Chapter XXIII

JOANNA married Major Walters, as soon as the conventionalities would permit.

She wrote then, for the first time, to Paragot.

"I bear you no malice, my dear Gaston, and I am sure you bear me none. Your breaking off of our engagement was the only way out of a fantastic situation. You might have broken it less abruptly; but you were always sudden. If I may believe Asticot, your own marriage was a lightning incident. I can laugh now, and so I suppose can your wife; but believe me this sort of thing does leave a woman rather breathless.

"Wish me happiness, as I wish you. If ever we meet it will be as loyal friends."

Could woman have spoken more sweetly?

"My dear Joanna," replied Paragot, "I do wish you all the happiness in the world. You can't fail to have it. You have a real husband as I have a real wife. Let us thank heaven we have escaped from the moon vapour of the Ideal, in which we poor humans are apt to lose our way and stray God knows whither. I am sending you a real marriage gift."

"My dear Asticot," wrote Joanna from an hotel in Florence, "what do you think your delightful but absurd master has sent me as a wedding present? It arrived here this morning, to the consternation of the whole hotel. A crate containing six live ducks. The label stated that they were real ducks fed by his own hand.

"But what am I to do with six live ducks on a wedding journey, my dear Asticot? I can't sell them. I hate the idea of eating them--and even if I didn't, Major Walters and I can't eat six. And I can't put blue ribbons round their necks, and carry them about with me on my travels as pets. Can't you see me walking over the Ponte Vecchio followed by them as by a string of poodles? And they are so voracious. The hotel people are already charging them full pension terms. Oh, dear! Do tell me what I am to do with these dreadful fowl!"

"My dearest Lady," I answered. "Offer the ducks like the Dunmow flitch of bacon to the most happily married couple in Florence."

Whether Joanna acted on my brilliant suggestion I cannot say. A little while ago I enquired after their ultimate destiny; but Joanna had forgotten. I believe Major Walters and herself fled from them secretly.

Paragot on his label stated that he had fed the ducks with his own hand. This was practically true; indeed, in the case of those who declined to nourish themselves to the requisite degree of fatness, it was literally true. I have beheld him since perform the astounding operation, a sight _Dis hominibusque_; but not in the Rue des Saladiers. It was on his own farm, the farm near Chartres, which he bought, in his bewildering fashion, as soon as lawyers could prepare the necessary documents. He took train the day after his proposal of marriage to Blanquette, and returned, I remember, somewhat crestfallen, because he could not conclude the purchase then and there.

"My dear sir," said the lawyer whom he consulted, "you can't buy landed property as you can a pound of sugar over a counter."

"Why not?" asked Paragot.

"Because," said the lawyer, "the law of France mercifully concedes to men of my profession the right of gaining a livelihood."

"I see that you are a real lawyer," said Paragot, pleased by the irony, "and it is an amiable Providence that has guided my steps to your _cabinet_."

But Paragot was married, and the little _appartement_ in the Rue des Saladiers passed into alien hands, and the newly wedded pair settled down on the farm, long before all the legal formalities of purchase were accomplished. It takes my breath away, even now, to think of the hurry of those days. He decided human destinies in the fraction of a second.

"My son," said he, "when I have paid for this farm, I shall have very little indeed of the capital, on the interest of which we have been living. I am now a married man, with the responsibilities of a wife and a future family. I have put £200 to your credit at the Crédit Lyonnais and that is all your fortune. If art can't support you, when you have spent it, you will have to come to La Haye (the farm) and feed pigs. You'll be richer if you paint them; the piggier they are, and the heavier the gold watch chains across their bellies, the richer you will be; but you'll be happier if you feed them. _Crede experturo._"

I went to bed that night swearing a great oath that I would neither paint pigs nor feed pigs, but that I would prove myself worthy of the generosity of my master and benefactor. I felt then that his goodness was great; but how great it was I only realised in after years when I came to learn his financial position. Bearing in mind the relativity of things, I know that few fathers have sent their sons out into the world with so princely a capital.

Fortune smiled on me; why, I don't know; perhaps because I was small and sandy haired and harmless, and did not worry her. I sold two or three pictures, I obtained regular employment on an illustrated journal, and raised my price for contributions to _Le Fou Rire_. Bread and butter were assured. There was never prouder youth than I, when one August morning I started from Paris for Chartres, with fifty superfluous pounds in my pocket which I determined to restore to Paragot.

The old Paragot of the high roads, hairy and bronzed, and wearing a great straw hat with wide brim turned down, met me at the little local station. He forgot that he was half British and almost hugged me. At last I had come--it was my third visit--at last I had torn myself away from that _sacré_ Paris and its flesh-pots and its paint-pots and its artificialities.

"Nothing is real in Paris, whether it be the smile on the painted lady's lips or the dream of the young poet. Here, in the midst of God's fields, there is no pretending, no shamming, no lying, none of your confounded idealism. All is solid, _mon gars_. Solid like that," and he thumped his chest to illustrate the argument.

"Bucéphale, too?" I queried with a laugh, as we fetched up beside the most ancient horse in the Department, drooping between the shafts of a springless cart. Needless to say, Bucéphale had been rechristened in his extreme old age.

"He is a living proof," cried Paragot, "of the solidity _rerum agrestium_. Look at him! Shew me a horse of his age in Paris. The Paris horses, like Youth in the poem, grow pale and spectre thin and die of premature decay. Here, _mon petit_," said he giving a sou to a blue bloused urchin who was restraining the impetuous Bucéphale from a wild gallop over the Eure et Loire, "when you have spent that come to La Haye and I will give you another."

He threw my bag into the cart, and we took our places on the plank that served as a seat.

"_En route_, Bucéphale!" cried Paragot, gathering up the reins. "Observe the kindly manners of the country. If I had addressed him like your Paris cabman with a '_Hue Cocotte!_' it would have wounded his susceptibilities."

Bucéphale started off jog-trot down the straight white road edged with poplars, while Paragot talked, and the sun blazed down upon us from a cobalt sky. All around the fertile plain laughed in the sunshine--a giant, contented laugh, like that of its broad-faced, broad-hipped daughters who greeted Paragot as we raced by at the rate of five miles an hour. Did I ever meet a Paris horse that went this speed? asked Paragot, and I answered him truthfully, "Never."

We stopped in a white-walled, red-roofed village, beside a tiny shop gloriously adorned with a gilt bull's head. The butcher's wife came out. "_Bonjour_, Monsieur Paragot."

"_Bonjour_, Madame Jolivet, have you a nice fatted calf for this young Prodigal from Paris? If you haven't, we can do with four kilos of good beef."

And the result of ten minutes talk was a great lump of raw meat, badly wrapped in newspaper, which Paragot, careless of my Paris clothes, thrust on my knees, while he continued to drive Bucéphale. I dropped the beef into the back of the cart. Paragot shook his head.

"To-morrow, my son, you shall be clothed in humility and shall clean out the cow pen."

"I should prefer to accept your original invitation, Master," said I, "and help with the corn."

For Paragot, besides Bucéphale and cows and ducks and pigs and fowls and a meadow or two, possessed a patch of cornfield of which he was passionately proud. He had sown it himself that spring and now was harvest. He pointed to it with his whip as soon as we came in sight of the farm.

"_My_ corn, my little Asticot. It is marvellous, eh? Who says that Berzélius Nibbidard Paragot can't make things grow? I was born to it. _Nom de Dieu_ I could make anything grow. I could plant your palette and it would come up a landscape. And _sacré mille cochons_, I have done the most miraculous thing of all. I am the father of a human being, a real live human being, my son. He is small as yet," he added apologetically, "but still he is alive. He has teeth, Asticot. It is the most remarkable thing in this astonishing universe."

The dim form of a woman standing with a child in her arms in front of a group of farm buildings across the fields to the right, gradually grew into the familiar figure of my dear Blanquette. She came down the road to meet us, her broad homely face beaming with gladness and in her eyes a new light of welcome. Narcisse trotted at her heels. The rheumatism of advancing years gave him a distinguished gait.

We sprang from the cart. Bucéphale left to himself regarded the family meeting with a grandfatherly air, until an earth-coloured nondescript emerged from the ground and led him off towards the house. After our embraces, we followed, Paragot dancing the delighted infant, Blanquette with her great motherly arm around my shoulders, and Narcisse soberly sniffing for adventure, after the manner of elderly dogs.

"Do you remember, Asticot?" said Blanquette. "Four of us started for Chambéry. Now five of us come to La Haye. _C'est drôle, hein?_"

"_Tu es contente?_" I asked.

Her arm tightened, and her eyes grew moist.

"_Mais oui_," she said in a low voice. Then she looked at Paragot and the child, a yard or two in front of us.

"He is the image of his father," she said almost reverentially.

I burst out laughing. Where the likeness lay between the chubby, snub-nosed, eighteen months old baby, and the hairy, battered Paragot, no human eye but Blanquette's could discover. I vowed he resembled a little Japanese idol.

"_Pauvre chéri_," said Blanquette, motherwise.

The house of Paragot was not a palace. It stood, low and whitewashed, amid a medley of little tumble-down erections, and was guarded on one side by cowsheds and on the other by the haystack. You stepped across the threshold into the kitchen. A door on the right gave access to the bedroom. A ladder connected with a hole in the roof enabled you to reach the cockloft, the guest room of the establishment. That was all. What on earth could man want more? asked Paragot. The old rep suite, the table with the American cloth, the coloured prints in gilt frames including the portrait of Garibaldi, the cheap deal bookcases holding Paragot's tattered classics, gave the place an air of familiar homeliness. A mattock, a gun and a cradle warred against old associations.

When we entered, the child began to whimper. Perhaps it did not approve of the gun. Like myself he may, in trembling fancy, have heard its owner cry: "I have an inspiration! Let us go out and shoot cows." Paragot found another reason.

"That infant's life is a perpetual rebellion against his name. I chose Triptolème. A beautiful name. If you look at him you see it written all over him. Blanquette was crazy for Thomas. In indignation I swore he should be christened Triptolème Onésime. Blanquette wept. I yielded. 'At least let him be called Didyme,' I pleaded. Didyme! There is something caressing about Didyme. Repeat it. 'Didyme.' But no. Blanquette wept louder. She wept so loud that all the ducks ran in to see whether I was murdering her----"

"It is not true!" protested Blanquette. "How can you say those things? You know they are not true."

"Her state was so terrible," continued my master, "that I sacrificed my son's destiny. Behold Thomas. I too would howl if I had such a name."

"He is hungry," said Blanquette, "and it is a very pretty name. He likes to hear it, _n'est-ce pas, mon petit Tho-Thom chéri_? There! He smiles."

"She is really convinced that he has heard her call him Thomas. Oh, woman!" said Paragot.

That evening, after we had feasted on cabbage-soup and the piece of beef which I had been too stuck-up to dandle on my knees, and clear brown cider, the three of us sat outside the house, in the warm August moonlight. Sinking into an infinitely far horizon stretched the fruitful plain of France, cornland and pasture, and near us the stacked sheaves of Paragot's corn stood quiet and pregnant symbols of the good earth's plenty. Here and there dark patches of orchard dreamed in a haze. Through one distant patch a farmhouse struck a muffled note of grey. On the left the ribbon of road glistened white between the sentinel poplars silhouetted against the sky. The hot smell of the earth filled the air like spice. A thousand elfin sounds, the vibration of leaves, the tiny crackling of cornstalks, the fairy whirr of ground insects, melted into a companionable stillness.

Blanquette half dozed, her head against Paragot's shoulder, as she had done that far-off evening of our return from Chambéry. The smoke from his porcelain pipe curled upwards through the still air. I was near enough to him on the other side, for him to lay his hand on my arm.

"My son," he whispered in English, "I was right when I said I had come to the end of my journey. Eventually I am right in everything. I prophesied that I would make little Augustus Smith a scholar and a gentleman. _Te voilà._ I knew that my long pilgrimage would ultimately lead me to the Inner Shrine. Isn't all this," he waved his pipe in a circular gesture, "the Holy of Holies of the Real? Is there any illusion in the unutterable poetry of the night? Is there anything false in this promise of the fruitful earth? My God! Asticot, I am happy! When the soul laughs tears come into the eyes. I have all that the heart of man can desire--the love of this dear wife of mine--the child asleep within doors--the printed wisdom of the world in a dozen tongues of men, caught up hap-hazard in what I once, in a failing hour, thought was my wildgoose chase after Truth--the pride in you, my little Asticot, the son of my adoption--and the most overpowering sleepiness that ever sat upon mortal eyelid."

He yawned. I protested. It was barely nine o'clock.

"It is bedtime," said Paragot. "We have to get up at five."

"Good Heavens, Master," said I, "why these unearthly hours?"

He laughed and quoted Candide.

"_Il faut cultiver notre jardin._"

"No," said the drowsy Blanquette at last understanding the conversation, "we have to cut the rest of the corn."

"It's all the same, my dear," said Paragot tenderly. "We were talking philosophy. Philosophy merely means the love of wisdom. And all that the wisdom of all the ages can tell us, is summed up in the last words of one of the wisest books that ever was written: 'We must cultivate our garden.'"

But how my dear erratic master has managed for years and years to cultivate the farm of La Haye and to bring up my godson in the fear of the Lord and the practice of land surveying is a proof that the late Mr. Matthew Arnold was hopelessly wrong in his categorical declaration that miracles do not happen.

THE END

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true picture of the Revolution. His whole story is
so absorbing that you will sit up far into the
night to finish it. As a love romance it is
charming.

=DARNLEY.= A Romance of the times of Henry VIII. and Cardinal Wolsey. By G. P. R. James. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.

As a historical romance "Darnley" is a book that
can be taken up pleasurably again and again, for
there is about it that subtle charm which those
who are strangers to the works of G. P. R. James
have claimed was only to be imparted by Dumas.

If there was nothing more about the work to
attract especial attention, the account of the
meeting of the kings on the historic "field of the
cloth of gold" would entitle the story to the most
favorable consideration of every reader.

There is really but little pure romance in this
story, for the author has taken care to imagine
love passages only between those whom history has
credited with having entertained the tender
passion one for another, and he succeeds in making
such lovers as all the world must love.

=WINDSOR CASTLE.= A Historical Romance of the Reign of Henry VIII., Catharine of Aragon and Anne Boleyn. By Wm. Harrison Ainsworth. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by George Cruikshank. Price $1.00.

"Windsor Castle" is the story of Henry VIII.,
Catharine, and Anne Boleyn. "Bluff King Hal,"
although a well-loved monarch, was none too good a
one in many ways. Of all his selfishness and
unwarrantable acts, none was more discreditable
than his divorce from Catharine, and his marriage
to the beautiful Anne Boleyn. The King's love was
as brief as it was vehement. Jane Seymour, waiting
maid on the Queen, attracted him, and Anne Boleyn
was forced to the block to make room for her
successor. This romance is one of extreme interest
to all readers.

=HORSESHOE ROBINSON.= A tale of the Tory Ascendency in South Carolina in 1780. By John P. Kennedy. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.

Among the old favorites in the field of what is
known as historical fiction, there are none which
appeal to a larger number of Americans than
Horseshoe Robinson, and this because it is the
only story which depicts with fidelity to the
facts the heroic efforts of the colonists in South
Carolina to defend their homes against the brutal
oppression of the British under such leaders as
Cornwallis and Tarleton.

The reader is charmed with the story of love which
forms the thread of the tale, and then impressed
with the wealth of detail concerning those times.
The picture of the manifold sufferings of the
people, is never overdrawn, but painted faithfully
and honestly by one who spared neither time nor
labor in his efforts to present in this charming
love story all that price in blood and tears which
the Carolinians paid as their share in the winning
of the republic.

Take it all in all, "Horseshoe Robinson" is a work
which should be found on every book-shelf, not
only because it is a most entertaining story, but
because of the wealth of valuable information
concerning the colonists which it contains. That
it has been brought out once more, well
illustrated, is something which will give pleasure
to thousands who have long desired an opportunity
to read the story again, and to the many who have
tried vainly in these latter days to procure a
copy that they might read it for the first time.

=THE PEARL OF ORR'S ISLAND.= A story of the Coast of Maine. By Harriet Beecher Stowe. Cloth, 12mo. Illustrated. Price, $1.00.

Written prior to 1862, the "Pearl of Orr's Island"
is ever new; a book filled with delicate fancies,
such as seemingly array themselves anew each time
one reads them. One sees the "sea like an unbroken
mirror all around the pine-girt, lonely shores of
Orr's Island," and straightway comes "the heavy,
hollow moan of the surf on the beach, like the
wild angry howl of some savage animal."

Who can read of the beginning of that sweet life,
named Mara, which came into this world under the
very shadow of the Death angel's wings, without
having an intense desire to know how the premature
bud blossomed? Again and again one lingers over
the descriptions of the character of that baby boy
Moses, who came through the tempest, amid the
angry billows, pillowed on his dead mother's
breast.

There is no more faithful portrayal of New England
life than that which Mrs. Stowe gives in "The
Pearl of Orr's Island."

=RICHELIEU.= A tale of France in the reign of King Louis XIII. By G. P. R. James. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.

In 1829 Mr. James published his first romance,
"Richelieu," and was recognized at once as one of
the masters of the craft.

In this book he laid the story during those later
days of the great cardinal's life, when his power
was beginning to wane, but while it was yet
sufficiently strong to permit now and then of
volcanic outbursts which overwhelmed foes and
carried friends to the topmost wave of prosperity.
One of the most striking portions of the story is
that of Cinq Mar's conspiracy; the method of
conducting criminal cases, and the political
trickery resorted to by royal favorites, affording
a better insight into the statecraft of that day
than can be had even by an exhaustive study of
history. It is a powerful romance of love and
diplomacy, and in point of thrilling and absorbing
interest has never been excelled.

=A COLONIAL FREE-LANCE.= A story of American Colonial Times. By Chauncey C. Hotchkiss. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.

A book that appeals to Americans as a vivid
picture of Revolutionary scenes. The story is a
strong one, a thrilling one. It causes the true
American to flush with excitement, to devour
chapter after chapter, until the eyes smart, and
it fairly smokes with patriotism. The love story
is a singularly charming idyl.

=THE TOWER OF LONDON.= A Historical Romance of the Times of Lady Jane Grey and Mary Tudor. By Wm. Harrison Ainsworth. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by George Cruikshank. Price, $1.00.

This romance of the "Tower of London" depicts the
Tower as palace, prison and fortress, with many
historical associations. The era is the middle of
the sixteenth century.

The story is divided into two parts, one dealing
with Lady Jane Grey, and the other with Mary Tudor
as Queen, introducing other notable characters of
the era. Throughout the story holds the interest
of the reader in the midst of intrigue and
conspiracy, extending considerably over a half a
century.

=IN DEFIANCE OF THE KING.= A Romance of the American Revolution. By Chauncey C. Hotchkiss. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.

Mr. Hotchkiss has etched in burning words a story
of Yankee bravery, and true love that thrills from
beginning to end, with the spirit of the
Revolution. The heart beats quickly, and we feel
ourselves taking a part in the exciting scenes
described. His whole story is so absorbing that
you will sit up far into the night to finish it.
As a love romance it is charming.

=GARTHOWEN.= A story of a Welsh Homestead. By Allen Raine. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.

"This is a little idyl of humble life and enduring
love, laid bare before us, very real and pure,
which in its telling shows us some strong points
of Welsh character--the pride, the hasty temper,
the quick dying out of wrath. . . . We call this
a well-written story, interesting alike through
its romance and its glimpses into another life
than ours. A delightful and clever picture of Welsh
village life. The result is excellent."--Detroit
Free Press.

=MIFANWY.= The story of a Welsh Singer. By Allan Raine. Cloth, 12mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00.

"This is a love story, simple, tender and pretty
as one would care to read. The action throughout
is brisk and pleasing; the characters, it is
apparent at once, are as true to life as though
the author had known them all personally. Simple
in all its situations, the story is worked up in
that touching and quaint strain which never grows
wearisome, no matter how often the lights and
shadows of love are introduced. It rings true, and
does not tax the imagination."--Boston Herald.

* * * * *

Transcriber's Notes:

Obvious punctuation errors repaired. Varied hyphenation was retained including to-morrow and tomorrow.

Page 84, "mattrass" changed to "mattress" (up on the mattress)

Page 141, "Berzelius" changed to "Berzélius" (His name is Berzélius)

Page 152, "quoedam" changed to "quædam" (falsa quædam esse)

Page 188, "exert" changed to "exerts" (English Parsonage exerts)

Page 205, "Vernueil" changed to "Verneuil" (Verneuil after an interval)

Page 220, "you" changed to "You" (made you. You)

Page 266, "Everbody" changed to "Everybody" (Everybody came to dance)

Page 305, "Afred" changed to "Alfred" (By Alfred Henry Lewis)

Page 308, word "to" inserted into text (be of interest to)

End of Project Gutenberg's The Belovéd Vagabond, by William J. Locke