Chapter XVII: The Revels of Trinquetaille

(A REMINISCENCE OF ALPHONSE DAUDET)

Alphonse Daudet, writing of his youth in the “Lettres de mon Moulin” and “Trente Ans de Paris,” has told with the finest bloom of his pen some of the pranks he played with the early Félibres at Maillane, Barthelasse, Baux, and Châteauneuf--that first crop of Félibres who in those days ran about the country of Provence for the fun of running, to keep themselves going, and above all to stir up again in the hearts of the people the Gai-Savoir of the Troubadours. There is, however, one joyous day of adventure we spent together some forty years ago, of which Daudet has not told.

Alphonse Daudet was at that time secretary to the Duc de Morny, honorary secretary be it understood, for the utmost that the young man ever did was to go once a month to see if his patron, the President of the Senate, was flourishing and in a good temper. Amongst other exquisite things from his pen, Daudet had written a love-poem called “Les Prunes.” All Paris knew it by heart, and Monsieur de Morny, hearing it recited one evening in a drawing-room, requested the author might be presented to him, with the result that he took the young man under his patronage. To say nothing of his wit, which flashed like a diamond, Daudet was a handsome fellow, brown, with a clear skin and black eyes with long lashes, a budding beard and thick crop of hair which he allowed to grow so long that the Duke, every time the author of “Les Prunes” called on him at the Senate, would repeat, with disapproving finger pointing at the offending locks:

“Well poet--and when are we going to cut off this wig?”

“Next week, Monseigneur,” the poet invariably replied.

About once a month the great Duc de Morny made the same observation to the little Daudet, and every time the poet made the same answer. But the Duke himself was more likely to fall than Daudet’s mane.

At that age the future chronicler of the prodigious adventures of Tartarin of Tarascon was a merry youth, who kept pace with the wind, impatient to know everything, an audacious Bohemian, frank and free with his tongue, throwing himself headlong in the swim of life with laughter and noise, always on the look-out for adventures. He had quicksilver in his veins.

I remember one evening, when we were supping at the Chêne-Vert, a pleasant inn in the neighbourhood of Avignon, hearing music for a dance that was going on just below the terrace where we were dining. Daudet suddenly jumped down, a flying leap of some nine or ten feet, crashing through the branches of a vine trellis and landing in the midst of the dancers, who took him for a devil.

Another time, from the height of the road which passes at the foot of the Pont du Gard, he threw himself, without knowing how to swim, into the River Gardon, to see, so he said, if the water was deep. Had not a fisherman caught hold of him with his boathook, my poor Alphonse would most certainly have drunk what we call “the soup of eleven o’clock!”

Another time, on the bridge that leads from Avignon to the island of Barthelasse, he madly climbed on the narrow parapet, and racing along at the risk of tumbling over into the Rhône, he cried out, for the edification of some country people who heard him: “It is from here, by thunder! that we threw the corpse of Brune into the Rhône, yes, the Maréchal Brune! And may it serve as an example to those northerners and barbarians if ever they return to annoy us!”

One day in September, at Maillane, I received a little note from friend Daudet, one of those notes minute as a parsley leaf, well known to all his friends, in which he said to me:

“MY FRÉDÉRIC,--To-morrow, Wednesday, I leave Fontvieille to come
and meet thee at Saint-Gabriel. Mathieu and Grivolas will join us
by the road from Tarascon. The place of meeting is the ale-house,
where we shall await thee about nine o’clock or half-past. And
there, at Sarrasine’s, the lovely landlady of the place, having
drunk a glass, we will set out on foot for Arles. Do not fail.

“Thy RED HOOD.”

On the day mentioned, between eight and nine o’clock, we all found ourselves at Saint-Gabriel, at the foot of the chapel which guards the mountain. At Sarrasine’s, we drank a cherry brandy, and then--forward on the white road.

We inquired of a roadmender how far it was to Arles.

“When you get to the tomb of Roland,” he answered, “you will still have two hours’ walk.”

We inquired where was the tomb of Roland.

“Down there where you see a group of cypresses on the banks of the Viqueirat.”

“And this Roland, who was he?”

“He was, so they say, a famous captain of the time of the Saracens.... His teeth, I will wager, no longer hurt him.”

Greetings to thee, Roland! We never expected, when we set out, to find still living, in the fields and meadows of Trebon, the legendary glory of the Companion of Charlemagne. But to continue. Just as the Man of Bronze struck twelve, gaily we descended upon Arles, entering by the Porte de la Cavalerie, all of us white with dust. As we had the appetite of Spaniards we went at once to breakfast at the Hôtel Pinus.

We were not badly served; and when one is young, making merry with friends and rejoicing to be alive, there is nothing like dining together for engendering high spirits.

There was one thing, however, which disturbed our equanimity. A waiter in a black coat, with pomaded head, and whiskers standing out like birch brooms, hovered perpetually around us, a napkin under his arm, never taking his eyes off us, and under pretext of changing our plates, listening eagerly to all our foolish talk.

“We must get rid of him. Here, waiter!” said Daudet.

The limpet approached. “Yes, sir?”

“Quick, fetch me a dish--a large silver dish.”

“To place upon it?” inquired the waiter, puzzled.

“A jackanapes,” replied Daudet in a voice of thunder.

The changer of plates did not wait for any more, and from that moment left us in peace.

“What I dislike about these hotels,” said Mathieu, “is that since the commercial traveller introduced the northern fashions, whether at Avignon, Augoulême, Draguignan, or even at Brier-la-Gaillarde, they now all give you the same insipid dishes--carrot broth, veal and sorrel, roast beef half cooked, cauliflower with butter, and a variety of eatables with neither taste nor savour. In Provence, if you want to find the old-fashioned cooking of the country which was appetising and savoury, you must go to the little inn frequented by the country people.”

“What if we go this evening,” cried Grivolas the painter.

“Let us go,” we all agreed.

We paid without further delay, lighted our cigars and sallied forth to take our cup of coffee in a popular _café_, and then in the narrow streets, cool, and white with limestone, flanked by stately old houses on either side, we strolled about till the twilight fell, looking at the queenly Arlesienne beauties on their doorsteps or behind the transparent window curtains, for I must own they had counted considerably as a latent motive in our descent upon Arles.

We passed the Arena, its great gates wide open, and the Roman theatre with its two majestic columns. We visited Saint-Trophime and the cloisters, the famous Head without a Nose, the Palaces of the Lion, of the Porcelets, of Constantine, and of the Grand Prior.

Sometimes on the narrow pavement we ran up against a donkey belonging to some water-carrier selling water from the Rhône in barrels. We also encountered troops of sunburnt gleaners, newly returned from the country, carrying on their heads the heavy load of gleanings, and beside these the vendors of snails, shouting at the pitch of their voices:

“Who will buy fresh snails from the fields!”

About sunset we inquired of a woman, who stood just outside the fish-market knitting a stocking, if she could direct us to some little inn or tavern, unpretentious, but clean, where we could dine in simple apostolic fashion.

The woman, thinking we were joking, cried out to her neighbours, who, at her shout of laughter, came to their doors coifed with the coquettish headgear of Arles.

“See, here are some gentlemen looking for a tavern at which to sup--do you know of one?”

“Send them,” cried one, “to the Rue Pique-Monte.”

“Or to the ‘Little Cat,’” said another.

“Or to the ‘Widow Come Here.’”

“Or to the Gate of the Chestnuts.”

“Don’t mock us, my dears,” said I. “We want some quiet little place within the reach of anybody, where honest people go.”

“Very well,” said a fat man seated on a post, smoking his pipe, with a face coloured like a beggar’s gourd, “why not go to Counënc’s? See here, gentlemen, I will conduct you,” he continued, rising and shaking out his pipe; “I have to go by that way. It is on the other side of the Rhône, in the suburb of Trinquetaille. It is not an hotel of the first order, my faith, but the watermen, the bargees and the boatmen who come from Condrieu, feed there and are not discontented. The owner is from Combs, a village near Beaucaire, which supplies some bargemen. I myself, who have the honour of addressing you, am master of a boat, and I have done my share of sailing.”

We inquired if he had been far afield.

“Oh no,” he replied, “I have only sailed in the small coasting trade as far as Havre-de-Grace, but it is a true saying that there is never a boatman who does not face danger--and for sure, had it not been for the Great Saintes-Maries, who have always protected me, there are many times, my friends, when we should have gone under.”

“And they call you?”

“Master Gafet! Always at your service should you at any time run down to Sambuc or to Graz to see the vessels embedded in the sand at the river’s mouth.”

So, chatting pleasantly, we arrived at the bridge of Trinquetaille, at that time still a bridge of boats. As we passed over the moving planks which connected the chain of boats one felt beneath the heaving river, powerful and living, on whose mighty bosom one rose and sank as it drew breath. Having crossed the Rhône, we turned to the left on the quay, and there, beneath an old trellis, bending over the trough of the well, we saw--how shall I describe her?--a kind of witch, and one-eyed to boot, scraping and opening some lively eels. At her feet some cats were gnawing and fighting as she threw the heads down to them.

“That is ‘La Counënque,’” announced Master Gafet.

It was somewhat of a shock to poets who, since early morn, had dreamed but of beautiful and noble Arlesiennes. But--here we were!

“Counënque, these gentlemen wish to sup here,” said our guide.

“Are you daft then, Master Gafet? What the devil are you trying to saddle us with! You know I have nothing to set before that sort.”

“See here, old idiot, hast not there a fine dish of eels?”

“Oh, if a hash of eels will make them happy! But mind you, we have nothing else.”

“Ho!” cried Daudet, “nothing we like better than a hash. Come in--come in, and you, Master Gafet, please sit down with us.”

Our friend Gafet willingly allowed himself to be persuaded, and we all five entered the tavern of Trinquetaille.

* * * * *

In a low room, the floor of which was covered with beaten clay, but the walls were very white, stood a long table whereat were seated from fifteen to twenty bargemen in the act of cutting a kid, the landlord Counënc supping with them.

From the beams of the ceiling, blackened by smoke, hung flycatchers in the shape of tamarinds, where the flies settled and were afterwards caught in a bag. We sat down on benches at another table, opposite the bargemen, who, on seeing us, became silent.

While the hash was preparing on the stove, “La Counënque,” to give us an appetite, brought some enormous onions, those grown at Bellegarde, a dish of Jamaica pepper in vinegar, some fermented cheese, preserved olives, botargo of Martinique, and slices of braised haddock.

“And thou who saidst there was nothing to eat!” cried Master Gafet, cutting the bread with his big hooked knife; “but it is a wedding feast!”

“By our Lady,” answered the one-eyed, “if you had let us know beforehand, we might have prepared you a _blanquette à la mode_--or an omelette--but when people drop down on you in the twilight like a hair in the soup, you understand, gentlemen, one has to give them what one can.”

Daudet, who in his whole life had never before seen such specimens of the Camargue, seized one of the onions--fine flat onions, golden as a Christmas loaf--and boldly crunched and swallowed it, leaf by leaf, with his fine strong teeth, to the accompaniment of some fermented cheese and haddock. It is only fair to mention we also did our best to help him, while Master Gafet, raising every now and again the brimming jug of Crau wine, his face ablaze as I never saw the like.

“Oh these young bloods!” said he, “the onion makes one drink and keeps up the thirst.”

In less than half an hour one could have lighted a match on any one of our cheeks. Then the hash (catigot) arrived, a dish in which a shepherd’s crook could have stood upright, salted like the sea, and peppered like the devil.

“Salting and peppering make one find the wine very good,” said the fat Gafet; “let us clink glasses, my boys.”

The bargemen meantime, having finished their kid, ended their repast, as is the custom of the watermen of Condrieu, with a plate of fat soup. Each one poured a big glass of wine into his plate, then, lifting it with both hands, all together they drank off the mixture at one gulp, smacking their lips with pleasure. The master of a raft, who wore his beard like a collar, then sang a song which, if I remember, finished like this:

When our fleet arrives
On the way to Toulon,
We salute the town
With a roll of cannon.

“Thunder! but we must give them one back,” cried Daudet. And he burst out with a chorus which referred to the time of the Civil War with the Vaulois:

To Lourmarin--Light-horseman
There they die!
To Lourmarin--Light-horseman
Quickly fly! &c.

Then the men of the river, not to be outdone, responded with a chorus:

The maidens of Valence
Know naught of love’s sweet way,
But those of fair Provence
Enjoy it night and day.

“Together now, boys,” we cried to the singers. And in unison, making castanets of our fingers, we shouted with such full lungs that the one-eyed interrupted us:

“Shut up,” said she, “if the police pass by they will have you up for brawling at nights.”

“The police,” we cried; “we snap our fingers at them. “Here,” added Daudet, “go and fetch the visitors’ book.”

The “Counënque” brought the book in which all who passed the night at the inn inscribed their names, and the polite secretary of Monsieur de Morny wrote in his best hand:

A. Daudet, Secretary of the President of the Senate.
F. Mistral, Chevalier of the Legion of Honour.
A. Mathieu, Félibre of Châteauneuf-du-Pape.
P. Grivolas, Master painter of the School of Avignon.

“And if any one,” he continued, “if any one, O Counënque, should ever dare make trouble, be he commissioner, policeman or sub-prefect, thou hast only to place these inky spider’s legs under his moustache. If after that he is not quieted, write to me in Paris and I wager I will make him dance.”

We settled our bill, and accompanied by the admiring glances of all, we left with the air of princes who had just revealed their identity. Arrived at the footpath of the bridge of Trinquetaille:

“What if we danced a bit of a _farandole_?” proposed the indefatigable and charming novelist of the “Mule du Pape.” “The bridges of Provence are only made for that.”

So forward. In the clear, limpid light of the September moon, which was reflected in the water, behold us stepping gaily and singing on the bridge.

About midway across we saw advancing a procession of Arlesiennes, of delicious Arlesiennes, each one with her cavalier, walking and bowing, laughing and talking. The rustling of petticoats, the _frou-frou_ of silk, the soft murmurs of the happy couples as they spoke together in the peaceful night with the thrill of the Rhône that glided between the boats, was an emotional experience never to be forgotten.

“A wedding!” cried the fat Gafet, who had not yet left us.

“A wedding,” echoed Daudet, who, with his short sight, only just perceived the advancing party. “An Arlesienne wedding! A moonlight wedding! A wedding in the middle of the Rhône!”

And taken with a sudden mad impulse, our buck sprang forward, threw himself on the neck of the bride, and kissed her with a will.

Then followed a pretty row! We were all in for it, and if ever we were hard put to it in our lives, it was certainly on that occasion. Twenty fellows with raised sticks surrounded us:

“To the Rhône with the rascals!”

“What is it all about?” cried Master Gafet, pushing back the crowd. “Can’t you see we have been drinking? Drinking to the health of the bride in the Trinquetaille, and that to commence drinking again would do us harm?”

“Long live the bridal couple!” we all exclaimed. And thanks to the valiant Gafet, whom every one knew, and to his presence of mind, the thing ended there.

* * * * *

The next question was where to go next? The Man of Bronze had just struck eleven o’clock. We decided to make the tour of the Aliscamps.[19]

Passing down the Lice d’Arles we went the round of the ramparts, and by the light of the moon descended the avenue of poplars leading to the cemetery of the old Arles of the Romans. And while wandering amongst the tombs and sarcophagi, showing white on either side in long rows, we solemnly chaunted the fine ballad by Camille Reybaud:

The poplars growing in the churchyard here
Salute the dead that in these graves abide--
If thou the sacred mysteries dost fear
Oh never pass the churchyard by so near!

The long, white grave-stones in the churchyard here
Have flung their heavy covers open wide.
If thou the sacred mysteries, &c. &c.

Upon the greensward in the churchyard here
The dead men all stand upright side by side.
If thou the sacred mysteries, &c. &c.

They all embrace within the churchyard here,
These mute and silent brothers who have died.
If thou the sacred mysteries, &c. &c.

’Tis keeping holiday, the churchyard here,
And dancing to and fro the dead men glide.
If thou the sacred mysteries, &c. &c.

Across the churchyard now the moon shines clear;
Each maiden seeks her love, each lad his bride.
If thou the sacred mysteries, &c. &c.

No more they find them, in the churchyard here,
Their loves of yore, that would not be denied.
If thou the sacred mysteries, &c. &c.

Oh open me the churchyard wicket wide!
Let my love in, to comfort them that died!...
(Trans. Alma Strettell.)

Suddenly, from a yawning tomb three paces from us, we heard in dolorous sepulchral tones these words:

“Let sleep in peace those who sleep!”

We remained petrified, and all around us in the moonlight a deep silence reigned.

At last Mathieu said softly to Grivolas:

“Didst thou hear?”

“Yes,” replied the painter, “it is down there, in that sarcophagus.”

“Eh,” cried Master Gafet, bursting into laughter, “that is a ‘dressed sleeper,’ as we call them in Arles, one of those vagrants who come to lodge at night in the empty tombs.”

“What a pity,” cried Daudet, “that it was not a real ghost! Some beautiful vestal, who at the voice of the poets was roused from her sleep, and, Oh, my Grivolas, wished to rise up and embrace thee!”

Then in a resounding voice he sang, and we all joined in:

“De l’abbaye passant les portes
Autour de moi, tu trouverais
Des nonnes l’errante cohorte
Car en suaire je serais!”

“O Magali, si tu te fais
La pauvre morte
La terre alors je me ferais
Là je t’aurai!”

After which we all shook hands with Master Gafet and made our way quickly to the railway station, there to take the train for Avignon.

Seven years later, the year, alas! of the great catastrophe, I received this letter:

“PARIS, _December 31, 1870_.

“MY CHIEFTAIN,--I send thee, by the balloon just rising, a heap of
kisses. And it gives me pleasure to be able to send them in the
language of Provence, for so I am assured that the Barbarians,
should this balloon fall into their hands, cannot read a word of my
writing, nor publish my letter in their _Mercure de Souabe_. It is
cold, it is dark: we eat horse, cat, camel, and hippopotamus! Ah,
for the good onions, the _catigot_, and fermented cheese of the
tavern of Trinquetaille!

“The guns burn our fingers. Wood is becoming scarce. The armies of
the Loire come not! But that does not matter--we will keep the
cockroaches from Berlin wearing themselves out for some time yet in
front of our ramparts.... And then if Paris is lost, I know of some
good patriots who are ready to take Monsieur de Bismarck round the
little streets of our poor capital. Farewell, my chief--three big
kisses, one from me, one from my wife, and the other from my son.
With that a happy New Year as always, until this day next year. Thy
Félibre,

“ALPHONSE DAUDET.”

And then they dare to say that Daudet is not a good Provençal! Just because he jokes and ridicules the Tartarins, the Roumestans, and Tante Portals, and other imbeciles of this country, who try to Frenchify the language of our Provence. For that Tartarin owes him a grudge!

No! The mother lioness is not angry, and will never be angry, with the young lion who, in fighting, sometimes gives her a scratch.