A little later in the day a company of joyous gentlemen made their way
from the fair of Neuilly and came to a halt opposite the tavern whose
green arbors seemed inviting enough after the heat of the dusty road. All
of the company were richly dressed, most of the company were young--the
joyous satellites of the central figure of the party. This was a tall,
graceful Italianate man, who carried his fifty years with the grace and
ease of thirty. He had a handsome face; those that admired him, and they
were many, said there was no handsomer man at the court of the king than
the king's familiar friend Louis de Gonzague. A man of the hour and a man
of the world, Gonzague delighted to shine almost unrivalled and quite
unsurpassed in the splendid court which the cardinal had permitted the
king to gather about him. Something of a statesman and much of a scholar,
Gonzague delighted to be the patron of the arts, and to lend, indirectly,
indeed, but no less efficaciously, his counsels to the service of the
cardinal during the cardinal's lifetime, and to the king now that the
cardinal was gone. A man of pleasure, Gonzague was careful to enjoy all
the delights that a society which found its chief occupation in the
pursuit of amusement afforded. Even the youngest cavalier in Paris or
Versailles would have regretted to find himself in rivalry with Gonzague
for the favors of the fair. But in his pleasures, as in his policy,
Gonzague was always discreet, reserved, even slightly mysterious, and
though rumor had linked his name time and time again with the names of
such gracious ladies as the cardinal had permitted to illuminate the
court of the king, Gonzague had always been far too cautious, or too
indifferent, to drift into anything that could in the least resemble an
enduring entanglement. Indeed, there was an element of the Oriental in
his tastes, which led him rather to find his entertainment in such light
love as came and went by the back ways of palaces or could be sequestered
in cheerful little country villas remote from curious eyes. This,
however, was a matter of gossip, rumor, speculation. What was certainly
known about Louis de Gonzague was that he delighted always to be
surrounded by young gentlemen of blood and spirit, with whom his
exquisite affability seemed at once to put him on a footing of equal age,
and whose devotion to himself, his person, and his purposes he was always
careful to acquire by a lavish generosity and that powerful patronage
which his former friendship with the cardinal and his present influence
over the king allowed him to extend.
Perhaps the most remarkable proof of Gonzague's astuteness, of Gonzague's
suppleness, was afforded by the manner in which he had succeeded in
holding the favor of the great cardinal through all the long years of
Richelieu's triumph, and yet at the same time in retaining so completely
the friendship of the king. When the cardinal died, and many gentlemen
that served the Red Robe found themselves no longer in esteem, Gonzague
passed at once into the circle of the king's most intimate friends.
Gonzague, as the comrade of a ruling potentate, proved himself a master
of all arts that might amuse a melancholic sovereign newly redeemed from
an age-long tutelage, and eager to sate those many long-restrained
pleasures that he was at last free to command. Gonzague's ambition
appeared to be to play the Petronius part, to be the Arbiter of
Elegancies to a newly liberated king and a newly quickened court.
Very wisely Gonzague had never made himself a politician. He had always
allowed himself to appear as one that was gracefully detached, by his
Italianate condition, from pledge to any party issues, and so in his
suave, affable fashion he went his way, liked by all men who knew him
slightly, counted on by the few men who believed they knew him well, and
hugely admired by that vast congregation of starers and gapers who
passionately display their approval of an urbane, almost an austere,
profligacy.
In the long years in which Gonzague had contrived to establish for
himself the enviable reputation of the ideal of high gentlehood, he had
very quietly and cautiously formed, as it were, a kind of court within a
court--a court that was carefully formed for the faithful service of his
interests. He managed, by dexterously conferring obligations of one kind
or another, to bind his adherents to him by ties as strong as the ties of
kinship, by ties stronger than the ties of allegiance to an unsettled
state and a shadowy idea of justice. There was a Gonzague party among the
aristocracy of the hour, and a very strong party it promised to be, and
very ably guided to further his own ends by the courteous, so seeming
amiable gentleman who was its head.
About him at this moment were grouped some of the joyous members of that
jovial sodality. There was Navailles, the brisk, the dissolute, the
witty, always ready to risk everything, including honor, for a cast of
the dice, for a kiss, for a pleasure or a revenge. There was Nocé,
pleasure-loving, pleasure-giving, always good-tempered, always
good-humored, always serenely confident that the world as it existed was
made chiefly for his amusement and the amusement of his friends. There
was Taranne, a darker spirit, as ready as the rest of the fellowship to
take the wine of life from the cup of joy in the hands of the
dancing-girl, but a less genial drinker, a less cheerful and perhaps more
greedy lover and feaster, as one who dimly and imperfectly appreciates
that the conditions of things about him might not be destined to endure
forever, and was, therefore, resolved to get as much of his share of the
spoil of the sport while it lasted as any bandit of them all. There, too,
was Oriol, the fat country gentleman, at once the richest and most
foolish of the company. There, too, was Albret, who loved women more than
wine; and Gironne, who loved wine more than women; and Choisy, who never
knew which to love the best, but with whom both disagreed.
At the present moment the party was extremely hilarious. Its members had
ransacked the toy-shops of the fair, and every man was carrying some
plaything and making the most of it, and extolling its greater virtues
than the playthings of his fellows. Taranne carried a pea-shooter, and
peppered his companion's legs persistently, grinning with delight if any
of his victims showed irritation. Oriol had got a large trumpet, and was
blowing it lustily. Nocé had bought a cup-and-ball, and was trying, not
very successfully, to induce the sphere to abide in the hollow prepared
for it. Navailles had got a large Pulcinello doll that squeaked, and was
pretending to treat it as an oracle, and to interpret its mechanical
utterances as profound comments on his companions and prophecies as to
their fortunes. Albret was tripping over a skipping-rope; Gironne puffed
at a spinning windmill; Choisy played on a bagpipes, and Montaubert on a
flute. In the background Monsieur Peyrolles watched all this mirthfulness
with indifference and his master's face with attention.
Gonzague looked round upon his friends with the indulgent smile of a
still youthful school-master surrounded by his promising pupils. "Well,
gentlemen, does the fair amuse you?" he asked, urbanely.
Navailles turned to his doll for inspiration, made it give its metallic
squeak, and then, as if repeating what Pulcinello had whispered to him,
replied: "Enormously."
Oriol trumpeted his approval loudly, and the expressions of the others
bore ample testimony to their enjoyment.
"Well, gentlemen," said Gonzague, "I hope and think that I reserved the
best for the end." He made a sign to Peyrolles, who approached him.
"Where is the girl?" he questioned, in a low voice.
Peyrolles pointed to the caravan. "Shall I bring her?" he asked.
Gonzague nodded. Peyrolles crossed the grass, his course followed
curiously by the eyes of Gonzague's friends, till he halted at the
caravan and knocked at the door. Flora put out her head, and, recognizing
Peyrolles, greeted him with an eager smile.
"The time has come," said Peyrolles, in a low voice, "for you to dance to
this gentleman."
Flora touched him eagerly on the arm. "Which is my prince?" she asked.
Peyrolles gave a jerk of his head in the direction of Gonzague, and
answered: "He in black with the star."
In a moment Flora had retired within the caravan, and emerged again with
a pair of castanets in her hands. She advanced to Gonzague and made him a
reverence. "Shall I dance for you, pretty gentleman?" she asked.
Gonzague watched her curiously, seeing in one swift, incisive glance that
she might very well serve for his purpose. "With all my heart," he
answered, courteously.
He seated himself at a table under the trees, with his little court
grouped about him, and Flora began to dance. It was such a dance as only
a Spaniard trained in the gypsy school could dance--a dance whose
traditions go back to days when the Roman Empire was old, to days when
the Roman Empire was young. Now active, now languid, by turns passionate,
daring, defiant, alluring, a wonderful medley of exquisite
contradictions, the girl leaped hither and thither, clicking her
castanets and sending her bright glances like arrows towards the admiring
spectators. She moved like a flame fluttered by the wind, like a
butterfly, like a leaf, like any swift, volatile, shifting, shimmering
thing. She seemed as agile as a cat, as tireless as a monkey, as free as
a bird. Suddenly the dance that was all contradiction ended in a final
contradiction. At the moment when her exuberance seemed keenest, her
vitality fiercest, her action most animated, when her eyes were shining
their brightest, her lips smiling their sweetest, and her castanets
clicking their loudest, she suddenly became rigid, with arms extended,
like one struck motionless by a catalepsy, her face robbed of all
expression, her limbs stiff, her arms extended. She stood so for a few
seconds, then a smile rippled over her face, her arms dropped to her
sides, and she seemed to swoon towards the ground in a surrendering
courtesy. The dance was at an end.
The delighted gentlemen applauded enthusiastically. All would have been
eager to seek closer acquaintance with the gypsy, but all refrained
because Gonzague himself rose from his seat and advanced towards the
girl, who watched him, respectful and excited, with lowered lids.
Gonzague laid his hand on her shoulder with a caress that was almost
paternal while he spoke: "I know more about you than you know yourself,
child. Go back now. I have long been looking for you."
Flora could scarcely find breath to stammer: "For me?" She ventured to
look up into the face of this grave and courtly gentleman, and she found
something very attractive in the dark eyes that were fixed upon her with
a look of so much benevolence. Gonzague pointed to Peyrolles, who was
standing a little apart from the group of gentlemen.
"Peyrolles will come for you presently," he said. "Peyrolles will tell
you what to do. Obey him implicitly."
Flora made him another courtesy. "Yes, monseigneur," she faltered, and,
turning, ran swiftly to the caravan and disappeared within its depths.
Each of the young gentlemen gladly would have followed her, but, as
before, they were restrained by the action of Gonzague, who seemed to
have taken the girl under his protection, and no one of them was
foolhardy enough to dream of crossing Gonzague in a pleasure or a
caprice.
But during the progress of the dance there had been an addition to the
little group of gentlemen. Chavernay had come over the bridge, with,
curiously enough, Cocardasse and Passepoil at his heels. When he saw that
a dance was toward, he made a sign to his followers to remain upon the
bridge, while he himself mingled with his habitual companions. When the
dance was over and Flora had disappeared, Chavernay advanced to Gonzague.
He, at least, was foolhardy enough for anything. "I give you my word,
cousin," he said, "that I have already lost the half of my heart to your
dancer. Are we rivals with the gypsy lass, cousin?"
Gonzague looked urbanely and yet gravely at his impudent kinsman. "You
must look for love elsewhere," he said, decisively. "I have reasons,
though not such reasons as yours; but you will oblige me."
Chavernay laughed contentedly. "My faith! there are plenty of pretty
women in the world, and plenty of ugly men, as it would seem. I have
brought you some friends of yours."
He made a signal as he spoke, and Cocardasse and Passepoil, descending
from their post upon the bridge, advanced towards the brilliant group,
bowing grotesquely as they did so, with their big hats in their hands and
their long rapiers tilting up their ragged cloaks. All the party gazed in
amazement at the whimsical apparitions, to the great indignation of
Cocardasse, who whispered angrily to his companion: "Why the devil do
they stare at us so?" While to him his companion replied, soothingly:
"Gently, gently."
The gentlemen were screaming with laughter. Taranne fired a volley of
peas, which rattled harmlessly against the long boots of Passepoil.
Navailles consulted his oracle, and declared that he liked the big one
best. Oriol, with a flourish of his trumpet, announced that he preferred
the smug fellow. Peyrolles, with a look of horror on his face, rushed
forward and attempted to intercept the new-comers, but he was too late.
Cocardasse was already in front of Gonzague, and had made him a
tremendous obeisance. "We have the honor to salute your highness," he
said, sonorously.
Gonzague observed him with well-restrained astonishment, and questioned
Chavernay: "Who are these--gentlemen?"
Chavernay was eager to explain that he had come across them in the fair,
and had taken a great fancy to them. After some conversation he found
that they were seeking the Prince de Gonzague, and thereupon he had
consented to be their guide and to present them. At this point Peyrolles
interposed. Coming close to Gonzague, he whispered something to him which
caused for a moment a slight expression of dislike, almost of dread, to
disturb the familiar imperturbability of his countenance. Then he looked
at the bravos. "Gentlemen," he said, "I believe it is your wish to serve
me. A man can never have too many friends. Gentlemen, I accept your
services." He turned to his familiar, and ordered: "Peyrolles, get them
some new clothes."
Peyrolles hurriedly beckoned Cocardasse and Passepoil apart, and could be
seen at a little distance transferring money from his pocket to their
palms, giving them instructions, and finally dismissing them.