The Floating Island (4 page)

This slight sketch is probably
sufficient description for the man and the artiste, but one cannot with
impunity for forty years hold a sonorous box between one’s knees. It affects
one’s whole life, and the character is influenced. Most violoncellists are
talkative and quick tempered, impetuous and domineering, and such was Sebastien
Zorn, to whom Yvernès, Frascolin, and Pinchinat had willingly abandoned the
management of their musical tour. They let him say what he liked, and do what
he liked, for they understood him. Accustomed to his imperious manners, they laughed
when he “outran the measure”
—
which
is regrettable in the case of an executant, as was remarked by the
irrepressible Pinchinat. The composition of the programmes, the direction of
the routes, the correspondence with the managers, devolved on him, and
permitted his aggressive temperament to manifest itself under a thousand
circumstances. Where he did not interfere was with regard to the receipts and
the management of the purse, which formed the particular duty of the second
violin and chief accountant, the exact and careful Frascolin.

The quartette are now introduced
as if they were before you on a platform. We know the types, if not very
original, at least very distinct, of which it was composed. As the reader
allows the incidents of this strange history to unroll themselves he will see
to what adventures were destined these four Parisians, who, after receiving so
many bravos throughout the States of the American Confederation, were to be
transported.

But let us not anticipate, “not
hurry the movement,” as “his highness” would exclaim, and let us have patience.

The four Parisians then, at eight
o’clock this evening, were on a deserted road in Lower California, near the
ruins of their overturned carriage. The chief of the quartette was violently
angry. Why not? Yvernès pretended that he was descended from Ajax and Achilles,
those two illustrious angry heroes of antiquity.

Let it not be forgotten that
though Zorn might be bilious, Yvernès phlegmatic, Frascolin quiet, and
Pinchinat of superabundant joviality, all were excellent comrades, and felt for
each other like brothers. They were united by a bond which no dispute or
self-love could break, by a community of taste originating from the same
source. Their hearts, like well-made instruments, always kept in tune.

While Zorn fretted and fumed, and
patted the case of his violoncello to make sure that it was safe and sound,
Frascolin went up to the driver.

“Well, my friend,” he said; “what
are we to do now, if you please?”

“What you can do when you have
neither a carriage nor a horse, and that is to wait.”

“Wait for what comes,” said
Pinchinat. “And if nothing comes?”

“We must look for it,” said
Frascolin, whose practical mind never failed him. “Where?” roared Zorn, in a
great state of agitation. “Where it is,” replied the driver.

“Is that the way you ought to
answer?” said the ‘cellist, in a voice that gradually mounted towards the high
notes. “What! A clumsy fellow who pitches us out, smashes his carriage, lames
his horses, and then contents himself with saying, “Get out of it as you like!”

Carried away by his natural
loquacity, Zorn began to launch forth into an interminable series of
objurgations, all of them of no use, when Frascolin interrupted him,
—
“Allow me, my old
Zorn.”

And then, addressing himself to
the driver, he asked,
—

“Where are we, my friend?”

“Five miles from Freschal.”

“A railway station?”

“No, a village near the coast.”

“Where can we find a carriage?”

“A carriage, nowhere
—
perhaps a cart.”

“A bullock cart, as in
Merovingian times!” exclaimed Pinchinat.

“What does it matter?” said
Frascolin.

“Eh!”  resumed Zorn. “Ask him if
there is a hotel in this hole of a Freschal. I have had enough for tonight,”

“My friend,” asked Frascolin, “is
there any hotel in Freschal?”

“Yes, the one where we were to
change horses.”

“And to get there we have only to
keep on the main road?”

“Straight on.”

“Let us be off!” said the ‘cellist.

“But,” said Pinchinat, “this poor
fellow. It will be cruel to leave him here in distress. Look here, my friend,
could you not come along if we were to help you?”

“Impossible!” replied the driver.
“Besides, I prefer to remain here with my carriage. When daylight comes I shall
see how to get out of this.”

“When we get to Freschal,” said
Frascolin, “we can send you help.”

“Yes, the hotel-keeper knows me,
and will not let me remain here in this state.”

“Shall we go?” asked the ‘cellist,
picking up the case of his instrument.

“In a moment,” replied Pinchinat.
“Just lend a hand to lift the driver to the side of the road.”

Pinchinat and Frascolin lifted
him up, and placed him against the roots of a large tree, the lower branches of
which formed a cradle of verdure as they fell.

“Shall we go?” roared Zorn for
the third time, having hoisted his case on to his back by means of a double
strap arranged for the purpose.

“We have done now,” said
Frascolin, who then addressed the man, saying,
—

“It is understood that the
hotel-keeper at Freschal will send you help. Till then you want nothing, is
that so?”

“Yes,” said the driver, “unless
you happen to have a drink with you.”

Pinchinat’s flask happened to be
full, and “his highness” willingly made the sacrifice.

“With that, my good man,” said he,
“you will never catch cold to-night
—
inside
you.”

A final objurgation from the ‘cellist
decided his companions to make a start. Fortunately their luggage was in the
train, instead of with them in the carriage. It might be delayed in getting to
San Diego, but they would not have the trouble of carrying it to Freschal. They
had enough to do to carry the violin cases, and perhaps rather too much with
the ‘cello case. True, an instrumentalist worthy of the name never separates
from his instrument any more than a soldier does from his arms, or a snail from
its shell.

To journey at night along an
unknown road, amid an almost deserted country, where there are usually more
malefactors than travellers, was enough to make them rather anxious. Such was
the fate of the quartette. Frenchmen are brave, of course, and these were as
brave as any. But between bravery and temerity there is a limit which no
healthy mind will overstep. After all, if the railway had not run into a
flooded plain, if the carriage had not upset five miles from Freschal, our
instrumentalists would not have had to venture by night along this suspicious
road. It was to be hoped that no harm would happen to them.

It was about eight o’clock when
Sebastien Zorn and his companions started towards the coast, as directed by the
driver. As they had only their leather violin cases, light and handy, the
violinists had little reason to grumble. Neither the wise Frascolin, nor the
cheery Pinchinat, nor the idealist Yvernès, had a word of complaint. But the ‘cellist
with his case
—
a
cupboard as it were on his back! Knowing his character, we can understand that
he found every opportunity of working himself into a rage. Hence groans and
grunts exhaling under the onomatopœic forms of “ahs,” and “ohs,” and “oufs.”

The darkness was already
profound. Thick clouds chased each other across the sky, drifting apart into
narrow rifts, from which occasionally peeped a fitful moon, almost in its first
quarter. Somehow, why we know not, unless it were that he was peevish and irritable,
the pale Phoebe did not please Sebastien Zorn. He pointed his finger at her,
exclaiming,
—

“What are you doing there with
your stupid face? I know nothing more imbecile than that slice of unripe melon
up there!”

“It would be better if the moon were
to look us in the face,” said Frascolin.

“And for what reason?” asked
Pinchinat.

“Because we could see it more
clearly.”

“O chaste Diana!”  declaimed Yvernès.
“O messenger of the peaceful night! O pale satellite of the earth! O adored
idol of the adorable Endymion!
—
”

“Have you finished your ballad?”
asked the ‘cellist. “When the first violins take to flourishing on the fourth
string
—
”

“Take longer strides,” said
Frascolin, “or we shall have to sleep under the stars.”

“If there are any,” observed
Pinchinat. “And lose our concert at San Diego.”

“A fine idea, my word!”  exclaimed
Zorn, shaking his box, which gave forth a plaintive sound.

“But this idea, my old friend,
was yours,” said Pinchinat.

“Mine?”

“Undoubtedly! That we did not
remain at San Francisco, when we had quite a collection of Californian ears to
charm.”

“Once more,” asked the ‘cellist, “why
did we start?”

“Because you wished it!”

“Well, I must admit that it was a
deplorable inspiration, and if
—
”

“Ah, my friends!” said Yvernès,
pointing towards a point in the sky where a narrow moon-ray fell on the whitish
edges of a cloud.

“What is the matter, Yvernès?”

“Look at that cloud turning into
the shape of a dragon, its wings open, a peacock’s tail eyed as with the
hundred eyes of Argus.”

Perhaps Sebastien Zorn did not
possess that power of hundredfold vision which distinguished the guardian of
the son of Machus, for he did not notice a deep rut into which he trod.
Consequently he fell on his face, with his box on his back, and looked like
some huge beetle creeping over the ground.

Violent rage of the
instrumentalist
—
and
he had cause to be angry
—
and
then objurgations on account of the first violin’s admiration of the aerial
monster.

“It is the fault of Yvernès!”
said Sebastien Zorn. “If I had not been looking at that confounded dragon
—
”

“It is no longer a dragon, it is
an amphora! with the gift of imagination but feebly developed you can see it in
the hands of Hebe who is pouring out the nectar
—
”

“Take care that there is not too
much water in that nectar,” exclaimed Pinchinat, “and that your charming
goddess of youth does not give us an overdose of it.”

Here was another trouble in
store; rain was apparently coming. Prudence required that they should make
haste so as to get into shelter at Freschal.

They picked up the ‘cellist, as
angry as he could be. They put him on his legs, growling all the time.
Frascolin good-naturedly offered to carry the case, but this Zorn refused.
Separate himself from his instrument! one of Gand and Bernardel’s, almost a
part of himself? But he had to give in, and this precious half passed on to the
back of the useful Frascolin, who entrusted his light violin case to Zorn.

The route was resumed. They
walked at a good pace for two miles. No incident worth mentioning; the night
getting blacker and blacker with every promise of rain. A few drops fell, very
large ones, a proof that they came from clouds high in the air and stormy. But
Hebe’s amphora did not overflow, and our four travellers hoped to reach
Freschal perfectly dry.

Careful precautions were
constantly necessary against falls on the dark road, deeply cut into by
ravines, turning suddenly, bordered by high crags, skirting gloomy precipices
with the roar of the torrents beneath.

Yvernès thought the position was
poetical; Frascolin that it was alarming. There was the fear of certain meetings
which make the safety of travellers on the roads of Lower California rather
problematical. The only weapons possessed by the quartette were the bows of the
violins and the ‘cello, and these would appear to be insufficient in a country
where Colt’s revolvers were invented. If Sebastien Zorn and his comrades had
been Americans, they would have been furnished with one of those engines of
warfare, kept in a special pocket of the trousers. Even for a trip from San
Francisco to San Diego a real Yankee would never have started without carrying
a six-shot viaticum. But Frenchmen had not thought it necessary. We may add
that they had not thought about it, and perhaps would repent it. Pinchinat
marched at the head, peering right and left as he walked. Practical joker as he
was, “his highness” could not help playing off a few pleasantries on his
comrades. Pulling up short, for instance, every now and then, and muttering in
a voice tremulous with fear,
—

“Ah! There! What is that I see
before me? Be ready to fire.”

But when the road plunged through
a thick forest, amid mammoth trees, sequoias a hundred and fifty feet high,
vegetable giants of these Californian regions, his joking humour disappeared.
Ten men might hide behind one of these enormous trunks. A bright flash,
followed by a report, the swift whistling of a bullet, might they not see it,
might they not hear it? In such places so suitable for a nocturnal attack, an
ambush was plainly suggested. If luckily they did not meet with bandits, it was
because these estimable people had totally disappeared from Western America, or
were then engaged in financial operations on the borders of the old and new
continent. What an end for the great great grand-children of the Karl Moors and
Jean Sbogars. To whom could these reflections come but to Yvernès? Decidedly,
he thought, the play is not worthy of the stage.

Suddenly Pinchinat stopped still.
Frascolin, who was behind him, also stopped. Zorn and Yvernès were up with them
immediately.

“What is it?” asked the second
violin.

“I thought I saw something,” said
the alto.