Wanderfoot (The Dream Ship)
Haidee was horrified at the price. Their dinner meat usually cost about
one franc twenty, and she knew that there was much to be accomplished
with Val's last twenty-franc piece.
"Could n't you give me a smaller one, Madame Durand? ... and not so
dear?"
"Ah, mademoiselle, you should have said to me before that you wanted it
small. It is cut now ... and what would I do with the pieces from it?
Do you think I could sell them? But no."
So Haidee took the shoulder, and returned home with it tucked under her
arm. On arrival as it happened old _veuve_ Michel was in the kitchen
with Val, having just brought home some odds and ends of family washing.
"What!" she cried, on seeing the lamb. "A shoulder of freshly-killed
lamb, full of air and bubbles ... cut off the poor nice lamb while it
had yet the hot life in it! Shame on the wretched woman Durand ... to
take advantage thus of poor innocent Americans! ... Shame! But then
every one knows how she treated her poor daughter who wanted to be a
nun. Madame, the stones in the street are not more wicked than that
woman Amelie Durand!"
Val, much disturbed by these sayings, examined the shoulder of mutton.
Certainly it was very bubbly looking: warm too. She remembered now
hearing the cook in New York storm over a piece of freshly-killed meat,
declaring that it had been cut too soon and was not fit to eat.
"How ought I to cook it to make the best of it?" she inquired in dismay.
"Cook it!" cried Widow Michel, scarlet in the face from indignation
combined with the effects of her afternoon bottle of cognac. "No good
to cook it. Better to pluck a rock from the cliff-side and cook it."
"How much was it, Haidee?"
"Six francs."
"_Mon Dieu_! What imposition! Take it back, Haidee dear, and tell her
that it is too dear and too fresh ... she must give us a pound of steak
instead. We are too poor to buy meat we can't eat, you know, darling.
Six francs! Did you pay for it?"
"Why, yes, of course I paid for it. You know I had the _louis_. Oh!
blow Val, I don't care much about taking it back."
"But, Haidee, what's the use of talking like that ... we can't eat that
bubbly lamb ... think of poor Brannie without dinner! I 'd go myself if
I had any hair.... Tell her it 's ridiculous to have given you such
meat. I remember now Hortense said that leg we had at Christmas and
could n't eat was too freshly-killed--it was soft and tough at the same
time, and all slithery when you tried to cut it. Don't you remember--it
made you sick to look at it?"
Yes, Haidee remembered well enough, but she did n't like taking the
shoulder back just the same. However, _veuve_ Michel offered the moral
support of her company, and she returned to Mother Durand. Half-an-hour
later she was back at the Villa, the wretched shoulder of lamb still in
her hands.
"She won't take it back. She says it 's a rule of the shop never to
take back meat that has once gone out of it."
"But it was back within half-an-hour."
"Yes, I told her so--and you should have heard old _veuve_ Michel going
on at her, but she did n't care two sous. She said, 'Oh, yes,
mademoiselle, carrying my lamb up and down the Terrasse in the hot
sun--you think that improves the meat. Hein? Well, I don't think so.
_Dame_, no!"
"Hot sun! I wish it were hot! They don't know what sun is in this
odious climate," cried Val in wrath.
"I know--but she won't take it back." Haidee flung the shoulder
despondently upon the table. But Val's monkey was up, and she was
determined not to be outdone by the cunning little Norman woman. Also
it seemed to her by now that if she offered the children that shoulder
of lamb she would be offering them poisoned meat. She hated it. She
would rather have eaten sea-sand. With trembling hands she arranged
across her forehead the _chi-chi_ that M. Poiret had made for her out of
her own hair (the first time she had availed herself of it), put on a
deep hat, tied a motor veil over all, then with Bran held by one hand
and the shoulder of lamb in the other she set out to do battle with
Mother Durand. Haidee, though sick of the subject, accompanied the
expedition out of curiosity.
The little red-cheeked, hard-eyed woman--a typical shrewd Normandy
peasant--was alone in the shop, tidying up her lard-bowls with a large
flat knife.
"Madame Durand!" said Val, controlling her voice as best she could.
"About this shoulder of lamb....?"
"Yes, madame! What about it?"
"You must take it back ... I do not care for freshly-killed meat...."
She began to stumble with her French. "Not good for the stomach ....
very hard ... wicked ... no good .... il faut give me back my six
francs."
"But not at all, madame ... the meat is good ... _superbe_ ... there is
nothing the matter with it. I asked mademoiselle if she was willing I
should cut from the freshly-killed lamb, and she said yes.... _Alors?_"
"Oh! How can you say so, Madame Durand?" cried Haidee indignantly. "I
had no idea you were cutting it from a lamb all hot."
"Mademoiselle finds it very convenient to say that now ... _tres
commode_! But my husband and daughter were in the shop, and heard
mademoiselle ask to have it cut from the lamb."
"Oh, Val! don't you believe it ... the old liar!" Haidee did not pick
her words when indignant.
"In any case I will not have it back ... you can take it or leave it,
madame," the old woman smiled the smile of one who plays a winning game.
"I will leave it then," said Val, losing all calmness. "_Vous est pas
juste ... vous est mal honnete ... voleur_! It is because we are
strangers that you take advantage of us ...it is the first time I have
found such _mechanterie_ in this village.... If you will not give me
back my money you can keep it and the meat too!" She flung it down and
raged from the shop.
"_Comme wus voudrez, madame_," responded Mother Durand, only too
delighted with such a plan, and to see the backs of the departing trio.
But two minutes later, just as she was removing the paper covering from
the offending shoulder, Val returned. Stretching her firm, thin hand
across the counter she gripped the meat once more.
"No! I won't let you keep it to sell again. Rather will I take it and
give it to the first dog I meet!"
"As you please, madame," repeated Mother Durand blandly, not to be
nonplussed, whatever might be her feelings.
Val stalked from the shop, the shoulder now devoid of wrappings in her
hand. Haidee and Bran, sympathetic but apprehensive, waited without.
"She shall not have it. Find a dog, Haidee."
"Oh, Val! What's the good? ... keep it ... it will be better than
nothing for dinner to-morrow."
"I would rather eat mud," said Val, white to the lips. "Find a dog."
But there was no dog in sight. They marched down the road, a silent
band, looking to right and left for something canine. Usually the
village was thick with hungry mongrels, but to-day it was as though the
earth had opened to receive all flesh-eating quadrupeds. Not even a cat
showed its face.
"Perhaps a giant"--murmured Bran. Haidee was congratulating herself
that they would get home without further adventure, or that at least
Val's fury would presently abate enough for her to abandon her idea,
when, just in front of the Cafe Rosetta a lean liver-and-white pointer
with the legs of a bull dog and the ears of a cocker spaniel strolled
out. Val held the shoulder towards him.
"Here, boy, here--a good supper for you!"
The "boy" regarded her suspiciously for a moment, then came forward a
step. She encouraged him with a kind word, and held the meat nearer,
but, suspecting a trick, he backed growling. He had never seen a
shoulder of lamb before except in a dream, and did not recognise the
pink-and-white thing. He only recognised that they were
strangers--probably knew them to be the mad Americans from Villa Duval.
At any rate, after one long sniff he turned and walked sadly away. Val
in a fury threw the lamb after him, but he never turned. Mournfully he
slunk down the slope of the _petit port_ to seek the garbage heaps in
the river bed. As the three stood staring after him a little red-faced
_bonne_ came running out of the cafe.
"_Qu'est ce qu'il y a, madame?_" she cried. Val pointed to the meat
lying in the dust.
"Take that and give it to a dog."
"But yes, madame; thank you, madame."
Smiling all over, she picked up the meat and dusted it carefully. They
saw very well she did not mean to give it to a dog.
"It is not fit for human food," stammered Val, still shaking.
"But no, madame; thank you, madame."
She smiled and looked at it with fond eyes. Val could have struck her.
On the _Terrasse_ Haidee said:
"Val, how could you? It will be all over the town. Even the cure will
know."
Val did not answer. Her rage expended, she was wondering what her
Brannie was going to have for dinner the next day. Two great tears
stole down her face.
When Haidee came back from eight o'clock Mass the next morning she
noticed many of the villagers standing about in groups. They were
evidently discussing some affair of great interest, but their grave and
serious voices subsided into whispers at the sight of her, and while she
passed a dead silence prevailed in each group. However, in front of
Lemonier's shop an old beldame lifted her voice in the manner of a
prophetess and gave forth the dark saying that "it was to be hoped that
people who threw good meat to dogs would never live to feel the pangs of
hunger!"
Haidee repeated this at home as a great joke, but was sorry she did, for
Val turned pale as a condemned criminal, and her eyes searched the faces
of both children as if for the outward signs of an inward gnawing at
their vitals--but so far both looked plump and composed.
She spent the whole morning juggling with six eggs and a pint of milk,
the result being an exceedingly wobbly-looking baked custard which
appeared to supplement the meagre midday repast. At the sight of it Bran
nearly lost his appetite for the potatoes baked in their jackets which
his soul loved, and when pudding-time came he began to squirm and
declare he was not hungry. With the name of Bran he appeared to have
also inherited that great king's primitive tastes in food, for he cared
for nothing except milk, oatmeal porridge, and potatoes with butter.
"Do eat some, Brannie," pleaded the pale and guilty Val. "I made it
specially for you. It is lovely."
"Yes, I can see it is lovely," said Brannie, politely, edging away from
the table. "But it smells like a pussy cat just after she has been
drinking milk."
When Hortense arrived to wash up she reported that the two brothers of
the _bonne_ at the Cafe Rosetta were in the village, having been
summoned from Cherbourg by telegraph to come and lunch with their sister
on a shoulder of Premiere Communion lamb.
----
The confirmation ceremony was most grand. It was the first time so
important a personage as an Archbishop had visited Mascaret, and the
villagers, sensible of the honour done them, were inclined to forgive
the cure his imagined misdeeds for having arranged it. Not only were
all the Premier Communion candidates from other villages present, but a
great many of the summer visitors had arrived, and it was an enormous
congregation that waited in the stuffy church. The Archbishop's train
was late, but at last he came from the sacristy very crumpled and
tired-looking in his gold and purple robes, and walking with faltering
feet, for his years were heavy on him and he was weary with travelling.
Everything about him seemed old, from the rich lace on his aube to his
gentle blue eyes, which looked as though they saw visions of far-off