by Jules Vernes
‘All the more necessary is it,’ replied the burgomaster, emphasising his words. ‘Times alter, manners alter! The world advances, and we do not wish to remain behind. We desire our streets to be lighted within a month, or you must pay a large indemnity for each day of delay; and what would happen if, amid the darkness, some affray should take place?’
‘No doubt,’ cried Niklausse. ‘It requires but a spark to inflame a Fleming! Fleming! Flame!’
‘Apropos of this,‘ said the burgomaster, interrupting his friend, ‘Commissary Passauf, our chief of police, reports to us that a discussion took place in your drawing room last evening, Doctor Ox. Was he wrong in declaring that it was a political discussion?’
‘By no means, Monsieur the burgomaster,‘ replied Doctor Ox, who with difficulty repressed a sigh of satisfaction.
‘So an altercation did take place between Dominique Custos and André Schut?’
‘Yes, counsellor; but the words which passed were not of grave import. ‘
‘Not of grave import!’ cried the burgomaster. ‘Not of grave import, when one man tells another that he does not measure the effect of his words! But of what stuff are you made, monsieur? Do you not know that in Quiquendone nothing more is needed to bring about extremely disastrous results? But monsieur, if you, or anyone else, presume to speak thus to me -’
‘Or to me,’ added Niklausse.
As they pronounced these words with a menacing air, the two notables, with folded arms and bristling air, confronted Doctor Ox, ready to do him some violence, if by a gesture, or even the expression of his eye, he manifested any intention of contradicting them.
But the doctor did not budge.
‘At all events, monsieur,’ resumed the burgomaster, ‘I propose to hold you responsible for what passes in your house. I am bound to insure the tranquillity of this town, and I do not wish it to be disturbed. The events of last evening must not be repeated, or I shall do my duty, sir! Do you hear? Then reply, sir. ‘
The burgomaster, as he spoke, under the influence of extraordinary excitement, elevated his voice to the pitch of anger. He was furious, the worthy Van Tricasse, and might certainly be heard outside. At last, beside himself, and seeing that Doctor Ox did not reply to his challenge, ‘Come, Niklausse,’ said he.
And, slamming the door with a violence which shook the house, the burgomaster drew his friend after him.
Little by little, when they had taken twenty steps on their road, the worthy notables grew more calm. Their pace slackened, their gait became less feverish. The flush on their faces faded away; from being crimson, they became rosy. A quarter of an hour after quitting the gasworks, Van Tricasse said softly to Niklausse, ‘An amiable man, Doctor Ox! It is always a pleasure to see him!’
6
In which Frantz Niklausse and Suzel Van Tricasse form certain projects for the future
Our readers know that the burgomaster had a daughter, Suzel. But, shrewd as they may be, they cannot have divined that the counsellor Niklausse had a son, Frantz; and had they divined this, nothing could have led them to imagine that Frantz was the betrothed lover of Suzel. We will add that these young people were made for each other, and that they loved each other, as folks did love at Quiquendone.
It must not be thought that young hearts did not beat in this exceptional place; only they beat with a certain deliberation. There were marriages there, as in every other town in the world; but they took time about it. Betrothed couples, before engaging in these terrible bonds, wished to study each other; and these studies lasted at least ten years, as at college. It was rare that any one was ‘accepted’ before this lapse of time.
Yes, ten years! The courtships last ten years! And is it, after all, too long, when the being bound for life is in consideration? One studies ten years to become an engineer or physician, an advocate or attorney, and should less time be spent in acquiring the knowledge to make a good husband? Is it not reasonable? and, whether due to temperament or reason with them, the Quiquendonians seem to us to be in the right in thus prolonging their courtship. When marriages in other more lively and excitable cities are seen taking place within a few months, we must shrug our shoulders, and hasten to send our boys to the schools and our daughters to the pensions of Quiquendone.
For half a century but a single marriage was known to have taken place after the lapse of two years only of courtship, and that turned out badly!
Frantz Niklausse, then, loved Suzel Van Tricasse, but quietly, as a man would love when he has ten years before him in which to obtain the beloved object. Once every week, at an hour agreed upon, Frantz went to fetch Suzel, and took a walk with her along the banks of the Vaar. He took good care to carry his fishing-tackle, and Suzel never forgot her canvas, on which her pretty hands embroidered the most unlikely flowers.
Frantz was a young man of twenty-two, whose cheeks betrayed a soft, peachy down, and whose voice had scarcely a compass of one octave.
As for Suzel, she was blonde and rosy. She was seventeen, and did not dislike fishing. A singular occupation this, however, which forces you to struggle craftily with a barbel. But Frantz loved it; the pastime was congenial to his temperament. As patient as possible, content to follow with his rather dreamy eye the cork which bobbed on the top of the water, he knew how to wait; and when, after sitting for six hours, a modest barbel, taking pity on him, consented at last to be caught, he was happy - but he knew how to control his emotion.
On this day the two lovers – one might say, the two betrothed were seated upon the verdant bank. The limpid Vaar murmured a few feet below them. Suzel quietly drew her needle across the canvas. Frantz automatically carried his line from left to right, then permitted it to descend the current from right to left. The fish made capricious rings in the water, which crossed each other around the cork, while the hook hung useless near the bottom.
From time to time Frantz would say, without raising his eyes, —
‘I think I have a bite, Suzel. ‘
‘Do you think so, Frantz?’ replied Suzel, who, abandoning her work for an instant, followed her lover’s line with earnest eye.
‘N-no,’ resumed Frantz; ‘I thought I felt a little twitch; I was mistaken. ‘
‘You will have a bite, Frantz,’ replied Suzel, in her pure, soft voice. ‘But do not forget to strike at the right moment. You are always a few seconds too late, and the barbel takes advantage to escape. ‘
‘Would you like to take my line, Suzel?’
‘Willingly, Frantz. ‘
‘Then give me your canvas. We shall see whether I am more adroit with the needle than with the hook. ‘
And the young girl took the line with trembling hand, while her swain plied the needle across the stitches of the embroidery. For hours together they thus exchanged soft words, and their hearts palpitated when the cork bobbed on the water. Ah, could they ever forget those charming hours, during which, seated side by side, they listened to the murmurs of the river?
The sun was fast approaching the western horizon, and despite the combined skill of Suzel and Frantz, there had not been a bite. The barbels had not shown themselves complacent, and seemed to scoff at the two young people, who were too just to bear them malice.
‘We shall be more lucky another time, Frantz,’ said Suzel, as the young angler put up his still virgin hook.
‘Let us hope so,’ replied Frantz.
Then walking side by side, they turned their steps towards the house, without exchanging a word, as mute as their shadows which stretched out before them. Suzel became very, very tall under the oblique rays of the setting sun. Frantz appeared very, very thin, like the long rod which he held in his hand.
They reached the burgomaster’s house. Green tufts of grass bordered the shining pavement, and no one would have thought of tearing them away, for they deadened the noise made by the passers-by.
As they were about to open the door, Frantz thought it his duty to say to Suzel, —
‘You know, Suzel, the g
reat day is approaching?’
‘It is indeed, Frantz,’ replied the young girl, with downcast eyes.
‘Yes,’ said Frantz, ‘in five or six years -’
‘Good-bye, Frantz,’ said Suzel.
‘Good-bye, Suzel,’ replied Frantz.
And, after the door had been closed, the young man resumed the way to his father’s house with a calm and equal pace.
7
In which the Andantes become Allegros, and Allegros Vivaces
The agitation caused by the Schut and Custos affair had subsided. The affair led to no serious consequences. It appeared likely that Quiquendone would return to its habitual apathy, which that unexpected event had for a moment disturbed.
Meanwhile, the laying of the pipes destined to conduct the oxyhydric gas into the principal edifices of the town was proceeding rapidly. The main pipes and branches gradually crept beneath the pavements. But the burners were still wanting; for, as it required delicate skill to make them, it was necessary that they should be fabricated abroad. Doctor Ox was here, there, and everywhere: neither he nor Ygène, his assistant, lost a moment, but they urged on the workmen, completed the delicate mechanism of the gasometer, fed day and night the immense piles which decomposed the water under the influence of a powerful electric current. Yes, the doctor was already making his gas, though the pipe-laying was not yet done; a fact which, between ourselves, might have seemed a little singular. But before long, – at least there was reason to hope so, – before long Doctor Ox would inaugurate the splendours of his invention in the theatre of the town.
For Quiquendone possessed a theatre – a really fine edifice, in truth – the interior and exterior arrangement of which combined every style of architecture. It was at once Byzantine, Roman, Gothic, Renaissance, with semicircular doors, Pointed windows, Flamboyant rose-windows, fantastic bell-turrets, – in a word, a specimen of all sorts, half a Parthenon, half a Parisian Grand Café. Nor was this surprising, the theatre having been commenced under the burgomaster Ludwig Van Tricasse, in 1175, and only finished in 1837, under the burgomaster Natalis Van Tricasse. It had required 700 years to build it. and it had been successively adapted to the architectural style in vogue in each period. But for all that it was an imposing structure; the Roman pillars and Byzantine arches of which would appear to advantage lit up by the oxyhydric gas.
Pretty well everything was acted at the theatre of Quiquendone; but the opera and the opera comique were especially patronised. It must, however, be added that the composers would never have recognized their own works, so entirely changed were the ‘movements’ of the music.
In short, as nothing was done in a hurry at Quiquendone, the dramatic pieces had to be performed in harmony with the peculiar temperament of the Quiquendonians. Though the doors of the theatre were regularly thrown open at four o’clock and closed again at ten, it had never been known that more than two acts were played during the six intervening hours. Robert le Diable, Les Huguenots, or Guillaume Tell usually took up three evenings, so slow was the execution of these masterpieces. The vivaces, at the theatre of Quiquendone, lagged like real adagios. The allegros were ‘long-drawn out’ indeed. The demisemiquavers were scarcely equal to the ordinary semibreves of other countries. The most rapid runs, performed according to Quiquendonian taste, had the solemn march of a chant. The gayest shakes were languishing and measured, that they might not shock the ears of the dilettanti. To give an example, the rapid air sung by Figaro, on his entrance in the first act of Le Barbier de Séville, lasted fifty-eight minutes – when the actor was particularly enthusiastic.
Artists from abroad, as might be supposed, were forced to conform themselves to Quiquendonian fashions; but as they were well paid, they did not complain, and willingly obeyed the leader’s baton, which never beat more than eight measures to the minute in the allegros.
But what applause greeted these artists, who enchanted without ever wearying the audiences of Quiquendone! All hands clapped one after another at tolerably long intervals, which the papers characterised as ‘frantic applause’, and sometimes nothing but the lavish prodigality with which mortar and stone had been used in the twelfth century saved the roof of the hall from falling in.
Besides, the theatre had only one performance a week, that these enthusiastic Flemish folk might not be too much excited; and this enabled the actors to study their parts more thoroughly, and the spectators to digest more at leisure the beauties of the masterpieces brought out.
Such had long been the drama at Quiquendone. Foreign artists were in the habit of making engagements with the director of the town, when they wanted to rest after their exertions in other scenes; and it seemed as if nothing could ever change these inveterate customs, when, a fortnight after the Schut-Custos affair, an unlooked-for incident occurred to throw the population into fresh agitation.
It was on a Saturday, an opera day. It was not yet intended, as may well be supposed, to inaugurate the new illumination. No; the pipes had reached the hall, but, for reasons indicated above, the burners had not yet been placed, and the wax-candles still shed their soft light upon the numerous spectators who filled the theatre. The doors had been opened to the public at one o’clock, and by three the hall was half full. A queue had at one time been formal, which extended as far as the end of the Place Saint Ernuph, in front of the shop of Josse Lietrinck the apothecary. This eagerness was significant of an unusually attractive performance.
‘Are you going to the theatre this evening?’ inquired the counsellor the same morning of the burgomaster.
‘I shall not fail to do so,’ returned Van Tricasse, ‘and I shall take Madame Van Tricasse, as well as our daughter Suzel and our dear Tatanémance, who all dote on good music. ‘
‘Mademoiselle Suzel is going then?’
‘Certainly, Niklausse. ‘
‘Then my son Frantz will be one of the first to arrive,’ said Niklausse.
‘A spirited boy, Niklausse,’ replied the burgomaster sententiously; ‘but hot-headed! He will require watching!’
‘He loves, Van Tricasse, – he loves your charming Suzel. ‘
‘Well, Niklausse, he shall marry her. Now that we have agreed on this marriage, what more can he desire?’
‘He desires nothing, Van Tricasse, the dear boy! But, in short – we’ll say no more about it – he will not be the last to get his ticket at the box-office. ‘
‘Ah, vivacious and ardent youth!’ replied the burgomaster, recalling his own past. ‘We have also been thus, my worthy counsellor! We have loved – we too! We have danced attendance in our day! Till tonight, then, till tonight! By-the-bye, do you know this Fiovaranti is a great artist? And what a welcome he has received among us! It will be long before he will forget the applause of Quiquendone!’
The tenor Fiovaranti was, indeed, going to sing; Fiovaranti, who, by his talents as a virtuoso, his perfect method, his melodious voice, provoked a real enthusiasm among the lovers of music in the town.
For three weeks Fiovaranti had been achieving a brilliant success in Les Huguenots. The first act, interpreted according to the taste of the Quiquendonians, had occupied an entire evening of the first week of the month. – Another evening in the second week, prolonged by infinite andantes, had elicited for the celebrated singer a real ovation. His success had been still more marked in the third act of Meyerbeer’s masterpiece. But now Fiovaranti was to appear in the fourth act, which was to be performed on this evening before an impatient public. Ah, the duet between Raoul and Valentine, that pathetic love-song for two voices, that strain so full of crescendos, stringendos, and più crescendos – all this, sung slowly, compendiously, interminably! Ah, how delightful!
At four o’clock the hall was full. The boxes, the orchestra, the pit, were overflowing. In the front stalls sat the Burgomaster Van Tricasse, Mademoiselle Van Tricasse, Madame Van Tricasse, and the amiable Tatanémance in a green bonnet; not far off were the Counsellor Niklausse and his family, not forgetting the amorous Frantz. The
families of Custos the doctor, of Schut the advocate, of Honoré Syntax the chief judge, of Norbet Sontman the insurance director, of the banker Collaert, gone mad on German music, and himself somewhat of an amateur, and the teacher Rupp, and the master of the academy, Jerome Resh, and the civil commissary, and so many other notabilities of the town that they could not be enumerated here without wearying the reader’s patience, were visible in different parts of the hall.
It was customary for the Quiquendonians, while awaiting the rise of the curtain, to sit silent, some reading the paper, others whispering low to each other, some making their way to their seats slowly and noiselessly, others casting timid looks towards the bewitching beauties in the galleries.
But on this evening a looker-on might have observed that, even before the curtain rose, there was unusual animation among the audience. People were restless who were never known to be restless before. The ladies’ fans fluttered with abnormal rapidity. All appeared to be inhaling air of exceptional stimulating power. Everyone breathed more freely. The eyes of some became unwontedly bright, and seemed to give forth a light equal to that of the candles, which themselves certainly threw a more brilliant light over the hall. It was evident that people saw more clearly, though the number of candles had not been increased. Ah, if Doctor Ox’s experiment were being tried! But it was not being tried, as yet.
The musicians of the orchestra at last took their places. The first violin had gone to the stand to give a modest la to his colleagues. The stringed instruments, the wind instruments, the drums and cymbals, were in accord. The conductor only waited the sound of the bell to beat the first bar.
The bell sounds. The fourth act begins. The allegro appassionato of the inter-act is played as usual, with a majestic deliberation which would have made Meyerbeer frantic, and all the majesty of which was appreciated by the Quiquendonian dilettanti.
But soon the leader perceived that he was no longer master of his musicians. He found it difficult to restrain them, though usually so obedient and calm. The wind instruments betrayed a tendency to hasten the movements, and it was necessary to hold them back with a firm hand, for they would otherwise outstrip the stringed instruments; which, from a musical point of view, would have been disastrous. The bassoon himself, the son of Josse Lietrinck the apothecary, a well-bred young man, seemed to lose his self-control.
