In and out of Three Normandy Inns Part 9

"By the way," he broke in; "by the way, I'm not doing my duty as cicerone. There's a church near here--we're coming to it in a moment--famous--eleventh or twelfth century, Romanesque style--yes--that's right, although I'm somewhat shaky when it comes to architecture--and an old manoir, museum now, with lots of old furniture in it--in the manoir, I mean."

"There's the church now. Oh, let us stop!"

In point of fact there were two churches before us. There was one of ivy: nave, roof, aisles, walls, and conic-shaped top, as perfectly defined in green as if the beautiful mantle had been cut and fitted to the hidden stone structure. Every few moments the mantle would be lifted by the light breeze, as might a priest's vestment; it would move and waver, as if the building were a human frame, changing its posture to ease its long standing. Between this church of stone and this church of vines there were signs of the fight that had gone on for ages between them. The stones were obviously fighting decay, fighting ruin, fighting annihilation; the vines were also struggling, but both time and the sun were on their side. The stone edifice was now, it is true, as Renard told us, protected by the Government--it was cla.s.sed as a "monument historique"--but the church of greens was protected by the G.o.d of nature, and seemed to laugh aloud, as if with conscious gleeful strength. This gay, triumphant laugh was reflected, as if to emphasize its mockery of man's work, in the tranquil waters of a little pond, lily-leaved, garlanded in bushes, that lay hidden beyond the roadway.

Through the interstices of the vines one solitary window from the tower, like a sombre eye, looked down into the pond; it saw there, reflected as in a mirror, the old, the eternal picture of a dead ruin clasped by the arms of living beauty.

This Criqueboeuf church presents the ideal picturesque accessories. It stands at the corner of two meeting roadways. It is set in an ideal pastoral frame--a frame of sleeping fields, of waving tree-tops, of an enchanting, indescribable snarl of bushes, vines, and wild flowers. In the adjoining fields, beneath the tree-boughs, ran the long, low line of the ancient manoir--now turned into a museum.

We glanced for a few brief moments at the collection of antiquities a.s.sembled beneath the old roof--at the Henry II. chairs, at the Pompadour-wreathed cabinets, at the long rows of panels on which are presented the whole history of France--the latter an amazing record of the industry of a certain Dr. Le Goupils.

"Criqueboeuf doesn't exactly hide its light under a bushel, you know, although it doesn't crown a hill. No end of people know it; it sits for its portrait, I should say at least twice a week regularly, on an average, during the season. English water-colorists go mad over it--they cross over on purpose to 'do' it, and they do it extremely badly, as a rule."

This was Renard's last comment of a biographical and critical nature, concerning the "historical monument," as we reseated ourselves to pursue our way to P----.

"Why don't you show them how it can be done?"

"Would," coolly returned Renard, "if it were worth while, but it isn't in my line. Henri, did you bring any ice?"

Henri, I had noticed, when we had reseated ourselves in the cart, had greeted us with an air of silent sadness; he clearly had not approved of ruins that interfered with the business of the day.

"_Oui, monsieur_, I did bring some ice, but as monsieur can imagine to himself--a two hours' sun--"

"Nonsense, this sun wouldn't melt a pat of b.u.t.ter; the ice is all right, and so is the wine."

Then he continued in English: "Now, ladies, as I should begin if I were a politician, or an auctioneer; now, ladies, the time for confession has arrived; I can no longer conceal from you my burglarious scheme. In the next turn that we shall make to the right, the park of the P---- manoir will disclose itself. But, between us and that Park, there is a gate. That gate is locked. Now, gates, from the time of the Garden of Eden, I take it, have been an invention of--of--the other fellow, to keep people out. I know a way--but it's not the way you can follow.

Henri and I will break down a few bars, we'll cross a few fields over yonder, and will present ourselves, with all the virtues written on our faces, to you in the Park. Meanwhile you must enter, as queens should--through the great gates. Behold, there is a cure yonder, a great friend of mine. You will step along the roadway; you will ring a door-bell; the cure will appear; you will ask him if it be true that the manoir of P---- is to rent, you have heard that he has the keys; he will present you the keys; you will open the big gate and find me."

"But--but, Mr. Renard, I really don't see how that scheme will work."

"Work! It will work to a charm. You will see. Henri, just help the ladies, will you?"

Henri, with decisive gravity, was helping the ladies to alight; in another instant he had regained his seat, and he and Renard were flying down the roadway, out of sight.

"Really--it's the coolest proceeding," Charm began. Then we looked through the bars of the park gate. The park was as green and as still as a convent garden; a pink brick mansion, with closed window-blinds, was standing, surrounded by a terrace on one side, and by glittering parterres on the other.

"Where did he say the old cure was?" asked Charm, quite briskly, all at once. Everything had turned out precisely as Renard had predicted.

Doubtless he had also counted on the efficacy of the old fable of the Peri at the Gate--one look had been sufficient to turn us into arrant conspirators; to gain an entrance into that tranquil paradise any ruse would serve.

"Here's a church--he said nothing about a church, did he?"

Across the avenue, above the branches of a row of tall trees, rose the ivied facade of a rude hamlet church; a flight of steep weedy steps led up to its Norman doorway. The door was wide open; through the arched aperture came the sounds of footfalls, of a heavy, vigorous tread; Charm ran lightly up a few of the lower steps, to peer into the open door.

"It's the cure dusting the altar--shall I go in?"

"No, we had best ring--this must be his house."

The clatter of the cure's sabots was the response that answered to the bell we pulled, a bell attached to a diminutive brick house lying at the foot of the churchyard. The tinkling of the cracked-voiced bell had hardly ceased when the door opened.

But the cure had already taken his first glance at us over the garden hedges.

CHAPTER XII.

A NORMAN CURE.

"Mesdames!"

The priest's ma.s.sive frame filled the narrow door; the tones of his mellow voice seemed also suddenly to fill the air, drowning all other sounds. The grace of his manner, a grace that invested the simple act of his uncovering and the holding of his _calotte_ in hand, with an air of homage, made also our own errand the more difficult.

I had already begun to murmur the nature of our errand: we were pa.s.sing, we had seen the manoir opposite, we had heard it was to rent, also that he, Monsieur le Cure, had the keys.

Yes, the keys were here. Then the velvet in Monsieur le Cure's eyes turned to bronze, as they looked out at us from beneath the fine dome of brow.

"I have the keys of the garden only, mesdames," he replied, with perfect but somewhat distant courtesy; "the gardener, down the road yonder, has the keys of the house. Do you really wish to rent the house?"

He had seen through our ruse with quick Norman penetration. He had not, from the first, been in the least deceived.

It became the more difficult to smooth the situation into shape. "We had thought perhaps to rent a villa, we were in one now at Villerville.

If Monsieur le cure would let us look at the garden. Monsieur Renard, whom perhaps he remembered--

"M. Renard! Oh ho! Oh ho! I see it all now," and a deep, mellow laugh smote the air. The keenness in the fine eyes melted into mirth, a mirth that laid the fine head back on the broad shoulders, that the laugh that shook the powerful frame might have the fuller play.

"Ah, _mes enfants_, I see it all now--it is that scoundrel of a boy.

I'll warrant he's there, over yonder, already. He was here yesterday, he was here the day before, and he is afraid, he is ashamed to ask again for the keys. But come, _mes enfants_, come, let us go in search of him." And the little door was closed with a slam. Down the broad roadway the next instant fluttered the old cure's soutane. We followed, but could scarcely keep pace with the brisk, vigorous strides. The sabots ploughed into the dust. The cane stamped along in company with the sabots, all three in a fury of impatience. The cure's step and his manner might have been those of a boy, burning with haste to discover a playmate in hiding. All the keenness and shrewdness on the fine, ruddy face had melted into sweetness; an exuberance of mirth seemed to be the sap that fed his rich nature. It was easy to see he had pa.s.sed the meridian of his existence in a realm of high spirits; an irrepressible fountain within, the fountain of an unquenchable good-humor, bathed the whole man with the hues of health. Ripe red lips curved generously over superb teeth; the cheeks were glowing, as were the eyes, the crimson below them deepening to splendor the velvet in the iris. The one severe line in the face, the thin, straight nose, ended in wide nostrils in the quivering, mobile nostrils of the humorist. The swell of the gourmand's paunch beneath the soutane was proof that the cure was a true Norman he had not pa.s.sed a lifetime in these fertile gardens forgetful of the fact that the fine art of good living is the one indulgence the Church has left to its celibate sons.

Meanwhile, our guide was peering with quick, excited gaze, through the thick foliage of the park; his fine black eyes were sweeping the parterre and terrace.

"Ah-h!" his rich voice cried out, mockingly; and he stopped, suddenly, to plant his cane in the ground with mock fierceness.

"_Tiens_, Monsieur le Cure!" cried Renard, from behind a tree, in a beautiful voice. It was a voice that matched with his well-acted surprise, when he appeared, confronting us, on the other side of the tree-trunk.

The cure opened his arms.

"_Ah, mon enfant, viens, viens!_ how good it is to see thee once again!"

They were in each other's arms. The cure was pressing his lips to Renard's cheek, in hearty French fas.h.i.+on. The priest, however, administered his reproof before he released him. Renard's broad shoulders received a series of pats, which turned to blows, dealt by the cure's herculean hand.

"Why didn't you let me know you were here, yesterday, _Hein_? Answer me that. How goes the picture? Is it set up yet? You see, mesdames,"

turning with a reddened cheek and gleaming eyes, "it is thus I punish him--for he has no heart, no sensibilities--he only understands severities! And he defrauded me yesterday, he cheated me. I didn't even know of his being here till he had gone. And the picture, where is it?"

It was on an easel, sunning itself beneath the park trees. The old priest clattered along the gravelly walk, to take a look at it.

"_Tiens_--it grows--the figures begin to move--they are almost alive.

There should be a trifle more shadow under the chin, what do you think?"