Part 25 (1/2)
Days when the fat little French partridges nestle in companies in the fields, shorn to stubble after the harvest, and sleek hares at sunrise lift their long ears cautiously above the dew-bejeweled cobwebs along the ditches to make sure that the green feeding-patch beyond is safe from the man and the gun.
Fat, garrulous Monsieur Toupin of the village becomes under the spell of Madame Vinet's best cognac so uproarious when he has killed one of these sleek, strong-limbed hares, that madame is obliged to draw the turkey-red curtain over the window of her small cafe that Monsieur Toupin may not be seen by his neighbours.
”Suzette,” I called, ”my candle! I must get a good night's sleep, for to-morrow I shoot with the Baron.”
”_Tiens!_” exclaimed the little maid. ”At the grand chateau?” And her frank eyes opened wide. ”Ah, _mais_--but monsieur will not have to work hard for a partridge there.”
”And so you know the chateau, my little one?”
”Ah, _mais oui_, monsieur! Is it not at La Sapiniere near Les Roses? My grandfather was gardener there when I was little. I pa.s.sed the chateau once with my mother and heard the guns back of the great wall. Monsieur will be content--ah, _mais oui_!”
”My coffee at five-thirty promptly, _ma pet.i.te_!”
”_Bien_, monsieur.” And Suzette pa.s.sed me my lighted candle, the flame of which rose brilliantly from its wick.
”That means good luck, monsieur,” said she, pointing to the candle-flame, as my foot touched the winding stairs.
”Nonsense!” I laughed, for I am always amused at her peasant belief in superst.i.tions. Once, I remember, I was obliged to send for the doctor--Suzette had broken a mirror.
”Ah, _mais si_,” declared Suzette, with conviction, as she unlatched her kitchen door. ”When the wick burns like that--ah, _ca!_” And with a cheery _bonsoir_ she closed the door behind her.
I had just swallowed my coffee when the siren of the Baron's automobile emitted a high, devilish wail, and subsided into a low moan outside my wall. The next instant the gate of the court flew open, and I rushed out, to greet, to my surprise, Tanrade in his shooting-togs, and--could it be true? Monsieur le Cure.
”You, too?” I exclaimed in delight.
”Yes,” he smiled and added, with a wink: ”I could not refuse so gamy an invitation.”
”And I would not let him,” added Tanrade. ”Quick! Where are your traps?
We have a good forty kilometres ahead of us; we must not keep the Baron waiting.” And the composer of ballets rushed into the house and shouldered my valise containing a dry change.
”You shall have enough partridges to fill your larder for a month,” I heard him tell Suzette, and he did not forget to pat her rosy cheek in pa.s.sing. Suzette laughed and struggled by him, her firm young arms hugging my gun and sh.e.l.l-case.
Before I could stop him, the cure, in his black soutane, had clambered nimbly to the roof of the big car and was las.h.i.+ng my traps next to Tanrade's and his own. At this instant I started to take a long breath of pure morning air--and hesitated, then I caught the alert eye of the chauffeur, who was grinning.
”What are you burning? Fish oil?” said I.
”_Mon Dieu_, monsieur----” began the chauffeur.
”Cheese,” called down the cure, pointing to a round paper parcel on the roof of the limousine. ”Tanrade got it at daylight; woke up the whole village getting it.”
”Had to,” explained Tanrade, as Suzette helped him into his great coat.
”The Baron is out of cheese; he added a postscript to my invitation praying that I would be amiable enough to bring one. _Eh voila!_ There it is, and real cheese at that. Come, get in, quick!” And he opened the door of the limousine, the interior of which was lined in gray suede and appointed with the daintiest of feminine luxuries.
”Look out for that row of gold bottles back of you, you brute of a farmer!” Tanrade counseled me, as the cure found his seat. ”If you scratch those monograms the Baroness will never forgive you.”
Then, with a wave to Suzette, we swept away from my house by the marsh, were hurled through Pont du Sable, and shot out of its narrowest end into the fresh green country beyond.
It was so thoroughly chic and Parisian, this limousine. Only a few days ago it had been shopping along the Rue de la Paix, and later rus.h.i.+ng to the cool Bois de Boulogne carrying a gracious woman to dinner; now it held two vagabonds and a cure. We tore on while we talked enthusiastically of the day's shooting in store for us. The cure was in his best humour. How he does love to shoot and what a rattling good shot he is! Neither Tanrade nor myself, and we have shot with him day in and day out on the marsh and during rough nights in his gabion, has ever beaten him.
On we flew, past the hamlet of Fourche-la-Ville, past Javonne, past Les Roses. _Sacristi!_ I thought, what if the gasoline gave out or the spark refused to sparkle, what if they had----Why worry? That cheese was strong enough to have gotten us anywhere.