The Floating Island Read online

  Precipitate retreat of the group, and earnest appeals from the second violin, “Be cool! be cool, my friends!”

  The clearing was crossed and they found the shelter of the trees. But there the peril was as great. By running from one tree to another, the animal could leap on them without its being possible to foresee his attack, and he was about to act in this way, when his terrible growlings ceased, he began to halt—

  The deep gloom was filled with a penetrating musical sound, an expressive largo, in which the soul of an artiste was fully revealed.

  It was Yvernès, who had drawn his violin from its case and made it vibrate under the powerful caress of the bow. An idea of genius! Why should not the musicians owe their safety to music? Had not the stones moved by the strains of Amphion ranged themselves round Thebes? Had not the wild beasts, thrilled by his lyrical inspirations, run to the knees of Orpheus? It seemed as though this Californian bear, under atavistic influence, was as artistically gifted as his congeners in the fable, for his fierceness disappeared, his instincts of melomania took possession of him, and as the quartette retreated in good order, he followed them uttering little cries of approval. It would not have taken much to make him say “Bravo!”

  A quarter of an hour later Zorn and his companions were at the edge of the wood. They crossed it, Yvernès fiddling all the time.

  The animal stopped. It looked as though he had no intention of going further. He patted his big paws against each other.

  And then Pinchinat also seized his instrument, and shouted, —

  “The dancing bear. Come on!”

  And while the first violin ploughed away steadily at the well-known tune in the major, the alto assisted with a base shrill and false in the mediant minor.

  The bear began to dance, lifting the right foot, lifting the left foot, turning and twisting, while the four men went further and further away.

  “Well,” said Pinchinat,” he is only a circus bear.”

  “It does not matter,” replied Frascolin, “Yvernès had a capital idea.”

  “Let us run for it, allegretto” said the ‘cellist, “and don’t look behind.”

  It was about nine o’clock when the four disciples of Apollo arrived at Freschal. They had come along splendidly during the latter half of their journey, although the plantigrade was not on their traces.

  Some forty wooden houses around a square planted with beeches, that was Freschal, a village isolated in the country and about two miles from the coast.

  Our artistes glided between a few houses shaded with large trees, came out on the square, looked up at the humble spire of a little church, stopped, formed in a circle as if they were about to give an appropriate performance, and began to talk.

  “Is this a village? asked Pinchinat.

  “Did you expect to find a city like Philadelphia or New York?” asked Frascolin.

  “But your village is asleep!” replied Sebastien Zorn.

  “Awake not a village that sleeps,” sighed Yvernès, melodiously.

  “On the contrary,” said Pinchinat, “wake it up well.”

  And unless they were to spend the night in the open air they would have to do so.

  Yet the place was quite deserted, the silence complete. Not a shutter was open, not a light was at a window.

  “And where is the hotel?” asked Frascolin.

  Yes, the hotel which the driver had mentioned, where travellers in distress would receive good welcome and treatment. And the hotel-keeper who would send help to the unfortunate coachman. Had the poor man dreamt of these things? Or—another suggestion—had Zorn and his companions gone astray? Was this really Freschal?

  These questions required an immediate reply. The villagers must be applied to for information, and the door of one of the houses must be knocked at; that of the hotel if possible, if by a lucky chance they could find which it was.

  The four musicians began to reconnoitre round the place, prowling along the front of the houses, trying to find a sign hanging overhead. But there was nothing to show them which was the hotel.

  As they could not find the hotel, perhaps there was some private house that would give them shelter. What native of Freschal would refuse a couple of dollars for a supper and a bed?

  “Let us knock,” said Frascolin.

  “And in time,” said Pinchinat, “in six-eight time.”

  They knocked three or four times with the same result. Not a door, not a window opened.

  “We are deceived,” said Yvernès, “it is not a village, it is a cemetery, where if they sleep their sleep is eternal. Vox clamantis in deserto.”

  “Amen!” replied “his highness” in a deep voice, as if chanting in a cathedral.

  What was to be done as the silence remained unbroken? Continue the journey towards San Diego? They were dying—that is the word—of hunger and fatigue. And then what road were they to follow without a guide through this dark night? Try to reach another village? Which one? According to the coachman there was no other village on this part of the coast. The best thing they could do was to wait for daylight. But to spend six hours without shelter beneath a sky overcast with heavy clouds threatening rain every instant— that was not to be thought of, even by artistes.

  Pinchinat had an idea. His ideas were not always excellent, but they abounded in his brain. This one, however, obtained the approval of the wise Frascolin.

  “My friends,” said he, “why should not what succeeded with a bear succeed with a Californian village? We tamed the plantigrade with a little music; let us wake up these rustics with a vigorous concert, in which we will not spare either the forte or the allegro.”

  “We might try that,” replied Frascolin.

  Zorn did not wait for Pinchinat to finish. His case was opened, his ‘cello upright on its steel point, for he had no seat, his bow in hand, ready to extract all the human voices stored up in the sonorous carcase.

  Almost immediately his comrades were ready to follow him to the utmost limits of their art.

  “Onslow’s quartette, in B flat,” said he. “Come.”

  Onslow’s Quartette they knew by heart, and good instrumentalists did not want to see clearly to use their skilful fingers on the ‘cello, the violins, and the alto.

  Behold them given up to their inspiration. Never perhaps have they played with more talent and more soul in the concert halls and theatres of the American Union. Space is filled with sublime harmony, and unless they were deaf how could human beings resist it? Had it been a cemetery, as Yvernès pretended, the tombs would have opened at the music’s charm, the dead would have risen, and the skeletons clapped hands.

  But none of the houses opened; the sleepers did not awake. The piece ended in its powerful finale, yet Freschal gave no sign of life.

  “Ah!” exclaimed Zorn, in a fury. “Is it like that? They want a serenade like their bears for their savage ears? Be it so! Let us have it over again; but you, Yvernès; play in D; you, Frascolin, in E; you, Pinchinat, in G. I will keep to B flat! and now then, with all your might.”

  What cacophony! What ear-torture! It was as bad as the improvised orchestra directed by the Prince de Joinville in an unknown village in Brazil. It seemed as though they were playing Wagner backwards on “vinai-griuses.”

  Pinchinat’s idea was excellent. What admirable execution could not obtain this absurdity did. Freschal began to awake. Lights appeared. Windows opened here and there. The natives of the village were not dead, for they gave signs of life. They were not deaf, for they heard and listened.

  “They are. going to throw apples at us,” said Pinchinat, during a pause, for the time throughout had been scrupulously kept.

  “So much the better,” said the practical Frascolin, “we will eat them.”

  And at Zorn’s command the players suddenly shifted into their proper key, and ended with a perfect chord of four different notes.

  No! They were not apples that came from the twenty or thirty open windows, but plaudits and cheers. Never
had the Freschalian ears been filled with such musical delights! And there could be no doubt that every house was ready to receive with hospitality such incomparable virtuosos.

  But while they were engaged in their performance, a spectator had approached them within a few yards without being seen. This personage had descended from a sort of electrical tram-car at one angle of the square. He was a man of tall stature, and somewhat corpulent, so far as could be judged in the darkness.

  While our Parisians were asking if, after the windows the doors of the houses were going to open to receive them—which appeared at least to be rather uncertain— the new arrival approached, and said, in an amiable tone, —

  “I am a dilettante, gentlemen, and I have the very great pleasure of applauding you.”

  “For our last piece?” replied Pinchinat, ironically.

  “No, gentlemen, for the first. I have seldom heard Onslow’s Quartette given with more talent.”

  The personage was evidently a connoisseur.

  “Sir,” said Sebastien Zorn, in the name of his companions, “we are much pleased by your compliments. If our second piece tortured your ears, it is—”

  “Sir,” replied the unknown, interrupting a phrase that might have been a long one, “I have never heard a thing played out of tune with so much precision. But I understand why you did it. It was to wake up the natives of Freschal, who have already gone to sleep again. Well, gentlemen, what you endeavoured to obtain from them by this desperate means permit me to offer you.”

  “Hospitality?” demanded Frascolin.

  “Yes, hospitality. Unless I am mistaken I have before me the Quartette Party renowned throughout our superb America, which is never stingy in its enthusiasm.”

  “Sir,” said Frascolin, “we are indeed flattered. And —this hospitality, where can we find it, thanks to you?”

  “Two miles from here.”

  “In another village?”

  “No, in a town.”

  “A town of importance?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Allow me,” observed Pinchinat. “We were told that there were no towns until we got to San Diego.”

  “It is a mistake—which I cannot explain.”

  “A mistake?” repeated Frascolin.

  “Yes, gentlemen, and if you will accompany me I promise you a welcome such as artistes of your class are entitled to.”

  “I am of opinion that we should accept it,” said Yvernès.

  “And I share that opinion,” said Pinchinat.

  “One moment!” said Zorn, “do not go faster than the leader of the orchestra.”

  “Which means?” asked the American.

  “That we are expected at San Diego,” replied Frascolin.

  “At San Diego,” added the ‘cellist, “where the city has engaged us for a series of musical matinees, the first of which is to take place on Sunday afternoon.”

  “Ah!” replied the personage, in a tone that betrayed extreme annoyance.

  Then he continued, —

  “That does not matter. In a day you will have time to visit a city which is well worth the trouble, and I will see that you are taken to the nearest station, so that you can be at San Diego at the appointed time.”

  The offer was attractive and welcome. The quartette were assured of finding a good room in a good hotel—to say nothing of the attention promised by this obliging personage.

  “Gentlemen, do you accept?”

  “We accept,” replied Zorn, whom hunger and fatigue disposed to welcome such an invitation.

  “Agreed,” replied the American. “We start at once. In twenty minutes we shall be there, and you will thank me, I am sure.”

  We need scarcely say that after the cheers provoked by the burlesque serenade the windows of the houses were shut. With its lights extinguished, the village of Freschal was again plunged in sleep.

  The American and the four artistes went to the car, put down their instruments, and placed themselves behind them, while the American installed himself forward next to the engineer. A lever was touched, the electric accumulators worked, the vehicle trembled, and began to get up a rapid rate of speed, travelling westward.

  A quarter of an hour afterwards an immense whitish light appeared, as if it were a dazzling diffusion of lunar rays. This was the town, the existence of which none of the Parisians had suspected.

  The car stopped, and Frascolin said, —

  “Here we are on the shore.”

  “The shore—no,” replied the American, “but a watercourse we have to cross.”

  “And how?” asked Pinchinat.

  “By means of this boat in which the car is carried.”

  It was one of the ferry boats, so numerous in the United States, and on it the car was placed with its passengers. Probably the ferry boat was worked by electricity, for there was no steam, and in two minutes they were on the other side of the watercourse, alongside a quay. The car resumed its course along some country roads, and entered a park over which aerial appliances poured an intense light. The gate of the park gave access to a wide and long road paved with sonorous flags. Five minutes later the artistes descended at the steps of a comfortable hotel, where they were received with a welcome that augured well, thanks to a word from the American. They were immediately placed before a well-served table, and supped with good appetite, as may be believed.

  The repast over, the major-domo led them to a spacious chamber lighted by incandescent lamps, to which shades were fitted, so as to shut out nearly all the light at will. Then, postponing to the morrow the explanation of all these marvels, they slept in the four beds placed in the four angles of the room, and snored with that extraordinary simultaneity which had given the Quartette Party its renown.

  CHAPTER III.

  NEXT morning at seven o’clock, these words, or rather these cries, resounded in the room after a startling imitation of a trumpet-call—something like the reveilée.

  “Now then! Whoop! On your feet; and in two-time!” vociferated Pinchinat.

  Yvernès, the most careless of the four, would have preferred three-time, and even four-time, to disengage himself from the warm coverings of his bed. But he had to follow the example of his comrades, and leave the horizontal for the vertical.

  “We have not a minute to lose—not one!” observed “his highness.”

  “Yes,” replied Zorn, “for to-morrow we must be at San Diego.”

  “Good,” replied Yvernès; “half-a-day will suffice for us to visit the town of this amiable American.”

  “What astonishes me,” added Frascolin, “is that there is an important city in the neighbourhood of Freschal. How could our driver have forgotten to tell us about it?”

  “The point is that we should be here, my old G key,” said Pinchinat. “And here we are.”

  Through the large windows the light was pouring into the room, and the view extended for a mile down a superb road planted with trees.

  The four friends proceeded to their toilette in a comfortable cabinet—a quick and easy task, for it was fitted with all the latest inventions, taps graduated thermometrically for hot water and cold water, basins emptying automatically, hot baths, hot irons, sprays of perfumes, ventilators worked by voltaic currents, brushes moved mechanically, some for the head, some for the clothes, some for the boots, either to clean the dust off them, or to black them. And then there were the buttons of the bells and telephones communicating with every part of the establishment. And not only could Sebastien Zorn and his companions obtain communication with every part of the. hotel, but with the different quarters of the town, and perhaps—such was Pinchinat’s opinion—with every town in the United States of America.

  “Or even in the two worlds,” added Yvernès. But before they had an opportunity of trying the experiment, a message was telephoned to them at forty-seven minutes past seven, as follows: —

  “Calistus Munbar presents his morning civilities to each of the honourable members of the Quartette Pa
rty, and begs them to descend as soon as they are ready to the dining-room of the Excelsior Hotel, where their first breakfast awaits them.”

  “Excelsior Hotel!” said Yvernès. “The name of this caravanserai is superb.”

  “Calistus Munbar, that is our obliging American,” remarked Pinchinat. “And the name is splendid.”

  “My friends,” said the ‘cellist, whose stomach was as imperious as its proprietor; “as breakfast is on the table, let us breakfast, and then—”

  “And then take a run through the town,” added Frascolin. “But what is this town?”

  Our Parisians were dressed or nearly so. Pinchinat replied telephonically that in less than five minutes they would do honour to the invitation of Mr. Calistus Munbar. And when their toilette was finished, they walked to a lift which deposited them in the large hall of the hotel, at the end of which was the door of the dining-room, an immense saloon gleaming with gilding.

  “I am yours, gentlemen, always yours.”

  It was the man of the night before who had just uttered this phrase of six words. He belonged to that type of personages who may be said to introduce themselves. It seems as though we had known them always.

  Calistus Munbar was between fifty and sixty years of age, but he did not look more than forty-five. He was above the usual height, rather stout, his limbs long and strong, and every movement vigorous and healthy.

  Zorn and his friends had many times met with people of this type, which is not rare in the United States. Calistus Munbar’s head was enormous, round, with hair still fair and curly, shaking like leaves in a breeze; his features were highly coloured, his beard long, yellow, divided into points; moustache shaven; mouth, with the corners raised, smiling, satirical perhaps; teeth white as ivory; nose rather large at the end, with quivering nostrils, marked at the base of the forehead with two vertical folds supporting an eyeglass fastened to a thread of silver as fine and supple as a thread of silk. Behind the glasses gleamed an eye always in movement, with a greenish iris and a pupil glowing like fire.

  Calistus Munbar wore a very ample loose jacket of brown diagonal stuff. From the side pocket peeped a handkerchief with a pattern on it. His waistcoat was white, very open, and fastened with three gold buttons. From one pocket to the other a massive chain was festooned, with a chronometer at one end of it and a pedometer at the other, to say nothing of the charms which jingled in the centre. His jewellery was completed by a series of rings which ornamented his fat, pink hands. His shirt was of immaculate whiteness, stiff with starch, dotted with three diamonds, surmounted by a wide, open collar, beneath the fold of which lay an almost imperceptible cravat of reddish brown cord. The trousers were striped and very full, and at the feet showed the laced boots with aluminium fastenings.