II
Patissot’s First Outing
Monsieur Patissot worked listlessly during the whole week, dreaming of the outing he had planned for the following Sunday. He was seized with a sudden longing for the country, for green trees, and the desire for rustic scenes that comes to every Parisian in the springtime took possession of his whole being.
He retired early on Saturday night, and was up with the dawn.
His window opened on a dark and narrow courtyard, a sort of shaft, through which floated up all the different odors of the needy families below.
He immediately glanced at the small square of sky that appeared between the roofs, and saw that it was of a deep blue and filled with sunshine.
Swallows darted through it continually, but their flight could be watched only for a second. He thought that from such a height they surely were able to see the country, the green foliage of the wooded hills, and great stretches of horizon.
An insane longing came to him to wander among the cool leaves. So he dressed himself quickly, drew on his heavy boots, and spent a great deal of time lacing the leggings, which were new and strange to him. After strapping his knapsack to his back (it was filled with meat, cheese, and bottles of wine, for the unaccustomed exercise was sure to sharpen his appetite), he started, a stick in his hand. He adopted a well-marked gait (like a soldier’s, he thought), whistling lively airs that lightened his step. People turned around to gaze after him, a dog barked at him, and a cabman called out: “Good luck, Monsieur Dumolet.” But he paid no attention to them, and marched along briskly, proudly swinging his stick.
The city was awakening in the sunlight and the warmth of a fine spring day. The fronts of the houses shone brightly, canaries warbled in their cages, and a joyousness filled the air, lighting up the faces of the passersby with an expression of universal contentment with all things.
He walked toward the Seine to take the boat for Saint-Cloud. Amid the staring curiosity of the passersby, he followed the Rue de la Chaussée d’Antin, the boulevard, and the Rue Royale, mentally comparing himself to the Wandering Jew. In crossing a gutter he slipped on the nails of his shoes and fell to the ground with a terrible rattling in his knapsack. A passerby helped him to his feet and he resumed his walk at a slower pace. When he reached the river he waited for a boat.
He watched it approach under the bridges, looking very small at first, then larger, till it finally assumed in his mind the proportions of an ocean steamer, coming to take him for a long trip across the seas, to visit unknown nations and to see unfamiliar sights. The boat came alongside the landing, and he went aboard. Women in their Sunday clothes, with big red faces, were seated everywhere, arrayed in gorgeous gowns and gay ribbons.
Patissot walked to the bow and stood there, with legs apart, like a sailor, to create the impression that he was used to steamers. But as he feared the pitching of the boat, he rested on his stick, so as to be sure of keeping his equilibrium.
After passing the Pont-du-Jour, the river widened, flowing calmly under the dazzling sunlight; then, after passing between two islands, the boat turned a wooded hill where a great many little white houses peeped through the foliage. A voice shouted Bas-Meudon, Sèvres, Saint-Cloud, and Patissot landed.
On the quay, he reopened his map, in order to avoid making any possible mistakes. Everything was quite clear, however. He had only to follow a road that would take him to Celle, where he would turn first to the left, then a little to the right, and afterward would reach Versailles just in time to visit the park before dinner.
The road was hilly, and Patissot puffed and blew, crushed by the weight of his provisions, his legs sore from his gaiters, and his thick shoes feeling as heavy as cast-iron. Suddenly he stopped with a gesture of despair! in the flurry of his departure he had forgotten the field glass!
At last he reached the woods. Then, notwithstanding the terrific heat, and his perspiring brow, and the weight of his harness and the jerkings of his knapsack, he started on a run or rather on a trot toward the green trees, like some old, worn-out nag.
He entered the deliciously cool shade and gazed tenderly at the thousands of little flowers that grew by the wayside; they looked very delicate on their long stems and were all different, some yellow, some blue, some lavender. Insects of various colorings and shapes, long, short, of wonderful build, monsters both tiny and fearful, were ascending with difficulty the blades of grass, which bent under their weight. And Patissot began to admire creation sincerely. But being exhausted he sat down.
He wanted to take a bite. But on examining his provisions, he was amazed at their condition. One of the bottles had been broken in his fall and the contents, unable to find an outlet through the oilcloth, had made a wine soup of his food.
However, he managed to eat a slice of cold leg of mutton, carefully wiped off, a slice of ham, several crusts of bread, soaked and red, and he quenched his thirst with some fermented claret that was covered with an unappetizing pink foam.
After resting nearly two hours, he again consulted his map and went on his way.
In time, he found himself at an entirely unexpected crossroad. He looked at the sun, tried to locate himself, reflected, studied the multitude of fine crosslines on his map that represented the roads, and finally reached the conclusion that he was lost.
Before him lay a most alluring path, specked with drops of sunshine that illuminated the white daisies hidden in the grass. It seemed endless, and was quite still and deserted.
A solitary bumblebee frolicked around, now and then lighting on a flower, to leave it almost immediately for a new resting-place. Its fat body, supported by tiny transparent wings, looked like brown velvet streaked with yellow. Patissot was watching it with keen interest, when something stirred at his feet. At first he was frightened and jumped aside, but stooping carefully, he saw that it was a frog no larger than a nut, which was making gigantic leaps.
He bent down to catch it, but it slid between his fingers. Then, with infinite precautions, he crawled toward it on his hands and knees, advancing very slowly, and looking like a tremendous waddling turtle, with his knapsack on his back. When he was near enough to the little creature, he prepared his attack, threw out both hands, fell flat on his nose in the grass, and picked himself up, clutching two handfuls of dirt but no frog. He looked for it a long time, but in vain.
As soon as he was on his feet, he perceived, at a great distance, two figures coming toward him and making signs. A woman was waving a parasol and a man in shirtsleeves was carrying a coat over his arm. Then the woman began to run, calling out: “Monsieur! Monsieur!” He wiped his brow and replied: “Madame!”
“Monsieur, we are lost, positively lost,” said the lady, as she approached him.
A feeling of shame prevented him from making a similar confession and he gravely asserted: “You are on the road to Versailles.”
“What, on the road to Versailles? Why, we are going to Rueil,” said she.
He was taken aback, but nevertheless replied calmly: “Madame, I will prove to you with my map that you are really on the road to Versailles.”
The husband approached. He wore a hopeless, distracted expression. His wife, a young and pretty brunette, grew furious as soon as he drew near. “Now see what you’ve done! Here we are at Versailles. Please look at the map that Monsieur is kind enough to show you. Are you able to read? Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! how stupid some people are! Didn’t I tell you to take to the right? But you wouldn’t listen, no, you think you know everything!”
The poor fellow seemed exceedingly distressed, and replied: “But, my dear, it is you—”
She refused to let him continue and began to reproach him with all the misfortunes of all their life, from their marriage to that moment. But he kept casting despairing glances toward the woods, anxiously scanning the path and uttering from time to time a piercing sound something like a single word, Tuit. This did not appear to disturb his wife, but it filled Patissot with astonishment.
Suddenly the young woman, turning with a smile to the chief clerk, remarked: “If Monsieur will permit us, we will accompany him, so as to keep from getting lost and being obliged to sleep in the woods.”
As Patissot could not very well refuse, he bowed with a heavy heart, tortured with apprehension, and not knowing where he could lead them.
They walked a long while; the man was continually crying: Tuit; and at last darkness settled. The veil of mist that hovers over the country at dusk slowly descended and the delightful coolness which fills the woods at nightfall lent a peculiar charm to the atmosphere. The young wife had taken Patissot’s arm, and her red lips addressed continual reproaches to her husband, who made no reply but kept on calling: Tuit louder and louder. At last the fat clerk inquired: “What is that call for?”
The man, with tears in his eyes, replied:
“I’ve lost my poor dog!”
“What, you’ve lost your dog?”
“Yes, we brought him up in Paris and he had never been in the country before. When he saw the leaves he acted like a mad thing. He ran into the woods and I haven’t seen him since. He will surely starve to death there.”
The young wife shrugged her shoulders: “When a person is as stupid as you are, he cannot keep dogs.”
But he had suddenly stopped, and began to feel himself all over. She watched him a moment, and then asked:
“Well, what has happened now?”
“I didn’t notice that I had my coat on my arm. I have lost my purse, with my money in it!”
At this turn of affairs the woman choked with rage. Finally she said:
“Well, then go back at once and look for it.”
Gently he answered: “Yes, my dear, but where shall I find you?”
Patissot replied boldly: “At Versailles.” And he mentioned the Hotel des Réservoirs, having heard people speak of it.
The husband turned back, anxiously scanning the ground as he walked away, and shouting Tuit every minute. It was some time before he disappeared; at last he was lost in the darkness, but his voice still sounded at a great distance uttering its lamentable Tuit, the call growing sharper and sharper as the path grew darker and his hope became more faint.
Patissot felt delightfully moved when he found himself alone in the woods, at the mysterious hour of dusk, with this little strange woman clinging to his arm. For the first time in all his egotistical life, he had an inkling of poetical love, of the charm of sweet surrender, and of nature’s participation in our affections. He racked his brain in vain for some appropriate and gallant expression. But they were nearing a village road, and saw some houses at the right; then a man passed them. Patissot tremblingly inquired the name of the place. The man said it was Bougival.
“What, Bougival? Are you sure?”
“I should think so! I live here.”
The young woman was laughing uproariously. The idea that her husband was lost filled her with mirth. Patissot found a rustic restaurant near the water, and there they dined. The lady was charming, vivacious, full of amusing stories that turned the head of her companion. When it was time to leave, she exclaimed: “Why, now that I think of it, I haven’t a cent of change; you know my husband lost his purse.”
Patissot immediately offered her his own, and pulled out a louis, thinking he couldn’t lend her less. She said nothing, but held out her hand and took it, uttering a dignified, “Thank you, Monsieur,” followed by a pretty smile. Then she tied her bonnet-strings in front of the mirror, refused to let him accompany her, now that she knew her way, and departed like a vanishing bird, leaving Patissot to add up mournfully the expenses of his outing.
He stayed at home the next day on account of a sick-headache.