Chapter III The Pleasant Land of France
I
They crossed to Saint Malo two days after the wedding. The groom was horribly sea-sick; the bride, a capital sailor, ministered to him faithfully. This experience is recorded, because it opened Joe’s eyes to the fact that physical infirmity is a serious disability. He had never been “outed,” as he expressed it, before. And it was humiliating to reflect that his small Susan could confront without a qualm wild waves when he lay prostrate, limp in mind and body, capable only of cursing Tomlin, who had dispatched him upon this perilous enterprise. He was not too well pleased when Susan kissed his clammy brow and whispered, “Oh, Joe, I do love to look after you.” Somehow he had never contemplated her looking after him. His very gorge rose at the thought of his inferiority. Twenty-four hours afterwards he felt himself again, the better perhaps for the upheaval, but the memory of what he had suffered remained. He told himself (and Susan) that he would be satisfied with establishing himself in London. New York and Paris could go hang!
They wandered about Saint Malo, criticizing with entire candour everything they beheld. Susan aired her French; the true Briton expressed a preference for his own honest tongue. The Cathedral aroused certain enthusiasms tempered by disgust at the tawdry embellishments of the interior. Susan, however, was impressed by the kneeling men and women, who wandered in and out at all hours. She stared at their weather-beaten faces uplifted in supplication to some unknown saint. She became sensible of an emotion passing from them to her, a desire to kneel with them, to share, so to speak, the graces and benedictions obviously bestowed upon them. For the first time in her life she realized that religion may be more than an act of allegiance to God. These simple folk, workers all of them, could spare five minutes out of a busy morning to pray. Her own prayers never varied. Night and morning she repeated piously the formulas learned at her mother’s knee. Upon Sundays she followed more or less attentively the fine liturgy of the Church of England. Naturally intelligent and supremely sympathetic, she could not doubt that prayer meant more to these Papists than to her, something vital, something absolutely necessary. She glanced at her husband’s face, wondering whether he shared her thoughts. Joe was worshipping after his own fashion the Gothic architecture of the nave, and favourably contrasting it with the transepts. She touched his arm timidly.
“Would it be wicked, Joe, to kneel down here?”
Joe stared at her whimsically.
“Do you want to?” he asked.
“Ye-es.”
“Well, then, do it. You ain’t going to pray to that?” He indicated a graven image, atrociously bedizened in crude blue and silver tinsel.
“Oh no!” she answered; then she added, with a blush, “I only want to thank God that we are here—together.”
“Right you are!” said Joe heartily, but he did not offer to kneel with her. She moved from him slowly, with a backward glance, which escaped his notice, and knelt behind a pillar, covering her face with her hands, wondering at first what her mother would say if she could see her, and almost tremblingly glad that she couldn’t. Oddly enough, when she began to pray it never occurred to her to use the old familiar forms. She thanked God because He had made her happy; she entreated a continuance of that happiness in her own artless words, words she might have used to her mother. When her prayer was ended, she became conscious of the strange intimacy of her invocation. She felt a glow, although a minute previously the lower temperature of the Cathedral after the warm sunshine without had struck her chillingly. When she rose from her knees, her eyes were shining. She returned to her husband, who said: “Regular mix-up we have here. Let’s skin out of it.”
II
They travelled by easy stages to Treguier, their destination, stopping overnight at Saint Brieux and Guingamp. By the luck of things they happened to reach Treguier at the time of the great Pardon, le Pardon des Pauvres, the Pardon of Brittany’s greatest and most potent Saint—Yves de la Vérité. Everything also combined to make this new experience an imperishable memory. Their hotel in Treguier was charmingly clean and comfortable, an inn of the olden time kept by two elderly spinsters. It overlooked the river Jaudy flowing placidly to the sea. Beyond, under soft skies, lay the Breton landscape, quietly pastoral, pleasingly undulating, with a thin mist revealing rather than obscuring its beauty. Susan woke early, hearing the sound of sabots upon the quay, and the tinkle of bells upon the horses. She went to the open window and looked out. Already the town was full of pilgrims, peasants in the costume of the country, all chattering and gesticulating. Some had come in boats. Susan marked the whiteness of the women’s coifs and the stout cloth of their gowns. When they laughed, she saw rows of white teeth; their faces were superbly tanned by sun and wind; they looked what they were—the sisters, the wives, the mothers of strong men. Amongst them, terribly conspicuous wandered a few beggars, disease-stricken wretches importuning alms of the healthy, pointing shrivelled, dirty hands at their dreadful sores, advertising, almost triumphantly, their poverty and misery. Susan had learned from the two sisters that this was the fête of the ver poor, she had been warned to expect a parade of misery and deformity, and Mademoiselle Yannik had added softly, “Look you, madame, it is good, when one is young and strong and happy, to look sometimes at these misérables.”
III
The Pardon is not held at Treguier, nor at Minihy, but on the other side of the Jaudy, upon a hill near Porz-Bihan. Here, in former times, stood a chapel, now in ruins; only the ossuary is left, in which may still be found an image of the great Saint, very old, very crudely fashioned, but supremely interesting by reason of the veneration with which it is regarded by the peasants. The Quinneys watched the pilgrims coming and going in a never-ending procession. Each offered prayers and oblations in copper to the Saint, who stared down upon them with that vague, impersonal regard which would seem to indicate indifference or lassitude. Upon an altar were ranged other saints, rude images of painted wood, saints never canonized, and looking as if they resented the unique honour paid to Yves le Véridique. Many of the pilgrims muttered some formula in Breton, which afterwards Mademoiselle Yannik translated for Susan. It ran: “If theirs be the right, condemn us. If ours be the right, condemn them.” For this is the patron saint of lawyers, and of the poor oppressed by the law. The procession of Misérables followed. An Englishman told the tale of the Miracle of the Soup to Susan. He described vividly a farm hard by filled with outcasts upon the eve of the Pardon. And so bitter had been the weather that the farmer had made small provision for his guests, assured that only a few would demand his hospitality. The pot-au-feu hung upon its hook, but there was hardly soup enough in it to feed half a dozen, and scores were arriving. And then suddenly a stranger appeared, approached the hearth, and affirmed that there would be enough for all. Having said this, he vanished, and, lo, a miracle! The crowds were abundantly fed. The stranger was the Saint himself, the blessed Yves. Susan was thrilled, but Joe whispered to her, “Do you believe that yarn, Sue?” and she whispered back, “Yes.” He squeezed her arm as he replied, “Lawsy, you are a blessed little fool!”
But the great impression remained of poverty and pain parading before a comparatively prosperous and healthy crowd, who regarded the unfortunate with kindly and compassionate eyes. Susan was melted to tears, but Joe said emphatically:
“What do you make of this show?”
She replied hesitatingly, “They recognize that the poor must be always with them.”
Joe persisted.
“How does this apply to you and me?”
“We must help when we can, dear.”
“We have to help, Sue. Rates and taxes. By Gum, I’ve never seen such a lot of wretched devils in all my life. And the sight o’ their misery just hits a particular nail of mine bang on the head. Drives it home, like. Me and you must never be poor. We must pull together against the remotest chance o’ poverty.”
“They can’t help it, Joe.”
“Perhaps not, but we can.”
They returned in a chastened mood to the excellent dinner provided at the inn.
IV
Next day they paid a visit to the great artist, who reproduced so wonderfully pieces of old furniture. Fortunately for the Quinneys, the Englishman, whom they had met at the Pardon, accompanied them. He happened to be staying at the same inn, and knew le pays Tregorrois as well as, indeed much better than, Quinney knew Melshire. Also he spoke French fluently, and could make himself understood in Breton. Lastly, he was something of a collector of Breton faience and old oak, a buyer in a small way of chests and panelling. The Quinneys interested him enormously. Joe was evidently an original, and Susan, as evidently, the reverse, and the more attractive on that account in masculine eyes. He swooped upon the immense differences in the characters of bride and groom, having the instinct of the explorer, and promised himself some amusement in studying them. Joe had been as frank with him as he was with Mrs. Biddlecombe.
“I’ve powers within me,” he explained, over a matutinal pipe. “They push me on—see?”
George Le Marchant nodded, smiling pleasantly.
“Pushed you across the Channel?” he suggested.
“Just so. Beastly crossin’—humiliatin’. Felt like a scoured worm!”
Susan interrupted. She saw that Le Marchant, although he wore shabby clothes, was a gentleman.
“That’ll do, Joe.”
“Nearly did ’do’ for me. The wife”—he liked this expression, having heard Pinker use it—“the wife fairly wallered in it. Blue water, wind and waves—ugh!”
“It would have been just lovely,” Susan admitted, “if Mr. Quinney——”
“Hadn’t ’ad his bloomin’ head in a basin. No, I ain’t going to say another word. Disgusting about fits it. Well, I was saying it was something stronger than meself drove me out of good old England.”
“Mr. Tomlin,” put in Susan. She added for the benefit of the stranger, “He’s a big London dealer.”
Joe snorted.
“Tomlin ain’t stronger than me, Susan. He’s bigger in the trade, that’s all, and come to his full growth, too. I’m sorter speak sproutin’. Do you know Tomlin, of the Fulham Road?”
“Oh yes.”
Le Marchant smiled faintly. Quinney, intent upon his own glorification, missed a derisive expression, but Susan was sharper. She decided instantly that there had been “dealings” between the great Tomlin and this nice gentleman, and that they had not been entirely satisfactory. Joe continued, warming to his work:
“Tomlin told me about this faker of old oak.”
“But he’s not a faker. Really, you must purge your mind of that. He’s an artist. Dealers, of course, buy his reproductions and sell them again as authentic antiques, but he sells them at a moderate price for what they are—superb copies. They are so masterly in every detail that you won’t know the copy from the original when you see both together.”
“Oh, won’t I?” said Quinney. “I’ve a lot to learn, and I’m learning something every day, but old oak is my hobby. I’ve handled it since I was a baby, and I shall know.”
“We’ll see,” said Le Marchant, smiling. “What did you think of the Pardon yesterday?”
He addressed Susan, but Joe answered, taking it for granted that his opinion was worth something.
“Rum show! Very—French, hey? Praying hard all the morning didn’t prevent ’em from getting jolly tight in the afternoon.”
Le Marchant laughed.
“These are Bretons, Mr. Quinney. Celts, not Latins.”
He began to explain, talking very pleasantly, with a knowledge of his subject which challenged Susan’s attention. She liked to hear about people so different from herself; their quaint superstitions, their ardent beliefs, and the primitive simplicity of their lives appealed to her strangely. But she was quick to perceive that Joe was bored. His shrewd face wore an expression gradually becoming familiar to her. Later he would say that there was nothing “in” such talk. It didn’t lead anywhere; at any rate not in the directions whither Susan and he were steering. Why couldn’t Le Marchant talk about that Quimper pottery, those jolly old figures of the Saints and Saintesses. A man might pick up a wrinkle or two worth something listening to that. He knocked the ashes from his pipe and rose to his feet.
“Ain’t we wastin’ valuable time?” he asked.
V
The establishment of the master copyist much impressed Quinney on account of its size. The visitors were shown everything, and the proprietor said to Mrs. Quinney:
“Vous voyez, madame, je ne cache pas mon jeu, moi.”
“What’s he sayin’?” asked Joe.
Le Marchant answered.
“He assures us that he’s not a faker.”
They beheld tanks of acid in which new ironwork was placed. In a few hours or days the corroding acid achieved the work of years. There were piles of wood, new and old, awaiting treatment. Quinney asked if there was a worm-holing machine. He had heard that one had been patented. The proprietor laughed.
“The worms themselves do the work here, monsieur.”
Then he placed in Joe’s hands two wooden candle-sticks.
“One of these,” said he, “is genuine, and worth its weight in gold, a fine specimen of the sixteenth century. The other was made here within a year. Which is which?”
“Lawsy!” said Quinney. “I ought to know.”
He examined them very carefully, and guessed wrong.
Le Marchant smiled, well pleased, because he had predicted truly. The proprietor pointed to a bureau of oak, exquisitely carved.
“Is that old or new, monsieur?”
Quinney spent five minutes in examining the specimen, feeling the “patine,” scraping it with his nail, staring through his glass at the marks of the chisels.
“It’s old,” said he at last.
“It’s quite new, monsieur.”
“I’m fairly done,” said Joe. “This beats the world, this does.”
“That piece,” said the proprietor, “is signed by me here,” and he showed Quinney two interlaced initials, cleverly concealed. “The original is in the Cluny, and valued by experts at four thousand pounds. I can sell it for sixteen pounds.”
“Mark it ‘sold,’” said Joe.
He bought chests old and new, panelling, tables and chairs, desks and wardrobes. The proprietor smiled, rubbing his hands together.
“Obviously, monsieur is in the business?”
“I am,” replied Quinney, “and, by Gum, I thought I knew my business till I met you.”
Le Marchant acted as interpreter. The three returned to Treguier and breakfasted upon the small terrace overlooking the Jaudy. Quinney was in the highest spirits. But to Susan’s dismay, he talked of returning to England and finishing their honeymoon in a country where a man could make himself understood. What about Weymouth? What price nice sands? He assured Le Marchant that his Susan liked paddling, because she could show a neat pair of ankles. Also they could nip over to Dorchester. Rare place that for old stuff! Inevitably he returned to his business with an enthusiasm which indicated that he found it more engrossing than ordinary honeymooning. Susan listened with a tiny wrinkle between her smooth brows. When Quinney rushed upstairs to fill his pouch with English tobacco, Le Marchant said thoughtfully:
“Wonderfully keen, isn’t he?”
The swiftness of her answer surprised him.
“Do you think he’s too keen?”
He evaded the eager question.
“As for that, Mrs. Quinney, one can hardly be too keen in business nowadays.”
“I meant—is he too keen for his own happiness?”
He hesitated. On the morrow he would go his way, and, humanly speaking, there was little probability of his meeting this particular couple again. He wondered vaguely what the future held for them. Then he shrugged his shoulders and laughed.
“His keenness might make for his happiness. I divide the people I know into two classes, those who care for things and those who care for persons.”
“Surely a man can care for both?”
“One must be the dominant interest.”
“You think it’s bad to care too much for things?”
“You are very sharp. However, in this case there isn’t much cause for serious alarm.”
“Why not?”
He stared pensively at her charming face, thinking that Quinney was indeed a lucky fellow to have captured and captivated so sweet a creature.
“Well, you stand between him and false gods.”
“False gods! What a good way of describing faked Chelsea figures!”