Chapter VI: The Man of Clermont-Ferrand

The sun had just risen over the pretty town of Clermont-Ferrand, and the toiling portion of its people had already betaken themselves to their work. In front of the post-house servants were plucking chickens, farm-hands threshing grain, children leading horses to drink, some travellers drinking the stirrup-cup, dealers, who made regular visits to Clermont, clinking glasses with the inn-keeper, and postilions kissing the maid-servants, who struggled and submitted as the custom is in all lands.

About two hundred paces from the inn, a man was carelessly reclining on a stone bench, surveying with cold indifference the scene before him; and, as he turned his eyes this way and that, his mind seemed rather engrossed by memories of the past than awake to impressions of the present. This man, whose costume denoted poverty, aye, vagabondage, seemed to be from forty-five to fifty years old; but the disorder of his costume, a beard of more than a month’s growth, and unkempt black hair, some of which fell over his face, made it difficult to divine his age. However, despite his disordered hair, and beneath the dilapidated hat that covered his head, one could distinguish features that must once have been handsome: a well-shaped nose, a mouth of medium size, but almost entirely toothless, gracefully arched black eyebrows, and large brown eyes, the usual expression of which was ironical and harmonized with the mocking smile which, from time to time, played about his lips. His figure was tall and shapely. In short, although clad in a pair of shabby gray trousers, a red waistcoat covered with stains, and a full nut-colored redingote, patched in several places with a different material; with worn-out boots, full of holes, on his feet, and a blue kerchief twisted carelessly about his neck for a cravat, there was something in the man’s aspect which indicated that he was not of vulgar birth, and in his whole manner, a suggestion of ease, almost of pride, which formed a striking contrast to his costume.

After remaining for some minutes stretched out on the stone bench, the stranger rose, pushed his hair back under his hat, and, taking up a huge knotted stick which stood by his side, walked with a decided step toward the inn, which he entered with head erect, like a man travelling for pleasure. He turned into the common room, seated himself at an oilcloth-covered table, and knocked loudly thereon with his stick.

A maid answered his call. Although inn-keepers are accustomed to entertain all sorts and conditions of men, the traveller’s costume was not prepossessing, and as it is not customary to stand on ceremony with guests who appear to be unfortunate, the girl began by asking sharply why he made so much noise banging the table with his stick.

"Because I choose to, my dear," replied the newcomer in a loud voice, with a threatening glance at the servant. "You should come more quickly to wait on me, and then I should not need to knock so loud. You saw me come in, as you were in the doorway. Why didn’t you come at once to ask me what I wanted?"

The servant, not expecting to be taken to task thus by a man so shabbily dressed, was covered with confusion, and replied, twisting her apron:

"Why! because--because----"

"Parbleu! because I didn’t arrive in a carriage, and because I am not dressed with great care! But what does that matter! So long as I pay for what I order, there is nothing for you to say. Come, bring me some bread and cheese, and a jug of wine--quickly, for I am hungry."

The girl turned away, muttering:

"What a fuss he makes for bread and cheese!"

However, she made haste to serve the stranger, who breakfasted with a hearty appetite and demeaned himself before his bit of cheese as if he were feasting on truffled turkey. But the other travellers in the common room, who were breakfasting more sumptuously, did not venture to turn their eyes too often in the direction of the latest arrival, for there was something in his expression which seemed to indicate that he would not take malicious jests in too good part. There is a species of poverty which is able to impose respect, just as there is a sort of opulence which is never respectable.

Meanwhile the servant had told her master about their latest guest, and the host, who was a very inquisitive and very loquacious individual, and gave himself a great many airs, although he was not so tall as his wife, even with his nightcap, came trotting into the room with a smiling face. He spoke a word with several of the travellers, eying the stranger askance all the while; then, after walking around him three times, decided to accost him, and said, leaning against the table at which he was taking his repast:

"Well! you don’t find my light wine very bad, I fancy?"

The stranger, without looking at his host, replied after a moment, with the mocking smile familiar to him:

"Whether I find it good or bad, I must drink it, I suppose?"

"Oh! to be sure! Still, if you wanted something better, I might----"

"If I wanted other wine, I shouldn’t have waited for your permission to order it."

"True; but----"

"But I am not so particular now!"

"Not so particular now?--Ah! I understand: that means that you used to be--eh?"

The stranger looked up at the inn-keeper, and after gazing fixedly at him for several seconds, observed:

"There is something that you used to be, still are, and probably always will be!"

Thereupon the inn-keeper fastened his little red eyes on the strange guest’s, as if trying to understand him; but, after cudgelling his brains in vain, he said:

"I don’t catch your meaning at all. Are you a fortune teller?"

The stranger shrugged his shoulders and returned to his bread and cheese, making no further reply.

"Do you expect to stay for some time in our town?" continued the inn-keeper after a moment. "I have no idea; if it amuses me to stay here, I shall stay."

"To be sure!--Oh! you will see some pretty things here: a magnificent botanical garden, a fine college, and our bridge, formed by the calcareous deposits from the water of a spring!--I say nothing of our apricot pies; you don’t seem to care for sweetmeats. But you will be surprised, amazed, by the beauty of the neighborhood!"

"Nothing surprises or amazes me now."

"Oh! that makes a difference.--By the way, do you intend to sleep here?"

The stranger did not answer this question; he passed his hand across his brow and seemed to reflect; at last he asked the landlord:

"Are there none of the Granval family left in this town?"

"The Granval family!" rejoined the astonished host; "what! did you ever know them? They were very rich people, the Granvals! very highly esteemed and----"

"I know what they were; I ask you if there are any of the family still here?"

"No, not one. Monsieur Granval the elder died about five years ago, leaving a son and a daughter. The son enjoyed very poor health; it didn’t do him any good to take the waters at Mont d’Or--they didn’t make him any stouter. He took it into his head to marry, and that finished him; he died two years ago. As for the daughter, she married a merchant and went to Italy with him."

The stranger listened with his elbows on the table and his head resting on his hands. When the inn-keeper had ceased to speak, he uttered a fierce oath, then muttered:

"Some are dead, the others have left the country! How everything changes in a few years, how everybody disappears!"

"Did you have a commission for the Granval family?" inquired the landlord, seating himself opposite the traveller, who, without heeding the question, said a moment later:

"After all, even if I had found him, he would have been no better than the rest. Everyone for himself--that’s the natural order. So much the worse for those who make fools of themselves, who allow themselves to be fleeced! It is no more than right to laugh at them.--But I defy them now! I am above them, I despise them all! And I shall be able to do without them."

"You will do without them?" said the inn-keeper, thinking that his guest was addressing him. "Oh! that’s all right, if you can. But I didn’t quite understand who you said that----"

"How much do I owe you?" demanded the stranger, rising abruptly.

"How much do you owe? Oh! it won’t take long to reckon: bread, cheese, wine--that makes twelve sous in all."

The stranger took twelve sous from a pocket of his jacket, and tossed them on the table; then, producing a pipe and tobacco from a coat pocket, he filled his pipe and said to the inn-keeper:

"Where is there a light?"

"A light--to light your pipe?"

"Apparently."

"Parbleu! there’s fire in the kitchen; it’s never cold here.--But you haven’t told me whether----"

The stranger was not listening. He went into the kitchen, lighted his pipe and placed it in his mouth; then he walked slowly from the inn and resumed his seat on the stone bench, where he smoked as placidly as a Mussulman seated luxuriously on soft cushions.

"That’s a devil of a fellow!" said the inn-keeper as he watched him walk away. "He smokes--I should say that he’s an old soldier. What the devil did he want of the Granvals? He ended by saying that he despised them!--Never mind; I did well to sit down with him; if he comes back, I’ll make him talk some more."

The stranger, having passed the whole morning on the stone bench, did in fact return to the inn about two o’clock. He ordered bread and cheese once more, but drank only water. The inn-keeper hovered about him and asked him several questions, trying to enter into conversation; but the stranger seemed indisposed to talk. He ate his bread and cheese without answering the questions, paid for his meagre repast, filled his pipe, lighted it, and left the inn; but this time he went down the street instead of returning to the stone bench.

"He’s a wretched customer!" said the inn-keeper when he had gone.

"And for all that," said the servant, "he puts on as many airs as a marquis! He gives his orders and talks as if he owned the place! He’d do well to shave, instead of stuffing himself with cheese!"

"Is he still sitting on the stone bench opposite, Marie?"

"No, monsieur, he went down the street."

"Then we probably shan’t see him again."

"Good riddance!"

The inn-keeper was mistaken; about eight in the evening he saw the poorly dressed stranger reënter the common room, with his knotted stick.

"Hallo! here’s the cheese-man again!" muttered the servant. But her master motioned to her to hold her peace, for he feared to offend the traveller. The latter seated himself at a table, and ordered bread, cheese and a small glass of eau-de-vie. He was served promptly and ate his bread and cheese without speaking; but when he asked how much he owed, the landlord, who was burning to question him, stepped forward and said, courteously removing his cap:

"Do you not intend to sleep here?"

"Sleep here!" echoed the stranger; "no, that isn’t necessary; I can sleep quite as well in the fields, and it costs nothing; whereas, if I slept in your house, I should have to pay, should I not?"

"Why, that’s the custom; you understand of course that we can’t supply our----"

"Very good! very good! Have I asked you to give me anything for nothing?"

"No, monsieur, I didn’t say that; but----"

"But keep your tongue still then, and let me rest in peace."

The inn-keeper angrily replaced his cap, and the stranger took his leave, after paying his bill.

"I begin to believe that this eater of cheese is nothing but a vagrant," said the host, when he was certain that the stranger was at a safe distance. "A man who sleeps in the fields--that’s rather suspicious. I am sorry he didn’t take a room here, because then he would have had to tell me his name."

"Oh! he’s all right," said a little man who had entered the common room just as the traveller went out. "When he arrived in town he went at once to monsieur le maire, to show his papers."

"Ah! so you know that man, do you, Monsieur Benoît?" asked the inn-keeper, walking toward the newcomer.

Monsieur Benoît caressed his chin, shook his head to give himself importance, and replied:

"Yes, I have met him several times about the town; he has been here at least a week."

"What’s his name?"

"I don’t know that; but I think that he’s a man who has been rich, who has squandered everything and has nothing left."

"And what does he do now?"

"Why, you have seen: he walks about, rests and smokes; but he talks very little."

"Oh! I have no questions to ask him; he has paid for everything he has had here; but he’s very shabbily dressed.--I say, Monsieur Benoît, you must agree that that isn’t the costume of a man who owns consols."

"I didn’t say that he was rich now; I said that I believed that he had been rich, which is a very different matter."

They discussed the stranger for some time longer; but the arrival of new guests caused them to forget the man of meagre repasts.

The next morning, at daybreak, the stranger was stretched out on the stone bench once more, opposite the inn. He seemed less engrossed by his own thoughts and watched the travellers who arrived from time to time; more than once, indeed, he started up, as if he would accost one of them; but he soon fell back on the bench, and his features assumed an expression of distress.

About noon he entered the inn and ate as sparingly as on the previous day. Then he took his head in his hands, and remained at the table as if buried in thought. He had been a long while in that posture, even the host himself not daring to disturb him, when there was a great uproar in front of the inn. A post-chaise had arrived. Three young men and a servant alighted, and the servants of the inn, as well as the host, ran out to welcome Robineau and his two travelling companions; for they were the new arrivals.

"Ah! Bless my soul! but I am stiff!" said Robineau; "it’s quite right to talk about travelling fast by post. How we did go, messieurs! The towns and villages fled behind us!"

"It would be more accurate to say that we fled before them."

"It’s fine, it’s great fun to travel fast.--Oh! my legs!--Take good care of my trunks and parcels, François!"

"Well, monsieur l’aubergiste, give us something good to eat--the best you have. I am as hungry as a hawk! What do you say, Edouard?"

"So am I. The air in this part of the country seems most invigorating."

"And you, Robineau--aren’t you in appetite?"

Robineau pulled Alfred’s coat-tail and said in an undertone:

"Pray don’t call me Robineau again, my friend; you know very well that it is no longer my name. I am Jules de la Roche-Noire."

"The devil! as if I could remember that! Well, Monsieur Jules Robineau de la Roche-Noire, do you not feel disposed to adjourn to the table?"

"I shall have no appetite, my dear fellow, until I reach my château."

"This château of yours will end by making you ill, my poor boy."

The three young men having entered the common room, their loud conversation caused the stranger to raise his eyes, and he examined them without changing his position.

"Messieurs, messieurs, don’t sit down here, for heaven’s sake!" said Robineau, who had just discovered the stranger; "we can’t stay in this room--people like us! Don’t you see? Pretty company, isn’t it?"

"Faith!" said Alfred, taking a seat, "when I travel, I am philosophical; and so long as the dinner is good----"

But Robineau shouted, called, made an uproar, and the host appeared, cap in hand.

"Give us a private room," said Robineau; "it seems to me, monsieur l’aubergiste, that you should be more careful and not put us with--with everybody."

"Your table is being laid on the first floor, messieurs; and if you will walk upstairs----"

"Yes, to be sure."

"Will the gentlemen sleep here?"

"No! no, indeed! we sleep at my estate of La Roche-Noire."

At that name the stranger raised his head and looked closely at Robineau, who continued:

"You must know that château, monsieur l’aubergiste?"

"La Roche-Noire? no, monsieur. I know the village of La Roche-Blanche, which is about two leagues from here."

"I say, Robineau," laughed Alfred, "perhaps you are mistaken; maybe you’re lord of La Roche-Blanche."

"Not at all; I have my title deeds; I am perfectly sure that it’s _Noire_.--However, what estates are there at La Roche-Blanche?"

"Oh! most of the people live in caves, monsieur; in a sort of caverns, dug out of the cliffs."

"You see, messieurs, that there’s no resemblance--caverns! And I have a magnificent château!--You know the town of Saint-Amand, I trust?"

"Saint-Amand-Talende? Yes, messieurs; it’s but a few leagues from here."

"Well, my château is near there; it must be visible from a distance, because----"

"Oh! let us go to our dinner, for God’s sake!" cried Alfred. "Your château has given me indigestion already, before I have seen it."

"Yes, yes, let us not stay here."

As he spoke, Robineau cast a contemptuous glance at the stranger, who, instead of lowering his eyes, frowned and looked after the Seigneur de la Roche-Noire. That gentleman made haste to leave the room, saying to the inn-keeper:

"Why do you have people like that in your house?"

"Like what, monsieur?"

"Parbleu! like that beggar who is sitting in your common room, and who didn’t even rise when we came in."

"He is not a beggar, monsieur, he’s a traveller."

"Well, he’s a very neat, attractive person, your traveller! He has a most insolent air, too; and if I hadn’t been afraid of--of compromising myself, I would have taught him that that isn’t the way to look at a man like me."

"Oh! Robineau, don’t play the fire-eater, I beg," said Alfred, seating himself at the table; "since you have had a château, you want to intimidate and crush everybody. Do you think that wealth gives you the right to play the master everywhere?"

"There’s no question of that. I want to be treated politely, that’s all. It seems to me that that isn’t too much to ask."

"But were you very polite yourself, Monsieur Jules, to that poor fellow?" asked Edouard. "As soon as you saw him, you insisted on leaving the room. He probably noticed the scornful glances you cast at him. The unfortunate are more sensitive than other people, because they constantly dread humiliation."

"Bah! let us not talk about that man any more. In truth, I have too many things on my mind to pay attention to such creatures. Let us eat quickly, messieurs, so that we may arrive at my place the sooner."

"Choke yourself to death, if you choose; I propose to dine quietly. Remember that it’s only two o’clock! we have plenty of time!"

"But why go on foot? Let us keep the carriage, and we will hire other horses."

"Oh! we are tired of being in a carriage; it will be much pleasanter to walk these last two or three leagues and admire the landscape and the peasant women; for you must find out what sort of neighbors you have to deal with."

"Then we will leave the chaise and our luggage here, and I will send my people to fetch them to-morrow.--However, messieurs, I am going to send François ahead, to have our apartments made ready."

"Send François ahead, if you choose."

Robineau left the table and went in search of his valet; he led him aside and said to him:

"François, you are to go on to my château in advance of us."

"Yes, monsieur. Where is it, monsieur?"

"Take the Saint-Amand road and inquire. Parbleu! it must be well known."

"Oh, yes! I will find it, monsieur."

"You will tell the concierge that his new master will soon arrive, with two young gentlemen of his acquaintance."

"Yes, monsieur."

"You will tell him to make all preparations to receive us--in a fitting manner."

"Yes, monsieur; I will tell him to make the beds."

"You will give him to understand, as if it were your own idea, that I am not insensible to compliments, and that it would be well for him to make me a speech."

"Yes, monsieur, I will tell him that you told me you would not be insensible to a speech."

"No, you idiot! Don’t say that I told you that, but that you guessed it."

"Oh! I understand, monsieur."

"Then, François, you will go about the neighborhood, to all the peasants, and tell them also of my arrival; you will impress upon them that I am very rich, a very great man."

"Must I say that you are great?"

"I mean generous; that I intend to make _rosières_."

"Yes, monsieur, I will tell them that you intend to have _rosières_ made for them."

"And that if they should bring me bouquets, if they should give me a little reception, with a discharge of firearms and shouts and dances, it could not fail to give me pleasure."

"Very well, monsieur; I will tell them that you want a reception that you don’t know anything about."

"Yes, that’s just it; in short, François, stir all the people up."

"Yes, monsieur, never fear; you shall be satisfied."

François started for La Roche-Noire, and Robineau, enchanted with his idea, went upstairs again to his two companions, rubbing his hands. He hurried them so that at last they left the table and went down to the courtyard. The stranger was filling his pipe.

"We are going," said Robineau; "we leave my travelling chaise here, with our trunks and luggage, monsieur l’aubergiste. François, my valet, will come to-morrow to get everything, with a horse to draw the carriage; these gentlemen wish to walk the rest of the way."

"Oh! you are going to see a beautiful country, messieurs."

"Yes, but it would be well for us to know in which direction we must go."

"There’s a pleasant crossroad through the mountains to Saint-Saturnin, which is only half a league from Saint-Amand; and then there’s the main road to Issoire and Saint-Flour."

"No; no main roads," said Edouard; "we want something varied, picturesque, even terrible!"

"One moment, messieurs; I don’t propose to walk on the brink of precipices, myself! Perhaps it would be wiser to take a guide through this region, with which we are entirely unacquainted."

The stranger, having overheard Robineau’s last words, suddenly approached the three young men, and said, without removing his hat:

"If you need a guide, messieurs, I can serve you; for I have done nothing but stroll about the neighborhood for a week, and I am beginning to know it well."

Alfred and Edouard hesitated; but Robineau, to whom the stranger’s face was most unpleasant, replied hastily:

"No, no, we don’t need anybody. I was joking; we are big enough to find our way ourselves."

"As you please," the stranger replied; and, putting his pipe in his mouth, he walked away from the inn. A few moments later, the three young men, having commended their effects to the inn-keeper’s care, left Clermont, and took the crossroad said to lead to Saint-Amand.