It was as though the world had had a fresh coat of paint, and every heart acquired a store of illusions that made the burden of life less hard to bear. From the highest point of the town rough woods were to be seen, tawny-colored, their winter dress barely yet discarded, patches of rich brown earth dotted with green stems shyly peeping out, gentle fields with a trimming of young green corn, which made the people of Clochemerle feel that they would fain be young colts capering in the meadows, or those little nuzzling calves which seem as though they had filched four stakes from an enclosure in place of legs. Clochemerle was seized in an eddy of soft warm thrills, the universal coming-to-life of myriads of living creatures unseen. Tottering footsteps, first trials of little wings, feeble cries—these were everywhere. Once again the world was leaving its infancy behind. And the sun, that tactless fellow, was slapping each and all on the back as though he were a long-lost brother.
“My goodness! What a day! What a blessing!” the inhabitants of Clochemerle were saying to each other.
Promptings of desire filled them, of eager longing desire, old as the world itself, its fundamental law, overriding all man-made laws and the restrictions of moral codes. It was the ancestral, primitive longing to track down lovely, untouched maidens, with the flanks of goddesses, with thighs and breasts for which Paradise would be well lost, the longing to hurl themselves like demigods in triumph at these breathless, throbbing virgins, these plaintive handmaidens of love. And in the women there came a renewal of that desire old as humanity, yet ever present, to be the tempters of men, to run naked in the meadows with the breeze’s caress in their unbound streaming hair, with great wild beasts, tamed and docile, bounding and leaping around them as they come to lick the pollen from their bodies in flower, while they themselves await the appearance of a conqueror to whom they have surrendered in advance, acknowledging the defeat which is really their secret victory.
Instincts age-old became mingled in the minds of Clochemerle with thoughts vaguely derived from civilization, and this resulted in a collection of ideas so complicated as to disconcert them. A wonderful springtime it was, and it fell upon them bodily, without a word of warning, on their brains, their shoulders, and their marrow. It stirred them to the depths; it made them dizzy.
And that weather was destined to last.
It arrived just in time for the festivity of the inauguration, which was fixed for the following day, the 7th of April, a Saturday, which would allow of rest on the Sunday.
This demonstration would set the seal on the victory of Barthélemy Piéchut and Tafardel. Still discreetly hidden beneath a tarpaulin, the urinal had been erected at the entrance of Monks’ Alley, against the wall of the Beaujolais Stores. At the instigation of the mayor, who was always anxious to attract well-known politicians to Clochemerle, the municipality had decided on this occasion to organize a free festivity of the informal, go-as-you-please character that one sees in the country, which would be a celebration of progress in rural town-planning. The gathering had been announced as “The Clochemerle Wine Fête,” but the urinal was its real motive. The attendance of the subprefect could be counted on, as also that of the Member of Parliament, Aristide Focart, several departmental councilors, several mayors of neighboring towns, a few notaries and attorneys, three presidents of winegrowing syndicates, and also Bernard Samothrace (his real name was Joseph Gamel), who would come over from a neighboring district with a rural and Republican ode specially composed for the occasion. Finally, the most celebrated of Clochemerle’s sons, Alexandre Bourdillat, an ex-Minister, had promised to be there.
Everyone at Clochemerle who laid any claim to progressive ideas was delighted at the prospect of this demonstration, while those of Conservative views showed signs of discontent. The Baroness Courtebiche, who had been indirectly approached with a pressing invitation to put in an appearance, let it be known with her customary insolence that “she would not mix herself up with a lot of yokels.” This expression was of a kind that is not easily forgiven.
Fortunately, the attitude of her son-in-law, Oscar de Saint-Choul, to some extent atoned for it. Having no profession or capacity for any form of active work, this young nobleman was aiming at a political candidature of a complexion as yet undetermined, for prudence suggested that it would be well to refrain from giving needless offense to any party until his convictions were definitely proclaimed; and this he would postpone until the last possible moment, in order to avoid all risk of making a mistake and of being unduly hasty in his profession of faith. Very politely he replied to these emissaries of the people—who were a trifle nonplused by the ease with which he wore his monocle, and by an exaggerated deference on his part which was a mixture of flattery and contempt—that the Baroness belonged to a former age and still retained the prejudices of that period, while on the contrary he himself had a wider conception of civic duties; and that, moreover, no justifiable form of initiative could ever leave him unmoved. “I have a high opinion of your Barthélemy Piéchut,” he said. “Those simple and, I must say, delightful manners of his are merely the cloak for a vast intelligence. I shall join you. But you must understand, my dear friends, that, belonging to the family that I do, I simply cannot play any conspicuous part in your proceedings. Nobility, alas, involves limitations. I shall just put in an appearance, and that in itself will prove to you that there exist in the ranks of the monarchists (my maternal great-grandfather was a companion in exile of Louis XVIII, and that carries its obligations, you must admit, gentlemen)—that there exist, I repeat, in our ranks men who are not blinded by strength of feeling, and who are only too ready to take a kindly interest in your efforts.”
Thus it appeared that Barthélemy Piéchut was about to enjoy a success complete and unqualified, which would include as its crowning feature that discreet challenge which he had wished for it. The Baroness’ offensive reply was proof to him that his maneuvering had been well carried out.
The memorable day began with a gorgeous morning, and the temperature was eminently favorable for a brilliant and joyous gathering. A closed motorcar went to fetch Alexandre Bourdillat from Villefranche, where he had spent the night. The car arrived back at about nine o’clock, at the same moment as another was appearing on the scene. From the latter there emerged the figure of Aristide Focart, the Member of Parliament. The two men were far from pleased to find themselves nose to nose. Aristide Focart was saying to all and sundry that the ex-Minister was “a disreputable old villain, whose presence among us gives a handle to our enemies,” while Bourdillat was describing Focart as “one of those unscrupulous little fellows who are thorns in the side of the party and only bring us into disrepute.” Though fighting for the moment under the same flag, these two gentlemen were under no illusions as to what each thought of the other. But politics are a school for self-control. They opened their arms wide and gave each other a loyal embrace, with all the emotional platform manner and throaty, cavernous, quavering utterance which is so fashionable among democratic orators of the sentimental type.
Delighted at observing the brotherly love by which their two superiors were united, the assembled crowd of Clochemerle’s inhabitants were overcome by feelings of respect, and fell to admiring the august embrace. When it was finished, Barthélemy Piéchut came forward, whereupon a volley of friendly exclamations, pitched in a suitably deferential key, broke out on all sides: “Bravo, Bourdillat!—We’re proud, Monsieur le Ministre!—Morning, Barthélemy—Morning, old friend!”
“What magnificent weather!” Bourdillat said. “And how delighted I am to be back here again in my old Clochemerle! I often think of you with emotion, my dear friends, my dear fellow-townsmen,” he added, addressing the spectators in the front rows.
“It must be a long time since you left Clochemerle, Monsieur le Ministre?” the mayor asked.
“A long time? Bless me, it must be more than forty years. . . . Yes, more than forty years. Your nose still wanted blowing, my dear Barthélemy.”
“Oh! Monsieur le M
inistre, I was already hesitating between that and a mustache.”
“But you hadn’t yet made up your mind!” Bourdillat retorted, bursting into loud laughter, so vigorous did he feel both in mind and body that morning.
The audience gave a flattering reception to this excellent piece of dialogue so well in keeping with French tradition, which always has a welcome for men of wit and understanding. They were still laughing at it respectfully, when an unknown personage, tall of stature, stole up to the ex-Minister. He was wearing an outlandish frock coat with wide skirts, which looked like an heirloom, so obviously was it cut in the fashion of last century. The points of his stick-up collar, which pressed pitilessly against his tracheal artery, compelled him to keep his head half thrown back. That head was, moreover, a striking one, adorned with a felt hat whose wide brim moved gently up and down on either side, and with long hair falling below the neck, such as one sees in engravings of St. John the Baptist, Vercingetorix, or Renan, and in aged tramps whom one meets along the roads and who are prohibited by municipal bylaws from taking up a position in the streets.
This Absalom in mourning garments, whose features gave evidence of the exalted preoccupation of the thinker, held in his black-gloved hand a precious roll of paper. A loose fancy neck-tie spread out beneath his chin, and the riband of the Legion of Honor in his buttonhole, put a final touch to his forbidding appearance.
“Monsieur le Ministre,” said Barthélemy Piéchut, “will you allow me to introduce Monsieur Bernard Samothrace, the famous poet?”
“Of course, my dear Barthélemy, with pleasure, with great pleasure. Besides—Samothrace—the name seems somehow familiar. I must have known some Samothraces. But where, when? Excuse me, sir,” he said to the poet, courteously, “but I see so many people. I cannot call to mind every face I have met, nor the circumstances.”
Tafardel, who was standing close to him, prompted him with the eagerness of despair. “Victory! The Victory of Samothrace! Greek history! Island, island, island of the Archipel. . . .” But Bourdillat had not heard. He was shaking hands with the newcomer, who had been expecting some tribute of a rather more personal nature. The politician then grasped the situation.
“Ah! so you are a poet, my dear sir,” he went on. “An excellent thing to be, a poet. A man who succeeds in that line may go far. Victor Hugo ended up as a millionaire. I had a friend once who wrote little things. He died in the workhouse, poor man. Oh! I don’t want to discourage you. And how many feet have your verses?”
“I write in all meters, Monsieur le Ministre.”
“How clever of you! And what type of poetry, eh? Sad, gay, humorous? Little ditties, perhaps? People like those things.”
“I write every kind, Monsieur le Ministre.”
“Better and better! So you are a real poet, like the members of the Academy. Splendid, splendid! Well, I may tell you that so far as I am concerned, poetry—”
For the second time since his arrival in Clochemerle, the ex-Minister displayed the ability to say the right thing at the right moment which contributes so greatly to the popularity of politicians. He smiled in the modest way he had when making the statement “I am a self-made man.”
“I know less about feet in verse than feet in centipedes. You understand, Monsieur Samothrace, I was at the Ministry of Agriculture!”
Unfortunately, this delicate allusion of Bourdillat’s to the office which he formerly held was not heard by everyone. But with those who did so it had the success it so well deserved; and as it was sure to be quoted by them to other people, it could not fail to establish in the town a feeling greatly in the Minister’s favor. It was proof to the inhabitants of Clochemerle that their illustrious compatriot, who was so good at speaking in that easygoing, good-natured way which appeals to the crowd, had not had his head turned by success.
There was one person only who did not share this enthusiasm, the poet himself, who suffered, like so many others of his species, from a morbid tendency to regard himself as an object of persecution. That remark was added by him to the list of insults that his genius had already had to endure. Lost in the crowd, a mere nonentity, he thought bitterly of the different treatment he would have received at Versailles two centuries ago. He thought of Rabelais, Racine, Corneille, Molière, La Fontaine, Voltaire, and Jean-Jacques Rousseau, protégés of kings and friends of princesses. He would have taken his departure had he not been carrying his poem, a masterpiece in one hundred and twenty lines, the fruit of midnight toil and lyrical inspiration lasting over a period of five weeks, from the fatigue of which he had not yet recovered. This great work he was about to read aloud in the presence of two thousand people, among whom there might possibly be two or three of genuine culture. In a society where special gifts are ignored, even that number provides a poet with an exceptional opportunity.
In the meantime the procession was making its way towards the main square of Clochemerle, where a platform had been erected. Around it the people of Clochemerle were thickly herded together, in excellent humor after a substantial meal, washed down by copious draughts of wine. Taking advantage of the incredibly mild weather, the men had discarded their overcoats, while for the first time that year the women displayed a considerable expanse of skin, grown whiter from having been covered up throughout the winter. The sight of these pretty patches of bosom, good plump shoulders, clearly outlined beneath dresses of light material, brought joy to all hearts. Everyone was thoroughly prepared to applaud without discrimination, for the mere pleasure of making a noise and giving rein to exuberant feelings. Some choristers with angel faces opened the proceedings with soaring arabesques and comic trills (a trifle harsh, through insufficient practice) by way of prelude to the majestic solos of official eloquence. The sun, master of the ceremonies, directed the proceedings in homely, simple fashion.
The series of speeches opened with a few words of welcome and thanks from Barthélemy Piéchut, of such modest and unassuming character as to disarm party differences. He said no more than was necessary, and gave the credit for the improvements at Clochemerle to every member of the town council, a united body of men which owed its existence to the votes, given without fear or favor, of its fellow citizens. He then hastened to make way for Bernard Samothrace, who was to recite his poem of welcome to Bourdillat. The poet unfolded his roll of paper and began reading with clear and powerful articulation which gave full value to the meaning of the text.
“O vous, grand Bourdillat, de très humble naissance,
Avec vos facultés, jointes au dur labeur,
Au loin vous avez su conquérir la puissance,
Et su porter ce nom, Clochemerle, a l’honneur.
Vous dont la tâche est faite et enrichit de gloire
Ce pays où vous êtes enfin de retour,
Vous dont le nom déjà est inscrit dans l’Histoire,
Recevez le salut que, d’un cœur sans détour,
A Bourdillat François, Emmanuel, Alexandre,
Le plus cher de ses fils et le plus éclatant,
Celui qu’à Clochemerle on n’a cessé d’attendre,
Ici vous crie ce bourg, ému, fier, triomphant. . . .”
A massive figure seated in his armchair, Bourdillat listened to this eulogy, from time to time shaking his large head with its gray hair, which he kept slightly bent forward.
“Tell me, Barthélemy, what do you call that kind of poetry?”
Tafardel, who had kept close to the mayor the whole time, was seated immediately behind him. It was he who replied, unasked.
“Alexandrines, Monsieur le Ministre.”
“Alexandrines?” Bourdillat said. “Now that’s charming! He knows how to behave, that young man. He’s a nice fellow, a very nice fellow! He reads like an actor from the Comédie-Française.”
The ex-Minister imagined that Alexandrines had been chosen as a delicate attention, because his own name was Alexander.
Having finished his reading and having rolled and tied up his paper, while the applause and
the cries of “Vive Bourdillat!” were still continuing, Bernard Samothrace offered his poem to the ex-Minister, who clasped him to his bosom. A surreptitious forefinger raised here and there to the corner of an eyelid for the suppression of a stray tear made an excellent effect.
At this point Aristide Focart rose from his seat. Recently elected, he belonged to the extreme Left of the party. He had all the impetuosity of youth with unlimited prospects and ambition as yet unsatisfied. To speed up the process of advancement, his object was to get rid of the older Members who were opposed to any sort of change and wished for no more than to retain their seats. Among a certain clique Aristide Focart was already beginning to be spoken of as a coming man. He was aware of this, and realized further the necessity of including in every speech he made a number of aggressive phrases designed for the satisfaction of the fanatical supporters upon whom he depended. Here at Clochemerle, at a gathering where conciliation was the watchword of the day, he was unable to restrain himself from uttering these words aimed at Bourdillat. “Generation succeeds generation like the waves which dash themselves against a cliff and, by ceaseless repetition, begin their work of destruction. Let us in the same way continue unremittingly to hurl ourselves against the cliffs of past errors, egotisms, and scandalous prerogatives, and the present revival of inequality and corrupt practice. There are men of outstanding merit—as I gladly acknowledge—who in the past have been good servants of the Republic. Today they reap the honors, and it is only right that they should do so. No one rejoices over it more than I. But in ancient Rome the Consul, with his wreath of laurel and in the full blaze of triumph, laid down his command in favor of younger and more active leaders. That was a fine action, a noble action, an action which added to his country’s greatness. Democracy must never be stagnant, never, never. Inertia, and an attitude of cowardly complacency towards the forces of corruption, gave their deathblow to the old forms of government. Men of the Republic, these are errors of which you and I will never be victims. Our watchword shall be Strength. Our weapons will be Generosity, Courage, Justice, and the inspiration of an ideal whose aim will be the leading of humanity to an ever-ascending level of dignity and of brotherly love. It is for reasons such as these, Alexandre Bourdillat—my dear Bourdillat—that I say to you, on whose forehead I behold the light of untarnished fame as you stand beneath the triumphal arches set up in this lovely Clochemerle countryside which is your own—as we were reminded just now in such elegant terms—that I say to you, who have set us so fine an example, who are now at the zenith of a crowded career: ‘Fear not.’ That Republic which you have loved and served so well, we shall not fail to preserve in its youth, its beauty, its renown!”
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