NOT being content with having attached to his person a stray dog and a mongrel boy and rendering himself responsible for their destinies, Paragot must now saddle himself with a young woman.  Had she been a beautiful gipsy, holding fascinating allurements in lustrous eyes and pomegranate lips, and witchery in a supple figure, the act would have been a commonplace of human weakness.  But in the case of poor Blanquette, squat and coarse, her heavy features only redeemed from ugliness by youth, honesty and clean teeth, the eternal attraction of sex was absent.

From the decorative point of view she was as unlovely as Narcisse or myself.  She was dull, unimaginative, ignorant, as far removed from Paragot as Narcisse from a greyhound.  Why then, in the name of men and angels, should Paragot have taken her under his protection?  My only answer to the question is that he was Paragot.  Judge other men by whatever standard you have to hand; it will serve its purpose in a rough and ready manner; but Paragot ­unless with me idolatry has obscured reason ­Paragot can only be measured by that absolute standard which lies awful and unerring on the knees of the high gods.

Of course he saved the girl from a hideous doom.  Thousands of kindly, earnest men have done the same in one way or another.  But Paragot’s way was different from anyone else’s.  Its glorious lunacy lifted it above ordinary human methods.

So many of your wildly impulsive people repent them of their generosities as soon as the magnanimous fervour has cooled.  The grandeur of Paragot lay in the fact that he never repented.  He was fantastic, self-indulgent, wastrel, braggart, what you will; but he had an exaggerated notion of the value of every human soul save his own.  The destiny of poor Blanquette was to him of infinitely more importance than that of the wayward genius that was Paragot.  The pathos of his point of view had struck me, even as a child, when he discoursed on my prospects.

“I am Paragot, my son,” he would say, “a film full of wind and wonder, fantasy and folly, driven like thistledown about the world.  I do not count.  But you, my little Asticot, have the Great Responsibility before you.  It is for you to uplift a corner of the veil of Life and show joy to men and women where they would not have sought it.  Work now and gather wisdom, my son, so that when the Great Day comes you may not miss your destiny.”  And once, he added wistfully ­“as I have missed mine.”

As Paragot decided that we should not start off then and there into the unknown but remain at the cafe until we had laid our plan of campaign, Blanquette took her valise into the house, and, for the rest of the day, busied herself in the kitchen with the patronne; Paragot drank with the villagers in the cafe; and I, when Thierry and Narcisse had given me all the companionship they had to offer, curled myself up on the mattress spread in a corner of the tiny salle a manger and went to sleep.

The next morning Paragot awakened with an Idea.  He would go to Aix-les-Bains which was close by, and would return in the evening.  The nature of his errand he would not tell me.  Who was I, little grey worm that I was, to question his outgoings and his incomings?  The little grey worm would stay with Blanquette and Narcisse and see to it that they did not bite each other.  I humbly accepted the rebuke and obeyed the behest.  The afternoon found the three of us in a field under a tree; Blanquette embracing her knees, and the dog asleep with his throat across her feet.  She was wearing her old cotton dress, and as she had been helping the patronne all the morning, her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows displaying stout, stubby arms.  The top button of her bodice was open; she was bare-headed, but her hair, little deeper in shade than her tanned face and neck, was coiled neatly.  Had it not been for the hard grip of the day before I should have jealously resented her admission into our vagabond fraternity.  As it was, from the height of my sixteen-year-old masculinity I somewhat looked down upon her:  not as poor Blanquette, the zither-playing vagrant; but as a girl.  Could we, creation’s lords, do with a creature of an inferior sex in our wanderings?  Could she perform our feats of endurance?  I questioned her anxiously.

“Moi?” she laughed, “I am as strong as any man.  You will see.”

She leaped to her feet and, before I could protest, had picked me off the ground like a kitten and was tossing me in her arms.

“Voila!” she said, depositing me tenderly on the grass; and having collected the dislodged Narcisse she embraced her knees and laughed again.  It was a kind honest laugh; a good-natured, big boy’s laugh, coming full out of her eyes and shewing her strong white teeth.  I lost the sense of insult in admiration of her strength.

“You should have been a boy, Blanquette,” said I.

She assented, acknowledging at once her inferiority and thus restoring my self respect.

“You are lucky, you, to be one.  In this world the egg is for the men and the shell is for the women.”

“Why don’t you cut off your hair and put on boy’s clothes?” I asked.  “Then you would get the egg.  No one could tell the difference.”

“You don’t think I look like a woman?  I? Mon Dieu! Where are your eyes?”

She was actually indignant with me who had thought to please her:  my first encounter with the bewildering paradox of woman.

“Ah! maïs non,” she panted.  “I may be strong like a man, but grace a Dieu, I don’t resemble one.  Look.”

And she sat bolt upright, her hands at her waist developing her bust to its full extent.  She was not jolie, jolie, she explained, but she was as solidly built as another; I was to examine myself and see how like I was to the flattest of boards.  Routed I chewed blades of grass in silence until she spoke again.

“Tell me of the patron.”

“The patron?” I asked, puzzled.

“Yes ­Monsieur ­your master.”

“You must call him maitre,” said I, “not patron.”  For the patron was any peddling “boss,” the leader of a troupe of performing dogs or the miserable landlord of a village inn, Paragot a patron!

“I meant no harm.  I have too much respect for him,” said Blanquette, humbly.

Again reinstated in my position of superiority I explained the Master to her feminine intelligence.

“He has been to every place in the world and knows everything that is to be known, and speaks every language that is spoken under the sun, and has read every book that ever was written, and I have seen him break a violin over a man’s head.”

“Tiens!” said Blanquette.

“In the Forum at Rome last winter he had an argument with the most learned professor in Europe who is making the excavations, and proved him to be wrong.”

“Tiens!” repeated Blanquette, much impressed, though of Forum or excavations she had no more notion than Narcisse.

“If he wanted to be a king tomorrow, he would only have to go up to a throne and sit upon it.”

“But no,” said Blanquette.  “To be a king one must be a king’s son.”

“How do you know that he isn’t?” I asked with a could-and if-I-would expression of mystery.

“King’s sons don’t go about the high roads with little gamins like you,” replied the practical Blanquette.

“How do you know that I am not a king’s son too?” I asked, less with the idea of self-aggrandisement than that of vindication of Paragot.

“Because you yourself said that your mother sold you as my mother sold me to Pere Paragot.”

Whereupon it suddenly occurred to me that as far as retentiveness of memory was concerned, Blanquette was not such a fool as in my arrogance I had set her down to be.  I was going to retort that his magnificence in purchasing me proved him a personage of high order, but as I quickly reflected that the same argument might apply to the rank of the contemned Pere Paragot, I refrained.  A silence ensuing, I uncomfortably resolved to study my master with a view to acquiring his skill in repartee.

“But what does he do, the Master?” enquired Blanquette.

“Do?  What do you mean?”

“How does he earn his living?”

“That shows you know nothing about him,” I cried triumphantly.  “King’s sons do not earn their living.  They have got it already.  Haven’t you ever read that in books?”

“I can read and write, but I don’t read books,” sighed Blanquette.  “I am not clever.  You will have to teach me.”

“This is the book I am reading,” said I, taking the “Recits des Temps Merovingiens” from my pocket.

Again Blanquette sighed.  “You must be very clever, Asticot.”

“Not at all,” said I modestly, but I felt that it was nice of Blanquette to realise the intellectual gulf between us.  “It is the Master who has taught me all I know.”  I spoke, God wot, as if my knowledge would have burst through the covers of an Encyclopædia ­“Three years ago I could not speak a word of French.  Fancy.  And now ­”

“You still talk like an Englishman,” said Blanquette.

Looking back now on those absurd far-off days, I wonder whether after all I did not learn as much that was vital from Blanquette as from Paragot.  Her downright, direct, unimaginative common-sense amounted to genius.  At the time I preferred genius in the fantastic form which inflated my bubbles of self-conceit, instead of bursting them; but in after life one has a high appreciation of the burster.

In the moment’s mortification, however, I recriminated.

“You make worse mistakes than I do.  You say ‘j’allons faire,’ when you ought to say ‘je vais faire’ and I heard you talk about une chien.”

“That is because I have no education,” replied Blanquette, with her grave humility.  “I speak like the peasants; not like instructed people ­not like the Master, for instance.”

“No one could speak like the Master,” said I.

There was a long silence.  Blanquette hugged her knees and Narcisse snored at her feet, accepting her as vagabond comrade.  I lay on my back and forgot Blanquette; and out of the intricacies of myriad leaf and branch against the sky wove pictures of Merovingian women.  There where the black branches cut a lozenge of blue was the pale Queen Galeswinthe lying on her bed.  Through yon dark cluster of under-leaves one could discern the strangler sent by King Hilperic to murder her.  And in that radiant patch silhouetted clear and cold and fierce in loveliness was Fredegonde waiting for the King.  She was a glittering sword of a woman whose slayings fascinated me.  I much preferred her to the gentler Brunehilde whose form I saw outlined in a soft shadow of green.  I tried to find frames in my aerial gallery for Brunehilde’s two daughters, Ingonde and Chlodoswinde, especially the latter whose name appealed to my acquired taste for odd nomenclature, and the conscious effort brought me back to the modern world, and the sound of Blanquette’s voice.

“Tu saïs, Asticot, I can wash the Master’s shirts and mend his clothes.  I can also make his coffee in the morning.”

Her eyes had a far-away look.  She was living in the land of day dreams even as I had been.

“I always prepare the Master’s breakfast,” said I jealously.

“It is the woman’s duty.”

“I don’t care,” I retorted.

She unclasped her hands, and coming forward on to her knees and bending over me, brushed a strand of hair from my forehead.

“I will prepare yours too, Asticot,” she said gently, “and you will see how nice that will be.  Men can’t do these things where there is a woman to look after them.  It is not proper.”

So, flattered in my masculinity, being ranked with Paragot as a “man,” I took a sultanesque view of the situation and graciously consented to her proposed ministrations.

Paragot came back triumphant from Aix-les-Bains.  Hadn’t he told me he had been inspired to go there?  The man who played the violin at the open-air Restaurant by the Lac de Bourget had just that day fallen ill.  The result, a week’s engagement for Blanquette and himself.

“But, my child,” said he, “you will have to suffer an inharmonious son of Satan who makes a discordant Hades out of an execrable piano.  He had the impudence to tell me that he came from the Conservatoire.  He, with as much ear for music as an organ-grinder’s monkey!  He said to me ­Paragot ­that I played the violin not too badly!  I foresee a hideous doom overhanging that young man, my children.  Before the week is out I will throw him into the maw of his soul-devouring piano.  Ha! my children, give me to drink, for I am thirsty.”

Mindful of my dignity as a man, I glanced at Blanquette, who went into the cafe obediently, while I stayed with my master.  It was a sweet moment.  Paragot gripped me by the shoulder.

“My son, while Blanquette and I work, which Carlyle says is the noblest function of man, but concerning which I have my own ideas, you cannot live in red-shirted, pomaded and otherwise picturesque and studious laziness.  Look,” he cried, pointing to a round, flat object wrapped in paper which he had brought with him.  “Do you know what that is?”

“That,” said I, “is a cake.”

“It is a tambourine,” said my master.

The next day found us in the garden of the little lake-side restaurant at Aix-les-Bains playing at lunch time.  The young man at the piano whom I had expected to see a fiend in human shape was a harmless consumptive fellow who played with the sweet patience of a musical box.  He shook hands with me and called me “cher collègue,” and before nightfall told me of a disastrous love-story in consequence of which, were it not for his mother, he would drown himself in the lake.  He effaced himself before Paragot much as the bellows-blower does before the organist.  His politeness to Blanquette would have put to the blush any young man at the Bon Marche or the Louvre.  His name was Laripet.

I was ordered to make modest use of my tambourine until sufficient instruction from Paragot should authorise him to let me loose with it; I was merely to add to the picturesqueness of the group on the platform, and at intervals to go the round of the guests collecting money.  I liked this, for I could then jingle the tambourine without fear of reproof.  You have no idea what an ordeal it is for a boy to have a tambourine which he must not jingle.  But the shady charm of the garden compensated for the repression of noisy instincts.  After months of tramping in the broiling sun, free and perfect as it was, the easy loafing life seemed sweet.  We went little into the gay town itself.  For my part I did not like it.  Aix-les-Bains consisted of a vast Enchanted Garden set in a valley, great mountains hemming it round.  Skirting the Enchanted Garden were shady streets and mysterious palaces, some having gardens of their own of a secondary enchantment, and shops where jewels and perfumes and white ties and flowers and other objects of strange luxury were exhibited in the windows.  But these took the humble place of mere accessories to the Enchanted Garden, jealously guarded against Asticot by great high gilded railings and by blue-coated, silver-buttoned functionaries at the gates.  Within rose two Wonder Houses gorgeous with dome and pinnacle, bewildering with gold and snow, displaying before the aching sight the long cool stretch of verandahs, and offering the baffling glimpse of vast interiors whence floated the dim sound of music and laughter; and bright, happy beings, in wondrous raiment, wandered in and out unchallenged, unconcerned, as if the Wonder Houses were their birthright.

I, a shabby, penniless little Peri, stood at the gilded gates disconsolate.  I didn’t like it.  The mystery of the unknown beatitude within the Wonder Houses oppressed me to faintness. It was unimaginable. Through the leaves of a tree I could see the pale Queen Galeswinthe; but through those gay enchanting walls I could see nothing.  They baulked my soul.  When I tried to explain my feelings to Paragot he looked at me in his kind, sad way and shook his head.

“My wonder-headed little Asticot,” said he, “within those gewgaw Wonder Houses ­” Then he stopped abruptly and waved me away, “No.  It’s a devilish good thing for you to have something your imagination boggles at.  Stick to the Ideal, my son, and hug the Unexplained.  The people who have solved the Riddle of the Universe at fifteen are bowled over by the Enigma of their cook at fifty.  Plug your life as full as it can hold with fantasy and fairy-tale, and thank God that your soul is baulked by the Mysteries of the Casinos of Aix-les-Bains.”

“But what do they do there, Master?” I persisted.

“The men worship strange goddesses and the women run after false gods, and all practice fascinating idolâtries.”

I did not in the least know what he meant, which was what he intended.  When I consulted Blanquette one morning, as she and I alone were sauntering down the long shady avenue which connects the town with the little-port of the lake, she said that people went into the Cercle and the Villa des Fleurs, the two Wonder Houses aforesaid, merely to gamble.  I pooh-poohed the notion.

“The Master says they are Temples of great strange gods, where people worship.”

“Gods!  What an idea! Il n’y a que lé bon Dieu,” quoth Blanquette.

“You have evidently not heard of the gods of Greece and Rome, Jupiter and Apollo and Venus and Bacchus.”

“Ah, tiens,” said Blanquette.  “I have heard Italians swear ’Corpo di Bacco.’  That is why?”

“Of course,” said I in my grandest manner, “and there are heaps of other gods besides.”

“All the same,” she objected, “I always thought the Italians were good Catholics.”

“So they may be,” said I, “but that doesn’t prove that there are not beautiful gods and goddesses and idols and shrines in the Cercle and the Villa des Fleurs.”

As this was unanswerable Blanquette diverted the conversation to the less transcendental topic of the premature baldness of Monsieur Laripet.

If the doings of the bright happy beings were hidden from me while they worshipped in the Casinos, I at least met them at close quarters in the garden of the Restaurant du Lac.  In some respects this garden resembled that of the Restaurant du Soleil at Chambéry.  There was a verandah round the restaurant itself, there were trees in joyous leafage, there were little tables, and there were waiters hurrying to and fro with napkins under their arms.  But that was all the resemblance.  Our little platform stood against the railings separating the garden from the quay.  Behind us shimmered the blue lake, great mountains rising behind; away on the right, embosomed in the green mountainside, flashed the white Chateau de Hautecombe.  Always in mid-lake a tiny paddle-steamer churned up a wake of white foam.  On the quay itself stood an enchanting little box ­a camera obscura ­to which I as a fellow artist was given the entree by the proprietor, and in which one could see heavenly pictures of the surrounding landscape; there were also idle cabs with white awnings, and fezzed Turks perspiring under furs and rugs which they hawked for sale.  In front of us, within the garden, a joyous crowd of the radiantly raimented laughed over dainty food set on snowy cloths.  Here and there a lobster struck a note of colour, or a ray of sunlight striking through the red or gold translucencies of wine in a glass:  which distracted my attention from my orchestral duties and caused an absent-minded jingle of my tambourine.

What I loved most was to make my round among the tables and mingle closely with the worshippers.  Of the men, clean and correct in their perfectly fitting flannels, sometimes stern, sometimes mocking, sometimes pettishly cross, I was rather shy; but I was quite at my ease with the women, even with those whose many rings and jewels, violent perfumes and daring effects of dress made me instinctively differentiate from their quieter and less bejewelled sisters.  Blanquette laughingly called me a “petit polisson” and said that I made soft eyes at them.  Perhaps I did.  When one is a hundred and fifty it is hard to realise that one’s little scarecrow boy’s eyes may have touched the hearts of women.  But the appeal of the outstretched tambourine was rarely refused.

“Get out of this,” the man would say.

“But no.  Remain. Il a l’air si drôle ­what is your name?”

“Je m’appelle Asticot, Madame, a vôtre service.”

This always amused the lady.  She would search through an invariably empty purse.

“Give him fifty centimes.”

And the man would throw a silver piece into the tambourine.

Once I was in luck.  The lady found a ten-franc piece in her purse.

“That is all I have.”

“I have no change,” growled the man.

“If I give you this,” said the lady, “what would you do with it?”

“If Madame would tell me where to get it, I would buy a photograph of Madame,” said I, with one of Paragot’s “inspirations”; for she was very pretty.

“Voila,” she laughed putting the gold into my hand. “Tu me fais la cour, maintenant. Come and see me at the Villa Marcelle and I will give you a photograph gratis.”

But Paragot when I repeated the conversation to him called the lady shocking names, and forbade me to go within a mile of the Villa Marcelle.  So I did not get the photograph.

The next best thing I loved was to see Blanquette’s eyes glitter when I returned to the platform and poured silver and copper into her lap.  She uttered strange little exclamations under her breath, and her fingers played caressingly with the coins.

“We gain more here in a day than Pere Paragot did in a week.  It is wonderful. N’est-ce pas, Maitre?” she said one morning.

Paragot tuned his violin and looked down on her.

“Money pleases you, Blanquette?”

“Of course.”

She counted the takings sou by sou.

“Yet you did not want to accept your just share.”

“What you make me take is not just, Master,” she said, simply.

Much as she loved money, her sense of justice rebelled against Paragot’s division of the takings ­a third for Laripet, a third for Blanquette and a third for himself which he generously shared with me.  Pere Paragot used to sweep into his pockets every sou and Blanquette had to subsist on whatever he chose to allow for joint expenses.  Her new position of independence was a subject for much inward pride, mingled however with a consciousness of her own unworthiness.  Monsieur Laripet, yes; she would grant that he was entitled to the same as the Master; but herself ­no.  Was not the Master the great artist, and she but the clumsy strummer?  Was he not also a man, with more requirements than she ­tobacco, absinthe, brandy and the like?

“A third is too much,” she added.

“If you argue,” said he, “I will divide it in halves for Laripet and yourself, and I won’t touch a penny.”

“That would be idiotic,” said Blanquette.

“It would be in keeping with life generally,” he answered.  “In a comic opera one thing is not more idiotic than another.  Yes, Monsieur Laripet, we will give them Funiculi, Funicula.  I once drove in coffin nails to that tune in Verona.  Now we will set people eating to it in Aix-les-Bains ­we, Monsieur Laripet, you and I, who ought to be the petted minions of great capitals!  It is a comic opera.”

“One has to get bread or one would starve,” said Blanquette pursuing her argument.  “And to get bread one must have money.  If I had all the money you would not eat bread.”

“I should eat brioches,” laughed Paragot quoting Marie Antoinette.

“You always laugh at me, Master,” said Blanquette wistfully.

Paragot drew his bow across the strings.

“There is nothing in this comical universe I don’t laugh at, my little Blanquette,” said he.  “I am like good old Montaigne ­I rather laugh than weep, because to laugh is the more dignified.”

Laripet struck a chord on the piano.  Paragot joined in and played three bars.  Then he stopped short.  There was not the vestige of a laugh on his face.  It was deadly white, and his eyes were those of a man who sees a ghost.

The four bright happy beings, two ladies and two men who had just entered the garden and at whom his stare was directed, took no notice, but followed a bowing maitre d’hotel to a table that had been reserved for them.

I sprang to the platform, on the edge of which I had been squatting at Blanquette’s feet.

“Are you ill, Master?”

He started.  “Ill?  Of course not.  Pardon, Monsieur Laripet. Recommencons.”

He plunged into the merry tune and fiddled with all his might, as if nothing had happened.  But I saw his nostrils quivering and the sweat running down his face into his beard.