THE CASTLE OF HAPPINESS
EPILOGUE
It will be readily believed that our sweet Isabelle had not forgotten,
in her exceeding happiness as Mme. la Baronne de Sigognac, her former
companions of Hérode’s troupe. As she could not invite them to her
wedding because they would have been so much out of place there—she
had, in commemoration of that auspicious occasion, sent handsome and
appropriate gifts to them all; offered with a grace so charming that it
redoubled their value. So long as the company remained in Paris, she
went often to see them play; applauding her old friends heartily, and
judiciously as well, knowing just where the applause should be given.
The young _baronne_ did not attempt to conceal the fact that she had
formerly been an actress herself—not parading it, but referring to it
quietly, if necessary, as a matter of course; an excellent method to
disarm ill-natured tongues, which would surely have wagged vigorously
had any mystery been made about it. In addition, her illustrious birth
and exalted position imposed silence upon those around her, and her
sweet dignity and modesty had soon won all hearts—even those of her own
sex—until it was universally conceded that there was not a greater or
truer lady in court circles than the beautiful young Baronne de
Sigognac.
The king, Louis XIII, having heard Isabelle’s eventful history, praised
her highly for her virtuous conduct, and evinced great interest in de
Sigognac, whom he heartily commended for his respectful, honourable
gallantry, under circumstances that, according to general opinion,
would authorize all manner of license. His deference to defenceless
virtue peculiarly pleased the chaste, reserved monarch, who had no
sympathy with, or indulgence for the wild, unbridled excesses of the
licentious youth of his capital and court. As to Vallombreuse, he had
entirely changed and amended his way of life, and seemed to find
unfailing pleasure and satisfaction, as well as benefit, in the
companionship of his new friend and brother, to whom he was devoted,
and who fully reciprocated his warm affection; while the prince, his
father, joyfully dwelt in the bosom of his reunited family, and found
in it the happiness he had vainly sought before. The young husband and
wife led a charming life, more and more in love with and devoted to
each other, and never experiencing that satiety of bliss which is
ruinous to the most perfect happiness. Although Isabelle had no
concealments from her husband, and shared even her inmost thoughts with
him, yet for a time she seemed very much occupied with some mysterious
business—apparently exclusively her own.
She had secret conferences with her steward, with an architect, and
also with certain sculptors and painters—all without de Sigognac’s
knowledge, and by the connivance of Vallombreuse, who seemed to be her
confidant, aider and abettor.
One fine morning, several months after their marriage, Isabelle said to
de Sigognac, as if a sudden thought had struck her: “My dear lord, do
you never think of your poor, deserted, old château? and have you no
desire to return to the birthplace of our love?”
“I am not so unfeeling as that, my darling, and I have thought of it
longingly many times of late. But I did not like to propose the journey
to you without being sure that it would please you. I did not like to
tear you away from the delights of the court—of which you are the chief
ornament—and take you to that poor, old, half-ruined mansion, the haunt
of rats and owls, where I could not hope to make you even comfortable,
yet, which I prefer, miserable as it is, to the most luxurious palaces;
for it was the home of my ancestors, and the place where I first saw
you, my heart’s delight!—spot ever sacred and dear to me, upon which I
should like to erect an altar.”
“And I,” rejoined Isabelle, “often wonder whether the eglantine in the
garden still blooms, as it did for me.”
“It does,” said de Sigognac, “I am sure of it—having once been blessed
by your touch, it must be always blooming—even though there be none to
see.”
“Ah! my lord, unlike husbands in general, you are more gallant after
marriage than before,” Isabelle said, laughingly, yet deeply touched by
his tender words, “and you pay your wife compliments as if she were
your ladylove. And now, since I have ascertained that your wishes
accord with my whim, will it please your lordship to set out for the
Château de Sigognac this week? The weather is fine. The great heat of
summer is over, and we can really enjoy the journey. Vallombreuse will
go with us, and I shall take Chiquita. She will be glad to see her own
country again.”
The needful preparations were soon made, and the travelling party set
off in high spirits. The journey was rapid and delightful. Relays of
horses had been sent on in advance by Vallombreuse, so that in a few
days they reached the point where the road leading to the Château de
Sigognac branched off from the great post-road. It was about two
o’clock of a bright, warm afternoon when the carriage turned off the
highway, and as they got, at the same moment, their first view of the
château, de Sigognac could not believe the testimony of his own eyes—he
was bewildered, dazzled, overwhelmed—he no longer recognised the
familiar details which had been so deeply impressed upon his memory.
All was changed, as if by magic. The road, smooth, free from grass and
weeds, and freshly gravelled, had no more ruts; the hedges, neatly
trimmed and properly tended, no longer reached out long, straggling
arms to catch the rare passer-by; the tall trees on either side had
been carefully pruned, so that their branches met in an arch overhead,
and framed in a most astonishing picture. Instead of the dreary ruin,
slowly crumbling into dust, a fine new château rose before
them—resembling the old one as a son resembles his father. It was an
exact reproduction—nothing had been changed, only renewed—it was simply
the ancient mansion rejuvenated. The walls were smooth and unbroken,
the lofty towers intact, rising proudly at the four angles of the
building, with their freshly gilded weathercocks gleaming in the
sunlight. A handsome new roof, tastefully ornamented with a pretty
design in different coloured slates, had replaced the broken,
weather-stained tiles, through which the rain used to find its way down
into the frescoed hall, and the long suite of deserted rooms. Every
window had bright large panes of clear glass shining in its casement,
and a magnificent great door, turning smoothly and noiselessly upon its
huge hinges, had superseded the old, worm-eaten one, that used to groan
and creak piteously when opened ever so little. Above it shone the de
Sigognac arms—three golden storks upon an azure field, with this noble
motto—entirely obliterated of old—“Alta petunt.”
For a few moments de Sigognac gazed at it all in silence, overcome by
astonishment and emotion. Then he suddenly turned to Isabelle, with
joyful surprise written in every line of his speaking countenance, and
seizing her hands passionately, and holding them firmly clasped in his,
said: “It is to you, my kind, generous fairy, that I owe this
marvellous transformation of my poor, dilapidated, old château. You
have touched it with your wand and restored its ancient splendour,
majesty and youth. I cannot tell you how enchanted, how gratified I am
by this wonderful surprise. It is unspeakably charming and delightful,
like everything that emanates from my good angel. Without a word or
hint from me, you have divined, and carried out, the secret and most
earnest wish of my heart.”
“You must also thank a certain sorcerer, who has greatly aided me in
all this,” said Isabelle softly, touched by her husband’s emotion and
delight, and pointing to Vallombreuse, who was sitting opposite to her.
The two young men clasped hands for a moment, and smiled at each other
in friendly fashion. There was a perfect under standing between these
kindred spirits now, and no words were needed on either side.
By this time the carriage had reached the château, where Pierre, in a
fine new livery—and a tremor of delight—was waiting to receive them.
After an affectionate, as well as respectful, greeting from the
faithful old servant, they entered the grand portico, which had been,
like all the rest, admirably restored, and, alighting from the
carriage, paused a moment to admire its magnificent proportions ere
they passed on into the frescoed hall, where eight or ten tall lackeys
were drawn up in line, and bowed profoundly to their new master and
mistress. Skilful artists had retouched the ancient frescoes, and made
them glow with all their original brilliant tints. The colossal figures
of Hercules were still supporting the heavy cornice, and the busts of
the Roman emperors looked out majestically from their niches. Higher
up, the vine climbing on its trellis was as luxuriant as in the olden
time, and there were no unsightly stains on the bright blue sky of the
vaulted roof to mar its beauty. A like metamorphosis had been worked
everywhere—the worm-eaten woodwork had been renewed, the uneven floors
relaid, the tarnished gilding restored to its original splendour—and
the new furniture throughout had been made exactly like the old that it
replaced. The fine old tapestry in de Sigognac’s own room had been
minutely copied, down to the smallest detail, and the hangings of the
bed were of green and white brocade, in precisely the same delicate
tint and graceful pattern as the old.
Isabelle, with her innate delicacy and perfect taste, had not aimed at
producing a sensation, by any overwhelming magnificence or dazzling
splendour in renovating the intrinsically fine old Château de Sigognac,
but had simply wished to gratify and delight the heart of her husband,
so tenderly loved, in giving back to him the impressions and
surroundings of his childhood and youth, robbed of their misery and
sadness. All was bright and gay now in this lordly mansion, erst so
dreary and melancholy; even the sombre old family portraits, cleansed,
retouched and revarnished by skilful hands, smiled down upon them, as
if pleased with the new order of things; especially their own handsome,
richly gilt frames.
After looking through the interior of the château, de Sigognac and
Isabelle went out into the court, where no weeds or nettles were to be
seen, no grass growing up between the paving stones, no heaps of
rubbish in the corners, and through the clear glass panes of the
numerous windows looking into it were visible the folds of the rich
curtains in the chambers that were formerly the favourite haunt of owls
and bats. They went on down into the garden, by a noble flight of broad
stone steps, no longer tottering and moss-grown, and turned first to
seek the wild eglantine which had offered its delicate little rose to
the young actress, on the memorable morning when the baron had decided
to go forth from his ruined castle for love of her. It had another
dainty blossom ready for her now, which Isabelle received from de
Sigognac’s hand, with tears, that told of a happiness too deep for
words, welling up into her eyes, and exchanged with her adored and
adoring husband a long, fond look, that seemed to give to each a
glimpse of heaven.
The gardeners had been busy too, and had converted the neglected
wilderness we made acquaintance with long ago into a veritable little
paradise. At the end of the well-ordered and exquisitely arranged
garden, Pomona still stood in her cool grotto, restored to all the
beauty of her youth, while a stream of pure, sparkling water poured
from the lion’s mouth, and fell with a musical murmur into the marble
basin. Even in their best and most glorious days the garden and the
château had never known greater beauty and luxury than now. The baron,
ever more and more astonished and enchanted, as he rambled slowly
through it all, like one in a delicious dream, kept Isabelle’s arm
pressed tenderly to his heart, and was not ashamed to let her see the
tears that at last he could no longer restrain, and which came from a
very full heart.
“Now,” said Isabelle, “that we have seen everything here, we must go
and inspect the different pieces of property we have been able to buy
back, so as to reconstruct, as nearly as possible, the ancient barony
of Sigognac. I will leave you for a few moments, to go and put on my
riding habit; I shall not be long, for I learned to make changes of
that sort very rapidly in my old profession, you know. Will you,
meantime, go and select our horses, and order that they should be made
ready?”
Vallombreuse accompanied de Sigognac to the stables, where they found
ten splendid horses contentedly munching their oats in their oaken
stalls. Everything was in perfect order, but ere the baron had time to
admire and praise, as he wished to do, a loud whinnying that was almost
deafening suddenly burst forth, as good old Bayard peremptorily claimed
his attention. Isabelle had long ago sent orders to the château that
the superannuated pony should always have the best place in the stable,
and be tenderly cared for. His manger was full of ground oats, which he
seemed to be enjoying with great gusto, and he evidently approved
highly of the new regime. In his stall Miraut lay sleeping, but the
sound of his master’s voice aroused him, and he joyfully jumped up and
came to lick his hand, and claim the accustomed caress. As to
Beelzebub, though he had not yet made his appearance, it must not be
attributed to a want of affection on his part, but rather to an excess
of timidity. The poor old cat had been so unsettled and alarmed at the
invasion of the quiet château by an army of noisy workmen, and all the
confusion and changes that had followed, that he had fled from his
usual haunts, and taken up his abode in a remote attic; where he lay in
concealment, impatiently waiting for darkness to come, so that he might
venture out to pay his respects to his beloved master.
The baron, after petting Bayard and Miraut until they were in ecstasies
of delight, chose from among the horses a beautiful, spirited chestnut
for himself, the duke selected a Spanish jennet, with proudly arched
neck and flowing mane, which was worthy to carry an Infanta, and an
exquisite white palfrey, whose skin shone like satin, was brought out
for the _baronne_. In a few moments Isabelle came down, attired in a
superb riding habit, which consisted of a dark blue velvet basque,
richly braided with silver, over a long, ample skirt of silver-gray
satin, and her broad hat of white felt, like a cavalier’s, was trimmed
with a floating, dark blue feather. Her beautiful hair was confined in
the most coquettish little blue and silver net, and as she came
forward, radiant with smiles, she was a vision of loveliness, that drew
forth fervent exclamations of delight from her two devoted and adoring
knights. The Baronne de Sigognac certainly was enchantingly beautiful
in her rich equestrian costume, which displayed the perfection of her
slender, well-rounded figure to the greatest advantage, and there was a
high-bred, dainty look about her which bore silent witness to her
illustrious origin. She was still the sweet, modest Isabelle of old,
but she was also the daughter of a mighty prince, the sister of a proud
young duke, and the honoured wife of a valiant gentleman, whose race
had been noble since before the crusades. Vallombreuse, remarking it,
could not forbear to say: “My dearest sister, how magnificent you look
to-day! Hippolyte, queen of the Amazons, was never more superb, or more
triumphantly beautiful, than you are in this most becoming costume.”
Isabelle smiled in reply, as she put her pretty little foot into de
Sigognac’s hand, and sprang lightly into her saddle.
Her husband and brother mounted also, and the little cavalcade set
forth in high glee, making the vaulted portico ring with their merry
laughter, as they rode through it. Just in front of the château they
met the Marquis de Bruyères, and several other gentlemen of the
neighbourhood, coming to pay their respects. They wished to go back
into the château and receive their guests properly, saying that they
could ride out at any time, but the visitors would not listen to such a
thing, and turning their horses’ heads proposed to ride with them. The
party, increased by six or eight cavaliers in gala dress—for the
provincial lordlings had made themselves as fine as possible to do
honour to their new neighbours—was really very imposing; a cortege
worthy of a princess. They rode on between broad green fields, through
woods and groves and highly cultivated farms, all of which had now been
restored to the estate they had originally belonged to; and the
grateful, adoring glances that the Baron de Sigognac found opportunity
to bestow upon his lovely _baronne_, made her heart beat high with a
happiness almost too perfect for this weary world of trials and
sorrows.
As they were riding through a little pine wood, near the boundary line
of the estate, the barking of hounds was heard, and presently the party
met the beautiful Yolande de Foix, followed by her old uncle, and one
or two attendant cavaliers. The road was very narrow, and there was
scarcely room to pass, though each party endeavoured to make way for
the other. Yolande’s horse was prancing about restively, and the skirt
of her long riding-habit brushed Isabelle’s as she passed her. She was
furiously angry, and sorely tempted to address some cutting words to
the “_Bohémienne_” she had once so cruelly insulted; but Isabelle, who
had a soul above such petty malice, and had long ago forgiven Yolande
for her unprovoked insolence, felt how much her own triumph must wound
the other’s proud spirit, and with perfect dignity and grace bowed to
Mlle. de Foix, who could not do less than respond by a slight
inclination of her haughty head, though her heart was filled with rage,
and she had much ado to control herself. The Baron de Sigognac, with a
quiet, unembarrassed air, had bowed respectfully to the fair huntress,
who looked eagerly, but in vain, into the eyes of her former adorer for
a spark of the old flame that used to blaze up in them at sight of her.
Angry and disappointed, she gave her horse a sharp cut with the whip,
and swept away at a gallop.
“Now, by Venus and all the Loves,” said Vallombreuse to the Marquis de
Bruyères, beside whom he was riding, “that girl is a beauty, but she
looked deucedly savage and cross. How she did glare at my sister, eh!
as if she wanted to stab her.”
“When one has long been the acknowledged queen of a neighbourhood,” the
marquis replied, “it is not pleasant to be dethroned, you know, and
every one must admit that Mme. la Baronne de Sigognac bears off the
palm.”
The gay cavalcade, after a long ride, returned to the château, to find
a sumptuous repast awaiting them in the magnificent banqueting hall,
where the poor young baron had once supped with the wandering
comedians, upon their own provisions. What a transformation had been
effected! now a superb service of silver, bearing the family arms,
shone upon the fine damask that covered the table, in which also the
three storks were apparent, while beautiful porcelain and dainty glass,
lovely flowers and luscious fruits contributed to the attractions of
the bountifully furnished board. Isabelle sat in the same place she had
occupied on the eventful night that had changed the destiny of the
young lord of the château, and she could not but think of, and live
over, that widely different occasion, as did also the baron, and the
married lovers exchanged furtive smiles and glances, in which tender
memories and bright hopes were happily mingled.
Near one of the tall buffets stood a large, fine-looking man with a
thick black beard, dressed in black velvet, and wearing a massive chain
of silver round his neck, who kept a watchful eye upon the numerous
lackeys waiting on the guests, and from time to time gave an order,
with a most majestic air. Presiding over another buffet, on which were
neatly arranged numerous wine-bottles of different forms and
dimensions, was another elderly man, of short, corpulent figure, and
with a jolly red face, who stepped about actively and lightly, despite
his age and weight, dispensing the wine to the servants as it was
needed. At first de Sigognac did not notice them, but chancing to
glance in their direction, was astonished to recognise in the first the
tragic Hérode, and in the second the grotesque Blazius. Isabelle,
seeing that her husband had become aware of their presence, whispered
to him, that in order to provide for the old age of those two devoted
and faithful friends she had thought it well to give them superior
positions in their household; in which they would have only easy duties
to perform, as they had to direct others in their work, not to do any
themselves; and the baron heartily approved and commended what his
sweet young wife, ever considerate for others, had been pleased to do.
Course succeeded to course, and bottle to bottle—there was much
laughing and talking around the convivial board, and the host was
exerting himself to do honour to the festive occasion, when he felt a
head laid on his knee, and a tattoo vigorously played by a pair of paws
on his leg that was well known to him of old. Miraut and Beelzebub, who
had slipped into the room, and under the table, without being detected,
thus announced their presence to their indulgent master. He did not
repulse them, but managed, without attracting notice, to give them a
share of everything on his plate, and was especially amused at the
almost insatiable voracity of the old black cat—who had evidently been
fasting in his hiding-place in the attic. He actually seemed to enjoy,
like an epicure, the rich and dainty viands that had replaced the
frugal fare of long ago, and ate so much that when the meal was over he
could scarcely stand, and made his way with difficulty into his
master’s bed-chamber, where he curled himself up in a luxurious
arm-chair and settled down comfortably for the night.
Vallombreuse kept pace with the Marquis de Bruyères, and the other
guests, in disposing of the choice wines, that did credit to the
pedant’s selection; but de Sigognac, who had not lost his temperate
habits, only touched his lips to the edge of his wine-glass, and made a
pretence of keeping them company. Isabelle, under pretext of fatigue,
had withdrawn when the dessert was placed upon the table. She really
was very tired, and sent at once for Chiquita, now promoted to the
dignity of first lady’s maid, to come and perform her nightly duties.
The wild, untutored child had—under Isabelle’s judicious, tender and
careful training—developed into a quiet, industrious and very beautiful
young girl. She still wore mourning for Agostino, and around her neck
was the famous string of pearl beads—it was a sacred treasure to
Chiquita, and she was never seen without it. She attended to her duties
quickly and deftly—evidently taking great delight in waiting upon the
mistress she adored—and kissed her hand passionately, as she never
failed to do, when all was finished and she bade her good-night.
When, an hour later, de Sigognac entered the room in which he had spent
so many weary, lonely nights—listening to the wind as it shrieked and
moaned round the outside of the desolate château, and wailed along the
corridors-feeling that life was a hard and bitter thing, and fancying
that it would never bring anything but trials and misery to him—he saw,
by the subdued light from the shaded lamp, the face to him most
beautiful in all the world smiling lovingly to greet him from under the
green and white silken curtains that hung round his own bed, where it
lay resting upon the pillow he had so often kissed, and moistened with
his tears. His eyes were moist now—but from excess of happiness, not
sorrow—as he saw before him the blessed, blissful realization of his
vision.
Towards morning Beelzebub, who had been excessively uneasy and restless
all night, managed, with great difficulty, to clamber up on the bed,
where he rubbed his nose against his master’s hand—trying at the same
time to purr in the old way, but failing lamentably. The baron woke
instantly, and saw poor Beelzebub looking at him appealingly, with his
great green eyes unnaturally dilated, and momentarily growing dim; he
was trembling violently, and as his master’s kind hand was stretched
out to stroke his head, fell over on his side, and with one
half-stifled cry, one convulsive shudder, breathed his last.
“Poor Beelzebub!” softly said Isabelle, who had been roused from her
sweet slumber by his dying groan, “he has lived through all the misery
of the old time, but will not be here to share and enjoy the prosperity
of the new.”
Beelzebub, it must be confessed, fell a victim to his own
intemperance—a severe fit of indigestion, consequent upon the enormous
supper he had eaten, was the cause of his death—his long-famished
stomach was not accustomed to, nor proof against, such excesses. This
death, even though it was only that of a dumb beast, touched de
Sigognac deeply; for poor Beelzebub had been his faithful companion,
night and day, through many long, weary years of sadness and poverty,
and had always shown the warmest, most devoted affection for him. He
carefully wrapped the body in a piece of fine, soft cloth, and waited,
until evening should come, to bury it himself; when he would be safe
from observation and possible ridicule. Accordingly, after nightfall,
he took a spade, a lantern, and poor Beelzebub’s body, which was stiff
and stark by that time, and went down into the garden, where he set to
work to dig the grave, under the sacred eglantine, in what seemed to
him like hallowed ground. He wanted to make it deep enough to insure
its not being disturbed by any roaming beast of prey, and worked away
diligently, until his spade struck sharply against some hard substance,
that he at first thought must be a large stone, or piece of rock
perhaps. He attempted, in various ways, to dislodge it, but all in
vain, and it gave out such a peculiar, hollow sound at every blow, that
at last he threw down his spade and took the lantern to see what the
strange obstacle might be.
He was greatly surprised at finding the corner of a stout oaken chest,
strengthened with iron bands, much rusted, but still intact. He dug all
round it, and then, using his spade as a lever, succeeded in raising
it, though it was very heavy, to the edge of the hole, and sliding it
out on the grass beside it; then he put poor Beelzebub into the place
it had occupied, and filled up the grave. He carefully smoothed it
over, replaced the sod, and when all was finished to his satisfaction,
went in search of his faithful old Pierre, upon whose discretion and
secrecy he knew that he could rely. Together they carried the
mysterious strong box into the château, but not without great
difficulty and frequent pauses to rest, because of its immense weight.
Pierre broke open the chest with an axe, and the cover sprang back,
disclosing to view a mass of gold coins—all ancient, and many of them
foreign. Upon examination, a quantity of valuable jewelry, set with
precious stones, was found mingled with the gold, and, under all, a
piece of parchment, with a huge seal attached, bearing the three storks
of the de Sigognacs, still in a good state of preservation; but the
writing was almost entirely obliterated by dampness and mould. The
signature, however, was still visible, and letter by letter the baron
spelled it out—“Raymond de Sigognac.” It was the name of one of his
ancestors, who had gone to serve his king and country in the war then
raging, and never returned; leaving the mystery of his death, or
disappearance, unsolved. He had only one child, an infant son, and when
he left home—in those troublous times—must have buried all his
treasures for safety, and they had remained undiscovered until this
late day. Doubtless, he had confided the secret of their whereabouts to
some trusty friend or retainer, who, perhaps, had died suddenly before
he could disclose it to the rightful heir. From the time of that
Raymond began the decadence of the de Sigognacs, who, previous to that
epoch, had always been wealthy and powerful.
Of course, the mystery about this treasure—so strangely brought to
light—could never be cleared up now; but one thing was certain, beyond
a question or a doubt, that the strong box and its contents belonged of
right to the present Baron de Sigognac—the only living representative
of the family. His first move was to seek his generous, devoted wife,
so that he might show her the mysterious treasure he had found, and
claim her sweet sympathy in his joy, which would be incomplete without
it. After relating to her all the surprising incidents of the evening,
he finished by saying, “Decidedly, Beelzebub was the good genius of the
de Sigognacs—through his means I have become rich—and now that my
blessed angel has come to me he has taken his departure; for there is
nothing else left for him to do, since you, my love, have given me
perfect happiness.”