A SNOW-STORM AND ITS CONSEQUENCES
As may be readily supposed, the comedians were well satisfied with the
kind treatment they had received during their brief sojourn at the
Château de Bruyères; such a piece of good fortune did not often fall to
their lot, and they rejoiced in it exceedingly. The tyrant had
distributed among them each one’s share of the marquis’s liberal
remuneration for their services, and it was wonderfully pleasant to
them to have broad pieces in the purses usually so scantily supplied,
and not infrequently quite empty. Zerbine, who was evidently rejoicing
over some secret source of satisfaction, accepted good-naturedly all
the taunts and jokes of her companions upon the irresistible power of
her charms. She was triumphant, and could afford to be laughed
at—indeed, joined heartily in the general merriment at her own
expense—while Serafina sulked openly, with “envy, hatred, and malice”
filling her heart. Poor Leander, still smarting from his severe
beating, sore and aching, unable to find an easy position, and
suffering agonies from the jolting of the chariot, found it hard work
to join in the prevailing gaiety.
When he thought no one was looking at him, he would furtively rub his
poor, bruised shoulders and arms with the palm of his hand, which
stealthy manœuvre might very readily have passed unobserved by the rest
of the company, but did not escape the wily valet, who was always on
the lookout for a chance to torment Leander; his monstrous self-conceit
being intensely exasperating to him. A harder jolt than usual having
made the unfortunate gallant groan aloud, Scapin immediately opened his
attack, feigning to feel the liveliest commiseration for him.
“My poor Leander, what is the matter with you this morning? You moan
and sigh as if you were in great agony! Are you really suffering so
acutely? You seem to be all battered and bruised, like the Knight of
the Sorrowful Countenance, after he had capered stark naked, for a love
penance, among the rocks in the Sierra Morena, in humble imitation of
his favourite hero, Amadis de Gaul. You look as if you had not slept at
all last night, and had been lying upon hard sticks, rods, or clubs,
instead of in a soft, downy bed, such as were given to the rest of us
in the fine château yonder. Tell us, I pray you, did not Morpheus once
visit you all the night through?”
“Morpheus may have remained shut up in his cavern, but Cupid is a
wanderer by night, who does not need a lantern to find the way to those
fortunate individuals he favours with a visit,” Leander replied, hoping
to divert attention from the tell-tale bruises, that he had fancied
were successfully concealed.
“I am only a humble valet, and have had no experience in affairs of
gallantry. I never paid court to a fine lady in my life; but still, I
do know this much, that the mischievous little god, Cupid, according to
all the poets, aims his arrows at the hearts of those he wishes to
wound, instead of using his bow upon their backs.”
“What in the world do you mean?” Leander interrupted quickly, growing
seriously uneasy at the turn the conversation was taking.
“Oh! nothing; only that I see, in spite of all your efforts to hide it
with that handkerchief knotted so carefully round your neck, that you
have there on the back of it a long, black mark, which to-morrow will
be indigo, the day after green, and then yellow, until it fades away
altogether, like any other bruise—a black mark that looks devilishly
like the authentic flourish which accompanies the signature of a good,
stout club on a calf’s skin—or on vellum, if that term pleases you
better.”
“Ah! my good Scapin, you do not understand such matters,” Leander
replied, a scarlet flush mounting to the very roots of his hair, and at
his wits’ ends to know how to silence his tormentor; “doubtless some
dead and gone beauty, who loved me passionately during her lifetime,
has come back and kissed me there while I was sleeping; as is well
known, the contact of the lips of the dead leave strange, dark marks,
like bruises, on human flesh, which the recipient of the mysterious
caress is astonished to find upon awaking.”
“Your defunct beauty visited you and bestowed her mysterious caress
very apropos,” remarked Scapin, incredulously; “but I would be willing
to take my oath that yonder vigorous kiss had been imprinted upon your
lily-white neck by the stinging contact of a stout club.”
“Unmannerly jester and scoffer that you are! is nothing sacred to you?”
broke in Leander, with some show of heat.
“You push my modesty too far. I endeavoured delicately to put off upon
a dead beauty what I should have ascribed to a living one. Ignorant and
unsophisticated though you claim to be, have you never heard of kisses
so ardent that such traces of them are left?—where pearly teeth have
closed upon the soft flesh, and made their mark on the white skin?”
“Memorem dente notam,” interrupted the pedant, charmed to have a chance
to quote Horace.
“This explanation appears to me very judicious,” Scapin said; then,
with a low bow to the pedant, “and is sustained by unquestionable if
incomprehensible authority; but the mark is so long that this nocturnal
beauty of yours, dead or alive, must have had in her lovely mouth that
famous tooth which the three Gorgon sisters owned among them, and
passed about from one to the other.”
This sally was followed by a roar of laughter, and Leander, beside
himself with rage, half rose, to throw himself upon Scopin, and
chastise him then and there for his insufferable impertinence; but he
was so stiff and sore from his own beating, and the pain in his back,
which was striped like a zebra’s, was so excruciating, that he sank
back into his place with a suppressed groan, and concluded to postpone
his revenge to some more convenient season. Hérode and Blazius, who
were accustomed to settle such little disputes, insisted upon their
making up their differences, and a sort of reconciliation took
place-Scapin promising never to allude to the subject again, but
managing to give poor Leander one or two more digs that made him wince
even as he did so.
During this absurd altercation the chariot had been making steady
progress, and soon arrived at an open space where another great
post-road crossed the one they were following, at right angles. A large
wooden crucifix, much the worse for long exposure to the weather, had
been erected upon a grassy mound at the intersection of the two
highways. A group, consisting of two men and three mules, stood at its
foot, apparently awaiting some one’s arrival. As they approached, one
of the mules, as if weary of standing still, impatiently shook its
head, which was gaily decorated with bright, many-coloured tufts and
tassels, and set all the little silver bells about it ringing sharply.
Although a pair of leather blinkers, decked with gay embroidery,
effectually prevented its seeing to the right or to the left, it
evidently was aware of the approach of the chariot before the men’s
senses had given them any intimation of it.
“The Colonelle shakes her ear-trumpets and shows her teeth,” said one
of them; “they cannot be far off now.”
In effect, after a very few minutes the chariot was seen approaching,
and presently rolled into the open space. Zerbine, who sat in front,
glanced composedly at the little group of men and mules standing there,
without betraying any surprise at seeing them.
“By Jove! those are fine beasts yonder,” exclaimed the tyrant,
“splendid Spanish mules, especially that foremost one; they can easily
do their fifteen or twenty leagues a day, I’ll venture, and if we were
mounted on the like we should soon find ourselves in Paris. But what
the devil are they doing in this lonely place? it must be a relay,
waiting for some rich seignior travelling this way.”
“No,” said the duenna, “that foremost mule is intended for a lady—don’t
you see the cushions and housings?”
“In that case,” he replied, “there must be an abduction in the wind;
those two equerries, in gray liveries, certainly have a very
mysterious, knowing sort of an air.”
“Perhaps you are right,” said Zerbine, demurely, with a significant
little smile and shrug.
“Can it be possible that the lady is among us?” asked Scapin; “one of
the men is coming this way by himself, as if he desired to parley
before resorting to violence.”
“Oh! there’ll be no need,” said Serafina, casting a scornful glance at
the _soubrette_, who returned it with interest.
“There are bold creatures that go of their own accord, without waiting
to be carried off.”
“And there are others who are NOT carried off, that would like to be,”
retorted the _soubrette_, “but the desire is not sufficient; a few
charms are needed too.”
At this point the equerry who had advanced to meet the chariot made a
sign to them to stop, and, cap in hand, politely asked if Mlle. Zerbine
was among them. The _soubrette_ herself answered this inquiry in the
affirmative, and sprang to the ground as lightly as a bird.
“Mademoiselle, I am at your disposal,” said the equerry to her, in a
respectful and gallant tone. Zerbine shook out her skirts, adjusted her
wraps, and then, turning towards the comedians, delivered this little
harangue: “My dear comrades, I pray you pardon me for quitting you in
this unceremonious manner. There are times when Opportunity offers
itself suddenly for our acceptance, and we must seize it without delay,
or lose it altogether; he would be a fool who let it slip through his
fingers, for once relinquished it returns not again. The face of
Fortune, which until now has always frowned upon me, at last vouchsafes
me a smile, and I am delighted to enjoy its brightness, even though it
may prove to be only fleeting. In my humble role of _soubrette_, I
could not aspire to, or expect to receive, the admiration of rich lords
and gentlemen—that is for my betters; and now that a happy chance has
thrown such an unhoped-for piece of good luck in my way, you will not
blame me, I am confident, for gladly accepting it. Let me take my
belongings then—which are packed in the chariot with the others—and
receive my adieux. I shall be sure to rejoin you some day, sooner or
later, at Paris, for I am a born actress; the theatre was my first
love, and I have never long been faithless to it.”
The two men accordingly, aided by the comedians, took Zerbine’s boxes
out of the chariot, and adjusted them carefully on the pack-mule. The
_soubrette_ made a sweeping curtsey to her friends in the chariot, and
threw a kiss to Isabelle from her finger tips, then, aided by one of
the equerries, sprang to her place behind him, on the back of the
Colonelle, as lightly and gracefully as if she had been taught the art
of mounting in an equestrian academy, nodded a last farewell, and
striking the mule sharply with the high heel of her pretty little shoe,
set off at a round pace.
“Good-bye, and good luck to you, Zerbine,” cried the comedians
heartily, one and all; save only Serafina, who was more furiously angry
with her than ever.
“This is an unfortunate thing for us,” said the tyrant regretfully, “a
serious loss. I wish with all my heart that we could have kept that
capital little actress with us; we shall not easily find any one to
replace her, even in Paris; she is really incomparable in her own
role—but she was not in any way bound to stay with us a moment longer
than she chose. We shall have to substitute a duenna, or a chaperon,
for the _soubrette_ in our pieces for the present; it will be less
pleasing of course, but still Mme. Léonarde here is a host in herself,
and we shall manage to get on very nicely, I dare say.”
The chariot started on its way again as he spoke, at rather a better
pace than the lumbering old ox-cart. They were travelling through a
part of the country now which was a great contrast to the desolate
Landes. To the Baron de Sigognac, who had never been beyond their
desolate expanse before, it was a revelation, and he could not
sufficiently admire the richness and beauty of this region. The
productive, red soil was highly cultivated—not an inch of ground
neglected—comfortable, often handsome, stone houses scattered along
their route at frequent intervals, and surrounded by large, luxuriant
gardens, spoke of a well-to-do population. On each side of the broad,
smooth road was a row of fine trees, whose falling leaves lay piled
upon the ground in yellow heaps, or whirled in the wind before de
Sigognac and Isabelle, as they walked along beneath their spreading
branches, finding the exercise a welcome relief after sitting for a
long time in the chariot in rather a cramped position. One day as they
were walking thus side by side, de Sigognac said to his fair companion,
“I wish you would tell me, Isabelle, how it has happened that you, with
all the characteristics of a lady of lofty lineage in the innate
modesty and dignity of your manners, the refinement and purity of your
language, the incomparable grace of your carriage, the elevation of
your sentiments upon all subjects, to say nothing of the delicate,
aristocratic type of your beauty—should have become a member of a
wandering band of players like this—good, honest people no doubt, but
not of the same rank or race as yourself.”
“Don’t fancy that I am a princess in disguise, or a great lady reduced
to earn my living in this way,” she replied, with an adorable smile,
“merely because of some good qualities you think you have discovered in
me. The history of my life is a very simple, uneventful one, but since
you show such kind interest in me I will gladly relate it to you. So
far from being brought down to the station I occupy by some grievous
catastrophe or romantic combination of adverse circumstances, I was
born to the profession of an actress—the chariot of Thespis was, so to
say, my birthplace. My mother, who was a very beautiful woman and
finished actress, played the part of tragic princess. She did not
confine her role to the theatre, but exacted as much deference and
respect from those around her when off the stage, as she received upon
it, until she came to consider herself a veritable princess. She had
all the majesty and grace of one, and was greatly admired and courted,
but never would suffer any of the gallants, who flutter about pretty
actresses like moths around a candle, to approach her—holding herself
entirely above them, and keeping her good name unsullied through
everything. An account of this unusual conduct on the part of a
beautiful young actress chanced to reach the ears of a certain rich and
powerful prince, who was very much struck and interested by it, and
immediately sought an introduction to my mother. As his actual rank and
position equalled hers of imaginary princess, she received his
attentions with evident pleasure. He was young, handsome, eloquent, and
very much in love with her—what wonder then that she yielded at last to
his impassioned entreaties, and gave herself to him, though, because of
his high station, he could not do as his heart dictated, and make her
his wife. They were very happy in each other’s love, and after I was
born my young father was devoted to me.”
“Ah!” interrupted de Sigognac, eagerly, “that explains it all; princely
blood does flow in your veins. I knew it—was sure of it!”
“Their happiness continued,” resumed Isabelle, “until reasons of state
made it necessary for him to tear himself away from her, to go on a
diplomatic mission to one of the great capitals of Europe; and ere his
return to France an illustrious marriage had been arranged for him by
his family, with the sanction of royalty, which he found it impossible
to evade. In these cruel circumstances he endeavoured to do everything
in his power to soften the pain of this rupture to my poor
mother—himself almost broken-hearted at being forced to leave her—and
made every possible arrangement for her comfort and well-being;
settling a generous income on her, and providing lavishly for my
maintenance and education. But she would accept nothing from him—she
could not receive his money without his love—‘all or nothing’ was her
motto; and taking me with her she fled from him, successfully
concealing her place of refuge. She soon after joined a band of players
travelling through the provinces, and resumed her old role; but her
heart was broken, and she gradually faded away, dying at last when I
was only about seven years old. Even then I used to appear upon the
stage in parts suitable to my age. I was a precocious little thing in
many ways. My mother’s death caused me a grief far more acute than most
children, even a good deal older than I was then, are capable of
feeling. How well I remember being punished because I refused to act
the part of one of Medea’s children, the day after she died. But my
grief was not very long-lived—I was but a child after all, and the
actors and actresses of the troupe were so good to me, always petting
me, and devising all sorts of ways to please and divert me—theatrical
people are proverbially kind to comrades in distress, you know. The
pedant, who belonged to our company, and looked just as old and
wrinkled then as he does now, took the greatest interest in me,
constituted himself my master, and taught me thoroughly and
indefatigably all the secrets of the histrionic art—taking unwearied
pains with me. I could not have had a better teacher; perhaps you do
not know that he has a great reputation, even in Paris. You will wonder
that a man of his fame and attainments should be found in a strolling
company of players like this, but his unfortunate habits of
intemperance have been the cause of all his troubles. He was professor
of elocution in one of the celebrated colleges, holding an enviable and
lucrative position, but lost it because of his inveterate
irregularities. He is his own worst enemy, poor Blazius! In the midst
of all the confusion and serious disadvantages of a vagabond life, I
have always been able to hold myself somewhat apart, and remain pure
and innocent. My companions, who have known me from babyhood, look upon
me as a sister or daughter, and treat me with invariable affection and
respect; and as for the men of the outside world who haunt the
_coulisses_, and seem to think that an actress is public property, off
the stage as well as upon it, I have thus far managed to keep them at a
distance—continuing in real life my role of modest, ingenuous, young
girl, without hypocrisy or false pretensions.”
Thus, as they strolled along together, and could talk confidentially
without fear of listeners, Isabelle related the story of her life to de
Sigognac, who was a most attentive and delighted listener, and ever
more and more charmed with his fair divinity.
“And the name of the prince,” said he, after a short pause, “do you
remember it?”
“I fear that it might be dangerous to my peace to disclose it,” she
replied; “but it is indelibly engraven upon my memory.”
“Are there any proofs remaining to you of his connection with your
mother?”
“I have in my possession a seal-ring bearing his coat of arms” Isabelle
answered; “it is the only jewel of all he had lavished upon her that my
mother kept, and that entirely on account of the associations connected
with it, not for its intrinsic value, which is small. If you would like
to see it I will be very glad to show it to you some day.”
It would be too tedious to follow our travellers step by step on their
long journey, so we will skip over a few days—which passed quietly,
without any incidents worth recording—and rejoin them as they were
drawing near to the ancient town of Poitiers. In the meantime their
receipts had not been large, and hard times had come to the wandering
comedians. The money received from the Marquis de Bruyères had all been
spent, as well as the modest sum in de Sigognac’s purse-who had
contributed all that he possessed to the common fund, in spite of the
protestations of his comrades in distress. The chariot was drawn now by
a single horse-instead of the four with which they had set off so
triumphantly from the Château de Bruyères—and such a horse! a
miserable, old, broken-down hack, whose ribs were so prominent that he
looked as if he lived upon barrel-hoops instead of oats and hay; his
lack-lustre eyes, drooping head, halting gait, and panting breath
combined to make him a most pitiable object, and he plodded on at a
snail’s pace, looking as if he might drop down dead on the road at any
moment. Only the three women were in the chariot—the men all walking,
so as to relieve their poor, jaded beast as much as possible. The
weather was bitterly cold, and they wrapped their cloaks about them and
strode on in silence, absorbed in their own melancholy thoughts.
Poor de Sigognac, well-nigh discouraged, asked himself despondingly
whether it would not have been better for him to have remained in the
dilapidated home of his fathers, even at the risk of starving to death
there in silence and seclusion, than run the risk of such hardships in
company with these Bohemians. His thoughts flew back to his good old
Pierre, to Bayard, Miraut, and Beelzebub, the faithful companions of
his solitude; his heart was heavy within him, and at the sudden
remembrance of his dear old friends and followers his throat contracted
spasmodically, and he almost sobbed aloud; but he looked back at
Isabelle, wrapped in her cloak and sitting serenely in the front of the
chariot, and took fresh courage, feeling glad that he could be near her
in this dark hour, to do all that mortal man, struggling against such
odds, could compass for her comfort and protection. She responded to
his appealing glance with a sweet smile, that quickened his pulses and
sent a thrill of joy through every nerve. She did not seem at all
disheartened or cast down by the greatness of their misery. Her heart
was satisfied and happy; why should she be crushed by mere physical
suffering and discomforts? She was very brave, although apparently so
delicate and fragile, and inspired de Sigognac, who could have fallen
down and worshipped her as he gazed up into her beautiful eyes, with
some of her own undaunted courage.
The great, barren plain they were slowly traversing, with a few dreary
skeletons of misshapen old trees scattered here and there, and not a
dwelling in sight, was not calculated to dissipate the melancholy of
the party. Save one or two aged peasants trudging listlessly along,
bending under the weight of the fagots they carried on their backs,
they had not seen a human being all day long. The spiteful magpies,
that seemed to be the only inhabitants of this dreary waste, danced
about in front of them, chattering and almost laughing at them, as if
rejoicing in and making fun of their miseries. A searching north wind,
that penetrated to the very marrow in their bones, was blowing, and the
few white flakes that flew before it now and then were the
_avant-couriers_ of the steady fall of snow that began as nightfall
approached.
“It would appear,” said the pedant, who was walking behind the chariot
trying to find shelter from the icy wind, “that the celestial housewife
up above has been plucking her geese, and is shaking the feathers out
of her apron down upon us. She might a great deal better send us the
geese themselves. I for one would be glad enough to eat 114 them,
without being very particular as to whether they were done to a turn,
and without sauce or seasoning either.”
“Yes, so would I, even without salt,” added the tyrant, “for my stomach
is empty. I could welcome now an omelette such as they gave us this
morning, and swallow it without winking, though the eggs were so far
gone that the little chicks were almost ready to peep.”
By this time de Sigognac also had taken refuge behind the
chariot—Isabelle having been driven from her seat in front to a place
in the interior by the increasing violence of the storm-and Blazius
said to him, “This is a trying time, my lord, and I regret very much
that you should have to share our bad fortune; but I trust it will be
only of brief duration, and although we do get on but slowly, still
every step brings us nearer to Paris.”
“I was not brought up in the lap of luxury,” de Sigognac answered, “and
I am not a man to be frightened by a few snowflakes and a biting wind;
but it is for these poor, suffering women that I am troubled; they are
exposed to such severe hardships—cold, privations, fatigue—and we
cannot adequately shelter and protect them, do what we will.”
“But you must remember that they are accustomed to roughing it, my dear
baron, and what would be simply unendurable to many of their sex, who
have never been subjected to such tests, they meet bravely, and make
light of, in a really remarkable manner.”
The storm grew worse and worse; the snow, driven with great force by
the wind, penetrated into the chariot where Isabelle, Serafina, and
Mme. Léonarde had taken refuge among the luggage, in spite of all that
could be done to keep it out, and had soon covered their wraps with a
coating of white. The poor horse was scarcely able to make any headway
at all against the wind and snow; his feet slipped at every step, and
he panted painfully. Hérode went to his head, and took hold of the
bridle with his strong hand to lead him and try to help him along,
while the pedant, de Sigognac, and Scapin put their shoulders to the
wheels at every inequality in the road and whenever he paused or
stumbled badly, and Leander cracked the whip loudly to encourage the
poor beast; it would have been downright cruelty to strike him. As to
Matamore, he had lingered behind, and they were expecting every moment
to see his tall, spare figure emerge from the gloom with rapid strides
and rejoin them. Finally the storm became so violent that it was
impossible to face it any longer; and though it was so important that
they should reach the next village before the daylight was all gone,
they were forced to halt, and turn the chariot, with its back to the
wind. The poor old horse, utterly exhausted by this last effort,
slipped and fell, and without making any attempt to rise lay panting on
the ground. Our unhappy travellers found themselves in a sad
predicament indeed—wet, cold, tired and hungry, all in the superlative
degree—blinded by the driving snow, and lost, without any means of
getting on save their own powers of locomotion, in the midst of a great
desert—for the white covering which now lay upon everything had
obliterated almost all traces of the road; they did not know which way
to turn, or what to do. For the moment they all took refuge in the
chariot, until the greatest violence of the tempest should be over,
huddled close together for warmth, and striving not to lose heart
entirely. Presently the wind quieted down all of a sudden, as if it had
expended its fury and wanted to rest; but the snow continued to fall
industriously, though noiselessly, and as far as the eye could reach
through the gathering darkness the surface of the earth was white, as
if it had been wrapped in a winding sheet.
“What in the world has become of Matamore?” cried Blazius suddenly;
“has the wind carried him off to the moon I wonder?”
“Yes; where can he be?” said the tyrant, in an anxious tone; “I can’t
see him anywhere—I thought he was among us; perhaps he is lying asleep
among the stage properties at the back of the chariot; I have known him
curl himself down there for a nap before now. Holloa! Matamore! where
are you? wake up and answer us!” But no Matamore responded, and there
was no movement under the great heap of scenery, and decorations of all
sorts, stowed away there.
“Holloa! Matamore!” roared Hérode again, in his loudest tones, which
might have waked the seven sleepers in their cavern, and roused their
dog too.
“We have not seen him here in the chariot at all today,” said one of
the actresses; “we thought he was walking with the others.”
“The deuce!” exclaimed Blazius, “this is very strange. I hope no
accident has happened to the poor fellow.”
“Undoubtedly he has taken shelter in the worst of the storm on the lee
side of the trunk of a tree somewhere,” said de Sigognac, “and will
soon come up with us.”
After a short discussion, it was decided to wait where they were a few
minutes longer, and then if he did not make his appearance go in search
of him. They anxiously watched the way by which they had come, but no
human form appeared on the great expanse of white, and the darkness was
falling rapidly upon the earth, as it does after the short days of
December. The distant howling of a dog now came to their ears, to add
to the lugubrious effect of their surroundings, but they were all so
troubled at the strange absence of their comrade that their own
individual miseries were for the moment forgotten. The doleful howling,
so far away at first, gradually became louder, until at last a large,
black dog came in sight, and sitting down upon the snow, still a long
distance from them, raised his head so that his muzzle pointed upward
to the sky and howled, as if in the greatest distress.
“I’m afraid something terrible has happened to our poor Matamore,”
cried the tyrant, and his voice trembled a little; “that dog howls as
if for a death.”
At this speech the two young women turned even paler than they had been
before, if that were possible, and made the sign of the cross devoutly,
while Isabelle murmured a prayer.
“We must go in search of him without a moment’s delay,” said Blazius,
“and take the lantern with us; it will as a guiding star to him if he
has wandered off from the road, as is very probable, with everything
covered with snow like this.”
They accordingly lighted their horn lantern, and set off with all
possible speed—the tyrant, Blazius, and de Sigognac—whilst Scapin and
Leander remained with the three women in the chariot. The dog,
meantime, kept up his dismal howling without a moment’s intermission as
the three men hastened towards him. The darkness and the newfallen
snow, which had completely obliterated all traces of footsteps, made
the task of looking for the missing actor a very difficult one, and
after walking nearly a mile without seeing a sign of him, they began to
fear that their search would prove fruitless. They kept calling,
“Matamore! Matamore!” but there was no reply, nothing to be heard but
the howling of the large black dog, at intervals now, or the scream of
an owl, disturbed by the light of the lantern. At last de Sigognac,
with his penetrating vision, thought he could make out a recumbent
figure at the foot of a tree, a little way off from the road, and they
all pressed forward to the spot he indicated.
It was indeed poor Matamore, sitting on the ground, with his back
against the tree, and his long legs, stretched out in front of him,
quite buried under the snow; he did not stir at the approach of his
comrades, or answer their joyful shout of recognition, and when
Blazius, alarmed at this strange apathy, hastened forward and threw the
light of the lantern upon his face, he had nearly let it fall from
fright at what it revealed. Poor Matamore was dead, stiff and stark,
with wide-open, sunken eyes staring out vaguely into the darkness, and
his ghastly face wearing that pinched, indescribable expression which
the mortal puts on when the spirit that dwelt within has fled. The
three who had found him thus were inexpressibly shocked, and stood for
a moment speechless and motionless, in the presence of death. The
tyrant was the first to recover himself, and hoping that some sign of
life might yet remain he stooped and took the cold hand into his, and
essayed to find a pulse at the wrist—in vain! it was still and icy.
Unwilling yet to admit that the vital spark was extinct, he asked
Blazius for his gourd, which he always carried with him, and
endeavoured to pour a few drops of wine into his mouth—in vain! the
teeth were tightly locked together, and the wine trickled from between
his pale lips, and dropped slowly down upon his breast.
“Leave him in peace! do not disturb these poor remains!” said de
Sigognac in trembling tones; “don’t you see that he is dead?” “Alas!
you are right,” Blazius added, “he is dead; dead as Cheops in the great
pyramid. Poor fellow! he must have been confused by the blinding snow,
and unable to make his way against that terrible wind, turned aside and
sat down under this tree, to wait until its violence should be spent;
but he had not flesh enough on his bones to keep them warm, and must
have been quickly frozen through and through. He has starved himself
more than ever lately, in hopes of producing a sensation at Paris, and
he was thinner than any greyhound before. Poor Matamore! thou art out
of the way of all trouble now; no more blows, and kicks, and curses for
thee, my friend, whether on or off the stage, and thou wilt be laughed
at no more forever.”
“What shall we do about his body?” interrupted the more practical
tyrant. “We cannot leave it here for dogs, and wolves, and birds of
prey to devour—though indeed I almost doubt whether they would touch
it, there is so little flesh upon his bones.”
“No, certainly, we cannot leave him here,” Blazius replied; “he was a
good and loyal comrade; he deserves better of us than that; we will not
abandon him, poor Matamore! He is not heavy; you take his head and I
will take his feet, and we will carry him to the chariot. To-morrow
morning we will bury him as decently as we can in some quiet, retired
spot, where he will not be likely to be disturbed. Unfortunately we
cannot do better for him than that, for we, poor actors, are excluded
by our hard-hearted and very unjust step-mother, the church, from her
cemeteries; she denies us the security and comfort of being laid to
rest for our last long sleep in consecrated ground. After having
devoted our lives to the amusement of the human race—the highest as
well as the more lowly among them, and faithful sons and daughters of
holy church too—we must be thrown into the next ditch when the end
comes, like dead dogs and horses. Now, Hérode, are you ready? and will
you, my lord, lead the way with the lantern?”
The mournful little procession moved slowly forward; the howling dog
was quiet at last, as if his duty was done, and a deathlike stillness
prevailed around them. It was well that there were no passers-by at
that hour; it would have been a strange sight, almost a frightful one,
for any such, for they might well have supposed that a hideous crime
had been committed; the two men bearing the dead body away at night,
lighted by the third with his lantern, which threw their shadows, long,
black and misshapen, upon the startling whiteness of the snow, as they
advanced with measured tread. Those who had remained with the chariot
saw from afar the glimmer of de Sigognac’s lantern, and wondered why
they walked so slowly, not perceiving at that distance their sad
burden. Scapin and Leander hastened forward to meet them, and as soon
as they got near enough to see them distinctly the former shouted to
them—“Well, what is the matter? why are you carrying Matamore like
that? is he ill, or has he hurt himself?”
“He is not ill,” answered Blazius, quietly, as they met, “and nothing
can ever hurt him again—he is cured forever of the strange malady we
call life, which always ends in death.”
“Is he really dead?” Scapin asked, with a sob he did not even try to
suppress, as he bent to look at the face of the poor comic actor, for
he had a tender heart under his rough exterior, and had cherished a
very sincere affection for poor Matamore.
“Very dead indeed, for he is frozen as well,” Blazius replied, in a
voice that belied the levity of his words.
“He has lived! as they always say at the end of a tragedy,” said
Hérode; “but relieve us, please, it is your turn now; we have carried
the poor fellow a long way, and it is well for us that he is no
heavier.”
Scapin took Hérode’s place, reverently and tenderly, while Leander
relieved the pedant—though this office was little to his taste—and they
resumed their march, soon reaching the chariot. In spite of the cold
and snow, Isabelle and Serafina sprang to the ground to meet them, but
the duenna did not leave her seat—with age had come apathy, and
selfishness had never been wanting. When they saw poor Matamore stiff
and motionless, and were told that he was dead, the two young women
were greatly shocked and moved, and Isabelle, bursting into tears,
raised her pure eyes to heaven and breathed a fervent prayer for the
departed soul.
And now came the question, what was to be done? The village for which
they were bound was still a league away; but they could not stay where
they were all night, and they decided to go on, even if they had to
abandon the chariot and walk—anything would be better than freezing to
death like poor Matamore. But after all, things were not at such a
desperate pass as they supposed; the long rest, and a good feed of oats
that Scapin had been thoughtful enough to give their tired horse, had
so revived the poor old beast that he seemed to be ready and willing to
go forward again—so their most serious difficulty was removed.
Matamore’s body was laid in the chariot, and carefully covered with a
large piece of white linen they fortunately happened to have among
their heterogeneous belongings, the women resumed their seats, not
without a slight shudder as they thought of their ghastly companion,
and the men walked—Scapin going in front with the lantern, and Hérode
leading the horse. They could not make very rapid progress, but at the
end of two hours perceived—oh, welcome sight!—the first straggling
houses of the village where they were to spend the night. At the noise
of the approaching vehicle the dogs began to bark furiously, and more
than one nightcapped head appeared at the windows as they passed along
through the deserted street—so the pedant was able to ask the way to
the inn, which proved to be at the other end of the hamlet—and the
worn-out old horse had to make one more effort; but he seemed to feel
that the stable, where he should find shelter, rest and food, was
before him, and pushed on with astonishing alacrity.
They found it at last—the inn—with its bunch of holly for a sign. It
looked a forlorn place, for travellers did not usually stop over night
in this small, unimportant village; but the comedians were not in a
mood to be fastidious, and would have been thankful for even a more
unpromising house of entertainment than this one. It was all shut up
for the night, with not a sign of life to be seen, so the tyrant
applied himself diligently to pounding on the door with his big fists,
until the sound of footsteps within, descending the stairs, showed that
he had succeeded in rousing somebody. A ray of light shone through the
cracks in the rickety old door, then it was cautiously opened just a
little, and an aged, withered crone, striving to protect the flame of
her flaring candle from the wind with one skinny hand, and to hold the
rags of her most extraordinary undress together with the other, peered
out at them curiously. She was evidently just as she had turned out of
her bed, and a more revolting, witch-like old hag it would be hard to
find; but she bade the belated travellers enter, with a horrible
grimace that was intended for a smile, throwing the door wide open, and
telling them they were welcome to her house as she led the way into the
kitchen. She kindled the smouldering embers on the hearth into a blaze,
threw on some fresh wood, and then withdrew to mount to her chamber and
make herself a little more presentable—having first roused a stout
peasant lad, who served as hostler, and sent him to take the chariot
into the court, where he was heard directly unharnessing the weary
horse and leading him into the stable.
“We cannot leave poor Matamore’s body in the chariot all night, like a
dead deer brought home from the chase,” said Blazius; “the dogs out
there in the court might find it out. Besides, he had been baptized,
and his remains ought to be watched with and cared for, like any other
good Christian’s.”
So they brought in the sad burden tenderly, laid it on the long table,
and covered it again carefully with the white linen cloth. When the old
woman returned, and saw this strange and terrible sight, she was
frightened almost to death, and, throwing herself on her knees, began
begging volubly for mercy—evidently taking the troupe of comedians for
a band of assassins, and the dead man for their unfortunate victim. It
was with the greatest difficulty that Isabelle finally succeeded in
calming and reassuring the poor, distracted, old creature, who was
beside herself with terror, and made her listen to the story of poor
Matamore’s death. When, at last, she fully understood the true state of
the case, she went and fetched more candles, which she lighted and
disposed symmetrically about the dead body, and kindly offered to sit
up and watch it with Mme. Léonarde—also to do all that was necessary
and usual for it—adding that she was always sent for in the village
when there was a death, to perform those last, sad offices. All this
being satisfactorily arranged—whereat they were greatly relieved—the
weary travellers were conducted into another room, and food was placed
before them; but the sad scenes just enacted had taken away their
appetites, though it was many long hours since they had eaten. And be
it here recorded that Blazius, for the first time in his life, forgot
to drink his wine, though it was excellent, and left his glass half
full. He could not have given a more convincing proof of the depth and
sincerity of his grief.
Isabelle and Serafina spent the night in an adjoining chamber, sharing
the one small bed it contained, and the men lay down upon bundles of
straw that the stable-boy brought in for them. None of them slept
much—being haunted by disturbing dreams inspired by the sad and trying
events of the previous day—and all were up and stirring at an early
hour, for poor Matamore’s burial was to be attended to. For want of
something more appropriate the aged hostess and Mme. Léonarde had
enveloped the body in an old piece of thick canvass—still bearing
traces of the foliage and garlands of flowers originally painted in
bright colours upon it—in which they had sewed it securely, so that it
looked not unlike an Egyptian mummy. A board resting on two cross
pieces of wood served as a bier, and, the body being placed upon it,
was carried by Hérode, Blazius, Scapin and Leander. A large, black
velvet cloak, adorned with spangles, which was used upon the stage by
sovereign pontiffs or venerable necromancers, did duty as a pall—not
inappropriately surely. The little cortege left the inn by a small door
in the rear that opened upon a deserted common, so as to avoid passing
through the street and rousing the curiosity of the villagers, and set
off towards a retired spot, indicated by the friendly old woman, where
no one would be likely to witness or interfere with their proceedings.
The early morning was gray and cold, the sky leaden—no one had ventured
abroad yet save a few peasants searching for dead wood and sticks, who
looked with suspicious eyes upon the strange little procession making
its way slowly through the untrodden snow, but did not attempt to
approach or molest it. They reached at last the lonely spot where they
were to leave the mortal remains of poor Matamore, and the stable-boy,
who had accompanied them carrying a spade, set to work to dig the
grave. Several carcasses of animals lay scattered about close at hand,
partly hidden by the snow—among them two or three skeletons of horses,
picked clean by birds of prey; their long heads, at the end of the
slender vertebral columns, peering out horribly at them, and their
ribs, like the sticks of an open fan stripped of its covering,
appearing above the smooth white surface, bearing each one its little
load of snow. The comedians observed these ghastly surroundings with a
shudder, as they laid their burden gently down upon the ground, and
gathered round the grave which the boy was industriously digging. He
made but slow progress, however, and the tyrant, taking the spade from
him, went to work with a will, and had soon finished the sad task. Just
at the last a volley of stones suddenly startled the little group, who,
intent upon the mournful business in hand, had not noticed the stealthy
approach of a considerable number of peasants.
These last had been hastily summoned by their friends who had first
perceived the mysterious little funeral procession, without priest,
crucifix, or lighted tapers, and taken it for granted that there must
be something uncanny about it.
They were about to follow up the shower of stones by a charge upon the
group assembled round the open grave, when de Sigognac, outraged at
this brutal assault, whipped out his sword, and rushed upon them
impetuously, striking some with the flat of the blade, and threatening
others with the point; while the tyrant, who had leaped out of the
grave at the first alarm, seized one of the cross pieces of the
improvised bier, and followed the baron into the thick of the crowd,
raining blows right and left among their cowardly assailants; who,
though they far outnumbered the little band of comedians, fled before
the vigorous attack of de Sigognac and Hérode, cursing and swearing,
and shouting out violent threats as they withdrew. Poor Matamore’s
humble obsequies were completed without further hindrance. When the
first spadeful of earth fell upon his body the pedant, with great tears
slowly rolling down his cheeks, bent reverently over the grave and
sighed out, “Alas! poor Matamore!” little thinking that he was, using
the very words of Hamlet, prince of Denmark, when he apostrophized the
skull of Yorick, an ancient king’s jester, in the famous tragedy of one
Shakespeare—a poet of great renown in England, and protégé of Queen
Elizabeth.
The grave was filled up in silence, and the tyrant—after having
trampled down the snow for some distance around it, so that its exact
whereabouts might not be easy to find in case the angry peasants should
come back to disturb it—said as they turned away, “Now let us get out
of this place as fast as we can; we have nothing more to do here, and
the sooner we quit it the better. Those brutes that attacked us may
return with reinforcements—indeed I think it more than likely that they
will—in which case your sword, my dear baron, and my stick might not be
enough to scatter them again. We don’t want to kill any of them, and
have the cries of widows and orphans resounding in our ears; and
besides, it might be awkward for us if we were obliged to do it in
self-defence, and then were hauled up before the local justice of peace
to answer for it.”
There was so much good sense in this advice that it was unanimously
agreed to follow it, and in less than an hour, after having settled
their account at the inn, they, were once more upon the road.