CHAPTER XXXII THE BRIGANDS' HOME

It was a strange, wild, magnificent spot. A deep gorge running inland from the sea, only avoided cutting into the precipice which we were carefully avoiding, by a strip of turf a few yards wide, along which we passed, and by which alone access could be obtained to our destination. It curled in a zig-zag position, sometimes wider, sometimes narrower, towards a low promontory fronting the sea—for the gorge seemed to take a complete circle. As we neared this hill I could see that it was a far more fertile one than most of the country around. Up one side stretched a vineyard, and little knolls of olive and cypress trees were dotted about on the summit, which seemed enclosed by a thick hedge of wild aloes. A keen, piercing whistle greeted our approach, to which my father at once replied. Then there was silence.

We climbed right up the side and passed over the summit of the hill without seeing a sign of any human being or habitation. I looked at my father inquiringly, but he only smiled.

"Follow me carefully, Hugh," he said, walking on as though to descend the promontory on the other side. I did so, along a winding, narrow path covered with loose stones, until suddenly, as we reached a sharp corner, I came to a standstill, and could not repress a cry of admiration. Just below was a wide, natural plateau jutting out until it seemed to stand sheer over the violet sea, and around it at regular distances, close to the side of the hill, and overhung by a luxurious out-growing plantation of cypress-trees, were a number of rudely constructed brown tents. Lying about on the turf were several men dressed in a picturesque medley of bright-hued garments, smoking long cigarettes and drinking wine from horn cups. It reminded me of a scene from the Spanish Student, only it was far more beautiful.

A tall, dark man of swarthy complexion and black eyes, but who was far from ill-looking, came forward languidly to meet us. My father spoke to him rapidly apart for a moment or two, and then he turned towards me.

"This is Monsieur José, Hugh, whose guest I am."

Monsieur José took off his feathered hat, and made me a sweeping bow.

"The son of my friend, the Englishman is very welcome," he said, speaking in French. "You would wish to rest, no doubt? If monsieur will seek his tent, I will order refreshments to be sent."

We entered one of the curiously-shaped habitations, and I glanced wonderingly around. There was a small chest, a gun, a little pile of books, a bed of dried leaves and heath pressed together in a compact form, which gave forth an aromatic, agreeable smell, and very little else.

"Not much furniture, you see," my father remarked. "Now come outside again."

A white cloth had been spread out on the turf, and wooden dishes of olives, aloes, magnificent grapes, and some sort of dried meat had been arranged on it. Two long-necked bottles of wine and a couple of horn mugs were also brought, and then the man who had been making these preparations bowed clumsily and withdrew.

I flung myself on the turf by my father's side, and, for the first time for many years, we ate and drank together. Afterwards we lit long paper cigarettes, of which there seemed to be no lack, and I stretched myself out with a sense of dreamy satisfaction. The warm, balmy air, heavily laden with the exquisite perfume of wild-flowers and the odorous scent of the vineyard, seemed to lull my senses into a sweet, satisfied stupor, and for hours we both lay there, scarcely exchanging half-a-dozen sentences.

"Father," I said, suddenly, "a man might be happy here."

He sighed. "It would not be impossible," he assented.

I thought of London at night, with its endless whirl of excitement and hurry; its flaming gas-lights, its heated theatres, its hurrying, eager crowds, and its hideous vice, and I drew a deep, satisfied breath.

"One is happiest out of the world, I think, after all. How could any man be miserable in a place like this?"

My father smiled sadly.

"A certain amount of philosophy is necessary to appreciate solitude," he said. "You are too young to have imbibed it. You would be longing to be back in the world again before long."

I shook my head.

"Not I. There is nothing in England to compare with this. As for London, the little time I spent there seems like a bad dream. To live in a great city seems to me the greatest mistake a man can make. All the town people I met were artificial in their manners, and in their nature too, I believe. The struggle for existence seems to stunt them, and to check their development."

"Yet contact with one another sharpens their wits and energy," my father remarked.

"I doubt whether it improves them morally," I answered. "But perhaps I am prejudiced. I hate towns, and I love the country."

"Monsieur is very wise."

I turned my head, and saw Monsieur José's tall figure standing out against the sky.

"Monsieur is very wise," he repeated. "I, too, have lived in towns, but I love best the country, else I should not be here. Monsieur is young to have attained to so much wisdom."

I laughed. "Isn't it a matter of taste rather than a matter of wisdom?" I remarked.

He shrugged his shoulders, and leaned forward on the long gun which he was carrying.

"With monsieur's permission," he said, "I will tell him a short story. It is my own."

"Delighted," I murmured, lighting a fresh cigarette, and my father gravely bowed his head.

"I was born and brought up in the country," Monsieur José commenced, "in a small village, about fifty miles south of Paris. When I was sixteen years old my father and mother both died, and I was left alone in the world, in possession of a small farm. I had to work hard, but I loved the place, and I was able to make a good living. I was happy enough, too, until Marie Marteuil came to live in our village, and I fell in love with her. I trust monsieur will never know what it is to be in love with a heartless coquette! It was my lot, and a miserable lot it was! One day she would single me out from all the rest and talk to me only, and at another she would scarcely speak to me at all. It was Paris which had done it. Before she went up there to stay with an aunt for a while, she was as quiet, and simple, and sweet as ever a maiden could be, but when she returned she was, as I say, a confirmed coquette. I bore patiently with all her vagaries, and put up with all her saucy speeches, for more than a year. Then, when I asked her to marry me, she laughed in my face. What, marry a little country farmer! Not she. She would marry no one, she said, who did not live in Paris, or who could not take her there. If I could do that she would have me.

"Well, I sold the farm on which I was born, every field of which I loved, and with a light heart went up to Paris. They call Paris a gay city! I found it a cruel one! I had no idea how to set about making a living there, and gradually my little stock of money dwindled away until it was nearly all gone. But I would succeed, I swore, for was not Marie waiting for me? At last, in despair, I turned blacksmith; I worked night and day until my cheeks lost their colour, and I began to stoop. But I got on very well, and at last I got a forge for myself and took a little house and furnished it. Then I went down to my old home, happy and exultant, to fetch Marie. I went to her house and saw her, but when I would have embraced her she drew back as though she had forgotten me. I was pained, but I thought that she was playing with me, and I commenced to tell her my story, and all that I had done, and how I had worked for her sake, and about the house I had furnished. And when I had told her everything, what do you think she did? She burst out laughing in my face. 'The idea of her marrying a blacksmith!' she exclaimed, tossing her pretty little head. 'It was ridiculous.' Besides, she had changed her mind about living in Paris. I had better get some one else to go and live with me in the house I had furnished; and when I commenced to plead to her, she shut the door in my face. Next week she was married to the man to whom I had sold my farm. Does monsieur wonder that I, too, detest the cities, and love best the country?"

I looked up at him sympathisingly, for though he had told his story lightly, there was a deep vein of sadness underlying his assumed manner, and his dark eyes had a sorrowful look.

"Perhaps it was as well for you that you didn't marry her," I remarked. "She must have been a heartless coquette."

He shrugged his shoulders.

"If our love came from our head, that would be very good consolation. I wish messieurs a very good night," he added, bowing. Then he turned somewhat abruptly upon his heel and walked away to his tent.

One by one the men around us left the central group, and, curling themselves up in their cloaks, threw themselves down to sleep—some inside their tents, some on the threshold, and others where they had been sitting. The golden moon had risen high above the gleaming, sparkling surface of the still sea and shone down upon the strange little scene with a full, soft light. I looked round at the slumbering forms of the brigands in the fantastic dress, and at the dark cypress-trees which stood out in strange shapes against the clear, star-bespangled sky. I watched the fire-flies around the aloe hedge, until my eyes ached with following their erratic course. Then I thought of Maud—wondered whether she was at that moment waltzing with Lord Annerley in some heated London ballroom, wondered whether she ever thought of me, whether she knew that I loved her!

And then I closed my eyes, and the sweet, intoxicating perfume which floated about on the heavy southern air lulled me to sleep.