The
shrill song of frogs, like the tremolo note of a whistle with a pea in
it, rang up from the river-side before the sun was down. In the growing
dusk, faint rustlings began to run to and fro among the fallen leaves;
from time to time a faint chirping or cheeping noise would fall upon my
ear; and from time to time I thought I could see the movement of
something swift and indistinct between the chestnuts. A profusion of
large ants swarmed upon the ground; bats whisked by, and mosquitoes
droned overhead. The long boughs with their bunches of leaves hung
against the sky like garlands; and those immediately above and around me
had somewhat the air of a trellis which should have been wrecked and half
overthrown in a gale of wind.
Sleep for a long time fled my eyelids; and just as I was beginning to
feel quiet stealing over my limbs, and settling densely on my mind, a
noise at my head startled me broad awake again, and, I will frankly
confess it, brought my heart into my mouth.
It was such a noise as a person would make scratching loudly with a
finger-nail; it came from under the knapsack which served me for a
pillow, and it was thrice repeated before I had time to sit up and turn
about. Nothing was to be seen, nothing more was to be heard, but a few
of these mysterious rustlings far and near, and the ceaseless
accompaniment of the river and the frogs. I learned next day that the
chestnut gardens are infested by rats; rustling, chirping, and scraping
were probably all due to these; but the puzzle, for the moment, was
insoluble, and I had to compose myself for sleep, as best I could, in
wondering uncertainty about my neighbours.
I was wakened in the grey of the morning (Monday, 30th September) by the
sound of foot-steps not far off upon the stones, and opening my eyes, I
beheld a peasant going by among the chestnuts by a footpath that I had
not hitherto observed. He turned his head neither to the right nor to
the left, and disappeared in a few strides among the foliage. Here was
an escape! But it was plainly more than time to be moving. The
peasantry were abroad; scarce less terrible to me in my nondescript
position than the soldiers of Captain Poul to an undaunted Camisard. I
fed Modestine with what haste I could; but as I was returning to my sack,
I saw a man and a boy come down the hillside in a direction crossing
mine. They unintelligibly hailed me, and I replied with inarticulate but
cheerful sounds, and hurried forward to get into my gaiters.
The pair, who seemed to be father and son, came slowly up to the plateau,
and stood close beside me for some time in silence. The bed was open,
and I saw with regret my revolver lying patently disclosed on the blue
wool. At last, after they had looked me all over, and the silence had
grown laughably embarrassing, the man demanded in what seemed unfriendly
tones:
'You have slept here?'
'Yes,' said I. 'As you see.'
'Why?' he asked.
'My faith,' I answered lightly, 'I was tired.'
He next inquired where I was going and what I had had for dinner; and
then, without the least transition, 'C'est bien,' he added, 'come along.'
And he and his son, without another word, turned off to the next chestnut-
tree but one, which they set to pruning. The thing had passed of more
simply than I hoped. He was a grave, respectable man; and his unfriendly
voice did not imply that he thought he was speaking to a criminal, but
merely to an inferior.
I was soon on the road, nibbling a cake of chocolate and seriously
occupied with a case of conscience. Was I to pay for my night's lodging?
I had slept ill, the bed was full of fleas in the shape of ants, there
was no water in the room, the very dawn had neglected to call me in the
morning. I might have missed a train, had there been any in the
neighbourhood to catch. Clearly, I was dissatisfied with my
entertainment; and I decided I should not pay unless I met a beggar.
The valley looked even lovelier by morning; and soon the road descended
to the level of the river. Here, in a place where many straight and
prosperous chestnuts stood together, making an aisle upon a swarded
terrace, I made my morning toilette in the water of the Tarn. It was
marvellously clear, thrillingly cool; the soap-suds disappeared as if by
magic in the swift current, and the white boulders gave one a model for
cleanliness. To wash in one of God's rivers in the open air seems to me
a sort of cheerful solemnity or semi-pagan act of worship. To dabble
among dishes in a bedroom may perhaps make clean the body; but the
imagination takes no share in such a cleansing. I went on with a light
and peaceful heart, and sang psalms to the spiritual ear as I advanced.
Suddenly up came an old woman, who point-blank demanded alms.
'Good,' thought I; 'here comes the waiter with the bill.'
And I paid for my night's lodging on the spot. Take it how you please,
but this was the first and the last beggar that I met with during all my
tour.
A step or two farther I was overtaken by an old man in a brown nightcap,
clear-eyed, weather-beaten, with a faint excited smile. A little girl
followed him, driving two sheep and a goat; but she kept in our wake,
while the old man walked beside me and talked about the morning and the
valley.
