The Strollers. Frederic Stewart Isham
shook the ceiling. “But I’ll warrant my man won’t have to open my luggage after he gets through.”
Then as quiet followed the racket above––“So you’re from Paris, France?” he asked half-quizzically. “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet somebody from somewhere. As I, too, have lived––not in vain!––in Paris, France, we may have mutual friends?”
“It is unlikely,” said the soldier, who meanwhile had drawn off his riding gloves, placed them on the mantel, and stood facing the fire, with his back to the other guest. As he spoke he turned deliberately and bent his penetrating glance on his questioner.
“Really? Allow me to be skeptical, as I have considerable acquaintance there. In the army there’s that fire-eating conqueror of the ladies, Gen––”
“My rank was not so important,” interrupted the other, “that I numbered commanders among my personal friends.”
“As you please,” said the last guest carelessly. “I had thought to exchange a little gossip with you, but––n’importe! In my own veins flows some of the blood of your country.”
46
For the time his light manner forsook him.
“Her tumults have, in a measure, been mine,” he continued. “Now she is without a king, I am well-nigh without a mother-land. True; I was not born there––but it is the nurse the child turns to. Paris was my bonne––a merry abigail! Alas, her vicious brood have turned on her and cast her ribbons in the mire! Untroubled by her own brats, she could extend her estates to the Eldorado of the southwestern seas.” He had arisen and, with hands behind his back, was striding to and fro. Coming suddenly to a pause, he asked abruptly:
“Do you know the Abbé Moneau?”
At the mention of that one-time subtle confidant of the deposed king, now the patron of republicanism, Saint-Prosper once more regarded his companion attentively.
“By reputation, certainly,” he answered, slowly.
“He was my tutor and is now my frequent correspondent. Not a bad sort of mentor, either!” The new arrival paused and smiled reflectively. “Only recently I received a letter from him, with private details of the flight of the king and vague intimations of a scandal in the army, lately come to light.”
His listener half-started from his seat and had the speaker not been more absorbed in his own easy flow of conversation than in the attitude of the other, he would have noticed that quick change of manner. Not perceiving it, however, he resumed irrelevantly:
“You see I am a sociable animal. After being 47 cramped in that miserable coach for hours, it is a relief to loosen one’s tongue as well as one’s legs. Even this smoky hovel suggests good-fellowship and jollity beyond a dish of tea. Will you not join me in a bottle of wine? I carry some choice brands to obviate the necessity of drinking the home-brewed concoctions of the inn-keepers of this district.”
“Thank you,” said the soldier, at the same time rising from his chair. “I have no inclination so early in the day.”
“Early?” queried the newcomer. “A half-pint of Chateau Cheval Blanc or Cru du Chevalier, high and vinous, paves a possible way for Brother Jonathan’s déjeuner––fried pork, potatoes and chicory!” And turning to his servant who had meanwhile entered, he addressed a few words to him, and, as the door closed on the soldier, exclaimed with a shrug of the shoulders:
“An unsociable fellow! I wonder what he is doing here.”
48
CHAPTER III
AN INCOMPREHENSIBLE VENTURE
Pancakes, grits, home-made sausage, and, before each guest, an egg that had been proudly heralded by the clucking hen but a few hours before––truly a bountiful breakfast, discrediting the latest guest’s anticipations! The manager, in high spirits, mercurial as the weather, came down from his room, a bundle of posters under his arm, boisterously greeting Saint-Prosper, whom he encountered in the hall:
“Read the bill! ‘That incomparable comedy, The Honeymoon, by a peerless company.’ How does that sound?”
“Attractive, certainly,” said the other.
“Do you think it strong enough? How would ‘unparagoned’ do?”
“It would be too provincial, my dear; too provincial!” interrupted the querulous voice of the old lady.
“Very well, Madam!” the manager replied quickly. “You shall be ‘peerless’ if you wish. Every fence shall proclaim it; every post become loquacious with it.”
“I was going to the village myself,” said the soldier, 49 “and will join you, if you don’t mind?” he added suddenly.
“Mind? Not a bit. Come along, and you shall learn of the duties of manager, bill-poster, press-agent and license-procurer.”
An hour or so later found the two walking down the road at a brisk pace, soon leaving the tavern behind them and beginning to descend a hill that commanded a view to eastward.
“How do you advertise your performances?” asked the younger man, opening the conversation.
“By posters, written announcements in the taverns, or a notice in the country paper, if we happen along just before it goes to press,” answered Barnes. “In the old times we had the boy and the bell.”
“The boy and the bell?”
“Yes,” assented Barnes, a retrospective smile overspreading his good-natured face; “when I was a lad in Devonshire the manager announced the performance in the town market-place. I rang a cow-bell to attract attention and he talked to the people: Ding-a-ling!––‘Good people, to-night will be given “Love in a Wood”;’ ding-a-long!––‘to-morrow night, “The Beaux’ Strategem‘”;’ ding!––‘Wednesday, “The Provoked Wife”;’ ling!––‘Thursday, ”The Way of the World.” ’ So I made my début in a noisy part and have since played no rôle more effectively than that of the small boy with the big bell. Incidentally, I had to clean the lamps and fetch small beer to the leading lady, which duties were perfunctorily performed. My art, however, 50 I threw into the bell,” concluded the manager with a laugh.
“Do you find many theaters hereabouts?” asked the other, thoughtfully.
Barnes shook his head. “No; although there are plenty of them upon the Atlantic and Southern circuits. Still we can usually rent a hall, erect a stage and construct tiers of seats. Even a barn at a pinch makes an acceptable temple of art. But our principal difficulty is procuring licenses to perform.”
“You have to get permission to play?”
“That we do!” sighed the manager. “From obdurate trustees in villages and stubborn supervisors or justices of the peace in the hamlets.”
“But their reason for this opposition?” asked his companion.
They were now entering the little hamlet, exchanging the grassy path for a sidewalk of planks laid lengthwise, and the peace of nature for such signs of civilization as a troop of geese, noisily promenading across the thoroughfare, and a peacock––in its pride of pomp as a favored bird of old King Solomon––crying from the top of the shed and proudly displaying its gorgeous train. Barnes wiped the perspiration from his brow, as he answered:
“Well, a temperance and anti-theatrical agitation has preceded us in the Shadengo