Jacques Bonneval; Or, The Days of the DragonnadesManning, Anne
General
Jacques Bonneval; Or, The Days of the Dragonnades
Manning, Anne
Huguenots -- Fiction
And thus we went to the Fair of Beaucaire. As we passed Les Arènes, that
famous Roman amphitheatre in the centre of our city, I heard my father
and his old friend allude to its former uses, without paying much heed
to them. I believe they reminded one another that not only wild beasts
but Christians had formerly been put to death there, for the recreation
of those who were wild beasts themselves; and my father said how he
hated the Sunday bull-fights that took place there still, and never
would let me go near them; on which I put in soberly, "I never want to,
father."
"Thou art a steady lad, I'll warrant thee," said M. Bourdinave,
approvingly. "Hold fast the form of sound words which hath been given
thee in faith and love which is in Christ Jesus."
"Ay, ay, sir," said I, whipping old Réné smartly. And in another minute
we were thumping and bumping over great paving-stones, too noisily for
conversation to be carried on, and getting into a mêlée of carts,
wagons, and horsemen, all bound for Beaucaire. The women were now in
great delight, looking from side to side, commenting on the dress of
one, the equipage of another, nodding to acquaintance, and crying "O,
look!" to each other, when they saw anything beyond common. I had enough
to do, I assure you, to steer a straight course; and M. Bourdinave
observing it, remarked that he hoped I should be equally vigilant in
steering a straight course through life, which made me cry "Ay, ay,
sir," and set me thinking.
When the road became a little quieter, I heard him and my father
discussing the price of cocoons, the superiority of good cocoons to
cocalons, dupions, and soufflons; which last, I need not tell you, are
very imperfect cocoons; dupions have two threads, and confuse one with
another; and pointed cocoons are apt to break in the winding. But all
these, as you know, are turned to account by the silk-spinner, and
worked up into stockings, sewing-silk, and handkerchiefs. But the good
cocoons that yield a strong, thick, compact filament, are appropriated
by the silk-throwsters.
But this trade-talk was interrupted by cries of amused delight from
the women, and on looking about to see what tickled their fancies, they
pointed out to us a most extraordinary figure, standing bolt upright
in a cart. He was tall and meagre, and wore a long black robe and tall
pointed cap, both of which appeared spangled with silver; instead of
which, they were studded with steel buttons, needles, and pins, of which
he was an itinerant vendor. I believe the women would have purchased
largely of him, had my father let me stop.
Next we came up with a little house upon wheels, drawn by a sorry horse,
and on the wooden wall of the said house was depicted, many sizes larger
than life, a great human tooth, with bleeding fangs. Beneath was an
inscription that the owner of the cart was a traveling dentist, who drew
teeth without the least pain.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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