the Church could swim against the stream.
At early dawn on Sat.u.r.day Jean Piot and the Piotte settled themselves in the middle seats at the table of honour, and the crowd having flocked thither in their best attire, fell upon the victuals, and washed them down with generous potations. At first they were too happy to speak, but how everybody loved everybody else! How glad they were to say so! On all sides handshaking--on all sides affectionate embraces--on all sides cries of joy! And for Jean Piot and his Piotte, what kind and laudatory expressions! What admiration!
During three days the enormous festival took its tumultuous course, amid the m.u.f.fled crunching of jaws, the gurgling of jugs and bottles, mingled with laughter and shouts and songs. Women, children, old people--everyone gorged himself immoderately. When evening came, young and old danced to the music of fiddles. The church, alas, was empty on Sunday, and when the _cure_ came to fetch his flock--G.o.d forgive me!--they made him drink, and he, enkindled and set up, pressed Jean Piot's two hands warmly to his heart. All the mean emotions of daily life were forgotten, wiped away from the soul by this great human communion. Tramps who were pa.s.sing found themselves welcomed, stuffed to capacity, beloved----And when the evening of the third day fell, not a soul was there to mourn the too early close of an epic so glorious. The entire village, exhausted, was asleep and snoring, fortifying itself by dreams to meet the gloomy return to life's realities.
When his heavy drunkenness was dispelled, Jean Piot realized, for the first thing, that the Piotte's sleep would have no awakening.
Congestion had done for her. He had on the subject philosophical thoughts to which he did not give utterance for fear of being misunderstood. In the depth of his heart he felt that neither of them had any further reason for living, since they had fully lived.
And so, when, left alone, he saw gradual oblivion close over the imposing revel of which he had been the hero, when the current of life swept ever farther and farther from him that tiny fraction of humanity which made up his universe, when countenances darkened at sight of him, when doors closed and when he was reproached with having ”wasted his substance”--he was not surprised, and without a murmur accepted the inevitable.
For days and days he remained stretched on his straw, quiet, even happy, it seemed, but without anything to eat. He starved, it is said.
Two days before his death, the _cure_ had come to see him.
”Well, Jean Piot, my friend, do you repent of your sins?”
”Oh, yes, _Monsieur le cure_!”
”You remember when I proposed to say ma.s.ses for you? If you had listened to me, you would not to-day be suffering remorse.”
”And why should I suffer remorse, _Monsieur le cure_? I have done no harm to anybody. You see, I quite believe that the next world is beautiful, as you say it is, but I wanted my share of this world. And I had it. Rich people have theirs. It would not have been fair otherwise.
Ah, I can say that I was as happy as any rich man, not for so long, that is all. And what does that matter, since it must end sometime anyhow? Do you remember? You drank a gla.s.s, and you took both my hands, just as if I had been a rich man, _Monsieur le cure_. We were like two brothers. If you cannot say a ma.s.s for me without money, surely you will remember me in your prayers, will you not?”
”I promise to, Jean Piot,” said the _cure_, who had grown thoughtful.
XX
THE TREASURE OF ST. BARTHOLEMEW