At Narbonne I took up my abode at the house of a serrurier mecanicien,and was very thankful for the accommodation.It was my misfortune to arrive at this ancient city late at night,on the eve of marketday;and marketday at Narbonne is a very serious affair.The inns,on this occasion,are stuffed with winedealers;for the country roundabout,dedicated almost exclusively to Bacchus,has hitherto escaped the phylloxera.This deadly enemy of the grape is encamped over the Midi in a hundred places;blighted vineyards and ruined proprietors being quite the order of the day.The signs of distress are more frequent as you advance into Provence,many of the vines being laid under water,in the hope of washing the plague away.There are healthy regions still,however,and the vintners find plenty to do at Narbonne.The traffic in wine appeared to be the sole thought of the Narbonnais;every one I spoke to had something to say about the harvest of gold that bloomed under its influence."C'est inoui,monsieur,l'argent qu'il y a dans ce pays.Des gens a qui la vente de leur vin rapporte jusqu'a 500,000francs par an."That little speech,addressed to me by a gentleman at the inn,gives the note of these revelations.It must be said that there was little in the appearance either of the town or of its population to suggest the possession of such treasures.Narbonne is a sale petite ville in all the force of the term,and my first impression on arriving there was an extreme regret that I had not remained for the night at the lovely Carcassonne.My journey from that delectable spot lasted a couple of hours,and was performed in darkness,a darkness not so dense,however,but that I was able to make out,as we passed it,the great figure of Beziers,whose ancient roofs and towers,clustered on a goodly hilltop,looked as fantastic as you please.I know not what appearance Beziers may present by day;but by night it has quite the grand air.On issuing from the station at Narbonne,I found that the only vehicle in waiting was a kind of bastard tramcar,a thing shaped as if it had been meant to go upon rails;that is,equipped with small wheels,placed beneath it,and with a platform at either end,but destined to rattle over the stones like the most vulgar of omnibuses.
To complete the oddity of this conveyance,it was under the supervision,not of a conductor,but of a conductress.A fair young woman,with a pouch suspended from her girdle,had command of the platform;and as soon as the car was full she jolted us into the town through clouds of the thickest dust I ever have swallowed.I have had occasion to speak of the activity of women in France,of the way they are always in the ascendant;and here was a signal example of their general utility.The young lady I have mentioned conveyed her whole company to the wretched little Hotel de France,where it is to be hoped that some of them found a lodging.For myself,I was informed that the place was crowded from cellar to attic,and that its inmates were sleeping three or four in a room.
At Carcassonne I should have had a bad bed,but at Narbonne,apparently,I was to have no bed at all.Ipassed an hour or two of flat suspense,while fate settled the question of whether I should go on to Perpignan,return to Beziers,or still discover a modest couch at Narbonne.I shall not have suffered in vain,however,if my example serves to deter other travellers from alighting unannounced at that city on a Wednesday evening.The retreat to Beziers,not attempted in time,proved impossible,and I was assured that at Perpignan,which I should not reach till midnight,the affluence of winedealers was not less than at Narbonne.I interviewed every hostess in the town,and got no satisfaction but distracted shrugs.Finally,at an advanced hour,one of the servants of the Hotel de France,where I had attempted to dine,came to me in triumph to proclaim that he had secured for me a charming apartment in a maison bourgeoise.Itook possession of it gratefully,in spite of its having an entrance like a stable,and being pervaded by an odor compared with which that of a stable would have been delicious.As I have mentioned,my landlord was a locksmith,and he had strange machines which rumbled and whirred in the rooms below my own.Nevertheless,I slept,and I dreamed of Carcassonne.It was better to do that than to dream of the Hotel de France.
I was obliged to cultivate relations with the cuisine of this establishment.Nothing could have been more meridional;indeed,both the dirty little inn and Narbonne at large seemed to me to have the infirmities of the south,without its usual graces.Narrow,noisy,shabby,belittered and encumbered,filled with clatter and chatter,the Hotel de France would have been described in perfection by Alphonse Daudet.For what struck me above all in it was the note of the Midi,as he has represented it,the sound of universal talk.
