THE DUKE OF VALLOMBREUSE
The next morning Bellombre drew Blazius aside, and untying the strings
of a long leathern purse emptied out of it into the palm of his hand a
hundred _pistoles_, which he piled up neatly on the table by which they
were standing; to the great admiration of the pedant, who thought to
himself that his friend was a lucky fellow to be in possession of so
large a sum—absolute wealth in his eyes. But what was his surprise when
Bellombre swept them all up and put them into his own hands.
“You must have understood,” he said, “that I did not bring out this
money in order to torment you in like manner with Tantalus, and I want
you to take it, without any scruples, as freely as it is given—or
loaned, if you are too proud to accept a gift from an old friend. These
pieces were made to circulate—they are round, you see—and by this time
they must be tired of lying tied up in my old purse there. I have no
use for them; there’s nothing to spend them on here; the farm produces
everything that is needed in my household, so I shall not miss them,
and it is much better in every way that they should be in your hands.”
Not finding any adequate reply to make to this astonishing speech,
Blazius put the money into his pocket, and, after first administering
to his friend a cordial accolade, grasped and wrung his hand with
grateful fervour, while an inconvenient tear, that he had tried in vain
to wink away, ran down his jolly red nose. As Bellombre had said the
night before, affairs were brightening with the troupe; good fortune
had come at last, and the hard times they had met and struggled against
so bravely and uncomplainingly were among the things of the past. The
receipts of the previous evening—for there had been some money taken
in, as well as plentiful stores of edibles—added to Bellombre’s
_pistoles_, made a good round sum, and the chariot of Thespis, so
deplorably bare of late, was now amply provisioned. Not to do things by
halves, their generous host lent to the comedians two stout farm
horses, with a man to drive them into Poitiers, and bring them back
home again. They had on their gala-day harness, and from their
gaudily-painted, high-peaked collars hung strings of tiny bells, that
jingled cheerily at every firm, regular step of the great, gentle
creatures. So our travellers set out in high feather, and their entry
into Poitiers, though not so magnificent as Alexander’s into Babylon,
was still in very fine style indeed. As they threaded their way through
the narrow, tortuous streets of that ancient town, the noise of their
horses’ iron shoes ringing out against the rough stone pavement, and
the clatter of their wheels drew many inmates of the houses they passed
to the windows, and a little crowd collected around them as they stood
waiting for admission before the great entrance door of the _Armes de
France;_ the driver, meanwhile, cracking his whip till it sounded like
a volley of musketry, to which the horses responded by shaking their
heads, and making all the little bells about them jingle sharply and
merrily. There was a wonderful difference between this and their
arrival at the last inn they had stopped at—the night of the
snow-storm—and the landlord, hearing such welcome sounds without, ran
himself to admit his guests, and opened the two leaves of the great
door, so that the chariot could pass into the interior court. This
hotel was the finest in Poitiers, where all the rich and noble
travellers were in the habit of alighting, and there was an air of
gaiety and prosperity about it very pleasing to our comedians, in
contrast with all the comfortless, miserable lodgings they had been
obliged to put up with for a long time past. The landlord, whose
double, or rather triple chin testified to bountiful fare, and the
ruddy tints of his face to the excellence of his wines, seemed to be
the incarnation of good humour.
He was so plump, so fresh, so rosy and so smiling, that it was a
pleasure only to look at him. When he saw the tyrant, he fairly bubbled
over with delight. A troupe of comedians always attracted people to his
house, and brought him in a great deal of money; for the young men of
leisure of the town sought their company, and were constantly drinking
wine with the actors, and giving dainty little suppers, and treats of
various kinds, to the actresses.
“You are heartily welcome, Seignior Hérode! What happy chance brings
you this way?” said the landlord, smilingly. “It is a long time since
we have had the pleasure of seeing you at the _Armes de France_.”
“So it is, Maître Bilot,” the tyrant answered; “but we cannot be giving
our poor little performances always in the same place, you see; the
spectators would become so familiar with all our tricks that they could
do them themselves, so we are forced to absent ourselves for a while.
And how are things going on here, now? Have you many of the nobility
and gentry in town at present?”
“A great many, Seignior Hérode, for the hunting is over, so they have
come in from the châteaux. But they don’t know what to do with
themselves, for it is so dull and quiet here. People can’t be eating
and drinking all the time, and they are dying for want of a little
amusement. You will have full houses.”
“Well,” rejoined the tyrant, “then please give us seven or eight good
rooms, have three or four fat capons put down to roast, bring up, from
that famous cellar of yours, a dozen of the capital wine I used to
drink here—you know which I mean—and spread abroad the news of the
arrival of Hérode’s celebrated troupe at the _Armes de France_, with a
new and extensive _repertoire_, to give a few representations in
Poitiers.”
While this conversation was going on the rest of the comedians had
alighted, and were already being conducted to their respective rooms by
several servants. The one given to Isabelle was a little apart from the
others—those in their immediate vicinity being occupied—which was not
displeasing to the modest young girl, who was often greatly annoyed and
embarrassed by the promiscuous, free-and-easy way of getting on,
inseparable from such a Bohemian life. She always accepted the
inevitable with a good grace, and never complained of the vexation she
felt at being obliged to share her bed-chamber with Serafina or the
duenna, or perhaps both; but it was a luxury she had scarcely dared to
hope for to have her room entirely to herself, and moreover
sufficiently distant from her companions to insure her a good deal of
privacy.
In a marvellously short space of time the whole town had become
acquainted with the news of the arrival of the comedians, and the young
men of wealth and fashion began flocking to the hotel, to drink a
bottle of Maître Bilot’s wine, and question him about the beauty and
charms of the actresses; curling up the points of their mustaches as
they did so with such an absurdly conceited, insolent air of imaginary
triumph, that the worthy landlord could not help laughing in his sleeve
at them as he gave his discreet, mysterious answers, accompanied by
significant gestures calculated to turn the silly heads of these
dandified young calves, and make them wild with curiosity and
impatience.
Isabelle, when left alone, had first unpacked a portion of her
clothing, and arranged it neatly on the shelves of the wardrobe in her
room, and then proceeded to indulge in the luxury of a bath and
complete change of linen. She took down her long, fine, silky hair,
combed it carefully, and arranged it tastefully, with a pale blue
ribbon entwined artistically in it; which delicate tint was very
becoming to her, with her fair, diaphanous complexion, and lovely
flush, like a rose-leaf, on her cheek. When she had put on the silvery
gray dress, with its pretty blue trimmings, which completed her simple
toilet, she smiled at her own charming reflection in the glass, and
thought of a pair of dark, speaking eyes that she knew would find her
fair, and pleasant to look upon. As she turned away from the mirror a
sunbeam streamed in through her window, and she could not resist the
temptation to open the casement and put her pretty head out, to see
what view there might be from it. She looked down into a narrow,
deserted alley, with the wall of the hotel on one side and that of the
garden opposite on the other, so high that it reached above the tops of
the trees within. From her window she could look down into this garden,
and see, quite at the other end of it, the large mansion it belonged
to, whose lofty, blackened walls testified to its antiquity. Two
gentlemen were walking slowly, arm in arm, along one of the broad paths
leading towards the house, engrossed in conversation; both were young
and handsome, but they were scarcely of equal rank, judging by the
marked deference paid by one, the elder, to the other.
We will call this friendly pair Orestes and Pylades for the present,
until we ascertain their real names. The former was about one or two
and twenty, and remarkably handsome and _distingué_—strikingly so—with
a very white skin, intensely black hair and eyes, a tall, slender,
lithe figure, shown to advantage by the rich costume of tan-coloured
velvet he wore; and well-formed feet, with high, arched insteps, small
and delicate enough for a woman’s—that more than one woman had envied
him—encased in dainty, perfectly fitting boots, made of white Russia
leather. From the careless ease of his manners, and the haughty grace
of his carriage, one would readily divine that he was a great noble;
one of the favoured few of the earth, who are sure of being well
received everywhere, and courted and flattered by everybody. Pylades,
though a good-looking fellow enough, with auburn hair and mustache, was
not nearly so handsome or striking, either in face or figure, as his
companion. They were talking of women; Orestes declaring himself a
woman-hater from that time forward, because of what he was pleased to
call the persecutions of his latest mistress, of whom he was thoroughly
tired—no new thing with him—but who would not submit to be thrown
aside, like a cast-off glove, without making a struggle to regain the
favour of her ci-devant admirer. He was anathematizing the vanity,
treachery, and deceitfulness of all women, without exception, from the
duchess down to the dairy-maid, and declaring that he should renounce
their society altogether for the future, when they reached the end of
the walk, at the house, and turned about to pace its length again.
As they did so he chanced to glance upward, and perceived Isabelle at
her window. He nudged his companion, to direct his attention to her, as
he said, “Just look up at that window! Do you see the delicious,
adorable creature there? She seems a goddess, rather than a mere mortal
woman—Aurora, looking forth from her chamber in the East—with her
golden brown hair, her heavenly countenance, and her sweet, soft eyes.
Only observe the exquisite grace of her attitude—leaning slightly
forward on one elbow, so as to bring into fine relief the shapely
curves of her beautiful form. I would be willing to swear that hers is
a lovely character—different from the rest of her sex. She is one by
herself—a peerless creature—a very pearl of womanhood—a being fit for
Paradise. Her face tells me that she is modest, pure, amiable, and
refined. Her manners must be charming, her conversation fresh,
sparkling, and elevating.”
“The deuce!” exclaimed Pylades, laughingly, “what good eyes you must
have to make out all that at such a distance! Now I see merely a woman
at a window, who is rather pretty, to tell the honest truth, but not
likely to possess half the perfections you so lavishly bestow upon her.
Take care, or you will be in love with her directly.”
“Oh! I’m that now, over head and ears. I must find out forthwith who
she is, and what; but one thing is certain, mine she must be, though it
cost me the half, nay, the whole of my fortune to win her, and there be
a hundred rivals to overcome and slay ere I can carry her off from them
in triumph.”
“Come, come, don’t get so excited,” said Pylades, “you will throw
yourself into a fever; but what has become of the contempt and hatred
for the fair sex you were declaring so vehemently just now? The first
pretty face has routed it all.”
“But when I talked like that I did not know that this lovely angel
existed upon earth, and what I said was an odious, outrageous
blasphemy—a monstrous, abominable heresy—for which I pray that Venus,
fair goddess of love and beauty, will graciously forgive me.”
“Oh, yes! she’ll forgive you fast enough, never fear, for she is always
very indulgent to such hot-headed lovers as you are.”
“I am going to open the campaign,” said Orestes, “and declare war
courteously on my beautiful enemy.”
With these words he stopped short, fixed his bold eyes on Isabelle’s
face, took off his hat, in a gallant and respectful way, so that its
long plume swept the ground, and wafted a kiss on the tips of his
fingers towards the new object of his ardent admiration. The young
actress, who saw this demonstration with much annoyance, assumed a
cold, composed manner, as if to show this insolent fellow that he had
made a mistake, drew back from the window, closed it, and let fall the
curtain; all done calmly and deliberately, and with the frigid dignity
with which she was wont to rebuke such overtures.
“There,” exclaimed Pylades, “your Aurora is hidden behind a cloud; not
very promising, that, for the rest of the day.”
“I don’t agree with you; I regard it, on the contrary, as a favourable
augury that my little beauty has retired. Don’t you know that when the
soldier hides himself behind the battlements of the tower, it signifies
that the besieger’s arrow has hit him? I tell you she has mine now,
sticking in under her left wing; that kiss will force her to think of
me all night, if only to be vexed with me, and tax me with effrontery—a
fault which is never displeasing to ladies, I find, though they do
sometimes make a great outcry about it, for the sake of appearances.
There is something between me and the fair unknown now; a very slight,
almost imperceptible thread it may seem at present, but I will so
manage as to make from it a rope, by which I shall climb up into her
window.”
“I must admit,” rejoined Pylades respectfully, “that you certainly are
wonderfully well versed in all the stratagems and ruses of
love-making.”
“I rather pique myself upon my accomplishments in that line, I will
confess,” Orestes said, laughingly; “but come, let’s go in now; the
little beauty was startled, and will not show herself at the window
again just yet. This evening I shall begin operations in earnest.” And
the two friends turned about and strolled slowly back towards the
house, which they presently entered, and disappeared from sight.
There was a large tennis-court not far from the hotel, which was
wonderfully well suited to make a theatre of; so our comedians hired
it, took immediate possession, set carpenters and painters to work,
furbished up their own rather dilapidated scenery and decorations, and
soon had a charming little theatre, in which all the numbered seats and
boxes were eagerly snapped up, directly they were offered to “the
nobility and gentry of Poitiers,” who secured them for all the
representations to be given by the troupe, so that success was insured.
The dressing-room of the tennis players had to serve as green-room, and
dressing-room as well for the comedians, large folding screens being
disposed round the toilet tables of the actresses, so as to shut them
off as much as possible from the gentlemen visitors always lounging
there. Not a very agreeable arrangement for the former, but the best
that could be done, and highly approved by the latter, of course.
“What a pity it is,” said the tyrant to Blazius, as they were arranging
what pieces they could play, seated at a window looking into the
interior court of the _Armes de France_, “what a great pity it is that
Zerbine is not with us here. She is almost worth her weight in gold,
that little minx; a real treasure, so full of fun and deviltry that
nobody can resist her acting; she would make any piece go off well—a
pearl of _soubrette_s is Zerbine.”
“Yes, she is a rare one,” Blazius replied, with a deep sigh, “and I
regret more and more every day our having lost her. The devil fly away
with that naughty marquis who must needs go and rob us of our paragon
of waiting-maids.”
Just at this point they were interrupted by the noise of an arrival,
and leaning out of the window saw three fine mules, richly caparisoned
in the gay Spanish fashion, entering the court, with a great jingling
of bells and clattering of hoofs. On the first one was mounted a lackey
in gray livery, and well armed, who led by a long strap a second mule
heavily laden with baggage, and on the third was a young woman, wrapped
in a large cloak trimmed with fur, and with her hat, a gray felt with a
scarlet feather, drawn down over her eyes, so as to conceal her face
from the two interested spectators at the window above.
“I say, Hérode,” exclaimed the pedant, “doesn’t all this remind you of
something? It seems to me this is not the first time we have heard the
jingling of those bells, eh?”
“By Saint Alipantin!” cried the tyrant, joyfully, “these are the very
mules that carried Zerbine off so mysteriously. Speak of a wolf—”
“And you will hear the rustling of his wings,” interrupted Blazius,
with a peal of laughter. “Oh! thrice happy day!—day to be marked with
white!—for this is really Mlle. Zerbine in person. Look, she jumps down
from her mule with that bewitching little air peculiar to herself, and
throws her cloak to that obsequious lackey with a nonchalance worthy of
a princess; there, she has taken off her hat, and shakes out her raven
tresses as a bird does its feathers; it delights my old eyes to see her
again. Come, let’s go down and welcome her.”
So Blazius and his companions hastened down to the court, and met
Zerbine just as she turned to enter the house.
The impetuous girl rushed at the pedant, threw her arms around his
neck, and kissed him heartily, crying, “I must kiss your dear, jolly,
ugly old face, just the same as though it were young and handsome, for
I am so glad, so very glad to see it again. Now don’t you be jealous,
Hérode, and scowl as if you were just going to order the slaughter of
the innocents; wait a minute! I’m going to kiss you, too; I only began
with my dear old Blazius here because he’s the ugliest.”
And Zerbine loyally fulfilled her promise. Then giving a hand to each
of her companions, went up-stairs between them to the room Maître Bilot
had ordered to be made ready for her. The moment she entered it she
threw herself down into an arm-chair standing near the door, and began
to draw long deep breaths, like a person who has just gotten rid of a
heavy load.
“You cannot imagine,” she said after a little, “how glad I am to get
back to you again, though you needn’t go and imagine that I am in love
with your old phizes because of that; I’m not in love with anybody,
Heaven be praised! I’m so joyful because I’ve gotten back into my own
element once more. Everything is badly off out of its own element, you
know. The water will not do for birds, nor the air for fishes. I am an
actress by nature, and the atmosphere of the theatre is my native air;
in it alone do I breathe freely; even its unpleasant odours are sweet
to my nostrils. Real, everyday life seems very dull and flat. I must
have imaginary love affairs to manage for other people, and take part
in the whirl of romantic adventures to be found only on the stage, to
keep me alive and happy. So I’ve come back to claim my old place again.
I hope you haven’t found any one else to fill it; though of course I
know that you couldn’t get anybody to really replace me. If you had I
should scratch her eyes out, that I promise you, for I am a real little
devil when my rights are encroached upon, though you might not think
it.”
“There’s no need for you to show your prowess in that way,” said the
tyrant, “for we have not had any one to take your role, and we’re
delighted, overjoyed, to have you back again. If you had had some of
the magic compound Apuleius tells us of, and had thereby changed
yourself into a bird, to come and listen to what Blazius and I were
saying a little while ago, you would have heard nothing but good of
yourself—a rare thing that for listeners—and you would have heard some
very enthusiastic praise besides.”
“That’s charming!” the _soubrette_ exclaimed. “I see that you two are
just the same good old souls as ever, and that you have missed your
little Zerbine.”
Several servants now came in, carrying trunks, boxes, portmanteaus,
packages, no end of baggage, which Zerbine counted over and found
correct; and when they had gone she opened two or three of the larger
chests with the keys she had on a small silver ring. They were filled
with all sorts of handsome things—silks and velvets, laces and
jewels—and among the rest a long purse, crammed as full as it could
hold of gold pieces, which Zerbine poured out in a heap on the table;
seeming to take a childish delight in looking at and playing with her
golden treasure, while laughing and chattering merrily all the time.
“Serafina would burst with rage and envy if she should see all this
money,” said she gaily, “so we will keep it out of her sight. I only
show it to you to prove that I didn’t need to return to my profession,
but was actuated by a pure love of my art. As to you, my good old
friends, if your finances happen to be not just as you could wish, put
your paws into this and help yourselves; take just as much as ever they
will hold.”
The two actors thanked her heartily for her generous offer, but assured
her that they were very well off, and in need of no assistance.
“Ah well!” said Zerbine, “it will be for another time then. I shall put
it away in my strong box, and keep it for you, like a faithful
treasurer.”
“But surely you haven’t abandoned the poor marquis,” said Blazius,
rather reproachfully. “Of course I know there was no question of his
giving you up; you are not one of that sort. The role of Ariadne would
not suit you at all; you are a Circe. Yet he is a splendid young
nobleman-handsome, wealthy, amiable, and not wanting in wit.”
“Oh! I haven’t given him up; very far from it,” Zerbine replied, with a
saucy smile. “I shall guard him carefully, as the most precious gem in
my casket. Though I have quitted him for the moment, he will shortly
follow me.”
“Fugax sequax, sequax fugax,” the pedant rejoined; “these four Latin
words, which have a cabalistic sound, not unlike the croaking of
certain batrachians, and might have been borrowed, one would say, from
the ‘Comedy of the Frogs,’ by one Aristophanes, an Athenian poet,
contain the very pith and marrow of all theories of love and
lovemaking; they would make a capital rule to regulate everybody’s
conduct—of the virile as well as of the fair sex.”
“And what under the sun do your fine Latin words mean, you pompous old
pedant?” asked Zerbine. “You have neglected to translate them, entirely
forgetting that not everybody has been professor in a college, and
knight of the ferule, like yourself.”
“Their meaning,” he replied, “may be expressed in this little couplet:
‘If you fly from men, they’ll be sure to pursue,
But if you follow them, they will fly from you.”
“Ha! ha!” laughed Zerbine, “that’s a verse that ought to be set to
music.” And she began singing it to a merry tune at the top of her
voice; a voice so clear and ringing that it was a pleasure to hear it.
She accompanied her song with such an amusing and effective pantomime,
representing flight and pursuit, that it was a pity she had not had a
larger audience to enjoy it. After this outburst of merriment she
quieted down a little, and gave her companions a brief, history of her
adventures since she had parted from them, declaring that the marquis
had invariably treated her with the courtesy and generosity of a
prince. But in spite of it all she had longed for her old wandering
life with the troupe, the excitement of acting, and the rounds of
applause she never failed to win; and at last she confessed to the
marquis that she was pining for her role of _soubrette_.
“‘Very well,’ he said to me, ‘you can take your mules and your
belongings and go in pursuit of the troupe, and I will shortly follow
in pursuit of you. I have some matters to look after in Paris, that
have been neglected of late, and I have been too long absent from the
court. You will permit me to applaud you I suppose, and truth to tell I
shall be very glad to enjoy your bewitching acting again.’ So I told
him I would look for him among the audience every evening till he made
his appearance, and, after the most tender leave-taking, I jumped on my
mule and caught you up here at the _Armes de France_, as you know.”
“But,” said Hérode, “suppose your marquis should not turn up at all!
you would be regularly sold.”
This idea struck Zerbine as being so utterly absurd that she threw
herself back and laughed until she had to hold her sides, and was
fairly breathless. “The marquis not come!” she cried, when she could
speak, “you had better engage rooms for him right away—not come! Why my
fear was that he would overtake me on the road; you will see him very
soon, I can guarantee. Ah! you abominable old bear! you doubt the power
of my charms, do you? You’re decidedly growing stupid, Hérode, as you
grow old; you used to be rather clever than otherwise.”
At this moment appeared Leander and Scapin, who had heard of Zerbine’s
arrival from the servants, and came to pay their respects, soon
followed by old Mme. Léonarde, who greeted the _soubrette_ with as much
obsequiousness as if she had-been a princess. Isabelle came also to
welcome her, to the great delight of Zerbine, who was devotedly fond of
her, and always trying to do something to please her. She now insisted
upon presenting her with a piece of rich silk, which Isabelle accepted
very reluctantly, and only when she found that the warm-hearted
_soubrette_ would be really wounded if she refused her first gift.
Serafina had shut herself up in her own room, and was the only one that
failed to come and bid Zerbine welcome. She could neither forget nor
forgive the inexplicable preference of the Marquis de Bruyères for her
humble rival, and she called the _soubrette_ all sorts of hard names in
her wrath and indignation; but nobody paid any attention to her bad
humour, and she was left to sulk in solitude.
When Zerbine asked why Matamore had not come to speak to her with the
rest, they told her the sad story of his death, and also that the Baron
de Sigognac now filled his role, under the name of Captain Fracasse.
“It will be a great honour for me to act with a gentleman whose
ancestors figured honourably in the crusades,” said she, “and I only
hope that my profound respect for him will not overwhelm me, and spoil
my acting; fortunately I have become pretty well accustomed to the
society of people of rank lately.”
A moment later de Sigognac knocked at the door, and came in to greet
Zerbine, and courteously express his pleasure at her return. She rose
as he approached, and making a very low curtsey, said, “This is for the
Baron de Sigognac; and this is for my comrade, Captain Fracasse;”
kissing him on both cheeks—which unexpected and unprecedented
proceeding put poor de Sigognac completely out of countenance; partly
because he was not used to such little theatrical liberties, but more,
because he was ashamed to have such a thing happen in the presence of
his pure and peerless Isabelle.
And now we will return to Orestes and Pylades, who, after their
eventful promenade in the garden, were cosily dining together. The
former, that is to say the young Duke of Vallombreuse, had scarcely
eaten any dinner, and had even neglected his glass of wine, so
preoccupied was he with thoughts of his lovely unknown. The Chevalier
de Vidalinc, his friend and confidant, tried in vain to draw him into
conversation; he replied only by monosyllables, or not at all, to the
other’s brilliant sallies. When the dessert had been put upon the
table, and the servants had retired and left them alone, the chevalier
said to the duke: “I am entirely at your service in this new affair, of
course, ready to help you bag your bird in any way you please; shall I
go and send out the beaters to drive it towards your nets?”
“No, indeed, you will do nothing of the kind; I shall go myself, for
there is nothing I enjoy so much as the pursuit of game, of whatever
sort it may be. I would follow a deer, or a pheasant, to the ends of
the earth but what I would have it; how much more a divine creature
like this. It is only after I have captured the flying prize that I
lose all interest in it; so do not, I pray you, propose to deprive me
of the delights of the chase; the more difficult it is the better I
like it, the more fascinating I find it. The most annoying thing is
that women are always so willing to be caught; if I could only find an
obdurate, cruel fair one, who would fly from me in earnest, how I
should adore her! but, alas! such an anomaly does not exist on this
terraqueous globe.”
“If I were not so well acquainted with your innumerable triumphs, I
should be obliged to tax you with conceit,” said Vidalinc, “but as it
is I must admit that you are justified in what you say. But perhaps
your wish may be gratified this time, for the young beauty certainly
did seem to be very modest and retiring, as well as positively cold and
forbidding in her manner of receiving your little act of gallantry.”
“We will see about that, and without any delay. Maître Bilot is always
ready and glad to tell all he knows whenever he can secure a good
listener, and he is sharp enough to find out very quickly pretty much
all that’s worth knowing about his guests in the hotel. Come, we’ll go
and drink a bottle of his best Madeira; I will draw him out, and get
all the information he can give us about this fair inmate of his
house.”
A few minutes later the two young gentlemen entered the _Armes de
France_, and asked for Maître Bilot. The worthy landlord came forward
at once, and himself conducted them into a cosy, well-lighted room on
the ground floor, where a bright fire was burning cheerily; he took the
old, dusty bottle, with cobwebs clinging about it, from the waiter’s
hands, drew the cork very carefully, and then poured the amber wine, as
clear as a topaz, into the delicate Venetian glasses held out for it by
the duke and his companion, with a hand as steady as if it had been of
bronze. In taking upon himself this office Maître Bilot affected an
almost religious solemnity, as though he were a priest of Bacchus,
officiating at his altar, and about to celebrate the mysterious rites
of the ancient worshippers of that merry god; nothing was wanting but
the crown of vine leaves. He seemed to think that this ceremoniousness
was a sort of testimony to the superior quality of the wine from his
well-stocked cellar, which needed no recommendation, for it was really
very good, worthy of even a royal table, and of wide-spread fame.
Maître Bilot, having finished his little performance, was about to
withdraw, when a significant glance from the duke made him pause
respectfully on the threshold.
“Maître Bilot,” said he, “fetch a glass for yourself from the buffet
there, and come and drink a bumper of this capital wine to my health.”
This command, for such it was in reality, was instantly obeyed, and
after emptying his glass at a single draught, the well-pleased landlord
stood, with one hand resting on the table and his eyes fixed on the
duke, waiting to see, what was wanted of him.
“Have you many strangers in your house now?” asked Vallombreuse, “and
who and what are they?” Bilot was about to reply, but the young duke
interrupted him, and continued, “But what’s the use of beating about
the bush with such a wily old miscreant as you are, Maître Bilot? Who
is the lady that has the room with a window, the third one from the
corner, looking into my garden? Answer to the point, and you shall have
a gold piece for every syllable.”
“Under those conditions,” said Bilot, with a broad grin, “one must be
very virtuous indeed to make use of the laconic style so highly
esteemed by the ancients. However, as I am devoted to your lordship, I
will answer in a single word—Isabelle.”
“Isabelle! a charming and romantic name. But do not confine yourself to
such Lacedaemonian brevity, Maître Bilot; be prolix! and relate to me,
minutely, everything that you know about the lovely Isabelle.”
“I am proud and happy to obey your lordship’s commands,” the worthy
landlord answered, with a low bow; “my cellar, my kitchen, my tongue
and myself are all at your lordship’s disposition. Isabelle is an
actress, belonging to the celebrated troupe of Seignior Hérode,
stopping at present at the _Armes de France_.”
“An actress!” exclaimed the young duke, with an air of disappointment.
“I should have taken her for a lady of rank, from her quiet, dignified
mien, or at least a well-bred _bourgeoise_, rather than a member of a
band of strolling players.”
“Yes, your lordship is right; any one might think so, for her manners
and appearance are very lady-like, and she has an untarnished
reputation, despite the difficulties of her position. No one
understands better how to keep all the gallants that hover about her at
a respectful distance; she treats these would-be suitors for her favour
with a cold, reserved, yet perfect politeness that there is no getting
over.”
“What you say pleases me,” interrupted Vallombreuse, “for there is
nothing I so thoroughly despise as a fortress that is ready to
capitulate before the first assault has been made.”
“It would need more than one to conquer this fair citadel, my lord,
though you are a bold and successful captain, not used to encountering
any serious resistance, and sweeping everything before you; and,
moreover, it is guarded by the vigilant sentinel of a pure and devoted
love.”
“Oh ho! she has a lover then, this modest Isabelle!” cried the young
duke, in a tone at once triumphant and annoyed, for though on the one
side he had no faith in the steadfast virtue of any woman, on the other
he was vexed to learn that he had a successful rival.
“I said love, not lover,” continued the landlord with respectful
persistency, “which is by no means the same thing. Your lordship is too
well versed in such matters not to appreciate the difference. A woman
that has one lover may have two, as the old song says; but a woman who
loves, with a pure love, and has that love returned in every sense, it
is impossible, or at least very difficult, to win away from it. She
possesses already everything that you, my lord, or any one, could offer
for her acceptance.”
“You talk as if you had been studying the subject of love
diligently—and Petrarch’s sonnets as well; but notwithstanding all
that, Maître Bilot, I don’t believe you thoroughly understand anything
outside of your own wines and sauces, which, I am bound to admit, are
always excellent. And pray, who is the favoured object of this Platonic
attachment?”
“One of the members of the troupe,” Bilot replied, “and it is not to be
wondered at, for he’s a handsome young fellow, and very different from
the rest of them; far superior, more like a gentleman than an actor;
and I shrewdly suspect he is one,” added the landlord, with a knowing
look.
“Well, now you must be happy!” said the Chevalier de Vidalinc to his
friend. “Here are unexpected obstacles in plenty, and a perfect
none-such of a prize. A virtuous actress is a rare phenomenon, not to
be found every day in the week. You are in luck!”
“Are you sure,” continued the young duke, still addressing the
landlord, and without paying any attention to the last remark, “that
this chaste Isabelle does not accord any privileges secretly to that
conceited young jackanapes? I despise the fellow thoroughly, and detest
him as well.”
“Your lordship does not know her,” answered Maître Bilot, “or I should
not need to declare, as I do, that she is as spotless as the ermine.
She would rather die than suffer a stain upon her purity. It is
impossible to see much of her without perceiving that; it shines out in
everything that she says and does.”
Hereupon a long discussion followed as to the best manner of conducting
the attack upon this fair citadel, which the young nobleman became more
and more determined to conquer, as new difficulties were suggested. The
worthy landlord, who was a shrewd fellow and had made a just estimate
of Isabelle’s character, finished by advising his noble interlocutor to
turn his attention to Serafina, “who was very charming, and not less
beautiful than Isabelle, and who would be greatly pleased and flattered
by his lordship’s notice.” This, because he felt sure that the duke
would not succeed with Isabelle, in spite of his exalted rank, handsome
person, and immense wealth, and he wished to spare him an inevitable
disappointment.
“It is Isabelle that I admire, and will have,” said Vallombreuse, in a
dry tone that put an end to the discussion. “Isabelle, and no other,
Maître Bilot.”
Then plunging his hand into his pocket, he drew forth a goodly number
of gold pieces, and throwing them down carelessly on the table, said,
“Pay yourself for the bottle of wine out of this, and keep the
balance.”
The landlord gathered up the _louis_ with a deprecating air, and
dropped them one by one into his purse. The two gentlemen rose, without
another word, put on their broad, plumed hats, threw their cloaks on
their shoulders, and quitted the hotel. Vallombreuse took several turns
up and down the narrow alley between the _Armes de France_ and his own
garden wall, looking up searchingly at Isabelle’s window every time he
passed under it; but it was all for naught. Isabelle, now on her guard,
did not approach the window again; the curtain was drawn closely over
it, and not a sign visible from without that the room was occupied.
Tired at last of this dull work, the duke slowly withdrew to his own
mansion, feeling highly indignant that this inappreciative little
actress should presume to slight the attentions of a great and powerful
noble like himself; but he found some comfort in the thought that when
she came to see and know him she could not long hold out against his
numerous attractions. As to his rival—if the fellow ventured to
interfere with him too much, he would quietly suppress him, by means of
certain stout ruffians—professional cut-throats—he had in his employ,
to do all that sort of work for him; his own dignity not allowing him
to come into personal contact with such cattle as actors. Though
Vallombreuse had not seen anything of Isabelle at her window, he
himself had been closely watched, by jealous eyes, from a neighbouring
casement that commanded the same view. They belonged to de Sigognac,
who was greatly annoyed and incensed by the manœuvres of this
mysterious personage under Isabelle’s window. A dozen times he was on
the point of rushing down, sword in hand, to attack and drive away the
impertinent unknown; but he controlled himself by a strong effort; for
there was after all nothing in the mere fact of a man’s promenading
back and forth in a deserted alley to justify him in such an onslaught,
and he would only bring down ridicule on himself; besides, the name of
Isabelle might be dragged in—sweet Isabelle, who was all unconscious of
the ardent glances directed at her window from below, as well as of the
burning indignation, because of them, of her own true lover close at
hand. But he promised himself to keep a watchful eye for the future
upon this young gallant, and studied his features carefully, every time
his face was raised towards Isabelle’s window, so that he should be
sure to recognise him when he saw him again.
Hérode had selected for their first representation in Poitiers a new
play, which all the comedians were very much occupied in learning and
rehearsing, to be followed by the Rodomontades of Captain Fracasse, in
which de Sigognac was to make his real debut before a real public
having only acted as yet to an audience of calves, horned cattle, and
peasants in Bellombre’s barn. He was studying diligently under the
direction of Blazius, who was more devoted to him than ever, and who
had proposed something which was a most welcome suggestion to the
sensitive young baron. This was for him to wear what is called a
half-mask, which covers only the forehead and nose, but if arranged
with skill alters entirely the wearer’s appearance—so that his nearest
friend would not recognise him—without interfering materially with his
comfort. This idea de Sigognac hailed with delight, for it insured his
preserving his incognito; the light pasteboard screen seemed to him
like the closed visor of a helmet, behind which he need not shrink from
facing the enemy—that is to stay the gazing crowd on the other side of
the foot-lights. With it he would take merely the part of the unknown,
concealed intelligence that directs the movements of the marionette,
and the voice that makes it speak; only he should be within it, instead
of behind the scenes pulling the strings—his dignity would have nothing
to suffer in playing the game in that manner, and for this relief from
a dreaded ordeal he was unspeakably thankful. Blazius, who never could
take too much pains in the service of his dear baron, himself modelled
and fashioned the little mask, very deftly, so as to make his stage
physiognomy as unlike his real, every-day countenance as possible. A
prominent nose, very red at the point, bushy, high-arched eyebrows, and
an immensely heavy mustache drooping over his mouth, completely
disguised the well-cut, regular features of the handsome young
nobleman, and although in reality it only concealed the forehead and
nose, yet it transfigured the whole face.
There was to be a dress rehearsal the evening before the first
representation, so that they might judge of the general effect in their
improvised theatre, and test its capabilities; and as the actresses
could not very well go through the streets in full costume, they were
to finish their toilets in the green-room, while the actor themselves
ready for the stage in the small dressing-closets set aside for that
purpose. All the gentlemen in Poitiers, young and old, were wild to
penetrate into this temple, or rather sacristy, of Thalia, where the
priestesses of that widely worshipped muse adorned themselves to
celebrate her mysterious rites, and a great number of them had
succeeded in gaining admittance. They crowded round the actresses,
offering advice as to the placing of a flower or a jewel, handing the
powder-box or the rouge-pot, presenting the little hand-mirror, taking
upon themselves all such small offices with the greatest
“_empressement_,” and vying with each other in their gallant attendance
upon the fair objects of their admiration; the younger and more timid
among them holding a little aloof and sitting on the large chests
scattered about, swinging their feet and twisting their mustaches,
while they watched the proceedings of their bolder companions with
envious eyes. Each actress had her own circle of admiring cavaliers
about her, paying her high-flown compliments in the exaggerated
language of the day, and doing their best to make themselves agreeable
in every way they could think of. Zerbine laughed at them all, and made
fun of them unmercifully, turning everything they said into ridicule;
yet so coquettishly that they thought her bewitching, in spite of her
sharp tongue, which was like a two-edged sword. Serafina, whose vanity
was overweening, delighted in the fulsome homage paid to her charms,
and smiled encouragingly upon her throng of admirers, but Isabelle, who
was intensely annoyed at the whole thing, did not pay the slightest
attention to them, nor even once raise her eyes to look at them; being
apparently absorbed in the duties of her toilet, which she accomplished
as quietly and modestly as possible—having left only the finishing
touches to be given in that public place.
The Duke of Vallombreuse was careful, of course, not to miss this
excellent opportunity, of which he had been informed by Maître Bilot,
to see Isabelle again, and entering the green-room in good season,
followed by his friend Vidalinc, marched straight up to her
toilet-table. He was enchanted to find that, on this close inspection,
she was even more beautiful than he had supposed, and in his
enthusiastic delight at this discovery could scarcely refrain from
seizing her in his arms and declaring his passion there and then; only
the presence of the crowd of lookers-on saved Isabelle from what would
have been a most trying and painful scene.
The young duke was superbly dressed. He had spared no pains, for he
wanted to dazzle Isabelle, and he certainly did look splendidly
handsome. He wore a magnificent costume of rich white satin, slashed
and trimmed with crimson, with many knots of ribbon about it fastened
with diamond clasps, with broad ruffles of exquisitely fine lace at
throat and wrists, with a wide belt of cloth of silver supporting his
sword, and with perfumed gloves on the hands that held his white felt
hat, with its long crimson feather. His wavy black hair fell around the
perfect oval of his face, enhancing its smooth whiteness; a delicate
mustache shaded, not concealed, his full red lips; his splendid, great
black eyes flashed through their thick, silky fringes, and his neck,
white and round as a marble column, rose from amid its surrounding of
soft, priceless lace, proudly supporting his haughty, handsome head.
Yet with all this perfection of outline and colouring, his appearance
was not entirely pleasing; a repelling haughtiness shone out through
the perfectly modelled features, and it was but too evident that the
joys and sorrows of his fellow mortals would awaken no sympathy in the
owner of that surpassingly handsome face and form. He believed that he
was not made of common clay like other men, but was a being of a higher
order, who condescended to mingle with his inferiors—a piece of fine
porcelain amid homely vessels of coarser earthenware.
Vallombreuse stationed himself silently close beside the mirror on
Isabelle’s dressing-table, leaning one elbow on its frame all the other
gallants respectfully making way for him—just where she could not
possibly help seeing him whenever she looked in the glass; a skilful
manœuvre, which would surely have succeeded with any other than this
modest young girl. He wished to produce an impression, before
addressing a word to her, by his personal beauty, his lordly mien, and
his magnificence of apparel. Isabelle, who had instantly recognised the
audacious gallant of the garden, and who was displeased by the
imperious ardour of his gaze, redoubled her reserve of manner, and did
not lift her eyes to the mirror in front of her at all; she did not
even seem to be aware that one of the handsomest young noblemen in all
France was standing there before her, trying to win a glance from her
lovely eyes—but then, she was a singular girl, this sweet Isabelle! At
length, exasperated by her utter indifference, Vallombreuse suddenly
took the initiative, and said to her, “Mademoiselle, you take the part
of Sylvia in this new play, do you not?”
“Yes, sir,” Isabelle answered curtly, without looking at him—not able
to evade this direct question.
“Then never will a part have been so admirably played,” continued the
duke. “If it is poor your acting will make it excellent, if it is fine
you will make it peerless. Ah! happy indeed the poet whose verses are
intrusted to those lovely lips of yours.”
These vague compliments were only such as admiring gallants were in the
habit of lavishing upon pretty actresses, and Isabelle could not with
any show of reason resent it openly, but she acknowledged it only by a
very slight bend of the head, and still without looking up. At this
moment de Sigognac entered the green-room; he was masked and in full
costume, just buckling around his waist the belt of the big sword he
had inherited from Matamore, with the cobweb dangling from the
scabbard. He also marched straight up to Isabelle, and was received
with a radiant smile.
“You are capitally gotten up,” she said to him in a low, tone, so low
that he had to bend down nearer her to hear, “and I am sure that no
fierce Spanish captain ever had a more superbly arrogant air than you.”
The Duke of Vallombreuse drew himself up to his full height, and looked
this unwelcome new-comer over from head to foot, with an air of the
coolest, most haughty disdain. “This must be the contemptible scoundrel
they say she’s in love with,” he said to himself, swelling with
indignation and spite—filled with amazement too—for he could not
conceive of a woman’s hesitating for an instant between the magnificent
young Duke of Vallombreuse and this ridiculous play-actor. After the
first rapid glance he made as if he did not perceive de Sigognac at
all, no more than if he had been a piece of furniture standing there;
for him Captain Fracasse was not a _man_, but a _thing_, and he
continued to gaze fixedly at poor Isabelle—his eyes fairly blazing with
passion—exactly as though no one was near. She, confused at last, and
alarmed, blushed painfully, in spite of all her efforts to appear calm
and unmoved, and hastened to finish what little remained to be done, so
that she might make her escape, for she could see de Sigognac’s hand
close spasmodically on the handle of his sword, and, realizing how he
must be feeling, feared an outbreak on his part. With trembling fingers
she adjusted a little black “_mouche_” near the corner of her pretty
mouth, and pushed back her chair preparatory to rising from it—having a
legitimate cause for haste, as the tyrant had already more than once
roared out from the stage door, “Mesdemoiselles, are you ready?”
“Permit me, mademoiselle,” said the duke starting forward, “you have
forgotten to put on an ‘_assassine_,’” and touching the tip of his
forefinger to his lips he plunged it into the box of patches standing
open on the dressing-table, and brought one out on it. “Permit me to
put it on for you—here, just above your snowy bosom; it will enhance
its exquisite whiteness.”
The action followed so quickly upon the words that Isabelle, terrified
at this cruel effrontery, had scarcely time to start to one side, and
so escape his profane touch; but the duke was not one to be easily
balked in anything he particularly desired to do, and pressing nearer
he again extended his hand towards Isabelle’s white neck, and had
almost succeeded in accomplishing his object, when his arm was seized
from behind, and held firmly in a grasp of iron.
Furiously angry, he turned his head to see who had dared to lay hands
upon his sacred person, and perceived that it was the odious Captain
Fracasse.
“My lord duke,” said he calmly, still holding his wrist firmly,
“Mademoiselle is in need of no assistance from you, or any one else, in
this matter.” Then his grasp relaxed and he let go of the duke’s arm.
Vallombreuse, who looked positively hideous at that moment, his face
pale to ghastliness and disfigured by the rage he felt, grasped the
hilt of his sword with the hand released by de Sigognac, and drew it
partly out of its scabbard, as if he meant to attack him, his eyes
flashing fire and every feature working in its frenzy—the baron
meanwhile standing perfectly motionless, quietly awaiting the onset.
But ere he had touched him the duke stopped short; a sudden thought had
extinguished his blazing fury like a douche of cold water; his
self-control returned, his face resumed its wonted expression, the
colour came to his lips, and his eyes showed the most icy disdain, the
most supreme contempt that it could be possible for one human being to
manifest for another. He had remembered just in time that he must not
so greatly demean himself as to cross swords with a person of no birth,
and an actor besides; all his pride revolted at the bare idea of such a
thing. An insult coming from a creature so low in the social scale
could not reach him. Does a gentleman declare war upon the mud that
bespatters him? However, it was not in his character to leave an
offence unpunished, no matter whence it proceeded, and stepping nearer
to de Sigognac he said, “You impertinent scoundrel, I will have every
bone in your body broken for you with cudgels, by my lackeys.”
“You’d better take care what you do, my lord,” answered the baron, in
the most tranquil tone and with the most careless air imaginable,
“you’d much better take care what you do! My bones are not so easily
broken, but cudgels may be. I do not put up with blows anywhere but on
the stage.”
“However insolent you may choose to be, you graceless rascal, you
cannot provoke me to do you so much honour as to attack you myself;
that is too high an ambition for such as you to realize,” said
Vallombreuse, scornfully.
“We will see about that, my lord duke,” de Sigognac replied; “it may
happen that I, having less pride than yourself, will fight you, and
conquer you, with my own hands.”
“I do not dispute with a masker,” said the duke shortly, taking
Vidalinc’s arm as if to depart.
“I will show you my face, duke, at a more fitting time and place,” de
Sigognac continued composedly, “and I think it will be still more
distasteful to you than my false nose. But enough for the present. I
hear the bell that summons me, and if I wait any longer here with you I
shall miss my entry at the proper moment.”
He turned on his heel and leisurely walked off, with admirable
nonchalance, leaving the haughty duke very much disconcerted, and at a
disadvantage, as indeed de Sigognac had cleverly managed that he should
be throughout the brief interview.
The comedians were charmed with his courage and coolness, but, knowing
his real rank, were not so much astonished as the other spectators of
this extraordinary scene, who were both shocked and amazed at such
temerity.
Isabelle was so terrified and excited by this fierce altercation that a
deathly pallor had overspread her troubled face, and Zerbine, who had
flown to her assistance, had to fetch some of her own rouge and bestow
it plentifully upon the colourless lips and cheeks before she could
obey the tyrant’s impatient call, again resounding through the
green-room.
When she tried to rise her trembling knees had nearly given way under
her, and but for the _soubrette’s_ kind support she must have fallen to
the floor. To have been the cause, though innocently, of a quarrel like
this was a terrible blow to poor Isabelle sweet, pure, modest child
that she was—for she knew that it is a dreadful thing for any woman to
have her name mixed up in such an affair, and shrank from the publicity
that could not fail to be given to it; besides, she loved de Sigognac
with fervour and devotion, though she had never acknowledged it to him,
and the thought of the danger to which he was exposed, of a secret
attack by the duke’s hired ruffians, or even of a duel with his
lordship himself, drove her well-nigh frantic with grief and terror.
In spite of this untoward incident, the rehearsal went on, and very
smoothly; the theatre was found to be all that they could desire, and
everybody acted with much spirit. Even poor, trembling Isabelle did
herself credit, though her heart was heavy within her; but for de
Sigognac’s dear sake, whose anxious glances she strove to meet with a
reassuring smile, she succeeded in controlling her emotion, and felt
inspired to do her very best. As to Captain Fracasse, excited by the
quarrel, he acted superbly. Zerbine surpassed herself. Shouts of
laughter and storms of clapping followed her animated words and
gestures. From one corner, near the orchestra, came such vigorous
bursts of applause, leading all the rest and lasting longer than any,
that at last Zerbine’s attention was attracted and her curiosity
excited.
Approaching the foot-lights, in such a way as to make it appear part of
her usual by-play, she peered over them and caught sight of her
marquis, beaming with smiles and flushed from his violent efforts in
her behalf.
“The marquis is here,” she managed to whisper to Blazius, who was
playing Pandolphe; “just look at him! how delighted he is, and how he
applauds me—till he is actually red in the face, the dear man! So he
admires my acting, does he? Well, he shall have a spicy specimen of it,
then.”
Zerbine kept her word, and, from that on to the end of the piece,
played with redoubled spirit. She was never so sparkling, so
bewitchingly coquettish, so charmingly mischievous before, and the
delighted marquis was more fascinated than ever. The new play, entitled
“Lygdamon et Lydias,” and written by a certain Georges de Scudéry (a
gentleman who, after having served with honour in the French Guards,
quitted the sword for the pen, which he wielded with equal success),
was next rehearsed, and highly approved by all—without a single
dissenting voice. Leander, who played the leading part of Lygdamon, was
really admirable in it, and entertained high hopes of the effect he
should produce upon the fair ladies of Poitiers and its environs.
But we will leave our comedians now, and follow the Duke of
Vallombreuse and his devoted friend Vidalinc.
Quite beside himself with rage, the young duke, after the scene in the
green-room in which he had played so unsatisfactory a part to himself,
returned to his own home and there raved to Vidalinc about his revenge,
threatening the insolent captain with all manner of punishments, and
going on like a madman. His friend tried in vain to soothe him.
He rushed wildly around the room, wringing his hands, kicking the
furniture about right and left, upsetting tables and arm-chairs, and
finally, seizing a large Japanese vase, very curious and costly, threw
it violently on the floor, where it broke into a thousand pieces.
“Oh!” he shrieked, “if I could only smash that abominable blackguard
like this vase, trample him under foot as I do this debris, and then
have the remains of him swept up and thrown out into the dust-heap,
where he belongs. A miserable scoundrel, that dares to interpose
between me, the Duke of Vallombreuse, and the object of my desires! If
he were only a gentleman I would fight him, on foot or on horseback,
with swords, daggers, pistols, anything in the shape of a weapon, until
I had him down, with my foot on his breast, and could spit into the
face of his corpse.”
“Perhaps he is one,” said Vidalinc; “his audacious defiance looks like
it. You remember what Maître Bilot told you about Isabelle’s favoured
lover? This must be the one, judging by his jealousy of you, and the
agitation of the girl.”
“Do you really mean what you say?” cried Vallombreuse, contemptuously.
“What! a man of birth and condition mingle voluntarily and on terms of
equality with these low buffoons of actors, paint his nose red, and
strut about the stage, receiving cuffs and kicks from everybody? Oh no,
Vidalinc, the thing is impossible.”
“But just remember,” persisted the chevalier, “that mighty Jove himself
resorted to the expedient of adopting the shapes of various beasts, as
well as birds, in his terrestrial love affairs, which was surely much
more derogatory to the majesty of the king of the gods than to play in
a comedy is to the dignity of a gentleman.”
“Never mind,” said the duke, as he rang a small hand bell sharply; “be
he what he may, I intend first to have the scamp well punished in his
character of play-actor; even though I should be obliged to chastise
the gentleman afterward, if there prove to be one hidden behind that
ridiculous mask—which idea I cannot credit.”
“If there be one! There’s no doubt of it, I tell you,” rejoined his
friend, with an air of conviction. “The more I think of it, the more
positive I am of it. Why, his eyes shone like stars under his
overhanging false eye-brows, and in spite of his absurd pasteboard nose
he had a grand, majestic air about him that was very imposing, and
would be utterly impossible to a low-born man.”
“Well, so much the better,” said Vallombreuse; “for if you are right, I
can make his punishment twofold.”
Meantime a servant, in rich livery, had entered, and after bowing low
stood as motionless as a statue, with one hand on the knob of the door,
awaiting his master’s orders; which were presently given, as follows:
“Go and call up Basque, Azolan, Mérindol, and Labriche, if they have
gone to bed; tell them to arm themselves with stout cudgels and go down
to the tennis-court, find a dark corner near by and wait there, until
the players come out, for a certain Captain Fracasse. They are to fall
upon him and beat him until they leave him for dead upon the pavement,
but to be careful not to kill him outright—it might be thought that I
was afraid of him if they did, you know,” in an aside to Vidalinc.
“I will be responsible for the consequences; and with every blow they
are to cry, ‘This is from the Duke of Vallombreuse,’ so that he may
understand plainly what it means.”
This order, though of so savage and fierce a nature, did not seem to
surprise the lackey, who, as he retired, assured his lordship, with an
unmoved countenance and another low bow, that his commands should be
immediately obeyed.
“I am sorry,” said Vidalinc, after the servant had closed the door
behind him, “that you mean to treat this man so roughly, for after all
he showed a spirit superior to his position, and becoming a gentleman.
Suppose you let me go and pick a quarrel with him, and kill him for you
in a duel. All blood is red when it is shed, the lowly as well as the
lofty, though they do pretend that the blood of the nobles is blue. I
come of a good and ancient family, if not so high in rank as yours, and
I have no fear of belittling myself in this affair. Only say the word,
and I will go this instant, for this histrionic captain is, it seems to
me, more worthy of the sword of a gentleman than the cudgels of your
hired ruffians.”
“I thank you heartily for this offer,” answered the duke, “which proves
your faithful devotion to me and my interests, but I cannot accept it.
That low scoundrel has dared to lay hands upon me, and he must expiate
his crime in the most ignominious way. Should he prove to be a
gentleman, he will be able to find redress. I never fail to respond, as
you know, when there is question of settling a matter by the sword.”
“As you please, my lord duke,” said Vidalinc, stretching out his legs
lazily and putting his feet on the fender, with the air of a man who
can do no more, but must stand aside and let things take their own
course. “By the way, do you know that that Serafina is charming? I paid
her several compliments, which were very graciously received; and more
than that, she has promised to allow me to call upon her, and appointed
the time. She is a very amiable as well as beautiful young woman.
Maître Bilot was perfectly correct in his statements to us.”
After which the two gentlemen awaited, in almost unbroken silence, the
return of the _four_ ruffians who had gone forth to chastise de
Sigognac.