There was no use in protesting and getting angry; the company were
more inclined to laugh than to listen, for it is always a great
delight to misbehaving fellows to speak ill of a poor girl. They
make haste to plunge her in the mire, reserving the right to deny it
if they find she is innocent.
In the midst of their slanderous speeches, however, a loud voice,
slightly weakened by illness but still capable of drowning every
other in the room, made itself heard. It was that of the master of
the tavern, long accustomed to quell the dissensions of wine and the
hubbub of junketing.
"Hold your tongues," he said, "and listen to me, or I'll turn you out
this moment, if I never open the house again. Be silent about an
honest girl whom you decry because you have all found her too
virtuous. As to the real parents of the child who has given rise to
these tales, tell them to their face what fault you find with them,
for here they are before you. Yes," he continued, drawing Mariton,
who was holding Charlot in her arms and weeping, up to him, "here is
the mother of my heir, and this is my son whom I recognize by my
marriage to this good woman. If you ask me for exact dates, I shall
tell you to mind your own business; nevertheless, to any who have the
right to question me, I will show deeds which prove that I have
always recognized the child as mine, and that his mother was my
legitimate wife before his birth, though the matter was kept secret."
The silence of astonishment fell on everybody; and Joseph, who had
risen at the first words, stood stock still like a stone image. The
monk who noticed the doubt, shame, and anger in his eyes, thought
best to add further explanations. He told us that Benoît had been
unable to make his marriage public because of the opposition of a
rich relative, who had lent him money for his business, and who might
have ruined him by demanding it back. As Mariton feared for her
reputation, specially on account of her son Joseph, they had
concealed Charlot's birth and had put him to nurse at Saint-Sevère;
but, at the end of a year Mariton had found him so ill-used that she
begged Brulette to take charge of him, thinking that no one else
would give him as much care. She had not foreseen the harm this
would do to the young girl, and when she did find it out, she wished
to remove the child, but Benoît's illness had prevented her doing so,
and moreover Brulette had become so attached to Charlot that she
would not part with him.
"Yes!" cried Mariton, "poor dear soul that she is, she proved her
courage for me. 'You will have trouble enough,' she said to me, 'if
you lose your husband; and, perhaps your marriage will be questioned
by the family. He is too ill to trouble him now about declaring it.
Have patience; don't kill him by talking of your affairs. Everything
will come right if God grant that he recovers.'"
"And if I have recovered," added Benoît, "it is by the care of this
good woman, my wife, and the kindheartedness of the young girl in
question, who patiently endured both blame and insult rather than
cause me injury at that time by exposing our secrets. And here is
another faithful friend," he added, pointing to the monk,--"a man of
sense, of action, and of honest speech, an old school friend of mine
in the days when I was educating at Montluçon. He it was who went
after my old devil of an uncle, and who at last, no later than this
morning, persuaded him to consent to my marriage with my good
housekeeper; and when my uncle had given his word to make me heir to
his whole property, Brother Nicolas told him the priest had already
joined Mariton and me, and showed him that fat Charlot, whom he
thought a fine boy and very like the author of his existence."
Benoît's satisfaction revived the lost gayety of the party; every one
was struck with the resemblance, which, however, no one had yet
noticed,--I as little as any.
"So, Joseph," continued the innkeeper, "you can and ought to love and
respect your mother, just as I love and respect her. I take my oath
here and now that she is the bravest and most helpful Christian woman
that ever a sick man had about him; and I have never had a moment's
hesitation in my resolve to declare sooner or later what I have
declared to-day. We are now very well off in our worldly affairs,
thank God, and as I swore to her and to God that I would replace the
father you lost, I will agree, if you will live here with us, to take
you into partnership and to give you a good share of the profits.' So
you needn't fling yourself into bagpiping, in which your mother sees
all sorts of ills for you and anxieties for her. Your notion was to
get her a home. That's my affair now, and I even offer to make hers
yours. Come, you'll listen to us, won't you, and give up that damned
music? Why can't you live in your own country and stay at home? You
needn't blush at having an honest innkeeper for a step-father."
"You are my step-father, that's very certain," replied Joseph, not
showing either pleasure or displeasure, but remaining coldly on the
defensive; "you are an honest man, I know, and rich, I see, and if my
mother is happy with you--"
"Yes, yes, Joseph, as happy as possible; above all to-day," cried
Mariton, kissing him, "for I hope you will never leave me again."
"You are mistaken, mother," answered Joseph; "you no longer have any
need of me, and you are contented. All is well. You were the only
thing that brought me back into this part of the country; you were
all I had to love, for Brulette--and it is well that all present
should hear this from my own mouth--for Brulette never had any
feeling but that of a sister for me. Now I am free to follow my
destiny; which is not a very kindly one, but it is so plainly mine
that I prefer it to all the money of innkeeping and the comfort of
family life. Farewell, mother, God bless those who make you happy;
as for me, I want nothing in these parts, not even admission to the
guild which evil-intentioned fools are trying to deny me. My inward
thoughts and my bagpipe go with me wherever I am; and I know I can
always earn my living, for wherever my music is heard I shall be
welcome."
As he spoke the door to the staircase opened and the whole company of
bagpipers entered in silence. Père Carnat requested the attention of
those present, and in a firm and cheerful manner, which surprised
everybody, he said:--
"François Carnat, my son, after careful examination of your merits
and full discussion of your rights, you are declared too much of a
novice for present admission. You are advised to study a while
longer, without discouragement, so as to present yourself for
competition later when circumstances may be more favorable. And you,
Joseph Picot, of the village of Nohant, the decision of the masters
of this part of the country is that you be, by reason of your
unparalleled talents, received into the first class of the guild; and
this decision is unanimous."
"Well," replied Joseph, who seemed wholly indifferent to his victory
and to the applause with which it was received, "as the matter has
turned out this way, I accept the decision, although, not expecting
it, I hardly care for it."
Joseph's haughty manner displeased everybody, and Père Carnat
hastened to sav, with an air which I thought showed disguised
malignity: "Does that mean, Joseph, that you wish for the honor and
the title, and do not intend to take your place among the
professional bagpipers in these parts?"
"I don't know yet," said Joseph, evidently by way of bravado, and not
wishing to satisfy his judges. "I'll think about it."
"I believe," said young Carnat to his father, "that he has thought
about it already, and his decision is made, for he hasn't the courage
to go on with the matter."
"Courage?" cried Joseph, "courage for what, if you please?"
Then the dean of the bagpipers, old Paillou of Verneuil, said to
Joseph:--
"You are surely not ignorant, young man, that something more than
playing an instrument is required, to be received into our guild;
there is such a thing as a musical catechism, which you must know and
on which you will be questioned, if you feel you have the knowledge
and also the boldness to answer. Moreover, there are certain oaths
to be taken. If you feel no repugnance to these things, you must
decide at once to submit to them, so that the matter may be settled
to-morrow morning."
"I understand you," said Joseph. "The guild has secret oaths, and
tests and trials. They are all great folly, as far as I know, and
music has no part in them, for I defy you to reply to any musical
question which I might put to you. Consequently, the questions you
address to me on a subject you know less about than the frogs in the
pond, are no better than old women's gabble."
"If you take it that way," said Renet, the Mers bagpiper, "we are
willing you should think yourself a great genius and the rest of us
jackasses. So be it. Keep your secrets, and we will keep ours. We
are not anxious to tell them to those who despise us. But remember
one thing: here is your certificate as a master bagpiper, which we
now hand to you, signed and sealed by all, including your friends the
Bourbonnais bagpipers, who agree that all is done in good order. You
are free to exercise your talents where you please and where you can;
except in the parishes where we play and which number one hundred and
fifty, according to the distribution we make among ourselves, the
list of which will be handed to you; in those parishes you are
forbidden to play. We give notice that if you break this rule it
will be at your own risk and peril, for we shall put a stop to it, if
need be, by main force."
Here Mariton spoke up.
"You needn't threaten him," she said, "it is safe to leave him to his
own fancy, which is to play his music and look for no profit. He has
no need to do that, thank God, and besides, his lungs are not strong
enough for your business. Come, Joseph, thank them for the honor
have done you, and don't keep them anxious about their interests.
Let the matter be settled now, and here's my man who will pay the
pipers with a good quartern of Sancerre or Issoudun wine, at the
choice of the company."
"That's all right," said old Carnat. "We are quite willing the
matter should end thus. It is best, no doubt, for your son; for one
needn't be either a fool or a coward to shrink from the tests, and I
do think the poor fellow is not cut out to endure them."
"We will see about that!" cried Joseph, falling into the trap that
was set for him, in spite of the warnings Père Bastien was giving him
in a low voice. "I demand the tests; and as you have no right to
refuse them after delivering to me the certificate, I intend to
practise your calling if I choose, or, at any rate, to prove that I
am not prevented from doing so by any of you."
"Agreed!" said the dean, showing plainly, as did Carnat and several
others, the malignant pleasure Joseph's words afforded them. "We
will now prepare for your initiation, friend Joseph. Remember there
is no going back, and that you will be considered a milk-sop or a
braggart if you change your mind."
"Go on, go on!" cried Joseph. "I'll await you on a firm foot."
"It is for us to await you," said old Carnat in his ear, "at the
stroke of midnight."
"Where?" said Joseph, coolly.
"At the gate of the cemetery," replied the dean, in a low voice.
Then, without accepting the wine which Benoît offered them, or giving
heed to the remonstrances of his wife, they went off in a body,
threatening evil to all who followed them or spied upon their
mysteries.
The Head-Woodsman and Huriel went with them without a word to Joseph,
by which I plainly saw that, although the pair were opposed to the
spirit of the other bagpipers, they thought it none the less their
duty not to warn Joseph, nor to betray in the slightest degree the
secrets of the guild.
In spite of the threats which were made, I was not deterred from
following them at a distance, without other precaution than
carelessly sauntering down the same road, with my hands in my
pockets, and whistling as if I were paying no attention to them or
their affairs. I knew they would not let me get near enough to
overhear their plots, but I wanted to make sure in what direction
they meant to lie in wait, so as to get there later, if possible,
unobserved. With that notion in my head, I signed to Leonard to keep
the others at the tavern until I returned to call them. But my
pursuit was soon ended. The inn stood on a street which ran
down-hill to the river, and is now the mail route to Issoudun. In
those days it was a breakneck little place, narrow and ill-paved,
lined with old houses with pointed gables and stone mullions. The
last of these houses was pulled down a year ago. From the river,
which ran along the wall below the inn of the Bœuf Couronné, a
steep ascent led to the market-place, which was then, as it is now,
that long unevenly paved space, planted with trees, bordered on the
left by old houses, on the right by the broad moat, full of water,
and the great wall (then unbroken) of the castle. The church closes
the market-place at the further end, and two alleys lead down from
it, one to the parsonage, the other past the cemetery. The bagpipers
turned down the latter path. They were about a gunshot in advance of
me, that is to say, just time enough to pass along the path by the
cemetery and out into the open country by the postern of the English
tower, unless they chose to stop at this particular spot; which was
not very convenient, for the path--which ran between the moat of the
castle on one side and the bank of the cemetery on the other--was
only wide enough for one person at a time.
When I judged that the bagpipers must have reached the postern, I
turned the corner of the castle under an arcade which in those days
was used as a footpath by the gentry on their way to the parish
church. I found I was all alone when I entered the path by the
churchyard, a place few Christian men would set foot in alone after
nightfall,--not only because it led past the cemetery, but because
the north flank of the castle had a bad name. There was talk of I
don't know how many persons drowned in the moat in the days of the
English war; and some folks swore they had heard the cocadrillos
whistle on that particular path when epidemics were about.
You know of course that the cocadrillo is a sort of lizard, which
sometimes seems no bigger than your little finger, and sometimes
swells to the size of an ox and grows five or six yards long. This
beast, which I have never seen, and whose existence I couldn't
warrant, is supposed to vomit a venom which poisons the air and
brings the plague. Now, though I did not believe much of this, I was
not over-fond of going along this path, where the high wall of the
castle and the tall trees of the cemetery shut out every speck of
light. On this occasion I walked fast, without looking to the right
or left, and passed through the postern of the English gate, of
which, by the bye, not one stone upon another remains to the present
day.
Once there, and notwithstanding that the night was fine and the moon
clear, I could not see, either far or near, the slightest trace of
the eighteen persons I was after. I looked in every direction; I
even went as far as Père Begneux's cottage, the only house they could
have entered. The occupants were all asleep, and nowhere about was
there any noise, or trace, or sign, of a living person. I therefore
concluded that the missing bagpipers had entered the cemetery to
perform some wicked conjuring, and--though far from liking to do so,
but determined to risk all for Thérence's relations--I returned
through the postern and along the accursed path, stepping softly,
skirting the bank so close that I touched the tombstones, and keeping
my ears open to the slightest sound. I heard the screech-owl hooting
in the casemates, and the adders hissing in the black water of the
moat, but that was all. The dead slept in the ground as tranquilly
as the living in their beds. I plucked up courage to climb over the
cemetery bank and to give a glance round the field of death. All was
quiet,--no signs whatever of the bagpipers.
Then I walked all round the castle. It was locked up, and as it was
after ten o'clock masters and servants slept like stones.
Then I returned to the inn, not being able to imagine what had become
of the guild, but determined to station my comrades in the path
leading to the English gate, from which we could see what happened to
Joseph when he reached the rendezvous at midnight at the gate of the
cemetery. I found them on the bridge debating whether or not they
should start for home, and declaring they could see no danger to the
Huriels, because it was evident they had agreed amicably with the
other bagpipers in the matter of the competition. As for what
concerned Joseph, they cared little or nothing, and tried to prevent
me from interfering. I told them that to my thinking the danger for
all three would be when the tests were applied, for the evil
intentions of the bagpipers had been plainly shown, and the Huriels,
I knew, were there to protect Joseph.
"Are you already sick of the enterprise?" I said. "Is it because we
are only eight to sixteen, and you haven't a heart for two inside of
you?"
"How do you count eight?" asked Leonard. "Do you think the
Head-Woodsman and his son would go with us against their
fellow-members?"
"I did count wrong;" I answered; "for we are really nine. Joseph
won't let himself be fleeced if they make it too hot for him, and as
both the Huriels carry arms, I feel quite sure they mean to defend
him if they can't be heard otherwise."
"That's not the point," returned Leonard. "We are only six, and they
are twenty; but there's another thing which pleases us even less than
a fight. People have been talking in the inn, and each had a story
to relate of these tests. The monk denounced them as impious and
abominable; and though Joseph laughed at what was said, we don't feel
certain there is nothing in it. They told of candidates nailed on a
bier, and furnaces into which they were tripped, and red-hot iron
crosses which they were made to clasp. Such things seem hard to
believe; and if I were certain that that was all I'd like to punish
the fellows who are bad enough to ill-treat a neighbor in that way.
Unfortunately--"
"There, there!" said I, "I see you have let yourself be scared. What
is behind it all? Tell the whole, and let's either laugh at it or
take warning."
"This is it," said one of the lads, seeing that Leonard was ashamed
to own his fears. "None of us have ever seen the devil, and we don't
want to make his acquaintance."
"Ho, ho!" I cried, seeing that they were all relieved, now the words
were out. "So it is Lucifer himself that frightens you! Well, I'm
too good a Christian to be afraid of him; I give my soul to God, and
I'll be bound I'll take him by the horns, yes I myself, alone against
the enemy of mankind, as fearlessly as I would take a goat by the
beard. He has been allowed to do evil to those who fear him long
enough, and it is my opinion that an honest fellow who dared to
wrench off his horns could deprive him of half his power, and that
would be something gained at any rate."
"Faith!" said Leonard, ashamed of his fears, "if you look at it that
way I won't back down, and if you'll smash his horns I'll try to pull
out his tail. They say it is fine, and we'll find out if it is gold
or hemp."
There is no such remedy against fear as fun, but I don't deny that
though I took the matter on that tone, I was not at all anxious to
pit myself against "Georgeon," as we call the devil in our parts. I
wasn't a bit more easy in mind than the rest, but for Thérence's sake
I felt ready to march into the jaws of hell. I had promised her, and
the good God himself couldn't have turned me back now.
But that's an ill way to talk. The good God, on the contrary, gave
me strength and confidence, and the more anxiety I felt all that
night, the more I thought on him and asked his aid.
When our other comrades saw that our minds, Leonard's and mine, were
made up, they followed us. To make the affair safer, I went back to
the inn to see if I could find other friends who, without knowing
what we were after, would follow us for fun, and, if occasion came,
would fight with us. But it was late, and there was no one at the
Bœuf Couronné but Benoît, who was supping with the monk, Mariton,
who was saying her prayers, and Joseph, who had thrown himself on a
bed and was sound asleep with, I must own, a tranquillity that put us
to shame.
"I have only one hope," said Mariton, as she got off her knees; "and
that is that he will sleep over the time and not wake up till
morning."
"That's just like all women!" cried Benoît, laughing, "they want life
at the price of shame. But I gave my word to her lad to wake him
before midnight, and I shall not fail to do so."
"Ah, you don't love him!" cried the mother. "We'll see if you push
our Charlot into danger when his turn comes."
"You don't know what you are talking about, wife," replied the
innkeeper; "go to bed and to sleep with my boy; I promise you I'll
not fail to wake yours. You would not wish him to blame me for his
dishonor?"
"Besides," said the monk, "what danger do you suppose there is in the
nonsense they are going to perform? I tell you you are dreaming, my
good woman. The devil doesn't get hold of anybody; God doesn't allow
it, and you have not brought your boy up so ill that you need fear
that he will get himself damned for his music. I tell you that the
villanous tests of the bagpipers are really nothing worse than
impious jokes, from which sensible people can easily protect
themselves; and Joseph need only laugh at the demons they will set
upon him, to put them all to flight."
The monk's words heartened up my comrades wonderfully.
"If it is only a farce," they said to me, "we will tumble into the
middle of it and thrash the devil well; but hadn't we better take
Benoît into our confidence? He might help us."
"To tell you the truth," I said, "I am not sure that he would. He is
thought a worthy man; but you never know the secrets of a family,
especially when there are children by a first marriage. Step-fathers
don't always like them, and Joseph has been none too amiable this
evening with his. Let's get off without a word to anyone; that's
best, and it is nearly time we were there."
Taking the road past the church, walking softly and in single file,
we posted ourselves in the little path near the English gate. The
moon was so low we could creep in the shadow of the cemetery bank and
not be seen, even if any one passed quite close to us. My comrades,
being strangers, had no such repugnance to the place as the
villagers, and I let them go in front while I hid within the
cemetery, near enough to the gate to see who entered, and also near
enough to call to them when wanted.