In order not to over-complicate matters they had elected to travel in one car, despite the crush; this had the further advantage that Felix was able to loan the consular car to his invited friend for the trip. Quatrefages in tenue de ville looked splendid, though somewhat nervous. He had actually seen a few of the arrivals from Marseille who were to be accommodated on the morrow at a hotel. He was enthusiastic. “They all look as if their periods were overdue – it gives women a wonderful neurotic magnetism. I saw at least two superb dollies like great caterpillars, covered in pollen.” Felix was a bit shocked by the relish of his friend. Quatrefages had drunk a whisky or two with the Prince’s major-domo and was in a fine state of exaltation. “Remember the message of the caryatids?” he asked, shaking his finger at the abashed consul into whose car he had now inserted himself. “A girl should always try to look ever so slightly pregnant.” It was an old chestnut, invented in the past by Blanford and which had tickled him enough to stay in his memory. “Whatever happens, dear Felix,” he said, “don’t miss it.”
So here they were bowling through the sweet glades of cherries and mulberries; from time to time the brilliant aqueduct emerged upon the blackness to their left, and was then swallowed up by the greenery. They could hear the river grinding its teeth down below to their right. Then came the left turning which normally would carry them right up on to the bridge itself, and here stood a policeman with a pious air and a white barrier which he had placed across the road. But they now pretended they were heading for Uzès and passed him by with a wave, to curl down the long avenue of cool planes until the sunken road by Vers came up and here they drove most carefully on an appalling surface until they came to an olive grove which crowned the slopes. Here it was not possible to continue by car and they started to walk on the shaly slopes among the snatching bristles of holm-oak and thorn. It was harder to navigate in the darkness than by daylight.
The hill was a wilderness of dividing paths and fire breaks; but ahead of them was the furry white light of the reflectors and they navigated upon that until, with the sudden surprise of actors who walk unwittingly out upon a lighted stage, they reached the culvert which marked the first arch. And here began the circumspect descent upon the crown of the aqueduct with its metre-deep gulley – the channel through which the spring water of Vers was conveyed to Nîmes in Roman times. Here they could perch like birds in a high tree and rest their elbows on the side of the trench, to gaze down upon the princely revels below. The idea of the opera glasses was also a brainwave. They had originally been bought for the performances of the Opéra de Marseille, but lately had been much out of use, lying about the house. Now they trained them like sharpshooters upon the Auberge below, and found that, as Quatrefages had said, they had an excellent view of half the great dining-room, one side of which opened into a sort of sun verandah.
The proceedings had already begun with a certain regal formality; the male guests, who were all unaccompanied, had been received in the pavilion and had been offered an aperitif of the Prince’s devising – possibly laced with cantharides? Quatrefages indeed wondered about the matter as he gulped down his portion of the fiery colourless brew. The company looked even stranger at night than by daylight. They were all dressed in dark suits which were uncomfortably warm for the time of the year, and they gave the impression of being weighed down by their cravats and heavy rings, and greased hair. At this stage there was no sign of the women. But at last, when the assembly was complete, the Prince beckoned to his guests to follow him, and led them, as if they had been a cricket team, through the glades towards the Auberge, which had stayed all this time in almost complete darkness – just a candle-glimmer here or there which betokened movement. The Prince held in his hand his little gilt fly-swash with its length of white mare’s tail hanging from it. It was rather like a conductor’s baton. With it he tapped on the closed doors of the Auberge and they sprang open at his behest. At the same moment the whole dining-room was flooded with light and the advancing cohort of guests gave a collective gasp of pleasure. To the right of each male guest there was to be a naked lady of pleasure! Those already in place clapped and shouted and vociferated in ladylike fashion as the dark-suited men advanced with a thirsty air, each to find his place card with his name upon it.
No phantasy had been spared, it was clear. Constance chuckled almost continuously at the scene as her glasses picked up now one corner and now another of the ballroom. The men, as befitted their superior sex, sat on chairs with high gilded backs, like thrones; the girls upon velvet piano-stools. The Prince dominated the table as a good host should. Behind his chair stood the three dignitaries of high office clad in the most wonderful service robes of scarlet and gold, with green facings. One was the official food-taster, who would not be pressed into service tonight; the other two, one on each side of his chair, were bearing on their right wrist a tall hooded falcon. The Prince’s rank entitled him to this dignity, just as a Scottish aristocrat is entitled to his bagpiper. The dinner began with a swirl of conversation and popping and waiting … a little sticky as yet, despite the fiery aperitif.
The men looked like shy honey-bears at Sunday school. “But not for long, I don’t suppose,” said Constance, who had voiced this thought to the others. The scene was full of variety and charm. In the bloom of the candles the women looked as sumptuous and grandiose as the requirements had stipulated. “J’aime les grands balcons arrondis,” the Prince had said, perhaps with his guests in mind. And here were the great rounded balconies in all their splendour, covered in fresh violets and jewels and scented in a thousand extravagant ways. The merriment was slow to emerge but it was just as well, for this sort of dinner-party, in which so large a part of the thrill is the marvellous food, should begin on a note of attentive reverence. This fête was no exception. They were, after all, Frenchmen, which meant that they had an innate culture of the table, and also of the human heart and person. Even the most curmudgeonly and bearish of the guests was a born appreciator of la bonne chère and turned his eyes to heaven from time to time with ecstasy; some kissed away bunched fingers in the direction of the cuisine and the cook. With the tucking of napkins into collars a new ease asserted itself and the conversation flowed in harmony with the excellent wine. Quatrefages, who was not particularly attracted to balconies, found himself with a big shy round dolly with a vulgar laugh, but with all the right instincts for she pressed his knee throbbingly and gave him infinite seafruit to sup. Slightly fuddled as he was, he nevertheless realised that he had never in his experience eaten food so exquisite, yet so simple. The shade of Brillat-Savarin must have turned mumbling in his grave to bless the table of the Prince. So exceptional was it, that he thought for a moment of saving the menu to bestow on Constance, and then he realised that it was useless – it would be like confiding the programme-notes of some superlative performance to a friend. What could they imagine from such a bare recital of the elements of this divine repast?* Where the devil had the old boy found the champagne? Lost in wonder and ecstasy, he allowed himself to be tweaked and tickled and fed like a Strasbourg goose. The watchers on the top of the aqueduct were vastly amused by his beguiling air of helpless content.
It was long, the banquet, but so full of fascinating detail that they were completely absorbed in the watching; towards the end some scattered little sorties took place, to enable couples to dance a stately measure or two on the dark balconies outside. These took place with a slightly absurd formalism, which suggested that the dancers were none too sure of their feet. The orchestra remained invisible, but waltz and tango and “slows” figured on a repertoire which was calculated not to prove too tiring for people after such a mammoth dinner. But to the regret of the watchers the lights progressively became more and more discreet – one last cavernous flare as from the mouth of hell took place with the crêpes flambées, that was all, which conferred on each hairy face the kind of dark light which Rembrandt has marked as his own. It was a tremendous success, the snapping of paper favours and
even – a stroke of genius – the wearing of paper hats which pushed the scene from the plain picturesque to the absolutely side-splitting. Elderly rats in strange paper hats, waving their cigars at the universe! What a marvellous touch of lunacy was conferred by this simple touch. And the dancing became a trifle more treacly – the ladies swathing themselves more amply, more amorously about their partners, or spreading their arms wide like galleons in full sail – or combine harvesters, to select a metaphor by Felix who found it more appropriate to the approaching vendanges.
So things went on in a slightly more sentimental key – even the Prince trod a bird-like measure, but his affections seemed to vary a good deal; several large unplucked-looking girls were competing for his attentions. All that money! All that food! “He has found another lovely word,” said Felix. “He says ‘spiffing’ when he means ‘top-whole’.”
Their spirits began to droop a little – perhaps because of the notion that the visible part of the revels was finished. Constance thought lovingly of the Thermos of hot wine and the sandwiches which awaited them in the car. Then suddenly the universe was blown out and the whole darkness of the sky came down on them as forcibly, as palpably almost, as a lid. They could not even see each other and the distance between them and the revels seemed suddenly to have lengthened, so that they felt miles high in the sky, seated as if in an aeroplane. Caution also was indicated, for a frolic up here in the darkness could cost a life or a limb. They waited to let their eyes accustom themselves to the dark, but before this happened another kind of light assailed them.
From below there was a succession of bangs and strings of coloured snakes hissed up into the air around them, only to spit out their hot coloured stars and plumes and subside groundward again. They scored their beautiful trails on that dark lambent sky, and their stuttering, pattering trajectory carried them right over the bridge on which they lay. It was relatively short as firework displays go, but the colours and forms were choice, while down below, at water level, fizzed some grand yellow Catherine wheels, and a set piece which looked somewhat like a santon of Provence eating olives at the pace of St. Vitus. From afar off they heard the distant clapping and cheering, and now, since the new darkness seemed to be permanent, they crawled back along the stone tunnel and up onto the hill. It was a bit of a scramble, but once on the other side they made better time with the aid of a torch. It had been worth it!
A dense dew had been falling, ripe with the premonitions of the harvest; it dripped from the quiet olive under which they had parked the car. How welcome the wine was. Yet a heavy mist hemmed in the further visibility. As they drank their drink there appeared a sort of secondary cloud, moving up the hill towards them, and they recognised the characteristic clatter of hooves and tonking of bells which betokened a shepherd, who came across to get a light for his cigarette, and was glad of a sip of wine. He spoke in a sing-song southern French. As he puffed and warmed his palms with the cup, his dogs crouched beside him attentively, and the frieze of sheep strung out on the hill behind. Their hooves bruised the sage and set up a dense perfume in the windless orchard. The old man said: “The War has begun,” but his tone was one of such incomprehension and unconcern that they could hardly take it seriously. How did he know? He had heard it at the Mairie at midnight. But in a land so poorly equipped with wirelesses rumour makes do for fact to a great extent – and this particular rumour had been often encountered already. And yet … It was disturbing. They said goodbye to him, shaking his rough hand, and piled back into their car which took some moments to start.
The heavy ground mist cleared after they had negotiated Remoulins and were safely launched upon the road to Avignon; for about ten minutes there was some disposition to doze, but as they fronted the last hillside before the famous bridge, they all came full awake again and began to debate whether to go home, or whether to go into the town in search of coffee and croissants and some truthful account of what was happening in the outer world. “It’s too late to go to bed, and too early to get up,” said Blanford, “and Felix is the only one who feels normal at this hour.” As a matter of fact Felix was elated – almost the whole night had passed in delightful fashion for once, and here he was, happy and wide awake – only a little disquieted by the peasant’s remark about the war having begun.
To town then, but Avignon itself was as dead as a doornail – even the bakers had not started to warm their ovens, while no cafés were open, not even at the Gare. They tried a last chance and crossed Les Balances on foot, skirting its sordid and gipsy-ridden tenements, worthy more of Cairo than of a European city. They dumped the car at the Papal square. But here too, alas, the little Bar de la Navigation was shut fast. They began to feel dispirited.
But in one of the side-streets near the ancient tanneries with their foul network of canals, they heard the throbbing and pulsing note of a powerful engine or turbine. It sounded like the engine of a ship. “It’s an old friend,” explained Felix, “come and have a look at it! It follows me in my wandering at night, in the first week of the month every six months it ‘does’ this quartier during the hours of darkness. Then it moves on round the clock.” It looked to them like a variety of fire-engine, and it bore the arms of the town painted in gold on its muddy flanks. “What is it?” asked Constance and Felix replied with a knowledgeable air, “It’s the pompe à merde. You see, there has never been any main drainage, here all the houses have pits, dry pits for their only sanitation. Well, these are sucked out during the night by this old mastodon of a thing. They are all proud of it. They call it ‘Marius’.”
Mastodon was the word, though it had a long rubber proboscis like that of an elephant which had entered a front door and descended into the cellar where the privies were. The sucking and slobbering were fearful to hear, and the shuddering and drubbing of the pumps fearful to behold – it was like a clumsy animal, sweating and straining at its task, Blanford thought. “It is sucking out the intellectual excrement of the twentieth century in a town which was once Rome. The dry pit of the human imagination perpetually filling up again with the detritus of half-digested hopes and fears, of desires and resolutions.” It was a bad sign he thought, frowning, to see metaphors everywhere; though he was not the only one. Constance said softly, “An anal-oral machine most appropriate to our time. Like the Freudian nursery rhyme.”
But here afflicted by a sudden modesty she decided not to repeat it aloud; she would whisper it to herself instead.
When the bowel was loaded
The birds began to sing;
Wasn’t that a dainty dish
To set before the King?
There was a light in a nearby bistro where the driver of “Marius” was already ordering his coffee and a small marc to drive off the excrementitious odours with which he was forced to live. Well, it was a profession, just like any other.… The others joined him at the zinc but Blanford stayed behind, fascinated by the old machine sucking and slobbering its way through the centuries. On one side, the old wrinkled dawn was coming up in coral and nacre, and down here at the same time the stench of excrement was spreading over the whole quartier. Soon it would be time to wind up the rubber hose and drive “Marius” away to its stable, for this kind of sump-cleansing was only done during the night – for the sake of decency, he supposed.
But now he was really tired. A quotation came into his mind. Inter faesces et urinam nascimur. Yes, it was appropriate enough. It had been, after all, Augustine’s “City of God”, transplanted once upon a time to this green and innocent country.
* Nevertheless see Appendix.
Appendix
* page 18
Full text of the 12 Commandments
1. Faut pomper la momie allégoriquement.
2. Faut situer le cataplasme de l’art chauve.
3. Faut analyser le carburant dans les baisers blondes.
4. Faut faire faire, faute de mieux et au fur et à mesure faire forger.
5. Faut oindre le gorgonzola du Grand Maître.
/> 6. Faut respecter le poireau avec son regard déficitaire.
7. Faut scander les débiles sentimentales avec leurs décalcomanies.
8. Faut sauter le Pont Neuf pour serrer la main d’une asperge qu’on trouve belle.
9. Faut caresser inéluctablement la Grande Aubergine de notre jour.
10. Faut pondre des lettres gardées en instance, tombées en rebut, Poste Restante, l’ Amour O crème renversée.
11. Faut dévisager la réalité à force de supposer.
12. Faut cracker les tièdes et décendre les incohérents.
* page 210
Readers who remark a slight divergence between so-called “real” history and the order of events adopted in this novel will, it is hoped, accord the author a novelist’s indulgence.
*page 258
MENU POUR LE BANQUET DE PRINCE HASSAD AU PONT DU GARD
Consommé glacé à la tortue
Gratin de crevettes roses en bouquet fait