THE CHARIOT OF THESPIS
The Baron de Sigognac went down the broad staircase without a moment’s
delay to answer this mysterious summons, protecting with his hand the
feeble flame of the small lamp he carried from the many draughts that
threatened to blow it out. The light, shining through his slender
fingers, gave them a rosy tinge, so that he merited the epithet applied
by Homer, the immortal bard, to the laughing, beautiful Aurora, even
though he advanced through the thick darkness with his usual melancholy
mien, and followed by a black cat, instead of preceding the glorious
god of day.
Setting down his lamp in a sheltered corner, he proceeded to take down
the massive bar that secured the door, cautiously opened the
practicable leaf, and found himself face to face with a man, upon whom
the light of the lamp shone sufficiently to show rather a grotesque
figure, standing uncovered in the pelting rain. His head was bald and
shining, with a few locks of gray hair clustering about the temples. A
jolly red nose, bulbous in form, a small pair of twinkling, roguish
eyes, looking out from under bushy, jet-black eyebrows, flabby cheeks,
over which was spread a network of purplish fibres, full, sensual lips,
and a scanty, straggling beard, that scarcely covered the short, round
chin, made up a physiognomy worthy to serve as the model for a Silenus;
for it was plainly that of a wine-bibber and _bon vivant_. Yet a
certain expression of good humour and kindness, almost of gentleness,
redeemed what would otherwise have been a repulsive face. The comical
little wrinkles gathering about the eyes, and the merry upward turn of
the comers of the mouth, showed a disposition to smile as he met the
inquiring gaze of the young baron, but he only bowed repeatedly and
profoundly, with exaggerated politeness and respect.
This extraordinary pantomime finished, with a grand flourish, the
burlesque personage, still standing uncovered in the pouring rain,
anticipated the question upon de Sigognac’s lips, and began at once the
following address, in an emphatic and declamatory tone:
“I pray you deign to excuse, noble seignior, my having come thus to
knock at the gates of your castle in person at this untimely hour,
without sending a page or a courier in advance, to announce my approach
in a suitable manner. Necessity knows no law, and forces the most
polished personages to be guilty of gross breaches of etiquette at
times.”
“What is it you want?” interrupted the baron, in rather a peremptory
tone, annoyed by the absurd address of this strange old creature, whose
sanity he began to doubt.
“Hospitality, most noble seignior; hospitality for myself and my
comrades—princes and princesses, heroes and beauties, men of letters
and great captains, pretty waiting-maids and honest valets, who travel
through the provinces from town to town in the chariot of Thespis,
drawn by oxen, as in the ancient times. This chariot is now hopelessly
stuck in the mud only a stone’s throw from your castle, my noble lord.”
“If I understand aright what you say,” answered the baron, “you are a
strolling band of players, and have lost your way. Though my house is
sadly dilapidated, and I cannot offer you more than mere shelter, you
are heartily welcome to that, and will be better off within here than
exposed to the fury of this wild storm.”
The pedant—for such seemed to be his character in the troupe—bowed his
acknowledgments.
During this colloquy, Pierre, awakened by Miraut’s loud barking, had
risen and joined his master at the door. As soon as he was informed of
what had occurred, he lighted a lantern, and with the baron set forth,
under the guidance of the droll old actor, to find and rescue the
chariot in distress. When they reached it Leander and Matamore were
tugging vainly at the wheels, while his majesty, the king, pricked up
the weary oxen with the point of his dagger. The actresses, wrapped in
their cloaks and seated in the rude chariot, were in despair, and much
frightened as well—wet and weary too, poor things. This most welcome
re-enforcement inspired all with fresh courage, and, guided by Pierre’s
suggestions, they soon succeeded in getting the unwieldy vehicle out of
the quagmire and into the road leading to the château, which was
speedily reached, and the huge equipage safely piloted through the
grand portico into the interior court. The oxen were at once taken from
before it and led into the stable, while the actresses followed de
Sigognac up to the ancient banqueting hall, which was the most
habitable room in the château. Pierre brought some wood, and soon had a
bright fire blazing cheerily in the great fireplace. It was needed,
although but the beginning of September and the weather still warm, to
dry the dripping garments of the company; and besides, the air was so
damp and chilly in this long disused apartment that the genial warmth
and glow of the fire were welcome to all.
Although the strolling comedians were accustomed to find themselves in
all sorts of odd, strange lodgings in the course of their wanderings,
they now looked with astonishment at their extraordinary surroundings;
being careful, however, like well-bred people, not to manifest too
plainly the surprise they could not help feeling.
“I regret very much that I cannot offer you a supper,” said their young
host, when all had assembled round the fire, “but my larder is so bare
that a mouse could not find enough for a meal in it. I live quite alone
in this house with my faithful old Pierre; never visited by anybody;
and you can plainly perceive, without my telling you, that plenty does
not abound here.”
“Never mind that, noble seignior,” answered Blazius, the pedant, “for
though on the stage we may sit down to mock repasts—pasteboard fowls
and wooden bottles—we are careful to provide ourselves with more
substantial and savoury viands in real life. As quartermaster of the
troupe I always have in reserve a Bayonne ham, a game pasty, or
something, of that sort, with at least a dozen bottles of good old
Bordeaux.”
“Bravo, sir pedant,” cried Leander, “do you go forthwith and fetch in
the provisions; and if his lordship will permit, and deign to join us,
we will have our little feast here. The ladies will set the table for
us meanwhile I am sure.”
The baron graciously nodded his assent, being in truth so amazed at the
whole proceeding that he could not easily have found words just then;
and he followed with wondering and admiring eyes the graceful movements
of Serafina and Isabelle, who, quitting their seats by the fire,
proceeded to arrange upon the worn but snow-white cloth that Pierre had
spread on the ancient dining-table, the plates and other necessary
articles that the old servant brought forth from the recesses of the
carved buffets. The pedant quickly came back, carrying a large basket
in each hand, and with a triumphant air placed a huge pasty of most
tempting appearance in the middle of the table. To this he added a
large smoked tongue, some slices of rosy Bayonne ham, and six bottles
of wine.
Beelzebub watched these interesting preparations from a distance with
eager eyes, but was too much afraid of all these strangers to approach
and claim a share of the good things on the table. The poor beast was
so accustomed to solitude and quiet, never seeing any one beyond his
beloved master and Pierre, that he was horribly frightened at the
sudden irruption of these noisy newcomers.
Finding the feeble light of the baron’s small lamp rather dim, Matamore
bad gone out to the chariot and brought back two showy candelabra,
which ordinarily did duty on the stage. They each held several candles,
which, in addition to the warm radiance from the blazing fire, made
quite a brilliant illumination in this room, so lately dark, cheerless,
and deserted. It had become warm and comfortable by this time; its
family portraits and tarnished splendour looked their best in the
bright, soft light, which had chased away the dark shadows and given a
new beauty to everything it fell upon; the whole place was
metamorphosed; a festive air prevailed, and the ancient banqueting hall
once more resounded with cheery voices and gay laughter.
The poor young baron, to whom all this had been intensely disagreeable
at first, became aware of a strange feeling of comfort and pleasure
stealing over him, to which, after a short struggle, he finally yielded
himself entirely. Isabelle, Serafina, even the pretty _soubrette_,
seemed to him, unaccustomed as he was to feminine beauty and grace,
like goddesses come down from Mount Olympus, rather than mere ordinary
mortals. They were all very pretty, and well fitted to turn heads far
more experienced than his. The whole thing was like a delightful dream
to him; he almost doubted the evidence of his own senses, and every few
minutes found himself dreading the awakening, and the vanishing of the
entrancing vision.
When all was ready de Sigognac led Isabelle and Serafina to the table,
placing one on each side of him, with the pretty _soubrette_ opposite.
Mme. Léonarde, the duenna of the troupe, sat beside the pedant,
Leander, Matamore, his majesty the tyrant, and Scapin finding places
for themselves. The youthful host was now able to study the faces of
his guests at his ease, as they sat round the table in the full light
of the candles burning upon it in the two theatrical candelabra. He
turned his attention to the ladies first, and it perhaps will not be
out of place to give a little sketch of them here, while the pedant
attacks the gigantic game pasty.
Serafina, the “leading lady” of the troupe, was a handsome young woman
of four or five and twenty, who had quite a grand air, and was as
dignified and graceful withal as any veritable noble dame who shone at
the court of his most gracious majesty, Louis XIII. She had an oval
face, slightly aquiline nose, large gray eyes, bright red lips—the
under one full and pouting, like a ripe cherry—-a very fair complexion,
with a beautiful colour in her cheeks when she was animated or excited,
and rich masses of dark brown hair most becomingly arranged. She wore a
round felt hat, with the wide rim turned up at one side, and trimmed
with long, floating plumes. A broad lace collar was turned down over
her dark green velvet dress, which was elaborately braided, and fitted
closely to a fine, well-developed figure. A long, black silk scarf was
worn negligently around her shapely shoulders and although both velvet
and silk were old and dingy, and the feathers in her hat wet and limp,
they were still very effective, and she looked like a young queen who
had strayed away from her realm; the freshness and radiant beauty of
her face more than made up for the shabbiness of her dress, and de
Sigognac was fairly dazzled by her many charms.
Isabelle was much more youthful than Serafina, as was requisite for her
role of ingenuous young girl, and far more simply dressed. She had a
sweet, almost childlike face, beautiful, silky, chestnut hair, with
golden lights in it, dark, sweeping lashes veiling her large, soft
eyes, a little rosebud of a mouth, and an air of modesty and purity
that was evidently natural to her—not assumed. A gray silk gown, simply
made, showed to advantage her slender, graceful form, which seemed far
too fragile to endure the hardships inseparable from the wandering life
she was leading. A high Elizabethan ruff made a most becoming frame for
her sweet, delicately tinted, young face, and her only ornament was a
string of pearl beads, clasped round her slender, white neck. Though
her beauty was less striking at first sight than Serafina’s, it was of
a higher order: not dazzling like hers, but surpassingly lovely in its
exquisite purity and freshness, and promising to eclipse the other’s
more showy charms, when the half-opened bud should have expanded into
the full-blown flower.
The _soubrette_ was like a beautiful Gipsy, with a clear, dark
complexion, rich, mantling colour in her velvety cheeks, intensely
black hair—long, thick, and wavy—great, flashing, brown eyes, and
rather a large mouth, with ripe, red lips, and dazzling white
teeth—one’s very beau-ideal of a bewitching, intriguing waiting-maid,
and one that might be a dangerous rival to any but a surpassingly
lovely and fascinating mistress. She was one of the beauties that women
are not apt to admire, but men rave about and run after the world over.
She wore a fantastic costume of blue and yellow, which was odd,
piquant, and becoming, and seemed fully conscious of her own charms.
Mme. Léonarde, the “noble mother” of the troupe dressed all in black,
like a Spanish duenna, was portly of figure, with a heavy, very pale
face, double chin, and intensely black eyes, that had a crafty,
slightly malicious expression. She had been upon the stage from her
early childhood, passing through all the different phases, and was an
actress of decided talent, often still winning enthusiastic applause at
the expense of younger and more attractive women, who were inclined to
think her something of an old sorceress.
So much for the feminine element. The principal roles were all
represented; and if occasionally a re-enforcement was required, they
could almost always pick up some provincial actress, or even an
amateur, at a pinch. The actors were five in number: The pedant,
already described, who rejoiced in the name of Blazitis; Leander;
Hérode, the tragic tyrant; Matamore, the bully; and Scapin, the
intriguing valet.
Leander, the romantic, irresistible, young lover—darling of the
ladies—was a tall, fine-looking fellow of about thirty, though
apparently much more youthful, thanks to the assiduous care he bestowed
on his handsome person. His slightly curly, black hair was worn long,
so that he might often have occasion to push it back from his forehead,
with a hand as white and delicate as a woman’s, upon one of whose taper
fingers sparkled an enormous diamond—a great deal too big to be real.
He was rather fancifully dressed, and always falling into such
graceful, languishing attitudes as he thought would be admired by the
fair sex, whose devoted slave he was. This Adonis never for one moment
laid aside his role. He punctuated his sentences with sighs, even when
speaking of the most indifferent matters, and assumed all sorts of
preposterous airs and graces, to the secret amusement of his
companions. But he had great success among the ladies, who all
flattered him and declared he was charming, until they had turned his
head completely; and it was his firm belief that he was irresistibly
fascinating.
The tyrant was the most good-natured, easy-going creature imaginable;
but, strangely enough, gifted by nature with all the external signs of
ferocity. With his tall, burly frame, very dark skin, immensely thick,
shaggy eyebrows, black as jet, crinkly, bushy hair of the same hue, and
long beard, that grew far up on his cheeks, he was a very formidable,
fierce-looking fellow; and when he spoke, his loud, deep voice made
everything ring again. He affected great dignity, and filled his role
to perfection.
Matamore was as different as possible, painfully thin—scarcely more
than mere skin and bones—a living skeleton with a large hooked nose,
set in a long, narrow face, a huge mustache turned up at the ends, and
flashing, black eyes. His excessively tall, lank figure was so
emaciated that it was like a caricature of a man. The swaggering air
suitable to his part had become habitual with him, and he walked always
with immense strides, head well thrown back, and hand on the pommel of
the huge sword he was never seen without.
As to Scapin, he looked more like a fox than anything else, and had a
most villainous countenance; yet he was a good enough fellow in
reality.
The painter has a great advantage over the writer, in that he can so
present the group on his canvas that one glance suffices to take in the
whole picture, with the lights and shadows, attitudes, costumes, and
details of every kind, which are sadly wanting in our description—too
long, though so imperfect—of the party gathered thus unexpectedly round
our young baron’s table. The beginning of the repast was very silent,
until the most urgent demands of hunger had been satisfied. Poor de
Sigognac, who had never perhaps at any one time had as much to eat as
he wanted since he was weaned, attacked the tempting viands with an
appetite and ardour quite new to him; and that too despite his great
desire to appear interesting and romantic in the eyes of the beautiful
young women between whom he was seated. The pedant, very much amused at
the boyish eagerness and enjoyment of his youthful host, quietly heaped
choice bits upon his plate, and watched their rapid disappearance with
beaming satisfaction. Beelzebub had at last plucked up courage and
crept softly under the table to his master, making his presence known
by a quick tapping with his fore-paws upon the baron’s knees; his
claims were at once recognised, and he feasted to his heart’s content
on the savoury morsels quietly thrown down to him. Poor old Miraut, who
had followed Pierre into the room, was not neglected either, and had
his full share of the good things that found their way to his master’s
plate.
By this time there was a good deal of laughing and talking round the
festive board. The baron, though very timid, and much embarrassed, had
ventured to enter into conversation with his fair neighbours. The
pedant and the tyrant were loudly discussing the respective merits of
tragedy and comedy. Leander, like Narcissus of old, was complacently
admiring his own charms as reflected in a little pocket mirror he
always had about him. Strange to say he was not a suitor of either
Serafina’s or Isabelle’s; fortunately for them he aimed higher, and was
always hoping that some grand lady, who saw him on the stage, would
fall violently in love with him, and shower all sorts of favours upon
him. He was in the habit of boasting that he had had many delightful
adventures of the kind, which Scapin persistently denied, declaring
that to his certain knowledge they had never taken place, save in the
aspiring lover’s own vivid imagination. The exasperating valet,
malicious as a monkey, took the greatest delight in tormenting poor
Leander, and never lost an opportunity; so now, seeing him absorbed in
self-admiration, he immediately attacked him, and soon had made him
furious. The quarrel grew loud and violent, and Leander was heard
declaring that he could produce a large chest crammed full of love
letters, written to him by various high and titled ladies; whereupon
everybody laughed uproariously, while Serafina said to de Sigognac that
she for one did not admire their taste, and Isabelle silently looked
her disgust. The baron meantime was more and more charmed with this
sweet, dainty young girl, and though he was too shy to address any
high-flown compliments to her, according to the fashion of the day, his
eyes spoke eloquently for him. She was not at all displeased at his
ardent glances, and smiled radiantly and encouragingly upon him,
thereby unconsciously making poor Matamore, who was secretly enamoured
of her, desperately unhappy, though he well knew that his passion was
an utterly hopeless one. A more skilful and audacious lover would have
pushed his advantage, but our poor young hero had not learned courtly
manners nor assurance in his isolated château, and, though he lacked
neither wit nor learning, it must be confessed that at this moment he
did appear lamentably stupid.
All the bottles having been scrupulously emptied, the pedant turned the
last one of the half dozen upside down, so that every drop might run
out; which significant action was noted and understood by Matamore, who
lost no time in bringing in a fresh supply from the chariot. The baron
began to feel the wine a little in his head, being entirely
unaccustomed to it, yet he could not resist drinking once again to the
health of the ladies. The pedant and the tyrant drank like old topers,
who can absorb any amount of liquor—be it wine, or something
stronger—without becoming actually intoxicated. Matamore was very
abstemious, both in eating and drinking, and could have lived like the
impoverished Spanish hidalgo, who dines on three olives and sups on an
air upon his mandoline. There was a reason for his extreme frugality;
he feared that if he ate and drank like other people he might lose his
phenomenal thinness, which was of inestimable value to him in a
professional point of view. If he should be so unfortunate as to gain
flesh, his attractions would diminish in an inverse ratio, so he
starved himself almost to death, and was constantly seen anxiously
examining the buckle of his belt, to make sure that he had not
increased in girth since his last meal. Voluntary Tantalus, he scarcely
allowed himself enough to keep life in his attenuated frame, and if he
had but fasted as carefully from motives of piety he would have been a
full-fledged saint.
The portly duenna disposed of solids and fluids perseveringly, and in
formidable quantities, seeming to have an unlimited capacity; but
Isabelle and Serafina had finished their supper long ago, and were
yawning wearily behind their pretty, outspread hands, having no fans
within reach, to conceal these pronounced symptoms of sleepiness.
The baron, becoming aware of this state of things, said to them,
“Mesdemoiselles, I perceive that you are very weary, and I wish with
all my heart that I could offer you each a luxurious bed-chamber; but
my house, like my family, has fallen into decay, and I can only give to
you and Madame my own room. Fortunately the bed is very large, and you
must make yourselves as comfortable as you can—for a single night you
will not mind. As to the gentlemen, I must ask them to remain here with
me, and try to sleep in the arm-chairs before the fire. I pray you,
ladies, do not allow yourselves to be startled by the waving of the
tapestry-which is only due to the strong draughts about the room on a
stormy night like this—the moaning of the wind in the chimney, or the
wild scurrying and squeaking of the mice behind the wainscot. I can
guarantee that no ghosts will disturb you here, though this place does
look dreary and dismal enough to be haunted.”
“I am not a bit of a coward,” answered Serafina laughingly, “and will
do my best to reassure this timid little Isabelle. As to our
duenna,—she is something of a sorceress herself, and if the devil in
person should make his appearance he would meet his match in her.”
The baron then took a light in his hand and showed the three ladies the
way into the bed-chamber, which certainly did strike them rather
unpleasantly at first sight, and looked very eerie in the dim,
flickering light of the one small lamp.
“What a capital scene it would make for the fifth act of a tragedy,”
said Serafina, as she looked curiously about her, while poor little
Isabelle shivered with cold and terror. They all crept into bed without
undressing, Isabelle begging to lie between Serafina and Mme. Léonarde,
for she felt nervous and frightened. The other two fell asleep at once,
but the timid young girl lay long awake, gazing with wide-open,
straining eyes at the door that led into the shut-up apartments beyond,
as if she dreaded its opening to admit some unknown horror. But it
remained fast shut, and though all sorts of mysterious noises made her
poor little heart flutter painfully, her eyelids closed at last, and
she forgot her weariness and her fears in profound slumber.
In the other room the pedant slept soundly, with his head on the table,
and the tyrant opposite to him snored like a giant. Matamore had rolled
himself up in a cloak and made himself as comfortable as possible under
the circumstances in a large arm-chair, with his long, thin legs
extended at full length, and his feet on the fender. Leander slept
sitting bolt upright, so as not to disarrange his carefully brushed
hair, and de Sigognac, who had taken possession of a vacant arm-chair,
was too much agitated and excited by the events of the evening to be
able to close his eyes. The coming of two beautiful, young women thus
suddenly into his life—which had been hitherto so isolated, sad and
dreary, entirely devoid of all the usual pursuits and pleasures of
youth—could not fail to rouse him from his habitual apathy, and set his
pulses beating after a new fashion. Incredible as it may seem yet it
was quite true that our young hero had never had a single love affair.
He was too proud, as we have already said, to take his rightful place
among his equals, without any of the appurtenances suitable to his
rank, and also too proud to associate familiarly with the surrounding
peasantry, who accorded him as much respect in his poverty as they had
ever shown to his ancestors in their prosperity. He had no near
relatives to come to his assistance, and so lived on, neglected and
forgotten, in his crumbling château, with nothing to look forward to or
hope for. In the course of his solitary wanderings he had several times
chanced to encounter the young and beautiful Yolande de Foix, following
the hounds on her snow-white palfrey, in company with her father and a
number of the young noblemen of the neighbourhood. This dazzling vision
of beauty often haunted his dreams, but what possible relations could
there ever be hoped for between the rich, courted heiress, whose
suitors were legion, and his own poverty-stricken self? Far from
seeking to attract her attention, he always got out of her sight as
quickly as possible, lest his ill-fitting, shabby garments and
miserable old pony should excite a laugh at his expense; for he was
very sensitive, this poor young nobleman, and could not have borne the
least approach to ridicule from the fair object of his secret and
passionate admiration. He had tried his utmost to stifle the ardent
emotions that filled his heart whenever his thoughts strayed to the
beautiful Yolande, realizing how far above his reach she was, and he
believed that he had succeeded; though there were times even yet when
it all rushed back upon him with overwhelming force, like a huge tidal
wave that sweeps everything before it.
The night passed quietly at the château, without other incident than
the fright of poor Isabelle, when Beelzebub, who had climbed up on the
bed, as was his frequent custom, established himself comfortably upon
her bosom; finding it a deliciously soft, warm resting-place, and
obstinately resisting her frantic efforts to drive him away.
As to de Sigognac, he did not once close his eyes. A vague project was
gradually shaping itself in his mind, keeping him wakeful and
perplexed. The advent of these strolling comedians appeared to him like
a stroke of fate, an ambassador of fortune, to invite him to go out
into the great world, away from this old feudal ruin, where his youth
was passing in misery and inaction—to quit this dreary shade, and
emerge into the light and life of the outer world.
At last the gray light of the dawn came creeping in through the lattice
windows, speedily followed by the first bright rays from the rising
sun. The storm was over, and the glorious god of day rose triumphant in
a perfectly clear sky. It was a strange group that he peeped in upon,
where the old family portraits seemed looking down with haughty
contempt upon the slumbering invaders of their dignified solitude. The
_soubrette_ was the first to awake, starting up as a warm sunbeam shone
caressingly full upon her face. She sprang to her feet, shook out her
skirts, as a bird does its plumage, passed the palms of her hands
lightly over her glossy bands of jet-black hair, and then seeing that
the baron was quietly observing her, with eyes that showed no trace of
drowsiness, she smiled radiantly upon him as she made a low and most
graceful curtsey.
“I am very sorry,” said de Sigognac, as he rose to acknowledge her
salute, “that the ruinous condition of this château, which verily seems
better fitted to receive phantoms than real living guests, would not
permit me to offer you more comfortable accommodations. If I had been
able to follow my inclinations, I should have lodged you in a luxurious
chamber, where you could have reposed between fine linen sheets, under
silken curtains, instead of resting uneasily in that worm-eaten old
chair.”
“Do not be sorry about anything, my lord, I pray you,” answered the
_soubrette_ with another brilliant smile; “but for your kindness we
should have been in far worse plight; forced to pass the night in the
poor old chariot, stuck fast in the mud; exposed to the cutting wind
and pelting rain. We should assuredly have found ourselves in wretched
case this morning. Besides, this château which you speak of so
disparagingly is magnificence itself in comparison with the miserable
barns, open to the weather, in which we have sometimes been forced to
spend the night, trying to sleep as best we might on bundles of straw,
and making light of our misery to keep our courage up.”
While the baron and the actress were exchanging civilities the pedant’s
chair, unable to support his weight any longer, suddenly gave way under
him, and he fell to the floor with a tremendous crash, which startled
the whole company. In his fall he had mechanically seized hold of the
table-cloth, and so brought nearly all the things upon it clattering
down with him. He lay sprawling like a huge turtle in the midst of them
until the tyrant, after rubbing his eyes and stretching his burly
limbs, came to the rescue, and held out a helping hand, by aid of which
the old actor managed with some difficulty to scramble to his feet.
“Such an accident as that could never happen to Matamore,” said Hérode,
with his resounding laugh; “he might fall into a spider’s web without
breaking through it.”
“That’s true,” retorted the shadow of a man, in his turn stretching his
long attenuated limbs and yawning tremendously, “but then, you know,
not everybody has the advantage of being a second Polyphemus, a
mountain of flesh and bones, like you, or a big wine-barrel, like our
friend Blazius there.”
All this commotion had aroused Isabelle, Serafina and the duenna, who
presently made their appearance. The two younger women, though a little
pale and weary, yet looked very charming in the bright morning light.
In de Sigognac’s eyes they appeared radiant, in spite of the shabbiness
of their finery, which was far more apparent now than on the preceding
evening. But what signify faded ribbons and dingy gowns when the
wearers are fresh, young and beautiful? Besides, the baron’s eyes were
so accustomed to dinginess that they were not capable of detecting such
slight defects in the toilets of his fair guests, and he gazed with
delight upon these bewitching creatures, enraptured with their grace
and beauty. As to the duenna, she was both old and ugly, and had long
ago accepted the inevitable with commendable resignation.
As the ladies entered by one door, Pierre came in by the other,
bringing more wood for the fire, and then proceeding to make the
disordered room as tidy as he could. All the company now gathered round
the cheerful blaze that was roaring up the chimney and sending out a
warm glow that was an irresistible attraction in the chill of the early
morning. Isabelle knelt down and stretched out the rosy palms of her
pretty little hands as near to the flames as she dared, while Serafina
stood behind and laid her hands caressingly on her shoulders, like an
elder sister taking tender care of a younger one. Matamore stood on one
leg like a huge heron, leaning against the corner of the carved
chimney-piece, and seemed inclined to fall asleep again, while the
pedant was vainly searching for a swallow of wine among the empty
bottles.
The baron meantime had held a hurried private consultation with Pierre
as to the possibility of procuring a few eggs, or a fowl or two, at the
nearest hamlet, so that he might give the travellers something to eat
before their departure, and he bade the old servant be quick about it,
for the chariot was to make an early start, as they had a long day’s
journey before them.
“I cannot let you go away fasting, though you will have rather a scanty
breakfast I fear,” he said to his guests, “but it is better to have a
poor one than none at all; and there is not an inn within six leagues
of this where you could be sure of getting anything to eat. I will not
make further apologies, for the condition of everything in this house
shows you plainly enough that I am not rich; but as my poverty is
mainly owing to the great expenditures made by my honoured ancestors in
many wars for the defence of king and country, I do not need to be
ashamed of it.”
“No indeed, my lord,” answered Hérode in his deep, bass voice, “and
many there be in these degenerate days who hold their heads very high
because of their riches, who would not like to have to confess how they
came in possession of them.”
“What astonishes me,” interrupted Blazius, “is that such an
accomplished young gentleman as your lordship seems to be should be
willing to remain here in this isolated spot, where Fortune cannot
reach you even if she would. You ought to go to Paris, the great
capital of the world, the rendezvous of brave and learned men, the El
Dorado, the promised land, the Paradise of all true Frenchmen. There
you would be sure to make your way, either in attaching yourself to the
household of some great nobleman, a friend of your family, or in
performing some brilliant deed of valour, the opportunity for which
will not be long to find.”
These words, although rather high-flown, were not devoid of sense, and
de Sigognac could not help secretly admitting that there was some truth
in them. He had often, during his long rambles over the desolate
Landes, thought wishfully of undertaking what the pedant had just
proposed; but he had not money enough for the journey even, and he did
not know where to look for more. Though brave and high-spirited, he was
very sensitive, and feared a smile of derision more than a
sword-thrust. He was not familiar with the prevailing fashions in
dress, but he felt that his antiquated costume was ridiculous as well
as shabby, and sure to be laughed at anywhere but among his own simple
peasantry. Like most of those who are disheartened and crushed by
extreme poverty, he only looked at the dark side of things, and made no
allowance for any possible advantages. Perhaps he might have been
delicately as well as generously assisted by some of his father’s old
friends if he would only have let them know of his situation, but his
pride held him back, and he would have died of starvation rather than
ask for aid in any form.
“I used to think sometimes of going to Paris,” he answered slowly,
after some hesitation, “but I have no friends or even acquaintances
there; and the descendants of those who perhaps knew my ancestors when
they were rich and powerful, and in favour at court, could scarcely be
expected to welcome a poverty-stricken Baron de Sigognac, who came
swooping down from his ruined tower to try and snatch a share of any
prey that chanced to lie within reach of his talons. And besides—I do
not know why I should be ashamed to acknowledge it—I have not any of
the appurtenances suitable to my rank, and could not present myself
upon a footing worthy of my name. I doubt if I have even money enough
for the expenses of the journey alone, and that in the humblest
fashion.”
“But it is not necessary,” Blazius hastened to reply, “that you should
make a state entry into the capital, like a Roman emperor, in a gilded
chariot drawn by four white horses abreast. If our humble equipage does
not appear too unworthy to your lordship, come with us to Paris; we are
on our way there now. Many a man shines there to-day in brave apparel,
and enjoys high favour at court, who travelled thither on foot,
carrying his little bundle over his shoulder, swung on the point of his
rapier, and his shoes in his hand, for fear of wearing them out on the
way.”
A slight flush, partly of shame, partly of pleasure, rose to de
Sigognac’s cheek at this speech. If on the one side his pride revolted
at the idea of being under an obligation to such a person as the
pedant, on the other he was touched and gratified by this kind
proposition so frankly made, and which, moreover, accorded so well with
his own secret desires. He feared also that if he refused the actor’s
kindly-meant offer he would wound his feelings, and perhaps miss an
opportunity that would never be afforded to him again. It is true that
the idea of a descendant of the noble old house of Sigognac travelling
in the chariot of a band of strolling players, and making common cause
with them, was rather shocking at first sight, but surely it would be
better than to go on any longer leading his miserable, hopeless life in
this dismal, deserted place. He wavered between those two decisive
little monosyllables, yes and no, and could by no means reach a
satisfactory conclusion, when Isabelle, who had been watching the
colloquy with breathless interest, advanced smilingly to where he was
standing somewhat apart with Blazius, and addressed the following words
to him, which speedily put an end to all his uncertainty:
“Our poet, having fallen heir to a fortune, has lately left us, and his
lordship would perhaps be good enough to take his place. I found
accidentally, in opening a volume of Ronsard’s poems that lay upon the
table in his room, a piece of paper with a sonnet written upon it,
which must be of his composition, and proves him not unaccustomed to
writing in verse. He could rearrange our parts for us, make the
necessary alterations and additions in the new plays we undertake, and
even perhaps write a piece for us now and then. I have now a very
pretty little Italian comedy by me, which, with some slight
modifications, would suit us nicely, and has a really charming part for
me.”
With her last words, accompanied though they were with a smile, she
gave the baron such a sweet, wistful look that he could no longer
resist; but the appearance of Pierre at this moment with a large
omelette created a diversion, and interrupted this interesting
conversation. They all immediately gathered round the table, and
attacked the really good breakfast, which the old servant had somehow
managed to put before them, with great zest. As to de Sigognac, he kept
them company merely out of politeness, and trifled with what was on his
plate while the others were eating, having partaken too heartily of the
supper the night before to be hungry now, and, besides, being so much
preoccupied with weightier matters that he was not able to pay much
attention to this.
After the meat was finished, and while the chariot was being made ready
for a start, Isabelle and Serafina expressed a desire to go into the
garden, which they looked down upon from the court.
“I am afraid,” said de Sigognac, as he aided them to descend the
unsteady, slippery stone steps, “that the briers will make sad work
with your dresses, for thorns abound in my neglected garden, though
roses do not.”
The young baron said this in the sad, ironical tone he usually adopted
when alluding to his poverty; but a moment after they suddenly came
upon two exquisite little wild roses, blooming directly in their path.
With an exclamation of surprise de Sigognac gathered them, and as he
offered one to each lady, said, with a smile, “I did not know there was
anything of this sort here, having never found aught but rank weeds and
brambles before; it is your gracious presence that has brought forth
these two blossoms in the midst of ruin and desolation.”
Isabelle put her little rose carefully in the bosom of her dress,
giving him her thanks mutely by an eloquent glance, which spoke more
perhaps than she knew, and brought a flush of pleasure to his cheeks.
They walked on to the statue in its rocky niche at the end of the
garden, de Sigognac carefully bending back the branches that obstructed
the way. The young girl looked round with a sort of tender interest at
this overgrown, neglected spot, so thoroughly in keeping with the
ruined château that frowned down upon them, and thought pityingly of
the long, dreary hours that the poor baron must have spent here in
solitude and despair. Serafina’s face only expressed a cold disdain,
but slightly masked by politeness. To her mind the ruinous condition of
things was anything but interesting, and though she dearly loved a
title she had still greater respect for wealth and magnificence.
“My domain ends here,” said the baron, as they reached the grotto of
the statue, “though formerly all the surrounding country, as far as the
eye can reach from the top of that high tower yonder, belonged to my
ancestors. But barely enough remains now to afford me a shelter until
the day comes when the last of the de Sigognacs shall be laid to rest
amid his forefathers in the family vault, thenceforward their sole
possession.”
“Do you know you are very much out of spirits this morning?” said
Isabelle in reply, touched by the expression of this sad thought that
had occurred to her also, and assuming a bright, playful air, in the
hope that it might help to chase away the heavy shadow that lay upon
her young host’s brow. “Fortune is blind, they say, but nevertheless
she does sometimes shower her good gifts upon the worthy and the brave;
the only thing is that they must put themselves in her way. Come,
decide to go with us, and perhaps in a few years the Château de
Sigognac, restored to its ancient splendour, may loom up as proudly as
of old; think of that, my lord, and take courage to quit it for a time.
And besides,” she added in a lower tone that only de Sigognac could
hear, “I cannot bear to go away and leave you here alone in this dreary
place.”
The soft light that shone in Isabelle’s beautiful eyes as she murmured
these persuasive words was irresistible to the man who already loved
her madly; and the idea of following his divinity in a humble disguise,
as many a noble knight had done of old, reconciled him to what would
otherwise have seemed too incongruous and humiliating. It could not be
considered derogatory to any gentleman to accompany his lady-love, be
she what she might, actress or princess, and to attach himself, for
love of her bright eyes, to even a band of strolling players. The
mischievous little boy of the bow had compelled even gods and heroes to
submit to all sorts of odd tests and means. Jupiter himself took the
form of a bull to carry off Europa, and swam across the sea with her
upon his back to the island of Crete. Hercules, dressed as a woman, sat
spinning meekly at Omphale’s feet. Even Aristotle went upon all fours
that his mistress might ride on his back. What wonder then that our
youthful baron thought that nothing could be too difficult or repulsive
in the service of the lovely being at his side! So he decided at once
not to let her leave him behind, and begging the comedians to wait a
few moments while he made his hurried preparations, drew Pierre aside
and told him in few words of his new project. The faithful old servant,
although nearly heart-broken at the thought of parting with his beloved
master, fully realized how greatly it would be to his advantage to quit
the dreary life that was blighting his youth, and go out into the
world; and while he felt keenly the incongruity of such fellow
travellers for a de Sigognac, yet wisely thought that it was better for
him to go thus than not at all. He quickly filled an old valise with
the few articles of clothing that formed the baron’s scanty wardrobe,
and put into a leathern purse the little money he still possessed;
secretly adding thereto his own small hoard, which he could safely do
without fear of detection, as he had the care of the family finances,
as well as everything else about the establishment. The old white pony
was brought out and saddled, for de Sigognac did not wish to get into
the chariot until they had gone some distance from home, not caring to
make his departure public. He would seem thus to be only accompanying
his guests a little way upon their journey, and Pierre was to follow on
foot to lead the horse back home.
The oxen, great slow-moving, majestic creatures, were already harnessed
to the heavy chariot, while their driver, a tall, sturdy peasant lad,
standing in front of them leaning upon his goad, had unconsciously
assumed an attitude so graceful that he closely resembled the
sculptured figures in ancient Greek bas-reliefs. Isabelle and Serafina
had seated themselves in the front of the chariot, so that they could
enjoy the fresh, cool air, and see the country as they passed along;
while the others bestowed themselves inside, where they might indulge
in a morning nap. At last all were ready; the driver gave the word of
command, and the oxen stepped slowly forward, setting in motion the
great unwieldy, lumbering vehicle, which creaked and groaned in
lamentable fashion, making the vaulted portico ring again as it passed
through it and out of the château.
In the midst of all this unwonted commotion, Beelzebub and Miraut moved
restlessly about the court, evidently very much perplexed as to what
could be the meaning of it. The old dog ran back and forth from his
master, who always had a caress for him, to Pierre, looking up into
their faces with questioning, anxious eyes, and Beelzebub finally went
and held a consultation with his good friend, the old white pony, now
standing with saddle and bridle on, quietly awaiting his master’s
pleasure. He bent down his head so that his lips almost touched
Beelzebub, and really appeared to be whispering something to him; which
the cat in his turn imparted to Miraut, in that mysterious language of
animals which Democritus, claimed that he understood, but which we are
not able to translate. Whatever it might have been that Bayard, the old
pony, communicated to Beelzebub, one thing is certain, that when at
last the baron vaulted into his saddle and sallied forth from his
ancient castle, he was accompanied by both cat and dog. Now, though it
was no uncommon thing for Miraut to follow him abroad, Beelzebub had
never been known to attempt such a feat before.
As he rode slowly out through the grand old portico de Sigognac felt
his heart heavy within him, and when, after going a few paces from the
château, he turned round for one last look at its crumbling walls, he
felt an acute grief at bidding them farewell which was an astonishment
to himself. As his eyes sought and dwelt upon the roof of the little
chapel where his father and mother lay sleeping side by side, he almost
reproached himself for wishing to go and leave them, and it required a
mighty effort to turn away and ride after the chariot, which was some
distance in advance of him. He had soon overtaken and passed it, when a
gentle gust of wind brought to him the penetrating, faintly aromatic
scent of his native heather, still wet from last night’s rain, and also
the silvery sound of a distant convent bell that was associated with
his earliest recollections. They both seemed to be reproaching him for
his desertion of his home, and he involuntarily checked the old pony,
and made as if he would turn back. Miraut and Beelzebub, seeming to
understand the movement, looked up at him eagerly, but as he was in the
very act of turning the horse’s head he met Isabelle’s soft eyes fixed
on him with such an entreating, wistful look that he flushed and
trembled under it, and entirely forgetting his ancient château, the
perfume of the heather, and the quick strokes of the distant bell, that
still continued ringing, he put spurs to his horse and dashed on in
advance again. The struggle was over—Isabelle had conquered.
When the highway was reached, de Sigognac again fell behind the
chariot—which moved more quickly over the smooth, hard road—so that
Pierre might be able to catch up to him, and rode slowly forward, lost
in thought; he roused himself, however, in time to take one last look
at the towers of Sigognac, which were still visible over the tops of
the pine trees. Bayard came to a full stop as he gazed, and Miraut took
advantage of the pause to endeavour to climb up and lick his master’s
face once more; but he was so old and stiff that de Sigognac had to
lift him up in front of him; holding him there he tenderly caressed the
faithful companion of many sad, lonely years, even bending down and
kissing him between the eyes. Meantime the more agile Beelzebub had
scrambled up on the other side, springing from the ground to the
baron’s foot, and then climbing up by his leg; he purred loudly as his
master affectionately stroked his head, looking up in his face as if he
understood perfectly that this was a leave-taking. We trust that the
kind reader will not laugh at our poor young hero, when we say that he
was so deeply touched by these evidences of affection from his humble
followers that two great tears rolled down his pale cheeks and fell
upon the heads of his dumb favourites, before he put them gently from
him and resumed his journey.
Miraut and Beelzebub stood where he had put them down, looking after
their beloved master until a turn in the road hid him from their sight,
and then quietly returned to the château together. The rain of the
previous night had left no traces in the sandy expanse of the Landes,
save that it had freshened up the heather with its tiny purple bells,
and the furze bushes with their bright yellow blossoms. The very pine
trees themselves looked less dark and mournful than usual, and their
penetrating, resinous odour filled the fresh morning air. Here and
there a little column of smoke rising from amid a grove of chestnut
trees betrayed the homestead of some farmer, and scattered over the
gently rolling plain, that extended as far as the eye could reach,
great flocks of sheep could be discerned, carefully guarded by shepherd
and dog; the former mounted on stilts, and looking very odd to those
unaccustomed to the shepherds of the Landes. On the southern horizon
the snow-clad tops of the more lofty peaks of the Pyrenees rose boldly
into the clear sky, with light wreaths of mist still clinging round
them here and there.
Oxen travel slowly, especially over roads where at times the wheels
sink deep into the sand, and the sun was high above the horizon before
they had gone two leagues on their way. The baron, loath to fatigue his
old servant and poor Bayard, determined to bid adieu to them without
further delay; so he sprang lightly to the ground, put the bridle into
Pierre’s trembling hand, and affectionately stroked the old pony’s
neck, as he never failed to do when he dismounted. It was a painful
moment. The faithful servant had taken care of his young master from
his infancy, and he turned very pale as he said in faltering tones,
“God bless and keep your lordship. How I wish that I could go with
you.”
“And so do I, my good Pierre, but that is impossible. You must stay and
take care of the château for me; I could not bear to think of it
entirely abandoned, or in any other hands than yours, my faithful
friend! And besides, what would become of Bayard and Miraut and
Beelzebub, if you too deserted them?”
“You are right, master,” answered Pierre, his eyes filling with tears
as he bade him farewell before he turned and led Bayard slowly back by
the road they had come. The old pony whinnied loudly as he left his
master, and long after he was out of sight could be heard at short
intervals calling out his adieux.
The poor young baron, left quite alone, stood for a moment with
downcast eyes, feeling very desolate and sad; then roused himself with
an effort, and hastened after the chariot. As he walked along beside it
with a sorrowful, preoccupied air, Isabelle complained of being tired
of her somewhat cramped position, and said that she would like to get
down and walk a little way for a change; her real motive being a kind
wish to endeavour to cheer up poor de Sigognac and make him forget his
sad thoughts. The shadow that had overspread his countenance passed
away entirely as he assisted Isabelle to alight, and then offering his
arm led her on in advance of the lumbering chariot. They had walked
some distance, and she was just reciting some verses, from one of her
parts, which she wished to have altered a little, when the sound of a
horn close at hand startled them, and from a by-path emerged a gay
party returning from the chase. The beautiful Yolande de Foix came
first, radiant as Diana, with a brilliant colour in her cheeks and eyes
that shone like stars. Several long rents in the velvet skirt of her
riding habit showed that she had been following the hounds through the
thickets of furze that abound in the Landes, yet she did not look in
the least fatigued, and as she came forward made her spirited horse
fret and prance under quick, light strokes of her riding-whip—in whose
handle shone a magnificent amethyst set in massive gold, and engraved
with the de Foix arms. Three or four young noblemen, splendidly dressed
and mounted, were with her, and as she swept proudly past our hero and
his fair companion-upon whom she cast a glance of haughty disdain—she
said in clear ringing tones, “Do look at the Baron de Sigognac, dancing
attendance upon a _Bohémienne_.” And the little company passed on with
a shout of laughter.
The poor baron was furious, and instinctively grasped the handle of his
sword with a quick, angry movement; but as quickly released it—for he
was on foot and those who had insulted him were on horseback, so that
he could not hope to overtake them; and besides, he could not challenge
a lady. But the angry flush soon faded from his cheek, and the
remembrance of his displeasure from his mind, under the gentle
influence of Isabelle, who put forth all her powers of fascination to
make her companion forget the affront he had received because of her.
The day passed without any other incident worthy of being recorded, and
our travellers arrived in good season at the inn where they were to sup
and sleep.