But no more than the sacristan is the hemp-dresser gifted solely with the desire of frightening; he loves to make people laugh; he is sarcastic and sentimental at need, when love and marriage are to be sung. It is he who collects and keeps stored in his memory the oldest songs, and who transmits them to posterity. And so it is he who acts at weddings the part we shall see him play at the presentation of little Marie’s favors.
II
The Wedding Favors
When all the guests were met together in the house, the doors and windows were closed with the utmost care; even the garret window was barricaded; boards and benches, logs and tables were placed behind every entrance, just as if the inhabitants were making ready to sustain a siege; and within these fortifications solemn stillness prevailed until at a distance were heard songs and laughter and the sounds of rustic music. It was the band of the bridegroom, Germain at the head, followed by his most trusty companions and by the gravedigger, relatives, friends, and servants, who formed a compact and merry train. Meanwhile, as they came nearer the house they slackened their pace, held a council of war, and became silent. The girls, shut up in the house, had arranged little loopholes at the windows by which they could see the enemy approach and deploy in battle array. A fine, cold rain was falling, which added zest to the situation, while a great tire blazed on the hearth within. Marie wished to cut short the inevitable slowness of this well-ordered siege; she had no desire to see her lover catch cold, but not being in authority she had to take an ostensible share in the mischievous cruelty of her companions.
When the two armies met, a discharge of firearms on the part of the besiegers set all the dogs in the neighborhood to barking. Those within the house dashed at the door with loud yelps, thinking that the attack was in earnest, and the children, little reassured by the efforts of their mothers, began to weep and to tremble. The whole scene was played so well that a stranger would have been deceived, and would have made his preparations to fight a band of brigands. Then the gravedigger, bard and orator of the groom, took his stand before the door, and with a rueful voice, exchanged the following dialogue with the hemp-dresser, who was stationed above the same door:
The Gravedigger: “Ah, my good people, my fellow-townsmen, for the love of Heaven, open the door.”
The Hemp-dresser: “Who are you, and what right have you to call us your dear fellow-townsmen? We don’t know you.”
The Gravedigger: “We are worthy folk in great distress. Don’t be afraid of us, my friends. Extend us your hospitality. Sleet is falling; our poor feet are frozen, and our journey home has been so long that our sabots are split.”
The Hemp-dresser: “If your sabots are split, you can look on the ground; you will find very soon a sprig of willow to make some arcelets [small curved blades of iron which are fastened on split sabots to hold them together].”
The Gravedigger: “Willow arcelets are scarcely strong enough. You are making fun of us, good people, and you would do better to open your doors. We can see a splendid fire blazing in your dwelling. The spit must be turning, and we can make merry with you, heart and belly. So open your doors to poor pilgrims who will die on the threshold if you are not merciful.”
The Hemp-dresser: “Ah ha! so you are pilgrims? You never told us that. And what pilgrimage do you come from, may I ask?”
The Gravedigger: “We shall tell you that when you open the door, for we come from so far that you would never believe it.”
The Hemp-dresser: “Open the door to you? I rather think not. We can’t trust you. Tell us, is it from Saint Sylvain of Pouligny that you come?”
The Gravedigger: “We have been at Saint Sylvain of Pouligny, but we have been farther still.”
The Hemp-dresser: “Then you have been as far as Saint Solange?”
The Gravedigger: “At Saint Solange we have been, sure enough, but we have been farther yet.”
The Hemp-dresser: “You are lying. You have never been as far as Saint Solange.”
The Gravedigger: “We have been farther, for now we are come from Saint Jacques of Compostelle.”
The Hemp-dresser: “What absurdity are you telling us? We don’t know that parish. We can easily see that you are bad people, brigands, nobodies, and liars. Go away with your nonsense. We are on our guard. You can’t come in.”
The Gravedigger: “Ah, my poor fellow, take pity on us. We are not pilgrims, as you have guessed, but we are unlucky poachers pursued by the keepers. Even the police are after us, and if you don’t hide us in your hayloft, we shall be taken and led off to prison.”
The Hemp-dresser: “And who will prove you are what you say you are, this time? For you have told us one lie already that you can’t maintain.”
The Gravedigger: “If you will let us in, we shall show you a pretty piece of game we have killed.”
The Hemp-dresser: “Show it right away, for we have our suspicions.”
The Gravedigger: “All right, open the door or a window to let us pass the creature in.”
The Hemp-dresser: “Oh, no, not quite so foolish. I am looking at you through a little chink, and I can see neither hunters nor game amongst you.”
Here an ox-driver, a thickset fellow of herculean strength, detached himself from a group where he had stood unperceived, and raised toward the window a plucked goose, spitted
