Part 9

“Come, up with you, Parisian! This is just like you sluggards from the capital!” said my host, while I hastily dressed myself. “It is eight o’clock, and you are still in bed! I have been up since six. This is the third time I have come upstairs; I came to your door on tiptoe; not a sound, not a sign of life. It will injure you to sleep too much at your age. And you haven’t seen my Venus yet! Come, drink this cup of Barcelona chocolate quickly. Genuine contraband, such chocolate as you don’t get in Paris. You must lay up some strength, for, when you once stand in front of my Venus, I shall not be able to tear you away from her.”

In five minutes I was ready--that is to say, half shaved, my clothes half buttoned, and my throat scalded by the chocolate, which I had swallowed boiling hot. I went down into the garden and found myself before a really beautiful statue.

It was, in truth, a Venus, and wonderfully lovely. The upper part of the body was nude, as the ancients ordinarily represented the great divinities; the right hand, raised as high as the breast, was turned with the palm inward, the thumb and first two fingers extended, the other two slightly bent. The other hand was near the hip and held the drapery that covered the lower part of the body. The pose of the statue recalled that of the Morra Player, usually known, I know not why, by the name of Germanicus. Perhaps the sculptor intended to represent the goddess playing the game of morra.

However that may be, it is impossible to imagine anything more perfect than the body of that Venus; anything more harmonious, more voluptuous than her outlines, anything more graceful and more dignified than her drapery. I expected to see some work of the later Empire; I saw a _chef-d’œuvre_ of the best period of statuary. What especially struck me was the exquisite verisimilitude of the forms, which one might have believed to have been moulded from nature, if nature ever produced such flawless models.

The hair, which was brushed back from the forehead, seemed to have been gilded formerly. The head, which was small, like those of almost all Greek statues, was bent slightly forward. As for the face, I shall never succeed in describing its peculiar character; it was of a type which in no wise resembled that of any antique statue that I can remember. It was not the tranquil, severe beauty of the Greek sculptors, who systematically imparted a majestic immobility to all the features. Here, on the contrary, I observed with surprise a clearly marked intention on the part of the artist to express mischievousness amounting almost to deviltry. All the features were slightly contracted; the eyes were a little oblique, the corners of the mouth raised, the nostrils a little dilated. Disdain, irony, cruelty could be read upon that face, which none the less was inconceivably lovely. In truth, the more one looked at that marvellous statue, the more distressed one felt at the thought that such wonderful beauty could be conjoined to utter absence of sensibility.

“If the model ever existed,” I said to M. de Peyrehorade,--“and I doubt whether Heaven ever produced such a woman--how I pity her lovers! She must have delighted in driving them to death from despair. There is something downright savage in her expression, and yet I never have seen anything so beautiful!”

“’T is Venus all intent upon her prey!” quoted M. de Peyrehorade, delighted with my enthusiasm.

That expression of infernal irony was heightened perhaps by the contrast between the very brilliant silver eyes and the coating of blackish green with which time had overlaid the whole statue. Those gleaming eyes created a certain illusion which suggested reality, life. I remembered what my guide had said, that she made those who looked at her lower their eyes. That was almost true, and I could not help feeling angry with myself as I realised that I was perceptibly ill at ease before that bronze figure.

“Now that you have admired her in every detail, my dear colleague in antiquarian research,” said my host, “let us open a scientific conference, if you please. What do you say to this inscription, which you have not noticed as yet?”

He pointed to the base of the statue, and I read there these words:

CAVE AMANTEM.

“_Quid dicis, doctissime?_” (“What do you say, most learned of men?”) he asked, rubbing his hands. “Let us see if we shall agree as to the meaning of this _cave amantem_.”

“Why, there are two possible meanings,” I said. “It may be translated: ‘Beware of him who loves you--distrust lovers.’ But I am not sure that _cave amantem_ would be good Latin in that sense. In view of the lady’s diabolical expression, I should be inclined to believe rather that the artist meant to put the spectator on his guard against that terrible beauty. So that I should translate: ‘Look out for yourself if _she_ loves you.’”

“Humph!” ejaculated M. de Peyrehorade; “yes, that is a possible translation; but, with all respect, I prefer the first, which I will develop a little, however. You know who Venus’s lover was?”

“She had several.”

“Yes, but the first one was Vulcan. Did not the artist mean to say: ‘Despite all your beauty, and your scornful air, you shall have a blacksmith, a wretched cripple, for a lover’? A solemn lesson for coquettes, monsieur!”

I could not help smiling, the interpretation seemed to me so exceedingly far-fetched.

“The Latin is a terrible language, with its extraordinary conciseness,” I observed, to avoid contradicting my antiquary directly; and I stepped back a few steps, to obtain a better view of the statue.

“One moment, colleague!” said M. de Peyrehorade, seizing my arm, “you have not seen all. There is still another inscription. Stand on the pedestal and look at the right arm.”

As he spoke, he helped me to climb up.

I clung somewhat unceremoniously to the neck of the Venus, with whom I was beginning to feel on familiar terms. I even looked her in the eye for an instant, and I found her still more diabolical and still lovelier at close quarters. Then I saw that there were some letters, in what I took to be the antique cursive hand, engraved on the right arm. With the aid of a strong glass I spelled out what follows, M. de Peyrehorade repeating each word as I pronounced it, and expressing his approbation with voice and gesture. I read:

VENERI TVRBVL--

EVTYCHES MYRO

IMPERIO FECIT

After the word _tvrbvl_ in the first line several letters seemed to have become effaced, but _tvrbvl_ was perfectly legible.

“Which means?”--queried my host, with a beaming face, and winking maliciously, for he had a shrewd idea that I would not easily handle that _tvrbvl_.

“There is one word here which I do not understand as yet,” I said; “all the rest is simple. ‘Eutyches made this offering to Venus by her order.’”

“Excellent. But what do you make of _tvrbvl_? What is _tvrbvl_?”

“_Tvrbvl_ puzzles me a good deal. I have tried in vain to think of some known epithet of Venus to assist me. What would you say to _Turbulenta_? Venus, who disturbs, who excites--as you see, I am still engrossed by her evil expression. _Turbulenta_ is not a very inapt epithet for Venus,” I added modestly, for I was not very well satisfied myself with my explanation.

“Turbulent Venus! Venus the roisterer! Ah! so you think that my Venus is a wine-shop Venus, do you? Not by any means, monsieur; she is a Venus in good society. But I will explain this _tvrbvl_ to you. Of course you will promise not to divulge my discovery before my memoir is printed. You see, I am very proud of this find of mine. You must leave us poor devils in the provinces a few spears to glean. You are so rich, you Parisian scholars!”

From the top of the pedestal, whereon I was still perched, I solemnly promised him that I would never be guilty of the baseness of stealing his discovery.

“_Tvrbvl_--monsieur,” he said, coming nearer to me and lowering his voice, for fear that some other than myself might hear--“read _tvrbvlneræ_.”

“I don’t understand any better.”

“Listen. About a league from here, at the foot of the mountain, is a village called Boulternère. That name is a corruption of the Latin word _Turbulnera_. Nothing is more common than such inversions. Boulternère, monsieur, was a Roman city. I have always suspected as much, but I have never had a proof of it. Here is the proof. This Venus was the local divinity of the city of Boulternère; and this word Boulternère, whose antique origin I have just demonstrated, proves something even more interesting--namely, that Boulternère, before it became a Roman city, was a Phœnician city!”

He paused a moment to take breath and to enjoy my surprise. I succeeded in restraining a very strong inclination to laugh.

“It is a fact,” he continued, “_Turbulnera_ is pure Phœnician; _Tur_, pronounced _Tour_--_Tour_ and _Sour_ are the same word, are they not? _Sour_ is the Phœnician name of Tyre; I do not need to remind you of its meaning. _Bul_ is Baal; Bal, Bel, Bul--slight differences in pronunciation. As for _nera_--that gives me a little trouble. I am inclined to believe, failing to find a Phœnician word, that it comes from the Greek word νηρός, damp, swampy. In that case the word would be a hybrid. To justify my suggestion of νηρός, I will show you that at Boulternère the streams from the mountain form miasmatic pools. On the other hand, the termination _nera_ may have been added much later, in honour of Nera Pivesuvia, wife of Tetricus, who may have had some property in the city of Turbul. But on account of the pools I prefer the etymology from νηρός.”

And he took a pinch of snuff with a self-satisfied air.

“But let us leave the Phœnicians and return to the inscription. I translate then: ‘To Venus of Boulternère, Myron, at her command, dedicates this statue, his work.’”

I had no idea of criticising his etymology, but I did desire to exhibit some little penetration on my own part; so I said to him:

“Stop there a moment, monsieur. Myron dedicated something, but I see nothing to indicate that it was this statue.”

“What!” he cried, “was not Myron a famous Greek sculptor? The talent probably was handed down in the family; it was one of his descendants who executed this statue. Nothing can be more certain.”

“But,” I rejoined, “I see a little hole in the arm. I believe that it was made to fasten something to--a bracelet, perhaps, which this Myron presented to Venus as an expiatory offering.--Myron was an unsuccessful lover; Venus was irritated with him and he appeased her by consecrating a gold bracelet to her. Observe that _fecit_ is very often used in the sense of _consecravit_; they are synonymous terms. I could show you more than one example of what I say if I had Gruter or Orellius at hand. It would be quite natural for a lover to see Venus in a dream and to fancy that she ordered him to give a gold bracelet to her statue. So Myron consecrated a bracelet to her; then the barbarians, or some sacrilegious thief----”

“Ah! it is easy to see that you have written novels!” cried my host, giving me his hand to help me descend. “No, monsieur, it is a work of the school of Myron. Look at the workmanship simply and you will agree.”

Having made it a rule never to contradict outright an obstinate antiquarian, I hung my head with the air of one fully persuaded, saying:

“It’s an admirable thing.”

“Ah! mon Dieu!” cried M. de Peyrehorade; “still another piece of vandalism! Somebody must have thrown a stone at my statue!”

He had just discovered a white mark a little above Venus’s breast. I observed a similar mark across the fingers of the right hand, which I then supposed had been grazed by the stone; or else that a fragment of the stone had been broken off by the blow and had bounded against the hand. I told my host about the insult that I had witnessed, and the speedy retribution that had followed. He laughed heartily, and, comparing the apprentice to Diomedes, expressed a hope that, like the Grecian hero, he might see all his companions transformed into birds.

The breakfast bell interrupted this classical conversation, and I was again obliged, as on the preceding day, to eat for four. Then M. de Peyrehorade’s farmers appeared; and while he gave audience to them, his son took me to see a calèche which he had bought at Toulouse for his fiancée, and which I admired, it is needless to say. Then I went with him into the stable, where he kept me half an hour, boasting of his horses, giving me their genealogies, and telling me of the prizes they had won at various races in the province. At last he reached the subject of his future wife, by a natural transition from a gray mare he intended for her.

“We shall see her to-day,” he said. “I do not know whether you will think her pretty; but everybody here and at Perpignan considers her charming. The best thing about her is that she’s very rich. Her aunt at Prades left her all her property. Oh! I am going to be very happy.”

I was intensely disgusted to see a young man more touched by the dowry than by the _beaux yeux_ of his betrothed.

“You know something about jewels,” continued M. Alphonse; “what do you think of this one? This is the ring that I am going to give her to-morrow.”

As he spoke, he took from the first joint of his little finger a huge ring with many diamonds, made in the shape of two clasped hands; an allusion which seemed to me exceedingly poetical. The workmanship was very old, but I judged that it had been changed somewhat to allow the diamonds to be set. On the inside of the ring were these words in Gothic letters: _Sempr’ ab ti_; that is to say, “Always with thee.”

“It is a handsome ring,” I said, “but these diamonds have taken away something of its character.”

“Oh! it is much handsomer so,” he replied, with a smile. “There are twelve hundred francs’ worth of diamonds. My mother gave it to me. It was a very old family ring--of the times of chivalry. It belonged to my grandmother, who had it from hers. God knows when it was made.”

“The custom in Paris,” I said, “is to give a very simple ring, usually made of two different metals, as gold and platinum, for instance. See, that other ring, which you wear on this finger, would be most suitable. This one, with its diamonds and its hands in relief, is so big that one could not wear a glove over it.”

“Oh! Madame Alphonse may arrange that as she pleases. I fancy that she will be very glad to have it all the same. Twelve hundred francs on one’s finger is very pleasant. This little ring,” he added, glancing fatuously at the plain one which he wore, “was given me by a woman in Paris one Mardi Gras. Ah! how I did go it when I was in Paris two years ago! That’s the place where one enjoys one’s self!”

And he heaved a sigh of regret.

We were to dine that day at Puygarrig with the bride’s parents; we drove in the calèche to the château, about a league and a half from Ille. I was presented and made welcome as a friend of the family. I will say nothing of the dinner or of the conversation which followed it, and in which I took little part. M. Alphonse, seated beside his fiancée, said a word in her ear every quarter of an hour. As for her, she hardly raised her eyes, and whenever her future husband addressed her she blushed modestly, but replied without embarrassment.

Mademoiselle de Puygarrig was eighteen years of age; her supple and delicate figure formed a striking contrast to the bony frame of her athletic fiancé. She was not only lovely, but fascinating. I admired the perfect naturalness of all her replies; and her good-humoured air, which however was not exempt from a slight tinge of mischief, reminded me, in spite of myself, of my host’s Venus. As I made this comparison mentally, I asked myself whether the superiority in the matter of beauty which I could not choose but accord to the statue, did not consist in large measure in her tigress-like expression; for energy, even in evil passions, always arouses in us a certain surprise and a sort of involuntary admiration.

“What a pity,” I said to myself as we left Puygarrig, “that such an attractive person should be rich, and that her dowry should cause her to be sought in marriage by a man who is unworthy of her!”

On the way back to Ille, finding some difficulty in talking with Madame de Peyrehorade, whom, however, I thought it only courteous to address now and then, I exclaimed:

“You are very strong-minded here in Roussillon! To think of having a wedding on a Friday, madame! We are more superstitious in Paris; no one would dare to take a wife on that day.”

“Mon Dieu! don’t mention it,” said she; “if it had depended on me, they certainly would have chosen another day. But Peyrehorade would have it so, and I had to give way to him. It distresses me, however. Suppose anything should happen? There must surely be some reason for the superstition, for why else should every one be afraid of Friday?”

“Friday!” cried her husband; “Friday is Venus’s day! A splendid day for a wedding! You see, my dear colleague, I think of nothing but my Venus. On my honour, it was on her account that I chose a Friday. To-morrow, if you are willing, before the wedding, we will offer a little sacrifice to her; we will sacrifice two pigeons, if I can find any incense.”

“For shame, Peyrehorade!” his wife interposed, scandalised to the last degree. “Burn incense to an idol! That would be an abomination! What would people in the neighbourhood say about you?”

“At least,” said M. de Peyrehorade, “you will allow me to place a wreath of roses and lilies on her head:

“‘Manibus date lilia plenis.’

The charter, you see, monsieur, is an empty word; we have no freedom of worship!”

The order of ceremonies for the following day was thus arranged: everybody was to be fully dressed and ready at precisely ten o’clock. After taking a cup of chocolate, we were to drive to Puygarrig. The civil ceremony would take place at the mayor’s office of that village, and the religious ceremony in the chapel of the château. Then there would be a breakfast. After that, we were to pass the time as best we could until seven o’clock, when we were to return to Ille, to M. de Peyrehorade’s, where the two families were to sup together. The rest followed as a matter of course. Being unable to dance, the plan was to eat as much as possible.

At eight o’clock I was already seated in front of the Venus, pencil in hand, beginning for the twentieth time to draw the head of the statue, whose expression I was still absolutely unable to catch. M. de Peyrehorade hovered about me, gave me advice, and repeated his Phœnician etymologies; then he arranged some Bengal roses on the pedestal of the statue, and in a tragi-comic tone addressed supplications to it for the welfare of the couple who were to live under his roof. About nine o’clock he returned to the house to dress, and at the same time M. Alphonse appeared, encased in a tightly fitting new coat, white gloves, patent-leather shoes, and carved buttons, with a rose in his buttonhole.

“Will you paint my wife’s portrait?” he asked, leaning over my drawing; “she is pretty, too.”

At that moment a game of tennis began on the court I have mentioned, and it immediately attracted M. Alphonse’s attention. And I myself, being rather tired, and hopeless of being able to reproduce that diabolical face, soon left my drawing to watch the players. Among them were several Spanish muleteers who had arrived in the town the night before. There were Aragonese and Navarrese, almost all wonderfully skillful at the game. So that the men of Ille, although encouraged by the presence and counsels of M. Alphonse, were speedily beaten by these new champions. The native spectators were appalled. M. Alphonse glanced at his watch. It was only half after nine. His mother’s hair was not dressed. He no longer hesitated, but took off his coat, asked for a jacket, and challenged the Spaniards. I watched him, smiling at his eagerness, and a little surprised.

“I must uphold the honour of the province,” he said to me.

At that moment I considered him really handsome. He was thoroughly in earnest. His costume, which engrossed him so completely a moment before, was of no consequence. A few minutes earlier he was afraid to turn his head for fear of disarranging his cravat. Now, he paid no heed to his carefully curled locks, or to his beautifully laundered ruff. And his fiancée?--Faith, I believe that, if it had been necessary, he would have postponed the wedding. I saw him hastily put on a pair of sandals, turn back his sleeves, and with an air of confidence take his place at the head of the beaten side, like Cæsar rallying his legions at Dyrrhachium. I leaped over the hedge and found a convenient place in the shade of a plum-tree, where I could see both camps.

Contrary to general expectation, M. Alphonse missed the first ball; to be sure, it skimmed along the ground, driven with astounding force by an Aragonese who seemed to be the leader of the Spaniards.

He was a man of some forty years, thin and wiry, about six feet tall; and his olive skin was almost as dark as the bronze of the Venus.

M. Alphonse dashed his racquet to the ground in a passion.

“It was this infernal ring,” he cried: “it caught my finger and made me miss a sure ball!”

He removed the diamond ring, not without difficulty, and I stepped forward to take it; but he anticipated me, ran to the Venus, slipped the ring on her third finger, and resumed his position at the head of his townsmen.

He was pale, but calm and determined. Thereafter he did not make a single mistake, and the Spaniards were completely routed. The enthusiasm of the spectators was a fine spectacle; some shouted for joy again and again, and tossed their caps in the air; others shook his hands and called him an honour to the province. If he had repelled an invasion, I doubt whether he would have received more enthusiastic and more sincere congratulations. The chagrin of the defeated party added still more to the splendour of his victory.

“We will play again, my good fellow,” he said to the Aragonese in a lofty tone; “but I will give you points.”

I should have been glad if M. Alphonse had been more modest, and I was almost distressed by his rival’s humiliation. The Spanish giant felt the insult keenly. I saw him turn pale under his tanned skin. He glanced with a sullen expression at his racquet, and ground his teeth; then he muttered in a voice choked with rage:

“_Me lo pagarás!_”

M. de Peyrehorade’s appearance interrupted his son’s triumph. My host, greatly surprised not to find him superintending the harnessing of the new calèche, was much more surprised when he saw him drenched with perspiration, and with his racquet in his hand. M. Alphonse ran to the house, washed his face and hands, resumed his new coat and his patent-leather boots, and five minutes later we were driving rapidly toward Puygarrig. All the tennis players of the town and a great number of spectators followed us with joyous shouts. The stout horses that drew us could hardly keep in advance of those dauntless Catalans.

We had reached Puygarrig, and the procession was about to start for the mayor’s office, when M. Alphonse put his hand to his forehead and whispered to me:

“What a fool I am! I have forgotten the ring! It is on the Venus’s finger, the devil take her! For Heaven’s sake, don’t tell my mother. Perhaps she will not notice anything.”

“You might send some one to get it,” I said.