The White House Part 18

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 gla.s.ses 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 ap.r.o.n:

"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 appet.i.te 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 pa.s.sed 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----"