THE MASTERPIECES OF

                            GEORGE SAND




                    AMANDINE LUCILLE AURORE DUPIN,
                          BARONESS DUDEVANT




                              VOLUME IX




                             LES BEAUX
                       MESSIEURS DE BOIS-DORÉ




[Illustration: _MARIO COMFORTS MADAME DE
BREUVE._

_He knelt on the edge of the cushion on which she
had placed her feet, and gazed at her speechless.
At last he ventured to take her hands._]




                    The Masterpieces of George Sand
                Amandine Lucille Aurore Dupin, Baroness
                     Dudevant, _NOW FOR THE FIRST
                      TIME COMPLETELY TRANSLATED
                           INTO ENGLISH LES
                     BEAUX MESSIEURS DE BOIS-DORÉ
                          BY G. BURNHAM IVES_




            _WITH TWELVE PHOTOGRAVURES AFTER PAINTINGS BY
                              H. ATALAYA._




                              _VOLUME I_




                    _PRINTED ONLY FOR SUBSCRIBERS BY
                           GEORGE BARRIE & SON
                              PHILADELPHIA_




CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER XXI
CHAPTER XXII
CHAPTER XXIII
CHAPTER XXIV
CHAPTER XXV
CHAPTER XXVI
CHAPTER XXVII
CHAPTER XXVIII
CHAPTER XXIX
CHAPTER XXX
CHAPTER XXXI
CHAPTER XXXII
CHAPTER XXXIII
CHAPTER XXXIV
CHAPTER XXXV
CHAPTER XXXVI
CHAPTER XXXVII
CHAPTER XXXVIII
CHAPTER XXXIX




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

LES BEAUX MESSIEURS DE BOIS-DORÉ

VOLUME I

MARIO COMFORTS MADAME DE BEUVRE

MERCEDES ENCOUNTERS D'ALVIMAR

BOIS-DORÉ AND JOVELIN, HIS PROTÉGÉ

MERCEDES AND MARIO ENTERTAIN THE MARQUIS

MARIO ESTABLISHES HIS IDENTITY

THE DUEL BETWEEN THE MARQUIS AND D'ALVIMAR




LES BEAUX MESSIEURS DE BOIS-DORÉ




I


Among the numerous protégés of the favorite Concini, one of the least
remarked, yet one of the most remarkable by reason of his wit,
education, and the distinction of his manners, was Don Antonio
d'Alvimar, a Spaniard of Italian origin, who styled himself Sciarra
d'Alvimar. He was a very pretty cavalier, whose face denoted a man of no
more than twenty years, although at that time he confessed to thirty.
Rather short than tall, muscular without seeming to be so, skilful in
all manly exercises, he was certain to interest the ladies by the gleam
of his bright and penetrating eyes and by the charm of his conversation,
which was as light and agreeable with the fair sex as it was solid and
substantial with serious-minded men. He spoke the principal languages of
Europe almost without accent, and was no less versed in the ancient
languages.

Despite all these appearances of merit, Sciarra d'Alvimar formed no
scheme for his own advancement amid the constant intriguing at the court
of the Regent; at all events, any that he may have dreamed of came to
nothing. He confessed afterward, in the strictest privacy, that he had
aspired to make himself agreeable to no less a personage than Marie de
Médicis herself, and to replace his own master and patron, Maréchal
d'Ancre, in that queen's good graces.

But the _balorda_, as Leonora Galigai called her, paid no attention to
the humble Spaniard, and saw in him only a paltry adventurer--a
subaltern without future prospects. Did she even notice Monsieur
d'Alvimar's real or feigned passion? That is something that history does
not divulge and that D'Alvimar himself never knew.

It is not an unreasonable supposition that he would have been capable of
pleasing the Regent by his wit and the charms of his person, had not her
thoughts been occupied by Concini. The favorite was of even lower
origin, and was not half so intelligent as he. But D'Alvimar had within
himself an obstacle to his attainment of the exalted fortune enjoyed by
the successful courtiers of the day--an obstacle which his ambition
could not overcome.

He was a bigoted Catholic, and he had all the faults of the intolerant
Catholics of the Spain of Philip II. Suspicious, restless, vindictive,
implacable, he had abundance of faith nevertheless; but faith without
love and without light, faith falsified by the passions and hatreds of a
political system which identified itself with religion, "to the great
displeasure of the merciful and indulgent God, whose kingdom is not so
much of this world as of the other;" that is to say, if we apprehend
aright the thought of the contemporary author to whom we look for
information from time to time, the God whose conquests are supposed to
extend through the moral world by charity, and not through the material
world by the use of violence.

It is impossible to say that France would not have been subjected in
some degree to the régime of the Inquisition, in the event that
Monsieur d'Alvimar had obtained possession of the Regent's heart and
mind; but such was not the case, and Concini, whose sole crime was that
he was not noble enough by birth to be entitled to rob and pillage as
freely as a genuine great nobleman of those days, remained until his
tragic death the arbiter of the Regents uncertain and venal policy.

After the murder of the favorite, D'Alvimar, who had compromised himself
seriously in his service in the affair of the _Paris serjean_,[1] was
compelled to disappear to avoid being involved in the prosecution of
Leonora.

He would have been very glad to insinuate himself into the service of
the new favorite, the king's favorite, Monsieur de Luynes, but he could
not bring it about; and, although he had no more scruples than "most
courtiers of his time, he felt that he could not stoop to the shuffling
of the royal party, whose policy was to yield many points to the
Calvinists, whenever they saw reason to hope that they could purchase
the submission of the princes who made use of the Reformed religion to
forward their ambition."

When Queen Marie was in open disgrace, Sciarra d'Alvimar considered it
to be for his interest to display his fidelity to her cause. He
reflected that parties are never without resources, and that they all
have their day. Moreover, the queen, even though she were to remain in
exile, might still make the fortunes of her faithful adherents.
Everything is relative, and D'Alvimar was so poor that the gifts of a
royal personage, however nearly ruined she might be, offered an
excellent chance for him.

He exerted himself, therefore, to assist in planning the escape from the
château of Blois, even as he had been employed, several years before,
in the third or fourth rôles in the various political dramas evolved
sometimes by the diplomatic manœuvres of Philip III., sometimes by
those of Marie de Médicis, their aim being to bring about _the
marriages_.[2]

This Monsieur d'Alvimar was, generally speaking, sufficiently shrewd in
the interests of others, discreet and ready for work; but he was often
reproached with having a mania for giving his advice "where he should
have been content to follow that of other people," and for exhibiting an
ability of which he should have been content to leave the credit to his
superiors, "being as yet only an unimportant personage."

Thus, despite his zeal, he did not succeed in drawing upon himself the
queen mothers attention, and, at the time of Marie's retirement to
Angers, he was lost to sight among the subaltern officers, tolerated
rather than popular.

D'Alvimar was touched by these numerous rebuffs. Nothing seemed to
profit him, neither his comely face nor his fine manners, nor his
respectable birth, nor his learning, his penetration, his courage, his
agreeable and instructive conversation: "people did not like him." He
made a pleasant impression at first, but then--very quickly too--people
were disgusted by a touch of bitterness which he soon displayed; or else
they distrusted a flavor of ambition which he inopportunely allowed to
appear. He was neither Spanish enough nor Italian enough, or, perhaps,
he was too much of both: one day as talkative, persuasive and supple as
a young Venetian; the next day as haughty, obstinate and gloomy as an
old Castilian.

All his disappointments were intensified by a certain secret remorse
which he did not reveal until his last hour, and which, as the narrative
proceeds, will be forcibly dragged forth from the oblivion in which he
wished to bury it.

Despite our careful investigations, we lose sight of him more than once
during the years that elapsed between the death of Concini and the last
year of Luynes's life; with the exception of a few words in our
manuscript concerning his presence at Blois and at Angers, we find no
fact worthy of mention in his obscure and unhappy life until the year
1621, when, while the king was carrying on the siege of Montauban with
such ill success, young D'Alvimar was in Paris, still in the suite of
the queen-mother, who had been reconciled with her son after the affair
of the Ponts-de-Cé.

At that time D'Alvimar had renounced the hope of winning her favor, and
perhaps he, too, in his rancorous heart called her _balorda_, although
for the first time she had given proof of good sense by bestowing her
confidence--and it was said her heart--upon Armand Duplessis. There was
a rival whom D'Alvimar could hardly hope to outshine! Moreover, the
queen, under Richelieu's guidance, adopted the policy of Henry IV. and
Sully. She combated for the moment the Spanish influence in Germany, and
D'Alvimar found himself almost in disgrace, when, to cap the climax of
his misfortunes, he became involved in a most unpleasant affair.

He fell into a dispute with another Sciarra, a Sciarra Martinengo, whom
Marie de Médicis employed much more freely, and who refused to
acknowledge him as a kinsman. They fought: Sciarra Martinengo was
severely wounded, and it came to Marie's ears that Monsieur Sciarra
d'Alvimar had not scrupulously observed the laws of the duello as
practised in France.

She summoned him to her presence and reprimanded him most brutally;
whereupon D'Alvimar retorted with the bitterness that had been long
heaping up within him. He succeeded in leaving Paris before measures
were taken for his arrest, and, early in November, arrived at the
château of Ars, in Berry, in the Duchy of Châteauroux.

It will be well enough to state the reasons which led him to seek that
place of refuge in preference to any other.

About six weeks before his unfortunate duel, Monsieur Sciarra d'Alvimar
had been brought into social relations with Monsieur Guillaume d'Ars, an
amiable and wealthy young man, descended in a straight line from the
gallant Louis d'Ars, who had effected the honorable retreat from
Venouze, in 1504, and was killed at the battle of Pavia.

Guillaume d'Ars had been fascinated by D'Alvimar's wit and by the very
great affability of which he was capable when the spirit moved him. He
had not had time to become well enough acquainted with him to conceive
the species of antipathy which the unfortunate young man almost
inevitably inspired, after a few weeks, in those who were much in his
company.

Moreover, Monsieur d'Ars was a youth with little experience of the
world, and, as may well be believed, without great penetration. He had
been reared in the provinces, and had just made his first appearance in
Parisian society, when he met D'Alvimar, and became infatuated with him
because of the superior skill which he displayed, on occasion, in
horsemanship, hunting and tennis-playing. Generous and lavish, Guillaume
placed his purse and his arm at the Spaniard's service, and warmly urged
him to visit him at his château in Berry, whither he was recalled by
business of some sort.

D'Alvimar profited discreetly by his new friend's generosity. Although
he had many faults, he could not be accused of showing any lack of pride
in the way of accepting offers of money, and yet God knows that he was
not rich, and that the whole of his slender revenue was none too much to
meet the demands of his wardrobe and his horses. He indulged in no
follies, and, "by the most painstaking economy, succeeded in appearing
as well clad and mounted as many others whose pockets were better lined
than his."

But when he found that he was threatened with a criminal prosecution, he
remembered the overtures and invitations of the young Berry squire, and
adopted the wise plan of seeking refuge with him.

He judged from what Guillaume had told him of his district, that it was
at that period the most tranquil province in France.

Monsieur le Prince de Condé was its governor, and, being thoroughly
content with the fat sum by which he had been bought, he passed his time
partly in his château of Montrond at Saint Amand, partly in his good
city of Bourges, where he was heartily engaged in the king's service,
and even more heartily in that of the Jesuits.

This so-called tranquillity of Berry would be considered in our day a
state of civil war, for many things were taking place there which we
shall narrate in their proper time and place; but it was a state of
perfect peace and orderliness if we compare it with what was taking
place elsewhere, and especially with what had taken place in the
preceding century.

Thus Sciarra d'Alvimar was justified in hoping that he would not be
molested in one of the old châteaux of lower Berry, where the
Calvinists had attempted no sudden outbreaks for several years, and
where the royalist nobles, former Leaguers, _politiques_ and others, no
longer had the opportunity or the pretext to revictual their men-at-arms
at the expense of their neighbors, friends or foes.

D'Alvimar reached the château of Ars one morning in autumn, about eight
o'clock, accompanied by a single servant, an old Spaniard, who claimed
to be of noble birth, but whom want had reduced to the necessity of
taking service, and who seemed in little danger of betraying his
master's secrets, for he spoke very little--sometimes not three words a
week.

Both were well mounted, and, although their horses were laden with heavy
boxes, they had made the journey from Paris in less than seven days.

The first person whom they saw in the courtyard of the castle was its
young lord, Guillaume, just mounting for something more than a morning's
ride, for he was attended by several of his retainers, prepared to ride
forth with him--that is to say, with their horses laden with luggage.

"Ah! you arrive in the nick of time!" he cried, hastening to embrace
D'Alvimar; "I am just setting out to witness the fêtes to be given by
Monsieur le Prince at Bourges, to celebrate the birth of his son, the
Duc d'Enghien.[3] There will be whole days of dancing and play-acting,
target-shooting, fireworks, and a thousand other amusing things. Now you
have come, I will postpone my departure for a few hours so that you can
go with me. Come into my house, and rest and eat. I will see to it that
you are supplied with a fresh horse, for the one you are riding, well as
he looks, can hardly be in condition to do eighteen more leagues
to-day."

When D'Alvimar was alone with his host, he told him confidentially that
he could not dream of attending any public festivities, and that what he
desired of him was not to be taken to any such function, however
diverting, but to be concealed in his château for a few weeks. Nothing
more was needed in those days to assure oblivion touching an affair so
frequent and so simple as death or wounds inflicted on an enemy, whether
in single combat or otherwise. It was merely a matter of securing a
protector at court, and D'Alvimar was relying upon the speedy arrival at
Paris of the Duke of Lerma, whose kinsman he was or claimed to be. The
duke was a personage of sufficient note to obtain his pardon, and even
to place his fortunes upon a better footing than before.

Our Spaniard's version of his duel with Sciarra Martinengo--whether he
attempted to explain his having attacked him in violation of the rules,
or claimed to have been slandered in that respect, to Queen Marie as
well as to Monsieur de Luynes--was a matter to which Guillaume d'Ars
paid little heed. Like the loyal gentleman that he was, he had been
fascinated by D'Alvimar, and had no distrust of him. Moreover, he was
much more anxious to start than to remain behind, and it would have been
impossible to surprise him when he was less inclined to discuss any
question whatsoever.

So he dismissed the serious part of the affair very lightly, and was
disturbed only by the possibility of being detained another day from the
fêtes at the capital of Berry. Doubtless there was, behind his
impatience, some _amourette_ to be carried to a conclusion.

D'Alvimar, who saw his embarrassment, urged him to make no change in his
plans, but to suggest some village or farm on his domain where he could
safely remain.

"It is my desire to shelter and conceal you in my own château, and not
in a village or a farm-house," Guillaume replied. "And yet I fear you
will be sadly bored in such seclusion, and, upon reflection, I have
thought of a better plan. Eat and drink; then I will myself escort you
to the abode of a kinsman and friend of my own who lives not more than
an hour's ride from here. There you will be as pleasantly entertained
and in as perfect security as possible in our province of Lower Berry.
In four or five days I will come and take you away again."

D'Alvimar would have preferred to remain alone, but, as Guillaume
insisted, courtesy compelled him to assent. He refused to eat or drink,
and, remounting at once, he followed Guillaume d'Ars, who took with him
his retinue all equipped for travelling, as the road they were to take
deviated very slightly from the Bourges road.


[Footnote 1: Picard the shoemaker, a sergeant in the bourgeois
train-bands, where he possessed great influence. Concini, having
undertaken to disregard an order which Picard compelled him to obey,
caused the sergeant to be cudgelled. The popular wrath was so fierce
that Concini deemed his life in danger and left Paris. Two valets who
had acted for him were hanged.]

[Footnote 2: Of Louis XIII. to Anne of Austria, and of Elisabeth, the
young king's sister.]


[Footnote 3: Who became the great Condé.]




II


They left the château by way of the warren, rode through a by-path to
the Bourges highroad, from which they soon turned to the right, and then
through other by-paths to the Château Meillant road, leaving on their
right the baronial town of La Châtre, and finally, leaving the
last-mentioned road, they descended across the fields to the château
and village of Briantes, which was the goal of their journey.

As the country was really peaceful, the two gentlemen had ridden on
ahead of their little escort, in order that they might converse without
restraint; and this is how young D'Ars enlightened D'Alvimar:

"The friend upon whom I propose to quarter you," he said, "is the most
extraordinary personage in Christendom. You must keep a close watch upon
yourself in order to stifle a wild desire to laugh when you are with
him; but you will be well rewarded for such tolerance as you may display
of his mental peculiarities by the great kindness of heart he will
manifest to everybody he meets. He is so kind-hearted that, if you
should happen to forget his name and ask the first passer-by, noble or
serf, where the _kind gentleman_ lives, he will direct you, and never
make a mistake as to the person you mean. But this requires an
explanation, and, as your horse has no great desire to hurry, and as it
is only nine o'clock at the latest, I propose to entertain you with your
host's story. Listen, I begin! _Story of the kind Monsieur de
Bois-Doré_!

"As you are a foreigner, and have been in France no more than ten years,
you can hardly have met him, because he has been living on his estate
about the same time. Otherwise, you would certainly have remarked,
wherever you might have chanced to see him, the good, mad, gallant,
noble old Marquis de Bois-Doré, to-day lord of Briantes, Guinard,
Validé and other places; also, _abbé fiduciaire_ of Varennes, etc.,
etc.

"Despite all these titles, Bois-Doré does not belong to the great
nobility of the province, and we are related to him by marriage only. He
is a simple gentleman whom the late King Henri IV. made a marquis solely
through friendship, and who made a fortune, no one very well knows how,
in the wars of the Béarnais. We are compelled to believe that he must
have done more or less sacking and pillaging, as the custom was in those
days, and as is the well recognized privilege of partisan warfare.

"I will not attempt to describe Bois-Doré's campaigns; it would take
too long. Let me tell you his family history simply. His father,
Monsieur de----"

"Stay," said Monsieur d'Alvimar; "so this Monsieur de Bois-Doré is a
heretic, is he?"

"Ah! deuce take it," replied his guide, laughing, "I forgot that you are
a zealot--a genuine Spaniard! We fellows hereabout do not care so much
about these religious disputes. The province has suffered too much
because of them, and we long for the time when France shall suffer no
more. We hope that the king will soon bring all those fanatics of the
South to terms at Montauban. We want them to have a sound thrashing, but
not the cord and the stake to which our fathers would have treated them.
Political parties are not what they used to be, and in our day people
don't damn one another so much as they used. But I see that my remarks
displease you, and I hasten to inform you that Monsieur de Bois-Doré is
to-day as good a Catholic as many others who have never ceased to be
Catholics. On the day when the Béarnais concluded that Paris was well
worth a mass, Bois-Doré concluded that the king could not be in error,
and he abjured the doctrine of Geneva, without publicity, but sincerely,
I think."

"Return to the story of Monsieur de Bois-Doré's family," said
D'Alvimar, who did not choose to let his companion see with what
suspicious contempt he regarded new converts.

"As you please," replied the young man. "Our marquis's father was the
sturdiest Leaguer in the neighborhood. He was the _âme damnée_ of
Monsieur Claude de la Châtre and the Barbançois; I need say no more.
He had, in the château where he lived, a nice little assortment of
instruments of torture for such Huguenots as he might capture, and did
not hesitate to plant his own vassals on the wooden horse when they
could not pay their dues.

"He was so feared and detested by everybody, that he was universally
known as the _cheti' monsieur_, and with good reason.

"His son, now Marquis de Bois-Doré, whose baptismal name is Sylvain,
suffered so heavily from his father's cruel disposition, that he began
at an early age to take an entirely different view of life, and showed
toward his father's prisoners and vassals a gentleness and condescension
that were perhaps too great on the part of a man of war toward rebels
and of a noble toward inferiors; witness the fact that these qualities,
instead of making him popular, caused him to be despised by the
majority, and that the peasants, who are ungrateful and suspicious as a
class, said of him and his father:

"'One weighs more than he ought to; the other weighs nothing at all.'

"They considered the father a hard man, but of sound understanding,
fearless, and quite capable, after squeezing and tormenting them, of
protecting them against the exactions of the tax-gatherer and the
pillaging of the brutal soldiery; whereas, in their opinion, young
Monsieur Sylvain would allow them to be devoured and trampled upon for
lack of heart and brain.

"Now I don't know what it was that passed through Monsieur Sylvain's
brain one fine day, when he was sadly bored at the château; but the
result was that he fled from Briantes, where his good father blushed for
him, and considering him an imbecile, would never permit him to rise
above the station of a page, and joined the moderate Catholics, who were
then called the third party. As you know, that party many a time lent a
hand to the Calvinists; so that, proceeding from one error to another,
Monsieur Sylvain found himself one fine morning a full-fledged Huguenot,
and a close friend and well-beloved servitor of the young king of
Navarre. His father, having learned of it, cursed him, and, to be even
with him, conceived the scheme of marrying in his old age and presenting
him with a brother.

"That meant a reduction by one-half of Monsieur Sylvain's already
slender inheritance; for, as a Huguenot, he was in danger of losing his
right of primogeniture, and the _cheti' monsieur_ was not very rich, his
estates having been laid waste many times by the Calvinists.

"But observe the young man's natural goodness of heart! Far from being
angry, or even complaining of his father's marriage and the birth of the
child who bit his future crowns in two, he drew himself up proudly when
he heard the news.

"'Look you!' he said to his companions. 'Monsieur my father has passed
his sixtieth year, and here he is begetting a fine boy! I tell you
that's good blood, which I trust that I inherit!'

"He carried his good-humor farther than that; for, seven years later,
his father having left Berry to join Le Balafré against Monsieur
d'Alençon's expedition, and our soft-hearted Sylvain having heard that
his stepmother was dead, which left the child almost unprotected at the
château of Briantes, he returned secretly to the province, to defend
him at need, and, also, he said, for the pleasure of seeing him and
embracing him.

"He passed the whole winter with the little fellow, playing with him and
carrying him in his arms, as a nurse or governess would have done; the
which made the neighbors laugh and think that he was far too
simple-minded--_innocent_--to use the term they apply to a man deprived
of his reason.

"When the stern father returned after the Peace of Monsieur,
ill-pleased, as you can imagine, to see the rebels more generously
rewarded than the friends of the true faith, he flew into a furious rage
against the whole world, even against God Himself, who had allowed his
young wife to die of the plague in his absence. Looking about for
somebody to be revenged upon, he declared that his older son had
returned solely for the purpose of destroying the son of his old age by
witchcraft.

"It was a most villainous charge on the old corsair's part, for the
child had never been in better health nor better cared for, and poor
Sylvain was as incapable of an evil design as the child unborn."

Guillaume d'Ars had reached this point in his narrative, which had
brought them in sight of Briantes, when a sort of bourgeois maiden,
dressed in black, red and gray, with her dress turned up at the bottom
and cut high at the neck, came toward them, and, approaching young
D'Ars' stirrup, said, with repeated reverences:

"Alas! monsieur, I fear that you have come to ask my honored master, the
Marquis de Bois-Doré, to entertain you at dinner. But you will not find
him: he is at La Motte-Seuilly for the day, having given us our liberty
until night."

This intelligence was exceedingly annoying to young D'Ars, but he was
too well-bred to allow his annoyance to appear. He instantly determined
what course to pursue, and said, courteously uncovering:

"Very well, Demoiselle Bellinde; we will go on to La Motte-Seuilly. A
pleasant walk and _bonjour_!"

Then, to relieve his vexation, he said to Monsieur d'Alvimar, after
pointing out their new direction:

"Is she not a most toothsome housekeeper, whose comely aspect gives one
a captivating idea of our dear Bois-Doré's abode?"

Bellinde, who overhead this query, which was propounded aloud and in a
jovial tone, bridled up, smiled, and, summoning a little groom by whom
she was escorted as by a page, produced from her flowing sleeves two
small white dogs, which she bade him deposit gently on the turf, as if
to give them exercise, but in reality to have an excuse for facing the
cavaliers, and affording them a longer view of her fine new serge gown
and her plump figure.

She was a damsel of some thirty-five years, high-colored, with hair of a
shade approaching red and by no means unpleasant to the eye; for she had
a great quantity of it, and wore it in curls under her cap, to the great
scandal of the ladies of the province, who reproached her for seeking to
rise above her station. But she had a malicious expression, even when
she strove to be agreeable.

"Why do you call her Bellinde?" queried D'Alvimar, "Is it a common name
in the province?"

"Oh! by no means; her name is Guillette Carcot; Monsieur de Bois-Doré
christened her according to his custom. It's a mania of his, which I
will explain to you very soon. I must first tell you the rest of his
story."

"It is needless," replied D'Alvimar, stopping his horse. "Despite your
courtesy and the good grace with which you endure disappointment, I see
plainly enough that I am a considerable burden to you. Let us go on to
the château of Briantes, and do you leave me there with a letter to
Monsieur de Bois-Doré, introducing me to him. As he is to return
to-night, I will wait for him and rest a little meanwhile."

"No, no!" cried Guillaume, "I should prefer to abandon the pleasures of
Bourges, and I should have done so already, were it not for the promise
I have made to some of my friends to be there this evening. But I
certainly will not leave you until I have myself commended you to the
care of an agreeable and faithful friend. La Motte-Seuilly is not a
league away, and there is no need to tire our horses. Let us take our
time. I shall reach Bourges an hour or two later, but in these holiday
times I am sure to find the gates open."

And he resumed Bois-Doré's history, to which D'Alvimar hardly listened.
That gentleman was anxious concerning his own safety, and it did not
seem to him that the country through which they were riding was very
well adapted to his plan of lying hidden.

It was a flat, open country, where, in case of an unpleasant meeting, it
was hardly possible to find the shelter of a wood, or even of a clump of
trees. The tillage land is too rich there ever to have been wasted in
tree-planting. It is a fine reddish soil, which stretches away in vast,
broadly-undulating fields, melancholy to look upon, although bordered by
lovely hills and strewn with picturesque little castles.

Briantes, however, to which our travellers had drawn very near, had
impressed D'Alvimar much more favorably.

Within ten minutes' walk of the château, the land suddenly slopes
downward, and leads gradually down into a narrow, well-wooded valley.

The château itself cannot be seen until one is on top of it, as they
say in the province; and the expression is quite accurate, for the
slated belfry of its highest tower rises very little above the plateau,
and when, from the plain beyond, you see it gleaming in the rays of the
setting sun, you would say that it was a tiny lantern hung on the brink
of the ravine.

Almost the same may be said of the château of La Motte-Seuilly,[4]
which lies below the plain of Chaumois, but in a less charming location
than Briantes; a dull, flat country, instead of a lovely valley.

Before reaching the cross-road which leads to the castle, Guillaume had
told his companion in a few words the remaining vicissitudes in the life
of Monsieur Sylvain de Bois-Doré; how his father had attempted to
confine him in his tower, to prevent his returning to the Huguenots; how
the young man had escaped by scaling the walls, and had gone off to join
his dear Henri de Navarre, with whom, after the death of King Henri
III., he had fought nine years; how, finally, having contributed to the
utmost of his ability to place him on the throne, he had returned to
live on his estates, where his tyrant of a father had ceased to live and
drive his neighbors mad.

"And what became of his young brother?" queried D'Alvimar, making an
effort to become interested in the narrative.

"The young brother is no more," replied D'Ars. "Bois-Doré knew but
little of him, for his father sent him when he was very young to serve
under the Duc de Savoie, and while in his service he met his death in
a----"

At this point Guillaume was interrupted once more by an incident which
seemed to annoy D'Alvimar exceedingly, whether because he was beginning
to be interested in his companion's information, or because, being a
Spaniard, he had a marked repugnance for interrupters.


[Footnote 4: Now Feuilly; formerly and successively Seuly, Sully and
Seuilly.]




III


It was a band of gypsies, who were lying flat in a ditch, and rose at
the approach of the horsemen like a flock of sparrows, causing Monsieur
d'Alvimar's horse to shy. But they were very well tamed sparrows, for,
instead of flying away, they threw themselves almost under the legs of
the horses, jumping, yelling and holding out their hands in a piteous
and hypocritical way.

It did not occur to Guillaume to do anything else than laugh at their
strange actions, and he bestowed alms on them very generously; but
D'Alvimar was extraordinarily surly, and said again and again,
threatening them with his whip:

"Away! away! away from me, canaille!"

He went so far as to attempt to strike a lad who was clinging to his
boot, with the look, at once mocking and imploring, of children trained
to the trade of begging on the highway. He avoided the whip, and
Guillaume, who was riding behind, saw him pick up a stone, which he
would have hurled at D'Alvimar, if another boy, somewhat older than he,
had not caught his arm, scolding and threatening him.

But the incident did not end there: a small woman, of not unattractive
appearance, albeit sadly faded and poorly dressed, seized the child,
and, speaking to him as if she were his mother, pushed him toward
Guillaume, then ran after D'Alvimar, holding out her hand, but at the
same time gazing at him as if she wished never to forget his face.

D'Alvimar, with increasing irritation, urged his horse toward the woman,
and would have ridden her down had she not quickly stepped aside; he
even put his hand to the butt of one of the pistols in his holsters, as
if he would readily have fired on one of those wretched beasts of
idolaters.

Thereupon the gypsies exchanged glances, and drew together as if to
consult.

"_Avanti_! _avanti_!" Guillaume shouted to D'Alvimar.

He loved to use Italian words, to show that he had been to the
queen-mother's court; or perhaps he fancied that an _i_ at the end of a
word was sufficient to make it unintelligible to those gypsies.

"Why _avanti_?" said D'Alvimar, declining to urge his horse.

"Because you have irritated yonder blackbirds. See! they are crowding
together like cranes in distress; and, faith! there are a score of them
and only seven of us."

"How now, my dear Guillaume! Can it be that you have any fear of those
feeble, cowardly animals?"

"I am not accustomed to fear," replied the young man, slightly piqued,
"but it would be exceedingly distasteful to me to fire on the poor,
ragged wretches; and I am surprised that they have roused your temper
so, when it would have been a very simple matter to rid yourself of them
with a little small change."

"I never give to such people," said Sciarra D'Alvimar, in a short dry
tone, which surprised the good-humored Guillaume.

The latter felt that his companion had what we should call to-day an
attack of the nerves, and he abstained from reproving him. But he
insisted on quickening their pace, for the gypsies, running faster than
the horses trotted, followed them, and even went before them, divided
into two bands, one on each side of the road.

They had not a hostile air, however, and it was difficult to guess what
their purpose was in escorting the horsemen thus.

They talked among themselves in an unintelligible jargon, and seemed,
one and all, intent upon watching the woman at their head.

The child whom Monsieur d'Alvimar had tried to strike with his whip
trotted along beside Monsieur d'Ars, as if he relied upon his
protection, and seemed to take great interest in this extraordinary
race. Guillaume noticed that the little fellow was less black and less
dirty than the others, and that his refined and attractive features bore
no racial resemblance to those of the gypsies.

If he had paid the same attention to the woman whom D'Alvimar had
insulted and threatened, he would have noticed also that, while she did
not resemble the child in the slightest degree, she resembled no more
her other companions in misery. Her bearing was noble and less rough.
She was clearly not of European race, although she wore the costume of a
mountaineer of the Pyrenees.


[Illustration: _MERCEDES ENCOUNTERS D'ALVIMAR._

_She walked boldly by his side, no longer trying
to beg from him, nor with any appearance of threatening
him, but watching him constantly with the
closest attention._]


The most surprising fact was that, while she had understood perfectly
the movement which Sciarra made to draw his pistol, and despite the
natural cowardliness of beggars and mountebanks of that species, she
walked boldly by his side, no longer trying to beg from him, nor with
any appearance of threatening him, but watching him constantly with the
closest attention.

Her conduct seemed downright insolent to D'Alvimar, and he was on the
verge of listening to the promptings of his capricious and violent
temper.

Guillaume saw that such was the case, and, being apprehensive of some
unpleasant outbreak, and of being obliged to take sides with the
overbearing gentleman against the inoffensive canaille, he urged his
horse between Sciarra and the little woman, motioned to her to stop, and
said to her, half-laughing, half-serious:

"Would you deign to tell us, queen of the genesta and the heather,
whether it is to put shame upon us or to do us honor that you follow us
in this way, and whether we should be pleased or displeased at the
ceremony with which you treat us?"

The Egyptian--these nomadic hordes of unknown origin were called
Egyptians or Bohemians indifferently in those days--shook her head and
motioned to the boy who had taken the stone from the child's hand.

He walked toward them, and, pointing to the silent woman, said, with an
impudent manner, but in a wheedling tone, speaking French with no marked
accent:

"Mercedes doesn't understand your lordships' language. I always speak
for those of our people who can't make themselves understood."

"Ah! yes," said Guillaume, "you are the orator of the tribe; what is
your name, Master Impertinent?"

"_La Flèche_, at your service. I have the honor to have been born a
Frenchman, in the town of which I bear the name."

"The honor is on France's side, assuredly! Now, then, Master La Flèche,
tell your comrades to let us go our way in peace. I have given you
enough for a man who is travelling, and to make us swallow your dust is
not the way to thank me for it. Adieu, and leave us, or, if you have
some further request to make, do it quickly, for we are in a hurry."

La Flèche rapidly translated Guillaume's words to her whom he called
Mercedes, and who seemed to be treated with peculiar deference by
himself as well as by all the others.

She replied with a few words in Spanish, whereupon La Flèche said to
D'Ars:

"This worthy woman humbly requests your lordships' names, so that she
may pray for you."

Guillaume laughed.

"That is an amusing request," he said. "Advise this worthy woman, friend
La Flèche, to pray for us without knowing our names. The good Lord
knows us well, and we can tell him nothing about ourselves that he does
not know better than we do."

La Flèche saluted humbly with his dirty cap, and our travellers,
spurring their steeds, soon left the gypsies behind.

"By the way," said D'Alvimar to Guillaume, as the bell-tower of La
Motte-Seuilly appeared on the horizon, "you have not told me where you
are going. Does that château belong to another of your friends who
would, doubtless, think me an intruder?"

"Yonder château is the home of a young and lovely woman, who lives
there with her father, and they will both receive you courteously. They
will keep you until evening, not only in order not to be deprived of the
company of Monsieur de Bois-Doré, whom they esteem very highly, but
also to prove to you that we are not savages in our poor country
province, and that we know how to practise hospitality in the old French
way."

D'Alvimar replied that he had no manner of doubt of it, and succeeded in
making some other courteous remarks to his companion, for no man was
ever better taught; but his bitter thoughts soon turned to another
subject.

"According to what you have told me of this Bois-Doré, my host that is
to be," he said, "he is an old mannikin, I should judge, whose vassals
enjoy themselves to their hearts' content?"

"No," replied Monsieur d'Ars. "Those gypsies interrupted me. I was
about to tell you that, when he returned to the country, wealthy and
bemarquised, people were surprised to find that he was as brave as a
lion, despite his mild aspect, and that, while he had some laughable
foibles, he also had some Christian virtues which are a very comfortable
possession for a man."

"Do you reckon temperance and chastity among your Christian virtues?"

"Why not, I pray you?"

"Because that housekeeper with the glowing mane, whom we saw at the gate
of his domain, seemed to me something lusty for so demure a man."

"Evil to him who evil thinks!" rejoined Guillaume, with a smile. "I
would not take my oath that our marquis was altogether insensible to the
cajoleries of Queen Catherine's maids of honor; but that was a long
while ago! I am strongly of the opinion that you could tell Bellinde
about it without offending her or causing her pain. But here we are. I
need not tell you that such subjects are not in season here. Our fair
widow, Madame de Beuvre, is no prude, but at her age and in her
position----"

Our friends rode over the drawbridge, which, in view of the tranquil
state of the province, was lowered all day; the portcullis was closed.

Thus they rode, without hindrance or ceremony, into the courtyard of the
manor, where they dismounted.

"One moment!" said Sciarra d'Alvimar to Guillaume, as they were about to
enter the house; "do not, I beg you, mention my name here, on account of
the servants."

"Neither here nor elsewhere," Monsieur d'Ars replied. "You have almost
no foreign accent; so there is no need to say that you are Spanish. For
which of my friends in Paris do you wish me to pass you off?"

"I should be sadly embarrassed to play a rôle other than my own. I
prefer to remain almost myself, and simply to assume one of my family
names. I will be a Villareal, if you choose, and as an explanation of my
flight from Paris----"

"You can talk confidentially with the marquis, and arrange matters as
you choose. There is nothing for me to do but to tell him how dear a
friend of mine you are; that you are running away from some persecution
or other; and that I beg him to take as good care of you as he would of
myself."




IV


The château of La Motte-Seuilly,--that name finally carried the
day,--which is still standing and almost intact to-day, is a small
manor-house consisting of a hexagonal entrance tower, purely feudal in
style, of a main building, very plain, with windows far apart, and of
two wings at right angles thereto, one of which is a donjon. In the left
wing are the stables, with arched ceilings and heavy timbers, the
kitchens and the servants' quarters; in the other, the chapel with its
ogival windows, of the time of Louis XII., spans a short open gallery,
supported by two heavy pillars surrounded by mouldings in relief, like
huge tree-trunks in the embrace of creeping plants.

This gallery leads to the large tower or donjon, which, like the
entrance tower, dates from the twelfth century. The rooms within are
circular, decorated very simply but very prettily with columns set in
claw-shaped pedestals. The winding staircase, which is in a small tower
built against the larger one, leads to one of those old-fashioned
_charpentes_, cunningly and boldly fashioned, which are to this day
considered objects of art.

This one bore, at the centre of its radiating spokes, a _chevalet_ or
wooden horse, an instrument of torture, the use of which was regulated
in cold blood by ordinance as late as 1670. This horrible machine dates
from the construction of the building, for it is built into the
_charpente_.

It was in this poor, cramped, dismal manor that the beautiful Charlotte
d'Albret, wife of the ill-omened Cæsar Borgia, passed fifteen years and
died, still quite young, after a life of sorrow and sanctity.

Everyone knows that the infamous cardinal, the pope's bastard, the
incestuous, blood-stained debauchee, the lover of his sister Lucretia,
and the murderer of his own brother and rival, divested himself of the
dignities of the church one fine day, to seek fortune and a wife in
France.

Louis XII. desired to break off his own marriage with Jeanne, daughter
of Louis XI., in order to marry Anne de Bretagne. The pope's assent was
required. He obtained it on condition that he should give the duchy of
Valentinois and the hand of a princess to the bastard--the brigand
cardinal.

Charlotte d'Albret, a lovely, pure and learned maiden, was sacrificed; a
few months later she was abandoned and looked upon as a widow.

She purchased this dismal castle and took up her abode there to educate
her daughter.[5] Her only external pleasure was an occasional journey to
Bourges, to see her mysterious companion in misfortune, Jeanne de
France, the cast-off queen, who had become the Duchesse de Berry and the
foundress of the _Annonciade_.

But Jeanne died, and Charlotte, then twenty-four years old, put on
mourning, which she never laid aside, and did not leave La Motte-Seuilly
again until her own death, which occurred nine years later--in 1514.

Her body was taken to Bourges and buried beside Jeanne's, to be exhumed,
insulted and burned by the Calvinists half a century later, together
with that of the other poor saint. Her body rested in peace somewhat
longer in the rustic chapel of La Motte-Seuilly, under a pretty monument
which her daughter erected to her.

But it was written that no earthly trace of that melancholy destiny
should be respected. In 1793 the peasants, venting upon that tomb the
hatred they bore their lord, burned it to the ground, and its débris
lie scattered over the pavement to-day. The statue of Charlotte is
propped against the wall, broken in three pieces. The chapel, utterly
neglected, is crumbling to decay. The victim's heart was in all
probability sealed up in a gold or silver casket: what has become of it?
Sold perhaps at a low price; perhaps simply hidden away or buried, in
consequence of a sudden return of fear or devotion, that poor heart may
be reposing in some village hovel, unknown to its new occupant, under
the hearthstone, or under the briar hedge.

To-day the castle, restored in some degree, brightens up a little in the
sunlight, which finds its way into the gravelled courtyard through a
great breach in the wall. The water from the ancient moats, fed, I
believe, by a spring near by, flows in a charming little stream through
the newly laid out English garden.

The enormous yew, which dates from the time of Charlotte d'Albret, rests
its venerable, drooping branches on blocks of stone, arranged with pious
care to support its monumental decrepitude. A few flowers and a solitary
swan cast a sort of melancholy smile about the sorrowful manor-house.

The outlook is still gloomy; the landscape most depressing; the tower of
sinister aspect--and yet an artistic generation loves these dismal
abodes, these old, desolate nests, solid structures of a stern and
bitter past of which the common people know nothing, which they had
forgotten as early as 1793, since they shattered poor Charlotte's tomb
and left untouched the triumphant wooden horse of La Motte-Seuilly.

At the time of our narrative, the manor-house, closed on all sides, was
at once more dismal and more comfortable than to-day. People lived in
the cold obscurity of those little fortresses; therefore, they must have
been able to make themselves comfortable in them.

The huge fireplaces, all sheathed in cast-iron at the back, filled the
vast apartments with an intense heat. The former hangings on the walls
were replaced by felt paper of extraordinary thickness and beauty;
instead of our pretty Persian curtains, which quiver in the draughts
from the windows, were heavy folds of damask, or, in more modest
dwellings, of wadded silk, that lasted fifty years. On the sandstone
floors of corridors and living-rooms were rugs of a new kind, made of
wool, cotton, flax and hemp.

Very handsome marquetry floors were made in those days, and in the
central provinces people ate from lovely Nevers porcelain, while the
sideboards were resplendent with those curious goblets of colored glass,
used only on grand occasions, and representing fanciful monuments,
plants, vessels or animals.

Thus, despite the modest appearance of the exterior of the wing set
aside for the apartments of the masters--for the nobles had already
ceased to live near the roofs of their old feudal donjons--Monsieur
d'Alvimar found an attractive interior, neat and not unrefined, which
denoted genuine ease, at least, if not great wealth.

La Motte-Seuilly had passed, by the marriage of Louis Borgia, into the
family of La Trémouille, to which Monsieur de Beuvre belonged through
his mother.

He was a rough and gallant gentleman, who never hesitated to promulgate
his opinions and beliefs. His only daughter, Lauriane, had married, at
the age of twelve, her cousin Hélyon de Beuvre, aged sixteen.

The two children had been kept apart, with the greater ease in that the
province was suddenly stirred by a commotion in which Messieurs de
Beuvre felt that they were in duty bound to take part. They left La
Motte on the very day of the marriage, to go to the succor of the
Duchesse de Nevers, who had declared for the Prince de Condé, and who
was besieged in her good city by Monsieur de Montigny--François de la
Grange.

While making a bold attempt to force his way into Nevers, under the eyes
of the Catholics, young Hélyon was killed. On his return from that
campaign, therefore, Monsieur de Beuvre had the painful task of
informing his darling daughter that she had passed without transition
from the state of a virgin to that of a widow.

Lauriane[6] wept bitterly for her young cousin. But can a maiden weep
incessantly at twelve years of age? And then her father gave her such a
lovely doll!--a doll with a dress of cloth of silver, and red velvet
slippers pinked like a crab's tail! And then, when she was fourteen, he
gave her such a pretty little horse, from Monsieur le Prince's own stud!
And then, too, Lauriane, who, at the time of her marriage, was only a
pale, slender chit, became at fifteen a dainty blonde, so graceful and
rosy and lovable, that there was no great danger that she would remain a
widow.

But she was so happy with her father, and reigned so absolutely in the
little château he had given her by way of dowry, that she felt in no
manner of haste to enter the marriage state a second time. Was she not
called _madame_? And is not the childish desire to be so called one of
the most potent reasons which induce young girls to marry?--that and the
gifts and the fêtes and the wedding trousseau?

"I have already had all the joys and all the sorrows of married life,"
Lauriane would say artlessly.

And yet, although he had a considerable fortune, managed by him with
great prudence, to which his retired life enabled him to add materially,
Monsieur de Beuvre did not find it a simple matter to arrange a second
marriage for his daughter.

He had embraced the cause of the Reformed religion at the moment that
that cause, drained of men and of money, had no other alternative in our
provinces than to keep in the shadow and obtain toleration.

Everybody in his neighborhood was a Catholic, or pretended to be; for,
in Berry, Calvinism had only a single moment of power and a single real
stronghold. But

     _The year fifteen sixty-two_

when

     _Bourges lacked priests and beggars too_,

was already far away, and Sancerre, the _troublesome mountain_, had its
walls razed to the ground.

The Berrichon character naturally inclines neither to persecution nor
fanaticism; and, after a moment of surprise and agitation, when the
passions of those outside their borders had intoxicated the common
people and the bourgeoisie, they had fallen back under the influence of
that fear of the great, which is the unchanging foundation of the
politics of that province.

The great men, for their part, had sold their submission, in accordance
with their invariable custom. Condé had become a zealous Catholic.
Monsieur de Beuvre, who had first served the father, then lost his own
son-in-law in the son's cause, was, naturally enough, altogether in
disgrace, and appeared no more at Bourges. Jesuits had been sent to him
by the prince, to urge him to make solemn abjuration.

De Beuvre was no fanatic in religious matters. He had yielded to
political passions when he embraced the Lutheran faith, and he realized
that he had made a mistake so far as his fortunes were concerned. He was
too recent a convert to make it worth their while to purchase him. They
contented themselves with attempting to intimidate him, and it had been
hinted to him most adroitly that he could not find a husband for his
daughter in the province if he persisted in his heresy. Having held his
head proudly erect before their threats, he had felt somewhat shaken at
the idea of Lauriane remaining a widow and her patrimony falling to
another branch of the family.

But Lauriane had prevented him from giving way. Reared by him as a very
lukewarm adherent of the Protestant religion, she was only partially
instructed in its doctrines, and freely mingled the ceremonies and
prayers of both forms of worship in her heart.

She did not go to the meeting-house over the long, wretched roads at
Issoudun or Linières, and when she passed a Catholic church, she did
not leap with indignation at the sound of the bell. But she sometimes
displayed beneath her smiling, childlike sweetness the germs of an
intense pride; and when she saw how her father suffered at the
humiliating thought of public abjuration, she came to his assistance
with surprising energy, saying to the Jesuits from Bourges:

"It is of no use for you to seek to convert me with the bait of a
handsome Catholic husband, for I have sworn in my heart that I will
rather belong to a detestable husband of my own communion."


[Footnote 5: Louise Borgia, afterward married to Louis de Trémouille,
and later to Philippe de Bourbon-Busset.]

[Footnote 6: Saint Laurian was one of the saints held in highest honor
in Berry.]




V


Only a few weeks had elapsed since the visit of the Jesuits to La
Motte-Seuilly, when Monsieur Sciarra d'Alvimar appeared there,
introduced by Guillaume d'Ars. They were received by the father and the
daughter, Monsieur de Bois-Doré having gone out to shoot a hare with
Monsieur de Beuvre's keeper.

This was a fresh disappointment to Guillaume, who found himself delayed
again and again, and was beginning to despair of reaching Bourges that
day.

Sciarra d'Alvimar conducted himself with much charm of manner, and, from
the first words he uttered, De Beuvre, who was familiar with social
usages, not because he had seen much of Paris, but because he had
frequented the petty provincial courts, where there was as much state
and ceremony as at the king's own court, saw that he had to do with a
man accustomed to the best society.

As for D'Alvimar, who was deeply impressed by Lauriane's youth and
grace, he took her for a younger daughter of Monsieur de Beuvre, and
still awaited the appearance of the widow of whom D'Ars had spoken.

Not for some time did he realize that that lovely child was the mistress
of the house.

In those days dinner was served at ten in the morning, and Guillaume,
having gone out to the fields in quest of the marquis, returned to take
leave.

"I have told the marquis," he said to Sciarra; "he is coming in; he has
promised solemnly to be your host and your friend until my return. So I
leave you in good company, and I shall do my best to make up for lost
time."

They tried in vain to keep him to dinner. He departed, having kissed the
fair Lauriane's hand, pressed his good neighbor Monsieur de Beuvre's,
and embraced D'Alvimar, swearing that he would return to Briantes before
the end of the week to take him to his château of Ars, and keep him
there as long as possible.

"Now," said Monsieur de Beuvre to D'Alvimar, "give the châtelaine your
hand and let us to the table. Do not be surprised if we do not wait for
our friend Bois-Doré. He is accustomed to spend an hour over his
toilet, even when he has hunted less than fifteen minutes; and not for
anything in the world would he appear before a lady--even this lady, who
is like his own child in his eyes, for he saw her at her birth--without
having washed and perfumed, and changed his clothing from head to foot.
That is his whim, and there is no great harm in it. We stand on no
ceremony with him, and we should offend him by delaying our repast to
await his coming."

"Should I not," said D'Alvimar, when he had been seated at the upper end
of the table, "go and present my respects to Monsieur de Bois-Doré in
his apartments, before taking my place at the table?"

"No," laughed Lauriane, "you would vex him terribly by surprising him at
his toilet. Do not ask us why; you will understand for yourself as soon
as you see him."

"Moreover," added Monsieur de Beuvre, "except by reason of your youth,
you owe him no attentions, for in his capacity of _fiduciary_ host he is
called upon to make all the advances. And I will undertake the duty of
presenting you to him, Monsieur d'Ars having requested me to do so."

In referring to D'Alvimar's youth, Monsieur de Beuvre fell into the
error which his appearance caused at first sight.

Although he was at this time close upon forty, he seemed less than
thirty, and it may be that Monsieur de Beuvre mentally compared his
temporary guest's comely face with that of his dear Lauriane. It was his
constant thought to find for her some husband, outside the province, who
would not demand a solemn abjuration.

The worthy gentleman did not know that the Jesuits already reigned
everywhere, and that Berry was one of the provinces which were least
affected by their propaganda.

Nor did he know that D'Alvimar was in his heart a perfect knight of the
blessed Dame Inquisition.

Guillaume, wishing to assure his friend a cordial welcome, was very
careful not to describe him as too sensitive in his orthodoxy. Himself a
Catholic, but extremely tolerant in his views and by no means a devout
believer, like most of the young men of fashion, he had not, in
introducing him to the master of the house, or in commending him to
Monsieur de Bois-Doré, touched at all upon the religious questions to
which those gentlemen attached little more weight in their ordinary
relations than D'Ars himself. But he had informed Monsieur de Beuvre,
briefly, that Monsieur de Villareal--the name they had agreed upon--was
of good family--that fact was certain--and in a fair way to make his
fortune, which Guillaume believed to be true, for Monsieur D'Alvimar
concealed his poverty with all the pride of which a Spaniard is capable
in that direction.

The first course was served with the characteristic moderation of
Berrichon servants, and discussed with the premeditated moderation of
well-bred people who do not choose to be considered gluttons.

This patient deglutition, the long pauses between every mouthful, the
host's anecdotes between the courses, are still esteemed the elements of
good breeding among the old men in Berry. The peasants of our day have
carried the same theory still farther, and, when you break bread with
them, you can be certain of remaining three full hours at the table,
though there be nothing upon it but a bit of cheese and a bottle of sour
wine.

D'Alvimar, whose active and restless mind could not fall asleep in the
joys of eating, took advantage of Monsieur de Beuvre's stately
mastication to talk with his daughter, who ate quickly and sparingly,
paying more attention to her father and her guest than to herself.

He was surprised to find so much wit in a country girl who had never
gone beyond the limits of her own domain, save for one or two trips to
Bourges and Nevers.

Lauriane was not very well cultivated, and it may be that she could not
have written a long letter without making mistakes in grammar; but she
talked well, and, by dint of listening while her father and his
neighbors discussed the affairs of the time, she was familiar with
history, and accurate in her judgment thereof, from the reign of Louis
XII. and the first religious wars.

However, as she gloried in her descent from Charlotte d'Albret, as that
martyr's memory was in her eyes worthy of reverence and was revered by
her, she had no occasion to let D'Alvimar see that she was a heretic;
moreover, the laws of civility of that period ordained that people
should never discuss their own religious beliefs without adequate cause,
even when they were of the same communion; for the shades of belief were
without number, and controversy was rampant everywhere.

In addition to her delicate tact and great good sense, there was a
flavor of frankness and mischief in her wit, a purely Berrichon
combination, the result of a blending of two contrary qualities being a
decidedly original way of looking at things and of speaking. She was of
the province where the truth is told with a smile on the lips, and where
everyone knows that he is understood without having to lose his temper.

D'Alvimar, who was overbearing rather than affable, and more vindictive
than sincere, felt somewhat abashed in presence of that young woman, nor
had he any very clear conception of the cause of that feeling.

At times it seemed to him that she divined his character, his past life,
or his recent adventure, and that her manner seemed to say to him:

"For all that, we are none the less hospitable folk, ready to entertain
you."

At last the time arrived to serve the joint, and, amid a great banging
of doors and clashing of plates, Monsieur de Bois-Doré appeared,
preceded by a diminutive retainer richly costumed, whom under his breath
he called his page, as if to justify this verse, which, however, had not
yet appeared to bring ridicule upon his like:

     _Every marquis must have pages_,

and in contravention of the royal ordinances, which allowed pages only
to princes and to the very greatest noblemen.

Despite his habitual dejection and his present discomfort, D'Alvimar had
difficulty in restraining his laughter at the appearance of his
_fiduciary_ host.

Monsieur Sylvain de Bois-Doré had been one of the handsome men of his
time. Tall, well-made, black hair, white skin, magnificent eyes, fine
features, physically strong and active, he had won the favor of many
ladies, but had never inspired a violent or lasting passion. It was the
fault of his own fickleness and of the sparing use he made of his own
emotions.

Boundless charity, a loyalty that was most remarkable when we consider
the time and his environment, princely lavishness when fortune chanced
to smile upon him, a stoical philosophy in his hours of ill-luck, with
all the amiable and free-and-easy qualities of the adventurous champions
of the Béarnais, did not suffice to make an impassioned hero of the
type that was popular in his youthful days.

It was an epoch of excitement and bloodshed, when love-making needed a
little ferocity in order to become romantic attachment; and Bois-Doré,
apart from actual battle, wherein he bore himself valiantly, was
disgustingly kind and gentle. He had never murdered a husband or
brother; he had poniarded no rival in the arms of an unfaithful
mistress; Javotte or Nanette readily consoled him for the treachery of
Diane or Blanche. And so, notwithstanding his taste for romances of
pastoral life and of chivalry, he was considered to have a paltry mind
and a lukewarm heart.

He was the more readily reconciled to being tricked and cozened by the
ladies, in that he had never noticed it. He knew that he was handsome,
generous and brave; his adventures were brief but numerous; his heart
craved friendship rather than wild passion; and by his discretion and
his gentle manners he had earned the privilege of remaining everybody's
friend. He had been quite happy, therefore, without exerting himself to
be adored, and, to speak frankly, he had loved all the ladies more or
less without adoring any one of them.

He might have been accused of egotism, had it been possible to reconcile
such an accusation with the other one freely brought against him, of
being too kind and too humane. He was in some measure a caricature of
the good Henri, whom many called an ingrate and a traitor, but whom one
and all loved none the less after they had come in contact with him.

But time had moved on, and that was a fact which Monsieur de Bois-Doré
had not deigned to perceive. His supple frame had hardened and
stiffened, his shapely legs had withered, the hair had receded from his
noble brow, his great eye was surrounded with wrinkles as the sun is
with rays, and of all his vanished youth he had retained naught save the
teeth, somewhat long, but still white and even, with which he
ostentatiously cracked nuts at dessert in order to draw attention to
them. Indeed it was a common remark among his neighbors that he was much
annoyed if they forgot to place some nuts on the table before him.

When we say that Monsieur de Bois-Doré had not observed the inroads of
time, it is simply another way of expressing his perfect satisfaction
with himself; for it is certain that he saw that he was growing old, and
that he fought against the effect of advancing years with valiant
determination. I believe that the utmost energy of which he was capable
was put forth in that struggle.

When he saw that his hair was turning white and falling out, he made the
journey to Paris for the sole purpose of ordering a wig from the best
artist in wigs. Wigmaking was becoming an art; but the investigators of
details have informed us that at least sixty pistoles were required to
obtain one with a white silk parting, and the hairs inserted one by one.

Monsieur de Bois-Doré was not deterred by that trifling sum, for he was
a rich man, and could well afford to expend twelve to fifteen hundred
francs of our money upon a semi-ceremonious costume, and five or six
thousand upon a full dress-coat. He hastened to provide himself with a
stock of wigs: first he fell in love with a flaxen mane, which was
wonderfully becoming to him, according to the wigmaker. Bois-Doré, who
had never before seen himself as a blond, was beginning to believe it,
when he tried on one of a chestnut hue, which, still according to the
dealer, was no less becoming than the other. The two were of the same
price: but Bois-Doré tried on a third, which cost ten crowns more, and
which caused the dealer's enthusiasm to overflow: that was really the
only one, he said, which brought out Monsieur le marquis's fine points.

Bois-Doré thought of the time when the ladies used to say that it was
very unusual to see hair as black as his with so white a skin.

"This wigmaker must be right," he thought.

But, standing before the mirror a few moments, he was surprised to see
that that dark mane gave him a harsh, savage air.

"It is astonishing how it changes me," he said to himself. "However,
this is my natural color. In my youth my appearance was as mild as it is
now. My thick black hair never gave me this cutthroat look."

It did not occur to him that all things harmonize in the operations of
nature, whether it is putting us together or taking us apart, and that
with the gray hair his appearance was as it should be.

But the wigmaker told him so many times that he looked no more than
thirty years old with that lovely wig, that he purchased it, and at once
ordered another, for economy's sake, as he said, in order to save the
first one.

However, he changed his mind the next day. He considered that he looked
older than before with that youthful head, and all the friends whom he
consulted shared that opinion.

The wigmaker explained to him that the hair, eyebrows and beard must be
made to correspond, and he sold him the dye. But thereupon, Bois-Doré
found that his face was so deathly pale amid those blotches of ink, that
it was necessary to explain to him that he would require rouge.

"It would seem," he said, "that when you begin to resort to artificial
methods, you can never stop?"

"That is the general rule," replied the rejuvenator; "choose whether you
will be old or appear old?"

"But am I old, pray?"

"No, since you can still appear to be young by the use of my receipts."

From that day Bois-Doré wore a wig; eyebrows, moustaches and beard
painted and waxed; chalk on his nose; rouge on his cheeks; fragrant
powders in every fold of his wrinkles; and, lastly, perfumes and
scent-bags all over his person; so that, when he left his room, you
could smell him in the poultry-yard; and if he simply passed the kennel,
all his coursing dogs sneezed and made wry faces for an hour.

When he had thoroughly succeeded in making an absurd old automaton out
of the handsome old man he had been, he took measures to spoil his
figure, which had the dignity befitting his years, by having his
doublets and short-clothes lined with double rows of steel, and holding
himself so erect that he went to bed every night with a lame back.

It would have killed him, had not the fashion changed, luckily for him.

The stiff, close-fitting doublets of Henry IV. gave way to the light
surtouts of the young favorites of Louis XIII. The hoop-shaped
short-clothes were succeeded by broad, full breeches which yielded to
every movement of the body.

It cost Bois-Doré a pang to give way to these innovations, and to part
with his rigid _godronné_ ruffs just to be a little more comfortable in
the light _rotondes_. He sorely regretted the stiff lace, but ribbons
and fluffy laces seduced him by slow degrees, and he returned from a
brief visit to Paris dressed in the style affected by young men of
fashion, and imitating their heedless, exhausted airs, sprawling in easy
chairs, striking weary attitudes, rising from his seat in waltz time; in
a word, enacting, with his tall figure and strongly-marked features, the
rôle of insipid little marquis, which Molière, thirty years later,
found complete in its absurdity and ripe for his satire.

This method enabled Bois-Doré to conceal the real burden of his years
beneath a disguise which transformed him into a sort of absurd ghost.

To D'Alvimar he seemed an appalling spectacle, at first sight. The
Spaniard could not understand that profusion of ebon curls around the
wrinkled face, those heavy, awe-inspiring eyebrows over the soft, mild
eyes, that brilliant rouge, which seemed like a mask placed in jest upon
a venerable and benevolent face.

As for the costume, its extreme elegance, the quantity of lace,
embroidery, rosettes and plumes, made it ridiculous beyond words at
midday, in the country; not to mention the fact that the pale, delicate
hues which our marquis affected were horribly out of harmony with the
lion-like aspect of his bristling moustache and his borrowed mane.

But the old gentleman's greeting neutralized most agreeably the
repellent effect produced upon D'Alvimar by that burlesque figure.

Monsieur de Beuvre had risen to present Guillaume's friend to the
marquis, and to remind him that he was placed in his care for several
days.

"It is a pleasure and an honor which I should claim for myself," said
Monsieur de Beuvre, "if I were in my own house; but I must not forget
that I am under my daughter's roof. Moreover, this house is much less
rich and splendid than yours, my dear Sylvain, and we do not wish to
deprive Monsieur Villareal of the pleasures that await him there."

"I accept your hyperbolical statements," replied Bois-Doré, "if they
will but dazzle Monsieur de Villareal so far as to induce him to remain
a long while under my care."

Whereupon he extended his arms, swathed in lace to the elbow, and
embraced the pretended Villareal, saying with a frank laugh that showed
his fine white teeth:

"Were you the devil himself, monsieur, from the moment that you are
entrusted to me, you become as a brother to me."

He was careful not to say "as a son." He would have been afraid of
revealing the number of his years, which number he believed to be
shrouded in mystery because he had forgotten it himself.

Villareal d'Alvimar could readily have dispensed with that embrace on
the part of a Catholic of such recent date, especially as the perfumes
with which the marquis was reeking took away the little appetite he had,
and as, after embracing him, he pressed his hands vigorously between his
dry fingers, armed with enormous rings. But D'Alvimar had to consider
his own safety first of all, and he felt sure, from Monsieur Sylvain's
cordial and hearty manner, that he had really been placed in loyal and
trustworthy hands.

He adopted the plan, therefore, of expressing profound gratitude for the
twofold hospitality of which he was the object, exhibiting himself in a
most favorable light; and when they left the table, the two old noblemen
were delighted with him.

He would have been glad to take a little rest, but the châtelain
incited him to a game of draughts, then to one of billiards with
Bois-Doré, who allowed himself to be beaten.

D'Alvimar loved all games, and was by no means averse to winning a few
gold crowns.

The hours passed away in what might be called a resultless association,
since these diversions led to no conversation sufficiently serious to
place the three gentlemen in a position to know one another.

Madame de Beuvre, who had retired after dinner, reappeared about four
o'clock, when she saw preparations being made in the courtyard for the
departure of her guests.

She proposed a walk in the garden before separating.




VI


It was late in October. The days had grown short, but were still mild
and bright, the St. Martin's summer having not yet come to an end. The
trees were quite bare, their graceful tracery outlined against the
bright red sun just sinking behind the black thickets along the horizon.

They walked over a bed of dry leaves along the paths lined with box-wood
and trimmed yews, which imparted an orderly and dignified stiffness to
the gardens of that period.

In the moats fine old carp followed the promenaders, looking for the
bread crumbs which Lauriane was accustomed to bring them.

A little tame wolf also followed her like a dog, but was held in awe and
tyrannized over by Monsieur de Beuvre's favorite spaniel, a playful
young beast, who showed no aversion for his suspicious companion, but
rolled him over and snapped at him with the superb indifference of a
child of noble birth deigning to play with a serf.

D'Alvimar, on the point of offering his arm to the fair Lauriane, paused
as he saw Monsieur de Bois-Doré approach her, apparently with the same
purpose.

But the courtly marquis also stepped back.

"It is your right," he said; "a guest like yourself should take
precedence of friends; but pray appreciate the sacrifice I make to you."

"I do appreciate it fully," replied D'Alvimar, as Lauriane placed her
little hand lightly on his arm; "and of all your kindnesses to me, I
value this most."

"I am rejoiced to see," replied Bois-Doré, walking at Madame de
Beuvre's left hand, "that you understand French gallantry as did his
late majesty, our Henri, of blessed memory."

"I trust that I have a better understanding of it than he, by your
leave."

"Oh! that is much to claim!"

"We Spaniards understand it differently, at all events. We believe that
a faithful attachment to a single woman is preferable to unmeaning
gallantry toward all."

"Oho! in that case, my dear count--you are a count, are you not, or a
duke?--I beg your pardon, but you are a Spanish grandee, I know that, I
can see it.--So you believe in the perfect loyalty of romance? There is
nothing nobler, my dear guest, nothing nobler, on my word!"

Monsieur de Beuvre called Bois-Doré away, to show him some trees that
he had recently set out, and D'Alvimar took advantage of the
interruption to ask Lauriane if Monsieur de Bois-Doré had intended to
make sport of him.

"By no means," she replied; "you must know that our dear marquis's
favorite food is D'Urfé's romance, and he almost knows it by heart."

"How does he reconcile this taste for a noble passion with the tastes of
the old court?"

"That is a very simple matter. When our friend was young, he loved all
the ladies, so they say. As he grew older, his heart grew cold; but he
thinks that he conceals that fact, as he thinks that he conceals his
wrinkles, by pretending to have been converted to the superior virtue of
noble sentiments by the example of the heroes of _Astrée_. So that, to
excuse himself for not paying court to any fair lady, he boasts that he
is faithful to a single one, whom he never names, whom no one ever has
seen or ever will see, for the excellent reason that she exists only in
his imagination."

"Is it possible that at his age he still feels bound to pretend to be in
love?"

"He must do so, since he wishes to pass for a young man. If he were
willing to admit that all women had become equally indifferent to him,
why should he take the trouble to smear his face and to wear false
hair?"

"So in your opinion it is not possible to be young without being
enamored of some woman?"

"Oh! I know nothing about it," replied Madame de Beuvre gayly; "I have
had no experience and I know nothing of men's hearts. But I sometimes
hear it said that such is the fact, and Monsieur de Bois-Doré seems to
be convinced of it. What is your own opinion thereon, messire?"

"It seems to me," said D'Alvimar, who was curious to know the young
woman's ideas, "that one can live a long while on a past love, awaiting
a love to come."

She made no reply, but looked up at the sky with her lovely blue eyes.

"Of what are you thinking?" he asked her, with a familiarity that was
perhaps a little too sympathetic. Lauriane seemed surprised at this
impertinent question. She looked him straight in the face with an
expression that seemed to say: "What business is that of yours?" But she
replied with a smile, not seeking to defend herself with unnecessarily
stern words:

"I was not thinking of anything."

"That is impossible," rejoined D'Alvimar; "one is always thinking of
something or somebody."

"But we think vaguely, so vaguely that in a moment we have forgotten."

Lauriane did not speak truly. She had been thinking of Charlotte
d'Albret, and we will translate all that had passed through her mind in
that brief reverie.

That poor princess had appeared to her, as it were, to make the reply
which D'Alvimar was seeking, and that reply was as follows:

"A maiden who has never loved sometimes accepts rashly the first love
that presents itself, because she feels impatient to love, and sometimes
she falls into the arms of a knave who tortures her, wrecks her life and
deserts her."

D'Alvimar was far from suspecting the curious warning that that young
heart had received; he fancied that she was indulging in a bit of
coquetry, and the game attracted him, although his heart was as cold as
marble. He persisted.

"I will warrant," he said, "that you have dreamed of a love more real
than that which Monsieur de Bois-Doré parades before you; of such a
love as you could inspire in a man of heart, even if you could not
yourself feel it."

No sooner had he uttered these commonplace words of challenge, in a tone
to which he was able to give a melting quality and which he deemed most
persuasive, than Lauriane suddenly withdrew her arm from his, turned
pale and stepped back.

"What is it, in heaven's name?" he exclaimed, trying to recover her arm.

"Nothing, nothing," she said, trying hard to smile. "I saw a snake among
the rushes and it frightened me; I am going to call my father to kill
it."

And she hastened toward Monsieur de Beuvre, leaving D'Alvimar beating
the rushes on the sloping bank of the moat with his cane, in search of
the accursed reptile.

But no reptile, beautiful or ugly, made its appearance, and when he
looked after Madame de Beuvre, he saw her just going from the garden
into the courtyard.

"There's a sensitive plant," he thought as he watched her! "whether she
really was frightened by a snake, or whether my words caused this sudden
disturbance. Ah! why have not queens and princesses, who hold exalted
destinies in their hands, the amorous sincerity of these little country
dames!"

While his vanity thus accounted for Lauriane's emotion, she had gone up
to Charlotte d'Albret's chapel, not to pray--she did not often visit
that Catholic oratory, ordinarily closed as the sanctuary of a venerable
memory--but to make sure of a fact which had caused her a violent shock.

In that little chapel there was a portrait, blackened and discolored by
the lapse of years, which was never shown to any one, but was preserved
there, where it had been found, out of respect for those articles which
had belonged to the saint of the family.

Lauriane had seen the portrait but twice in her life. Once by chance,
when an old woman employed to clean the chapel had opened the sort of
closet in which it was kept, in order to dust it.

Lauriane was a child at that time. The portrait had frightened her,
although she could not tell why.

The second time, not long before, her father had told her the poor
duchess's story, with certain details, furnished by tradition, and had
said to her:

"And yet our saintly ancestress did not abhor _that monster_. Whether
she had actually loved him for a moment before she knew of the crimes
with which his hands were stained, or whether she made it her duty to
pray for him, impelled solely by Christian charity, she had his portrait
in her chapel."

Thereupon Lauriane, having learned whose terrifying features were
represented in that old painting, had felt a desire to see it again. She
had scrutinized it carefully, coolly, and had made a mental vow that she
would never marry a man who bore the faintest resemblance to that
terrible face.

Although she had examined the portrait without the slightest agitation,
the spectre had haunted her eyes for some time, and, whenever they fell
upon a repellent face, she involuntarily compared it with the abhorred
type; but she had eventually forgotten the incident, for she was
naturally cheerful and placid, and as stout-hearted as most of the young
châtelaines of the period of commotion and danger which was hardly at
an end.

And so, when she met D'Alvimar, it had not once occurred to her to
compare his face with the picture; and even in the garden, as she
chatted merrily with him, her arm in his, and looked him in the face,
she had felt no apprehension. But why had she thought of Charlotte
d'Albret while he was speaking to her? She had no idea; she paid no
great heed to the coincidence at first.

But D'Alvimar had insisted upon knowing her thoughts; he had almost
spoken to her of love. At all events he had said more to her on that
subject in two words, although she had never seen him before, than any
of the masculine friends, young or old, whom she met frequently, had
ever dared to do.

Surprised by such excessive audacity, she had looked at him again, but
this time by stealth. She had detected a treacherous smile on that
charming face; and at the same time his profile, outlined against the
ruddy background of the horizon, had extorted a cry of alarm from her.

That handsome youth, who seemed determined to provoke the first
pulsations of her heart, resembled Cæsar Borgia!

Whether that was a mere fancy or a certainty, it was impossible for her
to remain an instant longer on his arm.

She had invented a pretext for her alarm. She had fled, and she had gone
to look at the portrait, in order to banish or confirm her suspicions.




VII


As the daylight was rapidly fading and it was already dark on the
courtyard side of the château, she turned back and went for a light to
her room, which was in the wing adjoining the little gallery under the
chapel.

The closet containing the portrait was nothing more than a square
cupboard of plain boards, fastened to the wall, like those in village
churches in which are kept the banners used in processions. She hastily
opened it, placed her candle so that its light fell upon the picture,
and gazed at the infamous wretch's features.

It was a fine painting. Cæsar and Lucretia Borgia were contemporaries
of Raphael and Michelangelo, and this portrait, somewhat dry in
execution, was in Raphael's first manner. It belonged to the same
school.

The face of the Duc de Valentinois showed no sign of the livid blotches
and hideous pustules which some historians describe, nor the squinting
eyes, "gleaming with an infernal brilliancy which even his comrades and
chosen intimates could not endure." Whether because the artist had
flattered him, or because he had painted him at a period of his life
when vice and crime did not as yet "stand out" on his face, he had not
made him ugly. He had painted the cardinal brigand in profile, and that
one of his eyes which he had copied was looking straight ahead.

The face was pale, ghastly pale, and thin, the nose sharp and narrow,
the mouth almost lipless, so pale and colorless were the lips, the chin
angular, the outlines pure, the beard and moustache red and carefully
combed, and the general effect distinguished. But seen thus in its most
favorable aspect, that knavish face was perhaps more repulsive than if
it had been eaten by leprosy. It was calm and thoughtful, and it bore no
resemblance to the flat head of the viper.

No, no, It was much worse; it was a well-shaped man's face, with all the
intellectual faculties admirably developed for evil. The long, half-shut
eye seemed absorbed in blissful meditation of a crime, and the
imperceptible smile on the transparent lips had the drowsy mildness of
sated ferocity.

It was impossible to say definitely in what the horror of the expression
consisted: it was everywhere. One felt chilled in body and mind as one
questioned that cruel and insolent countenance.[7]

"I dreamed it!" said Lauriane, scrutinizing the features one by one.
"That is not the Spaniard's brow, nor his eye, nor his mouth. It is of
no use for me to look, I can find nothing of him here."

She closed her eyes to recall his features without looking at the
portrait. She saw him full face: he was charming, with a proud and
resigned expression of melancholy. She saw him in profile: he was
playful, a little satirical perhaps, he smiled.--But as soon as she
recalled that smile, she saw the profile of the infamous Cæsar, and it
was impossible for her to separate the two impressions, as if they were
glued together.

She closed the cupboard, and glanced at the pulpit of carved wood, the
little altar, and the black velvet cushion whitened and worn threadbare
by Charlotte's knees. She fell on her knees upon it and prayed, not
pausing to think whether she was in a church or a meeting-house, whether
she was Catholic or Protestant.

She prayed to the God of the weak and afflicted, the God of Charlotte
d'Albret and Jeanne de France.

Then, feeling somewhat reassured, and seeing that her guests' horses
were ready, she went down to the salon to receive their adieux.

She found her father greatly excited.

"Come here, my dearest daughter," he said, taking her hand to lead her
to the chair which Bois-Doré and D'Alvimar hastened to bring forward
for her; "you will restore harmony among us. When the ladies leave the
men together, they become bad-tempered, they talk of politics or
religion, and on those points no two men can ever agree. You are most
welcome therefore, who are as mild and gentle as the doves; come and
tell us about your doves, whom, I suppose, you have just been putting to
bed."

Lauriane confessed that she had forgotten her pets. She felt that
D'Alvimar's keen and piercing eye was fixed upon her. She made bold to
look at him. It was certain that he bore no more resemblance to Borgia
than good Monsieur Sylvain himself.

"So you have been quarrelling with our neighbor again?" she said to her
father as she kissed him, while she held the old marquis's hand. "Well,
what harm is done, since you confess that you need a little
contradiction to assist your digestion?"

"_Mordi_! no," rejoined Monsieur de Beuvre, "if it were with him I would
not confess, for I should simply have committed an everyday sin; but I
have allowed myself to fall into a contradictory mood with Monsieur de
Villareal, and that is contrary to all the laws of hospitality and
propriety. Make peace between us, my dear daughter, and tell him, for
you know me, that I am a pig-headed, quarrelsome old Huguenot, but
honest as gold, and entirely at his service none the less."

Monsieur de Beuvre exaggerated. He was not a very bloodthirsty Huguenot,
and religious ideas were sadly tangled in his brain. But he harbored
some intense political hatreds and animosities, and he could not hear
the names of certain of his adversaries without giving vent to his
uncompromising frankness of speech.

Now, D'Alvimar had offended him by assuming the defence of the
ex-Governor of Berry, Monsieur le Duc de la Châtre, to whom the
conversation had drifted.

Lauriane, being informed of the subject of dispute, gently delivered her
verdict.

"I absolve you both," she said; "you, monsieur my father, for the
thought that the example of the late Monsieur de la Châtre is not
worthy to be followed in any particular save physical bravery and
wit;--you, Monsieur de Villareal, for having pleaded the cause of a man
who is not here to defend himself."

"Well judged!" cried Bois-Doré; "now let us change the subject."

"Yes, to be sure, let us say no more of that tyrant!" rejoined the old
Huguenot; "let us say no more of that fanatic!"

"It pleases you to call him a fanatic," retorted D'Alvimar, who was
incapable of yielding an inch; "for my own part, and I knew him well at
court, if I had ventured to reproach him at all, it would have been for
not being zealous enough in his love for the true religion, and for
looking upon it solely as an instrument with which to crush rebellion."

"True, true," said Bois-Doré, who abhorred disputes and thought of
nothing but putting an end to one in progress, whereas De Beuvre moved
uneasily in his chair, making it very plain that he had not done with
it.

"After all," continued D'Alvimar, hoping to make his peace, "did he not
faithfully and zealously serve King Henri, to whose memory you all seem
to be devoted hereabout?"

"And with reason, monsieur!" cried De Beuvre; "with reason, _mordi_!
Where will you find a wiser and more humane king? But for how long a
time did your frantic Leaguer of a La Châtre fight against him? how
many times did he betray him? how much money had to be paid him to
induce him to remain quiet? You are a young man, and a society man; you
saw only the courtier and the smooth talker; but we old provincials know
our petty provincial tyrants, I tell you! I wish that Monsieur de
Bois-Doré would tell you how that illustrious warrior effected the
glorious conquest of Sancerre by falsehood and treachery!"

"Bless my soul!" said Bois-Doré, with some temper, "how do you expect
me to remember such things?"

"Why should it not please you to remember them, I pray to know?"
retorted De Beuvre, paying no heed to the marquis's annoyance; "you were
not at the breast, I fancy?"

"But I was so young, that I remember nothing about it."

"Well, I remember," cried De Beuvre, vexed by his friend's defection.
"Now, I am ten years younger than you, my friend, and I was not there; I
was a page to young Condé, the grandfather of the present one, and a
very different man, I promise you."

"Come, come," said Lauriane, venturing upon a most mischievous step in
order to pacify her father and turn the quarrel aside from its main
subject; "our dear marquis must needs confess that he was at the siege
of Sancerre and bore himself valiantly there, for everybody knows it,
and modesty alone leads him to refuse to remember it."

"You know very well that I was not there," said Bois-Doré, "since I was
here with you."

"Oh! I am not speaking of the last siege, which lasted only twenty-four
hours, last May, and which was simply the _coup de grâce_; I refer to
the great, the famous siege of 1572."

Bois-Doré had a horror of dates. He coughed, moved about, and poked the
fire, which did not need it; but Lauriane was determined to immolate him
under bouquets of praise.

"I know that you were very young," she said, "but even then you fought
like a lion."

"It is true that my friends performed wonders," replied Bois-Doré, "and
that it was a very hot struggle; but I could not strike very hard,
however eager I may have been, at that age."

"_Mordi_! you took two prisoners yourself!" cried De Beuvre, stamping on
the floor. "Look you, it drives me frantic to see a stout-hearted old
fighter like you deny his gallant exploits rather than admit his age!"

Bois-Doré was deeply wounded, and his face became sad; it was his only
way of manifesting his displeasure to his friends.

Lauriane saw that she had gone too far; for she was sincerely attached
to her old neighbor, and when he ceased to laugh at her teasing, she no
longer cared to laugh herself.

"No, monsieur," she said to her father, "permit your daughter to tell
you that you are only jesting. The marquis was much less than twenty,
and his conduct was all the more glorious."

"What! he was not twenty years old?" cried De Beuvre; "can it be that I
have become, all of a sudden, the older of the two?"

"One is never older than one appears," replied Lauriane, "and it is only
necessary to look at the marquis----"

She paused, lacking the courage to tell a downright falsehood even to
console him; but the intention was enough, for Bois-Doré was content
with very little.

He thanked her with a glance, his brow cleared; De Beuvre began to
laugh, D'Alvimar admired Lauriane's charming delicacy, and the storm was
turned aside.


[Footnote 7: I do not know what has become of the portrait here
described. I saw one like it in the possession of the illustrious
General Pepe. It is well known that there is a portrait by Raphael which
is a masterpiece. In it Borgia is almost handsome; at all events there
is so much distinction in his face and refinement in his person that one
hesitates to detest him. But close scrutiny causes a sensation of
genuine terror. The hand, straight, slender and white as a woman's,
tranquilly grasps the hilt of a dagger hanging at his side. It holds it
with remarkable grace; it is ready to strike. The impending movement is
so admirably foreshadowed, that we can see in anticipation how the blow
is to be dealt, downward, into his victim's heart. There is grandeur in
that portrait, in the sense that the great artist has left his stamp
upon it, but without attempting to disguise the moral wickedness of his
model, which he makes to shine forth triumphantly through the appalling
tranquillity of his features.]




VIII


They conversed pleasantly for a few moments. Monsieur de Beuvre urged
D'Alvimar not to take fright at his outbreaks, and to come again on the
second day thereafter with Bois-Doré, who was accustomed to dine at La
Motte every Sunday. Thereupon a servant announced that _la carroche_ of
monsieur le marquis was ready.--Everyone knows that, previous to the
time of Louis XIV., who ordered otherwise, _carrosse_ was of both
genders, and more frequently feminine, after the Italian _carrozza_.

Now, Monsieur de Bois-Doré's _carroche_ or _carrosse_ was an enormous,
lumbering chariot, which four fine strong Percheron horses drew with
admirable courage; they were somewhat too fat, perhaps, for one and all,
men and beasts alike, were well-fed under worthy Monsieur Sylvain's
roof.

This venerable equipage, constructed to defy the difficulties of roads
carriageable or not, was stout enough to stand any test, and, if it left
something to be desired in the way of ease, one was assured at all
events of not breaking many bones in case of an upset, because the
interior was so bountifully stuffed. There were six inches of wool and
tow under the damask lining, so that one had a sense of security, if not
all possible comfort.

For the rest, it was a handsome chariot, all covered with leather,
embellished with gilt nails which formed a decorative border for the
panels. For convenience in entering and alighting, there was a small
ladder, which was placed inside when not in use.

In the four corners of this citadel on wheels, there was a very arsenal
of swords and pistols, not forgetting the powder and ball; so that, at
need, they could sustain a siege therein.

Two servants on horseback, carrying torches, headed the procession; two
other torch-bearers rode behind the carriage with D'Alvimar's servant,
who led his master's horse.

The marquis's young page sat on the box beside the coachman.

The party clattered noisily under the portcullis of La Motte-Seuilly;
and the rattling of the chains of the drawbridge as it rose behind the
procession, amid the joyous barking of the watch dogs as they were set
loose in the courtyard, combined to make an uproar which could be heard
as far as the hamlet of Champillé, a good fourth of a league away.

D'Alvimar felt called upon to say a few words to Bois-Doré in praise of
his fine carriage, an article of comfort and luxury still rare in the
country districts, and considered a marvel of magnificence, particularly
in Berry.

"I did not expect," he said, "to find the luxury of the great cities in
the heart of Berry, and I see, monsieur le marquis, that you lead the
life of a man of quality."

Nothing could have been more flattering to the marquis than this last
expression. Being a simple gentleman, he was not and could not be,
despite his title, a _man of quality_. His marquisate was a little farm
in the Beauvoisis which he did not even own. On a certain day of fatigue
and peril, Henri IV., arriving with him and a very small escort at that
farm, where the chances of partisan warfare had compelled them to halt,
and which they found entirely abandoned,--Henri IV., we say, was in
great danger of not breakfasting at all, when Monsieur Sylvain, who was
a most resourceful man in adventures of this sort, discovered in a
thicket a number of fowls which had been left behind and had become
wild. The Béarnais had taken part in the hunt with great zest, and
Sylvain had undertaken to cook the game to a turn.

This unlooked-for repast had put the King of Navarre in excellent humor,
and he had conferred the farm upon his loyal retainer, erecting it into
a marquisate by his good pleasure, to reward him, he said, for having
rescued a king from death by starvation.

His possession was limited to this sojourn of a few hours on the little
fief he had won without striking a blow. It had been retaken on the
following day by the contrary party; and, after the peace, its lawful
owners had re-entered into possession.

It mattered little to Bois-Doré, who cared nothing for that hovel but
much for his title, and to whom the King of France afterward laughingly
fulfilled the promise he had made as King of Navarre. The dignity was
not conferred upon the Berrichon squire by any parchment; but, under the
protection of the omnipotent monarch, the title was tolerated, and the
obscure country gentleman admitted to the king's select circle as
Marquis de Bois-Doré.

As no one made any objection, the king's jest and his sufferance created
a precedent at least, if not a right, and to no purpose did people make
merry at the expense of Monsieur Sylvain Bouron du Noyer--such was his
real name,--he esteemed himself a man of quality despite the scoffers.
After all he had a better claim to the title and bore it more honorably
than many other partisans.

D'Alvimar was not aware of any of these circumstances. He had paid
little attention to what Guillaume d'Ars had told him hurriedly. It did
not occur to him to scoff at his host's nobility, and our marquis, being
accustomed to be teased upon that point, was infinitely grateful to him
for his courtesy.

However he felt bound to assume the airs of a man in robust health, in
order to neutralize that troublesome date of the siege of Sancerre.

"I keep this carriage," he said, "for no other purpose than that I may
be able to offer it to the ladies in my neighborhood when occasion
offers; for, so far as I am concerned, I much prefer the saddle. One
travels faster and with less hindrance."

"So you treated me like a lady," rejoined D'Alvimar, "by sending for
this carriage during the day. I am overwhelmed, and if I had thought
that you did not fear the cool evening air, I should have begged you to
make no change in your habits."

"But I thought that, after the long journey you have taken, you had
ridden enough for to-day; and as to the cold, to tell you the truth, I
am a terribly lazy mortal, and indulge myself in many little comforts
which are not at all necessary to my health."

Bois-Doré attempted to reconcile the slothful nonchalance of young
courtiers with the sturdy vigor of young country gentlemen, and he was
sometimes sorely embarrassed over it. He was, in truth, still hale and
hearty, a good horseman and in good health, despite occasional twinges
of rheumatism which he never mentioned, and a slight deafness which he
did not admit, attributing the mistakes made by his ear to his
absent-mindedness.

"I must needs apologize to you for the discourtesy of my friend De
Beuvre," he said. "Nothing can be in worse taste than these religious
discussions, which are no longer in fashion. But you will pardon an old
man's obstinacy. In reality De Beuvre worries no more than I do about
these subtleties. It is infatuation for the past which causes now and
then an attack of inveighing against the dead, and thereby making
himself a good deal of a bore to the living. I do not see why old age is
so pedantic over its reminiscences, as if, at any age, one had not seen
enough things and enough people to be as much of a philosopher as is
necessary! Ah! commend me to the good people of Paris, my dear guest,
for ability to talk with refinement and moderation on every subject of
controversy! Commend me to the Hôtel de Rambouillet for example! Of
course you have frequented the _blue salon of Arthenice_?"[8]

D'Alvimar was able to reply that he was received by the marchioness,
without departing from the truth. His wit and his learning had thrown
open to him the doors of the fashionable Parnassus; but he had acquired
no footing there, his intolerance having made itself manifest too soon
in that sanctuary of French urbanity.

Moreover he had little taste for the literary sheepfold. The ambition of
the age was consuming him, and the pastoral, which is the ideal of
repose and unostentatious leisure, was not at all in his line. So that
he was overcome with fatigue and drowsiness when Bois-Doré, overjoyed
to have somebody to talk with, began to recite whole pages from
_Astrée_.

"What can be more beautiful," he cried, "than this letter from the
shepherdess to her lover:

"'I am suspicious, I am jealous, I am hard to win and easy to lose, and
more easy to offend and most exceeding hard to appease. My desires must
be decrees of fate, my opinions arguments, and my commands inviolable
laws.'

"What style! and what beautiful character painting! And does not the
sequel contain all the wisdom, all the philosophy and morality that a
man can need? Listen to this, Sylvie's reply to Galatée:

"'You must not doubt that this shepherd is in love, being so honorable a
man!'

"Do you understand, monsieur, the deep meaning of that sentiment?
However, Sylvie herself explains it:

"'The lover desires nothing so much as to be loved; to be loved one must
make oneself lovable; and that which makes one lovable is the same which
makes one an honorable man?'"

"What? what does that mean?" cried D'Alvimar, awakened with a start by
the remarks of the learned shepherdess, which Bois-Doré roared into his
ear to drown the clattering of the _carrosse_ over the hard pavement of
the old Roman road from La Châtre to Château-Meillant.

"Yes, monsieur, yes, I would maintain it against all the world!"
rejoined Bois-Doré, not observing his guest's start; "and I tire myself
out repeating it to that old dotard, that old heretic in matters of
sentiment!"

"Who?" queried D'Alvimar in dismay.

"I am speaking of my neighbor De Beuvre, a most excellent man, I promise
you, but infatuated with the idea that virtue is found only in
theological works, which he does not read, inasmuch as he could not
understand them; whereas I maintain that it is found in poetic works, in
agreeable and becoming thoughts, which every man, however simple he may
be, may turn to his advantage. For example, when young Lycidas yields to
the mad love of Olympe----"

At this juncture D'Alvimar resolutely went to sleep again, and
Bois-Doré was still declaiming when the chariot and the escort woke the
echoes on the drawbridge of Briantes, with an uproar equal to that they
had made on leaving La Motte.

It had grown quite dark; D'Alvimar could see naught of the château but
the interior, which seemed to him very small, and which was so, in fact,
compared with the enormous dwellings common at that period.

To-day the apartments in the château would seem very large, but in
those days they seemed very diminutive.

The portion occupied by the marquis, which had been ruined by the bands
of partisans in 1594, was of recent construction. It was a square
pavilion, flanked by a very old tower and by another even more ancient
building, the whole forming a single mass of composite architecture,
graceful in its narrow proportions, and of attractive and picturesque
aspect.

"Do not be dismayed at the poor appearance of my cottage," said the
marquis, leading the way into the hall, while the page and Bellinde
lighted them; "it is just a hunting-box and bachelor's den. If I should
ever take it into my head to marry, I should have to build; but I have
not thought of it thus far, and I trust that, being yourself a bachelor,
you will not find this hovel too inconvenient."


[Footnote 8: Arthenice, an anagram of _Catherine_ Marquise de
Rambouillet; it is said to have been invented by Malherbe.]




IX


In truth the bachelor's den was arranged, carpeted and decorated with a
magnificence of which the low carved door and the narrow vestibule, from
which the spiral staircase rose abruptly, gave no indication.

On the flagged hall were excellent Berry mats, on the wood floors richer
carpets from the looms of Aubusson, and in the salon and the master's
bedroom Persian rugs of very great value.

The window-panes were large and of plain glass; that is to say, they
were diamond-shaped, about two inches square and unstained, with
medallions, bearing a coat-of-arms in colors, in relief. The hangings
represented slender, fascinating ladies and dainty little gentlemen,
whom it was very easy to identify as shepherds and shepherdesses by
their satchels and crooks.

The names of the principal characters of _Astrée_ were embroidered in
the grass under their feet, and their eloquent speeches were issuing
from their mouths, meeting the no less eloquent replies of their
neighbors.

On a panel in the _salon de compagnie_ the ill-fated Celadon was
represented, plunging with graceful contortions into the blue waters of
the Lignon, which rippled in circles in anticipation of his fall. Behind
him the incomparable Astrée, giving free vent to her tears, ran up too
late to stop him, although his foot was almost in the shepherdess's
hand. Above this pathetic group a tree, more like a sheep than the sheep
themselves in those fantastic fields, reared to the ceiling its fleecy,
curly branches.

But, in order not to rend the heart by this lamentable spectacle of the
demise of Celadon, the artist had represented him, on the same panel, on
the other side of the Lignon, tossed up by the water, and lying betwixt
life and death among the bushes, but rescued by "three lovely nymphs,
whose unbound hair fell in waves over their shoulders, covered with a
garland of pearls of divers shapes. The sleeves of their gowns were
turned back to the elbow, whence a shirred undersleeve of thin lawn
extended to the wrist, where two large bracelets of pearls secured it.
Each one had at her side the quiver filled with arrows, and carried in
her hand an ivory bow. Their dresses were turned up so that their gilded
buskins could be seen halfway to the knee."

Beside these lovely creatures stood little Meril guarding their chariot,
shaped like a shell, with a parasol above, and drawn by two horses which
might readily have been mistaken for sheep, their eyes were so mild and
their heads so round.

The next panel represented the shepherd, saved and supported by the
obliging nymphs, and busily discharging through his mouth all the water
of the Lignon which he had swallowed; which occupation did not prevent
his saying, in words written all along the gushing stream: "If I
survive, how can Astrée's cruelty fail to kill me?"

During this soliloquy Sylvie said to Galatée: "There is in his manners
and his speech something more noble than the title of shepherd denotes."

And, above the group, Cupid discharged an arrow larger than himself into
Galatée's heart, although he aimed at her shoulder, through the fault
of a tree which prevented him from taking the proper position. But the
arrows of love are so adroit!

What shall I say of the third panel, which pictured the terrible combat
between the blond Filandre and the redoubtable Moor, who held his
opponent spitted through the body, while the valiant shepherd, in nowise
disconcerted, skilfully buried the iron-shod point of his crook between
the monster's eyes?

And of the fourth panel, whereon the fair Mélandre, in the armor of
Chevalier Triste, was led into the presence of the cruel Lypandas?

But who does not know the marvels of that _fair land of tapestry_, as
one of our poets calls it, a fantastic, smiling land, wherein our
youthful imaginations saw and dreamed of so many wondrous things?

Monsieur de Bois-Doré's hangings were put together with marvellous
skill, in the sense that several adventures were successfully combined
in a single one, by the agency of distant groups scattered over the
landscape, and the honest nobleman had the pleasure of viewing all the
scenes of his favorite poem while making the circuit of his apartment.
But there were the most absurd drawings and the most impossible
combinations of colors that one can imagine, and there could have been
no better exemplification of the wretched taste, false and insipid,
which in those days was found side by side with Rubens's magnificent
work and the bold and lifelike drawings of Callot.

Every epoch runs thus to extremes; that is why we need never despair of
the one in which we live.

We must recognize the fact, however, that certain periods of the history
of art are more favored than others, and that there are some periods
whereof the taste is so pure and so fruitful, that the sentiment of the
beautiful finds its way into all the details of everyday life and into
all the strata of society.

When the Renaissance is at its height everything assumes a character of
refined originality, and one feels, even in the most trivial details,
that the excitements of social life have marvellously quickened the
flight of the imagination. The imaginative instinct descends from the
region of lofty intellects to the humble artisan; from the palace to the
hovel, nothing can accustom the eye and the mind to the sight of the
ugly and the trivial.

It had already ceased to be so under Louis XIII., and the provincials in
the neighborhood preferred Monsieur de Bois-Doré's modern tapestries
and furniture to the valuable specimens of the style of the last
century, which the _reiters_ had pillaged or broken in his father's
château fifty years before.

As for the marquis, who considered himself artistic, he did not regret
those antiquities, and whenever he could pick up some landscape-dauber
on the highway, he would bid him sketch before his eyes what he
artlessly called his ideas, in the way of furniture and decorations, and
would then have them manufactured at great expense, for he shrank from
no outlay to gratify his mania for tawdry and eccentric splendor.

Thus the château was filled to overflowing with buffets with secret
compartments and curious cabinets,--those wonderful cabinets, like great
boxes with drawers, where the pressure of a spring causes an enchanted
palace in miniature to appear, supported by twisted pillars, incrusted
with enormous false precious stones, and occupied by diminutive figures
in lapis-lazuli, ivory or jasper.

Other cabinets, sheathed in transparent shell over a red ground, with
gleaming copper ornaments in relief, or all inlaid with carved ivory,
contained some marvellous toy, of which the ingenious and mystery-laden
mechanism served to conceal billets-doux, portraits, locks of hair,
rings, flowers and other love-relics dear to the beaux of the period.

Bois-Doré hinted that those specimens of the cabinet-maker's art were
stuffed with treasures of that sort; some evil-minded scoffers declared
that they were empty.

Despite all these vagaries of his magnificence, Bois-Doré had
transformed his little manor-house into a luxurious nest, warm and
cheery, which had cost him more than it was worth, but which it would be
most delightful to find intact in one of the little provincial
châteaux, which to-day are neglected, dilapidated, falling in ruins, or
changed into farmhouses.

It would have taken three days to inspect all the curious trifles which
are described to-day by the new name of _bibelots_, but which would be
more appropriately called _bribelots_.[9] Our inquisitive and
investigating generation is entitled, however, to give whatever name it
chooses to a variety of exploration which is peculiar to it, and we
gladly accept the verb _bibeloter_, although it is only used by the
initiated.

However, we will not _bibeloter_--catalogue--here the interesting
collection of curios at Briantes; it would take too long; we will say
simply that Monsieur d'Alvimar might well have fancied himself in the
shop of a second-hand dealer, so striking was the contrast between the
profusion of gewgaws heaped upon sideboards and mantels, or piled in
pyramids on the tables, and the chilling bareness of the Spanish palaces
in which he had passed his youth.

Amid all that glass and porcelain, flagons, candlesticks, chandeliers,
punch-bowls, urns, to say nothing of the ewers, cups and small dishes of
gold, silver, amber or agate; the chairs of all shapes and sizes,
nailed, fringed and covered with Chinese silk; the benches and cupboards
of carved oak, with great clasps of openwork iron over a background of
scarlet cloth; the curtains of satin worked with gold flowers, large and
small, and embellished with gold-fringed lambrequins, etc., etc., there
were certainly some beautiful objects of art and charming products of
industry, mingled with much worthless trash and much inappropriate
elegance. In a word the general effect was brilliant and agreeable,
although there was altogether too much of it, and one hardly dared move
for fear of breaking something.

When D'Alvimar had expressed his surprise at finding that palace of the
fairy Babiole in the modest valleys of Berry, and Bois-Doré had
obligingly exhibited the principal treasures of his salon, Bellinde the
housekeeper, who went in and out issuing orders in a clear and resonant
voice, announced to her master in an undertone that the supper was
ready, while the page threw the doors wide open, shouting the usual
formula, and the clock of the château struck seven with a burst of
music in the Flemish style.

D'Alvimar, who had never been able to accustom himself to the abundance
of dishes in France, was surprised to find the table covered, not only
with gold plate and candlesticks adorned with glass flowers of all
colors, but with a quantity of food sufficient to have satisfied a dozen
persons with hearty appetites.

"Oh! this is not a supper," said Bois-Doré, whom he gently chid for
treating him like a gourmand; "this is simply a little lunch by
candlelight. Make an effort, and if my chief cook has not got tipsy in
my absence, you will see that the rascal knows how to awaken the
sluggish appetite."

D'Alvimar made no further remonstrance, and found that his appetite did
in fact come to him in spite of himself.

Never had he tasted such exquisite cheer at the table of the great
noblemen of his own nation, nor anything more exquisite in the most
splendid mansions in Paris. There were none but the daintiest little
dishes, deliciously seasoned, and most scientifically compounded after
the fashion of the time: bisque of crab, fat quail stuffed, pastry light
as air, perfumed creams of several flavors in marchpane shells, biscuits
with saffron and with clove, fine native wines, among which the old wine
of Issoudun could hold its own with the best vintages of Bourgogne; and
at dessert the headiest wines of Greece and Spain.

They passed two hours tasting a little of everything, Bois-Doré talking
of the cellar and cuisine like a consummate master, and Bellinde
directing the servants with unequalled knowledge and skill.

The young page played the theorbo very pleasantly during the first two
courses; but simultaneously with the third a new personage appeared and
caused D'Alvimar some uneasiness, although he could not tell why.


[Footnote 9: A coined word, derived from _bribes_, scraps or refuse.]




X


He was a man of some forty years, whom the marquis greeted by the name
of Master Jovelin, and who, without speaking, seated himself on a
leather-covered gilt chair in a corner of the room, in such way as not
to interfere with the going to and fro of the servants. He carried a
little red serge bag which he placed on his knees, and he glanced at the
table companions with a pleasant, smiling expression.

His face was handsome, although the features were without distinction.
His nose and mouth were large, he had a retreating chin and a low
forehead.

Despite these defects, it was impossible for an honest man to look upon
him without interest; and if one paid the slightest heed to his
beautiful black hair, which was sadly neglected, but of fine texture and
naturally curly, his magnificent white teeth which his melancholy but
cordial smile revealed, and his black eyes, so keen and intelligent, so
kind and sympathetic, that his yellow face was lighted up by them, one
felt as it were compelled to love him, ay, and to respect him.

He was dressed like a petty bourgeois, but very neatly, in a suit of
bluish-gray, with woollen stockings; the coat long and tightly buttoned,
a wide collar turned down and cut square across the chest, open sleeves
in the Flemish style, and a broad-brimmed felt hat without feathers.

Monsieur de Bois-Doré, having asked politely as to his health and
ordered a servant to give him a glass of Cyprus, which he declined with
a wave of his hand, said no more to him, but bestowed his attention on
his guest exclusively.

Such was the etiquette of that time, a man of quality being prohibited
from showing much consideration for an inferior, under pain of seeming
to insult his equals.

But D'Alvimar noticed that their eyes met frequently and that, after
every remark made by the marquis, they exchanged a smile of
intelligence, as if he desired to share all his thoughts with the
new-comer, perhaps to obtain his approbation, perhaps to divert his mind
from some secret trouble.

Surely, in all this there was no cause for alarm on D'Alvimar's part.
But it may be that he was not on very good terms with his conscience;
for that handsome and honest face, far from being attractive to him,
caused him a great mental perturbation and sudden distrust.

The marquis, however, did not say a word or ask a question referring to
the reasons of the Spaniard's flight to Berry. He talked entirely of
himself, and therein gave proof of great tact, for D'Alvimar had as yet
shown no inclination to be confidential, and his host found a way to
keep up the conversation without questioning him upon any subject
whatsoever.

"You find me in comfortable, well-furnished quarters and well-served,"
he said; "that is quite true. It is several years"--he did not say how
many--"since I withdrew from society to rest a while and recover from
the fatigues of war, awaiting events. I confess that, since the death of
our great King Henri, I care not at all for the court or the city. I am
not given to complaining, and I take the times as they come; but I have
had three great sorrows in my life: the first was when I lost my mother,
the second when I lost my younger brother, the third when I lost my
great and good king. And there is this peculiarity in my story, that all
three of those persons who were so dear to me died a violent death. My
king was assassinated, my mother fell from her horse, and my
brother--But this is too sad a subject, and I do not choose to tell you
unpleasant tales to prepare you for your first night under my roof. I
will simply tell you what it was that made me slothful and inclined to
domesticity. When I saw my King Henri breathe his last, I reasoned thus
with myself: 'You have lost all those you loved, you have nobody left
but yourself to lose; now then, if you do not wish your turn to come
soon, you will do well to turn your back on these regions of commotion
and intriguing, and go and nurse your poor, afflicted and weary person
in your native province.' You were right therefore to esteem me as
fortunate as a man can be, since I was wise enough to adopt the course
best suited to me, and to save myself from all annoyance; but you would
have made a mistake to think that I lack nothing; for, while I desire
nothing, I cannot say that I regret nobody. But I have regaled you
enough with my sorrows and I am not one of those who feed upon them,
refusing to be comforted or diverted. While we taste this jelly, do you
care to listen to a more skilful musician than our little page?--Do you
listen to him, too, my young friend," he added, addressing the page; "it
will do you no harm."

As he spoke to D'Alvimar, he had bestowed upon him he called Master
Jovelin one of those affectionate glances which resembled prayers rather
than commands.

The man in the gray suit unbuttoned the flowing sleeve which covered
another tighter sleeve of a dull red color, and threw it over his
shoulder; then he took from his bag one of those little bag-pipes with a
short, carved bass, which were then called _sourdelines_, and were
employed in chamber music.

This instrument, the tone of which was as sweet and veiled as the
bag-pipes of our own minstrels of to-day are noisy and shrill, was much
in vogue, and before Master Jovelin had concluded his prelude, he had
taken possession not only of the attention but of the very soul of his
hearers; for he performed marvellously on the _sourdeline_, and made it
sing like a human voice.

D'Alvimar was a connoisseur, and beautiful music possessed the power of
making his natural melancholy less bitter than usual. He abandoned
himself the more readily to this sort of relief, because his mind was
set at rest when he discovered that this silent and watchful individual,
whom he had taken at first for an insinuating spy, was an accomplished
and harmless musician.

As for the marquis, he loved the art and the artist, and he always
listened to his _master sourdelinier_ with religious emotion.

D'Alvimar expressed his admiration in well-chosen terms. Whereupon, the
supper being at an end, he asked leave to retire.

The marquis rose at once, motioned to Master Jovelin to await his return
and to the page to take a light, and himself escorted his guest to the
room that had been prepared for him; after which he returned to the
table, removed his hat, which, in those days, was a sign that ceremony
was dispensed with, contrary to the usage introduced at a later date,
ordered a sort of punch called _clairette_, compounded of white wine,
honey, musk, saffron and cloves, and invited Master Jovelin to sit
opposite him in the place D'Alvimar had just vacated.

"Now, Messire Clindor," said the marquis, smiling good-humoredly at the
page, whom, in accordance with his usual custom, he had burdened with a
name taken from _Astrée_, "you may go to sup with Bellinde. Leave us,
and tell her to take care of you.--Stay," he added, as the page was
about to leave the room, "I have been intending all day to reprove you
for your manner of walking. I have noticed, my young friend, that you
have adopted some habits which you may think are military, but which are
simply vulgar. Do not forget, therefore, that, although you are not
noble, you are in a way to become so, and that a well-mannered little
bourgeois in the service of a man of quality is on the road to the
acquisition of a little fief of which he may assume the name. But what
will it avail you that I assist you to rub the dirt off your birth, if
you persist in befouling your manners? Try to be a gentleman, monsieur,
not a peasant. Now then, adopt an easy carriage, try to put your whole
foot on the floor when you walk, and not begin your step with the heel
and end on the great toe; a trick which makes your gait and the clatter
of your shoes resemble the amble of a millers horse. Go now in peace,
eat well and sleep well, or else beware of the stirrup-leathers!"

Little Clindor, whose real name was Jean Fachot--his father was an
apothecary at Saint-Amand,--received the sermon of his lord and master
with great respect, saluted and left the room on tiptoe, like a
ballet-dancer, to make it perfectly evident that he could not touch his
heels first, since he did not touch them at all.

The old servant, who always remained to the last, having gone likewise
to his supper, the marquis said to his _sourdelinier_:

"Come, my dear friend, just take off that great hat, and eat, without
fear of the servants, a good slice of this paté and another of this
ham, as you do every evening when we are alone."

Master Jovelin uttered some inarticulate sounds by way of thanks, and
began to eat, while the marquis slowly sipped his _clairette_, less from
desire than from courtesy, to bear him company; for it is well to say
that, although the old man had many absurd foibles, he had not a single
vice.

Then, while the poor mute ate, the good châtelain carried on the
conversation all by himself, which was a very great pleasure to the
musician, for no other person would take the trouble to speak to a man
who could not answer. People had become accustomed to treat him as a
deaf-mute; that is to say, knowing that he could not repeat what he
heard, they indulged without hesitation in lying or slander in his
hearing. The marquis alone talked directly to him, with much deference
for his noble character, his great learning and his misfortunes, of
which the following is a brief narrative:

Lucilio Giovellino, a native of Florence, was a friend and disciple of
the unfortunate and illustrious Giordano Bruno. Trained in the sublime
ideas and vast learning of his master, he had, in addition, great
aptitude for the fine arts, poetry and languages. Lovable, eloquent and
persuasive, he had propagated with success the bold doctrine of the
plurality of worlds.

On the day when Giordano died at the stake with the calm dignity of a
martyr, Giovellino was banished from Italy forever.

This happened at Rome two years before the period of our narrative.

Under the hand of the tormenters, Giovellino had not chosen to adhere to
all of Giordano's doctrines. Although he was deeply attached to his
master, he had declined to accept certain of his errors, and as they
were able to convict him of only the half of his heresy, they had
inflicted only the half of his punishment: they had cut out his tongue.

Ruined, banished, exhausted by the torture, Giovellino had come to
France, where he played his sweet-toned bag-pipe from door to door, for
a crust of bread; and, Providence having guided him to the marquis's
door, he was taken in, nursed, cured, entertained by him, and--which was
worth far more to the poor fellow--appreciated and loved. He had told
him of his misfortunes in writing.

Bois-Doré was neither a scholar nor a philosopher; he had become
interested in him at first as a man who was persecuted, as he himself
had been for a long time, by Catholic intolerance. He would not,
however, have become attached to a savage, violent sectary, of the type
of a goodly number of Huguenots, who were no less addicted to
persecution in those days than their adversaries. He had a vague
knowledge of the blasphemies imputed to Giordano Bruno; he bade
Giovellino explain his doctrines to him. The mute wrote rapidly, and
with that refined lucidity of expression which great minds were
beginning not to disdain, wishing to instruct everybody, even the common
herd, in those great questions which Galileo was already investigating
in the domain of pure science.

The marquis enjoyed this conversation in writing, in which the essential
points were summarized soberly, and without the inevitable digressions
of speech. Gradually he conceived an enthusiastic, passionate interest
in these new definitions which afforded him repose and relieved him from
tedious disputes. He desired to read an exposition of Giordano's ideas,
also of those of his predecessor Vanini. Lucilio was able to express
them so that he could understand them, pointing out the weak or false
passages, in order to lead him to the only conclusions which human
knowledge asserts with certainty to-day: a creation as infinite as the
Creator, an infinity of stars peopling infinite space, not to serve as
luminaries and objects of interest to our little planet, but as sources
and sustenance of universal life.

This was very easy to understand, and man had understood it ever since
the first ray of genius had made itself manifest in mankind. But the
doctrines of the Church in the Middle Ages had reduced God and Heaven to
the proportions of our little world, and the marquis thought that he was
dreaming when he learned that the existence of the real universe was
not--as he had always imagined, so he said--a poet's fancy.

He did not rest until he had procured a telescope, and he expected, the
dear man, to see the inhabitants of the moon distinctly, his ideas were
raised so high. He had to abandon that hope; but he passed all his
evenings reading Giovellino's explanation of the movements of the stars,
and of the wonderful celestial mechanism, which Galileo was destined to
be condemned to abjure as heretical, a few years later, under torture,
on his knees, with a torch in his hand.




XI


"Well," cried the marquis, while his friend ate, hastening as a matter
of course, although his amiable and obliging host urged him to take his
time, "what have you done to-day, my redoubtable scholar? Yes, I
understand, pages of fine writing. Do not lose a line, I pray you! Those
are words of refined gold which will go down to posterity; for these
days of gloom will go hence into the dungeons of the past! Meanwhile,
always conceal your sheets carefully in the secret drawer of the
cupboard I have had placed in your chamber, when you do not write in
mine."

The mute made a sign that he had been writing in the marquis's study,
and that his sheets were in a certain ebony casket where the marquis
kept them. He made himself understood by gestures with great ease.

"That is still better," continued Bois-Doré; "they are even safer
there, as no woman enters the room. It is not that I distrust Bellinde,
but she seems to me altogether too devoutly inclined since the arrival
of this new rector whom Monseigneur de Bourges has sent us, and who is
not to be compared, I fear, with our old friend the former curé, whom
we owed to the last archbishop, Jean de Beaune.

"Ah! if only we had retained that excellent prelate, with his flowing
beard, his gigantic stature, his fat paunch, his Gargantuan appetite,
his handsome face, his great mind and his vast learning! one of the
shrewdest and best men in the kingdom, although, to look at him, one
would have taken him for a _bon vivant_ and nothing more!

"If you had come in his time, my dear friend, you would not have had to
keep out of sight in this little hunting-box; you would not have been
obliged to translate your name into French, to lock up your learning, to
pass for a poor bagpiper, and to give people hereabout to understand
that you were mutilated by the Huguenots; our excellent primate would
have taken you under his protection, and you would have printed your
noble thoughts at Bourges, to the great honor of your name and of our
province; whereas we now have for archbishops none but Condé's too
zealous servants.

"Yes, yes, I learned some fine things to-day, at De Beuvre's, concerning
that prince, a renegade to the faith of his fathers and the friendships
of his youth! He inundates us with Jesuits, and, if poor Henri IV.
should return to life, he would see some diverting masquerading!
Monsieur de Sully is falling deeper and deeper into disgrace. Condé is
purchasing from him by threats all his estates in Berry. Fancy! he has
forced him to give up the grand-bailiwick and the command of the great
tower! He is king of our province now, and people say that he dreams of
becoming King of France. So, you see, affairs are going badly
out-of-doors, and there is no safety except in our little fortresses,
and that only on condition that we are prudent and wait patiently for
the end of it all."


[Illustration: _BOIS-DORÉ AND JOVELIN, HIS
PROTÉGÉ._

_Giovellino took the hand that the marquis held out to
him over the table, and kissed it with the eloquent
warmth which took the place of speech with him._]


Giovellino took the hand that the marquis held out to him over the
table, and kissed it with the eloquent warmth which took the place of
speech with him. At the same time, he made him understand, by pantomime
and by his expression, that he was happy with him, that he did not
regret glory and the tumult of the world, and that he was altogether
disposed to be prudent, lest he should compromise his protector.

"As to the young gentleman whom I brought home with me and have done my
best to entertain," continued Bois-Doré, "you must know that I know
nothing about him except that he is a friend of Messire Guillaume d'Ars,
that he is threatened with some danger, and that he is to be concealed
and defended at need. But do you not think it odd that this stranger did
not once take me aside to confide his story to me, or that he did not do
it when we were naturally left together on our return hither?"

Lucilio, who always had a pencil and paper beside him on the table,
wrote to Bois-Doré:

"Spanish pride."

"Yes," rejoined the marquis, reading, so to speak, before he had
written, so accustomed had he become, in two years, to divine his words
from the first letters; "'Castilian pride,' that is what I said to
myself. I have known a goodly number of these hidalgos, and I know that
they do not consider it discourteous to show lack of confidence. So I
must needs exercise hospitality here in the old-fashioned way, respect
my guest's secrets and treat him courteously, as an old friend whom one
believes to be the most honorable man on earth. But that does not compel
me to accord him the confidence that he denies me, and that is why, as
you saw, I left you in a corner, like a poor, paid musician, when he was
here. And hereupon, my dear friend, I ask you to forgive me, once for
all, for any apparent lack of affection or courtesy to which I am forced
by regard for your safety, just as I clothe you in these common,
ill-fitting clothes."

Poor Giovellino, who had never been so well dressed and so tenderly
cared for in his whole life, interrupted the marquis by pressing his
hands, and Bois-Doré was deeply moved to see tears of gratitude fall
upon his friend's long, black moustache.

"Nay," he said, "you overpay me by loving me so dearly! I must reward
you now by speaking to you of the sweet Lauriane. But must I repeat what
she said to me about you? You will not be too puffed-up by it? No?--Well
then, here goes. In the first place:

"'How is your druid?'

"I replied that the said druid was hers much more than mine, and that
she ought to remember that Climante, in _Astrée_, was only a false
druid, as deep in love as every other lover in that beautiful story.

"'Nay, nay,' she replied, 'you are deceiving me; if your Climante were
as much in love with me as you represent him, he would have come with
you to-day, whereas two whole weeks have passed since we saw him. Will
you tell me that he starts when he hears my name, as in _Astrée_, and
that he utters sighs which seem _to rend his stomach in twain_? I do not
believe a word of it, and look upon him as an inconstant Hylas rather!'

"You see that the charming Lauriane continues to make sport of
_Astrée_, of you and of me. However, when I took leave of her at
nightfall, she said to me:

"'I insist upon your bringing the druid and his bag-pipe to us the day
after to-morrow, or I will give you a cool reception, I promise you.'"

The poor druid listened with a smile to Bois-Doré's story; he knew how
to jest on occasion, that is to say to take others' jesting in good
part. Lauriane was to him nothing more than a lovely child, whose father
he might have been; but he was still young enough to remember that he
had loved, and in the depths of his heart his sense of isolation was
exceedingly bitter to him.

As he thought of the past he stifled a sigh of regret, and began
instinctively to play an Italian air which the marquis loved above all
others.

He played it with so much grace and passion that Bois-Doré said to him,
resorting to his favorite oath, borrowed from Monsieur d'Urfé:

"_Numes célestes_! you need no tongue to talk of love, my dear friend,
and if the object of your passion were here, she must be deaf to avoid
understanding that your heart is pouring itself forth to hers. But come,
will you not let me read those pages of sublime learning?"

Lucilio signified that his head was a little tired, and Bois-Doré at
once sent him off to bed, after embracing him fraternally.

Giovellino, in truth, often felt that he was more of an artist and a
creature of sentiment, than a scholar and philosopher. His nature was at
once enthusiastic and meditative.

Meanwhile Monsieur de Bois-Doré had retired to his "night apartment,"
situated above the salon. He had spoken truly when he said to Lucilio
that no woman ever entered that sanctuary of repose or the cabinets
connected therewith; Bellinde herself was forbidden to cross the
threshold under the severest penalties.

Only old Mathias--dubbed Adamas, for the same reason that Guillette
Carcat was obliged to call herself Bellinde, and Jean Fachot,
Clindor--was privileged to assist in the mysteries of the marquis's
toilet, so perfectly sincere was he in the belief that the secret of his
rouge and his dyes could be revealed only by the arsenal of boxes,
phials and jars spread out upon his tables.

As usual, therefore, he found Adamas alone, preparing the curl-papers,
powders and perfumed unguents which were to preserve the marquis's
beauty even in his slumber.




XII


Adamas was a pure-blooded Gascon: stout of heart, keen of wit, untiring
of tongue. Bois-Doré artlessly called him his old servant, although he
himself was at least ten years his senior.

This Adamas, who had accompanied him in his last campaigns, was his
_âme damnée_, and filled his nostrils with the incense of perpetual
admiration, the more injurious to his mental equilibrium in that it was
the result of a sincere infatuation. It was he who persuaded him that he
was still young, that he could not grow old, and that, when he went
forth from his hands, glistening and high-colored like a page from a
missal, he was certain to supplant all the coxcombs and deceive all the
fair.

No man is great in the eyes of his valet de chambre, witness Sancho
Panza who told his master such sound truths. But Bois-Doré, who was
simply an excellent man, enjoyed the privilege of being a demi-god in
the eyes of his servant; and, while some heroes have been the
laughing-stock of their retainers, this laughable old man was taken
quite seriously by the majority of his.

So things go in this world. Everyone must have noticed, as I have, that
they sometimes go entirely contrary to logic and common-sense.

The old nobleman's extraordinary kindliness was responsible for this
state of affairs. Great characters make people too exacting. At the
slightest weakness on their part, people are astonished; at the
slightest impatience they are scandalized. He who has no character at
all never irritates anybody and reaps the advantages of his
never-failing good nature.

"Monsieur le marquis," said Adamas, kneeling on the floor to remove his
old idol's boots, "I must tell you a very strange occurrence that
happened to-day on your domain."

"Speak, my friend, speak, since you desire to speak," replied
Bois-Doré, who allowed his dresser to chatter familiarly with him, and
furthermore, when he was half asleep, loved to be soothed by some bit of
harmless gossip.

"You must know, then, my dear and well-beloved master," said Adamas,
with his Gascon accent, which we will not attempt to reproduce, "that,
about five o'clock this evening, a very extraordinary woman came here,
one of those poor creatures of whom we saw so many on the shores of the
Mediterranean and the Southern provinces; you know, monsieur, not very
dark women, with heavy lips, fine eyes, and black hair--like yours!"

As he made this comparison, in perfect good faith, Adamas respectfully
placed his master's wig on an ivory block.

"Do you mean those Egyptian women, who play all kinds of tricks?" said
Bois-Doré, paying no heed to the subject of the comparison.

"No, monsieur, no! This one is a Spaniard, who swears by Mahomet, I am
sure, when she is all alone."

"Then you mean that she is a Moor?"

"That's it exactly, monsieur le marquis; she's a Moor, and she doesn't
know a word of French."

"But you know a little Spanish?"

"A little, monsieur. I remember so well what I used to know of it, that
I talked with that woman almost as readily as I am speaking to you."

"Well, is that the whole story?"

"Oh! no; but give me time! It seems that this Moorish woman was one of
the great band of a hundred and fifty thousand, who perished, almost all
of them, some half score years ago, some by hunger and murder on the
galleys that were taking them to Africa, others by want and disease on
the shores of Languedoc and Provence."

"Poor creatures!" said Bois-Doré. "That was the most detestable deed
that ever was done!"

"Is it true, monsieur, that Spain drove out a million of these Moors,
and that barely a hundred thousand arrived in Tunis?"

"I couldn't tell you the number; but I can tell you that it was
downright butchery, and that beasts of burden were never treated like
those wretched human beings. You know that our Henri would fain have
made Calvinists of them, which would have saved them by making them
French."

"I remember very well, monsieur, that the Catholics of the South
wouldn't listen to such a thing, and said that they would murder them
all rather than go to mass with those devils. The Calvinists were not
any more reasonable, and the result was that our good king left the poor
wretches at peace in the Pyrenees, waiting for an opportunity to do
something for them. But after his death the queen regent wanted to rid
Spain of them, so they drove them into the sea, with or without ships.
Some, however, consented to be baptized and became Christians, to escape
that cruel fate, and the woman in question followed that wise course,
although I suspect her of not being perfectly sincere."

"What difference does that make to you, Adamas? Do you think that the
great Maker of the sun, the moon and the Milky Way----"

"I beg your pardon, monsieur?" said Adamas, who had not a very clear
understanding of his master's recently acquired knowledge, and indeed
was somewhat disturbed about it; "I don't recognize _milky voice_[10] as
a French expression."

"I will tell you about that another time," said the marquis yawning, for
he was drowsing in front of the fire that crackled on the hearth.
"Finish your story."

"Well, monsieur," Adamas continued, "this Moorish woman remained till
last year in the Pyrenees mountains, where she watched the flocks for
poor farmers; so that she continued to speak her Catalan patois, which
people understand well enough on the other side of the mountains."

"And that explains to me how, with your Gascon patois, which is not very
different from the mountain patois, you were able to talk Spanish with
this woman."

"That is as monsieur pleases; all the same, I said many Spanish words
which she understood perfectly.--And then I must tell you that she had a
little child with her, who isn't her own child, but of whom she is as
fond as a goat of her kid, and the pretty little lad, whose mind is
bigger than his body, speaks French as well as you and I. Now, monsieur,
this Moorish woman, whose name in French is Mercedes----"

"Mercedes is a Spanish name!" said the marquis, climbing into his great
bed with Adamas's aid.

"I meant to say that it was a Christian name," continued the servant.
"Six months ago, Mercedes took it into her head to go and find Monsieur
de Rosny, whom she had heard spoken of as the late king's right arm, and
who, she had been told, although he was in disgrace, was still powerful
because of his wealth and his virtue. So she started for Poitou, where
she was told Monsieur de Sully lived. Aren't you surprised, monsieur, at
the resolution of such a poor, ignorant woman, to travel across half of
France, on foot, with only a little child who is hardly ten years old,
with the idea of calling on such an exalted personage?"

"But you don't tell me what this woman's reason was for acting thus?"

"That is the wonderful part of the story, monsieur! What can it be, do
you think?"

"I could never guess! tell me at once, for it is late."

"I would tell you if I knew; but I know no more about it than you do,
and, try as hard as I would, I could not induce her to tell."

"Good-night, then."

"Wait till I cover the fire, monsieur."

And, as he covered the fire, Adamas continued, raising his voice:

"That woman is altogether mysterious, monsieur le marquis, and I would
like to have you see her!"

"Now?" said the marquis, rousing himself with a start. "You are joking;
it is time to go to sleep."

"To be sure; but to-morrow morning?"

"Is she in the house, pray?"

"Why, yes, monsieur! She asked for a corner to pass the night under
shelter. I gave her some supper, for I know monsieur does not wish us to
refuse bread to the unfortunate, and I sent her to lie on the straw
after talking with her."

"And you did wrong, monsieur; a woman is always a woman. And--I hope
that there are no other beggars there? I do not want any indecency on my
premises."

"Nor do I, monsieur! I put her and her child, all alone, in the small
cellar, where they are quite comfortable, I assure you; they do not seem
accustomed to such good quarters, poor things! And yet this Mercedes is
as neat and clean as one can be in such poverty. Moreover, she is not at
all ugly."

"I trust, Adamas, that you will not impose upon her destitute condition.
Hospitality is a sacred thing!"

"Monsieur is making fun of a poor old man! It is all very well for
monsieur le marquis to have virtuous principles! For my part, I assure
you that I have little need of them, being no longer tempted by the
devil. Besides, the woman seems very honest, and she does not take a
step without her child clinging to her dress. She must have run other
risks than that of pleasing me too much, for she has been travelling
with gypsies who passed through this region to-day. There was a large
party of them, partly Egyptians, partly picked up here and there, as
their custom is. She says that the vagabonds were not unkind to her, so
true it is that beggars stand by one another. As she did not know the
roads, she followed them, because they said they were going to Poitou;
but she left them to-night, saying that she had no further need of them,
and that she had business in this province. Now, monsieur, that is
another thing that seems very strange to me, for she would not tell me
why she acted so. What do you think of it, monsieur?"

Bois-Doré did not reply. He was sleeping soundly, despite the noise
that Adamas made, to some extent wilfully, to force him to listen to his
story.

When the old retainer saw that the marquis had really set out for the
land of dreams, he tucked in the sheets carefully, placed his beautiful
pistols in the morocco bag hanging at the head of his bed; on a table at
his right, his rapier unsheathed and his hunting knife, his folio
edition of _Astrée_, a superb volume with engravings, a large goblet of
hippocras, a bell with its hammer, and a handkerchief of fine Holland
linen saturated with musk. Then he lighted the night lamp, blew out the
multicolored candles, and arranged at the foot of the bed the red
velvet slippers and the dressing-gown of flowered silk serge,
light-green on dark-green.

Then, as he was about to leave the room, the faithful Adamas gazed at
his master, his friend, his demigod.

The marquis, with all his cosmetics washed off, was a handsome old man,
and the tranquillity of his conscience imparted a venerable air to his
face as he lay asleep. While his wig reposed on the table, and his
garments, stuffed to conceal the hollows that age had made in his
shoulders and his legs, lay scattered about on chairs, the angular
outlines of his great body, shrunken to half its size, could be traced
under a _lodier_ or coverlet of white satin, with coats-of-arms in
silver purl in relief at the four corners.

The headboard of the bed, a single panel ten feet high, as well as the
fringed tester connected therewith in the shape of a canopy, was also of
white satin stitched on thick wadding, and with large silver figures in
relief. The inside of the bed-curtains was of similar material; the
outer surface was of pink damask.

In that comfortable and sumptuous bed, that strongly-marked, venerable
face, martial still with all its gentleness, with its moustache
bristling with curl-papers, and its night-cap of wadded silk in the
shape of half a mortar, embellished with rich lace that stood erect like
a crown, presented a most singular combination of absurdity and
austerity in the bluish light of the night lamp.

"Monsieur is sleeping quietly," said Adamas to himself; "but he forgot
to say his prayers, and it is my fault. I will do it for him."

He knelt and prayed very fervently; after which he withdrew to his own
room, which was separated only by a partition from his master's.

The arsenal that Adamas had arranged around the marquis's bed was only a
matter of habit or luxury.

Everything was perfectly quiet around the little château; within the
château everybody was sleeping soundly.


[Footnote 10: Bois-Doré said _voie_ lactée; Adamas understood him to
say _voix_ lactée.]




XIII


The first to awake was Monsieur Sciarra d'Alvimar, who had also been the
first to fall asleep, being thoroughly tired out.

He did not like to remain in bed, and the habit born of straitened
circumstances, skilfully concealed, made the attentions of his valet
useless to him. This was the more fortunate, inasmuch as the old
Spaniard who was in attendance upon him would not readily have consented
to perform other functions than those of an esquire.

And yet that man was as devoted to him as Adamas was to Bois-Doré; but
there was as much difference in their relations as in their characters
and their respective situations.

They talked but little to each other, perhaps because they were
disinclined, perhaps because they understood each other on all subjects
at a single word. Moreover, the valet considered himself, up to a
certain point, his master's equal, for their families were equally
ancient and equally pure--such at least was their claim--of all
admixture with the Moorish or Jewish races, so solemnly ostracized, and
so solemnly persecuted in Spain.

Sancho of Cordova--such was the old esquire's name,--had been present at
young D'Alvimar's birth in the castle of the village where he himself
was living, reduced by poverty to the trade of swineherd. The young
châtelain, who was little richer than he, had taken him into his
service on the very day when he had determined to go to seek his fortune
in foreign lands.

It was said in that Castilian village that Sancho had loved Madame
Isabella, D'Alvimar's mother, and even that she had not been indifferent
to his passion. In this way they explained the attachment of that
taciturn and morose man for a cold and haughty youth, who treated him,
not as a valet properly so-called, but as an unintelligent inferior.

Thus Sancho, meditative or brutish, passed his life grooming horses and
keeping his master's weapons sharp and bright. The rest of the time he
played, slept or mused, avoiding familiarity with the other servants,
whom he looked upon as his inferiors, and forming no intimacies, for he
was suspicious of everybody, ate little, drank little, and never looked
a person in the face.

D'Alvimar dressed himself therefore and went out to inspect his
surroundings, although it was hardly daylight.

The manor house looked upon a small pond, from which a broad moat
issued, to return to it at another point after making the circuit of the
buildings, which consisted, as we have said, of a conglomerate mass of
architecture of several periods.

1st. An entirely new white pavilion, small in size, covered with
slates--a great luxury in a province where even tiles were rare--and
crowned with a double mansard roof with carved spandrels adorned with
balls.[11]

2d. Another pavilion, very old but completely restored, with a roof of
oaken tiles, and resembling certain Swiss chalets in shape. This
building, which contained the kitchens, offices and guest chambers, was
arranged after the fashion of the wild old days of unrest. It had no
outer door, and could be entered only through the other buildings; its
windows looked on the courtyard, and its façade, turned toward the
fields, had no other openings than two small square holes in the gable,
like two suspicious little eyes in a silent face.

3d. A prism-shaped tower with an ogival door of delicate workmanship;
the tower had a slated roof, also pentagonal, and surmounted by a belfry
and a slender weather-vane. This tower contained the only staircase in
the château, and connected the old and new buildings.

Other low structures attached to the main pile stood on the edge of the
moat, and were occupied by the indoor servants.

The courtyard, with its well in the centre, was surrounded by the
château, the pond, another building of a single story, with mansards
and stone balls, used for stables, hunting equipments and visitors'
servants; and lastly, by the entrance tower, which was smaller and less
beautiful than that at La Motte-Seuilly, but was flanked by a wall
pierced with loop-holes for falconets, covering the approaches to the
bridge.

This trivial fortification was sufficient because of the two moats: the
first around the courtyard, wide and deep, with running water; the
second around the poultry-yard, marshy and stagnant, but protected by
stout walls.

Between the two moats, at the right of the drawbridge, lay the garden;
it was of considerable size and enclosed by high walls and well-kept
ditches; on the left the mall, the kennels, the orchard, the farm and
the meadow, with the seignioral dove-cote, heron yard and falconry; an
immense enclosure reaching to the houses of the village, almost all of
which belonged to the marquis.

The village was fortified, and in some places the solid foundation of
its low walls was said to date from the time of Cæsar.

Comparing the small proportions of the manor-house with the extent of
the domain, with the rich furniture heaped up in the apartments, and the
master's luxurious habits, Monsieur d'Alvimar tried to divine the reason
of the contrast; and as he was by no means charitably inclined, he
concluded that the marquis concealed his wealth, not from avarice, but
because the source of that wealth was not altogether pure.

Therein he was not entirely in error.

The marquis had this in common with a great number of gentlemen of his
time, that he had lined his pockets somewhat unscrupulously during the
civil commotions, at the expense of the rich abbeys, and by means of the
exactions of the war time, rights of conquest, and the smuggling of
salt.

Pillage was a sort of recognized right in those days; witness the
petition of Monsieur d'Arquian, who appealed to the courts because his
château was burned by Monsieur de la Châtre, "contrary to all the
usages of war; for he would not have mentioned the destruction and
sacking of his furniture."

As for the contraband trade in salt, it would have been difficult, at
the beginning of the seventeenth century, to find a nobleman in our
provinces who considered himself insulted by the epithet, _gentilhomme
faux saulnier_.[12]

So that the wealth of which, by the way, Monsieur de Bois-Doré made an
excellent use by his inexhaustible generosity and charity, was not a
mystery in the region about La Châtre; but he wisely avoided drawing
the attention of the provincial government upon himself, by an enormous
house and a too splendid household.

He was well aware that the petty tyrants who were dividing among
themselves the wealth of France would not have lacked so-called legal
pretexts for making him disgorge.

D'Alvimar walked through the gardens, a laughable creation of his host,
of which he was unquestionably more vain than of his most glorious feats
of arms.

He had undertaken to produce, upon rather a limited space, the gardens
of _Isaure_, as they are described in _Astrée_: "That enchanted spot
was all fountains and flower-beds, avenues and noble trees."--The great
forest which formed such a charming labyrinth was represented by a
labyrinthine thicket wherein he had forgotten neither the square of
hazel-trees, nor the _fountain of the verity of love_, nor the _cavern
of Damon and Fortune_, nor the _den of old Mandrague_.

All these things seemed exceedingly childish to Monsieur d'Alvimar, but
not so utterly ridiculous as they would seem to us to-day.

Monsieur de Bois-Doré's monomania was sufficiently prevalent in his day
not to be considered eccentric. Henri IV. and his court devoured
_Astrée_, and in the petty German courts even princes and princesses
assumed the resounding names that the marquis imposed upon his servants
and his animals. The extreme popularity of Monsieur d'Urfé's romance
lasted two centuries; it touched and charmed Jean-Jacques Rousseau; nor
must we forget that, on the eve of the Terror, the skilful engraver
Moreau still introduced in his works ladies named Chloris, and gentlemen
named Hylas and Cidamant. But these illustrious names were borne, in the
engravings and in the romance, by imaginary marquises; while the new
shepherds were called Colin or Colas. Only a short step had been taken
toward the real; the shepherds and shepherdesses were not improved; from
being heroic they had become obscene.

D'Alvimar, wishing to obtain an idea of the surrounding country, walked
through the hamlet, which consisted of about a hundred hearth-stones and
was literally situated in a hole. It is so with many of those old
places. When they are not powerful enough to perch proudly and
threateningly upon some precipitous height, they seem to cower
designedly in the valleys, as if to avoid the eyes of marauding bands.

The locality is, however, one of the most charming in Lower Berry. The
gravelled roads leading thither are hard and clean at all seasons. Two
pretty little streams form a natural defence, which may have been turned
to advantage long ago for Cæsar's camp.

One of these streams fed the moats of the château; the other flowed
through two small ponds below the village.

The Indre, which is near at hand, receives these streams and hurries
them along a narrow valley, cut by sunken roads, heavily shaded, and
running through unenclosed, untilled land of wild aspect.

You must expect to find not grandeur but charm, in that little desert,
where virgin fields, thickets, wild grasses, genesta, heather and
chestnut trees encompass you on all sides.

On the bank of the Indre, which becomes a brook as you ascend toward the
source, wild flowers grow in a profusion most delightful to see.[13] The
placid, transparent stream has torn apart the fields that blocked its
path, and formed islets of verdure whereon trees grow vigorously.
Standing too close together to be imposing, they extend an arch of
foliage over the water.

The ground is fertile around the village. Magnificent walnuts and a
large number of tall fruit trees make it a very nest of verdure.

The greater part of the land belonged to Monsieur de Bois-Doré. He
farmed out the best portions; the others were his hunting-grounds.

Monsieur d'Alvimar, having explored this little bailiwick, which by
reason of its isolation and the absence of communications, led him to
hope for a like absence of unpleasant meetings, returned to the village
and deliberated whether he should pay a visit to the rector.

Monsieur de Beuvre had happened to say to Monsieur de Bois-Doré in his
presence:

"How about your new priest? does he still preach sermons after the
pattern of the League?"

This expression had attracted the Spaniard's attention.

"If this priest is zealous for the good cause," he thought, "he may be a
useful friend to me; for that De Beuvre is a Huguenot, and Bois-Doré
with his tolerance is little better. Who knows if I shall be able to
live, on friendly terms with such people?"

He began by inspecting the church, and was scandalized by its
dilapidated and bare condition, which bore witness to the neglect of the
last incumbent, the indifference of the lord of the manor, and the
lukewarmness of the parishioners.

Bois-Doré, whose abjuration, real or feigned, had caused a sensation,
had not thought of signalizing his return to orthodoxy by gifts to the
village church and alms to the chaplain. His vassals, who hated the
Huguenots, had not hailed his final return, in 1610, with truly
heartfelt rejoicing; but their suspicions had speedily given place to a
deep attachment, since, in place of a steward who drained them dry, they
had found a free-and-easy lord, lavish of benefactions.

Thus the good people of the village of Briantes were only moderately
devout; and, the peasants having resisted the payment of tithes to some
monastery or other, the archbishop had sent them a man exceedingly well
adapted to lead those stray lambs back to virtuous principles, and to
spy upon the châtelain's opinions.

The pious Sciarra knelt in the church and murmured some formula of
prayer; but he did not feel inclined to pray with the heart, and he soon
went out and bent his steps toward the rector's house.

He had not the trouble of going all the way thither; for he saw him in
the village square talking with Bellinde, and had an opportunity to
examine him.

He was a man still young, with a bilious, wheedling, treacherous face.
Probably his interest in temporal affairs was as keen as D'Alvimar's;
for he had no sooner spied that grave and fashionably dressed stranger
coming from the church, than his only thought was to wonder who he could
be.

He knew already that a new guest had arrived at the manor-house the
night before, for he had little other occupation than to make inquiries
about the marquis's doings; but how could a man, so devout as this early
visit of D'Alvimar's to the church seemed to indicate, consort with so
problematical a convert as Bois-Doré?

While he tried to obtain information on that subject from the
housekeeper at the château, he noticed that he could not look up
without finding the stranger's eyes fixed upon him.

He walked a few steps with Bellinde, in order to avoid his gaze, like
one who did not wish to risk a salutation before he knew with whom he
had to deal.

D'Alvimar, who understood or guessed his purpose, remained behind and
waited for him in the little cemetery which surrounded the church, fully
determined, after the examination he had made of his face, to address
him and form an alliance with him.

He stood there, musing upon his destiny, a problem by which he was
constantly beset, and which the sight of the scattered gravestones
seemed to render more irritating to him than usual.

D'Alvimar believed in the church, but he did not believe in the true
God. The church was to him above all else an institution of discipline
and terror, the instrument of torture of which a ferocious and
implacable God made use to establish his authority. If he had given his
mind to it, he would readily have persuaded himself that the merciful
Jesus was stained with heresy.

The idea of death was abhorrent to him. He dreaded hell, and--a natural
result of evil beliefs--he could not make his life conform to his rigid
principles.

He had no ardor except for discussion; when alone with himself, he found
that his heart was dry, his mind overstrained and confused by worldly
ambition. In vain did he reproach himself therefor. The thought of
damnation could not be fruitful of good, and terror is not remorse.

"So I must die!" he said to himself, gazing at the turf-covered mounds,
like furrows in a field, which covered the graves of those obscure
villagers; "die, it may be, penniless and without power, like the
wretched serfs who have not left even a name to be inscribed on these
little crosses of rotten wood! Neither influence nor renown in this
world! Wrath, disappointment, useless labors, useless efforts--crimes,
perhaps!--and all to reach the threshold of eternity, having never been
able to forward the glory of the church in this life, and having failed
to earn my pardon in the other!"

By dint of thinking about destiny, he persuaded himself that it was the
influence of the devil that had ruined his.

He thought for an instant of confessing to this priest, whose eyes had
seemed to him to glow with intelligence; but he was afraid to confide to
any person the secrets which were consuming his life and his repose.

Engrossed by these black thoughts, he saw Monsieur Poulain enter the
cemetery at last, and, coming toward him, salute him deferentially.

The acquaintance was soon made. With the first words they exchanged, the
two men felt that they were equally ambitious.

The rector invited D'Alvimar to breakfast with him.

"I can offer you only a very scanty repast," he said; "my cuisine does
not resemble that at the château. I have neither vassals nor valets at
my beck and call to serve as purveyors for my table. So that my frugal
fare will enable you to retain sufficient appetite to do honor to the
marquis's, whose bell will not ring for two or three hours to come."

There was, in this exordium, an undercurrent of jealous resentment
against the château which did not escape the Spaniard. He made haste to
accept the rector's invitation, feeling certain that he should learn
from him all that he had reason to hope or fear from the marquis's
hospitality.


[Footnote 11: This ornament, common in the time of Henri IV., may have
come to France with Marie de Médicis, as an allusion to the arms of her
family, which are, as everyone knows, seven little balls, literally
pellets, in memory of the profession of the founder of the family.]

[Footnote 12: Salt-smuggling nobleman.]

[Footnote 13: This is one of the few spots where we can still find the
wild balsam with yellow flowers.]




XIV


The rector began by speaking well of the marquis. He was a very good
man; his intentions were excellent; he gave freely to the poor, there
was no denying that; unfortunately he lacked judgment, he distributed
his benefactions helter-skelter, without consulting the _natural
intermediary_ between the château and the cottage, to wit the rector of
the parish. He was a little mad, harmless in himself, dangerous by
reason of his rank, his wealth, and the example of refined sensuality,
of frivolity and indifference in religious matters, which he afforded
those about him.

And then he had a very suspicious individual in his household: that
bagpipe player, who was not so dumb perhaps as he pretended to be, some
heretic or sham scholar, who dabbled in astronomy, perhaps in astrology!

Old Adamas was no better: he was a base flatterer and hypocrite; and
that page, so absurdly tricked out as a petty gentleman, who, being a
bourgeois, was not entitled to wear satin, and who came to mass on
Sundays in some sort of damask doublet!

The servants as a whole were a worthless lot. They were civil, nothing
more, to Monsieur Poulain; no marked attentions; he had not yet received
a special pressing invitation to dinner. They had simply told him once
for all, that a cover was always laid for him. That was too
unceremonious treatment. It was surprising on the part of a man who had
lived a long while at court. To be sure, at the court of the Béarnais,
they did not pride themselves on being over-refined, and nobodies were
petted and spoiled there most shamefully. In short, Bellinde alone of
all the people _at the château_ seemed to him a person of sense.

D'Alvimar considered Monsieur Poulain's judgment excellent; the bagpiper
especially seemed to him more than ever deserving of suspicion.

However, he did not dwell long upon these trivial matters. As soon as he
was assured that he would do well to repose no confidence in the old
marquis, he advanced a step in his investigations, and wished to know
what opinion he should hold of the leading men of the province.

Monsieur Poulain was well posted as to all the little secrets of the
provincial government at Bourges. He understood politics as D'Alvimar
did: to pry into everyone's private life as a step toward acquiring a
predominant influence in public affairs.

That evil-minded priest saw that he could safely speak; he admitted that
he was mortally bored in that little hamlet, but that he was patient,
because, some day or other, Monsieur de Bois-Doré or his neighbor
Monsieur de Beuvre might well afford him an opportunity for a little
petty persecution, of which he desired to be the victim rather than the
author.

"You understand me; it is much better to be on the defensive on solid
ground, than on the offensive and in the breach. One is never safe in a
breach; if these Berrichon heathen would only threaten me or even injure
me a little, I would make noise enough about it to obtain my release
from these paltry functions and this deserted province. Do not think me
ambitious; I am ambitious only to serve the Church, and, in order to be
of use, one must bow to the necessity of keeping oneself in view."

"This little priestling is shrewder than I am," said D'Alvimar to
himself; "he knows enough to wait until he is in a favorable position to
fire on the enemy; I have always been aggressive, that is what has
ruined me. But it is not too late to profit by good advice; I will come
often to this man in search of it."

In very truth, this priest, who seemed to be engrossed by church-porch
gossip, but who really was not at all interested in it except in so far
as he could make something out of it, was a shrewder man than D'Alvimar;
so much so that in an hour he fathomed him completely, distrustful as he
was, and learned, if not the secrets of his life, at all events those of
his character, and his disappointments, his defeats, his desires and his
needs.

When he had extorted his confession, seeming all the while to confess
himself, he spoke thus to him, going straight to his goal:

"You have more chances of success than I, since wealth is the great
element of power. A priest cannot make a fortune as a layman can. He
must be content to progress slowly, by the power of his intellect and
his zeal alone. He must not forget that wealth is not his goal, and he
cannot desire it except as an instrument As for you, you are at liberty
to acquire wealth at any time. You have simply to marry."

"I do not think it!" said D'Alvimar. "Women in these corrupt days are
more likely to make their lovers' fortunes than their husbands'."

"So I have heard," rejoined Monsieur Poulain; "but I know the remedy."

"Indeed! You possess a valuable secret!"

"Very simple and very easy. You must not aim so high as you have done,
perhaps. You must not marry a woman of the highest rank. You must look
for a substantial dowry and a modest wife in the provinces. Do you
understand me? You must spend your money at the court, and not take your
wife there."

"What! marry a bourgeoise?"

"There are young ladies of noble birth who are richer and more modest
than bourgeoises."

"I know of none such."

"There is one in this province, not very far away! The little widow of
La Motte-Seuilly."

"She has a competence at the most."

"You judge by appearances. People hereabout are not accustomed to
luxurious living. With the exception of this mad marquis, all the
resident nobility live without display; but there is plenty of money
here. Salt smuggling and the spoils of the convents have made the nobles
rich. Whenever you choose, I will convince you that, with Madame de
Beuvre's revenues, you will be able to live very handsomely in Paris.
Moreover she is connected with the best families in France, and none of
them would be sorry to have a Spaniard of the true faith become allied
to them."

"But isn't she a Calvinist like her father?"

"You will convert her, unless her Calvinism is simply a pretext for
allowing her to live at peace in her little château."

"You are far-sighted, monsieur le recteur! But suppose you declare war
upon that family some fine day?"

"Provided that I do not cause it to be despoiled of its property, such a
was might be of advantage to you under certain circumstances. Pray
observe that I do not advise you to maltreat and desert your wife, but
to insist upon being at liberty to absent yourself from her, to fulfil
the duties of your position. If she becomes bitter or rebellious, you
can checkmate her by her heresy. The freedom of conscience granted to
those people is dependent upon conditions which they often fail to
observe. So that we always have them in our power, witness the fact that
this same little widow finds it impossible to marry again. The young men
of the province, who are weary of the war between châteaux, are afraid
of marrying a war. So you would have no rival at this moment, except
possibly Monsieur Guillaume d'Ars, who is a moderate Catholic, and a
constant visitor at La Motte; but they will find a way at Bourges to
impose other bonds on him. He is a young popinjay, easily diverted.
Furthermore, given a widow who must be weary of solitude, such a man as
you are must be very awkward indeed to fail. I see, by your smile, that
you are not doubtful of success."

"Well, I admit that you speak truly," replied D'Alvimar, to whom there
suddenly came a vivid remembrance of the emotion which the young lady
had not succeeded in concealing from him, and the source of which he
might readily have misunderstood. "I think that, if I chose----"

"You must choose--Think about it," continued Monsieur Poulain, rising.
"If you have decided, I will write confidentially to certain persons who
can assist you materially."

He referred to the Jesuits, who had already shaken Monsieur de Beuvre's
resolution by threatening to prevent his daughters marriage. That
gentleman's own tranquillity could be assured, at the price of this
marriage. D'Alvimar understood the hint, promised the rector to consider
the matter seriously and give him an answer two days later, since, as it
happened, he was to pass the following day at Madame de Beuvre's.

The bell on the château announced the marquis's dinner. Monsieur
d'Alvimar took leave of the priest who had caused him to think more
hopefully of his destiny, and retraced his steps to the manor.

He felt more at ease and more light-hearted than he had been for several
days, because he felt that he was in communication with a keen mind,
ready to support him at need. His courage returned. This flight into
Berry, this disquieting residence with those who were hostile to his
faith and opinions, and this species of isolation which, two hours
earlier, had assumed the gloomiest colors in his mind, now smiled upon
him as the forerunners of a fortunate event.

"Yes, yes, that man is right," he thought. "That marriage would be my
salvation. I have only to make up my mind. Let me once turn that little
provincial's head, and I shall be able to confess to her my disgrace at
court. She will consider herself bound in honor to make up to me for it.
And even if I must play the _moderate_ for a few days--well, I will try
it! Courage! my horizon is brightening, and perhaps the star of my
fortune is about to come forth from the clouds at last."

He raised his hand as he spoke, and saw in front of him, on the bridge
leading to the courtyard, the Moorish woman's child boldly riding one of
the marquis's chariot horses.

Mercedes had asked leave of Adamas to pass the day at the château, and
the goodman had granted it in his master's name, proposing to present
her to him as soon as he should be visible.

As he was playing in the courtyard, the child had made a favorable
impression on the coachman--_cocher_; in those days the common term was
_carrossier_ or _carrosseur_; in Berry _carrosseux_--and he had
consented to put him upon _Squilindre_, while he himself, mounted on
_Pimante_, his mate, held the rein and led the team to the brook for its
daily leg-bath.

D'Alvimar was struck by the face of that child, who, on the preceding
day, had darted among his horse's legs to beg, and had fled from his
whip, and now, perched on the monumental Squilindre, looked down upon
him with an air of kindly triumph.

It was impossible to imagine a more interesting and touching face than
that little vagrant's. His beauty was of a quiet type, however; he was
pale, sunburned, and seemed not strong. His features were not absolutely
perfect, but there was in the expression of his soft black eyes and in
the sweet, sly smile that played about his delicately-chiselled mouth, a
something absolutely irresistible to all whose hearts were not closed to
the divine charm of childhood.

Adamas had yielded instinctively to that gentle influence, and the
rudest servants in the barnyard had yielded to it no less. Such rough
natures were oftentimes so kindly! Was it not of such that Madame de
Sévigné wrote that there were "peasants whose hearts were straighter
than straight lines, loving virtue as naturally as horses trot?"

But D'Alvimar, not being fond of innocence, was not fond of children,
and this one in particular caused in him a sense of discomfort which he
could not understand.

He had a shuddering, dizzy sensation, as if the portcullis had fallen
upon his head as he was returning to the château of Briantes, more
tranquil and less dejected than when he went forth.

He had been subject for some years to these sudden attacks of vertigo,
and he readily attributed to the faces that happened to be before him at
such times a phenomenon the cause of which was really in himself. He
believed in mysterious influences, and, to avert them, he denied and
cursed inwardly with great warmth the persons who seemed possessed of
that occult power.

"May that big horse break your neck!" he muttered, as he raised two
fingers of his left hand, under his cloak, to exorcise the evil eye.

He repeated that cabalistic gesture when he saw the Moorish woman coming
toward him across the courtyard.

She stopped for a moment, and, as on the preceding day, gazed at him
with an earnestness which irritated him.

"What do you want with me?" he demanded abruptly, walking toward her.

She made no reply, but, courtesying to him, hurried to her child,
alarmed to see him on horseback.

The marquis came forward with Lucilio Giovellino, to meet his guest.

"Pray, come and eat," he said to him; "you must be dying of hunger!
Bellinde is in despair because she did not see you go out this morning,
and consequently allowed you to take your walk without breaking your
fast."

Monsieur d'Alvimar thought it best not to mention his visit to the
vicarage and his breakfast there. He dilated upon the rural beauty of
the neighborhood, and on the soft, bright autumn morning.

"Yes," said Bois-Doré, "we shall have several days of it, for the
sun----"

He was interrupted by a piercing shriek outside the enclosure, and ran
as fast as he could to the bridge, whither D'Alvimar had preceded him
and Lucilio instinctively followed him.

They saw the Moorish woman on the edge of the moat, holding out her arms
in an agony of fear toward her child, whom the huge horse was bearing
down stream, and she was apparently on the point of throwing herself in
from the elevated point where she stood.




XV


This is what had happened.

The little gypsy, proud and overjoyed to be riding such a big
rocking-horse all by himself, had cajoled the coachman into allowing him
to hold the halter. Honest Squilindre, feeling that he had been turned
over to that tiny hand, and excited by the merry little heels drumming
against his sides, had ventured too far to the right, missed the ford,
and swum under the bridge. The coachman tried to go to his assistance,
but Pimante, being more suspicious than his mate, refused to leave the
solid ground; and the child, clinging to the mane, was delighted with
the adventure.

His mothers shrieks calmed his excitement, however, and he shouted to
her, in a tone which Lucilio alone understood:

"Don't be afraid, mother, I am holding on tight."

But they were fairly in the current of the little river which fed the
moat. The bulky, phlegmatic Squilindre had already had enough of it, and
his nostrils, tremendously dilated, betrayed his discomfort and his
anxiety.

He had not the wit to turn back. He was heading straight for the pond,
where the impossibility of passing the dam might well exhaust what
little swimming strength he still retained.

However, the danger was not imminent as yet, and Lucilio strove by
gestures to make the Moor understand that she must not jump into the
water. She paid no heed, and was descending the grassy bank, when the
marquis, realizing the danger that threatened those two poor creatures,
attempted to unbutton his cloak.

He would have thrown himself into the stream; indeed, he was about to do
it without consulting anybody, and before D'Alvimar had any suspicion of
his purpose, when Lucilio, who did detect it, and who wore nothing to
impede his freedom of movement, leaped from the bridge and swam
vigorously toward the child.

"Ah! dear, brave Giovellino!" cried the marquis, forgetting in his
emotion the French translation which disguised his friend's name.

D'Alvimar recorded that name in the archives of his memory, which was
very reliable, and, while the marquis approached the bank to pacify and
restrain the Moor, he remained on the bridge, awaiting with strange
interest the conclusion of the adventure.

His interest was not of the sort that every kind heart would have felt
at such a time, and yet the Spaniard was conscious of a keen anxiety.

He did not desire the death of the mute, which was in nowise likely to
result; but he did desire the death of the child, which seemed more than
possible. He did not pray to heaven to abandon that poor creature; he
did not seek the explanation of his cruel instinct; he submitted to it,
in spite of himself, as to a strange, unconquerable disease. He was more
and more conscious that that child inspired him with superstitious
terror.

"If this that I feel is a revelation of my destiny," he thought, "it is
in the balance and is being decided at this moment. If the child dies, I
am saved; if he is saved, I am lost."

The child was saved.

Lucilio overtook the horse, grasped his little rider by the collar of
his jacket, and tossed him to the bank, into the arms of his mother, who
had followed the changing scenes of this little drama, running by the
stream and shrieking.

Then he calmly returned to the too simple-minded Squilindre, who was
making a desperate assault on the dam at the pond, and, forcing him to
turn back, delivered him safe and sound to the frantic coachman.

The whole house had been attracted by the Moorish woman's shrieks, and
they were deeply moved to see her, weeping copiously the while, hug
Lucilio's knees and speak earnestly to him in Arabic, greatly surprised
that he did not say a word to her in reply, although he seemed to
understand the language, and did in fact understand it perfectly.

The marquis embraced Lucilio, saying to him in an undertone:

"Ah! my poor friend! for a man who has suffered at the hands of the
torturer, even to the very marrow of his bones, you are a sturdy
swimmer! God, who knows that you live only to do good, has deigned to
perform miracles in your person. Now go at once and change everything,
and do you, Adamas, see that yonder little devil is thoroughly dried and
warmed; he seems no more frightened than if he were just out of bed. I
wish you to bring him to me with his mother, after my breakfast; so make
them as clean as you can. Why, where has Monsieur de Villareal gone?"

The pretended Villareal had returned to the château, and was praying,
alone in his room, to the revengeful God in whom he believed, not to
punish him too severely for the eagerness with which he had, _without
just cause_, longed for the little gypsy's death.

We give the child this title, following the example of the servants of
the château, by whom he was surrounded at that moment; but when, after
his repast, Monsieur de Bois-Doré betook himself to an ancient
apartment of his castle, which Adamas dignified with the title of _salle
des audiences_, and sometimes of _salle de justice_; when that old
minister of the interior to the marquis introduced the Moorish woman and
her child, the marquis's first words, after a moment of impressive
silence, were these:

"The more I look at this little fellow, the more certain I feel that he
is neither Egyptian nor Moor, but rather a Spaniard of good family,
perhaps of French blood."

It was not necessary to be a magician to make that discovery;
nevertheless it was listened to with great respect by Adamas, who, in
his capacity of introducer, remained at the conference. Monsieur
d'Alvimar and Lucilio had been invited by the marquis to be present.

"See," continued Bois-Doré, with ingenuous pride in his own
penetration, putting aside the child's coarse white shirt, "his face is
sun-burned, but no more than our peasants are in harvest-time; his neck
is as white as snow, and he has feet and hands so small that serf or
villein never could show the like. Come, my little imp, be not ashamed;
and, as I am told that you understand French, answer our questions. What
is your name?"

"Mario," the child replied without hesitation.

"Mario? That is an Italian name!"

"I don't know."

"From what country are you?"

"I am French, I think."

"Where were you born?"

"I don't remember."

"I should think not," laughed the marquis; "but ask your mother."

Mario turned to the Moor, and opened his mouth to speak to her. His face
wore an expression of satisfaction and joy, because he had been welcomed
so like a father by this fine gentleman who held him between his legs,
and whose beautiful silk clothes and pretty little beribboned dog he
stroked timidly with the tips of his little fingers.

But when he met his mother's eyes, he seemed to read therein a warning
of great importance; for he gently extricated himself from Monsieur de
Bois-Doré's grasp, and went to the Moor, lowering his eyes and not
speaking.

The marquis asked him divers other questions to which he did not reply,
although he seemed, by the sweet and melting glance he turned upon him,
to apologize furtively for his discourtesy.

"It is my opinion, friend Adamas, that you exaggerated a trifle when you
declared that this boy spoke our language fluently," said the marquis.
"It is true that his pronunciation is very good, and that he says
several words without much foreign accent; but I fancy that that is all
he knows. As you know Spanish so well--for my part, I confess that I
know very little of it--make him explain himself."

"Useless, monsieur le marquis," said Adamas, not at all disconcerted, "I
give you my word that the little rascal speaks French like a clerk; but
he is frightened in your presence, that's the whole story."

"No, indeed!" rejoined the marquis; "he's a little lion and afraid of
nothing. He came out of the water laughing as heartily as when he went
in, and he must see that we are kind-hearted people."

Mario seemed to understand perfectly; for his affectionate eye said yes,
while the Moorish woman's intelligent and timid eyes, resting upon
D'Alvimar, seemed to say no, so far as she was concerned.

"Come, come," continued worthy Monsieur Sylvain, taking Mario between
his legs again, "I propose that we shall be good friends. I love
children and this one attracts me. Tell me, Master Jovelin, isn't it
true that that face was not made to deceive, and that that innocent
glance goes straight to the heart? There is some mystery under all this,
and I propose to solve it. Listen, Master Mario, if you answer me
truthfully, I will give you--What would you like me to give you?"

The child, obeying the artless impulse of his age, pounced upon
Fleurial, the beautiful little white dog which never left its master's
chair when he was seated.

It seemed that Mario was determined to risk everything to possess the
creature; but another glance from Mercedes warned him to restrain
himself, and he replaced the little dog on the marquis's knees, to the
great satisfaction of the latter, who had feared for a moment that he
had gone too far.

The child sadly shook his head and made a sign that he wanted nothing.

Thus far D'Alvimar had said nothing; as he recited his prayer after the
scene at the moat, he had reviewed rapidly, but with unerring accuracy,
all the events of his life. Nothing had come to his memory which could
have any connection, direct or indirect, with a woman and child in the
situation of these two.

The emotion he had felt therefore must have been purely imaginary; he
had regretted his failure to overcome it at once; he had recovered
possession of his reason.

During dinner the marquis had not mentioned Adamas's story concerning
Mercedes's mysterious journey. He himself had only listened to it with
one ear, as he was falling asleep the night before. So that D'Alvimar
eyed the two vagrants with calm contempt, and fancied that he had
discovered at last the commonplace explanation of his repugnance for
them.

He joined in the conversation.

"Monsieur le marquis," he said, "if you will permit me to retire, I am
sure that with a little money you will make this varlet talk all you
desire. It is possible that he is a Christian child stolen by this Moor,
for I have no question as to her nationality. However, you are much
mistaken, if you think that the color of the skin is a certain sign.
Some of these wretched children are as white as yourself, and if you
wish to make sure, you will do well to raise the hair that covers this
brat's forehead; perhaps you will find there the brand of the red-hot
iron."

"What!" said the marquis with a smile, "are they so afraid of the water
of baptism that they efface the sign by fire?"

"The mark I refer to is the brand of slavery," replied D'Alvimar. "The
Spanish law inflicts it upon them. They are branded on the forehead with
an S. and a nail's head, which represents in figurative language the
word _slave_."

"Yes," said the marquis, "I remember, it is a rebus! Well, for my part,
I consider it very shocking, and if this poor child is branded with it
and is a slave by your laws, I will purchase him and set him free on
good French soil."

Mercedes had not understood a word of what was being said. But she
watched with intense anxiety D'Alvimar approach Mario, as if to touch
him; but not for anything in the world would D'Alvimar have sullied his
gloved hand by contact with a Moor, and he waited for the marquis to
lift the child's hair; but the marquis did nothing of the kind, from a
feeling of generous compassion for the poor mother, whose humiliation
and anxiety he thought that he could understand.

As for Mario, he understood what was taking place; but controlled and,
as it were, fascinated by Mercedes's glance, he took refuge in stolid
silence.

"You see," said D'Alvimar to the marquis, "he hangs his head and
conceals his shame. Well, I know all I wish to know about them, and I
leave you in this respectable society. There is no danger that they will
unclench their teeth before a Spaniard, and they evidently know that I
am one. There is an instinctive aversion between that degraded race and
ours, so unerring that they scent our approach as wild game scents the
approach of the hunter. I met this woman yesterday on the highroad, and
I am sure that she put some spell on my horse, for he is lame this
morning. If I were the master of this house, such vermin would not
remain in it another instant!"

"You are my guest," rejoined Bois-Doré, blending with his courtesy an
accent of dignity and resolution of which Monsieur d'Alvimar deemed him
incapable, "and, in that capacity, you are entitled to entertain your
opinions without being called upon to defend them, whether they are or
are not identical with my own. If the sight of these unfortunate
creatures is distasteful to you, as I do not wish it to be said that you
were annoyed in any manner under my roof, I will arrange that they shall
not offend your eyes; but you cannot demand that I shall brutally turn a
woman and a child out-of-doors."

"Surely not, monsieur," said D'Alvimar, recovering his self-possession;
"by so doing I should ill requite your courtesy, and I ask your pardon
for my vehemence. You are aware of the horror with which my nation
regards these infidels, and I know that I should have held it in check
here."

"What do you mean?" demanded Bois-Doré, somewhat testily; "do you take
us for Mussulmans?"

"God forbid, monsieur le marquis! I intended to refer to the tolerant
spirit of the French in general; and as it is a law of civility that we
must conform to the customs of the country in which we accept
hospitality, I promise to keep watch upon myself, and to meet without
repugnance whomever it may please you to receive."

"Very good!" replied the honest marquis, offering him his hand; "in a
few moments, when I have finished here, is it your pleasure to go out
and kill a hare or two?"

"You are too kind," said D'Alvimar, as he was leaving the room; "but do
not disturb yourself on my account; with your permission I will go to
write some letters, awaiting the supper hour."

The marquis, having risen to salute him, seated himself again with his
careless grace, and said to Lucilio:

"Our guest is a very well-bred knight, but he is quick-tempered, and,
all things considered, he has one great drawback, which is that he is
too much of a Spaniard. Those sublime mortals despise everything that is
not Spanish; but I believe that they have crushed out their own life by
martyrizing and exterminating those wretched Moors. They will gnaw their
hands over it some day. The Moors were untiring workers and scrupulously
neat, in a land of sloth and vermin. They were gentle and humane before
they were tormented so cruelly. Well, well, if we have here a poor
remnant of that race which was so great in the past, let us not trample
on it. Let us be merciful! God for us all!"

Lucilio had listened to the marquis with religious attention, but while
he was saying the last words he was writing.

"What are you doing?" said Bois-Doré.

Lucilio handed him the paper, which seemed to the marquis an
undecipherable scrawl.

"This," said the mute with his pencil, "is a translation in Arabic of
the noble words you just said. See if the child knows how to read, and
if he understands that language."

Mario glanced at the paper which was handed him, ran to the Moor and
read it to her; she listened with great emotion, kissed the paper and
fell on her knees at the marquis's feet.

Then she turned to Giovellino and said to him in Arabic:

"Man of courage and virtue, say to this good man what I am going to say
to you. I did not wish you to speak my language before the Spaniard. I
was not willing that the child should say a word before him. The
Spaniard hates us, and, wherever he meets us, he does us harm. But the
child is a Christian, he is not a slave. You can see on my brow the
brand of the Inquisition; it is still there, although I was very small
when they branded me."

As she spoke, she untied the kerchief of multicolored sackcloth which
confined her long black hair, and pointed to her forehead on which there
was no sign of the red-hot iron. But she rubbed it with her hand, and
the ghastly _rebus_ stood out in white on the red skin.

"But look at this youthful brow," she said, lifting Mario's abundant,
silky locks. "If it had been branded like mine, it would not be possible
to mistake the mark. This brow was baptized by a priest of your
religion; the child has been reared in the faith and the language of his
fathers."

While the Moor was speaking, Lucilio had written a translation of her
words, and the marquis read as he wrote.

"Ask her for her story," he said to the mute; "make her understand that
we are interested in her misfortunes and that we will take her under our
protection."

It was not necessary for Lucilio to write Bois-Doré's interruptions.
Mario, who spoke Arabic as readily as French and Catalan, translated it
to his adoptive mother with remarkable fidelity.

We will continue the interview of those four persons, as if they had all
spoken the same language, and as if Lucilio, quick as he was with his
pencil, had not been incapable of speaking any language.




XVI


The Moorish woman began thus:

"Mario, my beloved, say to this kind-hearted nobleman that I speak
Spanish very little, and French still less; I will tell my story to his
_scrivener_, and he can read it.

"I am the daughter of a poor farmer of Catalonia. It was in Catalonia
that the few Moors who were spared by the Inquisition lived at peace,
hoping that they would be allowed to remain there and earn their living
by toil, since we had taken no part in the recent wars which were so
disastrous to our brothers in the other provinces of Spain.

"My father's name was Yesid in Arabic and Juan in Spanish; I was
baptized by _aspersion_ like the others, my Christian name was Mercedes,
my Moorish name Ssobyha.[14]

"I am now thirty years old. I was thirteen when we began to receive
secret warnings that we were to be stripped and driven from the country
in our turn.

"Even before I was born the terrible King Philip II. had ordered that
all Moors must learn the Castilian language within three years, and must
no longer speak, read or write in Arabic, openly or secretly; that all
contracts made in that language should be void; that all our books
should be burned; that we should exchange our national costumes for the
dress worn by Christians; that the Moorish women should go out without
veils, with faces uncovered; that we should have no national festivals
or songs or dances; that we should lay aside our family and individual
names and take Christian names; that no Moor, male or female, should
bathe in the future, and that the baths in the houses should be
destroyed.

"Thus they insulted us even in the decency of our manners and the health
of our bodies! My parents submitted. When they saw that it availed them
nothing, and that they were persecuted solely because of their money,
they thought only of collecting and concealing all that they could,
intending to fly when they should again be in danger of death.

"By dint of hard work and patience they amassed a little hoard. It was
to prevent the necessity of my begging, they said, as so many others had
had to do who had allowed themselves to be taken by surprise. But it was
written that I should ask alms like all the rest.

"We were still happy enough, notwithstanding the humiliation they heaped
upon us. Our Spanish lords did not love us; but, as they realized that
we alone in Spain were able and willing to till their lands, they asked
their king to spare us.

"When I was seventeen years old, King Philip suddenly issued a new
decree against all the Catalan Moors. We were banished from the kingdom
with such goods and chattels as we could carry on our bodies. We must
leave our houses within three days, under pain of death, and go, under
escort, to the place of embarkation. Every Christian who harbored a Moor
would be sent to the galleys for six years.

"We were ruined. However, my father and I concealed about our persons
such gold as we could carry, and we left our home without a complaint.
They promised to take us to Africa, the home of our ancestors. Thereupon
we prayed to the God of our fathers to take us once more for his
faithful children.

"They allowed us on the journey to resume our former costumes, which had
been preserved in our families for a whole century, and to chant our
prayers in our own language, which we had not forgotten; for, in spite
of the decrees, we used no other among ourselves.

"We were packed on the state galleys like sheep, but were no sooner on
board than they called upon us to pay for our passage. The majority had
nothing. They insisted that the rich should pay for the poor.

"My father, seeing that they cast into the sea those who could find no
one to help them, paid without regret for all those who were on our
ship; but when they saw that he had nothing left, they tossed him into
the sea with the rest!"

At this point the Moorish woman stopped. She did not weep, but her
breast was heaving with sobs.

"Execrable hounds of Spaniards! Poor Moors!" muttered the marquis.
"Alas!" he added, as if warned by a melancholy glance from Lucilio,
"France has done no better; the Regent treated them just the same way!"

"Finding myself alone in the world," continued Mercedes, "without a sou,
and deprived of all I loved, I tried to follow my poor father; they
prevented me. I was pretty. The commander of the galley wanted me for a
slave. But God unloosed the tempest, and they had to give all their
thought to struggling against it. Several vessels sank, thousands of
Moors perished with their persecutors. The galley upon which we were was
hurled by the storm on the coast of France, and was dashed to pieces
near a place of which I have never learned the name.

"I was washed upon the shore amid the dead and dying; that was my
salvation. I dragged myself among the rocks, and there, drenched to the
skin and utterly exhausted, having carefully concealed myself, for I had
no strength to go farther, I slept for the first time for many days and
nights.

"When I awoke the storm was at an end. It was quite warm. I was alone.
The wretched ship lay off the shore, the dead bodies on the beach. I was
hungry, but I had strength enough to walk.

"I left the shore as quickly as I could, fearing to encounter Spaniards
there, and walked toward the mountains, begging bread, water and
lodging. I was received very coldly; my costume made the peasants
suspicious.

"At last I met several women of my own race, who were settled in a
certain village, and who gave me other clothes. They advised me to
conceal my birth and my religion, because the people thereabout did not
like foreigners, and detested Moors above all others. Alas! it seems
that they are detested everywhere, for I was told later that, instead of
welcoming as brothers those who succeeded in reaching Africa, the men of
Barbary massacred them or reduced them to a worse slavery than that of
Spain.

"How could I follow the advice that was given me to conceal my origin? I
did not know the Catalan language well enough for that. At first people
gave me alms; but, when a Spaniard passed, he would say to the people of
the neighborhood:

"'You have a Moorish woman among you.'

"And they would turn me away. I wandered from valley to valley.

"One day I found myself on a highroad--I learned afterward that it was
the Pau road--and there it was that heaven caused me to fall in with a
woman even more unhappy than myself. She was the mother of the child
before you, who has become mine."

"Go on," said the marquis.

But Mercedes paused, seemed to reflect, and finally said to Lucilio:

"I cannot tell the story of the child's parents except to you
alone--you, who saved his life, and who seem to me to be an angel on
earth. If I may remain here a few days, and if I see no danger for
Mario, I swear that I will tell the whole story; but I am afraid of the
Spaniard, and I saw this old gentleman put his hand in his, after
reproving him for his harshness toward us. I understood it all with my
eyes; nobles are nobles, and we poor slaves cannot hope that the
kindest-hearted of them all will take our part against their equals."

"Equality has nothing to do with it!" cried the marquis as soon as
Lucilio had translated Mercedes's words for him in writing. "I swear, on
my faith as a Christian and my honor as a gentleman, to protect the weak
against the whole world."

The Moor replied that she would tell the truth, but that she should omit
certain unimportant details.

Then she resumed her narrative in these words:

"I was on the Pau road, but at a very lonely spot in the heart of the
mountains. There, as I was taking a little rest, having concealed myself
for fear of the wicked men whom one is likely to meet in all countries,
I saw a man pass with his wife.

"The woman was walking a little in advance; brigands ran up behind them,
and killed and robbed the man so quickly that his wife did not see it,
and, when she turned to speak to him, found him lying dead across the
road.

"At that sight she fell in a swoon, and I saw that she was _enceinte_.

"I did not know how to take her up and comfort her. I was on my knees
beside her, praying and weeping, when a man on horseback, dressed in
black, and with a gray moustache, suddenly appeared and asked me why I
was weeping so. I pointed to the woman lying on her husband's body. He
spoke to her in several languages, for he was a great scholar; but he
very soon saw that she was in no condition to reply.

"The shock that she had received hastened her labor.

"Some shepherds passed with their flocks. He called to them, and as they
saw that that good man was a priest of their Christian religion, they
obeyed his orders and carried the woman to their house, where she died
an hour after bringing Mario into the world, and giving the priest the
wedding-ring she wore on her finger, unable to say anything, but
pointing to the child and to heaven!

"The priest stayed at the shepherd's house until the two unfortunate
creatures were buried, and as he supposed that I had been the lady's
slave, he entrusted the child to me and bade me accompany him. But I did
not choose to deceive him, having seen that he was learned and humane. I
told him my story and how I happened to be a witness of the peddler's
murder."

"So he was a peddler?" said the marquis.

"Or a gentleman in disguise," Mercedes replied; "for his wife wore the
clothing of a lady under her cloak, and when we undressed him to lay him
out, we found a shirt of fine linen and silk short clothes under his
coarser garments. His hands were white, and we also found upon him a
seal on which there was a crest."

"Show me the seal!" cried Bois-Doré deeply moved.

The Moor shook her head, saying:

"I haven't it."

"This woman distrusts us," rejoined the marquis, addressing Lucilio,
"and yet this story interests me more than she thinks! Who knows
that--Come, my dear friend, try to make her tell us at least the precise
date of this adventure she is describing."

Lucilio motioned to the marquis to question the child, who answered
without hesitation:

"I was born an hour after my father's death and an hour before the death
of good King Henri the Fourth of France. That is what Monsieur l'Abbé
Anjorrant, who took care of me, told me, bidding me never forget it, and
my mother Mercedes said I might tell you, on condition that the Spaniard
shall not know it."

"Why?" said Adamas.

"I do not know," replied Mario.

"In that case beg your mother to go on with her story," said Monsieur de
Bois-Doré, "and rely upon our keeping her secret, as we have promised
to do."

The Moor resumed her narrative thus:

"The good priest, having procured a goat to nourish the child, took us
away, saying:

"'We will talk about religion later. You are unfortunate, and it is my
duty to have pity upon you.'

"He lived some distance away, in the heart of the mountain. He placed us
in a little cabin built of blocks of marble and covered with great flat
black stones, and there was nothing in the house but dried grass. That
saint had nothing better to give us than a roof over our heads and the
word of God. He lived in a house little more luxurious than the hut in
which we were.

"But I had not been there a week before the child was neat and well
cared for, and the house quite comfortable. The shepherds and peasants
did not turn their backs upon me, their priest had so thoroughly imbued
them with gentleness and pity. I soon taught them certain things about
the care of their flocks and the cultivation of their fields which they
did not know, but which are familiar to all Moorish husbandmen. They
listened to me, and, finding that I could help them, they allowed me to
lack nothing that I needed.

"I should have been very happy at falling in with that man of peace and
that indulgent country, if I could have forgotten my poor father, the
house in which I was born, my kinsmen and my friends, whom I was never
to see again; but I came to love the poor orphan so dearly, that little
by little I was consoled for everything.

"The priest educated him and taught him French and Spanish, while I
taught him my language, so that I might have one person in the world
with whom I could speak it; but, do not think that, in teaching him
Arabian prayers, I turned him away from the religion the priest was
teaching him. Do not think that I spurn your God. No, no! when I saw
that sincere, compassionate, learned, virtuous man, who talked so
eloquently of his prophet _Issa_[15] and of the beautiful precepts of
the _Engil_,[16] which do not tell us to do what the Koran forbids, it
seemed to me that the best religion must be the one that he practised;
and as I had not received baptism, despite the immersion of the Spanish
priests--for I sheltered myself with my hands so that no drop of
Christian water should fall on my head,--I consented to be baptized anew
by that holy man, and I swore to Allah that I would never again deny in
my heart the worship of Issa and Paraclet."[17]

This artless declaration gave great satisfaction to the marquis, who,
despite his recent philosophical notions, was, no more than Adamas, an
upholder of the heathen idolatry attributed to the Moors of Spain.

"So," he said, patting Mario's brown cheeks, "we are not dealing with
devils, but with human beings of our own species. _Numes célestes_! I
am very glad to hear it, for this poor woman interests me and this
orphan touches my heart. And so, my handsome friend Mario, you were
brought up by an excellent and learned curé of the Pyrenees! and you
are a little scholar yourself! I cannot speak Arabic to you; but if your
mother will consent to give you to me, I promise to have you brought up
as a gentleman."

Mario did not know what being a gentleman was. He was unquestionably
very far advanced for his age, and for the period and the environment in
which he had been reared; but, in every other direction than religion,
morality and languages, he was a genuine little savage, having no
conception of the society which the marquis invited him to enter.

He saw in the proposal nothing but ribbons, sweetmeats, pet dogs, and
beautiful rooms filled with _bibelots_, which he took for toys. His eyes
shone with ingenuous greed, and Bois-Doré, who was as ingenuous as he
in his way, cried:

"_Vive Dieu_! Master Jovelin, this child was born to high station. Did
you see how his eyes sparkled at the word gentleman? Come, Mario, ask
Mercedes to remain with us."

"And me too!" said the child, naturally assuming that the offer was made
first of all to his adopted mother.

"You and she," replied Bois-Doré; "I know that it would be very cruel
to separate you."

Mario, overjoyed, hastened to say to the Moorish woman in Arabic,
covering her with kisses:

"Mother, we are not to travel the highroads any more. This kind lord is
going to keep us here in his fine house!"

Mercedes expressed her thanks with a sigh.

"The child is not mine," she said, "he is God's, who has placed him in
my care. I must seek his family until I find it. If his family no longer
exists, or does not want him, I will return here, and on my knees I will
say to you: 'Take him and turn me away if you will. I prefer to weep
alone outside the door of the house where he lives and is happy, than to
make him beg his bread any more."

"This woman has a noble heart," said the marquis. "We will assist her
with our money and our influence to find the persons she is seeking; but
why does she not tell us what she knows of them? Perhaps we shall be
able to assist her at once when we know the child's family name."

"I do not know his name," said the Moor.

"What hope had she then, when she left the mountains?"

"Tell them what they want to know," said Mercedes to Mario, "but nothing
of that which they must not know yet."


[Footnote 14: Aurora.]

[Footnote 15: Jesus.]

[Footnote 16: The Gospel.]

[Footnote 17: The Holy Spirit.]




XVII


Mario, enchanted to have an opportunity to tell his story, but without
imprudence or affectation, with all the charm of his natural candor and
of his limpid glance, began as follows:

"We were very happy there; there were grottoes, cascades, high peaks and
tall trees; everything was much bigger than it is here, and the water
made much more noise. My mother kept some very good cows, and she dyed
and spun wool and made a very strong cloth. Look at my white cap and her
red cape. She made the material for both of them. I worked too. I made
baskets; oh! I can make very nice ones! If I come back here to be a
gentleman, you shall see! I will make all the baskets for the house!

"I spent two hours every day learning to read and write French and
Spanish with Monsieur le Curé Anjorrant. He never scolded me, he was
always pleased with me. No one ever saw such a kind-hearted man! He
loved me so much that my mother was jealous sometimes. She used to say
to me:

"'Come, I will wager that you love the priest better than you do me!'

"But I would say:

"'No, indeed! I love you both the same. I love you as much as I can. I
love you as big as the mountains, and more too; as big as the sky!'

"But when I was ten years old, everything changed. All of a sudden
Monsieur Anjorrant was taken very sick, because he walked too much in
the snow to save some little children who were lost and whom he found,
for we used to have snow in winter, sometimes as high as the top of your
house. And all of a sudden Monsieur Anjorrant died.

"My mother and I cried so much that I don't see how we have any eyes
left to see with.

"Then my mother said to me:

"'We must do what our father, our friend who is dead, wanted us to do.
He has left with us the papers and jewels which may serve to make your
family acknowledge you. He has written to the French minister about you
many times. He never had any answer. Perhaps they did not get his
letters. We will go and see the king, or someone who can speak to him
for us, and if you have a grandmother or aunts or cousins, they will see
to it that you do not remain a slave, because you were born free, and
freedom is the greatest thing in the world.'

"We started with very little money. Good Monsieur Anjorrant left nothing
for anybody. As soon as he got a piece of money he would give it to
somebody who needed it. We walked and walked; France is so big! For
three months now we have been on the road. My mother, when she saw how
far it was, was afraid we should never get there, and we begged bread
and shelter at every door. People always gave us something, because my
mother is so sweet, and they thought I was a pretty boy. But we did not
know the roads, and we took many steps which delayed us instead of
taking us forward.

"Then we met some very funny people, who called themselves Egyptians,
and they told us we could go to Poitou with them if we knew how to do
anything. My mother can sing very well in Arabic, and I can play the
_tympanon_ a little, and the guitar of the Pyrenees. I will play for you
all you want. Those people thought that we knew enough. They were not
unkind to us, and there was a little Moorish girl with them named Pilar,
whom I was very fond of, and a bigger boy, La Flèche, who is a
Frenchman and who amused me with his wry faces and his stories. But they
were almost all thieves, and it pained my mother to see how gluttonous
and lazy they were.

"That is why she said to me every day:

"'We must leave these people, they are good for nothing.'

"We finally left them yesterday, because----"

"Because?" repeated the marquis.

"That is something my mother Mercedes will tell you later, perhaps, when
she has prayed to God to reveal the truth to her. That is what she told
me, and it is all I know."

"Taking everything into consideration," said the marquis, rising, "I am
deeply interested in these people, and I propose that they shall be well
treated and cared for under my roof, until it shall please God to point
out to me in what way I can assist them further. But did you not tell
me, my faithful Adamas, that this Mercedes had a letter for Monsieur de
Sully?"

"Yes, yes!" cried Mario. "That is the name on Monsieur Anjorrant's
letter."

"Very well, that simplifies matters. I am very much attached to him, and
I will undertake to send you to him without fatigue or discomfort. So
make yourself at home here and ask for whatever you want.--Adamas, both
the mother and the child are very neat and clean, and their mountain
garb is not unbecoming. But have they every thing that they possess on
their bodies?"

"Yes, monsieur, except the much shabbier clothes that they wore last
night and this morning; they have two shirts each and other things in
proportion. But the woman washes and combs the child and mends his
clothes whenever she is not walking. See how nicely kept his hair is!
She knows all sorts of Arabian secrets for maintaining cleanliness; she
knows how to make powders and elixirs which I intend to learn from her."

"That is a very good idea; but remember to give her some linen and other
materials, so that she may be well provided. As she is so clever with
her fingers, she will make the most of them. I am going out for a walk;
after which, if she has no objection to singing one of her national
songs to the accompaniment of the little fellow's guitar, I shall be
very glad to hear their outlandish music. Au revoir, Master Mario! As
you have talked very civilly, I intend to give you something soon; be
sure that I shall not forget it."

The lovely boy kissed the marquis's hand, not without a most expressive
glance at Fleurial, the little dog, whom he would have preferred to all
the treasures in the house.

To be sure Fleurial was a marvel; of the marquis's three canine pets, he
was justly enough the favorite, and never left his master when he was in
the house. He was as white as snow, woolly as a muff, and, in contrast
to the ways of most spoiled curs, as gentle as a lamb.

When the marquis had taken his accustomed walk, spoken kindly to those
of his vassals whom he met, and inquired for those who were ill, so that
he could send them what they needed, he returned and sent for Adamas.

"What shall I give this pretty little Mario?" he said. "We must find
some plaything suited to his years, and there are none such here. Alas!
my friend, there are three of us in this house who are fast turning into
old bachelors: Master Jovelin and you and I."

"I have been thinking about it, monsieur," said Adamas.

"About what, my old servant? marriage?"

"No, monsieur; as that isn't to your taste, it isn't to mine either; but
I have thought of the plaything to give the child."

"Go to fetch it at once."

"Here it is, monsieur!" said Adamas, producing the object, which he had
deposited in the window recess. "As I noticed that the child was dying
with longing for Fleurial, and as you could not give him Fleurial, I
remembered seeing in the garret a number of toys that had been lying
there a long while, and, among others, this dog of tow, which is not
very badly worm-eaten, and which resembles Fleurial, except that its
coat is like a black sheep's and it hasn't much tail left."

"And except a thousand other differences, which result in its not
looking in the least like him! But where did you say this toy came from,
Adamas?"

"From the garret, monsieur."

"Very good; and you say that there are others there?"

"Yes, monsieur; a little horse with only three legs, a broken drum, some
little toy weapons, the remains of a feudal donjon----"

Adamas paused abruptly as he noticed that the marquis was gazing with an
absorbed expression at the stuffed dog, while a tear made a furrow
through the paint on his cheek.

"I have done some stupid thing!" said the old servant to himself; "for
God's sake, my dear good master, what makes you weep?"

"I do not know--a moment's weakness!" said the marquis, wiping his cheek
with his perfumed handkerchief, upon which a considerable portion of the
roses of his complexion remained; "I fancied that I recognized that
plaything, and if I am right, Adamas, it is a relic that must not be
given away! It was my poor brother's!"

"Really, monsieur? Ah! I am nothing but an old fool! I ought to have
thought of that. I supposed that it was something that you used to play
with when you were a little child."

"No! when I was a child, I had no playthings. It was a time of war and
sorrow in this country; my father was a terrible man, and to amuse me
showed me fetters and chains, peasants astride the wooden horse, and
prisoners hanging on the elms in the park. Later, much later, he had a
second wife and a second son."

"I know it, monsieur--young Monsieur Florimond, whom you loved so
dearly! The flower of young gentlemen, most assuredly! And he
disappeared in such a strange way!"

"I loved him more than I can say, Adamas! not so much for any relations
we had together after he grew to manhood, for then we followed different
banners, and met very seldom, just long enough to embrace and to tell
each other that we were friends and brothers in spite of everything; but
for his sweet, charming ways in his childhood, when, as I have told you,
I had occasion to take care of him and watch over him during one of my
father's absences which lasted about a year. His second wife was dead
and the province very unsettled. I knew that the Calvinists detested my
father, and I thought it my duty to protect that poor child, whom I did
not know, and who grew to love me as if he realized our father's
injustice to me. He was as gentle and beautiful as this little Mario. He
had neither kindred nor friends about him, for in those days some died
of the plague and others of fright. He would have died, too, for lack of
care and cheer, had not I become so attached to him that I played with
him for whole days at a time. It was I who brought him these toys, and I
have good reason to remember them, now I think about it, for they came
within an ace of costing me very dear."

"Tell me about it, monsieur; it will divert your thoughts."

"I will gladly do so, Adamas. It was in fifteen hundred--never mind the
date!"

"Of course not, of course not, monsieur, the date is of no importance."

"My dear little Florimond was tired of having to stay in the house, but
I dared not take him out-of-doors, because parties of troops of all
factions were constantly passing, who killed everybody and recognized no
friends. I happened to think of a diversion which had tempted me sorely
in my own childhood. At the château of Sarzay I had seen many of those
stuffed animals and other toys with which the young Barbançois used to
play. The lords of Barbançois, who held that fief of Sarzay, from
father to son, for many years, were among the fiercest enemies of the
poor Calvinists, and at that time they were at Issoudun, hanging and
burning as many as they could. In their absence the manor of Sarzay was
not very carefully guarded. The country roundabout being absolutely
devoted to the Catholics and to Monsieur de la Châtre, they had no
suspicion of poor me, for I was too entirely alone and too poor to
undertake anything.

"It occurred to me to go thither on some pretext, and to lay violent
hands on the toys, unless some servant would sell them to me, for it was
useless to try to find any elsewhere. They were luxuries, and were not
sold in out of the way places.

"I presented myself, therefore, as coming from my father, and asked to
be admitted to the château to speak to the young folks' nurse, for they
were then old enough to ride, like myself, and were scouring the
country. I went in, explained my errand, and was coldly received by the
nurse. She knew that I had already fought with the Calvinists and that
my father did not love me: but money softened her. She went to a room at
the top of the house and brought down what the children, now full-grown,
had injured least.

"So away I went with a horse, a dog, a citadel, six cannons, a chariot
and many little iron dishes, the whole in a big basket covered with a
cloth, which I had fastened upon my horse behind me. It came up to my
shoulders, and, as I rode out of the courtyard, I heard the servants
laughing at the window and saying to one another:

"'He's a great booby, and, if we never have to deal with any Reformers
of a different stamp, we will soon settle their business.'

"Some were inclined to shoot at me, but I escaped with nothing worse
than a fright. I dug my spurs into my horse, my baggage jingling behind
like a Limousin tinker's bag of old iron.

"However, all went well, and I rode tranquilly along the crossroad, in
order not to pass through La Châtre with that outfit; but I had to
cross the Couarde, by the bridge on the Aigurande road, and there I
found myself face to face with a party of ten or twelve reiters riding
toward the town.

"They were simply marauders, but they had with them one of the vilest
partisan troopers of the time, a certain knave whose father or uncle was
in command of the great tower of Bourges, and was known as Captain
Macabre.

"This fellow, who was about my own age but already old in villainy,
acted as guide to such bands of pillagers, who were very willing to let
him try his hand with them. I had fallen in with him several times, and
he knew that, having fought for the Calvinists, I ought not to be
roughly handled by the Germans. But when he saw the load I was carrying,
he concluded that I was a valuable prize, and, assuming a mighty
swagger, he ordered me to dismount and turn over horse and baggage to
his men, who called themselves for the moment cavalry of the Duc
d'Alençon.

"As they did not know a word of French, and young Macabre acted as their
interpreter, it would have been utterly useless for me to try to parley
with them. Knowing with whom I had to deal, and that, after I had
submitted and dismounted, I should be soundly beaten and possibly shot,
by way of pastime, as was the habit of the marauding bands, I risked all
to win all.

"With my boot and stirrup together I kicked Macabre violently in the
stomach--he had already dismounted to unhorse me--and stretched him flat
on his back, swearing like forty devils."

"And you did well, monsieur!" cried Adamas, enthusiastically.

"The others," continued Bois-Doré, "were so far from expecting to see a
stripling like me do such a thing under their noses, they being old
troopers one and all, and armed to the teeth, that they began to laugh;
whereof I took advantage to ride away like a shot; but, having recovered
from their amazement, they sent after me a hailstorm of German plums,
which they called in those days Monsieur's plums, because those Germans
used the plans drawn by Monsieur, the king's brother, against the
queen-mother's troops.

"Fate willed that I should not be hit, and, thanks to my excellent mare,
who carried me swiftly through the tortuous sunken roads of the Couarde,
I returned home safe and sound. Great was the joy of my little brother
as he watched me unpack all those gewgaws.

"'My dear,' I said to him, as I gave him the citadel, 'it was very lucky
for me that I was so well fortified, for, if it had not been for these
stout walls which I had over my spine, I fancy that you would never have
seen me again.'

"Indeed, Adamas, I believe that if you should take this stuffed dog to
pieces, you would find some lead inside; and that, if the citadel did
not protect me, the animals protected the citadel at all events."

"If that is the case, monsieur, I shall keep all the things most
carefully, and place them as a trophy in some room in the château."

"No, Adamas, people would laugh at us. And here comes that beautiful
boy; we must give him the dog and all the rest, for the things that come
from an angel should go to another angel, and I see in this Mario's eyes
the innocence and affection that were in my young brother's eyes.--Yes,
it is certain," continued the marquis, glancing at Mario and Mercedes,
as they entered the room, escorted by Clindor the page, "that if
Florimond had had a son, he would have been exactly like this boy; and,
if you wish me to tell you why I was attracted to him at first sight, it
was because he recalled to my mind, not so much by his features as by
his bearing, his soft voice and his gentle manners, my brother as he was
at about that age."

"Monsieur your brother never married," said Adamas, whose mind was even
more romantic than his master's; "but he may have had natural children,
and who knows whether----"

"No, no, my friend, let us not dream! I had a vision while this Moorish
woman was telling us the story of the murdered gentleman. Would you
believe that I actually fancied that it might have been my brother?"

"Well, and why should it not have been, monsieur, since no one knows how
he died?"

"It was not he," replied the marquis, "for this little Mario's father
was killed before the death of our good King Henri, whereas my last
letter from my brother was dated at Genoa on June 16th, that is to say
about a month after that event. It is not possible to reconcile the
two."




XVIII


While the marquis and Adamas exchanged these reflections, the Moorish
woman had made her preparations for singing, and Lucilio had arrived to
listen to her.

The marquis was so pleased with her manner that he begged Lucilio to
write down the airs she sung. Lucilio was even more captivated by them,
as being, he said, "very old and rare, of great beauty and perfect in
their way."


[Illustration: _MERCEDES AND MARIO ENTERTAIN
THE MARQUIS._

_Mercedes sang better and better as they encouraged
her, and Mario played her accompaniments very well._]


Mercedes sang better and better as they encouraged her, and Mario played
her accompaniments very well.

He was so fascinating with his long guitar, his wise expression, his
lips half-parted and his beautiful hair falling in waves over his
shoulders, that one could never weary of looking at him. His costume,
which consisted of a coarse white shirt, and brown woollen
knee-breeches, with a red girdle and gray stockings with strips of red
cloth wound around the legs, heightened the grace of his movements and
the elegance of his shapely figure.

He received with joyous bewilderment the toys which were brought from
the garret, and the marquis was gratified to see that, after an admiring
scrutiny of all those marvellous things, he arranged them in a corner
with a sort of respect.

The fact was that they did not appeal to him very strongly, and that,
when his surprise had passed, his thoughts returned to Fleurial, who was
alive, playful and affectionate, and would have followed him in his
wandering life, whereas the possession of horses, cannon and citadels
was only the dream of an instant in that life of want and constant
motion.

The rest of the day passed with no new outbreak on the part of Monsieur
d'Alvimar.

He saw Monsieur Poulain again and told him that he had decided to lay
siege to the fair Lauriane.

At supper he did his best to avoid having in the person of the marquis
an enemy or an obstacle in his intercourse with her, and he succeeded in
creating a favorable impression. He did not encounter the Moor or the
child, nor did he hear them mentioned, and he retired early to muse upon
his projects.

The marquis's whole retinue was overjoyed to keep Mario a few days; so
Adamas announced. He had covers laid for the child and his mother at the
second table, at which he himself ate, in the capacity of valet de
chambre, with Master Jovelin, whom Bois-Doré purposely treated as an
inferior, and with Bellinde the housekeeper and Clindor the page.

The coachman and other servants ate at different hours and in a
different place. Theirs was the third table.

There was a fourth for the farm hands, wayfarers, poor travellers and
mendicant monks; so that, from dawn until dark, that is to say, until
eight or nine o'clock at night, eating was in progress at the château
of Briantes, and some chimney was always pouring forth a rich, greasy
smoke, which attracted swarms of urchins and beggars from a long way
off. They always received a bountiful supply of broken food at the main
gate, and laid the fifth table on the turf along the avenue, or on the
banks of the ditches.

Despite this generous hospitality and this numerous retinue, which did
not correspond with the narrow proportions of the château itself, the
marquis's income met all demands, and he always had money to spare for
his innocent whims.

He lost very little by peculation, although he kept no accounts; as
Adamas and Bellinde detested each other, they watched each other
closely, and although Bellinde was not the woman to abstain altogether
from plunder, the fear of arousing suspicion made her prudent and
necessarily moderate in the matter of profit. Being handsomely paid, and
always magnificently dressed at the expense of the châtelain, who did
not choose to see rags or dirt about him, she certainly had no excuse
for malversation; but she complained none the less, being one of those
who cherish a stolen sou and disdain an honestly acquired louis.

As for Adamas, if he was not the soul of probity in all his
relations--for he had fought in the civil wars and had acquired the
manners of the partisan troops,--he was so devoted to his master, that
if, in the eminent post of confidential servant which he had attained,
he had dared to pillage other people and hold them to ransom, it would
have been solely to enrich the manor of Briantes.

Clindor made common cause with him against Bellinde, who hated him and
treated him like a dog dressed in boy's clothes.

He was an honest little fellow, half clever, half stupid, uncertain as
yet whether he should pose as a man of the third estate, a title which
was assuming more real importance every day, or should assume the airs
of a future gentleman, a species of vanity which was to keep the third
estate for a long time to come in an equivocal attitude and cause it to
play the rôle of dupe between factions, despite its intellectual
superiority.

The secret of the Moorish woman's nationality was not divulged. In order
not to expose her to the suspicious intolerance of Bellinde, who made a
great show of piety, Adamas represented her as a Spaniard pure and
simple.

Not a word of her story or of Mario's transpired.

"Monsieur le marquis," said Adamas to his master as he undressed him,
"we are children and know nothing at all of the artifices of the toilet.
This Moor, with whom I have been talking upon serious subjects, has
taught me more in an hour than all your Parisian artists know. She has
the most valuable secrets about all sorts of things, and knows how to
extract miraculous juices from plants."

"Very good, very good, Adamas! Talk about something else. Recite some
verses to me as you shave me; for I feel depressed, and I might truly
say with Monsieur d'Urfé, speaking of Astrée, that the effervescence
of my ennui disturbs the repose of my stomach and the breath of my
life."

"_Numes célestes_! monsieur," cried the faithful Adamas, who loved to
use his master's favorite expressions; "so you are still thinking of
your brother?"

"Alas! his memory came back to me yesterday, I don't know why. There are
such days in every man's life, you know, when a slumbering sorrow wakes.
It is like the wounds one brings back from the war. Let me tell you
something of which that orphan's pretty ways made me think just now. It
is that I am growing old, my poor Adamas!"

"Monsieur is jesting!"

"No, we are growing old, my friend, and my name will die with me. I have
a few distant cousins, to be sure, for whom I care but little, and who
will perpetuate my father's name, if they can; but I shall be the first
and last of the Bois-Dorés, and my marquisate will descend to no one,
being entirely honorary and determinable at the king's pleasure."

"I have often thought about it, and I regret that monsieur has always
been too active to consent to put an end to his bachelor life and marry
some beautiful nymph of this neighborhood."

"To be sure, I have done wrong not to think of it. I have roamed too
much from fair to fair, and although I never met Monsieur d'Urfé, I
would stake my life that, having heard of me somewhere, he intended to
describe me under the features of Hylas the shepherd."

"And suppose it were so? That shepherd is a very amiable man,
exceedingly clever, and the most entertaining, in my opinion, of all the
heroes of the book."

"True; but he is young, and I tell you again that I am beginning not to
be young any more and to regret very bitterly my having no family. Do
you know that I have had the idea of adopting a child, or have been
conscious of a longing to do so, at least a score of times?"

"I know it, monsieur; whenever you see a pretty, attractive little baby,
that idea comes back to you. Well, what prevents you?"

"The difficulty of finding one with an attractive face and a good
disposition, who has no parents likely to take him away from me when I
have brought him up; for to dote on a child just to have him taken from
you at the age of twenty or twenty-five----"

"But the interval, monsieur."

"Oh! time flies so fast! one is not conscious of its flight! You know
that I once thought of taking some young poor relation into my house;
but my family are all old Leaguers, and their children are ugly, or
obstreperous, or dirty."

"It is certain, monsieur, that the younger branch of the Bourons is not
attractive. You appropriated the stature, all the charm and all the
gallantry of the family, and no one but yourself can give you an heir
worthy of you."

"Myself!" said Bois-Doré, slightly dazed by this declaration.

"Yes, monsieur, I am speaking seriously. Since you are tired of your
liberty; since I hear you say, for the tenth time, that you mean to
settle down----"

"Why, Adamas, you speak of me as if I were an old rake! It seems to me
that, since our Henri's sad death, I have lived as becomes a man
overwhelmed by grief, and a resident nobleman in duty bound to set a
good example."

"Certainly, certainly, monsieur, you can say all that you please to me
on that subject It is my duty not to contradict you. You are not obliged
to tell me of your delightful adventures in the châteaux or groves of
the neighborhood, eh, monsieur? That is nobody's business but yours. A
faithful servant ought not to spy upon his master, and I do not think
that I have ever asked monsieur any indiscreet questions."

"I do justice to your delicacy, my dear Adamas," replied Bois-Doré, at
once embarrassed, disturbed and flattered by the chimerical suppositions
of his idolatrous valet. "Let us talk of something else," he added,
afraid to dwell upon so delicate a subject, and trying to believe that
Adamas knew of adventures of his of which he had no knowledge himself.

The marquis did not boast openly. He was too well bred to tell of the
love-affairs he had had and to invent others that he had never had. But
he was delighted that he should still be accredited with them, and
provided that no particular woman was compromised, he did not contradict
those who said that he was favored of all women. His friends connived at
his modest conceit, and it was the great delight of the younger men, of
Guillaume d'Ars in particular, to tease him on that point, knowing how
agreeable such teasing was to him.

But Adamas was not so ceremonious. He was not very much of a Gascon on
his own account; having blended his personality with the radiations from
his master's, he was a Gascon for him and in his place.

So he continued the discussion with much self-possession, declaring that
monsieur was quite right to think of marrying. It was a subject which
was often renewed between them, and of which neither of them wearied,
although it had never had any other result in thirty years than this
reflection from Bois-Doré:

"To be sure! to be sure! but I am so peaceful and so happy thus! There
is no hurry, we will talk about it again."

This time, however, he seemed to listen to Adamas's boasting on his
account with more attention than usual.

"If I thought that there was no danger of my marrying a barren woman,"
he said to his confidant, "I would marry, on my word! Perhaps I should
do well to marry a widow with children?"

"Fie! monsieur," cried Adamas, "do not think of such a thing. Take some
young and lovely demoiselle, who will give you children after your own
image."

"Adamas!" said the marquis, after a moment's hesitation, "I have some
doubt whether heaven will send me that blessing. But you suggest an
attractive thought, which is to marry a woman so young that I can
imagine that she is my daughter and love her as if I were her father.
What do you say to that?"

"I say, that if she is young, very young, monsieur can at need imagine
that he has adopted a child. And if that is monsieur's idea, there is no
need to go very far; the little lady of La Motte-Seuilly is exactly
suited to monsieur's wants. She is beautiful, she is good, she is
virtuous, she is merry; those qualities are what we need to brighten up
our manor-house, and I am very sure that her father has thought of it
more than once."

"Do you think so, Adamas?"

"To be sure! and so has she! Do you suppose that, when they come here,
she draws no comparison between her old château and yours, which is a
fairy palace? Do you suppose, that, for all she is so young and
innocent, she has never discovered what sort of man you are compared
with all the other suitors whom she has ever seen?"

Bois-Doré fell asleep thinking of the absence of suitors about the fair
Lauriane, of the enmity that the neighbors bore the rough and outspoken
De Beuvre, and of the annoyance which De Beuvre felt on account of that
state of things, temporary doubtless, but of which he exaggerated the
possible duration.

The marquis persuaded himself that his proposal would be hailed as one
of fortune's greatest boons.

The religious question would adjust itself as between them. In any
event, if Lauriane should reproach him for having abjured Calvinism, he
saw no objection to embracing it a second time.

His self-conceit did not permit him to consider the possibility of an
objection based upon his age. Adamas had the gift of dispelling that
unpleasant memory every night by his flatteries.

Honest Sylvain therefore fell asleep on that evening more absurd than
ever; but whoever could have read in his heart the purely paternal
feeling that guided his course, the boundless philosophical tolerance
with which he looked forward to the possibility of being made a cuckold,
and the projects of indulgence, of submission and absolute devotion
which he formed with regard to his youthful helpmeet, would certainly
have forgiven him, even while laughing at him.

When Adamas went into his own room, it seemed to him that he heard the
rustling of a dress in the secret stairway. He rushed into the passage
as quickly as possible, but failed to catch Bellinde, who had time to
disappear, after overhearing, as she had often done before, all the
conversation between the two old fellows.

Adamas knew her to be quite capable of playing the spy. But he concluded
that he was mistaken, and barricaded all the doors when there was
nothing to be heard save the loud snoring of the marquis and the muffled
yelping of little Fleurial, who lay at the foot of the bed dreaming of a
certain black cat, which was to him what Bellinde was to Adamas.




XIX


They arrived at La Motte-Seuilly about nine o'clock the next morning.
The reader has not forgotten that in those days dinner was served at ten
in the morning, supper at six in the evening.

On this occasion our marquis, who was fully determined to open his
matrimonial projects, had deemed it best to use some lighter and less
cumbersome means of locomotion than his magnificent lumbering chariot.

He had mounted, not without a mighty effort, his pretty Andalusian
steed, called _Rosidor_--another name from _Astrée_,--an excellent
beast with an easy gait and placid disposition, a little mischievous, as
it was fitting that he should be in order to give his rider a chance to
shine--that is to say, ready at the slightest sign with leg or hand, to
roll his eyes savagely, curvet, dilate his nostrils like a wicked devil,
rear to a respectable height, and, in a word, assume the airs of a
bad-tempered brute.


   "For all that, the best fellow in the world."


As he dismounted, the marquis ordered Clindor to lead his horse around
the courtyard for a quarter of an hour, on the pretext that he was too
warm to be taken to the stable at once, but in reality so that his hosts
might know that he still rode that restive palfrey.

Before he entered Lauriane's presence, honest Sylvain went to the room
set aside for him in his neighbor's house, to readjust his clothes, and
perfume and beautify himself in the jauntiest and most refined manner.

On his side Monsieur Sciarra d'Alvimar, dressed in black velvet and
satin, after the Spanish fashion, with hair cut short and a ruff of rich
lace, had only to change his boots for silk hose and shoes bedecked with
ribbons, to show himself at his best.

Although his sedate costume, then considered old-fashioned in France,
was better suited to Bois-Doré's age than his own, it gave him an
indefinable air of a diplomat and a priest at once, which emphasized the
more strongly his extraordinarily well-preserved youth and the
self-assured refinement of his person.

It seemed that old De Beuvre had anticipated a day of offers of
marriage; for he had made himself less like a Huguenot, that is to say
less austere in his dress than usual, and, deeming his daughter's dress
too simple, he had urged her to don a handsomer one. So she made herself
as fine as the widow's weeds, which she was in duty bound to wear until
she married again, would permit. In those days custom was not to be
trifled with.

She arrayed herself in white taffeta, with a raised skirt over an
underskirt of grayish white, called _rye bread color_. She put on a lace
neckband and wristbands, and as the widow's hood--Mary Stuart's little
cap--relieved her from the necessity of conforming to the fashion of
wearing the ugly powdered wigs which were then in vogue, she was able to
show her lovely fair hair brushed back in a wavy mass which left her
beautiful forehead bare and framed her finely-veined temples.

In order not to seem too provincial, she sprinkled her hair with Cyprus
powder, which made her more than ever like a child. Although the two
suitors had severally determined to be agreeable, they were somewhat
embarrassed during the dinner, as if they had conceived some suspicion
that they were rivals.

Indeed, Bellinde had repeated to Monsieur Poulain's housekeeper the
conversation she had overheard. The housekeeper had told the rector, who
had put D'Alvimar on his guard by a note thus conceived:

"You have, in the person of your host, a rival with whom you can amuse
yourself; make the most of the opportunity."

D'Alvimar laughed in his sleeve at the idea of rivalry from such a
quarter; his plan was to attack the young lady's heart at once. Little
he cared for her father's approval. He thought that, if he were once in
control of Lauriane's feelings, there would be no difficulty about the
rest.

Bois-Doré reasoned differently. He could not doubt the esteem and
attachment of both father and daughter for him. He did not hope to take
her imagination by surprise and turn her head; he would have liked to be
alone with them, to set forth in simple terms his advantages in the way
of rank and wealth; after which he hoped, by humble attentions, to make
his purpose manifest ingeniously and honorably. In short, he determined
to act the part of a well-bred youth of good family, while his rival
preferred to carry the place by storm like a hero of romance.

De Beuvre, who saw that D'Alvimar was becoming sentimental, vexed his
old friend sorely by leading him away along the little stream, to ask
him numerous questions touching his guest's rank and fortune; to which
Bois-Doré could make no other reply than that Monsieur d'Ars had
recommended him to him as a man of quality to whom he was much attached.

"Guillaume is young," said Monsieur de Beuvre; "but he realizes too well
what he owes us to introduce to us a man unworthy of a cordial reception
at our hands. Still, I am surprised that he told you nothing more; but
Monsieur de Villareal must have confided to you his motive in coming
hither. How does it happen that he did not accompany Guillaume to the
fêtes at Bourges?"

Bois-Doré could not answer that question; but in his inmost heart De
Beuvre was convinced that this mystery concealed no other design than
that of paying court to his daughter.

"He must have seen her somewhere, when she did not notice him," he said
to himself; "and although he seems a very earnest Catholic, he also
seems very much in love with her."

He said to himself further that, in the then state of affairs, a
Catholic Spanish son-in-law might restore the fortunes of his house and
repair the wrong he had done his daughter by joining the ranks of the
Reformers.

If for no other reason than to give the lie to the Jesuits, who had
threatened him, he would have been glad to learn that the Spaniard was
of sufficiently good family to pretend to the hand of Lauriane, even if
he were only moderately wealthy.

Monsieur de Beuvre reasoned like a sceptic. He did not talk so loudly of
Montaigne's _Essays_, as Bois-Doré did of _Astrée_, but he fed his
mind upon them assiduously, and he read no other book.

Bois-Doré, being more straightforward in his politics than his
neighbor, would not have reasoned as he did if he had been a father. He
was no more attached than he to religion; but of the beliefs of the
olden time, he had never laid aside the love of country, and the spirit
of the League would never have induced him to trifle with it.

He did not suspect the thoughts of his friend, absorbed as he was by his
own, and during a quarter of an hour, as if playing at cross purposes,
they discussed, without understanding each other, the urgent need of a
good marriage for Lauriane.

At last light was thrown upon the discussion.

"You!" cried De Beuvre in stupefaction, when the marquis had declared
himself. "Bless my soul! who the devil could have expected that? I
imagined that you were talking in veiled words about your Spaniard, and
it seems that you mean yourself! Look you! neighbor, are you in your
right mind, and don't you mistake yourself for your grandson?"

Bois-Doré gnawed his moustache; but, being accustomed to his friend's
jesting, he soon recovered himself, and strove to persuade him that
people were mistaken about his age, and that he was not so old as his
own father was when he remarried, at the age of sixty, with most
successful results.

While he was wasting time thus, D'Alvimar was striving to make the most
of it.

He had succeeded in bringing Madame de Beuvre to a halt under the great
yew, whose branches, drooping to the ground, formed a sort of apartment
of dark verdure, where one was entirely isolated in the middle of the
garden.

He began awkwardly enough with extravagant compliments.

Lauriane was not on her guard against the poison of praise; she knew
little of the refined manners of young men of quality, and was not able
to distinguish the false from the true; but, luckily for her, her heart
had not yet felt the tedium of solitude, and she was much more of a
child than she seemed to be. She considered D'Alvimar's hyperbolical
language highly amusing, and laughed at his gallantry with a heartiness
that disconcerted him.

He saw that his fine phrases had no luck, so strove to talk of love in a
more natural vein. Perhaps he would have succeeded and would have sown
confusion in that young heart; but Lucilio suddenly appeared, as if sent
by Providence, to interrupt this dangerous interview with the sweet
notes of his _sourdeline_.

He had been averse to coming with Bois-Doré, knowing that he would be
made to dine in the servants' quarters and would not see Lauriane before
noon.

Lauriane, as well as her father, was acquainted with the tragic story of
Bruno's disciple, and, following Bois-Doré's example, they
ostentatiously treated him at La Motte-Seuilly as a musician simply,
fearing to compromise him, although they really entertained for him the
high esteem that he deserved.

Lucilio was the only one who had not thought of making a toilet for the
occasion. He had no hope of attracting attention; indeed, he had no
desire to draw any eye upon himself, knowing that the mysterious
intercourse of minds was the most to which he could aspire.

So he approached the yew without useless timidity or pretended caution;
and, relying upon the beauty and sincerity of what he had to say in
music, he began to play, to the great displeasure and vexation of
D'Alvimar.

Lauriane, too, was annoyed for a moment by the interruption, but she
reproached herself when she read on the bagpiper's beautiful face an
ingenuous purpose to gratify her.

"I do not know why it is," she thought, "that there seems to be on that
face a sort of radiance of genuine affection and of a healthy
conscience, which I do not find on the _other's_ face."

And she glanced once more at D'Alvimar, now thoroughly irritated, morose
and overbearing, and felt something like a shiver of fear--perhaps of
him, perhaps of herself.

Again, whether because she was very sensitive to music, or because her
emotions were keyed up to a high pitch, she fancied that she could hear
in her brain the words of the beautiful airs Lucilio was playing to her,
and those imaginary words were:

"See the bright sun shining in the clear sky, and the swift streams
receiving its rays on their changing surfaces!

"See the beautiful trees bent in black arches against the pale golden
background of the meadows, and the meadows themselves, as cheery and
bright as in the springtime, under the embroidery of the pink flowers of
autumn; and the graceful swan, that seems to paddle rhythmically at your
feet; and the migratory birds flying across yonder multicolored clouds.

"All these are the music that I sing to thee: youth, purity, faith, love
and happiness.

"Listen not to the strange voice which thou dost not understand. It is
soft but deceptive. It would extinguish the sun over your head; it would
dry up the water under your feet; it would wither the flowers in the
fields and shatter the wings of the birds among the clouds; it would
cause cold, fear and death to descend upon thee, and would exhaust
forever the source of the divine harmonies I sing to thee."

Lauriane no longer saw D'Alvimar. Lost in a delicious reverie, she did
not see Lucilio. She was transported into the past, and, thinking of
Charlotte d'Albret, she said to herself:

"No, no, I will never listen to the voice of the demon!--My friend," she
said aloud, rising, when the musician stopped, "you have done me an
immense amount of good, and I thank you. I have nothing to give you
which can pay for the noble thoughts which you are able to suggest to
us; that is why I beg you to accept these fragrant violets, which are
the emblem of your modesty."

She had refused to give D'Alvimar the violets, and she ostentatiously
gave them to the poor musician, before his face.

D'Alvimar smiled triumphantly, thinking that she meant to incite him by
a challenge more stimulating than an avowal. But such was not Lauriane's
thought, for, making a pretence of fastening the flowers in Lucilio's
hat, she said to him under her breath:

"Master Giovellino, I ask you to be a father to me, and not to stir from
my side until I tell you to."

Thanks to his keen Italian penetration, Lucilio grasped her meaning.

"Yes, yes, I understand, rely on me!" his expressive eyes replied.

And he seated himself on the huge roots of the yew, at a respectful
distance, like a servant awaiting such orders as may be given him, but
near enough to make it impossible for D'Alvimar to say a word which he
did not hear.

D'Alvimar divined the whole plan. She was afraid of him; that was still
better! He held the bagpiper in such utter contempt that he began anew
to pay court to his hostess before him as if he were a log of wood.

But his dangerous magnetism lost all its virtue.

It seemed to Lauriane that the presence of a calm, virtuous man like
Lucilio was an antidote. She would have blushed to display any vanity
before him. She felt that his eyes were upon her, and that feeling was a
protection. She saw that the Spaniard was piqued, and was gradually
growing angry. She tried her strength by resisting him.

He wanted her to dismiss that interloper, and he told her so,
designedly, in a tone loud enough to be overheard by him.

Lauriane flatly refused, saying that she desired more music.

Lucilio at once began to inflate his bagpipe.

D'Alvimar put his hand to his breast, drew a very sharp Spanish knife,
and, having removed it from its sheath, began to play with it as if to
keep himself in countenance; sometimes pretending to write with the
point on the old yew, sometimes to hurl it at something as if to show
his dexterity.

Lauriane did not understand his threat.

Lucilio was impassive, and yet he was too much of an Italian not to be
familiar with the cold-blooded anger of a Spaniard, and with the
possible destination of a stiletto apparently thrown at random.

Under any other circumstances he would have been anxious concerning his
instrument, which D'Alvimar's eye seemed to be watching, as if for a
chance to pierce it. But he was complying with Lauriane's wish; he was
fighting in behalf of innocence, as Orpheus fought for love with his
triumphant lyre; and he courageously attacked one of the Moorish airs
which he had heard and written down the day before.

D'Alvimar felt that he was defied, and the fire of wrath that was
smouldering within him began to burn him.

Being as dexterous as a Chinaman in throwing the knife, he determined to
frighten the impertinent minstrel, and began to make the gleaming blade
fly all around him, drawing nearer and nearer as he proceeded with his
soft and plaintive song. Lauriane had walked away a few steps, and at
that moment her back was turned to that horrible scene.

"I have defied tortures and death," said Giovellino to himself. "I will
defy them again, and this Spaniard shall not have the pleasure of seeing
me turn pale."

He turned his eyes in another direction and played as carefully and
accurately as if he were at Bois-Doré's table.

Meanwhile D'Alvimar, moving hither and thither, amused himself by
standing in front of him and aiming at him, as if he were tempted to
take him for a target; and by virtue of one of those inexplicable
fascinations which are as it were the punishment of cruel jests, he
began really to feel that horrible temptation.

The cold perspiration stood out on his body and a film passed over his
eyes.

Lucilio felt it rather than saw it; but he chose to risk everything
rather than show a moment's fear in the face of the enemy of his native
land, who likewise cast contempt upon his manly dignity.




XX


While this terrible game was in progress, a strange spectator was
looking on within two steps of the heedless Lauriane; it was the young
wolf brought up in the kennels, who had adopted the habits and manners
of a dog, but not his instincts and nature. He fawned upon everybody but
was attached to nobody.

Lying at Lucilio's feet, he had watched the Spaniard's cruel game with
evident uneasiness, and, the dagger having fallen close beside him
several times, he had risen and sought shelter behind the tree, thinking
of nothing but his own safety.

However, as the game continued, the animal, who was just beginning to
feel his teeth, showed them several times in silence, and, considering
that he was attacked, felt for the first time in his life the instinct
of hatred of man.

With his eye on fire, muscles tense, hair erect and quivering, he was
concealed from D'Alvimar by the colossal trunk of the yew, where he
watched for a favorable moment, and suddenly sprang out and tried to
seize him by the throat.

He would have wounded him at least, if he had not strangled him, had he
not been thrown back by a vigorous kick from Lucilio, which sent him
rolling over and over along the ground.

The sudden interruption of the music, and the plaintive sound made by
the bagpipe as the artist dropped it, caused Lauriane to turn hastily.
Entirely ignorant of what was taking place, she ran up in time to see
D'Alvimar, frantic with rage, disemboweling the beast with his knife.

He performed that act of reprisal with all the heat of revenge. It was
easy to read on his pale face and in his bloodshot eye the profound and
incomprehensible joy that he felt in having something to murder.

Thrice he buried the blade in the throbbing entrails, and at the sight
of blood his lips contracted with an expression of voluptuous pleasure,
while Lauriane, trembling from head to foot, pressed Lucilio's arms with
both hands, saying in a low voice:

"Look! look! Cæsar Borgia! it is he in person!"

Lucilio, who had often seen at Rome the portrait painted by Raphael, was
even better able to appreciate the resemblance, and nodded his head to
indicate that he was deeply impressed by it.

"How now, monsieur?" said the young woman, deeply moved, to the
triumphant Spaniard; "do you think that you are in the heart of the
forest, and do you expect to make yourself agreeable to me by presenting
me with the head or the claws of a creature that I have fed with my own
hands, and that I was caressing before you a moment ago? For shame! you
are not civil; and with that bloody knife in your hand, you look more
like a butcher than a gentleman!"

Lauriane was angry; she had no other feeling now for the stranger than
one of aversion.

He, as if emerging from a dream, apologized, saying that the wolf had
tried to devour him; that such creatures were bad company in a house,
and that he was very glad to have rescued _madame_ from an accident
which might as well have happened to her as to him.

"Do you mean that he attacked you?" she said, and glanced at Lucilio,
who nodded assent.--"Did he bite you?" she added; "where is the wound?"

And as D'Alvimar had not even a scratch, she was indignant that he had
manifested fear of a beast that was so young and so far from dangerous.

"The word fear is not very fair to me," he replied in a sort of frenzy;
"I did not suppose that it could be thrown at one who still holds the
instrument of death in his hands."

"How proud you are of having killed that young wolf! A child could have
done it, and it would have been pardonable in a child, but not in a man,
who could easily have got rid of him with a blow of a whip. I tell you,
messire, you were terribly frightened, and fright is the disease of
those who love to shed blood."

"I see," said the Spaniard, suddenly downcast, "that I am in disgrace
with you, and I recognize in this, as in everything else, the effect of
my ill luck. It is so persistent that there have been many times when I
have thought of yielding to it as victor in a battle in which I find
naught save discomfort and discomfiture."

There was much truth in what D'Alvimar had said; and as, after he had
instinctively wiped his dagger, he seemed to hesitate to replace it in
its sheath, Lauriane, impressed by the sinister gleam in his eye,
concluded that he was a little mad, as the result of some great
misfortune, and inclined to take his own life.

"If I am to forgive you," she said, "I demand that you hand me the
weapon of which you have just made such an unworthy use. I do not like
that treacherous blade, which French gentlemen no longer carry, except
when hunting. The sword is enough for a true knight, and one should take
time for reflection before unsheathing it in a lady's presence. I should
always be afraid of a man who conceals about his person a weapon so easy
to handle and so prompt to kill; and as this one does not seem to be of
great value, I ask you to sacrifice it to me, by way of reparation for
the pain you have caused me."

D'Alvimar thought that in thus disarming him she intended to caress him.
Nevertheless, it cost him a pang to part with so trusty a weapon, and he
hesitated.

"I see," said Lauriane, "that it is a gift from some fair dame whom you
are not at liberty to disobey."

"If you have any such thought as that," he retorted, "I will very
quickly disabuse you of it."

And, kneeling on one knee, he handed her the poniard.

"It is well," she said, withdrawing her hand, which he tried to kiss. "I
forgive you, as a guest whom I do not desire to humiliate; but that is
all, I assure you; and as for this wretched blade, if I keep it, I do so
not for love of you, but to prevent the evil that it might do."

They were then at the foot of the donjon, where they met the marquis and
Monsieur de Beuvre, engaged in earnest conversation.

Lauriane was about to tell them what had happened, but her father did
not give her time.

"Look you, my dearest daughter," he said, taking her hand and putting it
through the marquis's arm; "our friend wishes to tell you a secret, and
while he is telling it, I will do my best to entertain Monsieur de
Villareal. You see," he added, addressing Monsieur de Bois-Doré, "I
entrust my lamb to you without fear of your sharp teeth, and I say
nothing to her to lower you in her estimation! Speak to her therefore as
you choose. If you are burned, I wash my hands of it, it will be of your
own seeking."

"I see," said Madame de Beuvre to the marquis, "that you have some
request to make."

And as she supposed that it referred, as usual, to some hunting party on
his estates, she added that, whatever it might be, she granted it
beforehand.

"Beware, my child!" laughed Monsieur de Beuvre; "you don't know what you
are pledging yourself to!"

"You do not frighten me," she replied; "he can speak quickly."

"Indeed! you think so! but you are sadly mistaken," rejoined Monsieur de
Beuvre. "I will wager that his compliments will last more than an hour.
So go, both of you, to some room where you will not be disturbed, and
when you have said all you have to say, you can join us again."

The marquis was not disconcerted by this jesting. He had not reached the
resolution to prefer his request without stifling some vivid
apprehensions touching the marriage state, into which he had delayed
entering for about forty years.

If he had decided at last, it was because he wished to make someone else
rich and happy, and, having once adopted that idea, he considered it his
duty not to allow himself to be turned aside from it.

No sooner had they reached the salon, therefore, than he offered his
heart, his name and his fortune, after the style in vogue in _Astrée_,
with the unbridled passion which knows nothing milder than horrible
torments, sighs that rend the heart, terrors that cause a thousand
deaths, hopes that take away the reason, etc.; and all this with such
chaste and cold propriety that the most timid virtue could not take
alarm.

When Lauriane realized that he was talking about marriage, she was as
surprised as her father.

She knew that the marquis was capable of anything, and instead of
laughing at him she felt sorry for him. She had a warm friendship for
him, and respect for his goodness of heart and loyalty. She felt that
the poor old man would lay himself open to interminable taunts, if she
should set the example, and that the friendly and kindly raillery of
which he had hitherto been the object, would become stinging and cruel.

"No," thought the judicious child, "it shall not be so, I will not
suffer my old friend to be the laughing-stock of his servants.--My dear
marquis," she said, exerting herself to speak after his style, "I have
often reflected upon the possibility and the suitability of the plan
which you propose to me. I had divined your noble and virtuous flame,
and, if I have not reciprocated it, it is only because I am still so
young that mischievous Cupid has paid no attention to me as yet. Allow
me therefore to frolic yet a little while in the enchanted isle of
Ignorance of Love; I can be in no haste to come forth, since I am happy
in your friendship. Of all the men whom I know, you are the best and
most lovable, and, when my heart speaks, it may well be that it will
speak to me of you. But that is written in the book of destinies, and
you must e'en give me time to question mine. If, by some fatality, it
should be my destiny to be ungrateful to you, I would confess it
honestly and sorrowfully, for it would be my loss and my shame; but your
heart is so great and so kind that you would still be my brother and my
friend despite my folly."

"That would I, I swear it!" cried Bois-Doré with ingenuous warmth.

"Very well, my loyal friend," continued Lauriane, "let us wait awhile. I
ask you for a seven years' trial as the ancient custom is among knights
without reproach; and do me the favor to allow this agreement to remain
a secret between us two. Seven years hence, if my heart has remained
insensible to love, you will renounce me; and in like manner, if I share
your passion, I will tell you so without mystery. I swear to you
likewise, that if, before the expiration of our agreement, I am moved,
despite myself, by another's attentions, I will humbly and frankly make
confession to you thereof. Of that there seems but little likelihood;
yet do I seek to provide for everything, so earnestly do I desire to
preserve at least your friendship, if I lose your love."

"I submit to all your conditions," replied the marquis, "and I pledge to
you, adorable Lauriane, the faith of a gentleman and the fidelity of a
perfect lover."

"I rely thereupon," she said, offering him her hand; "I know that you
are a man of heart and an incomparable lover. And now, let us return to
my father, and let me tell him of that which is agreed between us, so
that our secret may be shared by him alone."

"I agree," said the marquis; "but shall we not exchange pledges?"

"What shall they be? I am willing; but let it not be a ring. Remember
that, being a widow, I can wear no other ring than the gift of a second
husband."

"Permit me to send you to-morrow a present worthy of you."

"No, no! that would mean admitting others to our confidence. Give me any
trinket that you have about you. See, that little box of ivory and
enamel that you have in your hand!"

"'Tis well! but what will you give me? I see you have the right
understanding of this exchange. It must be something that we have upon
us when we exchange promises."

Lauriane looked in her pockets and found there only her gloves, her
handkerchief, her purse and Monsieur Sciarra's dagger. The purse came to
her from her another: she gave him the dagger.

"Hide it carefully," she said, "and, so long as I allow you to keep it,
hope. In like manner, if I come and ask you for it----"

"I will pierce my bosom with it!" cried the old Celadon.

"No! that is something that you will not do," said Lauriane, with the
utmost seriousness, "for I should die of grief; and, moreover, you would
break the promise you have given me to remain my friend whatever
happens."

"That is true," said Bois-Doré, kneeling to receive the pledge. "I
swear to you that I will not die, even as I swear that I will neither
love nor glance at any other fair, so long as you shall not have torn
from my heart the hope of winning yours."




XXI


They returned to the garden, where Monsieur de Beuvre greeted them with
a bantering air. The grave and tranquil demeanor of Lauriane, the
radiant and tender expression which the marquis could not dissemble,
surprised him so that he could not refrain from questioning them,
covertly though transparently, in D'Alvimar's presence.

But Lauriane replied that she and the marquis were in perfect accord,
and D'Alvimar, unwilling to believe his ears, took that assertion for a
bit of coquetry aimed at him.

Thereupon Monsieur de Beuvre's anxiety became very keen, and, leading
his daughter aside, he asked her if she were speaking seriously, and if
she were insane enough or ambitious enough to accept a spark born in the
reign of Henri II.

Lauriane told him how she had postponed her reply and any definitive
agreement for seven years.

After laughing as if he would burst, De Beuvre, when Lauriane urged him
to keep her secret, had some difficulty in understanding his daughter's
kindly delicacy.

He would have enjoyed making merry over the marquis's discomfiture, and
he considered that to have laughed in his face would have been an
excellent way to teach him a lesson.

"No, father," replied Lauriane; "on the contrary, it would have grieved
him terribly, and nothing more. He is too old to correct his foibles,
and I cannot see what we should gain by insulting so excellent a man,
when it is easy for us to lull him to sleep in his reveries. Believe me,
if coquetry is ever innocent in a woman, it is innocent when practised
upon old men; indeed, it is often an act of kindness to allow them to
enjoy their fantasy. Be assured that, if I should ever tell him that I
am in love with some other man, he would be well pleased; whereas, if I
had told him that I could never love him, he would very probably be ill
at this moment, not so much because of my cruelty as of the cruelty of
his old age, which I should have placed squarely before him without
consideration or compassion."

Lauriane had some influence over her father. She procured his promise
that he would abstain from teasing the marquis about his love-affair
with her, and D'Alvimar, with all his penetration, suspected nothing of
what had taken place between them.

It was really a kind action that Lauriane had performed; and, as there
is an open account between us and Providence, she was rewarded for it at
once by that invisible assistance which is the recompense, often
immediate, of every generous impulse of our hearts.

Lauriane was a good deal of a child, but there was the making of a
strong woman in her; and, even if she was capable, like every daughter
of Eve, of yielding momentarily to a dangerous fascination, she was also
capable of recovering herself and of finding a firm support in her
conscience.

She passed the rest of the day, therefore, untouched by D'Alvimar's
gallant hints; and it seemed to her that, by giving her dagger to the
marquis as the pledge of a generous affection, she had rid herself of
something that had disturbed her and burned her hands. She took pains
not to be left alone with the Spaniard, and not to encourage any of the
efforts he made to lead the conversation back to the delicate
commonplaces of love.

Moreover, all private conversation was interrupted and the attention of
the whole party diverted by a strange incident.

A young gypsy appeared and requested permission to entertain the
illustrious company by his accomplishments; I believe that the rascal
said "his genius."

He had no sooner made his appearance than D'Alvimar recognized the young
vagabond who had served as interpreter between Monsieur D'Ars and the
Moorish woman on the moor of Champillé, and who had declared that he
was French by birth and that his name was La Flèche.

He was a young man of some twenty years, with a handsome face, although
it already showed the ravages of debauchery. His eye was keen and
insolent; his lips flat and treacherous; his speech conceited, impudent
and satirical; he was short of stature, but well-formed, as active with
his body as a pantomimist, and with his hands as a thief; intelligent in
everything that is serviceable in evil-doing; stupid in respect to any
useful work or any sound reasoning.

Like all of his profession, he possessed a few rags in addition to what
he wore, and these he used as a costume in which to perform his tricks.

He made his appearance dressed in a sort of Genoese cloak lined with
red; on his head one of those hats bristling with cocks' feathers, hats
without name or shape or excuse for being; pretentious yet despairing
ruins, whose gorgeous improbability Callot has immortalized in his
Italian grotesques.

Short, slashed boots, one much too large, the other much too small for
his foot, disclosed stockings once red, now faded to the hue of wine
lees. An enormous scapulary covered the miscreant's breast, a safeguard
against the charge of paganism and sorcery that was constantly hanging
over his head. Lustreless light hair, of absurd length, fell over his
lean face, aflame with red ochre, and an incipient moustache joined two
patches of downy white hair planted under his smooth and glistening
chin.

He began in a voice like a cracked trumpet:

"I beg this illustrious company to deign to excuse the assurance with
which I venture to throw myself at the feet of its indulgence. In truth,
does it befit a varlet of my sort, with his bristling face, his scarred
doublet and hat, which have long been candidates for the post of
scarecrow, to appear before a lady whose eyes put the sunlight to shame,
and to utter a multiplicity of foolish things? She will tell me perhaps,
that I must take heart, that I am not a peasant pack-saddler, nor a
miserable spy, nor a servant to be beaten from morning till night, for
it is said of servants that they are like walnut-trees, the more they
are beaten the more they bear. She will tell me too that I am neither a
sharper, nor a pickpocket, nor a coxcomb, nor a bully, nor an arrogant
cur, nor a puppy, nor a giant-killer, nor a barbarian, nor a snail; that
I am not an evil-looking fellow, despite a slightly vulgar countenance;
but in the face of such qualities as those of the lady I see before
me--it doesn't cripple a goddess to look at her,--and before an
assemblage of noble lords who resemble a party of monarchs more than a
cartload of calves at market, the bravest man in the world loses his
bearings and becomes simply a gutter of ignorance, a sewer of
stupidities, and the cesspool of all sorts of impudence."

Master La Flèche might have chattered on for two hours in this strain,
with intolerable volubility, had they not interrupted him to ask him
what he could do.

"Everything!" cried the good-for-naught. "I can dance on my feet, on my
hands, on my head and on my back; on a rope, on a broomstick, on the
point of a steeple or on the point of a lance; on eggs, on bottles, on a
galloping horse, on a hoop, on a cask, and on running water, but this
last only on condition that some one of the company will deign to be my
vis-à-vis on stagnant water. I can sing and rhyme in thirty-seven
languages and a half, provided that some one of the company will deign
to answer me, without an error, in thirty-seven languages and a half. I
can eat rats, hemp, swords, fire----"

"Enough, enough," said De Beuvre impatiently; "we know your catalogue:
it is the same with all such braggarts as you. You claim to know
everything, and you know but one thing, which is how to tell fortunes."

"To be quite frank," retorted La Flèche, "that is what I excel in, and
if your radiant highnesses will write your names, I will draw to see
with whom I shall begin; for destiny is an ill-tempered fellow who knows
no distinction of rank or sex."

"Go on and draw; here is my token," said Monsieur De Beuvre, tossing him
a piece of money. "Your turn, my child."

Lauriane tossed him a larger coin, the marquis a gold crown, Lucilio
some copper, and D'Alvimar a pebble, saying:

"I see that you all give money to the conjurer, but in my opinion he
deserves only to be stoned."

"Beware," said Lauriane, smiling, "he will predict only unpleasant
things for you; everyone knows that, in the matter of horoscopes, you
only get what you pay for."

"Do not think that; destiny is my master," said La Flèche, putting the
money into a box, and suddenly affecting to speak simply and with a
fatalistic air.

He turned his indescribable hat, which seemed to threaten heaven like an
insolent castle tower, pulled it over his eyes like an extinguisher,
made several wry faces, pronounced divers unmeaning words supposed to be
cabalistic formulas, and, having turned his back in order to wipe off
the coarse paint unseen, showed his face made pale by prophetic
inspiration.

Then he traced upon the gravel the great _asphère_ of ignorant
necromancers, with all the symbols of street-corner astrology; he placed
a stone in the centre and threw the box at it, which broke and
distributed the contents over the symbols drawn in the different
compartments.

Thereupon D'Alvimar stooped to pick up his pebble.

"No, no!" cried the gypsy, darting into the circle with the agility of a
monkey, and placing his foot on D'Alvimar's token, without effacing any
of the signs that surrounded it; "no, messire, you cannot interfere with
destiny. It is above you as it is above me!"

"Certainly not," said Lauriane, putting her little cane between
D'Alvimar and La Flèche. "The magician is master in his magic circle,
and by disarranging your destiny, you may disarrange ours too."

D'Alvimar submitted; but his face betrayed an extraordinary agitation
which he instantly suppressed.




XXII


La Flèche began with the token nearest the central stone, which he
called Sinai.

It was Lucilio's; the gypsy pretended to measure angles and make
computations, then said in rhyming prose:


   "Homme sans langue et de grand cœur,
    Savoir de misere est vainqueur."[18]


"You see," whispered Bois-Doré to D'Alvimar, "the rascal has divined
our musician's melancholy plight."

"That was not very difficult," rejoined D'Alvimar contemptuously. "For a
quarter of an hour past the mute has been talking to you by signs."

"So you have no faith at all in divination?" replied Bois-Doré, while
La Flèche continued his calculations with a preoccupied air, but with
his ears open to all that was going on about him.

"Why, do you believe in it yourself, messire, I would ask?" said
D'Alvimar, pretending to be surprised at the seriousness with which the
marquis asked the question.

"I? Why--yes, more or less, like everybody else!"

"No one believes in this nonsense nowadays!"

"Oh! yes; I believe in it quite seriously," said Lauriane. "I beg you,
sorcerer, if my destiny is unfavorable, either to leave me a little
hope, or to find in your learning some means of averting it."

"Illustrious queen of hearts," replied La Flèche, "I obey your
commands. You are threatened by a great danger; but if, during three
days from the present moment,


   'Vous ne donnez point votre cœur,
    Du diable il sera le vainqueur."[19]


"Can you invent no other rhymes?" exclaimed D'Alvimar. "Your vocabulary
is not rich!"

"Everyone is not rich who wishes to be, messire," rejoined the gypsy;
"and yet there are those who wish it very earnestly, so earnestly that
they do everything to obtain wealth, even at the risk of the axe and the
halter!"

"Do you read such things in this gentleman's destiny?" said Lauriane,
who had been deeply impressed by the conjurer's warning to herself, and
now strove to turn the whole affair into a jest.

"Perhaps!" said Monsieur d'Alvimar carelessly; "one never knows what may
happen."

"But one can find out!" cried La Flèche. "Come who wants to know?"

"No one," said the marquis, "no one, if there is anything unpleasant in
store for any of us."

"Well, neighbor, you have faith, on my word!" said De Beuvre, who did
not exactly believe in anything. "You are an excellent customer for any
mountebank who chooses to fill your ears with idle tales!"

"As you please," rejoined Bois-Doré, "but I cannot help it. I have seen
such surprising things! A score of times things that have been predicted
have happened to me."

"How can you believe that an ignorant idiot like this fellow can look
into the future, of which God alone knows the secrets?" said D'Alvimar.

"I do not believe in the knowledge of the operator himself," replied
Bois-Doré, "except in so far as, by long practice, he knows how to
compute numbers, and those numbers are to him like letters in a book
whereof the peculiar quality of numbers composes words and phrases."

De Beuvre laughed at the marquis, and called upon the gypsy to tell all
he knew.

D'Alvimar would have been glad of a different result of the discussion,
for his incredulity was only feigned; he believed that the devil had a
hand in all evil, and he determined inwardly to commend La Flèche to
the attention of Monsieur Poulain, to be locked up and burned at the
first opportunity. But he was none the less consumed, in spite of
himself, with anxiety to open the book of his destiny, and he was
strongly impelled, moreover, to assume the rôle of a man free from
superstitions, before Madame de Beuvre.

La Flèche, being called upon to speak, since he had studied his chart
sufficiently, indulged in some serious reflections. He was afraid of the
Spaniard. He knew that he ran no risk with people who believed in
nothing, for they are not the sort who denounce or accuse sorcerers; and
he was too sharp not to understand that, when he tried to withdraw his
token, D'Alvimar's object was to escape the revelations which he
pretended to despise.

He adopted the course to which he was accustomed to resort when he had
to do with people who were inclined to become over-excited--he began to
make meaningless remarks to everybody.

He hoped that D'Alvimar would retire, and that he could make some
pleasant prediction for the others, for which they would pay handsomely;
for in the three days that he had been wandering about the neighborhood,
prowling everywhere, listening at doors, or pretending not to understand
French to induce people to talk in his presence, he had learned many
things; and he knew one fact about D'Alvimar which that gentleman would
have been very glad to bury in profound oblivion.

But D'Alvimar, tranquillized by the trivial nature of the predictions,
did not retire; La Flèche had ceased to entertain any of the party, and
was on the point of making a fiasco, after great preparations to reap a
fine harvest.

They were about to dismiss him. He drew himself up.

"Illustrious noble lords," he said, "I am not a sorcerer, I swear it by
the image of my patron saint which I wear upon my breast; I protest
against any compact with the devil. I practise only white magic,
permitted by the ecclesiastical authorities; but----"

"Well, if you are not pledged to the devil, go to the devil!" laughed
Monsieur de Beuvre; "you bore us!"

"Very good," said La Flèche insolently; "you want black magic, and you
shall have it, at your own risk and peril! but I will have nothing to do
with it, I wash my hands of it!"

He turned at once to a basket which he had brought with him, and in
which they supposed that he kept some juggling apparatus or some strange
beast, and took from it a little girl of eight or ten years, who seemed
to be no more than four or five, she was so small and slender; and, with
all the rest, dark-skinned, with a tangled mass of hair; a veritable
imp, dressed all in red, who began, while he held her in his arms, by
striking him again and again, pulling his hair, and tearing his face
with her nails.

They thought at first that this frantic resistance was part of the
performance, until they saw the blood flowing in a stream down the
gypsy's nose.

He paid little heed to it, but said, as he wiped his face with his
sleeve:

"That is nothing; the princess was asleep in her basket, and she is
always cross when she wakes."

Then he added in Spanish, speaking to the child in an undertone.

"Never fear! you shall dance for this to-night!"

The child, whom he had deposited on the stone of Sinai, cowered like a
monkey and glared about her with the eyes of a wild cat.

In her emaciated ugliness there were such strongly marked indications of
suffering and of fierce temper, of unhappiness and of hatred, that she
was almost beautiful, and indubitably terrifying.

It made Lauriane's heart ache to see the extreme emaciation of the
wretched creature, who was almost naked under the gaudy, but filthy rags
she wore. She shuddered as she thought of the probable fate of that
child, driven to frenzy doubtless by the tyranny and the blows of a vile
mountebank; and she walked away a few steps, leaning on the arm of her
good Celadon, Bois-Doré, who, although he did not say so, felt almost
as distressed as she.

But De Beuvre was of tougher fibre, and he urged La Flèche to make the
evil spirit speak.

"Come, my lovely Pilar," said La Flèche, accompanying each word with a
gesture big with threats, which were readily intelligible to his victim;
"come, queen of the elves and hobgoblins, you must speak. Pick up that
coin which is nearest you."

Pilar sat motionless for a long time, pretending to be asleep; she was
shivering with fever.

"Come, come, gallows-bird, tow for the stake!" continued La Flèche,
"pick up that gold piece, and I will tell you where Mario, your beloved
Mario, is."

"What's that!" said the marquis, turning back; "what does he say about
Mario?"

"Who is Mario?" asked Lauriane.

"Silence!" cried De Beuvre; "the devil speaks, and you are interested,
neighbor!"

The child spoke thus in French, in a shrill voice and with a strongly
marked accent:


   "Celui de qui depend ce gage,
    S'il veut ecouter le presage
    Et se bien garer de l'amour--[20]


"I have said enough, I won't say any more," she added in Spanish.

She had forgotten her lesson. Neither prayers nor threats availed to
refresh her memory; but she did not admit that she had been coached; she
was already a sorceress and proud of her profession. She knew the magic
chart much better than La Flèche, and she loved to prophesy. By trying
to teach her poetry, which she called another kind of magic, La Flèche
had irritated her, and the feeling that she should not succeed had
wounded her self-esteem.

She shook her head, bristling with hair as black as ink, stamped her
foot and gave way to a paroxysm of pythoness-like rage.

"Good! good!" cried La Flèche, determined to make use of her, in one
way or another. "Now it is coming! the devil is entering her body, she
will speak in a moment!"

"Yes," said the child in Spanish, darting madly into the circle, "and I
know it all better than you, better than all the others. Come! come!
come! I know; question me!"

"Let us speak French," said La Flèche. "What will happen to the noble
lord whose token I hold?"

It was the marquis's.

"Joy and consolation!" said the child.

"Very good! but in what form?"

"Vengeance!"

"I, vengeance?" said Bois-Doré. "That is not my disposition."

"No, surely not," said Lauriane, glancing involuntarily at D'Alvimar.
"The devil must have mistaken the token."

"No! I am not mistaken," replied the elf.

"Really?" said La Flèche. "If you are quite sure, speak, she-devil! So
you think that this noble lord here present has some insult to avenge?"

"In blood!" replied Pilar, with the energy of a tragic actress.

"Alas!" said the marquis to Lauriane under his breath, "that is only too
true, I doubt not! My poor brother, you know!" And he added, aloud: "I
wish to question this little soothsayer myself."

"Do so, monseigneur," said La Flèche. "Listen, black fly! and speak
truly to a gentleman who is of much more consequence than you!"

Thereupon, the marquis, turning to Pilar, questioned her gently:

"Tell me, my poor little girl, what I have lost?"

"_A son_!" she replied.

"Don't laugh, neighbor," said the marquis to De Beuvre, "she tells the
truth. He was like a son to me!"

And to Pilar:

"When did I lose him?"

"Eleven years and five months since."

"And how many days?"

"Less five days."

"She is mistaken there," said the marquis to Lucilio; "for I heard from
him after the time she mentions; but let us see if she can read the
rest."

Again he turned to the child.

"How did I lose him?" he asked.

"By a violent death!" she replied; "but you will have consolation."

"When?"

"Within three months, three weeks or three days."

"What sort of consolation?"

"Three sorts: vengeance, wisdom, a family."

"A family? Am I to be married, pray?"

"No; you will be a father!"

"Really?" cried the marquis, undisturbed by Monsieur de Beuvre's hearty
laughter. "When shall I be a father?"

"Within three months, three weeks or three days. I have told everything
about you, and I want to rest."

The sitting was suspended with a deluge of jests showered by Monsieur de
Beuvre on the marquis.

In order that the predicted advent of an heir should take place within
three months, three weeks or three days, three women must have "received
the order."

The poor marquis was so well aware of the contrary that all his faith in
magic was destroyed.

He submitted to be made fun of, protesting his innocence, but not over
desirous that they should believe it to be so absolute as it really was.

The child asked leave to prepare her conjurations for the last token.

It was D'Alvimar's pebble.

But in order that the reader may understand what follows, it is
necessary that he should know what Pilar and her master, La Flèche, had
agreed upon.

What La Flèche knew and wished to impart to Bois-Doré, he expected to
have the child divulge when D'Alvimar was not present. The child, from
caprice and vanity, refused to adhere to the agreement made between
them. She insisted upon reciting her whole lesson, even though she had
to suffer for it, and though La Flèche might lose his life or his
liberty.

It may be that these perils, in which, as she well knew, she could
involve him, sharpened her instincts of hate.

So she spoke as she chose, despite the warning gestures and grimaces of
her master, who could say nothing to her in Spanish which D'Alvimar
would not understand.

She picked up the stone, examined the signs that surrounded it,
pretended to make a computation, and said in Spanish, threateningly and
with appalling vehemence:

"Woe and disgrace to him whose token fell on the red star!"

"Bravo!" said D'Alvimar, with a nervous, forced laugh; "go on, filthy
creature! Go on, go on, progeny of dogs, offscouring of the earth, tell
us the decrees of heaven!"

Pilar, angered by these insults, became so wild that she terrified all
who saw her, even La Flèche himself.

"Blood and murder!" she shrieked, jumping up and down with convulsive
gestures; "murder and damnation! blood, blood, blood!"

"All this for me?" said D'Alvimar, unable to conceal his terror at that
moment.

"For you! for you!" cried the frenzied creature, "and death and hell!
soon, instantly, within three months, three weeks or three days! damned!
damned! hell!"

"Enough! enough!" said Bois-Doré, who understood but little Spanish,
but who saw that D'Alvimar was pale and on the verge of swooning; "this
child is possessed of a bad devil, and it may be that it is sinful to
listen to her."

"Yes, monsieur," rejoined D'Alvimar, "doubtless she is possessed of the
devil, and her threats are vain and beneath contempt, for hell is
powerless against the will of God; but if I were châtelain and
dispenser of justice here, I would throw this brigand and this vile worm
into prison, and I would hand them over to----"

"La la!" said Monsieur de Beuvre, "there is no reason for being so
angry. I don't know what was said to you, but I am surprised that you
ended by sneering at it. However, I agree that this mad young monkey's
gusts of temper are a disgusting comedy, and I see that my daughter is
disturbed by them. Come, knave," he said to La Flèche, "we have had
enough. Keep the tokens, if all consent, and go and get yourself hanged
elsewhere."

La Flèche had not awaited this permission to decamp. He was in great
haste to elude the Spaniard's benevolent designs in respect to him.

Little Pilar was not at all disturbed. On the contrary, she picked up
the gold and silver pieces which had served as tokens, and when she came
to D'Alvimar's stone she threw it disdainfully at his feet. He was so
angered that he would perhaps have treated her as he did the young wolf,
had he still the weapon of which he had made such prompt and deadly use.

But when he involuntarily felt for it, he found nothing, and Lauriane,
who was watching him, congratulated herself upon having disarmed him. He
met her eyes and made haste to smile; then he tried to change the
conversation, and Bois-Doré asked Lucilio for an air on the bagpipe to
dispel the unpleasant effect of this episode, while La Flèche, carrying
his great basket on his head and his instruments of magic under his arm,
and dragging along with the other hand the little sybil, still quivering
from head to foot, hastily passed the drawbridge and portcullis.

"Now will you give me something to eat?" she said, when they were in the
open country.

"No, you did your work too badly."

"I am hungry."

"So much the better!"

"I am hungry, I can't walk any more."

"Into your cage you go, then!"

And he put her in the basket, despite her resistance, and ran away with
her at full speed.

The unfortunate creature's shrieks died away without echo in the vast
plain.

"Mario! Mario!" she wailed in a voice broken by sobs; "I want to see
Mario. Villain! assassin! You promised that I should see Mario, who used
to give me things to eat and play with me, and his mother, who kept me
from being beaten! Mercedes! Mario! come to help me! Kill him! he is
hurting me, he is shaking me, he is killing me, he is starving me to
death! Damnation on him! death and blood and murder! The lash, the
stake, the wheel, hell itself for the wicked!"


[Footnote 18:
     Man without tongue and of great heart,
     Learning has triumphed over misery.]

[Footnote 19:
     You do not give your heart away,
     It will triumph over the devil.]

[Footnote 20:
     He from whom this token comes.
     If he but heed to the presage
     And hold aloof from love--]




XXIII


While the gypsy fled toward the north, the marquis, with D'Alvimar and
Lucilio, rode in the opposite direction toward Briantes.

He was most anxious to tell his faithful Adamas of what he regarded as a
happy issue of his enterprise; and, although he thought that he owed it
to his love to indulge in a few stifled sighs of anxiety or impatience,
he was by no means ill-pleased, taking everything into consideration, to
have seven years before him in which to adopt a new matrimonial
resolution.

D'Alvimar was in a very bad humor, not only because of the predictions
which had stirred his bile and disturbed his brain, but also because of
the tranquil manner in which Madame de Beuvre had taken leave of him,
while she had given both her little hands to the marquis, as she gayly
promised him a visit on the second day following.

"Can it be possible," he thought, "that she has accepted that old man's
gold pieces, and that I am supplanted by a rival of seventy?"

He was exceedingly desirous to question his host, to poke fun at him, to
quarrel with him. But it was impossible to enter into conversation with
Bois-Doré on that subject. The marquis bore himself with an air of
discreet and modest triumph, which caused him to outdo himself in
courteous attentions to his guest.

D'Alvimar was able to avenge himself for his discomfiture in no other
way than by doing his best to splash Master Jovelin, who rode behind the
marquis.

When they reached the château, as the supper hour had not arrived, he
walked to the rectory to consult with Monsieur Poulain.

"Well, monsieur," said the trusty Adamas, as he removed his master's
boots--in his capacity of _homme de chambre_ he almost never left the
château of Briantes--"well, monsieur, must we think about preparing the
betrothal banquet?"

"To be sure, my friend. We must think about it at once."

"Really, monsieur? Well, I was sure of it, and I am so pleased that I
don't know where I am. Just fancy, monsieur, that that red hackney whom
you call Bellinde, and who would be better named Tisiphone----"

"Fie! fie, Adamas! You know that I do not like to hear one of the sex
spoken of in a slighting manner. What new trouble is there between you?"

"Pardon me, my noble master, but the trouble is that that ill-tempered
creature listens at doors, and that she knows of the step monsieur has
taken to-day. Only a little while ago she was laughing about it like a
cackling hen with that stupid housekeeper of the rector."

"How do you know that, Adamas?"

"I know it by magic, monsieur; but, at all events, I know it!"

"By magic? Since when have you been dabbling in the occult sciences?"

"I will tell you, monsieur. I have nothing to hide from you, but will
you not deign to tell me first how you made your sentiments known to the
peerless lady of your thoughts, and how she replied; for I am sure that
nothing so eloquent was ever said under the heavens since the world was
made, and I would like to be able to write as fast as Master Jovelin, so
that I could put it on paper as monsieur repeats it to me."

"No, Adamas, no word of it shall ever issue from my mouth, sealed as it
is by the oath of a loyal knight. I swore that I would not divulge the
secret of my felicity. All that I can say to you, my friend, is to
rejoice now with your master, and to hope with him in the future!"

"Then it is all arranged, is it, monsieur, and----"

Adamas was interrupted by a soft scratching, as of a cat, at the door.

"Ah!" he said, after he had looked out, "it is the child; he wants to
bid you good-night.--Go away, my young friend, monseigneur will see you
later; he is busy now."

"Yes, yes, Adamas, let him come again! I have something to say about
children. Some very strange ideas on the subject of paternity came into
my head yesterday. This freak is worthy of the lowest bourgeois! No! no!
I am no longer the old bachelor who wanted to marry in hot haste, to
have done with it. I am a young man, Adamas, yes, a young lover, a
dandy, on my word, affectionately sentenced to prove his constancy by
the test of time, to sigh and write poetry; in a word, to await, in the
torments and ecstasies of hope, the good pleasure of my sovereign."

"If I understand rightly," said Adamas, "this jealous divinity mistrusts
my master's fickle humor, and demands that he renounce all love-making!"

"Yes, yes, that is it, Adamas; that must be it! A little distrust! That
is a fitting punishment for my wild youth; but I shall be so well able
to prove my sincerity--Go to the door; he is still knocking!"

"What!" said Adamas seriously to Mario, opening the door slightly, "is
it you again, my little imp? Did I not tell you to wait?"

"I have waited," Mario replied, in his soft voice--soft and caressing
even in his mischief; "you told me to go away and come back. I went to
the end of the next room, and now I have come back."

"The little rascal!" said the marquis; "let him come in.--_Bonjour_, my
young friend; just come to kiss me, then play quietly with Fleurial. I
have some important business to discuss with good Monsieur Adamas. Come,
Adamas, the day after to-morrow I am to entertain my incomparable
neighbor. We must be preparing for it; a little informal dinner,
fourteen courses at the most."

"You shall have them, monsieur. Do you wish me to call the master-cook?"

"No, I do not like to order my repasts, and, however clean and neat the
kitchen people may be, they always smell of the kitchen. Help me to
plan----"

"What knife is that?" said Mario, very earnestly, as the marquis, always
good-humored and momentarily preoccupied, held him between his legs and
allowed him to ransack his pockets.

"Nothing, nothing," said the marquis, trying to recover the pledge that
Lauriane had given him. "Give it back to me, my boy; children must not
touch such things. They bite, you see! Give it to me!"

"Yes, yes, here it is!" said Mario; "but I saw what was written on it,
and I know whose it is."

"You don't know what you are saying!"

"Yes, I do; I say that it belongs to the Spanish gentleman you call
Villareal. Did he give it to you?"

"Come, come, what is this you are muttering? You are dreaming!"

"No, kind monsieur! I saw the device on the blade. It is in Spanish, and
I know it very well; my mother Mercedes has one just like it, with the
same device."

"What does the device mean?"

"_I serve God_.--_S. A._"

"What does S. A. mean?"

"They must be the initials of the man who owns the dagger. That is where
they are usually put, in open work, near the hilt."

"I know that; but why do you say that this dagger belongs to the Spanish
gentleman named Villareal?"

The child made no reply and seemed embarrassed. He was no longer under
the Moorish woman's watchful and suspicious eye. He had said more than
he ought, and he remembered her injunctions too late.

"_Mon Dieu_! monsieur," said Adamas, "children talk sometimes for the
sake of talking without knowing what they say. Let us go back to the
important subject. Your keeper, Père Andoche, brought in to-day a
string of birds so fat that----"

"Yes, yes, you are right, my friend; let us arrange about the dinner.
But, I don't know--I wonder how she had that Spanish dagger in the
pocket of her skirt?"

"Who, monsieur?"

"Why, _she_, _parbleu_! Of whom else can I speak henceforth?"

"To be sure; I beg pardon, monsieur! Let us talk about the dagger. I
supposed that it was a gift from Monsieur de Villareal, or that he had
lent it to you. For it is the truth that it comes from him. Those
letters S. A. are on his other weapons, which are very handsome, and
which I noticed this morning while his servant was polishing them."

The marquis relapsed into meditation.

How did Lauriane obtain Villareal's dagger? She must have received it
from him, since she had disposed of it as her own property.

In vain did he search the genealogical tree of the De Beuvres, he found
there no name to which the initials S. A. could refer.

"Can it be," he said to himself, "that she made the same agreement with
him that she afterward made with me?"

He consoled himself, however, by the thought that she apparently cared
but little for the former compact, since she had sacrificed it to him;
but there was none the less something incomprehensible in the episode,
and the honest marquis was not yet foolish enough not to fear that he
was the victim of some practical joke.

And then, what the child had said complicated the confusion in his mind,
and he could not imagine what intrigue of destiny or mystification
encompassed that dagger.

He was inclined to go to have an explanation at once with his guest; but
he remembered that Lauriane had urged him to conceal her pledge and to
let no one see it.

Adamas saw the anxiety on his master's brow and was touched by it.

"What is it, monsieur," he said, "what can your poor old Adamas do to
relieve your perplexity?"

"I do not know, my friend. I would like to be able to divine how it
happens that the Moor has a weapon like this, bearing the same device
and the same initials."

Then, lowering his voice so that Mario could not hear:

"You told me, and it has seemed to me that that young woman was very
honest. But can she have stolen this dagger from our guest? That is
something that I cannot endure, that there should be thieving in my
house."

Adamas instantly espoused his master's suspicions, especially as Mario,
feeling that he had spoken heedlessly, was gliding out of the room on
tiptoe, to avoid further questions. Adamas detained him.

"You have been telling us fairy tales, my pretty boy," said he, "and for
that you deserve to lose my lord and master's favor. It is not true that
your Mercedes has what you say she has, or----"

The marquis interrupted him, not wishing that the charge should be made
before the child.

"Has your mother had the dagger a long time, my boy?" he said.

The child had passed some time with the gypsies, so he knew what
stealing was. He was blest, moreover, with extraordinary shrewdness. He
understood the suspicion he had brought on his adopted mother, and he
preferred to disobey her rather than not justify her.

"Yes," he replied, "a very long time."

And, as he had assumed an exceedingly proud and self-assured air, the
marquis and Adamas felt that they had in their hands a means of making
him speak.

"Then it was Monsieur de Villareal who gave it to her?" said Adamas.

"Oh! no, he left it behind----"

"Where?" queried the marquis. "Come, you must tell us, or I shall have
no more confidence in you, boy. Where did he leave it?"

"In my father's heart!" replied Mario, in whose eyes there shone an
extraordinary light. He longed to pour out his heart; the mystery
weighed heavily upon him; he had said the first word and he could not
keep silent.

"Adamas," said the marquis, moved by a sudden, indefinable emotion,
"close the doors, and do you, my child, come here and speak out. You are
with friends, have no fear, we will defend you, we will see that you
have justice. Tell me all that you know about your family?"

"If you love me," said the child, "you must punish Monsieur de
Villareal, because he murdered my father."

"Murdered him?"

"Yes, Mercedes saw him!"

"When was that?"

"The day I was born, the day my mother died."

"Why did he murder him?"

"To get a lot of money and jewels that my father had."

"Robber and assassin!" said the marquis, looking at Adamas; "a man of
quality! a friend of Guillaume d'Ars! Is it conceivable?"

"Monsieur," said Adamas, "children often invent stories, and I believe
that this boy is making sport of us."

The blood rose in Mario's cheeks.

"I never tell a lie!" he said with touching vehemence. "Monsieur
Anjorrant always said: 'That child is not at all untruthful.' My
Mercedes always told me that I must never lie, but keep silent when I
didn't wish to reply. Since you make me speak, I say what is true."

"He is right," exclaimed the marquis, "and I see that he has noble blood
in his heart, the beautiful boy!--Say on, I believe you. Tell me what
your father's name was."

"Ah! that I do not know."

"On your honor, my boy?"

"It is the truth," replied the child; "my mother's name was Marie, that
is all I know, and that is why Monsieur Anjorrant gave me the name of
Mario when he baptized me."

"But I remember that Mercedes said that the lady gave the curé a
wedding ring," said Adamas; "she also spoke of a seal."

"Yes," said Mario, "the seal belonged to my father, there was a coat of
arms on it: but it was stolen from us not long ago. As for the ring,
neither Monsieur Anjorrant, nor my Mercedes, who is very clever, nor I,
nor anybody has ever been able to open it. But there's something inside.
My mother, who died without saying a word except her name, Marie,
motioned to the curé to open her ring. She had not the strength to do
it; but he could not."

"Go and get it," said the marquis, "perhaps we can do it."

"Oh! no," replied Mario in dismay; "my Mercedes won't like it, and, if
she knows that I have spoken, she will be very sorry."

"But, after all, why does she conceal all this from us, who may be able
to help her to find your family?"

"Because she thinks that you will listen to the Spaniard, and that he
will kill her if he learns that she has recognized him."

"But does he not recognize her?"

"He never saw her, for she was hiding."

"Has she ever seen him since that terrible business?"

"No, never."

"And, after ten years, she feels sure that she can identify him! It is
very doubtful."

"She says that she is sure of it, that he has grown hardly any older,
that he is dressed in black as he was then; and she is very sure that
his old servant is the same man who was with him then. Oh! she looked
closely at them. When we met them three days ago, near another château
not far from here----"

"Ah! yes," said the marquis, "tell us how she met him."

"He was with a kind, handsome young lord, whom I have since heard spoken
of as Guillaume. Monsieur Guillaume had given a lot of money to the
gypsies we were with. And suddenly, when the Spaniard looked very stern
and was going to strike me, Mercedes said:

"'It is he! look! it is he! and the other, the old valet is the other!'

"And she ran after them to see them better, until Monsieur Guillaume
told us that we annoyed him. Then Mercedes made some one ask him his
name and his friend's name, so that we could pray for them, she said.
But Monsieur Guillaume laughed at us, and the gypsies went off in
another direction. My Mercedes let them go without us, and said to me:

"'We have your father's murderers, I promise you. We must find out their
names.'

"Then we turned back and went to the château of La Motte to beg; and as
they didn't pay much attention to us, Mercedes told me to listen to what
the servants and the peasants said; and in that way we found out that
the Spaniard was going to stay with the _marquis_, because the _marquis_
had sent for his chariot and ordered his guest chamber to be prepared
for a stranger. And then we talked with a shepherdess in a field near
there. She told us:

"'The marquis is the kindest of men. You can go to pass the night at his
château; he will treat you well. That's his château yonder.'

"So then we came here at once, and yesterday morning we saw the murderer
again, the two murderers! And when I saw the letters on the pistols and
the great sword that the servant had, and I said to Mercedes:

"'Show me the wicked knife that killed my poor papa; I think those are
the same letters that are on it.'"

"And are you sure of it?" said the marquis.

"I am very sure; and you will see for yourself if Mercedes will show
them to you."

"Where is she now?"

"With Monsieur Jovelin, whom she is very fond of because he jumped into
the water for me."

"Jovelin absolutely must extort her secret from her," said the marquis
to Adamas; "go, bring him here, that I may speak with him."




XXIV


Adamas went out and soon returned to say that Jovelin would come at
once. He had found him engaged in a very animated conversation with the
Moor, she speaking Arabic, he writing down all that she said, and making
many gestures which she seemed to understand.

"He motioned to me that he must not be interrupted," said Adamas; "I
think, monsieur, that he is inducing her to tell the truth by gentleness
and persuasion; let us not disturb him. He writes quickly, but she does
not read very well, even in her own language, and it is wonderful to see
how he makes himself understood with his hands. Be patient, monsieur; we
shall soon find out something."

They waited a quarter of an hour, which to the marquis seemed a century.

Time was flying; the first bell had rung for supper. It would be
necessary to sit at the table with Villareal, without having obtained
any definite information.

The marquis was in a state of intense excitement. He kept rising and
sitting down again, muttering to himself unintelligible words which
sorely puzzled Adamas.

Mario, thinking that he was angry with him, stood apart in a corner,
thoughtful and abashed. Fleurial, seeing his master's perplexity, gazed
steadfastly at him, followed his every step and whined from time to
time, wagging his tail, as if to say: "What is the matter, pray?"

At last Adamas ventured to put the question in words.

"Monsieur," he cried, "you have something in your mind which you are
concealing from your servant, and in that way you make your trouble
still more painful to him. Speak, monsieur, speak to old Adamas as you
would to your night-cap; he will no more repeat what you say than your
night-cap would, and it will relieve you so much."

"Adamas," replied Bois-Doré, "I greatly fear that I am mad; for there
is something about this child and the story he tells us that excites me
more than is natural. You must know that I had my fortune told by a
gypsy to-day, and that she used some very obscure words, which may
however be fully explained by the interest I feel for this poor little
fellow. I was told, among other strange things, that I should be a
father within three months, three weeks or three days. Now, as I swear
to you, Adamas, that I can look forward to no direct paternity within so
short a period, it is evident that I am to become a father by adoption.
But another part of that prediction perplexes me even more: my brother's
death was referred to as having taken place at exactly the same date
that the Moor assigns for the death of this child's father. How can that
be explained? The witch spoke in veiled, symbolical words, but she fixed
that date clearly, computing the years, months and days that have passed
since. And I made the same computation as I was riding home and I found
that it carried me back to the very day of our King Henri's death. Come
here, Mario; didn't you say that was the day?"

"But, monsieur," observed Adamas, "didn't you say yourself yesterday
that Monsieur Florimond's last letter was dated at Genoa on the
sixteenth of June?"

"True, my friend; but one may make a mistake in a date and put one month
instead of another; that has happened to everybody."

"But, monsieur, isn't the city of Genoa, in Italy, very far from the
place where this child puts his father's death?"

"Undoubtedly, my friend. I twist the probabilities in order to confirm
the fortune-teller's words, and that is a whim for which I give you
leave to rebuke me. But open the cupboard in which my brother's
cherished records are kept, including that last letter which I have read
so many times without fathoming its meaning."

"_Mon Dieu_! monsieur," said Adamas, opening the drawer and handing his
master the letter, "you divined and understood clearly enough at the
time everything that happened and was likely to happen. You heard from
Monsieur Florimond very seldom, because of the weighty secret
employments he had in the Italian courts, to which his master the Duc de
Savoie sent him. He wrote of his journeys without telling you of their
object, because he was forbidden to do that by the political party with
which he acted, which was not always yours. This last letter tells you
of other journeys to be undertaken after that from which he had just
returned, and this is what he says to you in his very words: 'If you do
not hear of me before autumn, do not be alarmed. My health is good and
my personal affairs are not in bad condition.'--The date is evidently
accurate, for he begins by saying: 'Monsieur and dear brother, doubtless
you received my letter of January last; in the past five months----'"

"I know all that, Adamas, I know it by heart; and, nevertheless, when I
went to Italy in 1611, to make personal inquiries for that poor brother
of mine, from whom I had never heard again, I was told that he had never
returned from a mission to Rome, on which he had set out fifteen months
before. And, when I went to Rome, he had not been seen there for more
than two years. I travelled all over Italy until late in 1612, without
finding any trace of him, so that I finally concluded that he must have
undertaken some long voyage, to the East or West Indies, on his own
account, and that I should see him again some day; but at last I made up
my mind that he had certainly been murdered by the brigands who infest
Italy, or had perished in a storm at sea. He had not acquired great
wealth in the Savoyard's service, although he never complained; and I
think that he seldom had companions in his journeys. In the end I lost
all hope of finding him, but not of learning his fate and avenging him
if he was slain by treachery."

While the marquis and Adamas were talking thus, Mario, whose presence
they had forgotten, had glided behind the marquis's chair.

He listened, and he looked closely at the letter Bois-Doré held in his
hands. He could read very well, as we have said, even manuscript; but he
was in dire perplexity, fearing lest he should make a mistake and should
be accused again of speaking at random.

At last he felt almost perfectly sure of his facts, not only because of
the handwriting, but because of the expressions used in the letter and
of the peculiar coincidences.

"What!" he cried.

And he ran from the room, his heart swelling with determination and joy,
scarcely heeded by the marquis, who was absorbed by his reflections.

Mario knew Master Jovelin's room, and he found his mother there, just
about to withdraw without exhibiting the articles of which she was so
jealous and distrustful a guardian.

Lucilio had been as profoundly impressed as the marquis by the
coincidence of the date fixed in the child's mind by Abbé Anjorrant
with that mentioned by the little gypsy as the date of Florimond's
death. He had not the slightest belief in magic; but, as he was also
struck by La Flèche's mention of the name of Mario, he feared that the
marquis was the dupe of some juggling scheme.

He began to suspect the Moorish woman herself, and his first act, on
returning to the château, was to send for her and question her in
writing, with much conciseness and severity. He insisted that she should
produce the ring and the letter from Monsieur Anjorrant of which she had
spoken; and, although she felt profound respect and sympathy for him, as
his persistence led her to fear the indirect intervention of D'Alvimar
in this examination she was undergoing, she had taken refuge in agonized
silence.

As soon as Mario appeared, her wounded heart gave vent in the complaint
which it dared not address directly to Lucilio.

"Come, my poor child," she said, "we must go away from here, for we are
accused of seeking to deceive and of having told a story that is not
true. Come, let us go at once, so that they may know that we seek aid
only from God and ourselves."

But Mario held her back.

"We have had enough of distrust," he said to her; "we must do what they
ask, mother. Give me the letter and the ring! They are mine; I want them
this moment!"

Lucilio was impressed by the child's vehemence, and the Moor, utterly
dumbfounded, said nothing for several moments.

Never before had Mario spoken so to her; never had she detected in him
the slightest tendency to independence; and now, in the most peremptory
way, he ordered her to do his bidding.

She was afraid; she thought that some miracle had happened; all her
strength of will vanished before the idea that fate had intervened. She
took from her belt the sheepskin bag in which she had sewn the precious
objects.

"That is not all, mother," said Mario; "I must have the knife too."

"You will not dare to touch it, boy! it is the knife that killed----"

"I know it; I have seen it before now. It is necessary that I should
touch it, and I will touch it. Give it to me!"

Mercedes handed him the knife, and said, clasping her hands:

"If it is the evil spirit that guides my son's hand and tongue, we are
lost, Mario!"

He did not listen to her, but, placing the little bag on Lucilio's
table, hastily ripped it open with the dagger. He took from it the ring,
which he placed on his thumb, and Abbé Anjorrant's letter to Monsieur
Sully, of which he burst the seal and silk thread, to Mercedes's dire
consternation.


[Illustration: _MARIO ESTABLISHES HIS IDENTITY._

_He darted into the hall, ran back to the marquis's chamber,
snatched unceremoniously from his hands the letter
over which he was still meditating, compared the handwritings_,...]


That done, he opened the letter, took out a stained and spotted paper,
kissed it and examined it carefully; then, shouting: "Come, mother!
Come, Monsieur Jovelin!" he darted into the hall, ran back to the
marquis's chamber, snatched unceremoniously from his hands the letter
over which he was still meditating, compared the handwritings, and,
thrusting everything that he held, letters, ring and dagger, into
Adamas's hand, leaped on the marquis's knees, threw his arms about his
neck, and hugged him so tight that the worthy man was almost suffocated
for a moment.

"Come, come!" said Bois-Doré at last, somewhat annoyed by this
familiarity, which he did not expect, and which had seriously deranged
his wig, "this is not the time for play of this sort, my young friend,
and you are taking liberties which--Whom is this you have brought here
and why?"

The marquis paused when he saw Mario burst into tears.

The child had acted in obedience to an inspiration, he had had faith;
but, as the minds of the others did not move so fast or so straight as
his, doubt, fear and shame returned to him. He had disobeyed Mercedes,
who was weeping and trembling.

Lucilio watched him so closely that he felt intimidated; the marquis
repelled his passionate embrace, and Adamas was dazed, and did not seem
to recognize unhesitatingly the similarity of the handwritings.

"Come, do not weep, my child," said the perturbed marquis, taking from
Adamas's hands his brother's letter and the worn and crumpled paper that
Mario had brought. "What is the matter, Adamas, and why are you
trembling so? What is that paper, all covered with black spots? _Vrai
Dieu_! those are blood-stains! Bring the candle nearer, Adamas, and let
me look! Why, my friends! O Lord God in Heaven! Jovelin! Adamas! Look at
this! I am not dreaming, am I? It is the handwriting of my darling
brother! every letter is his! And this blood----Ah! my friends! that is
a very cruel thing to see. But--where did you get this, Mario?"

"Read, read, monsieur," cried Adamas, "make sure that you are right."

"I cannot," said the marquis, turning deathly pale; "my heart fails me!
Whence comes this paper?"

"It was found on my father," said Mario, recovering his courage; "look,
see if it is not a letter for you that he intended to send you. Monsieur
Anjorrant made me read it many times; but your name was not on it, and
we never knew to whom to send it."

"Your father!" repeated the marquis, as if waking from a dream; "your
father!"

"Pray read it, monsieur!" cried Adamas; "make sure."

"No! not yet," said the marquis. "If I am dreaming, I do not desire to
be awakened. Let me fancy that this lovely child--Come here, boy, to my
arms.--And do you, Adamas, read it if you can! I could never do it!"

"I will read it," said Mario; "follow with your eyes." And he read as
follows:


"Monsieur and dear brother:

"Pay no heed to the letter you will receive after this, which I wrote at
Genoa, under date of the sixteenth of next month, in anticipation of a
long and dangerous journey, during which, as I feared that you would be
anxious on my account, I desired to allay your anxiety by a post-dated
letter, and thereby prevent your making inquiries for me in that
country, where I desired that my absence should not be noticed.

"As I have arrived here, thank God! more quickly and with less trouble
than I dared hope, and am now out of difficulty and danger, I propose to
tell you of my adventures, which I am at last able to do without
concealment or reserve, leaving the details, however, for the
approaching, eagerly anticipated moment when I shall be with you,
accompanied by my beloved and honored wife, and, God willing, by the
child of whom she will make me the father in a few days!

"It will suffice for you to know to-day, that, having been married
secretly last year, in Spain, to a beautiful lady of noble birth,
against the will of her parents, I was obliged to leave her on my
master's service, and to return to her, with the same secrecy, to rescue
her from the tyranny of her parents and take her to France, where we
have at last arrived to-day, under favor of our precautions and
disguises.

"We expect to stop at Pau, whence I shall forward this letter to you, to
be followed by another which will announce, if it be God's pleasure, my
wife's safe delivery, and in which I shall have the leisure that I have
not at this moment, to tell you----"


At this point the letter had been interrupted by some unexpected
occurrence. It had been folded and carried about in the traveller's
pocket, to be finished and sealed at Pau, in all probability, and there
entrusted to the carriers who, at that time, conducted the mail service,
with more or less despatch, between places of importance.




XXV


Bois-Doré wept copiously as he listened to this letter, which, being
read by Mario, penetrated the more deeply into his heart.

"Alas!" he said, "I often accused him of neglect, and he thought of me
on the very first day of his happiness and safety! He intended doubtless
to bring his wife and child to me, and place them in my care, and I
should not have passed my life alone, without a family! But rest in
peace in God's bosom, my poor boy! your son shall be my son, and in my
grief at having so cruelly lost you, I have at all events the
consolation of embracing your living image! for it is his very manner
and his charm, my dear Jovelin, and my heart was stirred at the first
glance I cast upon the child. And now, Mario, let us embrace as uncle
and nephew, which we are, or rather as father and son, which we are to
be from this moment."

The marquis worried little about his wig this time, but embraced his
adopted son with an affectionate warmth which changed to heartfelt joy
the painful memories evoked by the letter.

Meanwhile Mercedes, heartbroken by Lucilio's suspicions, had resolved to
make known the truth in all its details.

"Give them the ring," she said to Mario; "perhaps they will be able to
open it, and you will learn your mother's name."

The marquis took the heavy gold ring and turned it in every direction;
but, versed as he was in mechanical secrets, he could not succeed in
opening it.

Neither Jovelin nor Adamas was more adroit, and they were obliged to
abandon the project temporarily.

"Never mind!" said the marquis to Mario, "let us not worry about it. You
are my brother's son, I can entertain no doubt of that. Judging from his
letter, you descend from a family of higher rank than ours; but we have
no need to know your Spanish ancestors to cherish you and rejoice in
you!"

Meanwhile Mercedes continued to weep.

"What is the matter with that poor creature?" the marquis asked Adamas.

"I do not understand what she says to Master Jovelin, monsieur," was the
reply; "but I see plainly enough that she is afraid that she will not be
allowed to remain with her child."

"Who will prevent her, I wonder? Am I likely to do it, who owe her so
much gratitude and am indebted to her for so much joy? Come hither, my
excellent girl, and ask me whatever you will. If you want a house,
lands, flocks and servants, aye, and a good husband to your taste, you
shall have them all, or may I lose my name!"

The Moor, to whom Mario translated these words, replied that she desired
nothing except to work for her living, but somewhere where she could see
her dear Mario every day.

"Granted!" said the marquis, offering her both hands, which she covered
with kisses; "you shall remain in my house, and, if you are willing to
see my son every hour in the day, you will confer a great favor on me;
for, since you love him so dearly, no other woman than you shall take
care of him. And now, my friends, congratulate me on the great
consolation which has come to me, and which, as you know, Jovelin,
confirms in every point the gypsy's prediction."

Thereupon he embraced Lucilio, and also, for the first time in his life,
the faithful Adamas, who wrote that glorious fact in letters of gold on
his tablets.

Then the marquis took Mario in his arms, placed him on the table in the
middle of the room, and, walking a few steps away, began to gaze at him
as if he had not seen him at all as yet. He was his own, his heir, his
son, the greatest joy of his whole life.

He examined him from head to foot, smiling, with a blending of
affection, pride and childish delight, as if he were a superb picture or
piece of furniture; and as he already had the feelings of a father and
did not wish to make that noble child absurdly vain, he forced back his
exclamations and contented himself by rolling his great black eyes,
showing his great white teeth, and moving his head with a self-satisfied
air to the right and left, as if to say to Adamas and Lucilio; "Just
look! what a fine fellow, what a figure, what eyes, what a bearing, what
pretty ways, what a son!"

His two friends shared his delight, and Mario endured their scrutinizing
with a confident and affectionate air, which seemed to say to them: "You
can look at me, you will find no evil in me." But he seemed to say more
particularly to the old marquis: "You can love me with all your
strength, I will pay you back."

And when the scrutiny was at an end, they embraced again, as if they
would fain exchange in a kiss all the kisses of which the childhood of
the one and the others old age had been deprived.

"You see, my dear friend," the marquis in his joy said to Lucilio, "that
we must not make sport of soothsayers, when they predict our future by
the stars. You shake your dear old head? Yet you surely believe that our
planet----"

The worthy marquis would doubtless have attempted to elucidate some
theory of his own invention, wherein astronomy, to which he was devoted,
was in some measure confirmed by astrology, to which he was even more
devoted, had not Lucilio interrupted him by handing him a note in which
he urged a consultation as to the means of unmasking his brother's
murderer.

"You are quite right," said Bois-Doré; "and yet, on this day of
incomparable bliss, it hurts me to think of inflicting punishment. But I
must do it, and, if you please, we will discuss the matter
together.--Go, Adamas, and say to this Monsieur D'Alvimar that I beg him
to excuse a slight delay in serving supper; and above all, let us not
divulge a syllable of the great discovery we have made.--Go, my
friend.--What are you doing there?" he added, as he saw Adamas looking
into the great mirror, framed in gilt network, and making strange faces
at himself.

"Nothing, monsieur," replied Adamas; "I am just studying my smile."

"For what purpose, I pray to know?"

"Is it not fitting, monsieur, that I should make up a treacherous
expression to speak to that traitor?"

"No, my friend; for, before we adjudge him a traitor, we must examine
into the affair more carefully, and that is what we are about to do."

At that moment Clindor knocked at the door. He announced that Monsieur
de Villareal was indisposed and desired to keep his chamber.

"That is so much the better," said the marquis; "I will go to pay him a
visit. After which we will have a preliminary hearing in his case among
ourselves."

"You must not go alone, monsieur," said Adamas. "How can we be sure that
this indisposition is not feigned, and that the knave has not laid some
trap for you, being warned by his conscience?"

"You are talking nonsense, my dear Adamas. Even if he killed my brother,
he certainly never knew his name, since he remains under my roof without
uneasiness."

"But look at this dagger, my dear master! You have not yet looked at
this proof."

"Alas!" said Bois-Doré, "do you think that I can examine it
dispassionately?"

Lucilio advised the marquis to see his guest before pursuing his
investigations, so that he might be sure of being calm enough to conceal
his suspicions.

Adamas allowed the marquis to go; but he glided close on his heels to
the door of the Spaniard's apartment.

D'Alvimar was really ill. He was subject to nervous sick-headaches of
great violence, which were often brought on by paroxysms of anger, and
he had had more than one of the latter in the course of the day.

He thanked the marquis for his solicitude and begged him not to put
himself out on his account. He needed nothing more than careful diet,
silence and rest until the following day.

Bois-Doré withdrew, telling Bellinde, without obtruding, to see to it
that his guest lacked nothing; and he took advantage of this visit to
examine the features of old Sancho, to whom he had previously paid no
attention.

The former swineherd, tall, lean and sallow, but wiry and muscular, was
sitting in a deep window-recess, reading by the last rays of daylight a
religious book from which he never parted, and which he did not
understand. To spell out with his lips the words in that book and to
tell his beads mechanically, such was his principal occupation, and,
apparently, his only pleasure!

Bois-Doré glanced furtively from the master lying stretched out on the
bed, with an air of utter prostration, to the calm, stern, devout
servant, whose monkish profile was outlined against the window.

"These are not highwaymen," he thought. "What the devil! this fair,
slender young man, with an eye as soft as a girl's--To be sure, this
morning when he was angry with the gypsies, and yesterday when he
inveighed against the Moors, his expression was less benignant than
usual. But this old esquire with the Capuchin's beard, who is so
profoundly engrossed in his religious book--To be sure, there is nothing
so like an honest man as a knave who knows his business! No, my
penetration is insufficient in this matter, and we must weigh all the
facts."

He returned to the pavilion, the whole of which was given over to his
suite of apartments, each floor consisting of one large and one small
room: on the ground floor, the dining-room with a serving-room; on the
first floor, the salon and boudoir; on the second, the châtelain's
bedroom and another boudoir; on the third, the large, so-called _Salle
des Verdures_[21] which Adamas sometimes honored with the title of
_Salle de Justice_; on the fourth, an unfinished, vacant room.

In the later building attached to the side of this pavilion, were the
apartments of Adamas, Clindor and Jovelin, connecting with those in the
_grand'maison_, as the marquis's little pavilion was ingenuously and in
all seriousness called in the village.

He found his friends assembled in the _Salle des Verdures_, and not
until then did he remember that in the general excitement the Moorish
woman had been admitted to his chamber. He was grateful to Adamas for
having transferred the session to some place other than his sanctuary.
He saw that Jovelin was writing busily, and, not wishing to disturb him,
he sat down and perused the letter written by Abbé Anjorrant to
Monsieur de Sully, with the view of putting him on the track of Mario's
family.

That letter was written very soon after Florimond's death, before
Monsieur Anjorrant knew of the death of Henri IV. and Sully's fall from
power; it had not reached its destination. This was a copy, which the
abbé had retained and bequeathed to Mario with Florimond's unfinished
letter. The abbé's letter--it was more properly a memorial--contained
most precise details of the murder of the pretended peddler, as the
abbé had received them from Mercedes, and as they had been confirmed by
various incidents.

In it all there was nothing to fasten the guilt upon d'Alvimar and his
valet. The assassins had not been discovered. Both, it is true, were
minutely described in the Moorish woman's statement contained in the
memorial; but, although she declared now that she recognized them, she
might very well be mistaken, and her accusation was not sufficient to
condemn them.

The Catalan dagger, the instrument of murder, being placed beside the
one given by Lauriane to the marquis, was more convincing evidence. The
two weapons were, if not identical, so nearly alike that at the first
glance one had difficulty in distinguishing them. The initials and the
device were made with the same instrument, and the blades were of the
same make.

But Florimond might have been killed with a weapon stolen from Monsieur
de Villareal, or lost by him.

Nor was there any proof that the one given by Lauriane to the marquis
came from the Spaniard.

And, lastly, the initials seen by Mario, Mercedes and Adamas on his
other weapons could not be his, for he had been introduced by Guillaume
under the name of Antonio de Villareal.


[Footnote 21: The name Verdures d'Auvergne was given to the tapestry
hangings representing trees, foliage and birds, without figures, and
with no definite landscape. They were made, I believe, at Clermont.]




XXVI


The fair-minded Bois-Doré was making these observations aloud to
Adamas, when the mute handed him the sheet upon which he had just been
writing.

It was a brief narrative of what had taken place at La Motte-Seuilly in
the morning, between Lauriane, the Spaniard and himself: how Villareal
had hurled the knife again and again to frighten him and interrupt his
music, how he had plunged it into the entrails of the wolf, and lastly
how he had given it to Madame de Beuvre as a token of submission and
penitence before Jovelin's eyes.

"Oho! this is becoming serious!" said the marquis, lost in thought, "and
I see that this Villareal is a very bad man. However, it may be that
none of these weapons were in his possession ten years ago, and that he
has received them since by gift or by inheritance. In that case he must
have been the assassin's kinsman or friend; there are villains and
cowards in the best families. Like yourself, Master Jovelin, I have a
bad opinion of our guest; but I am certain that, like me, you still
hesitate to condemn him on this evidence."

Lucilio nodded assent and advised the marquis to try to make him confess
the truth by surprise or by stratagem.

"We will deliberate with care thereupon," replied Bois-Doré, "and you
will assist us, my dear friend. For the moment, we must go to supper,
and since we have no guests, we will give ourselves the pleasure of
eating with our little marquis that is to be, who no more belongs in the
servants' quarters than you do yourself."

"Still, monsieur, if you take my advice," said Adamas, "you will leave
things as they are for to-day. Bellinde is a wicked creature and a
plague, and to my mind she is on much too friendly terms with the
rectory, which is a sink of slanderous remarks against all of us."

"Hoity-toity! Adamas, what in God's name is the trouble between you and
the rectory?"

"The trouble is, monsieur, that I have been consulting a magician too.
You had hardly gone away this morning, when a certain La Flèche, the
same gypsy, doubtless, whom you saw later in the day at La Motte, came
prowling around the château and offered to tell my fortune. I refused;
I am too much afraid of prophecies, and I hold that any harm that is
destined to happen to us happens twice over when we know it beforehand.
I contented myself by asking him who had stolen the key of the wine
closet, and he answered without hesitation:

"'The one you suspect!'

"'Tell me her name,' I replied, knowing well enough that it was
Bellinde, but wishing to test the clever rascal's skill.

"'The stars forbid me,' he said; 'but I can tell what the person is
doing at this moment. She is at the rector's, where she is chattering
about you, saying that you put it into the head of the lord of this
château to marry young Madame----"

"Hush, hush, Adamas!" cried the marquis modesty; "you should not repeat
such nonsense."

"No, monsieur, no! I will say nothing; but, as I was determined to know
whether the sorcerer told the truth, I went out as if for a walk, as
soon as he had gone; and as I passed the rectory I saw Bellinde at a
window with the housekeeper, and both of them began to laugh and to mock
at me behind my back."

Jovelin asked if the gypsy had entered the château.

"He would have liked to right well," said Adamas, "but Mercedes, who
watched him from the kitchen without letting him see her, begged me not
to admit him, saying that he was likely to steal; so I did not let him
into the courtyard. He gazed at the door with much emotion, and, when I
asked him what he saw there, he answered:

"'I see great events about to take place in this house; so great and so
surprising that it is my duty to warn your master. Let me speak to him.'

"'You cannot,' said, 'he is not within.'

"'I know where he is,' said he; 'he is at La Motte-Seuilly, where I will
try to see him; but if I am not able to speak with him there without
witnesses, I will come back here, and I assure you that if you refuse me
admission again, you will live to regret it, for many destinies are in
my hands.'"

"All this is very remarkable," said the marquis, artlessly. "It is a
fact that he predicted all that has happened, and I regret now that I
did not question him further. If he returns, Adamas, you must bring him
to me. Did not you say, my dear Mario, that he was an intelligent
fellow?"

"He is very amusing," replied Mario, "but my Mercedes doesn't like him.
She thinks it was he who stole my father's seal. I don't think so,
because he helped us to look for it and to ask the other gypsies about
it. He seemed to be very fond of us, and he did all we asked him to."

"And what was there on the seal, my dear boy?"

"A crest. Wait! Monsieur l'Abbé Anjorrant looked at it with a glass and
it looked big, for it was so small--so small that you couldn't make it
out; and he said to me:

"'Remember this: _Argent with a tree sinople_.'"

"That is right," said the marquis; "that is my father's crest! It would
be mine if King Henri had not composed another for me to suit himself."

"Both are carved on the courtyard door," wrote Lucilio. "Ask the child
if he did not see them when he came here."

"How could he have seen them?" said Adamas, who read Lucilio's words
simultaneously with his master. "The masons who were repairing the arch
had their scaffolding in front of them."

"Could the gypsy see the escutcheons this morning," said Lucilio with
his pencil, "when he looked at the gate?"

"Yes," replied Adamas, "the stagings had been taken down, and the masons
were at work elsewhere. The escutcheons were made over--But now I think
of it, Master Jovelin, this La Flèche must know something of our dear
child's story, as they had travelled together?"

"I don't think so," said Mario. "We never mentioned it to anyone."

"But you and Mercedes talked about it?" wrote Lucilio. "Does La Flèche
understand Arabic?"

"No, he understands Spanish; but I always talked Arabic with Mercedes."

"Were there no other Moors in that band of gypsies?"

"There was little Pilar, who understands Arabic because she is the child
of a Moor and a _gitana_."

"In that case," wrote Lucilio to the marquis, "abandon your belief in
the supernatural. La Flèche attempted to make money out of what he had
learned. He knew Mario's story down to a certain point; he learned yours
in the neighborhood, and the fact of your brother's having disappeared
ten years ago. He had stolen the seal. He recognized the coat-of-arms on
the door. He remembered the dates. He divined or imagined the whole
truth. He hurried to La Motte to make his prediction, which he taught
the little _gitana_ by heart. To-night or to-morrow he will bring you
the seal, expecting to solve for you the mystery which you have already
solved, and to receive a handsome reward. He is a thief and a schemer;
nothing more."

It cost the marquis a pang to assent to this reasonable and probable
explanation. However, he did so.

Adamas still held out.

"How can you explain what he told me about Bellinde and the rectory?" he
asked Lucilio.

Lucilio replied that that was very easy. Bellinde had listened at the
door of the marquis's apartment the night before; La Flèche had
listened in the morning at the door or under the windows of the rectory.

"You state the case very sensibly," cried the marquis, "and I see
plainly enough that there is no other magic in all this than the magic
of Divine Providence, which has brought truth and joy into my house with
this child. Let us go to supper! our minds will be clearer afterward."

The marquis supped hastily and without enjoyment. He felt that he was
being spied upon by Bellinde, who was no longer able to listen in the
secret passages; for Adamas, while the masons were on the spot, had had
that passage closed; but the prying and malevolent creature had observed
the long interviews of the marquis and Jovelin with Mercedes and the
child, behind closed doors, and, above all, the self-important and
triumphant airs of Adamas, whose every glance seemed to say to her: "You
shall know nothing!"

She was not intelligent enough to divine anything. She imagined that the
marquis, following up the project of marriage, was arranging an
entertainment for the young widow, with the assistance of the
"Egyptians."

There was nothing in that which she could use against Adamas, her
personal enemy; but she was consumed with a jealousy of him and of the
Moorish woman which sought only an opportunity for revenge.

When Bois-Doré was alone with Jovelin, they concerted and agreed upon a
plan of action for the following day with respect to D'Alvimar.

They reread Monsieur Anjorrant's letter carefully and analyzed it. Then,
honest Sylvain, who was not fond of giving his mind to serious and
depressing subjects, sent for his heir and passed the evening chatting
and playing with him. Therein he showed a marked resemblance to his dear
master, Henri IV., although he did not think of imitating him. He adored
the charms of childhood, and, except for the stiffness of his old bones,
would gladly have played horse for him around the room.

"Now," he said to Adamas, when he saw Mario's silky eyelashes drooping
with sleep, "we must give him to the Moor, so that she may take care of
him one night more. But to-morrow, when we have settled this Villareal
business, there will be no further occasion to conceal the truth, and I
propose that my heir shall have his bed in the boudoir adjoining my own
bedroom.--See, my child," he said to Mario, "look at this little nest,
all silk and gold, which has long been waiting for a noble fellow like
you! Do you like the pink silk hangings, and this low furniture inlaid
with mother-of-pearl? Doesn't it seem as if it were made for a young man
of your height? We shall have to arrange a bed for him that will be a
genuine chef-d'œuvre, Adamas. What say you to twisted columns of ivory,
with a great bunch of red plumes at each corner?"

"As soon as our minds are at rest, monsieur," said Adamas, "I will turn
my attention to the question, in order to gratify you, for nothing is
too fine for your heir. We will consider the matter of clothes too,
which must be suited to his rank."

"I will think about it, I will think about it, Adamas!" cried the
marquis, "and I propose that his wardrobe shall be just like mine. You
will send for the best tailors, linen-drapers, shoemakers, hatters and
plumemakers in the province, and for a whole month, if necessary, they
shall work day and night, under my eye, preparing my nephew's outfit."

"And my Mercedes," said Mario, leaping for joy, "will you give her
beautiful dresses too, like Bellinde's?"

"Mercedes shall have beautiful dresses, dresses of gold and silver, if
such is her whim. And that reminds me--Look you, my dear Jovelin, this
woman is lovely, so it seems to me, and still young. Would you not think
it well to allow her to resume the Moorish costume, which is very
pretty, except the veil, which is altogether too Mohammedan? As the
excellent creature is a sincere Christian now, and we live in a
neighborhood where the common people never saw a Moor, that costume will
offend nobody and will gratify our eyes. What is your wisdom's opinion?"

Lucilio's wisdom had much ado to reconcile the warm affection which the
marquis really deserved with the feelings naturally aroused by his
childishness. But, hopeless of correcting so old a child, reason advised
him to make the best of him and to love him as he was.

The philosopher would have preferred that Mario should not be
overwhelmed with splendor and finery at the outset of his new career,
but rather that he should be told something of the new duties he had to
fulfil. He found some consolation in the fact that the child was less
intoxicated by the possession of all those things, than overjoyed and
touched by the affection and endearments of which he found himself the
object.

On the following day D'Alvimar, who had passed a sleepless night,
requested through Bellinde, who obligingly acted as his nurse,
permission to keep his room until afternoon.

The marquis paid him another brief visit, and was struck by the
alteration of his features. He had had ghastly visions, under the spell
of the sinister prophecies that had been hurled at him.

Daylight had finally revived hope in his heart, and he slept part of the
day.




XXVII


The marquis took advantage of this respite to recur to the subject of
dress.

He went up with Mario and Adamas to the vacant room on the fourth floor,
that is to say, immediately over the _Salle des Verdures_.

That unfinished apartment was strewn with innumerable chests and
cupboards; and Mario, as soon as the padlocks were removed, and the lids
raised and doors thrown open, fancied that he was in fairyland. There
was a bewildering mass of magnificent stuffs, dazzling gold lace,
ribbons, laces, feathers and jewels, rich hangings, cordovan leather,
furniture in parts, all new and ready to be put together, reliquaries
heavy with precious stones, beautiful paintings on glass which needed
only to be assembled, lovely enamelled mosaics, arranged in piles and
numbered, whole pieces of fine linen, enormous guipure curtains, with
gold and silver stripes; in a word, a hoard of plunder, which smelt of
the partisan warrior a league away, and which the marquis considered to
have been legally acquired at the sword's point.

This receptacle of rich spoil was known in the household as the
store-room, the garret. It was supposed to contain spare articles of
furniture, together with what was broken or discarded.

Adamas alone was aware of the contents of those wonderful chests, and
under his breath he called that room the _treasure_ or the _abbey_.
There were no fashionable gewgaws, as in the marquis's apartments, but
artistic objects and fabrics of great value and great beauty, some of
great antiquity, and the more valuable on that account: stuffs
manufactured by processes no longer known, weapons of all sizes and of
all nations, many excellent pictures, valuable manuscripts, etc.

All this rarely saw the light, the marquis fearing lest he might arouse
the cupidity of some of his neighbors, and producing his treasures only
one at a time and in the guise of a recent purchase.

However, it was very rarely the case that the pillaging heroes of those
days were compelled to make restitution; but it might well happen that
some powerful individual, acting on his own account, but claiming to act
in the name of the Church or the State, would calmly appropriate an
article in dispute.

It was thus that Catherine de Médicis, to reward Jean de Hangest--called
Capitaine d'Yvoi--for treacherously surrendering Bourges to her, seized
the superb chalice, decorated with precious stones, which he had taken
from the treasure-chest of Sainte-Chapelle in that city, and had put
aside as his share of the plunder.

From all these marvels the marquis selected what was required for
Mario's outfit, calling upon him to make known his taste with regard to
the colors.

One would but imperfectly understand the manners of that period, who
should assume that it was necessary, as it is to-day, to go to Paris to
learn the fashions and to find skilled workmen in the art of dress and
decoration. It was not until the reign of Louis XIV. that the
civilization of luxury and fashion made of Paris the school of good
taste and the arbiter of refinement. Richelieu began this work of
centralization by destroying the power of the nobles. Before his time,
the princes held court in the great provincial centres, and the artisans
of the smallest places supplied the needs of the nobility with
traditional skill. A rich châtelain had artisans among his vassals;
and, even in bourgeois houses, furniture, clothes, boots and shoes were
made at home.

Bois-Doré therefore had only to select the materials and order the
articles that Adamas was to have made under his own eyes.

In the matter of dress Adamas was beyond praise. He could safely be
trusted, and, at need, he could put his own hand to the work with
success.

The ivory columns and cornices destined for the child's bed were found
after some searching.

"I knew that there was something here like that," said the marquis
smiling. "They are of beautiful workmanship; they came from a state
canopy taken from the chapel of the Abbey of Fontgombaud, of which I was
abbot, that is to say, lord by right of conquest, for a whole fortnight.
When I took possession of it, I remember saying to myself: 'If the new
Abbot of Fontgombaud could become a father soon, this would be a fitting
canopy for his first-born son!'--But, alas! my friend, I did not inherit
all the monkish virtues, and in order to have a son, I was obliged to
find one by a miracle long after I came to maturity. Never mind! he will
be none the less dear, and he will none the less sleep his angel's sleep
under the canopy of the Virgin of Fontgombaud."

The marquis was interrupted in his reminiscences by the arrival of La
Flèche, who asked to speak with him.

The chests and the door of the treasury were carefully locked, and the
vagabond was received in the barnyard.

It was beautiful weather, and Jovelin was of opinion that a trickster of
that sort should not be admitted to the house.

What he had foreseen actually happened. La Flèche brought with him the
seal, which he claimed to have found in little Pilar's possession; he
also assumed to reveal the mystery of Mario's birth and of the murder of
Florimond by Monsieur de Villareal.

The marquis allowed him to say all that he had to say, then dismissed
him, with a crown, for the trouble he had taken to bring back the seal;
but he pretended not to understand the story he had told, to place no
faith in it, and to be much shocked that he should dare to accuse
Monsieur de Villareal, against whom he had no other proof than the
Moorish woman's excitement and her exclamation when she thought that she
recognized him on the moor of Champillé.

Herein the marquis, advised by Lucilio, acted wisely. If he had seemed
to credit the accusation, La Flèche would have been quite capable of
giving the Spaniard warning, in order to have two strings to his bow.

La Flèche, bitterly disappointed by his fiasco, sheepishly withdrew,
and was walking along the outer wall of Galatée's garden, when he
heard a soft voice calling his name.

It was Mario, whom the marquis had not chosen to admit to the interview,
desiring that all relations between his heir and gypsydom should be
severed irrevocably. But as he had not explained his wishes in that
respect, the child did not know that he was acting in opposition to them
when he glided through the labyrinth and watched for the gypsy to pass,
through a little loophole looking toward the village.

"Who calls me?" he said, looking about him.

"I," said Mario. "I want you to tell me about Pilar."

"What will you give for that?"

"I can't give you anything. I haven't anything!"

"Idiot! steal something!"

"No, never! Will you answer me?"

"In a minute; answer me first. What do you do in this château?"

"Play music."

"What else?--Aha! you don't choose to speak? All right. Adieu!"

"And you won't tell me where Pilar is?"

"She is dead," replied the gypsy brutally, and he walked away whistling.

Mario tried in vain to recall him. When he could no longer hear him, he
began to run about and play in the labyrinth, trying to convince himself
that La Flèche had made sport of him. But the idea of his little
companion's death caused a terrible shock to his vivid imagination.

"She used to say that La Flèche beat her," he thought; "but I didn't
believe her. He never beat her before us. But perhaps she didn't lie;
perhaps he beat her until he killed her."

And, as he reflected thus, the child shed a few tears. Pilar was not a
very amiable creature; but there was something of the Bois-Doré in dear
Mario; he was particularly sensitive to pity, and the Abbé Anjorrant
had brought him up to abhor violence and cruelty. But he concealed his
tears, fearing to pain his uncle, whom he already loved passionately.

D'Alvimar left his room at last.

The rest that he had taken, a lovely sunset and the joyous song of the
thrushes dispelled the black presentiments by which he had been besieged
for several days.

Having dressed and perfumed himself, he sought the marquis and thanked
him for the interest he had shown and the care that had been taken of
him. Bois-Doré could not make up his mind to accuse even inwardly a
man, still so young, of a bearing so distinguished, and a countenance
whose habitual melancholy seemed to him genuinely touching; but when
they were seated at the supper table, Lucilio being there, as usual, to
furnish music, Bois-Doré remembered their agreement, and collected what
he called his siege-guns, to make a violent assault upon his guest's
conscience.

He had seen too much fighting and had had too many perilous adventures
not to be able to arrange his bearing and his features, without having,
like Adamas, to make preparatory studies before a mirror. Although his
life had long been so placid that he had not been obliged to depart from
his natural mildness of manner, he was too much the man of his time not
to be able to make his glance say, twenty times a day if need be:

"Vive le roi! Vive la Ligue!"

The sweet notes of the bagpipe relieved him from the necessity of
carrying on a commonplace conversation which would have seemed to him
very tedious.

The music which helped to produce the tranquillity that he needed, now
caused a feverish excitement in D'Alvimar.

He really hated Lucilio. He knew his baptismal name, which the marquis
had let fall in his presence, and Monsieur Poulain, who was thoroughly
posted in contemporary heresy, had divined from that circumstance that
_Jovelin_ was a free translation of Giovellino. The fact of his
mutilation confirmed him in that suspicion, and he was already
deliberating upon the means of making perfectly sure, and of stirring up
some new persecution against him.

D'Alvimar would readily have assisted him, if he had not been forced to
keep out of sight for some time, and the poor philosopher was the more
antipathetic to him because he could take no steps against him at
present. His beautiful music, by which he had been charmed at the first
hearing, seemed to him now intolerable bravado, and the ill-humor which
took possession of him did not dispose him to undergo patiently the
examination that was being prepared for him.

After the supper the marquis proposed a game of chess in the boudoir
adjoining his salon.

"I agree," the Spaniard replied, "on condition that we have no music
there. I cannot play with that to distract my attention."

"Nor I, most certainly," said the marquis.--"Put your sweet voice away
in its box, good Master Jovelin, and come to watch our peaceful battle.
I know that you enjoy a well-fought game."

They went into the boudoir, and found there a magnificent chess-board of
crystal with gold mountings, comfortable chairs, and many lighted
candles.

D'Alvimar had not as yet seen that small room, one of the most sumptuous
in the _grand'maison_; he cast a distraught glance at the trinkets with
which it was filled, then sat down, and the game began.




XXVIII


The marquis, exceedingly calm and courteous, seemed to give his whole
attention to his game. Lucilio, standing behind him, was able to watch
the slightest movement, the slightest change of expression on the
Spaniard's face, which was in a bright light.

D'Alvimar played promptly and with resolution. Bois-Doré, more moderate
in his play, made long pauses, during which the Spaniard gazed with some
impatience at the objects that surrounded him. His eyes naturally rested
more than once on a sort of what-not that stood against the wall at his
left, quite near him. Gradually the object that was most prominent among
the _bibelots_ with which the little piece of furniture was covered,
attracted and monopolized his attention, and Lucilio noticed that he
smiled satirically and angrily every time that his eyes fell upon that
object.

It was a naked, gleaming dagger, lying on a black velvet cushion with
gold fringe, and protected by a glass globe.

"What is it?" said the marquis at last. "You seem distraught. You are in
check, messire, and I do not wish to beat you so easily. Something
disturbs or annoys you. Are we too near that piece of furniture, would
you like to move the table away from it?"

"No," replied D'Alvimar, "I am very comfortable; but I confess that
there is something in that pretty stand which distracts my mind. Will
you answer a single question, if it be not impertinent?"

"You could ask no question which would be, messire. Speak, I beg you."

"Very well, I ask you, my dear marquis, how it happens that you have
here reposing triumphantly on a cushion, under glass, your humble
servant's travelling weapon?"

"Oh! you are mistaken, my guest! I did not obtain that knife from you."

"I know that I did not give it to you; but I know that it was given to
you by the one to whom I gave it, of which fact, perhaps, you may not be
ignorant. I understand that any gift from a fair hand is precious to
you; but it seems to me very hard upon those less fortunate to exhibit
thus the trophy of your victory before the eyes of a discarded rival."

"Your words are enigmas to me."

"What! surely my sight is not failing me! Will you allow me to raise the
glass and obtain a closer view?"

"Look and touch, messire; after which I will tell you, if you desire,
why this relic of love and sorrow is kept here among other souvenirs of
the past."

D'Alvimar took up the knife, examined it closely, handled it, and said,
suddenly replacing it on the cushion:

"I was mistaken, and I beg your pardon. It is not the weapon that I
thought."

Lucilio, who was watching him attentively, fancied that he saw his
mobile, delicate nostrils dilate with fear or surprise. But that slight
facial contraction was noticeable in him on the slightest pretext,
sometimes even without any pretext at all.

He resumed his game.

But Bois-Doré stopped him.

"Excuse me," he said; "but as you recognize that object it is my duty to
question you; you may be able perhaps to throw some light upon a
mysterious occurrence by which my life has been disturbed and made
wretched for many years. Be kind enough to tell me, Monsieur de
Villareal, if you know the device and initials engraved on this blade.
Do you wish to look at it again?"

"It is useless, monsieur le marquis, I do not recognize the weapon; it
never belonged to me."

"Do you feel any repugnance to making sure of that fact?"

"Repugnance? Why that question, messire?"

"I will explain. You may, perhaps, have recognized the weapon as having
belonged to someone whose compatriot you blush to be, but whose name you
would tell me none the less if I should appeal to your sense of honor."

"If you treat this as a serious matter," replied D'Alvimar, "although it
is my turn not to understand you, I will examine it again."

He took up the dagger, scrutinized it very calmly, and said:

"This is of Spanish workmanship, a weapon in very common use among us.
There is no man of noble birth--I may say no free man--who does not
carry a similar one in his belt or his sleeve. The device is one of the
most common and most widely used: _I serve God_, or _I serve my master_,
or _I serve honor_. We find something of that sort on the majority of
our arms, whether rapiers, pistols or cutlasses."

"Very good; but these two letters S. A., which seem to be a private
cipher?"

"You can find them on my own weapons, as well as this device; they are
the private marks of the Salamanca factory."

Bois-Doré felt his suspicions fade away in face of such a natural
explanation.

Lucilio's suspicions, on the contrary, increased in force. He considered
that D'Alvimar was altogether too eager to anticipate the explanation he
might be asked to give concerning his own motto and his own initials,
which they were supposed not to know.

He touched the marquis's knee while pretending to pat Fleurial, and thus
warned him not to abandon his investigation.

D'Alvimar seemed desirous to forward it himself, for he asked with an
air of wounded pride the reason of this interrogatory.

"You might also ask me," Bois-Doré replied, "for what reason an object
which is horrible for me to look upon lies there before my eyes every
hour. Let me tell you, monsieur, that that accursed weapon is the one
that killed my brother, and I have made it a point of not putting it out
of sight solely that I might constantly be reminded that I have to
discover his murderer and avenge his death."

D'Alvimar's face expressed deep emotion, but it might well be
sympathetic and magnanimous emotion.

"You do well to call it a relic of sorrow," he said, pushing the dagger
away. "Was it your brother to whom you referred yesterday morning, when
you consulted those gypsies as to the time and manner of some person's
death?"

"Yes; I asked for something which I knew perfectly well, wishing to test
their knowledge, and, upon my word, that little demon of a girl answered
me so accurately that I had good reason to be astonished. Did you not
notice, messire, that she gave me figures which fixed the date of the
occurrence as the tenth day of May in the year 1610?"

"I did not follow the calculation. Was that actually the day when your
brother was killed?"

"That was the day. I see that you are much surprised!"

"Surprised, I? Why should I be? I fancy that soothsayers reveal only so
much of the past as they know. But tell me, I beg you, how that sad
affair came to pass. Have you never known the authors of the crime?"

"You are right in saying the authors, for there were two of them--two
men whom I would like right well to find. But you cannot help me, I see,
since that accusing weapon bears no private mark."

"So there were no witnesses of the deed?"

"Pardon me, there were."

"Who could give you no information as to the perpetrators?"

"They could describe them, but not tell their names. If this painful
story interests you, I can tell it to you in all its details."

"Most certainly I am interested in your sorrows, and I am pleased to
listen."

"Very well," said the marquis, pushing the chessboard away and drawing
his chair nearer to the table, "I will tell you all that I learned from
an investigation communicated to me by the curé of Urdoz."

"Urdoz? Where is Urdoz? I do not remember."

"It is a place that you must have passed through, if you have ever been
to Pau."

"No, I came into France by way of Toulouse."

"In that case you don't know it. I will describe it to you directly.
First let me tell you that my brother, being a simple gentleman and only
moderately rich, but of an honorable name, noble in feature, of an
amiable disposition, and a fine fellow if ever there was one, while
sojourning in some Spanish city, which I cannot name, won the heart of a
lady or maiden of quality, whom he married secretly against the will of
her family."

"Her name was----?"

"I do not know. All this was an affair of the heart, as to which I never
received his full confidence, and which I could not afterwards unravel.
I found out simply that he eloped with his wife, and that they made
their way into France by way of the Urdoz road, disguised as poor
people. The lady was near her time. They were travelling in a small
vehicle of shabby aspect, a sort of peddler's cart, drawn by a single
horse, purchased on the road, whose gait hardly kept time with their
impatience. However, they reached without hindrance the last Spanish
settlement, and, after passing the night in a wretched tavern, my
brother was imprudent enough to try to exchange Spanish for French gold,
and to ask a soi-disant nobleman who was in the house, attended by an
old servant, and who offered to assist him, if he could procure French
money for a thousand pistoles.

"The individual in question was able to offer him only a trifling sum,
and when my brother mounted his wagon again with his cloaked and veiled
companion, the people at the inn noticed that the two strangers, as they
bade him farewell, gazed earnestly at the two boxes which he himself
loaded, one containing his money, the other his wife's jewels, and that
they started off at once on his track, although they had previously
announced their purpose to go in the opposite direction. The villains
were described in such a way as to leave no manner of doubt as to their
identity when a description of my brother's murderers was furnished."

"Ah!" said D'Alvimar, "so you had a description of them?"

"Exact. One had a handsome face and was so young that he seemed little
more than a boy. He was of medium height but well proportioned. His hand
was as white and slender as a woman's, he had an incipient beard, very
black, silky hair, a noble bearing, a rich travelling costume, but
little else, for his valise weighed nothing; a good Andalusian horse,
and yonder infernal knife, which he used for eating and killing. The
other----"

"No matter, messire. Your brother----?"

"I must describe the other miscreant, as he was described to me. He was
a man in middle life, who had something of the monk and something of the
hired bravo in his appearance. A long nose overhanging a gray moustache,
a shifty eye, a callous hand, and of a taciturn humor; a genuine Spanish
brute----"

"I beg pardon, messire?"

"A brute of the sort that we find in all countries where men are taught
that they can save their souls from hell by reciting paternosters. The
brigands followed my poor brother as two fierce, cowardly wolves follow
the victim they dare not attack, and pounced upon him--What is it,
messire? Are you too warm in this small room?"

"Perhaps so, messire," replied D'Alvimar excitedly. "I feel difficulty
in breathing the air of a house where the name of Spaniard seems to be
held in such contempt as by yourself."

"Not at all, monsieur. Let me reassure you on that point. I do not hold
your nation responsible for the degradation of a few. There are infamous
villains everywhere. If I speak bitterly of those who robbed me of a
brother, you must pardon me."

D'Alvimar apologized in his turn for his sensitiveness, and begged the
marquis to continue his narrative.

"It was about a league from the hamlet of Urdoz that my brother and his
wife found themselves entirely alone on a rocky road skirting a very
deep precipice. The road was winding and the ascent so steep, that the
horse balked for a moment, and my brother, fearing that he would back
into the ravine, hastily alighted and lifted his wife out of the wagon.
It was very warm, so he pointed out a grove of firs ahead of them where
she could find shelter from the sun, and she walked thither slowly while
he gave the horse an opportunity to breathe."

"Did the lady see her husband killed?"

"No! she had just turned a little shoulder of the mountain when the
disaster occurred. It was God's will that the child she bore should be
saved; for, if the assassins had seen her they would not have spared
her."

"In that case who can say how your brother died?"

"Another woman whom chance had brought thither, who was hidden behind a
rock, and who had no time to call for aid, the horrible crime was
committed so quickly. My brother was trying to urge the horse forward
when the assassins overtook him. The youngest dismounted, saying with
hypocritical courtesy:

"'Why, your horse is foundered, my poor man! Don't you need help?'

"The old cutthroat who followed him also dismounted, and they both
approached my brother as if they really intended to put their shoulders
to the wheel; he had no suspicion of them, and at the same instant the
witness whom heaven had placed there saw him totter and fall at full
length between the wheels, without a cry to indicate that he had been
struck. That dagger had been buried in his heart up to the hilt, by a
hand too well skilled in its use."

"Then you do not know which of the two, whether the master or the
servant, dealt the blow? You say that the master was very young; it is
hardly conceivable that it was he."

"It matters little, messire. I deem them equally vile; for the gentleman
behaved exactly as the servant did. He jumped into the wagon without
taking time to remove the knife, he was in such frantic haste to steal
the two boxes. He tossed them to his companion, who put them under his
cloak, and they both fled, retracing their steps, spurred on, not by
remorse and shame, human sentiments which they were incapable of
feeling, but by fear of the scourge and the rack, which are the just
reward and the end of such villainy!"

"You lie, monsieur!" cried D'Alvimar, springing to his feet, beside
himself and deathly pale with rage. "The scourge and the rack--You lie
in your throat! and you shall give me satisfaction!"

He fell back upon his chair, suffocated, strangled by the confession
that wrath had extorted from him at last.




XXIX


The marquis was thunderstruck by this outbreak, for which he was
entirely unprepared, the culprit had up to that moment put so bold a
face on the matter, and made his frequent interruptions with so natural
an air.

He recovered first, as may be imagined, and grasping D'Alvimar's
convulsively twitching wrist with his long, sinewy hand:

"Miserable wretch!" he exclaimed with crushing contempt, "you should
thank Heaven for making you my guest; for, were it not for the promise I
have given to protect you, a promise which protects you from myself, I
would beat out your brains against the wall of this room!"

Lucilio, fearing a struggle, had seized the knife which lay on the
table. D'Alvimar saw his movement and was afraid. He threw off the
marquis's hands and grasped the hilt of his sword.

"Let your mind be at rest, fear nothing in this house," said Bois-Doré,
calmly. "_We_ are not assassins!"

"Nor am I, monsieur," rejoined D'Alvimar, seemingly overcome by this
dignified procedure, "and since you do not propose to disregard the laws
of honor, I will attempt to justify myself."

"Justify yourself? Nonsense! you are convicted and doomed by your
contradiction of me, and that is why I disdain to notice it!"

"Keep your disdain for those who endure insult in silence. If I had done
so, you would not have suspected me! I repelled the insult! I repel it
again!"

"Ah! you propose to deny the act now, do you?"

"No! I killed your brother--or somebody else. I do not know the name of
the man I killed--or allowed to be killed! But what do you know of the
reasons that impelled me to that murder? How do you know that I was not
wreaking a just vengeance? How do you know that that woman--whose name
you do not know--was not my sister, and that while avenging the honor of
my family, I did not take back the gold and jewels stolen by a seducer?"

"Hold your peace, monsieur! do not insult my brother's memory."

"You have yourself admitted that he was not rich; where did he obtain a
thousand pistoles with which to elope with a woman?"

Bois-Doré was shaken. His brother, because of the difference in their
political opinions, would never consent to accept from him the smallest
portion of a fortune which he rightly considered as derived from the
despoiling of his own party. He was obliged to fall back on the
allegation that his brother's wife was entitled to carry off what
belonged to her. But D'Alvimar retorted that the family was entitled to
consider that it belonged to it. Therefore he vehemently denied the
charge of robbery.

"You are a traitor none the less," said the marquis, "for having stabbed
a gentleman like a coward instead of demanding satisfaction from him."

"Charge it to your brother's disguise," retorted D'Alvimar, warmly. "Say
to yourself that, seeing him in the garb of a serf, I may well have
thought that I had the right to bid my servant kill him like a serf."

"Why did you not have him detained at that tavern, where you must have
recognized your sister, instead of following and taking him in a trap?"

"Presumably," replied D'Alvimar, still proud and animated, "because I
did not choose to create a scandal, and compromise my sister before the
populace."

"And why, instead of hurrying after her to take her back to her family,
did you leave her on that lonely road, where she died in agony an hour
later, no one having come in search of her meanwhile?"

"How could I run after her, when I did not know that she was there, so
near to me? Your witness could not hear all the questions I put to the
seducer, I had no need to shout them at the top of my voice. How do you
know that he did not tell me that my sister had remained at Urdoz, and
that what the witness took for flight on my part was not simply
eagerness to return to her?"

"And not finding her at Urdoz, you never learned of her deplorable
death? You did not even try to find the place where she was buried?"

"How do you know, monsieur, that I am not more familiar than you with
all the details of this painful story? Would you, in my place, being
unable to remedy the evil that was done, have made an outcry in a
country where no one could possibly divine your sister's name or the
dishonor of your family?"

The marquis, crushed by the reasonableness of these explanations, made
no reply.

He was so deeply absorbed in his reflections that he hardly heard the
announcement of a visitor. Guillaume D'Ars was ushered into the
adjoining salon.

Lucilio detected a gleam of joy in D'Alvimar's eyes, caused it may be by
the pleasure of meeting a friend, or by the hope of finding a means of
escape from a perilous situation.

D'Alvimar rushed from the boudoir, and the heavy folding door was closed
for an instant between him and his host.

Lucilio, seeing that the marquis was buried in painful thoughts, touched
him as if to question him.

"Ah! my friend!" cried Bois-Doré, "to think that I cannot make up my
mind what to do, and that I am in all likelihood the dupe of the most
infernal knave that ever lived! I have taken the wrong course. I have
exposed the good Mooress, and perhaps my child as well, to the vengeance
and the snares of a most dangerous foe; I have been clumsy; I have
furnished him with his grounds of defence by admitting that I did not
know the lady's name, and now, whether the murderer's excuse is false or
true, I no longer have the right to take his life. O God, Lord God! is
it possible that honest men are doomed to be gulled by knaves, and that,
in all sorts of war, the wicked are the most adroit and the strongest!"

As he spoke, the marquis, wroth with himself, struck the table a violent
blow with his fist; then he rose to go to receive Guillaume D'Ars, whose
jovial and untroubled voice he could hear in the next room.

But the mute hastily seized his arm with an inarticulate exclamation. He
had in his hand an object to which he called the other's attention with
a murmur of surprise and delight.

It was the ring, which the marquis had placed on his little finger, the
mysterious ring which he had been unable to open, and which, as a result
of the blow he had dealt the table, had separated into two hoops, one
within the other. There was nothing in the way of secret mechanism. The
parts fitted very closely, and a violent blow was necessary to separate
them--that was all.

To read the names engraved on the two circles was a matter of an
instant. They were the names of Florimond and his wife. Instantly they
realized that they held the key to the situation.

The marquis rapidly gave Lucilio his orders, and went, with a light
heart and smiling face, to press Guillaume's hand.

D'Alvimar and D'Ars had had barely time to exchange a few words
concerning the former's agreeable surprise and the latter's pleasant
journey. Guillaume, however, had noticed some alteration in his friend's
face, which the Spaniard attributed to his headache of the preceding
day.

The marquis, after exchanging greetings with his young kinsman, was
about to order supper for him.

"No, thanks!" said Guillaume; "I took a mouthful on the road, while my
horses were resting, for I must start again at once. You see I am
returning sooner than I intended. I was advised yesterday at
Saint-Armand, whither I had gone with a party of the young men of the
province, as an honorary escort to Monseigneur de Condé, that my
steward was very ill in my house. Fearing that he was going to die, the
honest fellow sent a messenger to me to urge me to return as soon as
possible, so that he might inform me as to the condition of my most
important affairs, of which I confess that I know nothing at all. I have
come here, however, in the first place, to ascertain if it will be
convenient for Monsieur D'Alvimar to accompany me to-night, or if he is
so attached to your gardens of Astrée, that he desires to pass another
night amid their fascinations."

"No!" replied D'Alvimar hastily; "I have imposed upon monsieur le
marquis's civility long enough. I am not well, and I might become
ill-humored. I prefer to go with you now, and I will go to order my
horses to be prepared as quickly as possible."

"That is unnecessary," said the marquis; "I will ring; I shall have the
pleasure of seeing you again soon, Monsieur de Villareal."

"I shall come to-morrow to learn your wishes, monsieur le marquis, and
to give you whatever satisfaction you desire--touching the game we were
playing just now."

"What game were you playing?" said Guillaume.

"A very scientific game of chess," replied the marquis.

Adamas answered the bell.

"Monsieur de Villareal's horses and luggage," said Bois-Doré.

While the order was being executed, the marquis, with a tranquillity
which led D'Alvimar to hope that everything was adjusted between them,
told Guillaume how they had employed their time at Briantes and La
Motte-Seuilly during his absence. Then he questioned him about the
splendid festivities at Bourges.

The young man asked nothing better than to talk about them: he described
the excitement of the target-shooting, or rather, as they said in those
days, "of the honorable sport of arquebus-shooting."

The targets had been set up in the Fichaux meadow's, and a great tent
decorated with tapestry and green boughs for the ladies, young and old.
The contestants were stationed on a stand, a hundred and fifty paces
from the tent. Six hundred and fifty-three arquebusiers entered the
competition. Triboudet of Sancerre alone had won the prize: but he w as
obliged to divide it with Boiron of Bourges, because he had taken a
false name in order to be nearer the head of the list; whereat the
people of Sancerre had made a great outcry, for they were bent upon
proving that their marksmen were the best in the kingdom, and they
considered the division of the prize very unfair. The unjust decision
had evidently been made to avoid displeasing the people of Bourges.

"After all," said Guillaume, telling his story with the fire of youth,
"Triboudet either won or lost. If he won, he is entitled to all the
honor and all the profit of the victory. I agree that he is blameworthy
for having taken a false name. Very good; for that lapse let them punish
him by a fine or a few days in prison, but let him none the less be
declared the winner of the prize; for the honor due to skill is a sacred
thing, and although we were not at all fond of the old Sancerre
sorcerers, there was not a gentleman who did not protest against the
trick played on Triboudet. But what can you expect? the large places
always consume the small ones, and the fat pettifoggers of Bourges
unceremoniously take precedence over all the bourgeoisie of the
province. They would gladly take precedence over the nobility, if they
were allowed! I am only surprised that Issoudun concurred. Argenton
abstained from voting, saying that the prize was awarded beforehand and
that no one except the champions of Bourges had any chance before the
judges of Bourges."

"And do you not believe that the prince had a hand in this injustice?"
asked the marquis.

"I would not dare swear that he did not! He is paying assiduous court to
the people of his good city; witness the fact that he has incurred
considerable expense, although he is not at all fond of spending his
money for the entertainment of other people. He is supporting at this
moment two troupes of players, one French, the other Italian, who
perform in the tennis-courts, beautifully decorated for the purpose."

"What!" said Bois-Doré, "did you see Monsieur de Belleroze's _tragic
actors_? They are as tiresome as forty days of rain!"

"No, no; this troupe is called Sieur de Lambour's _French Comedians_,
and there are some very clever people in it. But time flies, and here
comes the faithful Adamas to say that the horses are ready, does he not?
So let us be off, my dear Villareal, and as you have promised the
marquis to come to-morrow to thank him, I invite myself to come with
you."

"I rely upon seeing you," rejoined Bois-Doré.

"And you can also rely upon my furnishing you with proofs of all that I
have alleged," said D'Alvimar, bowing very low.

Bois-Doré replied only with a bow.

Guillaume, who was in great haste to start, did not notice that the
marquis, despite his apparent courtesy, refrained from offering his hand
to the Spaniard, who dared not ask leave to touch his.




XXX


No sooner were they in the saddle than the marquis, turning to Adamas,
said with much excitement:

"Quickly, my gorget, my helmet, my weapons, my horse and two men!"

"Everything is ready, monsieur," Adamas replied. "Master Jovelin advised
us to prepare everything, saying that if Monsieur d'Ars went away again
to-night, you would escort him. But for what purpose?"

"You shall know when I return," said the marquis, going up to his
chamber to don his armor. "Was care taken to saddle the horses in the
small stable, so that only the men who are to accompany me will know of
our departure?"

"Yes, monsieur, I myself looked to it."

"Are you going very far?" cried Mario, who had just supped with Mercedes
and was returning to his bedroom.

"No, my son, I am not going far. I shall return in two short hours. You
must sleep quietly. Come quickly and kiss me!"

"Oh! how handsome you are!" said Mario, artlessly. "Are you going to La
Motte-Seuilly again?"

"No, no, I am going to dance at a ball," the marquis replied with a
smile.

"Take me, so that I can see you dance," said the child.

"I cannot; but be patient, my little cupid, for after to-morrow I will
not take a step without you."

When the old nobleman had donned his little cap of yellow leather
striped with silver, with an inner lining of iron, and adorned with long
plumes drooping over his shoulder; when he was arrayed in his short
military cloak, his long sword, and his gorget of shining steel buckled
beneath his lace ruff, Adamas could vow, without flattery, that he had
an air of grandeur, especially as the excitement of the evening had
caused his paint to disappear, so that he wore almost his natural face,
by no means that of a popinjay.

"Now you are ready, monsieur," said Adamas. "But am I not to go with
you?"

"No, my friend; you will close all the doors of my pavilion and pass the
evening with my son. If he falls asleep, you will make up a camp-bed for
him with cushions. I desire to find him here when I return; and now,
hold a light for me, I want to talk with Master Jovelin in the salon."

He kissed Mario several times with deep emotion, and went down to the
lower floor.

"What have you determined upon and where are you going?" Lucilio's
expressive eyes inquired.

"I am going to Ars to finish the investigation. And after that, eh?
After that, if there is occasion to do so, I shall concert measures with
Guillaume to prevent the traitor's escape, and return and advise with
you as to our next move. _Au revoir_ for a time, my dear friend."

Lucilio sighed as he looked after the marquis. He seemed to him to be
intent upon some more serious project than he had admitted in his
programme.

While the marquis, without haste, was making his preparations for
departure, Guillaume and D'Alvimar, the latter attended by Sancho, the
other by his escort of four men-at-arms, were riding slowly toward the
château of Ars, by the lower road; that is to say, the road that leaves
the plateau of Le Chaumois on the right and passes quite near La
Châtre.

As the moon had not risen, and Guillaume's horses were very tired, they
could not travel very quickly.

D'Alvimar took advantage of this circumstance to ride a little in
advance with his squire, as if involuntarily, because their horses were
fresher. Then, slackening his pace, he said:

"Sancho, you did not leave anything belonging to me at Briantes?"

"I never forget anything, Antonio."

"Yes, you do; you forget daggers and leave them in the bodies of the
people you kill."

"That reproach again?"

"I have my reasons for making it to-day. My horse no longer goes lame,
but do you think he is in condition to take a long journey to-night?"

"Yes. What is there new?"

"Listen carefully and try to understand quickly. The _peddler_ was a
gentleman, the Marquis de Bois-Doré's brother. The knife that you used
is in that old man's possession. He has sworn vengeance, and he accuses
us on the testimony of some witness, I know not whom."

"The Moorish woman."

"Why the Moorish woman?"

"Because those accursed creatures always bring misfortune."

"If you have no other reason----"

"I have others; I will tell you what they are."

"Yes, later. We must consider now how we are to leave this neighborhood
without any further explanation with that old idiot. I told him enough
to induce him to be patient. He expects me to-morrow."

"For a duel?"

"No; he is too old!"

"But he is very cunning; are you anxious to rot in some dungeon in his
château? No matter, I will go there with you, if you go."

"I shall not go. A certain prophecy makes me very prudent. When we are
within a short distance of that little town of which you see the lights
yonder, leave the escort, disappear, and return a quarter of an hour
later and say that someone in the town handed you a letter for me. I
will go to the château of Ars before reading it, but, as soon as I have
read it, I will say to Monsieur d'Ars that I must go away at once. Do
you understand?"

"I understand."

"Let us wait for Monsieur d'Ars then, and display no haste."

When honest Bois-Doré, armed to the teeth and firmly seated on the
stately Rosidor, had passed the confines of the village of Briantes, he
discovered Adamas, mounted on a little hackney of placid disposition,
ambling at his side.

"What! is that you, master rebel?" he said, in a tone which did not
succeed in being angry; "did I not forbid you to follow me and order you
to keep watch over my heir?"

"Your heir is well guarded, monsieur; Master Jovelin gave me his word
not to leave him, and, moreover, I do not see that he incurs any risk in
your château, now that the enemy has left it and we are charging upon
him."

"I know that we are the ones who are in danger now, Adamas, and that is
why I did not want you here, for you are old and broken, and besides,
you never were a great warrior."

"It is true, monsieur, that I am not overfond of receiving blows, but I
like to deal them when I can. I am no longer a young man; but if I am
not quick of foot, I have a sharp eye, and I propose to see that you
don't fall into any ambush. That is why I have brought two more men with
me, who will overtake us in three minutes. Besides, I should have gone
mad to have to wait for you, knowing nothing and doing nothing. By the
way, my dear master, where are we going and what are we going to do?"

"You will soon see, my friend, you will soon see! But let us make haste.
We have no time to lose if we would overtake them half way to Ars."

They urged their horses to a gallop, and in less than a quarter of an
hour came in sight of Guillaume and his escort, who were still riding
very slowly.

The moon was rising and shone on the weapons of the horsemen.

They had reached a spot then and now called La Rochaille, a spot not far
from numerous houses to-day, but in those days completely deserted and
barren.

The road was on a slope, with a small ravine on one side, and on the
other a hill-top strewn with great gray boulders, with an occasional
stunted chestnut tree growing among them. The place bore a bad name; the
peasants have always had superstitious ideas concerning the boulders,
perhaps because they vaguely attribute their presence to the efforts of
the demons of ancient Gaul, perhaps because they believe that they fell
from heaven to destroy the worship of those wicked demons.

The marquis ordered his little troop to halt before it had been
discovered by Guillaume and his men, and rode forward alone at full
speed, intending to bar his young kinsman's passage.

When they heard the noise of the galloping hoofs, Guillaume and
D'Alvimar turned, the former perfectly calm, supposing that it was some
frightened traveller, the latter sorely perturbed, and still dwelling on
the prediction which the events of that evening seemed to confirm and to
hasten to its fulfilment.

When Bois-Doré passed on the left of the escort, Guillaume did not
recognize him in his military costume; but D'Alvimar recognized him by
the throbbing of his agitated heart; and old Sancho, warned by a similar
sensation, rode nearer to him.

Their anxiety was dispelled when Bois-Doré rode on without speaking to
them. They concluded then that it was not he. But when he drew rein and
wheeled about with his horse's head almost touching theirs, they glanced
at each other and instinctively drew close together.

"What does this mean, monsieur?" said Guillaume, taking one of his
pistols from the holster at his saddlebow. "Who are you and what do you
want?"

But before Bois-Doré had time to reply, a pistol was discharged between
them, and the ball grazed the marquis's cap, as he, seeing Sancho's
movement to murder him, hastily stooped, crying:

"It is I, Guillaume!"

"Ten thousand devils!" cried Guillaume in dismay; "who fired on the
marquis? In heaven's name, marquis, are you hit?"

"Not a scratch," replied Bois-Doré; "but I must say that you have some
vile hounds in your party, to fire on a single man before they know
whether he is friend or foe!"

"You are right, and I will do justice on them instantly," rejoined the
wrathful young man. "Miserable knaves, which of you fired on the best
man in the realm?"

"Not I! nor I! nor I! nor I!" cried Monsieur d'Ars's four servants with
one voice.

"No, no!" said the marquis, "none of these honest fellows would have
done such a thing. I saw the man who fired the shot, and there he is!"

As he spoke, Bois-Doré, with a dexterity, agility and force worthy of
his best days, struck Sancho across the face with his whip, and, as the
assassin put his hands to his eyes, he seized him by the collar, and,
dragging him from his saddle, threw him to the ground and lashed his
horse, which galloped away and disappeared in the direction of Briantes.

At the same instant the marquis's four men, disregarding his orders to
await a summons from him, rode up at full speed, with Adamas, in whom
the report of the pistol and the sight of the flying horse had aroused
the keenest anxiety.

"Ah! here you are," said the marquis. "Very good; pick up yonder
unhorsed cavalier; he belongs to me, as I have the _droit d'épave_[22]
on this road. He is my prisoner. Bind him; there is reason to distrust
his hands."


[Footnote 22: That is to say, the right of the lord of the manor to
claim all property found on his domain, to which nobody can prove
title.]




XXXI


While the colossal charioteer, Aristandre, bound Sancho's hands--he was
still dazed by his fall--and stripped him of his arms, D'Alvimar emerged
at last from the stupor caused by this swiftly enacted scene.

For an instant he had thought of abandoning his ill-omened confederate
to Bois-Doré's wrath; but when he saw him treated so roughly because he
had once more risked his life for him, a remnant of pride and shame
compelled him to remonstrate.

"I can understand, messire," he said, "that you are angered by the
stupidity of that old man, who was asleep in his saddle, and being
awakened by a sudden shock, thought that he was attacked by a band of
robbers. He certainly deserves punishment, but not to be treated as a
prisoner within your seignioral jurisdiction; for he belongs to me, and
it is my prerogative and mine alone to punish him for the insult he
offered you."

"Do you call that an insult, Monsieur de Villareal?" retorted the
marquis in a tone of contempt. "But it is not with you that I have to
deal, but with my friend and kinsman Guillaume d'Ars."

"I will permit no explanation," rejoined D'Alvimar with feigned passion,
"until my servant is restored to me, and if you desire a duel----"

"Listen to me, Guillaume," said Bois-Doré.

"No, no one shall listen to you," shouted D'Alvimar, trying to release
his horse, which Guillaume, having taken his stand between him and
Bois-Doré, was holding in order to prevent a conflict. "Monsieur d'Ars,
I am your friend and your guest, you invited me to visit you and made me
welcome; you promised me loyal assistance on every occasion; you will
not allow me to be outraged, even by a member of your family. Under such
circumstances, I am the one to whom you owe support and fair play, even
against your own brother."

"I am aware of it," replied Guillaume, "and it shall be so. But calm
yourself first of all, and allow Monsieur de Bois-Doré to speak. I know
him well enough to be sure of his courtesy to you and his generous
treatment of your servant. Make due allowance for a moment of anger; it
is the first time I have ever seen him so wrathful, and, although he has
good reason, I am certain that I can pacify him. Come, come, be quiet,
my dear fellow! You are in a passion too; but you are the younger, and
my cousin is the insulted party. I will confess that, if he had received
the slightest scratch, I would have killed your servant on the spot,
though I had to give you satisfaction afterward."

"But what the devil, monsieur!" cried D'Alvimar, still hoping to avoid
the impending explanation by a quarrel, and, if necessary, by a scuffle,
"wherein was my servant at fault, I pray to know? What sort of a caprice
was it that induced monsieur le marquis to ride by us without making
himself known, and then to block our road, at the risk of being taken
for a lunatic? Did not you yourself seize your pistol and shout _qui
vive_?"

"To be sure; but I should not have fired without awaiting a reply, nor
would you, I imagine, and you cannot excuse your servant's stupid or
evil act. Come, be calm. If you wish me to succeed in arranging the
affair to your honor and satisfaction, do not make it impossible by your
violence."

While D'Alvimar continued to argue vehemently, and the marquis to listen
with entire tranquillity, Adamas, anxious concerning the result of the
affair, had spoken to Guillaume's men upon his own authority. He had
told them all that he knew, and they had sworn that in case Monsieur
d'Ars should feel compelled to order them to defend Monsieur D'Alvimar
against the Bois-Doré party, they would only pretend to fight, and
would leave the field clear for anybody whose right it was, to deal out
justice to the assassins.

All the men in both parties were relations or friends to one another,
and they were in no wise inclined to exchange blows for love of a
foreigner, whether guilty or under suspicion only.

Thus the time that D'Alvimar strove to gain by his remonstrances turned
against him; and when Guillaume, annoyed and disgusted by his obstinacy,
turned his back on him to go to talk with the marquis a few steps away,
D'Alvimar was at once surrounded by the servants of the latter, without
the slightest opposition on the part of Guillaume's men.

Thereupon he became very seriously alarmed and glanced about him,
estimating the slight chance that remained of successful flight, unless
he were resigned to risk the loss of honor or of life in the attempt.

But hope revived when he heard Guillaume, to whom Bois-Doré had briefly
recounted his grievances, refuse to believe that he was not misled by
deceptive appearances.

"Monsieur de Villareal?" he said. "That is utterly impossible, and I
should have had to see it with my own eyes to believe it. Now, as you
did not see it, and as you must have been deceived by false reports,
permit me to defend this gentleman's honor, and do not think, monsieur
and dear cousin, that, deeply as I respect you, I will allow a friend
who has placed himself under my protection to be insulted and outraged
without proofs. Moreover, you have not that right, for every gentleman
is subject to the king's justice alone. So calm your excited nerves, I
implore you, and allow me to return home, where you know that I am very
anxious to be."

"I am not excited," rejoined Bois-Doré, raising his voice and with an
air of dignity that Guillaume had never seen him assume, "and I
anticipated your reply, my good friend and cousin. It is such a reply as
I should make in your place, and I find no fault with it. Having
expected that you would act as you have done, I determined to make my
conduct conform to the consideration which I owe you, and that is why
you see me here, halfway between our respective abodes, on neutral,
public ground. To be sure I have some rights over this road; but three
steps away, among yonder old rocks, I am neither on your property nor
mine. Know therefore that I have determined to fight a duel to the death
with this traitor, who cannot refuse to fight with me, since I have
designedly assaulted and insulted him in the person of his servant, and
since I do at this moment insult and challenge him in his own person,
branding him before God, before you and before the honest fellows who
attend us, as a cowardly and despicable murderer! I do not think that
you can justly take it ill of me that I do what I am doing; for I beg
you to observe that, so long as you and he were in my house, I refrained
from anything approaching insult or bad temper, wherein I kept my
promise to be a loyal host to him; and I beg you to observe also that I
took my measures to meet you in the open fields, in order to avoid doing
violence under your roof, for I would not for anything in the world have
imposed upon you the necessity of bearing aid to this vile creature.
Lastly, my cousin, I beg you to consider this, which is the greatest
sacrifice I can make to you: instead of having him beaten to death by my
servants, as he deserves, I myself, a nobleman, deserving of my rank,
stoop to measure swords with a cutthroat of the vilest sort. Were it not
for the friendship with which you honor me, I would have thrown him into
an underground dungeon; but, desirous to show my respect for you, even
in the error into which you have fallen with regard to him, I renounce
all my honorable privileges, to fight him, a vile, degraded creature,
with the weapons of men of honor.--I have said what I have to say, and
you can make no further objection. Be his second, unworthy as he is of
your kindness; Adamas will be mine. I will content myself with the aid
of that honest man, since in such an affair there can be no question of
a combat between the seconds."

"Assuredly," cried Guillaume, deeply moved by the old man's greatness of
heart, "conduct more loyal than yours cannot be imagined, my cousin,
and, in view of the suspicions you entertain, you display such
generosity as is rarely seen. But those suspicions being unfounded----"

"It is no longer a question of suspicions," replied the marquis, "since
you do not choose to listen to them; I insult one of your friends, and I
fancy that you would not consider as a friend a man capable of shrinking
from a combat."

"Surely not!" cried Guillaume; "but I will not permit this duel, which
does not befit your years, my cousin! I would prefer to fight in your
stead. Come, will you accept my promise? I promise to avenge your
brother's death with my own hand if you succeed in proving incontestably
that Monsieur D'Alvimar was the dastardly and wicked author thereof.
Wait until to-morrow, and I will constitute myself justiciary of my
family, as my duty to you demands."

Guillaume's impulse was worthy of the marquis's noble heart; but, by
letting slip an allusion to his years, Guillaume had mortified him
exceedingly.

"My cousin," he said, recurring to that puerility of mind which
contrasted so strongly with the nobility of his instincts, "you take me
for an old _Signor Pantaleone_, with a rusty sword and a trembling hand.
Before consigning me to crutches, remember, I beg, the consideration I
have shown you, which does not deserve the affront you put upon me by
offering to avenge my dearest brother's execrable murder in my stead.
Come, it seems to me that we have had words enough, and my patience is
exhausted. Your Monsieur de Villareal has more than I, for he listens to
all this without finding a word to say."

Guillaume saw that matters had gone so far that any reconciliation was
impossible; and, as he agreed with the marquis that D'Alvimar had
suddenly become much too patient, he turned to him and said sharply:

"Come, my dear fellow, why do you not answer, I will not say this
challenge, which has no just foundation, but a charge which you surely
cannot deserve?"

D'Alvimar had reflected during the discussion. He affected a disdainful
and satirical calmness.

"I accept the challenge, monsieur," he replied, "and I do not think that
I deserve great credit for so doing, being, as you know, most expert in
the use of all weapons. As for the accusation, it is so absurd and
unjust that I am waiting for you yourself to explain it to me before
disproving it; for I do not know as yet what the marquis has said to you
about me, as he whispered it in your ear, and I desire him to repeat it
aloud."

"I am quite willing, and it will not take long," retorted Bois-Doré. "I
said that you were a brigand, an assassin and a thief. You desire more,
but I can find nothing worse to say of you than the bare truth."

"You pay me strange compliments, monsieur le marquis!" said the Spaniard
coolly. "You have already regaled me, under your own roof, with a
lugubrious tale wherein you were pleased to represent me as the slayer
of your brother. Whether I am or not, I do not know, as I told you; I
simply know that I bade my servant kill a man dressed as a peddler, who
was carrying away by force a lady whose defence I took upon myself, as I
told you, and whose honor I avenged."

"Oho!" cried the marquis, "that is your text now, is it? The lady who
was flying with my brother was abducted against her will, and you don't
remember saying that she was your----"

"Lower, monsieur, I beg you. If Monsieur d'Ars will kindly listen to me
a few steps away from here, I will tell him who that woman was, unless
you prefer to vilify and besmirch her name before your servants."

"My servants are better men than you and yours, monsieur! No matter! I
am exceedingly desirous that you should impart your secret to Monsieur
d'Ars, but in my presence, as you have already given me one version of
it."

The three walked away from the group, and the marquis spoke first.

"Come," he said, "explain yourself! You allege as your defence that that
woman was your sister!"

"And do you, monsieur," retorted D'Alvimar, "propose to vent your
factitious rage by giving me the lie again?"

"By no means, monsieur. I ask you to tell us your sister's name; for it
seems that your own name is not Villareal."

"Why so, monsieur?"

"Because I know it now. Dare to contradict me before Monsieur d'Ars,
whom you are also deceiving by an assumed name!"

"No, no!" said Guillaume; "monsieur is concealing his identity under one
of his family names, and I know perfectly well the name he usually
bears."

"In that case, cousin, let him say what it is, and I swear that, if it
proves to be the same as my deceased sister-in-law's, I will retire with
apologies to both of you."

"And I refuse to tell it," said D'Alvimar. "I supposed that between
gentlemen a simple assertion should suffice; but you insult me without
pause or prudence. A duel is what you seek, and your wish shall be
gratified."

"No! a hundred times no!" cried Guillaume. "Let us have done with this;
and as nothing more is necessary than to tell the marquis your name to
induce him to withdraw in peace, I----"

"I beg you not to forget," interposed D'Alvimar, "that you expose
me----"

"No! my cousin is too honorable a man to betray you to your enemies.
Understand, marquis, and I place this information under the safeguard of
your honor, that monsieur's name is Sciarra d'Alvimar."

"Oho!" rejoined the marquis with a sneer. "So monsieur's initials happen
to be identical with those of the stamp of the Salamanca factory?"

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing! I am simply nailing another of monsieur's lies as I pass; but
this one is so trifling compared with the others----"

"What others? Come, come, marquis, you are too persistent!"

"Hush, Guillaume!" said D'Alvimar, still affecting a disdainful
attitude. "This must end in a sword thrust. We are simply wasting time."

"Ah! but I am not in so much haste now," rejoined the marquis. "I insist
upon knowing the baptismal name and the family name of the sister of
Monsieur de Villareal, de Sciarra and d'Alvimar. I know that the
Spaniards have many names; but if he will tell me simply that lady's
real name, her family name----"

"If you know it," retorted D'Alvimar, "your persistence in making me
tell it is an additional insult."

"Oh! do not take it so, D'Alvimar," cried Guillaume testily. "Give her
your own name, unless you propose that we shall pass the night here!"

"Nay, cousin," said the marquis; "I myself will supply this mysterious
name. Monsieur de Villareal's alleged sister was called Julie de
Sandoval."

"Well, why not, monsieur?" said D'Alvimar, seizing eagerly upon what he
believed to be a monstrous blunder on the old man's part. "I did not
wish to mention that name. It was not becoming in me to reveal it, and
I thought that you did not know it. Since you yourself, by asserting
that to be the fact, have been guilty of one of those falsehoods which
you rebuke so sharply in others, let me tell you, monsieur, that Julie
de Sandoval was my mother's daughter, by her first husband."

"In that case, monsieur," replied Bois-Doré uncovering, "I am ready to
withdraw, and to apologize for my violence, if you will swear to me on
your honor that you recognized your half-sister, Julie de Sandoval,
under her veil, at the tavern of----"

"I swear it to satisfy you. Indeed, I saw her without her veil in that
tavern."

"For the third time--pardon my persistence, I owe it to my brother's
memory--for the third time, it was really your sister, Julie de
Sandoval? The ring which she wore on her finger and is now on mine, and
which bears that name in full, can have belonged to no other than her?
You swear it?"

"I swear it! Are you satisfied?"

"Stay! there is a crest on the bezel of this ring; _a shield azure with
a head or_. Are those the arms of the Sandovals of your family?"

"Yes, monsieur, the very same."

"Then, monsieur," said Bois-Doré, replacing his cap, "I declare once
more that you have lied like the impudent dastard that you are; for I
have been making sport of you: your alleged sister's ring bears the name
of Maria de Merida, and the arms are simple with a cross argent. I can
prove it."




XXXII


Guillaume was shaken; but D'Alvimar reflected rapidly.

The moon, even though it had been much brighter, would not have enabled
one to see the tiny letters and microscopic crest engraved in a ring,
and in those times people had not, as they have to-day, a light all
ready in the pocket.

It was necessary therefore to postpone to some other time the
examination of this evidence. The only course for the culprit to adopt
was to seek, not to avoid, a duel. What he dreaded was that they would
deny him that honorable chance of escape, and that he would be made a
prisoner of the marquis or of the provincial authorities.

He hurriedly led Guillaume aside and said to him, with a forced laugh:

"I am fairly caught. I attempted to be good-natured, as you requested,
in order to put an end to the discussion and to get rid of this old
lunatic. I said everything that he tried to make me say, and now his
caprice is taking another flight, in which I cannot follow it. It is all
my fault; I ought to have told you, immediately on leaving his house,
that he has been mad for two days; witness the fact that he asked for
Madame de Beuvre's hand yesterday, as others can tell you, and that all
this day he has been inventing the most extraordinary fables concerning
his brother's death, taking sometimes me, sometimes his mute, sometimes
his little dog for the murderer. I was unable to avoid coming to blows
with him except by inventing tales which served as small change for his;
but he did not calm down until you arrived."

"Why didn't you tell me all this?" exclaimed Guillaume.

"I did not wish to complain of the vexations I had endured in his
company; you would have thought that I meant to reproach you for leaving
me there. Now, there is only one way to have done with it. Let me fight
With him."

"With an old man and a madman? I cannot permit it."

"Come, come, Guillaume," exclaimed Bois-Doré, impatiently, "are you
ready now to let me avenge my wrongs, and must I do Monsieur d'Alvimar
the honor of striking him, in order to rouse him?"

"We are at your service, monsieur," replied D'Alvimar, shrugging his
shoulders. "Come, my dear fellow," he said in a low tone to Guillaume,
"you see that it must be! Don't be afraid! I will soon bring this old
automaton to reason, and I promise you to strike his sword out of his
hand as many times as you please. I will undertake to tire him out so
effectually that he will want to hurry home and go to bed, and to-morrow
we will laugh over the adventure."

Guillaume was reassured by his merriment.

"I am glad to find you in the proper mood," he said in an undertone,
"and I warn you that in putting forth your skill with yonder old man,
you would not act a gallant part, and would cause me great pain. I
believe that he is mad, but that is an additional reason for using your
science with moderation and sending him home with no greater hurt than
lame muscles."

Guillaume knew, however, that Bois-Doré was very strong in fencing, But
his was an antiquated method which younger men disdained, and he knew,
also, that while the marquis's wrist was still supple, he was not firm
enough on his legs to hold out more than two or three minutes. Moreover,
D'Alvimar was exceedingly expert; so he constantly exhorted him to
magnanimity.

The champions having dismounted, the servants were left in the road to
watch the horses and the prisoner, Sancho, whom Guillaume ordered them
not to set free until the duel was at an end, in order that the
difficulties of the situation might not be complicated by unexpected
interference from any quarter.

Sancho was very desirous to be at liberty. He felt that he might be
useful to his master, as he never recoiled from the most difficult
undertaking; but he was too proud to complain and cry out. He remained
silent and stoical under guard of Bois-Doré's servants.

While Guillaume, with the two adversaries, was seeking a suitable spot
between the road and the boulders, Adamas and Aristandre were engaged in
an animated whispered colloquy. Aristandre was desperate, Adamas was in
a state of feverish excitement; but the idea that his master might fall
a victim to his own generous behavior never entered his head. He was
drunk, as it were, in his confidence in the marquis's strength and
skill.

"Why do you tremble like a child?" he asked the coachman. "Don't you
know that monsieur is capable of eating up thirty-six fellows like this
coxcomb of a Spaniard? Nothing but treachery could overcome such a
valiant man as he is; but the knave Sancho is carefully guarded, and
Monsieur Guillaume and I will have an eye to everything. Am I not a
second? Monsieur said so. You heard him. We are two honorable seconds,
and we will not allow a thrust or a parry that isn't within the rules."

"But you know no more than I do about the rules of duels between
gentlemen! Look you, I have a mind to climb up yonder without anyone
seeing me, and, if the Spaniard has too much luck, roll one of those big
stones down on him."

"As to that, if I could be sure that you wouldn't crush monsieur with
him, I wouldn't advise you not to do it, any more than I would think it
was a crime to put two bullets into his head myself, if I wasn't a
second. But my master is calling me. Don't you be afraid, all will go
well!"

Meanwhile the ground was chosen, a clear space of sufficient size, well
lighted by the moon. The swords were measured, Guillaume performing the
functions of second impartially for both champions, who had sworn to
rely upon him; for Adamas's presence could be only a matter of form.

The duel began.

Thereupon, despite his confidence and his enthusiasm, Adamas felt a cold
shudder run through every limb. He became dumb; with his mouth wide
open, his eyes starting from his head, he was unconscious of the
perspiration and the tears that rolled down his laughable yet touching
face.

Guillaume too had done his utmost to persuade himself that the results
of that strange combat could not be serious. But when the swords met,
his confidence vanished, and he blamed himself for not having prevented,
at any price, a meeting which, from the outset, threatened to have
serious consequences.

D'Alvimar had promised to place his adversary at his mercy and to spare
his life; but, in so far as the moonlight enabled him to distinguish his
expression, it seemed to Guillaume that rage and hate were exhibited
therein with increasing intensity, and his sharp, close sword-play gave
no indication of prudence or of generous purpose. Luckily the marquis
was still calm and held his ground with more endurance and elasticity
than could have been expected.

Guillaume could say nothing, and contented himself with coughing two or
three times, to warn D'Alvimar to show more moderation, without arousing
the sensibility of the marquis, who might have lost his head altogether,
if he had suspected that he was not taken seriously.


[Illustration: _THE DUEL BETWEEN THE MARQUIS
AND D'ALVIMAR._

_His game was a difficult one to
play. He wished to kill the marquis and to seem to kill
him unintentionally._]


But the contest was serious enough. D'Alvimar felt that he had an
adversary inferior to himself in theory; but he was himself disturbed
and preoccupied and inferior to himself in practice. His game was a
difficult one to play. He wished to kill the marquis and to seem to kill
him unintentionally.

So he tried to make him run himself through, by acting on the defensive;
and the marquis seemed to detect his stratagem, for he acted cautiously.

The duel was prolonged for some time without result. Guillaume relied on
the marquis's fatigue, thinking that D'Alvimar would not strike him
down. D'Alvimar found that the marquis showed no signs of giving way; he
tried to excite him by feints, hoping that a feeling of impatience would
lead him to depart from the surprising prudence of his play.

Suddenly the moon was veiled by a dark cloud, and Guillaume tried to
interpose to suspend the combat; he had not time: the two champions were
rolling on the ground.

A third champion rushed toward them, at the risk of being spitted; it
was Adamas, who, having lost his head and not knowing which had the
advantage, plunged wildly into the fray. Guillaume threw him back with
violence, and saw the marquis kneeling on D'Alvimar's body.

"Mercy, cousin!" he cried; "mercy for him who would have spared you!"

"It is too late, cousin," replied the marquis, rising. "Justice is
done!"

D'Alvimar was nailed to the earth by the marquis's long rapier; he had
ceased to live.

Adamas had swooned.

At the cry of mercy, Bois-Doré's servants had hurried to the spot. The
marquis was leaning against a rock, breathless and exhausted. But he
showed no weakness, and, the moon having emerged from the cloud, he
stood erect again to look at the body, and stooped to touch it.

"He is quite dead!" said Guillaume in a reproachful tone. "You have
killed a friend of mine, monsieur, and I am unable to congratulate you
upon it; for your suspicions must be unjust."

"I will prove to you that they were not, Guillaume," replied Bois-Doré,
with a dignity which shook his kinsman's confidence anew; "until then,
suspend your displeasure against me and your regrets for this wicked
man. When you know the truth, perhaps you will regret having compelled
me to risk my life in order to take his."

"But what shall we do with this unfortunate body now?" said Guillaume,
downcast and dismayed.

"I will not leave you in any difficulty on my account," said Bois-Doré.
"My men will carry it to the Carmelite convent of La Châtre, where the
monks will give it such burial as they choose. I have no idea of
concealing from anyone what I have done, especially as I still have to
punish the other assassin. But I cannot perform that distasteful task in
cold blood, and I propose to turn him over to the provost's lieutenant,
so that exemplary punishment may be dealt out to him. You will escort
him thither, Adamas. Why, where is my trusty Adamas?"

"Alas, monsieur," replied Adamas in a cavernous voice, "here I am at
your knees, and very ill over this affair. For a moment I thought that
you were dead, and I believe that I was dead myself for a good quarter
of an hour. Do not send me anywhere; I have no legs, and I feel as if I
had a millwheel in my head."

"Well, my poor fellow, if you are not good for anything more we will
send somebody else. I told you that you were too old to endure
excitement!"

The marquis walked back toward the horses, while his servants and
Guillaume's took up the dead body and covered it with a cloak. But when
they looked for the prisoner, they looked in vain.

They had not taken the precaution to bind his legs. Taking advantage of
a moment of excitement and confusion, when the servants, disturbed
concerning the result of the duel, had left the horses in charge of two
of their number, who had had much difficulty in holding them, he had
taken flight, or rather had stolen away and hidden somewhere in the
ravine.

"Never fear, monsieur le marquis," said Aristandre. "A man with his
hands bound can neither run very fast nor conceal himself very
skilfully; I promise you that I will catch him; I will undertake to do
it. Ride home and rest; you have well earned it!"

"No," said the marquis; "I must see that murderer again. Do two of you
search for him, while I and the other two ride with Monsieur d'Ars to
the Carmelite convent."

D'Alvimar's body was laid across his horse, and Guillaume's servants
assisted Bois-Doré's to transport it.

Bois-Doré rode on ahead with Guillaume, to have the gates of the town
opened, if necessary, for it was nearly ten o'clock.

On the road, Bois-Doré furnished his young kinsman with such precise
details concerning his brother's death, the recovery of his nephew, the
episode of the Catalan knife, the admission extorted from the culprit by
his indignation, and finally the testimony of the ring, that Guillaume
could not persist in upholding his friend's honor. He admitted that he
really knew very little of him, having become intimate with him on
slight acquaintance, and that at Bourges there had come to his ears some
reports, far from honorable if they were true, concerning the duel which
had forced the Spaniard to disappear. Monsieur Sciarra Martinengo was
said to have been struck by him, contrary to all the laws of honor, at a
moment when he had asked for a suspension of the combat, his sword being
broken.

Guillaume had refused to credit that charge; but Bois-Doré's
revelations made him look upon it as more serious, and he promised to go
to Briantes the next morning to inspect the evidence, and make the
acquaintance of the beautiful Mario.




XXXIII


In proportion as conviction entered his mind, Guillaume became expansive
and friendly with the marquis, no less from a sense of natural equity
than from an inborn tendency to be governed absolutely by his latest
impression.

"By my soul!" he said, when they were near the town, "you have acted
like a gallant man, and the blow that you dealt him, which nailed him to
the turf, was one of the most beautiful sword thrusts that I have ever
heard of. I have never seen its like, and when you have proved to me
that poor Sciarra was such a vile wretch as you say, I shall not be
sorry to have seen this one. If I had been less pained, I would have
congratulated you upon it. But whatever regret or satisfaction I may
feel because of this death I declare that you are a superb swordsman,
and I would that I were your equal at that sport!"

Our two cavaliers were already on the Pont des Scabinats--now des
Cabignats,--riding toward the gate in the fortifications, when Adamas,
who had recovered his courage and had duly reflected, overtook them and
begged them to listen to him.

"Do you not think, messires," he said, "that the bringing-in of this
body will cause a great commotion in the town?"

"Even so," said the marquis, "do you suppose that I wish to conceal the
fact that I have avenged my honor and my brother's death?"

"True, monsieur, you may well boast of it as a noble deed, but not until
the body has been consigned to the earth; for in these small places a
great noise is often made over a small matter, and the spectacle of a
gentleman carried across his horse in this way will make these bourgeois
of La Châtre open their eyes. You have enemies, monsieur, and at the
present moment Monseigneur de Condé is a very devout Catholic. If he
should learn that this Spaniard was covered with strings of beads and
blessed relics, that he had confessed to Monsieur Poulain, whose
housekeeper is lauding him to the skies in the village of Briantes as a
perfect Christian----"

"Well, well, what are you coming at with your old woman's gossip, my
dear Adamas?" said the marquis, impatiently.

Guillaume interposed.

"Cousin," he said, "Adamas is right. The laws against the duello are
respected by nobody; but evil-minded persons can invoke them at any
moment. This D'Alvimar had some powerful friends in Paris; and
unfriendly reports may, at one time or another, cause this to be used
against you and me, especially against you, who are not esteemed a very
ardent Catholic. Take my advice therefore, and let us not go into the
town but decide upon some other means of ridding ourselves of this dead
man. You are sure of your people and I can answer for mine. Let us have
no confidants among the churchmen and bourgeois of a small town, all of
whom, in this province, are very bitter against men who have opposed the
League and served under the late king."

"There is much truth in what you say," replied Bois-Doré; "but it is
most distasteful to me to tie a stone around a dead man's neck and toss
him into the river like a dog."

"Why, monsieur," said Adamas, "that man was worth less than any dog!"

"That is true, my friend; I thought so myself an hour ago; but I have no
hatred for a corpse."

"Very good, monsieur," said Adamas, "I have an idea which will make
everything all right; if we retrace our steps, we shall find within a
hundred yards, near the Chambon meadow, the gardener's cottage."

"What gardener? Marie la Caille-Bottée?"

"She is very devoted to monsieur, and they say that she was not always
pock-marked."

"Tush, tush! Adamas, this is no time for jesting!"

"I am not jesting, monsieur, and I say that that old woman will keep our
secret faithfully."

"And you propose to disturb her peace of mind by carrying a dead man to
her? She will die of fright!"

"No, monsieur, for she is not alone in her little isolated cottage. I
will take my oath that we shall find a good Carmelite there, who will
give the Spanish gentleman Christian burial in a grave somewhere on the
gardener's premises."

"You are too much of a Huguenot, Adamas," said Monsieur d'Ars. "The
Carmelites are not such dissolute fellows as you imply."

"I say no evil of them, messire; I am speaking of a single one, whom I
know, and who has nothing of the monk except the frock and the
paternosters. It is Jean le Clope, who followed monsieur le marquis to
the war, and for whom monsieur le marquis procured admission to the
convent as a disabled veteran."

"On my word, this is excellent advice," said the marquis.

"Jean le Clope is a reliable man, and he has seen too many bloodless
faces lying on the ground on battlefields to take fright at the task we
propose to entrust to him."

"Let us make haste then," said Monsieur d'Ars, "for my steward is dying,
as you know, and I would like to see him if it is not too late."

"Go, cousin," said the marquis. "Attend now to your own affairs; this
concerns me and me alone henceforth!"

They shook hands. Guillaume joined his escort and rode away with them
toward his château. The marquis and Adamas halted at La
Caille-Bottée's cottage, where they did in fact find Jean le Clope, who
warmly greeted his patron, calling him his captain.

As is well known, the convents were compelled to take charge of soldiers
disabled in the service of the king or of the lord of the province. Most
of the religious communities were bound by contract to receive and
support these relics of the calamities of war, who were sometimes too
fond of high living for pious recluses, sometimes much less corrupt than
the monks themselves. However it may have been with the Carmelites of La
Châtre, with whose history we are not here concerned, the secular
brother Jean le Clope was but little hampered by the rules of the
community, and, if he was not missing at meal hours, he was often
missing at curfew.

While the marquis was explaining what he expected from his devotion and
discretion, Adamas superintended the bringing of the body into the
lonely house, and, a quarter of an hour later, Bois-Doré and his
attendants rode homeward by way of La Rochaille.

They found Aristandre and his comrades profoundly disappointed at their
inability to discover what had become of Sancho.

"Well, monsieur," said Adamas, "perhaps God wills it so! That villain
will be very careful never to appear in a neighborhood where he knows
that he is unmasked, and he would have been a source of fresh
embarrassment to you."

"I confess that I have little taste for executions when my excitement
has subsided," replied Bois-Doré, "and that I should have avoided
witnessing that one. If I had turned him over to the provost, I should
have been obliged to say what I had done with his master, and, as we
must keep quiet on that point for the moment, it is all for the best. I
consider my dear Florimond's death sufficiently avenged, although the
Moor did not see which of the two, the master or the servant, dealt the
blow that ended his poor life; but in affairs of this sort, Adamas, the
most guilty, perhaps the real culprit, is he who directs it. The servant
sometimes deems it his duty to obey a wicked order, and this fellow
evidently did not act on his own account or profit by my brother's
wealth, since he has remained a servant as before."

Adamas did not share the longing to be indulgent which the marquis
experienced after his outburst of energy. He hated Sancho even more
bitterly than D'Alvimar, because of his arrogant manner toward his
equals, and because of his wariness, in which he had been unable to find
any flaw. He considered him quite capable of having advised and executed
the crime, but the thing that he dreaded more than all else was the
possible persecution of the marquis; so he assisted him to deceive
himself concerning the importance of the capture which he was compelled
to renounce.

When they reached the gate of the manor of Briantes, they heard the
irregular galloping of a riderless horse. It proved to be Sancho's,
which had returned to its lost stable. He exchanged a plaintive, almost
funereal neigh with D'Alvimar's steed, which a servant was leading by
the rein.

"These poor creatures feel the disasters that befall their masters, so
it is said," observed the marquis to Adamas: "they are intelligent
beasts and live in a state of innocence. For that reason I shall not
have these two killed; but as I do not choose to have anything on my
estate that ever belonged to that D'Alvimar, and as the price of his
property would soil our hands, I propose that they shall be taken ten or
twelve leagues away to-morrow night and set at liberty. Whoever will may
reap the benefit."

"And in that way," said Adamas, "no one will know where they come from.
You can entrust Aristandre with that mission, monsieur. He will not
yield to the temptation to sell them for his own benefit, and, if you
take my advice, you will let him start at once, and not take them into
the courtyard. It is useless to allow these horses to be seen in your
stable to-morrow."

"Do what you choose, Adamas," replied the marquis. "I am reminded that
that miserable wretch must have had money upon him, and that I should
have remembered to take it and give it to the poor."

"Let the lay brother have the benefit of it, monsieur," said the shrewd
Adamas; "the more he finds in the dead man's pockets, the better assured
you will be of his silence."

It was eleven o'clock when the marquis returned to his salon. Jovelin
rushed forward and threw his arms about him. His face sufficiently
indicated the agonizing anxiety he had felt.

"My dear friend," said Bois-Doré, "I deceived you; but rejoice, that
man is no more; and I return with a light heart. Doubtless my child is
asleep at this moment; let us not wake him. I will tell you----"

"The child is not asleep," the mute replied with his pencil. "He divined
my apprehensions: he is crying and praying and tossing about in his
bed."

"Let us go and comfort the dear heart!" cried Bois-Doré; "but look at
me first, my friend, and see if I have no stain on my clothes made by
that treacherous blood. I do not wish that the child should know fear or
hatred at an age too early for the calmness of conscious strength."

Lucilio relieved the marquis of his cloak, his helmet and his arms, and
when they had ascended the stairs they found Mario, barefooted, at the
door of his chamber.

"Ah!" cried the child, clinging passionately to his uncle's long legs,
and speaking to him with the familiarity which he did not as yet know to
be contrary to the customs of the nobility, "so you have come back at
last? You are not hurt, my dear uncle? No one has hurt you, eh? I
thought that that wicked man meant to kill you, and I wanted to run
after you! I was very unhappy! Another time, when you go out to fight,
you must take me, since I am your nephew."

"My nephew! my nephew! that is not enough," said the marquis taking him
back to his bed. "I mean to be your father. Will that displease you, to
be my son? And, by the way," he added, stooping to receive little
Fleurial's caresses, who seemed to have realized and shared the distress
of Jovelin and Mario, "here is a little friend of mine who no longer
belongs to me. Here, Mario, you were so anxious to have him! I give him
to you to console you for your unhappiness this evening."

"Yes," said Mario, putting Fleurial beside him on his pillow, "I
consent, on condition that he is to belong to us both, and is to love us
both alike. But tell me, father, has the wicked man gone away forever?"

"Yes, my son, forever."

"And the king will punish him for killing your brother?"

"Yes, my son, he will be punished."

"What will they do to him?" inquired Mario, thoughtfully.

"I will tell you later, my son. Think only how happy we are to be
together."

"They will never take me away from you?"

"Never!"

"Master Jovelin," he said, addressing the mute, "is it not a melancholy
thing to think of changing this child's sweet mode of speech, which
strikes so melodiously upon the ear? Nay, we will allow him to use the
familiar form of address to me in private, since in his mouth that
familiarity is a sign of affection."

"Must I say _vous_ to you?" queried Mario in amazement.

"Yes, my child, at least before other people. That is the custom."

"Ah! yes, that is how I spoke to Monsieur l'Abbé Anjorrant! But I love
you more than I loved him."

"So you love me already, Mario? I am very glad! But how does it happen?
You do not know me yet."

"No matter, I love you."

"And you do not know why?"

"Yes I do! I love you because I love you."

"My friend," said the marquis to Lucilio, "there is nothing so lovely
and so lovable as childhood! It speaks as the angels must speak among
themselves, and its reasons, which are no reasons, are worth more than
all the wisdom of older heads. You must teach this cherub for me. You
must fashion for him a noble brain like your own; for I am only an
ignorant creature and I wish him to know much more than I do. The times
are not so wholly given up to civil war as they were in my youth, and I
think that gentlemen should turn their thoughts toward the enlightenment
of the mind. But try to let him retain the pretty simple ways that he
owes to his life among the shepherds. In truth he is my ideal of the
lovely children who play among the flowers on the enchanted banks of the
Lignon with its transparent waves."

The marquis, having received from the hands of Adamas a cordial to
refresh him after the exertions of the evening, went to bed and slept
soundly, the happiest of men.

At a time when, in default of regular legal processes, people were
accustomed to take the law into their own hands, and when a suggestion
of pardon would have been considered blameworthy and cowardly weakness,
the marquis, although far more disposed than most of his contemporaries
to display great gentleness in all his dealings, thought that he had
performed the most sacred of duties, and therein he followed the ideas
and usages in vogue when chivalry was in its prime.

Certainly in those days it would have been impossible to find one
gentleman in a thousand who would not have deemed himself possessed of
the right to put to death by torture, or at least to order hanged before
his eyes, a guilty wretch like D'Alvimar, and who would not have
censured or ridiculed the excessively romantic sense of honor which
Bois-Doré had displayed in his duel.

Bois-Doré was well aware of it and was not disturbed by the knowledge.
He had three reasons for being what he was: first of all his instinct,
next the example of humanity set by Henri IV, who was one of the first
men of his time to express disgust at the shedding of blood without
peril to him who shed it. Henri III, when mortally wounded by Jacques
Clement, was so upborne by rage and thirst for vengeance that he was
able himself to strike his assassin, and to look on with joy when he was
thrown from the window; when Henri IV was wounded in the face by
Chastel, his first impulse was to say: "Let that man go!"--And thirdly,
Bois-Doré's religious code was found in the acts and exploits of the
heroes of _Astrée_.

In that ideal romance, it was without example that an honorable knight
should avenge love, honor or friendship without exposing himself to the
greatest dangers. We must not laugh too much at _Astrée_; indeed the
popularity of the book is most interesting to observe. Amid the sanguinary
villainies of civil discords, it is a cry of humanity, a song of
innocence, a dream of virtue ascending heavenward.




XXXIV


The marquis's first thought on waking was for his heir, whom, to conform
to the title which was finally adopted, we will call his son.

He recalled somewhat confusedly the events of that agitated night, but
he recalled perfectly the great questions of dress that had been raised
the day before in connection with his dear Mario. He called him in order
to resume the interview they had begun in the _treasure-room_. But he
received no reply and was beginning to be anxious, when the child, who
had waked and risen before dawn, came in and threw his arms about his
neck, all redolent with the fresh fragrance of the morning.

"Where have you been so early, my young friend?" inquired the old man.

"Father," replied Mario, gayly, "I have been to see Adamas, who has
forbidden me to tell you a secret that we have between us. Don't ask me
what it is; we are going to give you a surprise."

"Very good, my son; I will ask no questions. I like to be surprised. But
aren't we going to breakfast together on this little table by my bed?"

"I haven't time, little father! I must go back to Adamas, who says that
he begs you to go to sleep for another hour unless you want to spoil
everything."

The marquis did his best to go to sleep again, but to no purpose. He was
disturbed about many things. Madame de Beuvre was to come early on that
day with her father; Guillaume, too, in case his steward should be
better. Had suitable arrangements been made for the dinner? and could
Mario properly be presented to a lady in the costume of a mountain
shepherd? And, then, the poor child did not even know how to bow, to
kiss a lady's hand, or say a word or two of flattery? Would not all his
beauty, all his fascinating ways be ridiculed and treated with contempt
by those who were not blinded by the voice of blood?

Moreover, no adequate preparations had been made for the hunting party.
He had had too much excitement and anxiety to give any thought to that.

"If Adamas, who is never at a loss, were only here, he would console
me," thought the marquis.

But so great was his consideration for his faithful servant that he
would have pretended to sleep all day, if Adamas had demanded it.

He remained in bed until nine o'clock, but no one came to his relief;
and, as hunger and uneasiness began to make a serious impression upon
him, he determined to rise.

"What is Adamas thinking about?" he said to himself. "My guests will
soon be here. Does he want them to surprise me in my dressing-gown and
with this sallow face?"

At last Adamas entered the room.

"Oh! set your mind at rest, monsieur!" he exclaimed. "Do you think me
capable of forgetting you? There is no hurry. You will have no company
until two o'clock this afternoon; Madame de Beuvre has just sent word to
me to that effect."

"To you, Adamas?"

"Yes, monsieur, to me, for I devised the scheme of sending a messenger
to her to say that you had a great surprise in store for her, but that
nothing was ready. I took all the blame on myself, and I humbly
requested her not to arrive before the hour I have mentioned, adding
that you desired to keep her here to-night, with monsieur her father,
and not to offer her the diversion of hunting until to-morrow."

"What have you done, villain? She will think me insane or uncivil."

"No, monsieur, she took the thing very well, saying that everything that
you did was certain to prove your wisdom or your gallantry."

"In that case, my friend, we must think seriously----"

"About nothing, monsieur, nothing at all, I beseech you. You did enough
with your brain and your sword last night; for what purpose can God have
placed poor Adamas on earth if not to spare you all anxiety about the
details of simple matters?"

"Alas! my friend, it will not be easy--not possible even--in so short a
time, to make my heir presentable?"

"Do you think so, monsieur?" said Adamas, with an indescribable smile of
satisfaction. "I would like to see the thing that you desire that is not
possible! Yes, indeed, I would! I would like to see it! But permit me to
ask you, monsieur, how your heir is to be announced when he enters the
salon?"

"That is a very grave question, my friend; I have already been thinking
of the name and title the dear child should bear. Neither his father nor
mine was a man of quality; but as I propose to provide for his
succession to my title by the proper process and by obtaining the king's
consent, if necessary, I think that I can bestow upon him, in
anticipation, the title that my own son would have. Therefore, in my
house he will be called monsieur le comte."

"There can be no doubt about the propriety of that, monsieur! But the
name? Do you propose to call him plain Bouron, that poor child who
deserves so well to bear a more illustrious name?"

"Understand, Adamas, that I do not blush for my father's name, and that
that name, which was borne by my brother, will always be dear to me. But
as I am much more attached to the name that my king gave me, I propose
that Mario, also, shall bear it, and shall be Bouron de Bois-Doré,
which, by the customary abbreviation, will become plain Bois-Doré."

"That is what I intended to suggest! Come, monsieur, dress yourself and
eat your breakfast here in your bedroom with the child, for the hall
below is in the hands of my decorators; then I will make your toilet.
But you must wear to-day the clothes that I ask you to put on."

"Do what you please, Adamas, as you are responsible for everything!"

While eating and laughing and talking with his heir, honest Sylvain
suddenly fell into profound melancholy. He succeeded in concealing it
from the boy. But when Adamas, declaring that everything was going
satisfactorily, came to make him up for the day, he opened his heart to
him, while the child played about the château.

"My poor friend," he said, "I am amazed that the _numes célestes_, who
have watched over me with such paternal care of late, have allowed me
none the less to become involved in a terrible embarrassment."

"What embarrassment, monsieur?"

"Have you already forgotten, Adamas, that I offered my heart and my life
to a beautiful enchantress on the morning of the very day when I found
Mario? Now, as she did not reject, but simply postponed my offer, the
result is that I run the risk--according to you!--of having other heirs
than this child, to whom I would gladly devote my life and bequeath my
property."

"The devil! monsieur, I did not think of that! But do not be disturbed!
As it was I who put the fatal plan into your mind, it is for me to find
you a way out of the dilemma. I will think about it, monsieur, I will
think about it! Don't forget to beautify yourself and to make merry
to-day."

"Indeed I will not. But what coat is that you are giving me, my friend!"

"Your coat _à la paysanne_, monsieur; it is one of the handsomest you
have."

"In truth, I think it is the very handsomest; and it pains me to make
myself so fine when my poor Mario----"

"Monsieur, monsieur, let me arrange everything; our Mario will be very
presentable."

The marquis's "peasant" coat was white velvet and white satin, with a
profusion of silver lace and magnificent ruffles. White was then the
color of the peasants, who dressed in white linen or coarse fustian at
all seasons; so that whenever a person was dressed all in white, that
person was said to be dressed _à la paysanne_, and it was one of the
most popular fashions.

The marquis was certainly very amusing in that dress; but everybody was
so accustomed to see him disguised as a young man; he was tricked out
from head to foot with such beautiful things and such curious baubles;
his perfumes were so exquisite, and, in spite of everything, there was
so much nobility in his elderly charms, and so much kindly amiability in
his ways, that if people had found him suddenly transformed into the
serious, methodical personage that his years would naturally import,
they would have regretted the pleasure he gave the eyes and the
satisfaction he was able to afford the mind.

About two o'clock a scullion, dressed in ancient feudal costume for the
occasion, and stationed at the top of the entrance tower, blew a blast
on an old horn to announce the approach of a cavalcade.

The marquis, accompanied by Lucilio, betook himself to that tower to
receive the lady of his thoughts. He would have been glad to take his
heir with him; but Mario was in Adamas's hands, and, moreover, it was
part of a plan finally proposed by the latter, and adopted with some
modifications by his master, that the child's appearance on the scene
should be postponed until the conclusion of an explanation on a delicate
subject with Madame de Beuvre.




XXXV


Lauriane arrived, riding a beautiful little white horse which her father
had trained for her, and which she managed with remarkable grace.

Thanks to her mourning, which the fashion of that day permitted to be
white, she, too, was dressed _à la paysanne_, with a habit of fine
white broadcloth, a waist with stripes of silver lace, and a light lace
handkerchief over the inevitable widow's cap.

"Well, well!" cried the downright De Beuvre, when he saw the marquis's
costume, "so you have already assumed your lady's colors, my dear
son-in-law?"

His daughter succeeded in making him hold his peace before the servants;
but, when they were in the salon, despite the promise he had made her to
refrain from all jesting on the subject, he could not contain himself,
and asked with deep interest when the wedding was to be.

Instead of being annoyed or embarrassed, the marquis was exceedingly
pleased at this opening, and requested a secret interview touching a
matter of great gravity.

The valets were dismissed, the doors closed, and Bois-Doré, kneeling at
dear little Lauriane's feet, addressed her in these terms:

"Queen of youth and beauty, you see at your feet a loyal servant whom a
most momentous event has filled with pleasure and embarrassment, with
joy and grief, with hope and fear. When, two days since, I offered my
heart, my name and my fortune to the most amiable of nymphs, I deemed
myself unfettered by any other duty or attachment. But----"

Here the marquis was interrupted.

"Gadzooks! monsieur my son-in-law," cried De Beuvre, affecting violent
indignation and rolling his eyes fiercely, "you make sport of us, do
you, and think that I am a man to allow you to retract your word after
you have transfixed my poor child's heart with the deadly shaft of
love?"

"Oh! hush, pray, my dear father!" said Lauriane, smilingly and sweetly;
"you compromise me. Luckily I can be certain that the marquis will not
believe me to be so capricious that, after I have asked him for seven
years for reflection, I can be already so eager to summon him to keep
his word."

"Allow me to speak," said the marquis, taking Lauriane's hand in his. "I
know, my sovereign, that you have no love in your heart, and it is that
which gives me the courage to crave your pardon. And do you, my dear
neighbor, laugh with all your strength, for there is abundant occasion.
And I will laugh with you to-day, although yesterday I shed many tears."

"Really, my good neighbor?" said honest De Beuvre, taking his other
hand. "If you are speaking as seriously as you seem to be, I will laugh
no more. Have you any trouble of which we can assist to relieve you?"

"Tell us, my dear Celadon," added Lauriane, affectionately, "tell us
your sorrows!"

"My sorrows are dispelled, and, if you allow me to retain your
friendship, I am the most fortunate of men. Listen, my friends," he
said, rising with some effort. "The day before yesterday you heard a
prophecy made by people who were not really sorcerers: 'Within three
days, three weeks, or three months, you will be a father?'"

"Even so," said De Beuvre, recurring to his jesting humor; "do you
believe that the prophecy will be fulfilled?"

"It is fulfilled, my good neighbor. I am a father, and it is no longer
for myself that I ask, from you and the divine Lauriane, seven years of
hope and sincere affection: but for my heir, my only son, for----"

At that moment the folding-doors were thrown open, and Adamas, arrayed
in state, announced in a ringing voice and with an air of triumph:

"Monsieur le Comte Mario de Bois-Doré!"

Everybody was surprised; for the marquis did not expect his son to
appear so soon, and he did not know what sort of costume they would
succeed in arranging for him.

What was his joy when he saw that Mario also was dressed _à la
paysanne_, that is to say in a costume exactly similar in material and
cut to that which he himself wore; the satin doublet with innumerable
little slashes on the arms; the _colletin sans ailerons_, or shoulder
cape without flowing sleeves, of white velvet slashed with silver; the
full trunk hose, four ells in width, gathered below the knee, fastened
with pearl buttons, and open a little at the side to show the
rose-shaped buckle of the garter; silk-stockings, and shoes _à
pont-levis_, fastened with buckles in the shape of roses; the ruff _à
confusion_, that is to say of several rows of unequal size, with tucks
of varied patterns; the plumed hat, diamonds everywhere, a little
baldric all studded with pearls, and a tiny rapier which was a veritable
chef-d'œuvre!

Adamas had passed the night selecting, planning, cutting and fitting;
the morning in trying on. The skilful Moor and four other women had
risen before daylight and sewed for their lives. Clindor had ridden ten
leagues to procure the hat and the shoes. Adamas had arranged feathers
and decorations and ornaments; and the costume, which was in most
excellent taste, well cut and substantial enough to last several days
without being made over, was a wonderful success.

Mario, beribboned and perfumed like the marquis, with his naturally
curly hair, and over his left ear a rosette of white ribbons with a huge
diamond in the centre and silver lace below, came forward with much
grace. He was no more awkward than if he had been brought up as a
gentleman. He wore his rapier gracefully, and his appealing beauty was
heightened by all that white, which gave him the aspect of an innocent
maiden.

Lauriane and her father were so thunderstruck by his face and his
bearing, that they rose spontaneously as if to receive a king's son.

But there was more to come. Adamas, while coaching his young lord, had
tried to teach him a complimentary speech, taken from _Astrée_, for
Lauriane. To learn a few sentences by heart was a small matter to the
intelligent Mario.

"Madame," he said, with a fascinating smile, "it is impossible to see
you without loving you, but even more impossible to love you without
loving you beyond words. Allow me to kiss your lovely hands thousands of
times, which number will fall far below the number of deaths which your
denial of this petition will inflict upon me."

Mario paused. He had learned very rapidly, without reflecting or
understanding. The meaning of the words he was repeating suddenly struck
him as very comical; for he was in no wise inclined to suffer so
terribly if Lauriane refused to receive the thousands of kisses which he
was not particularly desirous to give her. He was sorely tempted to
laugh, and he glanced at the young lady, who had a similar desire, and
who offered him both hands with a playful and sympathetic air.

He cast etiquette to the winds, and following the impulse of his natural
trustfulness, threw his arms around her neck and kissed her on both
cheeks, saying out of his own head:

"Bonjour, madame; I beg you to like me, for I think you are a lovely
lady, and I love you dearly already."

"Forgive him," said the marquis, "he is a child of nature."

"That is why he attracts me," Lauriane replied, "and I waive all
ceremony."

"Hoity-toity!" exclaimed De Beuvre, "what does this mean, neighbor, this
pretty boy? If he is yours, I congratulate you: but I would not have
believed----"

Guillaume d'Ars was here announced, with Louis de Villemort and one of
the young Chabannes, who had called upon him in the morning, and to whom
he had told the tale of the miraculous recovery of Florimond's son.

"Is this he?" cried D'Ars, as he entered the room and gazed at Mario.
"Yes, it is my little gypsy. But how pretty he is now, mon Dieu! and how
happy you should be, my cousin! _Tudieu_, my gentleman," he said to the
child, "what a fine sword you have there, and what a gallant costume!
You wish to put your friends and neighbors to the blush! You outdo us
entirely, that is clear, and we cut no figure at all beside you. Come,
tell us your pet name, and let us become acquainted; for we are kinsmen,
by your leave, and it may be that I can serve you in some thing, were it
only to teach you to ride!"

"Oh! I know how," said Mario. "I have ridden _Squilindre_!"

"The big carriage horse? Tell me, my boy, did you find his trot
comfortable?"

"Not very," said Mario, laughing.

And he began to play and chatter with Guillaume and his friends.

"Come," said De Beuvre, leading Bois-Doré aside, "let me into the
secret, for I am wholly in the dark. You are gulling us, my dear
neighbor! you did not engender that noble boy! He is too young for that.
Is he an adopted child?"

"He is my own nephew," Bois-Doré replied; "he is the son of my dear
Florimond, whom you also loved, my neighbor!"

And he told Mario's story before them all, producing the evidence in
support of its truth, but without mentioning the name of D'Alvimar or
Villareal, and without hinting that he had discovered his brother's
assassins.




XXXVI


In face of the letters, the ring and the seal, it was impossible to
treat this romantic adventure as a fable.

Everybody showered attentions on pretty Mario, who, by his ingenuous
nature, his affectionate manner and his fearless glance, won every heart
spontaneously and irresistibly.

"So you are no longer betrothed to our old neighbor," said De Beuvre to
his daughter, leading her apart, "but to his brat; for that seems to be
the scheme he has in mind now."

"God grant it, father!" replied Lauriane, "and if he recurs to the
subject, I beg you to do as I shall,--pretend to assent to that
arrangement, which the dear man is quite capable of taking seriously."

"He took it seriously enough when he sued in his own behalf!" rejoined
De Beuvre. "The difference in age between you and this little fellow is
reckoned by years, whereas, between the marquis and you, it can properly
be reckoned by fourths of a century. No matter! I see that the dear man
has lost all idea of time with respect to other people as well as
himself; but here he comes; I am going to stir him up a little."

Bois-Doré, being called upon by De Beuvre to explain, declared most
solemnly that he had but one word, and that, having pledged his liberty
and his faith to Lauriane, he considered himself her slave, unless she
gave him back his promise.

"I give it back to you, dear Celadon!" cried Lauriane.

But her father interposed. He chose to tease her also.

"No, no, my child; this concerns the honor of the family, and your
father is not in the habit of allowing himself to be hoodwinked! I see
plainly enough that your whimsical and imaginative Celadon has conceived
a paternal affection for this handsome nephew, and that he is quite
content to be a father without having to take the trouble to be a
husband. Moreover, I see that he has taken it into his head to bequeath
his property to him, without regard to his future children; that is
something which I will not permit, and which it is your duty to prevent
by calling upon him to redeem his plighted word."

Monsieur de Beuvre spoke with such a serious face that the marquis was
deceived for an instant.

"I can but believe," he thought, "that my good fortune rejuvenates me
much, and that my neighbor, who used to gird at me so, does not deem me
so venerable now. Where the devil did Adamas get the idea of suggesting
that step to me?"

Lauriane read his perplexity on his face and generously came to his
assistance.

"My honored father," she said, "this does not concern you, since our
dear marquis did not ask for my hand without my heart; so that, inasmuch
as my heart has not spoken, the marquis is free."

"Ta! ta! ta!" cried De Beuvre, "your heart speaks very loud, my child,
and it is easy to see, by your indulgence to the marquis, that it is of
him that it speaks!"

"Can it be true?" said Bois-Doré, faltering in his resolution; "if I
had that good fortune, nephew or no nephew, by my faith!----"

"No, marquis, no!" said Lauriane, determined to have done with her old
Celadon's dreamy projects. "My heart has spoken, it is true, but only a
moment ago, since I first saw your charming nephew. Destiny so willed,
because of my very great affection for you, which made it impossible for
me to have eyes except for someone of your family and someone who
resembles you. Therefore I am the one to break the bond between us and
declare myself unfaithful; but I do it without remorse, since he whom I
prefer to you is as dear to you as to myself. Let us say no more about
it then until Mario is old enough to entertain affection for me, if that
blessed day is destined to arrive. Meanwhile, I will try to be patient,
and we will remain friends."

Bois-Doré, enchanted by this conclusion, warmly kissed the amiable
Lauriane's hand; but at that moment a terrific fusillade made the
windows rattle and brought all the guests to their feet. They ran to the
windows. It was Adamas, making a terrific uproar with all the falconets,
arquebuses and pistols that his little arsenal contained.

At the same time they saw the marquis's vassals and all the people of
the village thronging into the courtyard, shouting as if they would
split their throats, in concert with all the retainers and servants of
the château:

"Vive monsieur le marquis! Vive monsieur le comte!"

The good people were acting in implicit obedience to an order issued by
Aristandre, having no idea what it was all about; but what they did know
was that they were never summoned to the château without receiving a
banquet or some form of bounty, and they came without urging.

The windows of the salon were thrown open that the guests might listen
to the harangue, in the form of a proclamation, which Adamas declaimed
to that numerous audience.

Standing on the well, which had been covered by his orders so that he
might indulge without peril in animated pantomime, the radiant Adamas
improvised the most dazzling bit of eloquence that his Gascon ingenuity
had ever produced, that his ringing voice, with its soft southern
inflection, had ever thrown to the echoes. His gesticulation was no less
extraordinary than his diction.

It is to be regretted that history has not preserved the exact language
of this masterpiece; it had the fate of all products of inspiration: it
flew away with the breath that had given birth to it.

However, it produced a great effect. The result of poor Monsieur
Florimond's tragic death caused many tears to flow; and, as Adamas wept
easily and was ingenuously moved by his own eloquence, he was listened
to with the closest attention, even from the windows of the salon.

The guests were amused by the pathetic outburst of joy with which he
proclaimed the recovery of Mario, but the rustic auditory did not
consider it overdone. The peasant understands gestures, not words, which
he does not take the trouble to listen to; that would be labor, and
labor of the mind seems to him contrary to nature. He listens with his
eyes. So they were enchanted with the peroration, and good judges
declared that Monsieur Adamas preached better than the rector of the
parish.

The discourse at an end, the marquis went down with his heir and his
guests, and Mario fascinated and won the hearts of the peasants by his
affable manners and his sweet speech.

Being instructed by his father to bid the whole village to a grand
festival on the following Sunday, he did it so naturally and in terms
indicating such perfect equality, that Guillaume and his friends, and
even the republican Monsieur de Beuvre, had to remember that the child
himself was fresh from the sheepfold, to avoid being shocked.

The marquis, detecting their feeling, deliberated whether he should not
recall Mario, who was going from group to group, allowing himself to be
kissed, and returning the caresses with great heartiness.

But an old woman, the patriarch of the village, hobbled to him on her
crutches, and said in a a quavering voice:

"Monseigneur, you are blessed by the good Lord for being gentle and kind
to the poor and infirm. You have made us forget your father who was a
harsh man--harsh to you as well as to others. Here is a child who will
be like you and will keep us from forgetting you!"

The marquis pressed the old woman's hands and allowed Mario to do the
same by everybody. He asked them to drink his son's health, and himself
toasted the parish, while Adamas continued to wake the echoes with his
artillery.

As the multitude departed, the marquis spied Monsieur Poulain, who was
watching the proceedings from a small shed, where he had taken up his
position as in a box at the play. He cut off his retreat by going to him
and inviting him to supper, at the same time reproaching him for the
infrequency of his visits.

The rector thanked him with equivocal courtesy, saying with feigned
embarrassment that his principles did not permit him to break bread with
_pretenders_.

In those days men were called _reformers_ or _pretended reformers_,
according to the supposed earnestness of their religious opinions. When
a person said _pretenders_ simply, he thereby proclaimed for himself an
orthodoxy which refused to admit the bare idea of a possible
reformation.

This contemptuous expression wounded the marquis, and, playing upon the
word, he replied that he had no fiancés in his house.[23]

"I thought that Monsieur and Madame de Beuvre were affianced to the
errors of Geneva," retorted the rector, with a sneering smile. "Have
they procured a divorce from them, following the example of monsieur le
marquis?"

"Monsieur le recteur," said Bois-Doré, "this is no time to talk
theology, and I admit that I understand nothing about it. Once, twice,
will you join us, with or without heretics?"

"As I have told you, monsieur le marquis, with them, it is impossible."

"Very well, monsieur," retorted Bois-Doré, with a display of temper
which he could not control, "that is as you choose; but, on those days
when you do not deem me worthy to receive you in my house, you will,
perhaps, do well not to come to my house to tell me so; for, as you are
unwilling to enter, I am wondering why you came here, unless it was to
insult those who do me the honor of being my guests."

The rector was seeking what he called persecution; that is to say, he
wished to irritate the marquis so as to put him in the wrong as between
themselves.

"As monsieur le marquis admitted all the people of my family to a
merry-making," he replied, "I supposed that I was bidden like the rest.
Indeed, I had imagined that this charming child, whose recovery you are
celebrating, would need my ministry to be received into the bosom of the
Church--a ceremony whereby the rejoicings should have been inaugurated
perhaps."

"My child has been brought up by a true Christian and a true priest,
monsieur! He needs no reconciliation with God; and as to the Moorish
woman, concerning whom you esteem yourself so fully informed, let me
tell you that she is a better Christian than many people who pride
themselves on their piety. Let your mind be at rest, therefore, and come
to my house, I beg you, with an open countenance and no mental
reservations, or do not come at all. That is my advice to you."

"I propose to deal frankly with you, monsieur le marquis," replied the
rector, raising his voice. "Witness the fact that I ask you plainly
where Monsieur de Villareal is, and how it happens that I do not see him
among your guests."

This insidious and abrupt attack nearly unhorsed Bois-Doré.

Luckily Guillaume d'Ars, who approached him at that moment, heard the
question and took it upon himself to answer it.

"You ask for Monsieur de Villareal," he said, bowing to Monsieur
Poulain. "He left the château with me last evening."

"Pardon me," replied the rector, saluting Guillaume with more courtesy
than he displayed toward Bois-Doré. "Then I can address a letter to him
at your residence, monsieur le comte?"

"No, monsieur," replied Guillaume, annoyed by this persistence. "He is
not at my house to-day."

"But if he has gone temporarily only, you expect him to return this
evening, or to-morrow at latest, I presume?"

"I do not know what day he will return, monsieur; I am not accustomed to
question my guests. But come, marquis; they are calling for you in the
salon."

He led Bois-Doré away toward the De Beuvres, to cut short the
interrogatories of the rector, who withdrew with a strange smile and
threatening humility.

"You were speaking of Monsieur de Villareal," said De Beuvre to the
marquis; "I heard you mention his name. How does it happen that we do
not see him here? Is he ill?"

"He has gone," said Guillaume, who was much embarrassed and disturbed by
all these questions before numerous witnesses.

"Gone not to return?" inquired Lauriane.

"Not to return," replied Bois-Doré firmly.

"Well," said she, after a brief pause, "I am very glad of it."

"Did you not like him?" said the marquis, offering her his arm, while
Guillaume walked by her side.

"You will think me very foolish," replied the young woman, "but I will
make my confession none the less. I ask your pardon, Monsieur d'Ars, but
your friend frightened me."

"Frightened you?--That is strange; other people have said the same thing
to me about him! How was it that he frightened you, madame?"

"He bears a striking resemblance to a portrait at our house, which you
probably have never seen--in our little chapel! Have you seen it?"

"Yes!" cried Guillaume, as if struck by a sudden thought; "I know what
you mean. He did resemble it, on my word!"

"He _did_ resemble it! You speak of your friend as if he were dead!"

Mario interrupted the conversation. Lauriane, who had already conceived
a warm affection for him, chose to take his arm to return in doors.

Guillaume and Bois-Doré were left alone for an instant, behind the
others.

"Ah! cousin," said the young man, "what an extremely unpleasant thing it
is to have to conceal a man's death, as if one had reason to blush for
some dastardly deed, when, on the contrary----"

"For my own part, I should prefer to have no concealment whatsoever,"
the marquis replied. "It was you who urged me to this deception; but if
it is burdensome to you----"

"No, no! Your rector seems to have some suspicions. My D'Alvimar made a
great show of piety. The cassock would be on his side, and it is too
dangerous a game to play in this neighborhood. Let us continue to hold
our peace until the story of your brother's cowardly murder has
circulated thoroughly, and do you show the proofs of it to everybody,
without naming the culprits. Then, when you do name them, everybody will
be disposed to condemn them. But tell me, marquis, do you know whether
the wretched man's body----"

"Yes, Aristandre has inquired. The lay brother did his duty."

"But there was something about this D'Alvimar that I cannot understand,
cousin. A man so well-born, and whose manners were so refined!"

"The ambition of a courtier and Spanish poverty!" replied Bois-Doré.
"And furthermore, cousin, there is a philosophical paradox that has
often come to my mind: that we are all equal before God, and that he
sets no more store by a nobleman's soul than by a serf's. On that point,
it may be that the Calvinist doctrine is not far out of the way."

"By the way," rejoined Guillaume, "speaking of Calvinists, cousin, do
you know that the king's affairs are going badly over yonder, and that
he is having no success at all in taking Montauban? I learned at
Bourges, from some very well-informed persons, that on the first pretext
the siege would be raised, and that may change the whole political
status once more. Perhaps you were a little too hasty about abjuring!"

"Abjuring! abjuring!" echoed Bois-Doré, shaking his head; "I never
abjured anything. I reflect, I discuss matters with myself, and I take
one side or the other, according to the arguments that come to my mind.
In reality----"

"In reality, you are like me," laughed Guillaume; "you think of nothing
except being an honest man."

The supper, although the party was small, was served with extraordinary
magnificence. The hall was decorated with flowers and foliage entwined
with gold and silver ribbons; the most beautiful pieces of silverware
and porcelain were brought forth; the dishes and wines were most
exquisite.

Five or six of the most intimate friends and neighbors had arrived at
the last stroke of the bell; their coming was another surprise for the
marquis. Adamas had sent messengers all over the neighborhood.

There was no music during the banquet; they preferred to talk, for they
had so much to say to one another! Adamas contented himself with a
flourish of trumpets in the courtyard to announce each course.

Lauriane was seated opposite the marquis, with Mario at her right.

Lucilio was of the party; they had no reason to fear the evil intentions
of any guest.


[Footnote 23: The play upon words consisted in the fact that
_prétendus_, the word used by Monsieur Poulain, also, means _suitors_.
(Cf. the colloquial English phrase: his _intended_.)]





XXXVII


Half an hour after they left the table, Adamas requested his master to
ascend with his guests to the Salle des Verdures, where a fresh surprise
was prepared.

It was an entertainment after the fashion then in vogue, carried out as
well as it was possible to do it on such brief notice and in so confined
a space.

The end of the room was fitted up as a stage, with rich carpets laid
upon trestles, bearing hangings for a frame, and natural foliage for
wings.

When they had taken their places, Lucilio played a beautiful piece by
way of overture, and Clindor the page appeared on the scene, in the
costume of a shepherd of romance. He sang divers pretty rustic couplets,
of Master Jovelin's composition; then he set about watching his flocks,
consisting of real lambs, well-washed and decked in ribbons, who behaved
exceedingly well on the stage. Fleurial the shepherd dog, also played
his part becomingly.

Soft, soporific music was played on the _sourdeline_ to which the
shepherd fell asleep.

Thereupon a venerable old man came forward and searched the sleeper's
pockets and even the fleeces of the sheep with agonizing suspense. His
beard was so luxuriant, his white hair and eyebrows so bushy, that
nobody recognized him at first; but when he declaimed some lines of his
own composition to set forth the cause of his sorrow, they laughed
heartily as they recognized Adamas's Gascon accent.

That despairing old man was in pursuit of Destiny, which had stolen his
young master, his lord's beloved child.

The shepherd, suddenly awakened, asked him what he wanted. There was an
animated dialogue between them, wherein they repeated the same thing
many times, which, according to Adamas, had the advantage of forcing the
spectators to grasp what he called the _knot of the play_.

The shepherd assisted the old man in his search, and they were going
forward to attack a small fort among the branches at the back of the
stage, supposed to be in the distance, which was no other than that
formerly brought by the marquis _en croupe_ from the château of Sarzay,
when a terrible giant, dressed in fantastic fashion, opposed their
progress.

This giant, enacted by Aristandre, expressed himself at first in an
unknown tongue. As he had declared that he was incapable of remembering
three words, Lucilio, who had consented to assist Adamas in staging his
work, had instructed the charioteer, in his rôle of giant, to use, at
random, any meaningless, incoherent syllables; it was enough that he
should have an awe-inspiring manner and an appalling voice.

Aristandre followed these instructions very well, but when Adamas
insulted and irritated him in the most stinging way, calling him
monster, ogre and wizard, the honest giant, not choosing to be outdone,
emitted such horrifying oaths in good Berrichon that they had to make
haste to kill him, to prevent him from shocking the audience.

This scene offended Fleurial, who was not brave, and who leaped over the
candle footlights to take refuge between his master's legs.

When the monstrous coachman was laid low by Adamas's trusty blade, the
little fort crumbled away as if by magic, and in its place a sibyl
appeared.

It was the Moor, to whom they had given some beautiful Oriental fabrics
in which she had arrayed herself with much taste and poetic beauty.

She was very lovely so, and was received with loud applause.

Poor woman! brought up in bondage and her spirit broken by persecution,
and thereafter happy with a thatched roof and the humblest employment,
under the protection of a poor priest, this was the first time in her
life that she had ever been richly clad, greeted affectionately by
wealthy people, and applauded for her grace and beauty without any
insulting hidden motive.

At first she did not understand; she was afraid and would have fled. But
Adamas opportunely made use of the five or six Spanish words he knew, to
encourage her under his breath and make her understand that she gave
pleasure to the audience.

Mercedes looked about for the one person who interested her most deeply,
and saw close beside her, in the wings, Lucilio the manager, also
applauding.

A flame darted from his black eyes; then, terrified by that gleam of
happiness, which she did not fully appreciate, she lowered her long
lashes until their velvety shadow fell upon her burning cheeks. She
seemed even more beautiful--why, no one could say--and the applause
burst forth anew.

When she had recovered her courage, she sang in Arabic; after which she
replied to Adamas's questions in a way that seemed not to satisfy him.

After a discussion in pantomime, accompanied by music, she promised the
child he sought, on condition that he should submit to the test of
fighting a horrible monster made of gilt paper, who came upon the stage,
bounding and vomiting flames.

The intrepid Adamas, determined to dare anything to bring back his
master's child to the fold, rushed to meet the dragon, and was on the
point of running him through with his invincible blade, when the
creature was rent in twain like an old glove, and the comely Mario
stepped forth, dressed as Cupid, that is to say, in pink and gold satin
embroidered with flowers, with a wreath of roses and feathers on his
head, bow in hand and quiver slung over his shoulder.

The transformation of a child into Cupid in a dragon's belly is not
readily discovered in Adamas's manuscript stage-directions; but it seems
that it was accepted as very pleasing, for that episode won the greatest
success.

Mario recited some complimentary lines in praise of his uncle and his
friends, and the sibyl predicted the loftiest destiny for him. She
produced from the bushes divers marvellous things: a horn of plenty
filled with flowers and bonbons, which the child tossed to the
spectators; then the portrait of the marquis, which the child kissed
with pious veneration; and, finally, two escutcheons of colored glass,
one with the arms of the Bourons de Noyer, the other with those of
Bois-Doré, united under a coronet from which ascended fireworks on a
small scale, in the shape of a sun.

Let us say a word in passing concerning this coat-of-arms of the
marquis. It was very interesting, because it was invented by Henry IV.
himself.

In heraldic language, it was thus described: "_Gules, a naked arm or,
coming from a cloud, holding a sword uppointed, accompanied, in chief,
by three hens diademed argent_;" that is to say, a deep red shield, in
the centre of which a right arm, coming forth from a cloud, held a sword
with the point in the air, pointed toward three hens wearing silver
crowns, placed above the said arm.

Around the crest was this motto: _All men are thus before me_.

If we remember how our good Sylvain was created a marquis, we shall
readily understand this emblem, which might have been considered
derisory, except for the corrective afforded by the motto, which might
be thus translated: "Before this arm there is no foe who does not
display the heart of a chicken."

The play was enthusiastically applauded.

The marquis wept tears of joy to see the charming manners of his son and
the zeal of old Adamas.

They ate sweetmeats, they fought for Mario's kisses, and they separated
at eleven o'clock, which was very late, according to the provincial
ideas in those days.

The next day there was a bird-hunt. Lauriane insisted that Mario should
be of the party. She lent him her white horse, which was gentle and
docile, while she courageously mounted Rosidor. The marquis did not lack
spare mounts. The sport was mild, as befitted those who were the heroes
of the day. Mario took so much pleasure in it that Lucilio feared that
the sudden excitement would be too much for that youthful brain, and
that it would make him ill or delirious. But the child proved that he
had an excellent mental organization: he was intensely amused by all
those novel experiences, and still he did not become over-excited; at
the slightest appeal to his reason he recovered his composure and obeyed
with angelic sweetness. His nerves were not overwrought, and he entered
into happiness as into a paradise of love and liberty of which he felt
that he was worthy.

The supper on this second day of rejoicing gathered other friends at
Briantes; on the following day occurred the fête given to the vassals,
a Pantagruelian banquet and dancing under the old walnut trees in the
enclosure.

A competition in arquebus shooting was organized by Guillaume d'Ars.

Mario suggested to the village urchins trials of skill in running and
sling-throwing, and obtained permission to resume, for the purposes of
that contest, his mountaineer's costume, in which he felt much more at
ease.

He displayed an agility and skill which filled his competitors with
admiration. No one could dream for an instant of disputing the prize
with him; so he modestly withdrew from the competition, in order that
the prize might be awarded equitably to some other.

The festivities were brought to a close by a ceremony at once artless
and ostentatious, and at bottom really touching.

In the centre of the labyrinth in the garden rose a little
thatch-covered structure in imitation of a cottage.

The marquis called it the _Palace of Astrée_.

They carried thither the coarse patched clothes which Mario wore when he
first entered the domain of his ancestors. They fashioned them into a
sort of rustic trophy, with the poor guitar which had been his
breadwinner on his journey, and hung the whole inside the cottage, with
garlands of foliage and a card, whereon were written, under date of that
memorable day, these simple words, selected and executed in his finest
script by Lucilio: "_Remember that thou wast poor once on a time_."

At the same time Mario was presented with a great basket containing
twelve new suits, which he had the pleasure of distributing to twelve
poor little boys grouped on the tiny stoop of the cottage.

Lastly, the marquis ordered placed in the chapel of the parish church a
small mausoleum in marble, dedicated to the memory of the kindly and
saintly Abbé Anjorrant. Lucilio made the drawing and composed the
inscription.

The guests separated and quiet reigned once more at the château of
Briantes.

The marquis thereupon began to think seriously of his son's education.
But if he had been left to himself, amid the preoccupations concerning
dress which filled so much space in his life, his heir might very well
have forgotten what Abbé Anjorrant had taught him, to acquire valuable
notions concerning the art of the tailor, bootmaker, armorer and
decorator. Luckily, Lucilio was there, and he was able to steal a few
hours every day from those trivial pursuits.

He too, the loving heart, grew to be ardently attached to his friend's
child, not only because of the friend, but also because of the child
himself, who, by virtue of his affectionate docility and the keenness of
his intellect, made the task of tutor, ordinarily so unpleasant and
wearing, most pleasurable.

And yet Lucilio's task was not an easy one. He felt that he had charge
of a soul, and of an infinitely pure and precious soul. He strove, first
of all, to protect that youthful conscience with a fortress of beliefs
and convictions against all the tempests of the future. The times they
lived in were so unsettled!

Certainly there was no lack of enlightenment or of most excellent
progressive ideas. It was the age of novelties, people said: detestable
novelties according to some, providential according to others.
Discussion was rife everywhere and among all classes; and then, just as
to-day and yesterday and always, vulgar minds believed that they had
discovered infallible truths.

But the world of intellect had lost its unity. Calm and impartial minds
sought justice, sometimes in one camp, sometimes in the other; and as in
both camps intolerance, error and cruelty were of common occurrence,
scepticism found its profit in folding its arms and asserting the
incurable blindness and weakness of the human race.

It was a period just subsequent to the bloody conflicts between the
Gomarists and Arminians. Arminius was no more; but Barneveldt had just
mounted the scaffold. Hugo Grotius had been sentenced to imprisonment
for life, and was meditating in prison his noble _Theory of the Law of
Nations_. The Reformers were widely at variance on the question of
predestination. Calvinism, with its appalling fatalistic doctrine, was
doomed in the consciences of right-minded men. The French Lutherans,
imitating Melancthon's return to the truth, and abandoning Luther's
deplorable doctrines concerning _free will_, now upheld divine justice
and human liberty.

But right-minded men are scarce at all periods. The Calvinist sect and
its fervent ministers protested in a large part of France against what
they called a return to the heresy of Rome.

The events that took place in our Southern provinces, the frenzied
meetings determining upon a resistance that had become anti-French, the
republican spirit, ill understood, seconding by obstinacy and ignorance
the deplorable projects of the Austro-Spanish policy, which aimed at
kindling civil war in France; the glorious but regrettable resistance at
Montauban; so much blood shed, so much heroism expended to perpetuate
the struggle which Rome and Austria found to their advantage, proved
plainly enough that the light of intelligence was behind a cloud, and
that no liberal mind could say to itself: "I will go into this church, I
will go into this army, and there I shall find unadulterated the best
social truths of my time."

It was not advisable therefore to pay too much heed to facts, and when
one was well-informed and intelligent, to believe in any special truth
above all those which were preached throughout the world, since the
sword, the halter, the stake, murder, rape and pillage were the methods
of conversion used by the opposing parties in dealing with one another.

Lucilio Giovellino reflected upon all these things and resolved to
proceed according to the Gospel as expounded by his own heart; for he
saw too clearly that that divine Book, in the hands of certain Catholics
and certain Protestants, might become and was becoming every day a code
of fatalism, a body of doctrine leading to brutalization and frenzy.

So he began to instruct Mario in philosophy, history, languages and the
natural sciences all at the same time, trying to deduce from them all
the logic and kindness of God. His method was clear and his explanations
concise.

Poor Lucilio had once been eloquent and had detested written speech; and
sometimes even now he suffered from being obliged to compress his
thought in a few words; but misfortune is always of some profit to the
elect. It happened that his disinclination to write long, and his
impatience to disclose his thought, compelled him and accustomed him to
summarize his ideas with marvellous clearness and force, and that the
child was nourished upon facts, without useless details and fatiguing
repetitions.

The lessons were surprisingly short, and carried with them to that young
mind a certainty of insight which was exceedingly rare at that time, and
for good reason.

Bois-Doré, for his part, albeit he directed his child's attention to
trivial and foolish things, kept him pure and good, by virtue of that
mysterious insufflation which takes place between one noble nature and
another, without volition or knowledge.

All children are naturally disposed to resist too precise instruction;
they follow more readily an instinct which leads them, having itself no
knowledge where it is going.

When the marquis was disturbed in his puerile occupations, to render a
service or give alms, he never displayed either vexation or weariness.
He would rise, listen, ask questions, encourage and act.

Although naturally indolent and easy-going, he was never bored by any
complaint, never lost patience with any poor old woman's loquacity.
Thus, while apparently devoting his life to trifles, he passed very few
moments in that placid, benevolent life without doing good or affording
pleasure to somebody.

Thus his day, always begun with fine projects of work for his son--he
gave the name of work to attention to the toilet and instruction in good
manners,--was passed without deciding upon anything, without undertaking
anything, and leaving everything to the wise decisions of Adamas and the
captivating caprices of the child.




XXXVIII


Meanwhile, after the lapse of a few weeks, they had succeeded in
equipping Mario as a gentleman of quality, thanks to Adamas's untiring
zeal and the Moorish woman's clever wit, and the marquis had succeeded
in giving him some notions of horsemanship and fencing.

Moreover the old man and the child held mutually agreeable sessions
every morning for lessons in manners. The marquis would make his pupil
go in and out of the room ten times, to teach him how to enter
gracefully and courteously and how to retire modestly.

"You see, my dear count," he would say--that was the hour at which they
were supposed to address each other with graceful formality,--"when a
gentleman has crossed the threshold and advanced three steps into an
apartment, judgment has already been passed upon him by such persons of
merit or of quality as happen to be present. It is most essential
therefore that all of his own merit and quality must appear in the
carriage of his body and the expression of his face. Until this day, you
have been received with caresses and affectionate familiarity, and have
been relieved from the necessity of conforming to social
conventionalities of which you could know nothing; but this indulgence
will speedily cease, and if people see that you retain rustic manners
under such garments as these, they will blame your own disposition or my
indifference. So let us work, my dear count; let us work seriously: let
us repeat that last courtesy, which lacks brilliancy, and try once more
entering the room, which you did languidly and without dignity."

Mario was entertained by this sort of instruction, which gave him an
opportunity to array himself in his finest clothes, look at himself in
the mirrors and stalk proudly across the room. He was so clever and so
graceful, that it cost him little trouble to learn that species of
majestic ballet, in the most minute details of which he was carefully
drilled, and his old father, who was much more of a child than he, knew
how to make the lesson amusing. It was a complete course in pantomime,
wherein the marquis, despite his years, was still an excellent
performer.

"Look you, my son," he would say, arranging his hair and his clothes in
a certain way, "this is the _matamora_ style; look carefully at what I
do, in order that you may avoid doing it, unless in sport, and always
abstain from it in good society."

Thereupon he would represent a swaggering captain to the life, and Mario
would laugh until he rolled on the floor. For his own amusement he would
be permitted to enact the captain in his turn, and then it was the
marquis's turn to laugh until he fell back upon his chair exhausted; the
little fellow was such a clever, fascinating imp!

But we must return to the lesson.

Next the marquis would portray a loutish, dull, obtrusive boor, or a
sour, disagreeable pedant, or a sheepish simpleton; and as other actors
were needed to make the scene impressive, he would send for some members
of the household. They were fortunate when they could enlist Adamas and
Mercedes, who entered into the spirit of the thing with much zest and
cleverness. But Adamas was active and the Moor hardworking; they always
asked leave to go back to their work for Mario.

Then they would fall back upon Clindor, who was most willing, but was
built like a jumping-jack, and Bellinde, who was delighted to represent
a lady of quality, but who played that part in the most absurd and
laughable way. The marquis rallied her good-humoredly and called
attention to her absurdities, to enforce his precepts upon Mario, who
was much given to mockery and who made merry over the housekeeper's
foibles in a way to mortify her exceedingly.

She would go away in a rage, and Mario, laughing uproariously, and
forgetting that it was the hour for stately demeanor, would leap on the
marquis's knees, and kiss and fondle him; nor would the old man have the
courage to forbid him; for he too enjoyed it, nor was anything sweeter
to him than to have his child play with him as with a playmate of his
own age.

After dinner, they rode together. The marquis had procured for his heir
several of the prettiest jennets in the world, and he was an excellent
teacher. And so with fencing; but these exercises fatigued the old man
exceedingly, and he substituted other teachers, limiting his efforts to
directing them.

There was also a master in heraldry, who came twice each week. He bored
Mario considerably; but he made up his mind, with a resolution very rare
in a child, to object to nothing that his father imposed upon him so
gently.

He consoled himself for his studies in heraldry with his beautiful
little horses, his pretty little arquebuses, and Lucilio's lessons,
which attracted and interested him deeply.

He entertained for the mute a profound instinctive respect, whether
because his noble mind felt the superiority of so grand an intellect, or
because Mercedes's fervent veneration for Lucilio exerted a magnetic
influence upon him; for he remained in his heart the Moorish woman's
son, and, feeling that there existed a gentle jealousy between the
marquis and her on his account, he had the delicacy and the art to
devote himself equally to both, without arousing the apprehension of
those two childish hearts, at once generous and sensitive.

He had already served an apprenticeship in this matter of consideration
for his adopted mother, when they were living with Abbé Anjorrant; it
was not difficult for him to continue.

The study in which he took the most pleasure was that of music.

In that too, Lucilio was an admirable teacher. His delightful talent
charmed the child and plunged him into blissful reveries. But this task,
which would have absorbed all the rest, was thwarted to some extent by
the marquis, who considered that a gentleman should not study an art to
the point of becoming an artist, but should learn first what was called
the profession of arms, then a little of everything; "the best possible
subjects," he would say, "but not too much of anything; for a man who is
very learned in one subject disdains all others, and ceases to be
attractive."

Amid all these employments and amusements Mario grew to be the prettiest
boy imaginable. His complexion, naturally white, assumed a soft tone
like that of the inner petals of a flower, beneath the warm sun of
autumn in our provinces. His little hands, once rough and covered with
scratches, now gloved and cared for, became as soft as Lauriane's. His
magnificent chestnut hair was the pride and admiration of the
ex-wigmaker Adamas.

The marquis had wasted his efforts to teach him grace and charm of
manner by rules; he had retained his natural charm, and, as for the
graceful manners of a gentleman, he had acquired them instinctively on
the first day, when he put on the satin doublet.

So that the lessons in dancing which he received served only to develop
his physical organization, which was one of those which cannot be
destroyed.

As soon as his wardrobe was supplied, the marquis took him to pay visits
to all the neighbors within ten leagues.

The actual appearance of the child was a great event in the province,
for the jealous folk and the gossips had sneered about him at first as a
chimera and a shadow; but he assumed substance and reality every day.

When people saw him riding rapidly through the streets of La Châtre on
his little horse, escorted by Clindor and Aristandre, they began to
screw up their eyes and say to one another:

"So it was really true?"

They asked what his name was and what his name was to be. Would the
marquis, a man of quality, be content to have for his heir a petty
country squire? But had he the right to bequeath his title and his
_three hens diademed argent_ to a Bouron? Would the present king permit
it? Was it not contrary to the laws and customs of the nobility?

A momentous question!

It was discussed for a fortnight, and then people ceased to discuss it;
for one soon wearies of subjects that require deep thought, and when
they saw the old marquis and the little count go out to dine with some
neighbor, both dressed exactly alike, whether in white _à la paysanne_,
or in sky blue trimmed with silver purl, or in apricot satin with white
feathers, or in _light green_, or in _peach pink_, with ribbons
interwoven with gold and silver, and both reposing gracefully on the
crimson cushions of the stately chariot, drawn by their beautiful great
horses as beplumed as themselves, and followed by an escort of servants
whom one might have taken for noblemen, so well mounted and well armed
they were, and resplendent with gold lace, there was not a noble,
bourgeois or villein, in town or village, who did not jump to his feet,
crying:

"Up! up! I hear the marquis's carriage coming! Come quickly and let us
see the beaux messieurs de Bois-Doré ride by!"

While these things were taking place in the fortunate province of Berry,
the effervescence in the South of France was increasing in intensity.

About the 15th of November, there came reliable intelligence that the
king had been obliged to raise the siege of Montauban.

The young king was brave; he wept when he withdrew his forces.

Luynes, who had declared that he would subdue the party by corrupting
its leaders, had failed to seduce Rohan, the commanding-general in the
province and defender of the city. It was proved, unfortunately, that
that high-spirited nobleman was one of the rare exceptions, and that
Luynes's system was successful with the majority of the rebellious
nobles; but that system of _purchase_ ruined France and debased the
nobility.

Louis XIII. was conscious of it at times, and found his efforts
neutralized by the incapacity and unworthiness of his favorite.

The army was inadequately supplied and poorly paid. The confusion was
scandalous; the king paid the wages of thirty thousand combatants, and
there was not an effective force of twelve thousand to take the field.
The officers were disheartened. Mayenne had been killed. The Spanish
Carmelite Domingo de Jesu-Maria, to whose sanctity and enthusiasm the
German fanatics attributed the victory of Prague, had prophesied in vain
under the walls of Montauban.

False miracles find fewer believers in France than elsewhere. The
Calvinists raised their heads, and in the early days of December
Monsieur de Bois-Doré received a visit from Monsieur de Beuvre, who was
in a state of intense excitement and said to him in confidence:

"I have come to consult you concerning a most important matter, my dear
neighbor. You know that, being closely allied to the Duc de Thouars,
head of the house of La Trémouille, to which I have the honor to
belong, I thought last spring of joining the people of La Rochelle. You
prevented me, assuring me that the duke would melt away like snow before
the king; and it happened as you predicted. But because my kinsman the
duke committed an error, it does not follow that I was justified in
doing the like, and I reproach myself for abandoning my cause,
especially at the moment when it is recovering strength."

"Evidently your tongue betrays you, neighbor," replied Bois-Doré
artlessly; "you mean that the cause is in great need of you; for, if you
hurry to its assistance because it has the upper hand, I do not see
wherein your merit lies."

"My dear marquis," replied De Beuvre, "you have always prided yourself
on your chivalrous notions; but I am a plain man, and I speak of things
as they are. You are rich, your fortune is made, your career is
finished; you can afford to philosophize. I, although I am not poor,
have lost much of my property through having played my hand badly in
these last years. I feel active still, and inaction is tedious to me.
And then I cannot endure the airs of superiority that the old Leaguers
assume here in our province. The mischief-making of the Jesuits drives
me frantic. Must I abjure, pray, if I wish to live in peace, like you?"

"Like me?" said the marquis, with a smile.

"I know that your abjuration did not make a great sensation," replied De
Beuvre; "but, however that may be, it is too early for me to do it; I
prefer to fight, and I have five or six years of activity and good
health to do it."

"But you are very stout, neighbor!"

"You think that I am growing stout, because you do not see yourself
getting thin, neighbor! It is you who are becoming hollower, not I more
corpulent."

"Very well! I understand your reasons for making this campaign. You
think that it will be successful; but you are mistaken. The leaders and
the troops, the bourgeois and the ministers, all fight gallantly on a
certain day; but on the following day, they separate; they abhor one
another, they insult one another and each goes his own way. The game has
been lost ever since Saint Bartholomew, and the King of the Huguenots
won it only by abandoning the cause. He chose to be a Frenchman first of
all; and this that you propose will be of advantage neither to France
nor to yourself."

De Beuvre could not endure contradiction. He persisted, and taunted the
marquis with his lack of religious principle, albeit he himself was the
most sceptical of men.

As he listened to him, Bois-Doré saw plainly that he was tempted by the
excellent terms which the king was compelled to grant the Calvinist
nobles, whenever the royal cause received a check. De Beuvre was not a
man to sell himself, like so many others, but to fight stubbornly, and,
if victorious, to take advantage without scruple of the opportunity to
be most exacting in his demands.

"Since your mind is made up," said the marquis gently, "you ought to
have told me so at once, instead of asking my advice. I have only one
other consideration to urge upon you. You propose to equip yourself and
take the best of your people with you for this campaign. Think of the
annoyance that may be caused your daughter if the Jesuits should take it
into their heads to call Monsieur de Condé's attention to your absence!
And be sure that they will not fail to do it, that the château of La
Motte-Seuilly will be occupied in the king's name by evil-minded men;
that your daughter will be exposed to insult----"

"I do not fear that," said De Beuvre. "I shall be supposed to be at
Orléans, where everyone knows that I have a law-suit. I will go thence,
quietly, toward Guyenne, where I will assume some old _nom de guerre_,
as the custom is, to protect my property and my family during my
absence; I will be Captain Chandelle or Captain La Paille, or
Captain--no matter what."

"All that is often done, I know," rejoined Bois-Doré, "but it doesn't
always succeed; I promise to defend your château as effectively as I
and my people can do it; but if I were not afraid of making an
indelicate suggestion, I would offer to take your Lauriane into my
family during your absence."

"Offer, offer, neighbor! I accept, nor do I see wherein the indelicacy
consists. There is no impropriety in a woman's being in any place where
her virtue or her good name are not in danger, and I am entirely unable
to see that my daughter runs the risk of losing her heart or her reason,
with you who might be her grandfather, your little one who is only a
school-boy, your philosopher whose tongue cannot offend, and your page
who looks like a monkey. So I will bring her to you to-morrow, and leave
her with you until my return, well-assured that she will be happy and
safe under your roof, and that you will be to her, as to me, the best of
friends and neighbors."

"You can rely upon it," replied Bois-Doré. "I will go to fetch her
myself. My chariot is large enough; she can put her most valuable
property in it, without letting the neighbors know too soon that she is
doing anything more than taking one of her ordinary excursions."




XXXIX


On the following morning Lauriane was installed at Briantes, in the
Salle des Verdures, which the ingenious Adamas soon converted into a
luxurious and comfortable apartment.

The Moor asked leave to wait upon the young lady, who inspired
confidence and sympathy in her, and Lauriane, who on her side had much
regard and liking for her, asked her to sleep in the closet adjoining
her enormous room.

Lauriane parted from her father most courageously. The noble-hearted
child, living herself on faith and enthusiasm, suspected no selfish
calculation on his part. She would have found it difficult to understand
what it meant to be guided in one's reasoning, doubts and decisions by
personal interest. She knew that her father was as brave as a lion and
that his quick temper and the pride of gentle birth made him frank and
outspoken; that was enough for her to make a hero of him.

He was conscious of the innocence and the noble instincts of that young
mind, and he would not have dared to lower himself in her esteem by
allowing her to discover how much more truly than she supposed he was
the _honest man_ of his time; that is to say, the man who did as little
harm as possible, while taking care to keep his neck out of the collar.

The day of ideal virtues had passed: the world had entered "the brambles
of that shocking 17th century; an imposing desert, wherein moral and
material subsistence becomes more and more inadequate, wherein nature at
last ceases to support man; wherein the exhausted earth fails under
him."[24] Men who had grown old in the struggles of the preceding
century were not the men to rejuvenate the new century. But the children
had courage; they always have when they are left to themselves!

Lauriane, moved to enthusiasm by the gallant conduct of the Rohans and
La Forces at Montauban, urged her father to go, believing that his only
thought was to uphold the honor of the cause, and that he, like herself,
had naught in view but to preserve, at the price of fortune, of life, if
need be, the dignity and liberty of conscience granted by Henri IV.

She did not shed a tear as she gave him the last kiss; she followed him
with her eyes along the road, as long as she could see him; and, when he
was out of sight, she returned to her room and fell to sobbing.

Mercedes, who was working in the closet, heard her and walked to the
door, but dared not approach. She regretted that she did not know her
language so that she could comfort her.

The maternal instinct was so strong within her that she could not see a
young heart suffer without suffering herself, and without a feeling that
she must go to its aid. She thought of going in search of Mario; it
seemed to her that no sorrow could hold out against the aspect and the
caresses of her beloved child.

Mario came softly in on tiptoe and stood close beside Lauriane without
betraying his presence. Lauriane was already his darling sister. She was
so kind to him, so playful, so anxious to amuse him when he passed the
day with her!

Seeing her weep, he was frightened; he believed, with everybody else,
that Monsieur de Beuvre was absent for a few days only.

He knelt on the edge of the cushion on which she had placed her feet,
and gazed at her speechless. At last he ventured to take her hands.

She started, looked up, and saw before her that angelic face, smiling at
her through tear-bedewed eyes. Touched by the child's sensibility, she
pressed him to her heart with the utmost warmth and kissed his lovely
hair.

"What is the matter, pray, my Lauriane?" he asked, emboldened by this
outburst.

"Why, my poor darling," she replied, "your Lauriane is grieved, as you
would be if your dear father the marquis should go away."

"But your papa will return soon; he told you so when he went."

"Alas! my Mario, who can say that he will return at all? When one is
travelling, you know----"

"Has he gone very far away?"

"No, but--Nay, nay, I will not make you unhappy. I must go out and take
the air. Will you come with me and find your dear father?"

"Yes," said Mario, "he is in the garden. Let us go. Would you like me to
go and get my white goat to amuse you with her capers?"

"We will go together to look for her; come!"

She went out leaning on his arm, not like a lady leaning on the arm of a
gallant, but like a mother, with her boy's arm passed through hers.

As they descended the stairs they found Mercedes, whose lovely eyes
rested caressingly on them as they passed. Lauriane, who could make
herself understood by signs, needed only to look at her to understand
her. She divined her loving solicitude and held out her hand, which
Mercedes would have kissed. But Lauriane would not permit it, and kissed
her on both cheeks.

Never before had a Christian kissed the Moor, although she was herself a
Christian. Bellinde would have considered that she disgraced herself by
bestowing the slightest caress upon her, and, deeming her a heathen, she
even objected to eating in her company.

The noble-hearted little dame's fascinating cordiality was therefore one
of the greatest joys in that poor creature's life, and, from that
moment, she almost divided her affection between her and Mario.

She had always refused to try to learn a word of French, even striving
to forget the little Spanish that she knew, having an exaggerated fear
of forgetting the language of her fathers, as she had sometimes found
that it was forgotten by Moors isolated from their countrymen in foreign
lands, to whom she had not been able to make herself intelligible.
Hitherto it had been sufficient for her to be able to speak with the
learned Abbé Anjorrant, with Mario, and of late with Lucilio. But the
longing to talk with Lauriane and the kind-hearted marquis caused her to
overcome her repugnance. Indeed, she felt that it was her duty to
acquire the language of those affectionate people, who treated her as a
member of their race and their family.

Lauriane undertook to act as her teacher, and in a short time they were
able to understand each other.

Lauriane soon found herself very happy at Briantes, and, if it had not
been for the absence of her father, from whom, however, she soon
received good news, she would have been happier than she had ever been
in her life.

At La Motte-Seuilly she was almost always alone, as the robust De Beuvre
hunted in all weathers, loving to tire himself out; and, despite his
affection for her, he neglected the innumerable little delicate
attentions, the ingenious indulgences which the marquis placed at the
service of women and children.

Brought up somewhat sternly, she had had to resign herself to be a
little stern to herself, especially as the idea of a long widowhood had
presented itself to her mind as a result of the environment and the
circumstances in which her lot was cast. There had been moments when,
although she was not as yet conscious of a desire to lean upon a heart
not far removed in age from her own, she had felt that her own courage
bruised her, like a suit of armor that was too heavy for her slender
limbs. She had hardened herself by outbursts of piety and of resolution;
she had already almost succeeded in forcing herself to laugh when she
longed to weep; but nature resumed its rights.

When alone, she often wept in spite of herself, involuntarily yearning
for companionship, affection, a mother, a sister, a brother, a smile, a
pleasant word which would assist her to breathe and bloom in a softer
air than that of the chilling gloom of her old manor-house, the
depressing memory of the Borgias, and the political harangues of her
satirical and discontented father.

Thus a rapid transformation took place in her at Briantes. She became
what she longed to be, what she could not have ceased to be except for a
painful straining of her will, and what nature willed that she should be
once more: a child.

The marquis, having joyously cast aside the thought of making her his
wife, resolutely treated her as his daughter, taking pleasure in the
idea that she was so young that he could readily, without making himself
out too old, look upon her as Mario's older sister.

Moreover it happened that his extraordinary coquetry was even better
served by two children than by a single one. Those youthful companions,
whose delicate colors he loved to wear, and whose innocent amusements he
loved to partake, made him younger in his own opinion, to such a degree
that he sometimes persuaded himself that he was a mere boy.

"There are people who grow old, you see," he would say to Adamas; "I am
not one of that sort, for I enjoy myself only with innocent youth. I
tell you, my friend, I have returned to my golden age, and my ideas are
as pure and joyous as those of the little sweetheart and cherub yonder."

Thus Lauriane, Mario and the marquis became inseparable, and their days
passed in a constant succession of amusements interspersed with earnest
study and good deeds.

Lauriane had had no education at all. She knew nothing. She desired to
attend the lessons Jovelin gave Mario in the large salon. She would
listen, embroidering the marquis's crest upon a piece of tapestry; and
when Mario had read or recited his lesson, he would place Lucilio's
written demonstrations on her lap and read them over with her. Lauriane
was amazed to find how readily she understood things that she had
believed to be beyond a woman's intelligence.

She enjoyed the music lesson exceedingly, and sometimes played the
theorbo prettily while the Moor sang her sweet laments.

The marquis would lie stretched out in his long chair throughout these
little concerts, gazing at the characters on the _Astrée_ tapestry, and
would doze beatifically, fancying that he saw them move or heard them
sing.

Lucilio too had his share in this family happiness, which caused him to
forget to some extent the solitude of his heart and his ghastly future.

The stern yet simple-minded philosopher was not yet too old to love; but
he thought that he ought not to aspire to it, and, after having felt its
ardent flames more than once, he feared that he might fall into some
mere sensual connection, in which his heart would not be included. He
resigned himself therefore to live by devotion to others and to abandon
all illusions finally and absolutely.

He who had endured imprisonment, exile and poverty, and had undergone
martyrdom, appealed to himself to conquer the craving for happiness as
he had conquered all the rest, and he always emerged tranquillized and
triumphant from these meditations; but triumphant as one is after the
torture: a blending of feverish excitement and prostration, on one side
the heart, on the other the body; a life whose equilibrium is destroyed
and in which the mind can no longer tell in what sort of a world it is.

And yet Lucilio exaggerated his misfortune to himself. He was beloved,
not by a mind of rare intelligence--that is what he needed, at least he
thought so, to reconcile himself to his tragic destiny--but by a heart.

Before his learning and his genius, Mercedes was like a rose before the
sun. She drank in its rays without understanding them; but she was
enamored of his gentleness, his courage and his virtue, and her loving
heart was prostrate before him. She did not resist the sentiment, but
cherished it as a religious duty; she said nothing, however, because she
had more fear than hope.

We must not forget to mention in its place a little domestic revolution
that occurred at the château of Briantes a few days after Monsieur de
Beuvre's departure; for the importance of this seemingly trivial
incident became grievously manifest later to the too happy inmates of
the château.

Although the younger of the beaux messieurs de Bois-Doré was not always
the more child-like, Mario sometimes displayed a mischievous tendency,
especially when, as Adamas expressed it, "he and the little madame had
had their heads together." He was too kind-hearted and affectionate ever
to torment animals or human beings; he never had occasion to reproach
himself for pulling Fleurial's ear or addressing an unpleasant word to
Clindor; but inanimate things did not always inspire in him the respect
that certain of them inspired in the marquis. Of this number were the
little statues from the romance of _Astrée_, which embellished the
gardens of _Isaure_ and the famous labyrinth, and the den of old Mandrague,
by which he had been much entertained at first, but which gradually
began to pall upon him as playthings too utterly devoid of life.

One day, when he was trying a great wooden sabre which Aristandre had
carved for him, he pretended to threaten with it one of the stucco
personages representing the disguised Filandre, that is to say the
_pretended_ Filandre, because, as everyone knows, resembling his sister
Callirée so closely that it was impossible to distinguish them, he
donned female clothes in order to obtain admission to the private
apartments of the nymph he loved.

The shepherd was represented in that female disguise, and the artist
employed to mould the figures, trusting to the explicitly alleged
resemblance of the brother and sister, had ventured to spare his
imagination some labor by employing the same model for the two figures
facing each other, with those of Amidor, Daphnis, etc., in the
_rond-point_ of verdure, called the _grove of the errors of love_.

So, to distinguish the brother from the sister, the marquis had written
on the pedestal of the brother a fragment of the long monologue which
begins thus: "O vainglorious Filandre, who can ever pardon thy fault,
etc.?"

That crafty individual's face was so stupid, that Mario, while not
precisely hating him, loved to laugh at him and threaten him. He had
previously dealt him several harmless blows; but on this day, seeing
that the challenge he hurled at him amused Lauriane, he aimed a
sword-thrust at him with more force than he intended, and sent poor
Filandre's nose flying to the ground.

The exploit was no sooner performed than the child regretted it. His
father was as fond of Filandre as of the other shepherds.

Lauriane, after much searching, found the unfortunate nose in the grass,
and Mario, climbing on the pedestal, stuck it on as well as he could
with clay. But it was frosty weather and the next morning the nose was
on the ground. They stuck it on again; but the disguised Filandre was
such an idiot that he could not keep his nose, and at last the marquis
passed by at a time when he was without it.

Mario confessed; kind-hearted Sylvain saw his remorse and did not scold
him. But the next day not only was Filandre minus his nose, but his
sister Callirée; and on the next day Filidas and the incomparable Diane
herself were in the same plight.

This time Bois-Doré was seriously distressed and sorrowfully reproved
his child, who began to weep bitterly, declaring with evident sincerity
that he had never in his life broken off any other nose than the
vainglorious Filandre's. Lauriane also asserted her young friend's
innocence.

"I believe you, my children, I believe you," said the marquis, dismayed
by Mario's tears. "But why this grief, my son, since you are not the
culprit? Come, come, do not weep any more. I blamed you too hastily; do
not punish me for it by your tears."

They embraced affectionately, but this massacre of noses was most
surprising, and Lauriane observed to the marquis that some crafty and
evil disposed person must have done it for the purpose of making Mario
guilty in his eyes.

"That is certain," replied the marquis, thoughtfully. "It is one of the
vilest deeds imaginable, and I would like right well to find the author
of it and condemn him to lose his own nose! I would give him a good
fright, on my word!"

However, they tried to look upon it as nothing more than a piece of
childish folly, and suspicion fell upon the youngest person in the
château next to Mario. But Clindor displayed such righteous indignation
that the marquis had to apologize to him too.

On the following day, two or three more noses were missing, and the
indignant Adamas caused a guard to be stationed day and night in the
garden.

The vandalism ceased, and honest Lucilio, touched by Bois-Doré's
distress, compounded an Italian paste by means of which, with much
patience, he neatly replaced all the noses.

But who could be the perpetrator of the crime? Adamas suspected; but the
marquis, refusing to believe that anyone in his household was capable of
such infamous conduct, attributed it to some agent of Monsieur Poulain.

"That hypocrite," he said, "considering us all heathens and idolaters,
probably imagined that we worshipped those statues! And yet, Adamas,
they are all modest and decently dressed, as it is fitting that they
should be in a place where our children go to and fro."

"I would say with you that it is some villain who very evidently
entertains the detestable desire to cause monsieur le comte to be
scolded. Now, everybody here would lay down his life for him, they all
love him so, except one detestable creature----"

"No, no, Adamas!" rejoined the generous-hearted marquis. "It is
impossible! It would be too hateful on the part of one of the fair sex."

They were beginning to forget this momentous affair when something even
more unpleasant occurred.


[Footnote 24: Michelet, unpublished letter.]