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Yet it is one of history's or geography's ironies that the Frenchman goes on his way, neither knowing nor wanting to know the blond beasts over the Rhine "Jamais un lourdaud quoiqu'il fasse" . . the young sculptor must have smiled when he tacked that verse on the wall of his prison! Ruhleben is a race-track on the outskirts of Berlin, and a detention camp for English civilians.
"Jamais un lourdaud, quoi qu'il fasse Ne saurait passer pour galaud." One should read Hazlitt's "Essay on the Cockney" to find phrases for these Berliners. It is a gazing, gaping crowd that straggles along over the broad sidewalks. Half a dozen to a dozen will stop and stare at people entering or leaving vehicles, at a shop, or hotel door.
To his friends, howbeit, he gave sic heathen titles as I never saw or heard of out of the Grecian books: namely, Monsieur Porthos, a very tall man, albeit something of a lourdaud; Monsieur Athos; and he that was to be mine own opposite, Monsieur Aramis.
This flagon, such as we call a 'tappit hen' in my country, but far greater, I bore with me up the cellar stairs, and gave it to one of the guard, bidding him spill not a drop, or he should go thirsty. The lourdaud, that was their captain, carried the pannier, and, laughing, we crossed the street and the moat, giving the word "Bedford."
"This is better stuff," says the lourdaud, "than our English ale. Faith, 'tis strong, my lads! Wake up, Jenkin; wake up, Hal," and then he roared a snatch, but stopped, looking drowsily about him.
On a weighty oaken bed lay one in man's raiment, black in hue, her face downwards, and her arms spread over her neck. It could scarce be that she slept, but she lay like one dead, only shuddering when the lourdaud, the captain of the guard, smote her on the shoulder, asking, in English, how she did? "Here she is, sir, surly as ever, and poor company for Christian men.
At last they were all sound on sleep, one man's hand yet clutching a pile of my gold that now and again would slip forth and jingle on the stone floor. Now all this time she had never stirred, but lay as she had lain, her face downwards, her arms above her neck. Stealthily I took the chain and the key from about the neck of the sleeping lourdaud, and then drew near her on tiptoe.
Then I hung the chain and key again on the neck of the lourdaud; I put some of the fallen coins in the men's pouches, but bestowed the dice and tablier in my wallet. I opened the door, and went forth, not looking back; and so from the castle, showing my pass, and giving the porter another coin.
On the wall was a sign in Latin and French "Unhappy the spirit which worries about the future," a facetious warning that any one who loafed there longer than three minutes was likely to be killed, and the following artistic creed from "La Fontaine:" "Ne for fans point noire talent. Nous ne ferions rien avec grace. Jamais un lourdaud quoiqu'il fosse, ne saurait passer pour gallant."
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