by Jules Vernes
If you try to find, on any map of Flanders, ancient or modern, the small town of Quiquendone, probably you will not succeed. Is Quiquendone, then, one of those towns which have disappeared? No. A town of the future? By no means. It exists in spite of geographies, and has done so for some 800 or 900 years. It even numbers 2,393 souls, allowing one soul to each inhabitant. It is situated thirteen and a half kilometres north-west of Oudenarde, and fifteen and a quarter kilometres south-east of Bruges, in the heart of Flanders. The Vaar, a small tributary of the Scheldt, passes beneath its three bridges, which are still covered with a quaint mediaeval roof, like that at Tournay. An old château is to be seen there, the first stone of which was laid so long ago as 1197, by Count Baldwin, afterwards Emperor of Constantinople; and there is a Town Hall, with Gothic windows, crowned by a chaplet of battlements, and surrounded by a turreted belfry, which rises 357 feet above the soil. Every hour you may hear there a chime of five octaves, a veritable aerial piano, the renown of which surpasses that of the famous chimes of Bruges. Strangers – if any ever come to Quiquendone – do not quit the curious old town until they have visited its ‘Stadtholder’s Hall’, adorned by a full-length portrait of William of Nassau, by Brandon; the loft of the Church of Saint Magloire, a masterpiece of sixteenth-century architecture; the cast-iron well in the spacious Place Saint Ernuph, the admirable ornamentation of which is attributed to the artist-blacksmith, Quentin Metsys; the tomb formerly erected to Mary of Burgundy, daughter of Charles the Bold, who now reposes in the Church of Notre Dame at Bruges; and so on. The principal industry of Quiquendone is the manufacture of whipped creams and barley-sugar on a large scale. It has been governed by the Van Tricasses, from father to son, for several centuries. And yet Quiquendone is not on the map of Flanders! Have the geographers forgotten it, or is it an intentional omission? That I cannot tell; but Quiquendone really exists, with its narrow streets, its fortified walls, its Spanish-looking houses, its market, and its burgomaster – so much so, that it has recently been the theatre of some surprising phenomena, as extraordinary and incredible as they are true, which are to be recounted in the present narration.
Surely there is nothing to be said or thought against the Flemings of Western Flanders. They are a well-to-do folk, wise, prudent, sociable, with even tempers, hospitable, perhaps a little heavy in conversation as in mind; but this does not explain why one of the most interesting towns of their district has yet to appear on modern maps.
This omission is certainly to be regretted. If only history, or in default of history the chronicles, or in default of chronicles the traditions of the country, made mention of Quiquendone! But no; neither atlases, guides, nor itineraries speak of it. M. Joanne himself, that energetic hunter after small towns, says not a word of it. It might be readily conceived that this silence would injure the commerce, the industries, of the town. But let us hasten to add that Quiquendone has neither industry nor commerce, and that it does very well without them. Its barley-sugar and whipped cream are consumed on the spot; none is exported. In short, the Quiquendonians have no need of anybody. Their desires are limited, their existence is a modest one; they are calm, moderate, phlegmatic – in a word, they are Flemings; such as are still to be met with sometimes between the Scheldt and the North Sea.
2
In which the Burgomaster Van Tricasse and the Counsellor Niklausse consult about the affairs of the town
‘You think so?’ asked the burgomaster.
‘I – think so,’ replied the counsellor, after some minutes of silence.
‘You see, we must not act hastily,’ resumed the burgomaster.
‘We have been talking over this grave matter for ten years,’ replied the Counsellor Niklausse, ‘and I confess to you, my worthy Van Tricasse, that I cannot yet take it upon myself to come to a decision.’
‘I quite understand your hesitation,’ said the burgomaster, who did not speak until after a good quarter of an hour of reflection, ‘I quite understand it, and I fully share it. We shall do wisely to decide upon nothing without a more careful examination of the question.’
‘It is certain,’ replied Niklausse, ‘that this post of civil commissary is useless in so peaceful a town as Quiquendone.’
‘Our predecessor,’ said Van Tricasse gravely, ‘our predecessor never said, never would have dared to say, that anything is certain. Every affirmation is subject to awkward qualifications.’
The counsellor nodded his head slowly in token of assent; then he remained silent for nearly half an hour. After this lapse of time, during which neither the counsellor nor the burgomaster moved so much as a finger, Niklausse asked Van Tricasse whether his predecessor – of some twenty years before – had not thought of suppressing this office of civil commissary, which each year cost the town of Quiquendone the sum of 1,375 francs and some centimes.
‘I believe he did,’ replied the burgomaster, carrying his hand with majestic deliberation to his ample brow; ‘but the worthy man died without having dared to make up his mind, either as to this or any other administrative measure. He was a sage. Why should I not do as he did?’
Counsellor Niklausse was incapable of originating any objection to the burgomaster’s opinion.
‘The man who dies,’ added Van Tricasse solemnly, ‘without ever having decided upon anything during his life, has very nearly attained to perfection.’
This said, the burgomaster pressed a bell with the end of his little finger, which gave forth a muffled sound, which seemed less a sound than a sigh. Presently some light steps glided softly across the tile floor. A mouse would not have made less noise, running over a thick carpet. The door of the room opened, turning on its well-oiled hinges. A young girl, with long blonde tresses, made her appearance. It was Suzel Van Tricasse, the burgomaster’s only daughter. She handed her father a pipe, filled to the brim, and a small copper brazier, spoke not a word, and disappeared at once, making no more noise at her exit than at her entrance.
The worthy burgomaster lighted his pipe, and was soon hidden in a cloud of bluish smoke, leaving Counsellor Niklausse plunged in the most absorbing thought.
The room in which these two notable personages, charged with the government of Quiquendone, were talking, was a parlour richly adorned with carvings in dark wood. A lofty fireplace, in which an oak might have been burned or an ox roasted, occupied the whole of one of the sides of the room; opposite to it was a trellised window, the painted glass of which toned down the brightness of the sunbeams. In an antique frame above the chimney-piece appeared the portrait of some worthy man, attributed to Memling, which no doubt represented an ancestor of the Van Tricasses, whose authentic genealogy dates back to the fourteenth century, the period when the Flemings and Guy de Dampierre were engaged in wars with the Emperor Rudolph of Hapsburg.
This parlour was the principal apartment of the burgomaster’s house, which was one of the pleasantest in Quiquendone. Built in the Flemish style, with all the abruptness, quaintness, and picturesqueness of Pointed architecture, it was considered one of the most curious monuments of the town. A Carthusian convent, or a deaf and dumb asylum, was not more silent than this mansion. Noise had no existence there; people did not walk, but glided about in it; they did not speak, they murmured. There was not, however, any lack of women in the house, which, in addition to the Burgomaster Van Tricasse himself, sheltered his wife, Madame Brigitte Van Tricasse, his daughter, Suzel Van Tricasse, and his domestic, Lotchè Janshéu. We may also mention the burgomaster’s sister, Aunt Hermance, an elderly maiden who still bore the nickname of Tatanémance, which her niece Suzel had given her when a child. But in spite of all these elements of discord and noise, the burgomaster’s house was as calm as a desert.
The burgomaster was some fifty years old, neither fat nor lean, neither short nor tall, neither rubicund nor pale, neither gay nor sad, neither contented nor discontented, neither energetic nor dull, neither proud nor humble, neither good nor bad, neither generous nor miserly, neither courageous nor coward
ly, neither too much nor too little of anything – a man notably moderate in all respects, whose invariable slowness of motion, slightly hanging lower jaw, prominent eyebrows, massive forehead, smooth as a copper plate and without a wrinkle, would at once have betrayed to a physiognomist that the Burgomaster Van Tricasse was phlegm personified. Never, either from anger or passion, had any emotion whatever hastened the beating of this man’s heart, or flushed his face; never had his pupils contracted under the influence of any irritation, however ephemeral. He invariably wore good clothes, neither too large nor too small, which he never seemed to wear out. He was shod with large square shoes with triple soles and silver buckles, which lasted so long that his shoemaker was in despair. Upon his head he wore a large hat which dated from the period when Flanders was separated from Holland, so that this venerable masterpiece was at least forty years old. But what would you have? It is the passions which wear out body as well as soul, the clothes as well as the body; and our worthy burgomaster, apathetic, indolent, indifferent, was passionate in nothing. He wore nothing out, not even himself, and he considered himself the very man to administer the affairs of Quiquendone and its tranquil population.
The town, indeed, was not less calm than the Van Tricasse mansion. It was in this peaceful dwelling that the burgomaster reckoned on attaining the utmost limit of human existence, after having, however, seen the good Madame Brigitte Van Tricasse, his wife, precede him to the tomb, where, surely, she would not find a more profound repose than that she had enjoyed on earth for sixty years.
This demands explanation.
The Van Tricasse family might well call itself the ‘Jeannot family’. This is why:
Everyone knows that the knife of this typical personage is as celebrated as its proprietor, and not less incapable of wearing out, thanks to the double operation, incessantly repeated, of replacing the handle when it is worn out, and the blade when it becomes worthless. A precisely similar operation had been going on from time immemorial in the Van Tricasse family, to which Nature had lent herself with more than usual complacency. From 1340 it had invariably happened that a Van Tricasse, when left a widower, had remarried a Van Tricasse younger than himself; who, becoming in turn a widow, had married again a Van Tricasse younger than herself; and so on, without a break in the continuity, from generation to generation. Each died in his or her turn with mechanical regularity. Thus the worthy Madame Brigitte Van Tricasse had now her second husband; and, unless she violated her every duty, would precede her spouse – he being ten years younger than herself – to the other world, to make room for a new Madame Van Tricasse. Upon this the burgomaster calmly counted, that the family tradition might not be broken. Such was this mansion, peaceful and silent, of which the doors never creaked, the windows never rattled, the floors never groaned, the chimneys never roared, the weathercocks never grated, the furniture never squeaked, the locks never clanked, and the occupants never made more noise than their shadows. The god Harpocrates would certainly have chosen it for the Temple of Silence.
3
In which the Commissary Passauf enters as noisily as unexpectedly
When the interesting conversation which has been narrated began, it was a quarter before three in the afternoon. It was at a quarter before four that Van Tricasse lighted his enormous pipe, which could hold a quart of tobacco, and it was at thirty-five minutes past five that he finished smoking it.
All this time the two comrades did not exchange a single word.
About six o’clock the counsellor, who had a habit of speaking in a very summary manner, resumed in these words, —
‘So we decide -’
‘To decide nothing.’ replied the burgomaster.
‘I think, on the whole, that you are right, Van Tricasse.’
‘I think so too, Niklausse. We will take steps with reference to the civil commissary when we have more light on the subject – later on. There is no need for a month yet.’
‘Nor even for a year,’ replied Niklausse. unfolding his pocket-handkerchief and calmly applying it to his nose.
There was another silence of nearly a quarter of an hour. Nothing disturbed this repeated pause in the conversation; not even the appearance of the house-dog Lento, who. not less phlegmatic than his master, came to pay his respects in the parlour. Noble dog! – a model for his race. Had he been made of pasteboard, with wheels on his paws, he would not have made less noise during his stay.
Towards eight o’clock, after Lotchè had brought the antique lamp of polished glass, the burgomaster said to the counsellor, —
‘We have no other urgent matter to consider?’
‘No, Van Tricasse; none that I know of.’
‘Have I not been told, though,’ asked the burgomaster,‘that the tower of the Oudenarde gate islikely to tumble down?’
‘Ah!’ replied the counsellor; ‘really, I should not be astonished if it fell on some passer-by any day.’
‘Oh! before such a misfortune happens I hope we shall have come to a decision on the subject of this tower.’
‘I hope so, Van Tricasse.’
‘There are more pressing matters to decide.’
‘No doubt; the question of the leather-market, for instance.’
‘What, is it still burning?’
‘Still burning, and has been for the last three weeks.’
‘Have we not decided in council to let it burn?’
‘Yes, Van Tricasse – on your motion.’
‘Was not that the surest and simplest way to deal with it?’
‘Without doubt.’
‘Well, let us wait. Is that all?’
‘All,’ replied the counsellor, scratching his head, as if to assure himself that he had not forgotten anything important.
‘Ah!’ exclaimed the burgomaster, ‘haven’t you also heard something of an escape of water which threatens to inundate the low quarter of Saint Jacques?’
‘I have. It is indeed unfortunate that this escape of water did not happen above the leather-market! It would naturally have checked the fire, and would thus have saved us a good deal of discussion.’
‘What can you expect, Niklausse? There is nothing so illogical as accidents. They are bound by no rules, and we cannot profit by one, as we might wish, to remedy another.’
It took Van Tricasse’s companion some time to digest this fine observation.
‘Well, but,’ resumed the Counsellor Niklausse, after the lapse of some moments, ‘we have not spoken of our great affair!’
‘What great affair? Have we, then, a great affair?’ asked the burgomaster.
‘No doubt. About lighting the town.’
‘O yes. If my memory serves me, you are referring to the lighting plan of Doctor Ox.’
‘Precisely.’
‘It is going on, Niklausse,’ replied the burgomaster.
‘They are already laying the pipes, and the works are entirely completed.’
‘Perhaps we have hurried a little in this matter,’ said the counsellor, shaking his head.
‘Perhaps. But our excuse is, that Doctor Ox bears the whole expense of his experiment. It will not cost us a sou.’
‘That, true enough, is our excuse. Moreover, we must advance with the age. If the experiment succeeds, Quiquendone will be the first town in Flanders to be lighted with the oxy – What is the gas called?’
‘Oxyhydric gas.’
‘Well, oxyhydric gas, then.’
At this moment the door opened, and Lotchè came in to tell the burgomaster that his supper was ready.
Counsellor Niklausse rose to take leave of Van Tricasse, whose appetite had been stimulated by so many affairs discussed and decisions taken; and it was agreed that the council of notables should be convened after a reasonably long delay, to determine whether a decision should be provisionally arrived at with reference to the really urgent matter of the Oudenarde gate.
The two worthy administrators then directed their steps towards the street-door, the one conducting the ot
her. The counsellor, having reached the last step, lighted a little lantern to guide him through the obscure streets of Quiquendone, which Doctor Ox had not yet lighted. It was a dark October night, and a light fog overshadowed the town.
Niklausse’s preparations for departure consumed at least a quarter of an hour; for, after having lighted his lantern, he had to put on his big cow-skin socks and his sheep-skin gloves; then he put up the furred collar of his overcoat, turned the brim of his felt hat down over his eyes, grasped his heavy crow-beaked umbrella, and got ready to start.
When Lotchè, however, who was lighting her master, was about to draw the bars of the door, an unexpected noise arose outside.
Yes! Strange as the thing seems, a noise – a real noise, such as the town had certainly not heard since the taking of the donjon by the Spaniards in 1513 – a terrible noise, awoke the long-dormant echoes of the venerable Van Tricasse mansion.
Someone knocked heavily upon this door, hitherto virgin to brutal touch! Redoubled knocks were given with some blunt implement, probably a knotty stick, wielded by a vigorous arm. With the strokes were mingled cries and calls. These words were distinctly heard:—
‘Monsieur Van Tricasse! Monsieur the burgomaster!
Open, open quickly!’
The burgomaster and the counsellor, absolutely astounded, looked at each other speechless.
This passed their comprehension. If the old culverin of the chateâu, which had not been used since 1385, had been let off inthe parlour, the dwellers in the Van Tricasse mansion would not have been more dumbfounded.
Meanwhile, the blows and cries were redoubled. Lotchè, recovering her coolness, had plucked up courage to speak.
‘Who is there?’
‘It is I! I! I!’
‘Who are you?’
‘The Commissary Passauf!’
The Commissary Passauf! The very man whose office it had been contemplated to suppress for ten years. What had happened, then? Could the Burgundians have invaded Quiquendone, as they did in the fourteenth century? No event of less importance could have so moved Commissary Passauf, who in no degree yielded the palm to the burgomaster himself for calmness and phlegm.
