by Jay Lake
On reaching the Oudenarde gate, the counsellor and the burgomaster prudently made a short detour, so as not to pass within reach of the tower, in case it should fall; then they turned and looked at it attentively.
“I think that it will fall,” said Van Tricasse.
“I think so too,” replied Niklausse.
“Unless it is propped up,” added Van Tricasse. “But must it be propped up? That is the question.”
“That is—in fact—the question.”
Some moments after, they reached the door of the gasworks.
“Can we see Doctor Ox?” they asked.
Doctor Ox could always be seen by the first authorities of the town, and they were at once introduced into the celebrated physiologist’s study.
Perhaps the two notables waited for the doctor at least an hour; at least it is reasonable to suppose so, as the burgomaster—a thing that had never before happened in his life—betrayed a certain amount of impatience, from which his companion was not exempt.
Doctor Ox came in at last, and began to excuse himself for having kept them waiting; but he had to approve a plan for the gasometer, rectify some of the machinery—But everything was going on well! The pipes intended for the oxygen were already laid. In a few months the town would be splendidly lighted. The two notables might even now see the orifices of the pipes which were laid on in the laboratory.
Then the doctor begged to know to what he was indebted for the honour of this visit.
“Only to see you, doctor; to see you,” replied Van Tricasse. “It is long since we have had the pleasure. We go abroad but little in our good town of Quiquendone. We count our steps and measure our walks. We are happy when nothing disturbs the uniformity of our habits.”
Niklausse looked at his friend. His friend had never said so much at once—at least, without taking time, and giving long intervals between his sentences. It seemed to him that Van Tricasse expressed himself with a certain volubility, which was by no means common with him. Niklausse himself experienced a kind of irresistible desire to talk.
As for Doctor Ox, he looked at the burgomaster with sly attention.
Van Tricasse, who never argued until he had snugly ensconced himself in a spacious armchair, had risen to his feet. I know not what nervous excitement, quite foreign to his temperament, had taken possession of him. He did not gesticulate as yet, but this could not be far off. As for the counsellor, he rubbed his legs, and breathed with slow and long gasps. His look became animated little by little, and he had “decided” to support at all hazards, if need be, his trusty friend the burgomaster.
Van Tricasse got up and took several steps; then he came back, and stood facing the doctor.
“And in how many months,” he asked in a somewhat emphatic tome, “do you say that your work will be finished?”
“In three or four months, Monsieur the burgomaster,” replied Doctor Ox.
“Three or four months—it’s a very long time!” said Van Tricasse.
“Altogether too long!” added Niklausse, who, not being able to keep his seat, rose also.
“This lapse of time is necessary to complete our work,” returned Doctor Ox. “The workmen, whom we have had to choose in Quiquendone, are not very expeditious.”
“How not expeditious?” cried the burgomaster, who seemed to take the remark as personally offensive.
“No, Monsieur Van Tricasse,” replied Doctor Ox obstinately. “A French workman would do in a day what it takes ten of your workmen to do; you know, they are regular Flemings!”
“Flemings!” cried the counsellor, whose fingers closed together. “In what sense, sir, do you use that word?”
“Why, in the amiable sense in which everybody uses it,” replied Doctor Ox, smiling.
“Ah, but doctor,” said the burgomaster, pacing up and down the room, “I don’t like these insinuations. The workmen of Quiquendone are as efficient as those of any other town in the world, you must know; and we shall go neither to Paris nor London for our models! As for your project, I beg you to hasten its execution. Our streets have been unpaved for the putting down of your conduit-pipes, and it is a hindrance to traffic. Our trade will begin to suffer, and I, being the responsible authority, do not propose to incur reproaches which will be but too just.”
Worthy burgomaster! He spoke of trade, of traffic, and the wonder was that those words, to which he was quite unaccustomed, did not scorch his lips. What could be passing in his mind?
“Besides,” added Niklausse, “the town cannot be deprived of light much longer.”
“But,” urged Doctor Ox, “a town which has been unlighted for eight or nine hundred years—”
“All the more necessary is it,” replied the burgomaster, emphasizing his words. “Times alter, manners alter! The world advances, and we do not wish to remain behind. We desire our streets to be lighted within a month, or you must pay a large indemnity for each day of delay; and what would happen if, amid the darkness, some affray should take place?”
“No doubt,” cried Niklausse. “It requires but a spark to inflame a Fleming! Fleming! Flame!”
“Apropos of this,” said the burgomaster, interrupting his friend, “Commissary Passauf, our chief of police, reports to us that a discussion took place in your drawing-room last evening, Doctor Ox. Was he wrong in declaring that it was a political discussion?”
“By no means, Monsieur the burgomaster,” replied Doctor Ox, who with difficulty repressed a sigh of satisfaction.
“So an altercation did take place between Dominique Gustos and André Schut?”
“Yes, counsellor; but the words which passed were not of grave import.”
“Not of grave import!” cried the burgomaster. “Not of grave import, when one man tells another that he does not measure the effect of his words! But of what stuff are you made, monsieur? Do you not know that in Quiquendone nothing more is needed to bring about extremely disastrous results? But monsieur, if you, or any one else, presume to speak thus to me—”
“Or to me,” added Niklausse.
As they pronounced these words with a menacing air, the two notables, with folded arms and bristling air, confronted Doctor Ox, ready to do him some violence, if by a gesture, or even the expression of his eye, he manifested any intention of contradicting them.
But the doctor did not budge.
“At all events, monsieur,” resumed the burgomaster, “I propose to hold you responsible for what passes in your house. I am bound to insure the tranquillity of this town, and I do not wish it to be disturbed. The events of last evening must not be repeated, or I shall do my duty, sir! Do you hear? Then reply, sir.”
The burgomaster, as he spoke, under the influence of extraordinary excitement, elevated his voice to the pitch of anger. He was furious, the worthy Van Tricasse, and might certainly be heard outside. At last, beside himself, and seeing that Doctor Ox did not reply to his challenge, “Come, Niklausse,” said he.
And, slamming the door with a violence which shook the house, the burgomaster drew his friend after him.
Little by little, when they had taken twenty steps on their road, the worthy notables grew more calm. Their pace slackened, their gait became less feverish. The flush on their faces faded away; from being crimson, they became rosy. A quarter of an hour after quitting the gasworks, Van Tricasse said softly to Niklausse, “An amiable man, Doctor Ox! It is always a pleasure to see him!”
Chapter 6
In which Frantz Niklausse and Suzel Van Tricasse Form Certain Projects for the Future.
Our readers know that the burgomaster had a daughter, Suzel But, shrewd as they may be, they cannot have divined that the counsellor Niklausse had a son, Frantz; and had they divined this, nothing could have led them to imagine that Frantz was the betrothed lover of Suzel. We will add that these young people were made for each other, and that they loved each other, as folks did love at Quiquendone.
It must not be thought that young hearts did not beat in this exceptional
place; only they beat with a certain deliberation. There were marriages there, as in every other town in the world; but they took time about it. Betrothed couples, before engaging in these terrible bonds, wished to study each other; and these studies lasted at least ten years, as at college. It was rare that any one was “accepted” before this lapse of time.
Yes, ten years! The courtships last ten years! And is it, after all, too long, when the being bound for life is in consideration? One studies ten years to become an engineer or physician, an advocate or attorney, and should less time be spent in acquiring the knowledge to make a good husband? Is it not reasonable? and, whether due to temperament or reason with them, the Quiquendonians seem to us to be in the right in thus prolonging their courtship. When marriages in other more lively and excitable cities are seen taking place within a few months, we must shrug our shoulders, and hasten to send our boys to the schools and our daughters to the pensions of Quiquendone.
For half a century but a single marriage was known to have taken place after the lapse of two years only of courtship, and that turned out badly!
Frantz Niklausse, then, loved Suzel Van Tricasse, but quietly, as a man would love when he has ten years before him in which to obtain the beloved object. Once every week, at an hour agreed upon, Frantz went to fetch Suzel, and took a walk with her along the banks of the Vaar. He took good care to carry his fishing-tackle, and Suzel never forgot her canvas, on which her pretty hands embroidered the most unlikely flowers.
Frantz was a young man of twenty-two, whose cheeks betrayed a soft, peachy down, and whose voice had scarcely a compass of one octave.
As for Suzel, she was blonde and rosy. She was seventeen, and did not dislike fishing. A singular occupation this, however, which forces you to struggle craftily with a barbel. But Frantz loved it; the pastime was congenial to his temperament. As patient as possible, content to follow with his rather dreamy eye the cork which bobbed on the top of the water, he knew how to wait; and when, after sitting for six hours, a modest barbel, taking pity on him, consented at last to be caught, he was happy—but he knew how to control his emotion.
On this day the two lovers—one might say, the two betrothed—were seated upon the verdant bank. The limpid Vaar murmured a few feet below them. Suzel quietly drew her needle across the canvas. Frantz automatically carried his line from left to right, then permitted it to descend the current from right to left. The fish made capricious rings in the water, which crossed each other around the cork, while the hook hung useless near the bottom.
From time to time Frantz would say, without raising his eyes—
“I think I have a bite, Suzel.”
“Do you think so, Frantz?” replied Suzel, who, abandoning her work for an instant, followed her lover’s line with earnest eye.
“N-no,” resumed Frantz; “I thought I felt a little twitch; I was mistaken.”
“You will have a bite, Frantz,” replied Suzel, in her pure, soft voice. “But do not forget to strike at the right moment. You are always a few seconds too late, and the barbel takes advantage to escape.”
“Would you like to take my line, Suzel?”
“Willingly, Frantz.”
“Then give me your canvas. We shall see whether I am more adroit with the needle than with the hook.”
And the young girl took the line with trembling hand, while her swain plied the needle across the stitches of the embroidery. For hours together they thus exchanged soft words, and their hearts palpitated when the cork bobbed on the water. Ah, could they ever forget those charming hours, during which, seated side by side, they listened to the murmurs of the river?
The sun was fast approaching the western horizon, and despite the combined skill of Suzel and Frantz, there had not been a bite. The barbels had not shown themselves complacent, and seemed to scoff at the two young people, who were too just to bear them malice.
“We shall be more lucky another time, Frantz,” said Suzel, as the young angler put up his still virgin hook.
“Let us hope so,” replied Frantz.
Then walking side by side, they turned their steps towards the house, without exchanging a word, as mute as their shadows which stretched out before them. Suzel became very, very tall under the oblique rays of the setting sun. Frantz appeared very, very thin, like the long rod which he held in his hand.
They reached the burgomaster’s house. Green tufts of grass bordered the shining pavement, and no one would have thought of tearing them away, for they deadened the noise made by the passers-by.
As they were about to open the door, Frantz thought it his duty to say to Suzel—
“You know, Suzel, the great day is approaching?”
“It is indeed, Frantz,” replied the young girl, with downcast eyes.
“Yes,” said Frantz, “in five or six years—”
“Good-bye, Frantz,” said Suzel.
“Good-bye, Suzel,” replied Frantz.
And, after the door had been closed, the young man resumed the way to his father’s house with a calm and equal pace.
Chapter 7
In which the Andantes Become Allegros, and the Allegros Vivaces.
The agitation caused by the Schut and Custos affair had subsided. The affair led to no serious consequences. It appeared likely that Quiquendone would return to its habitual apathy, which that unexpected event had for a moment disturbed.
Meanwhile, the laying of the pipes destined to conduct the oxyhydric gas into the principal edifices of the town was proceeding rapidly. The main pipes and branches gradually crept beneath the pavements. But the burners were still wanting; for, as it required delicate skill to make them, it was necessary that they should be fabricated abroad. Doctor Ox was here, there, and everywhere; neither he nor Ygène, his assistant, lost a moment, but they urged on the workmen, completed the delicate mechanism of the gasometer, fed day and night the immense piles which decomposed the water under the influence of a powerful electric current. Yes, the doctor was already making his gas, though the pipe-laying was not yet done; a fact which, between ourselves, might have seemed a little singular. But before long—at least there was reason to hope so—before long Doctor Ox would inaugurate the splendours of his invention in the theatre of the town.
For Quiquendone possessed a theatre—a really fine edifice, in truth—the interior and exterior arrangement of which combined every style of architecture. It was at once Byzantine, Roman, Gothic, Renaissance, with semicircular doors, Pointed windows, Flamboyant rose-windows, fantastic bell-turrets—in a word, a specimen of all sorts, half a Parthenon, half a Parisian Grand Café. Nor was this surprising, the theatre having been commenced under the burgomaster Ludwig Van Tricasse, in 1175, and only finished in 1837, under the burgomaster Natalis Van Tricasse. It had required seven hundred years to build it, and it had, been successively adapted to the architectural style in vogue in each period. But for all that it was an imposing structure; the Roman pillars and Byzantine arches of which would appear to advantage lit up by the oxyhydric gas.
Pretty well everything was acted at the theatre of Quiquendone; but the opera and the opera comique were especially patronized. It must, however, be added that the composers would never have recognized their own works, so entirely changed were the “movements” of the music.
In short, as nothing was done in a hurry at Quiquendone, the dramatic pieces had to be performed in harmony with the peculiar temperament of the Quiquendonians. Though the doors of the theatre were regularly thrown open at four o’clock and closed again at ten, it had never been known that more than two acts were played during the six intervening hours.“Robert le Diable,” “Les Huguenots,” or “Guillaume Tell” usually took up three evenings, so slow was the execution of these masterpieces. The vivaces, at the theatre of Quiquendone, lagged like real adagios. Theallegros were “long-drawn out” indeed. The demisemiquavers were scarcely equal to the ordinary semibreves of other countries. The most rapid runs, performed according to Quiquendonian taste, had
the solemn march of a chant. The gayest shakes were languishing and measured, that they might not shock the ears of the dilettanti. To give an example, the rapid air sung by Figaro, on his entrance in the first act of “Le Barbiér de Séville,” lasted fifty-eight minutes—when the actor was particularly enthusiastic.
Artists from abroad, as might be supposed, were forced to conform themselves to Quiquendonian fashions; but as they were well paid, they did not complain, and willingly obeyed the leader’s baton, which never beat more than eight measures to the minute in the allegros.
But what applause greeted these artists, who enchanted without ever wearying the audiences of Quiquendone! All hands clapped one after another at tolerably long intervals, which the papers characterized as “frantic applause;” and sometimes nothing but the lavish prodigality with which mortar and stone had been used in the twelfth century saved the roof of the hall from falling in.
Besides, the theatre had only one performance a week, that these enthusiastic Flemish folk might not be too much excited; and this enabled the actors to study their parts more thoroughly, and the spectators to digest more at leisure the beauties of the masterpieces brought out.
Such had long been the drama at Quiquendone. Foreign artists were in the habit of making engagements with the director of the town, when they wanted to rest after their exertions in other scenes; and it seemed as if nothing could ever change these inveterate customs, when, a fortnight after the Schut–Custos affair, an unlooked-for incident occurred to throw the population into fresh agitation.
It was on a Saturday, an opera day. It was not yet intended, as may well be supposed, to inaugurate the new illumination. No; the pipes had reached the hall, but, for reasons indicated above, the burners had not yet been placed, and the wax-candles still shed their soft light upon the numerous spectators who filled the theatre. The doors had been opened to the public at one o’clock, and by three the hall was half full. A queue had at one time been formed, which extended as far as the end of the Place Saint Ernuph, in front of the shop of Josse Lietrinck the apothecary. This eagerness was significant of an unusually attractive performance.