A Chapter of mighty import, which may be read or not, as the Reader
thinks fit, the Book being quite as well without it.
With the happy irregularity of all true stories, we must return, for a
moment, to a very insignificant person,--the Woodman of Mantes. Indeed,
I have to beg my reader's pardon for saying so much about any one under
the rank of a Chevalier at least; but all through this most untractable
of all histories, I have been pestered with a set of shabby fellows in
very indifferent circumstances. Woodcutters, robbers, gentlemen's
servants, and the like, who make themselves so abominably useful, that
though we wish them at the Devil all the time, we can no way do without
them. Let the sin not be attributed to me; for I declare, upon my
conscience, that when first I undertook to record this tale, I attempted
a thorough reform; I superseded a great number of subordinate
characters, put others upon the retired list, and dismissed a great many
as useless sinecurists; but when I had done, all was in confusion; and
then, after considering matters for half an hour, and turning over a
page or two in the book of Nature, I found, that the most brilliant
actions and the greatest events were generally brought about from the
meanest motives and most petty causes: I perceived, that women and
valets de-chambre govern the world: I found that saur-kraut had
disagreed with Sarah Duchess of Marlborough, made her insolent to Queen
Anne, made Queen Anne threaten to box her ears, made England resign her
advantages over France--placed the Bourbon dynasty on the throne of
Spain, and changed the face of Europe even to the present day. So, if
saur-kraut did all this, surely I may return to Philip, the woodman of
Mantes.
Chavigni, as we have seen, cast his purse upon the ground, and rode
away from the cottage of the Woodman, little heeding what so
insignificant an agent might do or say. Yet Philip's first thought was
one which would have procured him speedy admission to the Bastille, had
Chavigni been able to divine its nature. "The young Count shall know all
about it," said Philip to himself. "That's a great rogue in Isabel and
silver, for all his fine clothes, or I'm much mistaken."
His next object of attention was the purse; and after various _pros_ and
_cons_, Inclination, the best logician in the world, reasoned him into
taking it. "For," said Philip, "dirty fingers soil no gold;" and having
carefully put it into his pouch, the Woodman laid his finger upon the
side of his nose, and plunged headlong into a deep meditation concerning
the best and least suspicious method of informing the young Count de
Blenau of all he had seen, heard, or suspected. We will not follow the
course of this cogitation, which, as it doubtless took place in the
French tongue, must necessarily suffer by translation, but taking a
short cut straight through all the zig-zags of Philip's mind, arrive
directly at the conclusion, or rather at the consequences, which were
these. In the first place, he commanded his son Charles to load the mule
with wood, notwithstanding the boy's observation, that no one would buy
wood at that time of the morning, or rather the night; for, to make use
of Shakspeare's language, the Morn, far from being yet clad in any
russet mantle, was snugly wrapped up in the blanket of the dark, and
snoring away, fast asleep, like her betters.
Precisely in the same situation as Aurora, that is to say, soundly
sleeping, till her ordinary hour of rising, was Joan, the Woodman's
wife. Philip, however, by sundry efforts, contrived to awaken her to a
sense of external things; and perceiving that, after various yawns and
stretches, her mind had arrived at the point of comprehending a simple
proposition, "Get up, Joan, get up!" cried he. "I want you to write a
letter for me; writing being a gift that, by the blessing of God, I do
not possess."
The wife readily obeyed; for Philip, though as kind as the air of
spring, had a high notion of marital privileges, and did not often
suffer his commands to be disputed within his little sphere of dominion.
However, it seemed a sort of tenure by which his sway was held, that
Joan, his wife, should share in all his secrets; and accordingly, in the
present instance, the good Woodman related in somewhat prolix style, not
only all that had passed between Chavigni and Lafemas in the house, but
much of what they had said before they even knocked at his door.
"For you must know, Joan," said he, "that I could not sleep for thinking
of all this day's bad work; and, as I lay awake, I heard horses stop at
the water, and people speaking, and very soon what they said made me
wish to hear more, which I did, as I have told you. And now, Joan, I
think it right, as a Christian and a man, to let this young cavalier
know what they are plotting against him. So sit thee down; here is a pen
and ink, and a plain sheet out of the boy's holy catechism,--God
forgive me! But it could not go to a better use."
It matters not much to tell all the various considerations which were
weighed and discussed by Philip and his wife in the construction of this
epistle. Suffice it to say, that like two unskilful players at
battledoor and shuttlecock, they bandied backwards and forwards the same
objections a thousand times between them, for ever letting them drop,
and taking them up again anew, till such time as day was well risen
before they finished. Neither would it much edify the world, in all
probability, to know the exact style and tenor of the composition when
it was complete, although Philip heard his wife read it over with no
small satisfaction, and doubtless thought it as pretty a piece of
oratory as ever was penned.
It is now unfortunately lost to the public, and all that can be
satisfactorily vouched upon the subject is, that it was calculated to
convey to the Count de Blenau all the information which the Woodcutter
possessed, although that information might be clothed in homely
language, without much perfection, either in writing or orthography.
When it had been read, and re-read, and twisted up according to the best
conceit of the good couple, it was intrusted to Charles, the Woodman's
boy, with many a charge and direction concerning its delivery, For his
part, glad of a day's sport, he readily undertook the task, and driving
the laden mule before him, set out, whistling on his way to St.
Germain's. He had not, however, proceeded far, when he was overtaken by
Philip with new directions; the principal one being to say, if any one
should actually see him deliver the note, and make inquiries, that it
came from a lady. "For," said Philip,--and he thought the observation
was a shrewd one,--"so handsome a youth as the young Count must have
many ladies who write to him."
Charles did not very well comprehend what it was all about, but he was
well enough contented to serve the young Count, who had given him many
a kind word and a piece of silver, when the hunting-parties of the court
had stopped to water their horses at the _abreuvoir_. The boy was
diligent and active, and soon reached St. Germain. His next task was to
find out the lodging of the Count de Blenau: and, after looking about
for some time, he addressed himself, for information, to a stout,
jovial-looking servant, who was sauntering down the street, gazing about
at the various hotels, with a look of easy _nonchalance_, as if idleness
was his employment.
"Why do you ask, my boy?" demanded the man, without answering his
question.
"I want to sell my wood," replied the Woodman's son, remembering that
his errand was to be private. "Where does he lodge, good Sir?"
"Why, the Count does not buy wood in this hot weather," rejoined the
other.
"I should suppose the Count does not buy wood, himself, at all," replied
the boy, putting the question aside with all the shrewdness of a French
peasant; "but, perhaps, his cook will."
"Suppose I buy your wood, my man," said the servant.
"Why, you are very welcome, Sir," answered Charles; "but if you do not
want it, I pray you, in honesty, show me which is the Count de Blenau's
hotel."
"Well, I will show thee," said the servant; "I am e'en going thither
myself, on the part of the Marquise de Beaumont, to ask after the young
Count's health."
"Oh, then, you are one of those who were with the carriage yesterday,
when he was wounded in the wood," exclaimed the boy. "Now I remember
your colours. Were you not one of those on horseback?"
"Even so," answered the man; "and if I forget not, thou art the
Woodman's boy. But come, prithee, tell us what is thy real errand with
the Count. We are all his friends, you know; and selling him the wood is
all a tale."
Charles thought for a moment, to determine whether he should tell the
man all he knew or not; but remembering the answer his father had
furnished him with, he replied, "The truth then is, I carry him a note
from a lady."
"Oh, ho! my little Mercury!" cried the servant; "so you are as close
with your secrets as if you were an older politician. This is the way
you sell wood, is it?"
"I do not know what you mean by Mercury," rejoined the boy.
"Why he was a great man in his day," replied the servant, "and, as I
take it, used to come and go between the gods and goddesses;
notwithstanding which, Monsieur Rubens, who is the greatest painter that
ever lived, has painted this same Mercury as one of the late Queen's[A]
council, but nevertheless he was a carrier of messages, and so forth."
[A] Alluding, no doubt, to the picture of the reconciliation of Mary de
Medicis and her son Louis XIII. in which Mercury seems hand in glove
with the cardinals and statesmen of the day.
"Why, then, thou art more Mercury than I, for thou carriest a message,
and I a letter," answered Charles, as they approached the hotel of the
Count, towards which they had been bending their steps during this
conversation. Their proximity to his dwelling, in all probability, saved
Charles from an angry answer; for his companion did not seem at all
pleased with having the name of Mercury retorted upon himself; and
intending strongly to impress upon the Woodman's boy that he was a
person of far too great consequence to be jested with, he assumed a tone
of double pomposity towards the servant who appeared on the steps of the
hotel. "Tell Henry de La Mothe, the Count's page," said the servant,
"that the Marquise de Beaumont has sent to inquire after his master's
health."
The servant retired with the message, and in a moment after Henry de La
Mothe himself appeared, and informed the messenger that his master was
greatly better. He had slept well, he said, during the night; and his
surgeons assured him that the wounds which he had received were likely
to produce no farther harm than the weakness naturally consequent upon
so great a loss of blood as that which he had sustained. Having given
this message on his master's account, Henry, on his own, began to
question the servant concerning many little particulars of his own
family; his father being, as already said, _Fermier_ to Madame de
Beaumont.
Charles, the Woodman's son, perceiving that the conversation had turned
to a subject too interesting soon to be discussed, glided past the
Marchioness's servant, placed the note he carried in the hand of the
Count's Page, pressed his finger on his lip, in sign that it was to be
given privately, and detaching himself from them, without waiting to be
questioned, drove back his mule through the least known parts of the
forest, and rendered an account to his father of the success of his
expedition.
"Who can that note be from?" said the Marchioness de Beaumont's servant
to Henry de La Mothe. "The boy told me, it came from a lady."
"From Mademoiselle de Hauteford, probably," replied the Page,
thoughtfully. "I must give it to my master without delay, if he be
strong enough to read it. We will talk more another day, good
friend;"--and he left him.
"From Mademoiselle de Hauteford!" said the man. "Oh, ho!"--and he went
home to tell all he knew to Louise, the soubrette.