CHAPTER XXXIX

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

LES BEAUX MESSIEURS DE BOIS-DORÉ

VOLUME I

MARIO COMFORTS MADAME DE BEUVRE

MERCEDES ENCOUNTERS D'ALVIMAR

BOIS-DORÉ AND JOVELIN, HIS PROTÉGÉ

MERCEDES AND MARIO ENTERTAIN THE MARQUIS

MARIO ESTABLISHES HIS IDENTITY

THE DUEL BETWEEN THE MARQUIS AND D'ALVIMAR

LES BEAUX MESSIEURS DE BOIS-DORÉ

I

Among the numerous protégés of the favorite Concini, one of the least

remarked, yet one of the most remarkable by reason of his wit,

education, and the distinction of his manners, was Don Antonio

d'Alvimar, a Spaniard of Italian origin, who styled himself Sciarra

d'Alvimar. He was a very pretty cavalier, whose face denoted a man of no

more than twenty years, although at that time he confessed to thirty.

Rather short than tall, muscular without seeming to be so, skilful in

all manly exercises, he was certain to interest the ladies by the gleam

of his bright and penetrating eyes and by the charm of his conversation,

which was as light and agreeable with the fair sex as it was solid and

substantial with serious-minded men. He spoke the principal languages of

Europe almost without accent, and was no less versed in the ancient

languages.

Despite all these appearances of merit, Sciarra d'Alvimar formed no

scheme for his own advancement amid the constant intriguing at the court

of the Regent; at all events, any that he may have dreamed of came to

nothing. He confessed afterward, in the strictest privacy, that he had

aspired to make himself agreeable to no less a personage than Marie de

Médicis herself, and to replace his own master and patron, Maréchal

d'Ancre, in that queen's good graces.

But the _balorda_, as Leonora Galigai called her, paid no attention to

the humble Spaniard, and saw in him only a paltry adventurer--a

subaltern without future prospects. Did she even notice Monsieur

d'Alvimar's real or feigned passion? That is something that history does

not divulge and that D'Alvimar himself never knew.

It is not an unreasonable supposition that he would have been capable of

pleasing the Regent by his wit and the charms of his person, had not her

thoughts been occupied by Concini. The favorite was of even lower

origin, and was not half so intelligent as he. But D'Alvimar had within

himself an obstacle to his attainment of the exalted fortune enjoyed by

the successful courtiers of the day--an obstacle which his ambition

could not overcome.

He was a bigoted Catholic, and he had all the faults of the intolerant

Catholics of the Spain of Philip II. Suspicious, restless, vindictive,

implacable, he had abundance of faith nevertheless; but faith without

love and without light, faith falsified by the passions and hatreds of a

political system which identified itself with religion, "to the great

displeasure of the merciful and indulgent God, whose kingdom is not so

much of this world as of the other;" that is to say, if we apprehend

aright the thought of the contemporary author to whom we look for

information from time to time, the God whose conquests are supposed to

extend through the moral world by charity, and not through the material

world by the use of violence.

It is impossible to say that France would not have been subjected in

some degree to the régime of the Inquisition, in the event that

Monsieur d'Alvimar had obtained possession of the Regent's heart and

mind; but such was not the case, and Concini, whose sole crime was that

he was not noble enough by birth to be entitled to rob and pillage as

freely as a genuine great nobleman of those days, remained until his

tragic death the arbiter of the Regents uncertain and venal policy.

After the murder of the favorite, D'Alvimar, who had compromised himself

seriously in his service in the affair of the _Paris serjean_,[1] was

compelled to disappear to avoid being involved in the prosecution of

Leonora.

He would have been very glad to insinuate himself into the service of

the new favorite, the king's favorite, Monsieur de Luynes, but he could

not bring it about; and, although he had no more scruples than "most

courtiers of his time, he felt that he could not stoop to the shuffling

of the royal party, whose policy was to yield many points to the

Calvinists, whenever they saw reason to hope that they could purchase

the submission of the princes who made use of the Reformed religion to

forward their ambition."

When Queen Marie was in open disgrace, Sciarra d'Alvimar considered it

to be for his interest to display his fidelity to her cause. He

reflected that parties are never without resources, and that they all

have their day. Moreover, the queen, even though she were to remain in

exile, might still make the fortunes of her faithful adherents.

Everything is relative, and D'Alvimar was so poor that the gifts of a

royal personage, however nearly ruined she might be, offered an

excellent chance for him.

He exerted himself, therefore, to assist in planning the escape from the

château of Blois, even as he had been employed, several years before,

in the third or fourth rôles in the various political dramas evolved

sometimes by the diplomatic manœuvres of Philip III., sometimes by

those of Marie de Médicis, their aim being to bring about _the

marriages_.[2]

This Monsieur d'Alvimar was, generally speaking, sufficiently shrewd in

the interests of others, discreet and ready for work; but he was often

reproached with having a mania for giving his advice "where he should

have been content to follow that of other people," and for exhibiting an

ability of which he should have been content to leave the credit to his

superiors, "being as yet only an unimportant personage."

Thus, despite his zeal, he did not succeed in drawing upon himself the

queen mothers attention, and, at the time of Marie's retirement to

Angers, he was lost to sight among the subaltern officers, tolerated

rather than popular.

D'Alvimar was touched by these numerous rebuffs. Nothing seemed to

profit him, neither his comely face nor his fine manners, nor his

respectable birth, nor his learning, his penetration, his courage, his

agreeable and instructive conversation: "people did not like him." He

made a pleasant impression at first, but then--very quickly too--people

were disgusted by a touch of bitterness which he soon displayed; or else

they distrusted a flavor of ambition which he inopportunely allowed to

appear. He was neither Spanish enough nor Italian enough, or, perhaps,

he was too much of both: one day as talkative, persuasive and supple as

a young Venetian; the next day as haughty, obstinate and gloomy as an

old Castilian.

All his disappointments were intensified by a certain secret remorse

which he did not reveal until his last hour, and which, as the narrative

proceeds, will be forcibly dragged forth from the oblivion in which he

wished to bury it.

Despite our careful investigations, we lose sight of him more than once

during the years that elapsed between the death of Concini and the last

year of Luynes's life; with the exception of a few words in our

manuscript concerning his presence at Blois and at Angers, we find no

fact worthy of mention in his obscure and unhappy life until the year

1621, when, while the king was carrying on the siege of Montauban with

such ill success, young D'Alvimar was in Paris, still in the suite of

the queen-mother, who had been reconciled with her son after the affair

of the Ponts-de-Cé.

At that time D'Alvimar had renounced the hope of winning her favor, and

perhaps he, too, in his rancorous heart called her _balorda_, although

for the first time she had given proof of good sense by bestowing her

confidence--and it was said her heart--upon Armand Duplessis. There was

a rival whom D'Alvimar could hardly hope to outshine! Moreover, the

queen, under Richelieu's guidance, adopted the policy of Henry IV. and

Sully. She combated for the moment the Spanish influence in Germany, and

D'Alvimar found himself almost in disgrace, when, to cap the climax of

his misfortunes, he became involved in a most unpleasant affair.

He fell into a dispute with another Sciarra, a Sciarra Martinengo, whom

Marie de Médicis employed much more freely, and who refused to

acknowledge him as a kinsman. They fought: Sciarra Martinengo was

severely wounded, and it came to Marie's ears that Monsieur Sciarra

d'Alvimar had not scrupulously observed the laws of the duello as

practised in France.

She summoned him to her presence and reprimanded him most brutally;

whereupon D'Alvimar retorted with the bitterness that had been long

heaping up within him. He succeeded in leaving Paris before measures

were taken for his arrest, and, early in November, arrived at the

château of Ars, in Berry, in the Duchy of Châteauroux.

It will be well enough to state the reasons which led him to seek that

place of refuge in preference to any other.

About six weeks before his unfortunate duel, Monsieur Sciarra d'Alvimar

had been brought into social relations with Monsieur Guillaume d'Ars, an

amiable and wealthy young man, descended in a straight line from the

gallant Louis d'Ars, who had effected the honorable retreat from

Venouze, in 1504, and was killed at the battle of Pavia.

Guillaume d'Ars had been fascinated by D'Alvimar's wit and by the very

great affability of which he was capable when the spirit moved him. He

had not had time to become well enough acquainted with him to conceive

the species of antipathy which the unfortunate young man almost

inevitably inspired, after a few weeks, in those who were much in his

company.

Moreover, Monsieur d'Ars was a youth with little experience of the

world, and, as may well be believed, without great penetration. He had

been reared in the provinces, and had just made his first appearance in

Parisian society, when he met D'Alvimar, and became infatuated with him

because of the superior skill which he displayed, on occasion, in

horsemanship, hunting and tennis-playing. Generous and lavish, Guillaume

placed his purse and his arm at the Spaniard's service, and warmly urged

him to visit him at his château in Berry, whither he was recalled by

business of some sort.

D'Alvimar profited discreetly by his new friend's generosity. Although

he had many faults, he could not be accused of showing any lack of pride

in the way of accepting offers of money, and yet God knows that he was

not rich, and that the whole of his slender revenue was none too much to

meet the demands of his wardrobe and his horses. He indulged in no

follies, and, "by the most painstaking economy, succeeded in appearing

as well clad and mounted as many others whose pockets were better lined

than his."

But when he found that he was threatened with a criminal prosecution, he

remembered the overtures and invitations of the young Berry squire, and

adopted the wise plan of seeking refuge with him.

He judged from what Guillaume had told him of his district, that it was

at that period the most tranquil province in France.

Monsieur le Prince de Condé was its governor, and, being thoroughly

content with the fat sum by which he had been bought, he passed his time

partly in his château of Montrond at Saint Amand, partly in his good

city of Bourges, where he was heartily engaged in the king's service,

and even more heartily in that of the Jesuits.

This so-called tranquillity of Berry would be considered in our day a

state of civil war, for many things were taking place there which we

shall narrate in their proper time and place; but it was a state of

perfect peace and orderliness if we compare it with what was taking

place elsewhere, and especially with what had taken place in the

preceding century.

Thus Sciarra d'Alvimar was justified in hoping that he would not be

molested in one of the old châteaux of lower Berry, where the

Calvinists had attempted no sudden outbreaks for several years, and

where the royalist nobles, former Leaguers, _politiques_ and others, no

longer had the opportunity or the pretext to revictual their men-at-arms

at the expense of their neighbors, friends or foes.

D'Alvimar reached the château of Ars one morning in autumn, about eight

o'clock, accompanied by a single servant, an old Spaniard, who claimed

to be of noble birth, but whom want had reduced to the necessity of

taking service, and who seemed in little danger of betraying his

master's secrets, for he spoke very little--sometimes not three words a

week.

Both were well mounted, and, although their horses were laden with heavy

boxes, they had made the journey from Paris in less than seven days.

The first person whom they saw in the courtyard of the castle was its

young lord, Guillaume, just mounting for something more than a morning's

ride, for he was attended by several of his retainers, prepared to ride

forth with him--that is to say, with their horses laden with luggage.

"Ah! you arrive in the nick of time!" he cried, hastening to embrace

D'Alvimar; "I am just setting out to witness the fêtes to be given by

Monsieur le Prince at Bourges, to celebrate the birth of his son, the

Duc d'Enghien.[3] There will be whole days of dancing and play-acting,

target-shooting, fireworks, and a thousand other amusing things. Now you

have come, I will postpone my departure for a few hours so that you can

go with me. Come into my house, and rest and eat. I will see to it that

you are supplied with a fresh horse, for the one you are riding, well as

he looks, can hardly be in condition to do eighteen more leagues

to-day."

When D'Alvimar was alone with his host, he told him confidentially that

he could not dream of attending any public festivities, and that what he

desired of him was not to be taken to any such function, however

diverting, but to be concealed in his château for a few weeks. Nothing

more was needed in those days to assure oblivion touching an affair so

frequent and so simple as death or wounds inflicted on an enemy, whether

in single combat or otherwise. It was merely a matter of securing a

protector at court, and D'Alvimar was relying upon the speedy arrival at

Paris of the Duke of Lerma, whose kinsman he was or claimed to be. The

duke was a personage of sufficient note to obtain his pardon, and even

to place his fortunes upon a better footing than before.

Our Spaniard's version of his duel with Sciarra Martinengo--whether he

attempted to explain his having attacked him in violation of the rules,

or claimed to have been slandered in that respect, to Queen Marie as

well as to Monsieur de Luynes--was a matter to which Guillaume d'Ars

paid little heed. Like the loyal gentleman that he was, he had been

fascinated by D'Alvimar, and had no distrust of him. Moreover, he was

much more anxious to start than to remain behind, and it would have been

impossible to surprise him when he was less inclined to discuss any

question whatsoever.

So he dismissed the serious part of the affair very lightly, and was

disturbed only by the possibility of being detained another day from the

fêtes at the capital of Berry. Doubtless there was, behind his

impatience, some _amourette_ to be carried to a conclusion.

D'Alvimar, who saw his embarrassment, urged him to make no change in his

plans, but to suggest some village or farm on his domain where he could

safely remain.

"It is my desire to shelter and conceal you in my own château, and not

in a village or a farm-house," Guillaume replied. "And yet I fear you

will be sadly bored in such seclusion, and, upon reflection, I have

thought of a better plan. Eat and drink; then I will myself escort you

to the abode of a kinsman and friend of my own who lives not more than

an hour's ride from here. There you will be as pleasantly entertained

and in as perfect security as possible in our province of Lower Berry.

In four or five days I will come and take you away again."

D'Alvimar would have preferred to remain alone, but, as Guillaume

insisted, courtesy compelled him to assent. He refused to eat or drink,

and, remounting at once, he followed Guillaume d'Ars, who took with him

his retinue all equipped for travelling, as the road they were to take

deviated very slightly from the Bourges road.

[Footnote 1: Picard the shoemaker, a sergeant in the bourgeois

train-bands, where he possessed great influence. Concini, having

undertaken to disregard an order which Picard compelled him to obey,

caused the sergeant to be cudgelled. The popular wrath was so fierce

that Concini deemed his life in danger and left Paris. Two valets who

had acted for him were hanged.]

[Footnote 2: Of Louis XIII. to Anne of Austria, and of Elisabeth, the

young king's sister.]

[Footnote 3: Who became the great Condé.]

II

They left the château by way of the warren, rode through a by-path to

the Bourges highroad, from which they soon turned to the right, and then

through other by-paths to the Château Meillant road, leaving on their

right the baronial town of La Châtre, and finally, leaving the

last-mentioned road, they descended across the fields to the château

and village of Briantes, which was the goal of their journey.

As the country was really peaceful, the two gentlemen had ridden on

ahead of their little escort, in order that they might converse without

restraint; and this is how young D'Ars enlightened D'Alvimar:

"The friend upon whom I propose to quarter you," he said, "is the most

extraordinary personage in Christendom. You must keep a close watch upon

yourself in order to stifle a wild desire to laugh when you are with

him; but you will be well rewarded for such tolerance as you may display

of his mental peculiarities by the great kindness of heart he will

manifest to everybody he meets. He is so kind-hearted that, if you

should happen to forget his name and ask the first passer-by, noble or

serf, where the _kind gentleman_ lives, he will direct you, and never

make a mistake as to the person you mean. But this requires an

explanation, and, as your horse has no great desire to hurry, and as it

is only nine o'clock at the latest, I propose to entertain you with your

host's story. Listen, I begin! _Story of the kind Monsieur de

Bois-Doré_!

"As you are a foreigner, and have been in France no more than ten years,

you can hardly have met him, because he has been living on his estate

about the same time. Otherwise, you would certainly have remarked,

wherever you might have chanced to see him, the good, mad, gallant,

noble old Marquis de Bois-Doré, to-day lord of Briantes, Guinard,

Validé and other places; also, _abbé fiduciaire_ of Varennes, etc.,

etc.

"Despite all these titles, Bois-Doré does not belong to the great

nobility of the province, and we are related to him by marriage only. He

is a simple gentleman whom the late King Henri IV. made a marquis solely

through friendship, and who made a fortune, no one very well knows how,

in the wars of the Béarnais. We are compelled to believe that he must

have done more or less sacking and pillaging, as the custom was in those

days, and as is the well recognized privilege of partisan warfare.

"I will not attempt to describe Bois-Doré's campaigns; it would take

too long. Let me tell you his family history simply. His father,

Monsieur de----"

"Stay," said Monsieur d'Alvimar; "so this Monsieur de Bois-Doré is a

heretic, is he?"

"Ah! deuce take it," replied his guide, laughing, "I forgot that you are

a zealot--a genuine Spaniard! We fellows hereabout do not care so much

about these religious disputes. The province has suffered too much

because of them, and we long for the time when France shall suffer no

more. We hope that the king will soon bring all those fanatics of the

South to terms at Montauban. We want them to have a sound thrashing, but

not the cord and the stake to which our fathers would have treated them.

Political parties are not what they used to be, and in our day people

don't damn one another so much as they used. But I see that my remarks

displease you, and I hasten to inform you that Monsieur de Bois-Doré is

to-day as good a Catholic as many others who have never ceased to be

Catholics. On the day when the Béarnais concluded that Paris was well

worth a mass, Bois-Doré concluded that the king could not be in error,

and he abjured the doctrine of Geneva, without publicity, but sincerely,

I think."

"Return to the story of Monsieur de Bois-Doré's family," said

D'Alvimar, who did not choose to let his companion see with what

suspicious contempt he regarded new converts.

"As you please," replied the young man. "Our marquis's father was the

sturdiest Leaguer in the neighborhood. He was the _âme damnée_ of

Monsieur Claude de la Châtre and the Barbançois; I need say no more.

He had, in the château where he lived, a nice little assortment of

instruments of torture for such Huguenots as he might capture, and did

not hesitate to plant his own vassals on the wooden horse when they

could not pay their dues.

"He was so feared and detested by everybody, that he was universally

known as the _cheti' monsieur_, and with good reason.

"His son, now Marquis de Bois-Doré, whose baptismal name is Sylvain,

suffered so heavily from his father's cruel disposition, that he began

at an early age to take an entirely different view of life, and showed

toward his father's prisoners and vassals a gentleness and condescension

that were perhaps too great on the part of a man of war toward rebels

and of a noble toward inferiors; witness the fact that these qualities,

instead of making him popular, caused him to be despised by the

majority, and that the peasants, who are ungrateful and suspicious as a

class, said of him and his father:

"'One weighs more than he ought to; the other weighs nothing at all.'

"They considered the father a hard man, but of sound understanding,

fearless, and quite capable, after squeezing and tormenting them, of

protecting them against the exactions of the tax-gatherer and the

pillaging of the brutal soldiery; whereas, in their opinion, young

Monsieur Sylvain would allow them to be devoured and trampled upon for

lack of heart and brain.

"Now I don't know what it was that passed through Monsieur Sylvain's

brain one fine day, when he was sadly bored at the château; but the

result was that he fled from Briantes, where his good father blushed for

him, and considering him an imbecile, would never permit him to rise

above the station of a page, and joined the moderate Catholics, who were

then called the third party. As you know, that party many a time lent a

hand to the Calvinists; so that, proceeding from one error to another,

Monsieur Sylvain found himself one fine morning a full-fledged Huguenot,

and a close friend and well-beloved servitor of the young king of

Navarre. His father, having learned of it, cursed him, and, to be even

with him, conceived the scheme of marrying in his old age and presenting

him with a brother.

"That meant a reduction by one-half of Monsieur Sylvain's already

slender inheritance; for, as a Huguenot, he was in danger of losing his

right of primogeniture, and the _cheti' monsieur_ was not very rich, his

estates having been laid waste many times by the Calvinists.

"But observe the young man's natural goodness of heart! Far from being

angry, or even complaining of his father's marriage and the birth of the

child who bit his future crowns in two, he drew himself up proudly when

he heard the news.

"'Look you!' he said to his companions. 'Monsieur my father has passed

his sixtieth year, and here he is begetting a fine boy! I tell you

that's good blood, which I trust that I inherit!'

"He carried his good-humor farther than that; for, seven years later,

his father having left Berry to join Le Balafré against Monsieur

d'Alençon's expedition, and our soft-hearted Sylvain having heard that

his stepmother was dead, which left the child almost unprotected at the

château of Briantes, he returned secretly to the province, to defend

him at need, and, also, he said, for the pleasure of seeing him and

embracing him.

"He passed the whole winter with the little fellow, playing with him and

carrying him in his arms, as a nurse or governess would have done; the

which made the neighbors laugh and think that he was far too

simple-minded--_innocent_--to use the term they apply to a man deprived

of his reason.

"When the stern father returned after the Peace of Monsieur,

ill-pleased, as you can imagine, to see the rebels more generously

rewarded than the friends of the true faith, he flew into a furious rage

against the whole world, even against God Himself, who had allowed his

young wife to die of the plague in his absence. Looking about for

somebody to be revenged upon, he declared that his older son had

returned solely for the purpose of destroying the son of his old age by

witchcraft.

"It was a most villainous charge on the old corsair's part, for the

child had never been in better health nor better cared for, and poor

Sylvain was as incapable of an evil design as the child unborn."

Guillaume d'Ars had reached this point in his narrative, which had

brought them in sight of Briantes, when a sort of bourgeois maiden,

dressed in black, red and gray, with her dress turned up at the bottom

and cut high at the neck, came toward them, and, approaching young

D'Ars' stirrup, said, with repeated reverences:

"Alas! monsieur, I fear that you have come to ask my honored master, the

Marquis de Bois-Doré, to entertain you at dinner. But you will not find

him: he is at La Motte-Seuilly for the day, having given us our liberty

until night."

This intelligence was exceedingly annoying to young D'Ars, but he was

too well-bred to allow his annoyance to appear. He instantly determined

what course to pursue, and said, courteously uncovering:

"Very well, Demoiselle Bellinde; we will go on to La Motte-Seuilly. A

pleasant walk and _bonjour_!"

Then, to relieve his vexation, he said to Monsieur d'Alvimar, after

pointing out their new direction:

"Is she not a most toothsome housekeeper, whose comely aspect gives one

a captivating idea of our dear Bois-Doré's abode?"

Bellinde, who overhead this query, which was propounded aloud and in a

jovial tone, bridled up, smiled, and, summoning a little groom by whom

she was escorted as by a page, produced from her flowing sleeves two

small white dogs, which she bade him deposit gently on the turf, as if

to give them exercise, but in reality to have an excuse for facing the

cavaliers, and affording them a longer view of her fine new serge gown

and her plump figure.

She was a damsel of some thirty-five years, high-colored, with hair of a

shade approaching red and by no means unpleasant to the eye; for she had

a great quantity of it, and wore it in curls under her cap, to the great

scandal of the ladies of the province, who reproached her for seeking to

rise above her station. But she had a malicious expression, even when

she strove to be agreeable.

"Why do you call her Bellinde?" queried D'Alvimar, "Is it a common name

in the province?"

"Oh! by no means; her name is Guillette Carcot; Monsieur de Bois-Doré

christened her according to his custom. It's a mania of his, which I

will explain to you very soon. I must first tell you the rest of his

story."

"It is needless," replied D'Alvimar, stopping his horse. "Despite your

courtesy and the good grace with which you endure disappointment, I see

plainly enough that I am a considerable burden to you. Let us go on to

the château of Briantes, and do you leave me there with a letter to

Monsieur de Bois-Doré, introducing me to him. As he is to return

to-night, I will wait for him and rest a little meanwhile."

"No, no!" cried Guillaume, "I should prefer to abandon the pleasures of

Bourges, and I should have done so already, were it not for the promise

I have made to some of my friends to be there this evening. But I

certainly will not leave you until I have myself commended you to the

care of an agreeable and faithful friend. La Motte-Seuilly is not a

league away, and there is no need to tire our horses. Let us take our

time. I shall reach Bourges an hour or two later, but in these holiday

times I am sure to find the gates open."

And he resumed Bois-Doré's history, to which D'Alvimar hardly listened.

That gentleman was anxious concerning his own safety, and it did not

seem to him that the country through which they were riding was very

well adapted to his plan of lying hidden.

It was a flat, open country, where, in case of an unpleasant meeting, it

was hardly possible to find the shelter of a wood, or even of a clump of

trees. The tillage land is too rich there ever to have been wasted in

tree-planting. It is a fine reddish soil, which stretches away in vast,

broadly-undulating fields, melancholy to look upon, although bordered by

lovely hills and strewn with picturesque little castles.

Briantes, however, to which our travellers had drawn very near, had

impressed D'Alvimar much more favorably.

Within ten minutes' walk of the château, the land suddenly slopes

downward, and leads gradually down into a narrow, well-wooded valley.

The château itself cannot be seen until one is on top of it, as they

say in the province; and the expression is quite accurate, for the

slated belfry of its highest tower rises very little above the plateau,

and when, from the plain beyond, you see it gleaming in the rays of the

setting sun, you would say that it was a tiny lantern hung on the brink

of the ravine.

Almost the same may be said of the château of La Motte-Seuilly,[4]

which lies below the plain of Chaumois, but in a less charming location

than Briantes; a dull, flat country, instead of a lovely valley.

Before reaching the cross-road which leads to the castle, Guillaume had

told his companion in a few words the remaining vicissitudes in the life

of Monsieur Sylvain de Bois-Doré; how his father had attempted to

confine him in his tower, to prevent his returning to the Huguenots; how

the young man had escaped by scaling the walls, and had gone off to join

his dear Henri de Navarre, with whom, after the death of King Henri

III., he had fought nine years; how, finally, having contributed to the

utmost of his ability to place him on the throne, he had returned to

live on his estates, where his tyrant of a father had ceased to live and

drive his neighbors mad.

"And what became of his young brother?" queried D'Alvimar, making an

effort to become interested in the narrative.

"The young brother is no more," replied D'Ars. "Bois-Doré knew but

little of him, for his father sent him when he was very young to serve

under the Duc de Savoie, and while in his service he met his death in

a----"

At this point Guillaume was interrupted once more by an incident which

seemed to annoy D'Alvimar exceedingly, whether because he was beginning

to be interested in his companion's information, or because, being a

Spaniard, he had a marked repugnance for interrupters.

[Footnote 4: Now Feuilly; formerly and successively Seuly, Sully and

Seuilly.]

III

It was a band of gypsies, who were lying flat in a ditch, and rose at

the approach of the horsemen like a flock of sparrows, causing Monsieur

d'Alvimar's horse to shy. But they were very well tamed sparrows, for,

instead of flying away, they threw themselves almost under the legs of

the horses, jumping, yelling and holding out their hands in a piteous

and hypocritical way.

It did not occur to Guillaume to do anything else than laugh at their

strange actions, and he bestowed alms on them very generously; but

D'Alvimar was extraordinarily surly, and said again and again,

threatening them with his whip:

"Away! away! away from me, canaille!"

He went so far as to attempt to strike a lad who was clinging to his

boot, with the look, at once mocking and imploring, of children trained

to the trade of begging on the highway. He avoided the whip, and

Guillaume, who was riding behind, saw him pick up a stone, which he

would have hurled at D'Alvimar, if another boy, somewhat older than he,

had not caught his arm, scolding and threatening him.

But the incident did not end there: a small woman, of not unattractive

appearance, albeit sadly faded and poorly dressed, seized the child,

and, speaking to him as if she were his mother, pushed him toward

Guillaume, then ran after D'Alvimar, holding out her hand, but at the

same time gazing at him as if she wished never to forget his face.

D'Alvimar, with increasing irritation, urged his horse toward the woman,

and would have ridden her down had she not quickly stepped aside; he

even put his hand to the butt of one of the pistols in his holsters, as

if he would readily have fired on one of those wretched beasts of

idolaters.

Thereupon the gypsies exchanged glances, and drew together as if to

consult.

"_Avanti_! _avanti_!" Guillaume shouted to D'Alvimar.

He loved to use Italian words, to show that he had been to the

queen-mother's court; or perhaps he fancied that an _i_ at the end of a

word was sufficient to make it unintelligible to those gypsies.

"Why _avanti_?" said D'Alvimar, declining to urge his horse.

"Because you have irritated yonder blackbirds. See! they are crowding

together like cranes in distress; and, faith! there are a score of them

and only seven of us."

"How now, my dear Guillaume! Can it be that you have any fear of those

feeble, cowardly animals?"

"I am not accustomed to fear," replied the young man, slightly piqued,

"but it would be exceedingly distasteful to me to fire on the poor,

ragged wretches; and I am surprised that they have roused your temper

so, when it would have been a very simple matter to rid yourself of them

with a little small change."

"I never give to such people," said Sciarra D'Alvimar, in a short dry

tone, which surprised the good-humored Guillaume.

The latter felt that his companion had what we should call to-day an

attack of the nerves, and he abstained from reproving him. But he

insisted on quickening their pace, for the gypsies, running faster than

the horses trotted, followed them, and even went before them, divided

into two bands, one on each side of the road.

They had not a hostile air, however, and it was difficult to guess what

their purpose was in escorting the horsemen thus.

They talked among themselves in an unintelligible jargon, and seemed,

one and all, intent upon watching the woman at their head.

The child whom Monsieur d'Alvimar had tried to strike with his whip

trotted along beside Monsieur d'Ars, as if he relied upon his

protection, and seemed to take great interest in this extraordinary

race. Guillaume noticed that the little fellow was less black and less

dirty than the others, and that his refined and attractive features bore

no racial resemblance to those of the gypsies.

If he had paid the same attention to the woman whom D'Alvimar had

insulted and threatened, he would have noticed also that, while she did

not resemble the child in the slightest degree, she resembled no more

her other companions in misery. Her bearing was noble and less rough.

She was clearly not of European race, although she wore the costume of a

mountaineer of the Pyrenees.

[Illustration: _MERCEDES ENCOUNTERS D'ALVIMAR._

_She walked boldly by his side, no longer trying

to beg from him, nor with any appearance of threatening

him, but watching him constantly with the

closest attention._]

The most surprising fact was that, while she had understood perfectly

the movement which Sciarra made to draw his pistol, and despite the

natural cowardliness of beggars and mountebanks of that species, she

walked boldly by his side, no longer trying to beg from him, nor with

any appearance of threatening him, but watching him constantly with the

closest attention.

Her conduct seemed downright insolent to D'Alvimar, and he was on the

verge of listening to the promptings of his capricious and violent

temper.

Guillaume saw that such was the case, and, being apprehensive of some

unpleasant outbreak, and of being obliged to take sides with the

overbearing gentleman against the inoffensive canaille, he urged his

horse between Sciarra and the little woman, motioned to her to stop, and

said to her, half-laughing, half-serious:

"Would you deign to tell us, queen of the genesta and the heather,

whether it is to put shame upon us or to do us honor that you follow us

in this way, and whether we should be pleased or displeased at the

ceremony with which you treat us?"

The Egyptian--these nomadic hordes of unknown origin were called

Egyptians or Bohemians indifferently in those days--shook her head and

motioned to the boy who had taken the stone from the child's hand.

He walked toward them, and, pointing to the silent woman, said, with an

impudent manner, but in a wheedling tone, speaking French with no marked

accent:

"Mercedes doesn't understand your lordships' language. I always speak

for those of our people who can't make themselves understood."

"Ah! yes," said Guillaume, "you are the orator of the tribe; what is

your name, Master Impertinent?"

"_La Flèche_, at your service. I have the honor to have been born a

Frenchman, in the town of which I bear the name."

"The honor is on France's side, assuredly! Now, then, Master La Flèche,

tell your comrades to let us go our way in peace. I have given you

enough for a man who is travelling, and to make us swallow your dust is

not the way to thank me for it. Adieu, and leave us, or, if you have

some further request to make, do it quickly, for we are in a hurry."

La Flèche rapidly translated Guillaume's words to her whom he called

Mercedes, and who seemed to be treated with peculiar deference by

himself as well as by all the others.

She replied with a few words in Spanish, whereupon La Flèche said to

D'Ars:

"This worthy woman humbly requests your lordships' names, so that she

may pray for you."

Guillaume laughed.

"That is an amusing request," he said. "Advise this worthy woman, friend

La Flèche, to pray for us without knowing our names. The good Lord

knows us well, and we can tell him nothing about ourselves that he does

not know better than we do."

La Flèche saluted humbly with his dirty cap, and our travellers,

spurring their steeds, soon left the gypsies behind.

"By the way," said D'Alvimar to Guillaume, as the bell-tower of La

Motte-Seuilly appeared on the horizon, "you have not told me where you

are going. Does that château belong to another of your friends who

would, doubtless, think me an intruder?"

"Yonder château is the home of a young and lovely woman, who lives

there with her father, and they will both receive you courteously. They

will keep you until evening, not only in order not to be deprived of the

company of Monsieur de Bois-Doré, whom they esteem very highly, but

also to prove to you that we are not savages in our poor country

province, and that we know how to practise hospitality in the old French

way."

D'Alvimar replied that he had no manner of doubt of it, and succeeded in

making some other courteous remarks to his companion, for no man was

ever better taught; but his bitter thoughts soon turned to another

subject.

"According to what you have told me of this Bois-Doré, my host that is

to be," he said, "he is an old mannikin, I should judge, whose vassals

enjoy themselves to their hearts' content?"

"No," replied Monsieur d'Ars. "Those gypsies interrupted me. I was

about to tell you that, when he returned to the country, wealthy and

bemarquised, people were surprised to find that he was as brave as a

lion, despite his mild aspect, and that, while he had some laughable

foibles, he also had some Christian virtues which are a very comfortable

possession for a man."

"Do you reckon temperance and chastity among your Christian virtues?"

"Why not, I pray you?"

"Because that housekeeper with the glowing mane, whom we saw at the gate

of his domain, seemed to me something lusty for so demure a man."

"Evil to him who evil thinks!" rejoined Guillaume, with a smile. "I

would not take my oath that our marquis was altogether insensible to the

cajoleries of Queen Catherine's maids of honor; but that was a long

while ago! I am strongly of the opinion that you could tell Bellinde

about it without offending her or causing her pain. But here we are. I

need not tell you that such subjects are not in season here. Our fair

widow, Madame de Beuvre, is no prude, but at her age and in her

position----"

Our friends rode over the drawbridge, which, in view of the tranquil

state of the province, was lowered all day; the portcullis was closed.

Thus they rode, without hindrance or ceremony, into the courtyard of the

manor, where they dismounted.

"One moment!" said Sciarra d'Alvimar to Guillaume, as they were about to

enter the house; "do not, I beg you, mention my name here, on account of

the servants."

"Neither here nor elsewhere," Monsieur d'Ars replied. "You have almost

no foreign accent; so there is no need to say that you are Spanish. For

which of my friends in Paris do you wish me to pass you off?"

"I should be sadly embarrassed to play a rôle other than my own. I

prefer to remain almost myself, and simply to assume one of my family

names. I will be a Villareal, if you choose, and as an explanation of my

flight from Paris----"

"You can talk confidentially with the marquis, and arrange matters as

you choose. There is nothing for me to do but to tell him how dear a

friend of mine you are; that you are running away from some persecution

or other; and that I beg him to take as good care of you as he would of

myself."

IV

The château of La Motte-Seuilly,--that name finally carried the

day,--which is still standing and almost intact to-day, is a small

manor-house consisting of a hexagonal entrance tower, purely feudal in

style, of a main building, very plain, with windows far apart, and of

two wings at right angles thereto, one of which is a donjon. In the left

wing are the stables, with arched ceilings and heavy timbers, the

kitchens and the servants' quarters; in the other, the chapel with its

ogival windows, of the time of Louis XII., spans a short open gallery,

supported by two heavy pillars surrounded by mouldings in relief, like

huge tree-trunks in the embrace of creeping plants.

This gallery leads to the large tower or donjon, which, like the

entrance tower, dates from the twelfth century. The rooms within are

circular, decorated very simply but very prettily with columns set in

claw-shaped pedestals. The winding staircase, which is in a small tower

built against the larger one, leads to one of those old-fashioned

_charpentes_, cunningly and boldly fashioned, which are to this day

considered objects of art.

This one bore, at the centre of its radiating spokes, a _chevalet_ or

wooden horse, an instrument of torture, the use of which was regulated

in cold blood by ordinance as late as 1670. This horrible machine dates

from the construction of the building, for it is built into the

_charpente_.

It was in this poor, cramped, dismal manor that the beautiful Charlotte

d'Albret, wife of the ill-omened Cæsar Borgia, passed fifteen years and

died, still quite young, after a life of sorrow and sanctity.

Everyone knows that the infamous cardinal, the pope's bastard, the

incestuous, blood-stained debauchee, the lover of his sister Lucretia,

and the murderer of his own brother and rival, divested himself of the

dignities of the church one fine day, to seek fortune and a wife in

France.

Louis XII. desired to break off his own marriage with Jeanne, daughter

of Louis XI., in order to marry Anne de Bretagne. The pope's assent was

required. He obtained it on condition that he should give the duchy of

Valentinois and the hand of a princess to the bastard--the brigand

cardinal.

Charlotte d'Albret, a lovely, pure and learned maiden, was sacrificed; a

few months later she was abandoned and looked upon as a widow.

She purchased this dismal castle and took up her abode there to educate

her daughter.[5] Her only external pleasure was an occasional journey to

Bourges, to see her mysterious companion in misfortune, Jeanne de

France, the cast-off queen, who had become the Duchesse de Berry and the

foundress of the _Annonciade_.

But Jeanne died, and Charlotte, then twenty-four years old, put on

mourning, which she never laid aside, and did not leave La Motte-Seuilly

again until her own death, which occurred nine years later--in 1514.

Her body was taken to Bourges and buried beside Jeanne's, to be exhumed,

insulted and burned by the Calvinists half a century later, together

with that of the other poor saint. Her body rested in peace somewhat

longer in the rustic chapel of La Motte-Seuilly, under a pretty monument

which her daughter erected to her.

But it was written that no earthly trace of that melancholy destiny

should be respected. In 1793 the peasants, venting upon that tomb the

hatred they bore their lord, burned it to the ground, and its débris

lie scattered over the pavement to-day. The statue of Charlotte is

propped against the wall, broken in three pieces. The chapel, utterly

neglected, is crumbling to decay. The victim's heart was in all

probability sealed up in a gold or silver casket: what has become of it?

Sold perhaps at a low price; perhaps simply hidden away or buried, in

consequence of a sudden return of fear or devotion, that poor heart may

be reposing in some village hovel, unknown to its new occupant, under

the hearthstone, or under the briar hedge.

To-day the castle, restored in some degree, brightens up a little in the

sunlight, which finds its way into the gravelled courtyard through a

great breach in the wall. The water from the ancient moats, fed, I

believe, by a spring near by, flows in a charming little stream through

the newly laid out English garden.

The enormous yew, which dates from the time of Charlotte d'Albret, rests

its venerable, drooping branches on blocks of stone, arranged with pious

care to support its monumental decrepitude. A few flowers and a solitary

swan cast a sort of melancholy smile about the sorrowful manor-house.

The outlook is still gloomy; the landscape most depressing; the tower of

sinister aspect--and yet an artistic generation loves these dismal

abodes, these old, desolate nests, solid structures of a stern and

bitter past of which the common people know nothing, which they had

forgotten as early as 1793, since they shattered poor Charlotte's tomb

and left untouched the triumphant wooden horse of La Motte-Seuilly.

At the time of our narrative, the manor-house, closed on all sides, was

at once more dismal and more comfortable than to-day. People lived in

the cold obscurity of those little fortresses; therefore, they must have

been able to make themselves comfortable in them.

The huge fireplaces, all sheathed in cast-iron at the back, filled the

vast apartments with an intense heat. The former hangings on the walls

were replaced by felt paper of extraordinary thickness and beauty;

instead of our pretty Persian curtains, which quiver in the draughts

from the windows, were heavy folds of damask, or, in more modest

dwellings, of wadded silk, that lasted fifty years. On the sandstone

floors of corridors and living-rooms were rugs of a new kind, made of

wool, cotton, flax and hemp.

Very handsome marquetry floors were made in those days, and in the

central provinces people ate from lovely Nevers porcelain, while the

sideboards were resplendent with those curious goblets of colored glass,

used only on grand occasions, and representing fanciful monuments,

plants, vessels or animals.

Thus, despite the modest appearance of the exterior of the wing set

aside for the apartments of the masters--for the nobles had already

ceased to live near the roofs of their old feudal donjons--Monsieur

d'Alvimar found an attractive interior, neat and not unrefined, which

denoted genuine ease, at least, if not great wealth.

La Motte-Seuilly had passed, by the marriage of Louis Borgia, into the

family of La Trémouille, to which Monsieur de Beuvre belonged through

his mother.

He was a rough and gallant gentleman, who never hesitated to promulgate

his opinions and beliefs. His only daughter, Lauriane, had married, at

the age of twelve, her cousin Hélyon de Beuvre, aged sixteen.

The two children had been kept apart, with the greater ease in that the

province was suddenly stirred by a commotion in which Messieurs de

Beuvre felt that they were in duty bound to take part. They left La

Motte on the very day of the marriage, to go to the succor of the

Duchesse de Nevers, who had declared for the Prince de Condé, and who

was besieged in her good city by Monsieur de Montigny--François de la

Grange.

While making a bold attempt to force his way into Nevers, under the eyes

of the Catholics, young Hélyon was killed. On his return from that

campaign, therefore, Monsieur de Beuvre had the painful task of

informing his darling daughter that she had passed without transition

from the state of a virgin to that of a widow.

Lauriane[6] wept bitterly for her young cousin. But can a maiden weep

incessantly at twelve years of age? And then her father gave her such a

lovely doll!--a doll with a dress of cloth of silver, and red velvet

slippers pinked like a crab's tail! And then, when she was fourteen, he

gave her such a pretty little horse, from Monsieur le Prince's own stud!

And then, too, Lauriane, who, at the time of her marriage, was only a

pale, slender chit, became at fifteen a dainty blonde, so graceful and

rosy and lovable, that there was no great danger that she would remain a

widow.

But she was so happy with her father, and reigned so absolutely in the

little château he had given her by way of dowry, that she felt in no

manner of haste to enter the marriage state a second time. Was she not

called _madame_? And is not the childish desire to be so called one of

the most potent reasons which induce young girls to marry?--that and the

gifts and the fêtes and the wedding trousseau?

"I have already had all the joys and all the sorrows of married life,"

Lauriane would say artlessly.

And yet, although he had a considerable fortune, managed by him with

great prudence, to which his retired life enabled him to add materially,

Monsieur de Beuvre did not find it a simple matter to arrange a second

marriage for his daughter.

He had embraced the cause of the Reformed religion at the moment that

that cause, drained of men and of money, had no other alternative in our

provinces than to keep in the shadow and obtain toleration.

Everybody in his neighborhood was a Catholic, or pretended to be; for,

in Berry, Calvinism had only a single moment of power and a single real

stronghold. But

_The year fifteen sixty-two_

when

_Bourges lacked priests and beggars too_,

was already far away, and Sancerre, the _troublesome mountain_, had its

walls razed to the ground.

The Berrichon character naturally inclines neither to persecution nor

fanaticism; and, after a moment of surprise and agitation, when the

passions of those outside their borders had intoxicated the common

people and the bourgeoisie, they had fallen back under the influence of

that fear of the great, which is the unchanging foundation of the

politics of that province.

The great men, for their part, had sold their submission, in accordance

with their invariable custom. Condé had become a zealous Catholic.

Monsieur de Beuvre, who had first served the father, then lost his own

son-in-law in the son's cause, was, naturally enough, altogether in

disgrace, and appeared no more at Bourges. Jesuits had been sent to him

by the prince, to urge him to make solemn abjuration.

De Beuvre was no fanatic in religious matters. He had yielded to

political passions when he embraced the Lutheran faith, and he realized

that he had made a mistake so far as his fortunes were concerned. He was

too recent a convert to make it worth their while to purchase him. They

contented themselves with attempting to intimidate him, and it had been

hinted to him most adroitly that he could not find a husband for his

daughter in the province if he persisted in his heresy. Having held his

head proudly erect before their threats, he had felt somewhat shaken at

the idea of Lauriane remaining a widow and her patrimony falling to

another branch of the family.

But Lauriane had prevented him from giving way. Reared by him as a very

lukewarm adherent of the Protestant religion, she was only partially

instructed in its doctrines, and freely mingled the ceremonies and

prayers of both forms of worship in her heart.

She did not go to the meeting-house over the long, wretched roads at

Issoudun or Linières, and when she passed a Catholic church, she did

not leap with indignation at the sound of the bell. But she sometimes

displayed beneath her smiling, childlike sweetness the germs of an

intense pride; and when she saw how her father suffered at the

humiliating thought of public abjuration, she came to his assistance

with surprising energy, saying to the Jesuits from Bourges:

"It is of no use for you to seek to convert me with the bait of a

handsome Catholic husband, for I have sworn in my heart that I will

rather belong to a detestable husband of my own communion."

[Footnote 5: Louise Borgia, afterward married to Louis de Trémouille,

and later to Philippe de Bourbon-Busset.]

[Footnote 6: Saint Laurian was one of the saints held in highest honor

in Berry.]

V

Only a few weeks had elapsed since the visit of the Jesuits to La

Motte-Seuilly, when Monsieur Sciarra d'Alvimar appeared there,

introduced by Guillaume d'Ars. They were received by the father and the

daughter, Monsieur de Bois-Doré having gone out to shoot a hare with

Monsieur de Beuvre's keeper.

This was a fresh disappointment to Guillaume, who found himself delayed

again and again, and was beginning to despair of reaching Bourges that

day.

Sciarra d'Alvimar conducted himself with much charm of manner, and, from

the first words he uttered, De Beuvre, who was familiar with social

usages, not because he had seen much of Paris, but because he had

frequented the petty provincial courts, where there was as much state

and ceremony as at the king's own court, saw that he had to do with a

man accustomed to the best society.

As for D'Alvimar, who was deeply impressed by Lauriane's youth and

grace, he took her for a younger daughter of Monsieur de Beuvre, and

still awaited the appearance of the widow of whom D'Ars had spoken.

Not for some time did he realize that that lovely child was the mistress

of the house.

In those days dinner was served at ten in the morning, and Guillaume,

having gone out to the fields in quest of the marquis, returned to take

leave.

"I have told the marquis," he said to Sciarra; "he is coming in; he has

promised solemnly to be your host and your friend until my return. So I

leave you in good company, and I shall do my best to make up for lost

time."

They tried in vain to keep him to dinner. He departed, having kissed the

fair Lauriane's hand, pressed his good neighbor Monsieur de Beuvre's,

and embraced D'Alvimar, swearing that he would return to Briantes before

the end of the week to take him to his château of Ars, and keep him

there as long as possible.

"Now," said Monsieur de Beuvre to D'Alvimar, "give the châtelaine your

hand and let us to the table. Do not be surprised if we do not wait for

our friend Bois-Doré. He is accustomed to spend an hour over his

toilet, even when he has hunted less than fifteen minutes; and not for

anything in the world would he appear before a lady--even this lady, who

is like his own child in his eyes, for he saw her at her birth--without

having washed and perfumed, and changed his clothing from head to foot.

That is his whim, and there is no great harm in it. We stand on no

ceremony with him, and we should offend him by delaying our repast to

await his coming."

"Should I not," said D'Alvimar, when he had been seated at the upper end

of the table, "go and present my respects to Monsieur de Bois-Doré in

his apartments, before taking my place at the table?"

"No," laughed Lauriane, "you would vex him terribly by surprising him at

his toilet. Do not ask us why; you will understand for yourself as soon

as you see him."

"Moreover," added Monsieur de Beuvre, "except by reason of your youth,

you owe him no attentions, for in his capacity of _fiduciary_ host he is

called upon to make all the advances. And I will undertake the duty of

presenting you to him, Monsieur d'Ars having requested me to do so."

In referring to D'Alvimar's youth, Monsieur de Beuvre fell into the

error which his appearance caused at first sight.

Although he was at this time close upon forty, he seemed less than

thirty, and it may be that Monsieur de Beuvre mentally compared his

temporary guest's comely face with that of his dear Lauriane. It was his

constant thought to find for her some husband, outside the province, who

would not demand a solemn abjuration.

The worthy gentleman did not know that the Jesuits already reigned

everywhere, and that Berry was one of the provinces which were least

affected by their propaganda.

Nor did he know that D'Alvimar was in his heart a perfect knight of the

blessed Dame Inquisition.

Guillaume, wishing to assure his friend a cordial welcome, was very

careful not to describe him as too sensitive in his orthodoxy. Himself a

Catholic, but extremely tolerant in his views and by no means a devout

believer, like most of the young men of fashion, he had not, in

introducing him to the master of the house, or in commending him to

Monsieur de Bois-Doré, touched at all upon the religious questions to

which those gentlemen attached little more weight in their ordinary

relations than D'Ars himself. But he had informed Monsieur de Beuvre,

briefly, that Monsieur de Villareal--the name they had agreed upon--was

of good family--that fact was certain--and in a fair way to make his

fortune, which Guillaume believed to be true, for Monsieur D'Alvimar

concealed his poverty with all the pride of which a Spaniard is capable

in that direction.

The first course was served with the characteristic moderation of

Berrichon servants, and discussed with the premeditated moderation of

well-bred people who do not choose to be considered gluttons.

This patient deglutition, the long pauses between every mouthful, the

host's anecdotes between the courses, are still esteemed the elements of

good breeding among the old men in Berry. The peasants of our day have

carried the same theory still farther, and, when you break bread with

them, you can be certain of remaining three full hours at the table,

though there be nothing upon it but a bit of cheese and a bottle of sour

wine.

D'Alvimar, whose active and restless mind could not fall asleep in the

joys of eating, took advantage of Monsieur de Beuvre's stately

mastication to talk with his daughter, who ate quickly and sparingly,

paying more attention to her father and her guest than to herself.

He was surprised to find so much wit in a country girl who had never

gone beyond the limits of her own domain, save for one or two trips to

Bourges and Nevers.

Lauriane was not very well cultivated, and it may be that she could not

have written a long letter without making mistakes in grammar; but she

talked well, and, by dint of listening while her father and his

neighbors discussed the affairs of the time, she was familiar with

history, and accurate in her judgment thereof, from the reign of Louis

XII. and the first religious wars.

However, as she gloried in her descent from Charlotte d'Albret, as that

martyr's memory was in her eyes worthy of reverence and was revered by

her, she had no occasion to let D'Alvimar see that she was a heretic;

moreover, the laws of civility of that period ordained that people

should never discuss their own religious beliefs without adequate cause,

even when they were of the same communion; for the shades of belief were

without number, and controversy was rampant everywhere.

In addition to her delicate tact and great good sense, there was a

flavor of frankness and mischief in her wit, a purely Berrichon

combination, the result of a blending of two contrary qualities being a

decidedly original way of looking at things and of speaking. She was of

the province where the truth is told with a smile on the lips, and where

everyone knows that he is understood without having to lose his temper.

D'Alvimar, who was overbearing rather than affable, and more vindictive

than sincere, felt somewhat abashed in presence of that young woman, nor

had he any very clear conception of the cause of that feeling.

At times it seemed to him that she divined his character, his past life,

or his recent adventure, and that her manner seemed to say to him:

"For all that, we are none the less hospitable folk, ready to entertain

you."

At last the time arrived to serve the joint, and, amid a great banging

of doors and clashing of plates, Monsieur de Bois-Doré appeared,

preceded by a diminutive retainer richly costumed, whom under his breath

he called his page, as if to justify this verse, which, however, had not

yet appeared to bring ridicule upon his like:

_Every marquis must have pages_,

and in contravention of the royal ordinances, which allowed pages only

to princes and to the very greatest noblemen.

Despite his habitual dejection and his present discomfort, D'Alvimar had

difficulty in restraining his laughter at the appearance of his

_fiduciary_ host.

Monsieur Sylvain de Bois-Doré had been one of the handsome men of his

time. Tall, well-made, black hair, white skin, magnificent eyes, fine

features, physically strong and active, he had won the favor of many

ladies, but had never inspired a violent or lasting passion. It was the

fault of his own fickleness and of the sparing use he made of his own

emotions.

Boundless charity, a loyalty that was most remarkable when we consider

the time and his environment, princely lavishness when fortune chanced

to smile upon him, a stoical philosophy in his hours of ill-luck, with

all the amiable and free-and-easy qualities of the adventurous champions

of the Béarnais, did not suffice to make an impassioned hero of the

type that was popular in his youthful days.

It was an epoch of excitement and bloodshed, when love-making needed a

little ferocity in order to become romantic attachment; and Bois-Doré,

apart from actual battle, wherein he bore himself valiantly, was

disgustingly kind and gentle. He had never murdered a husband or

brother; he had poniarded no rival in the arms of an unfaithful

mistress; Javotte or Nanette readily consoled him for the treachery of

Diane or Blanche. And so, notwithstanding his taste for romances of

pastoral life and of chivalry, he was considered to have a paltry mind

and a lukewarm heart.

He was the more readily reconciled to being tricked and cozened by the

ladies, in that he had never noticed it. He knew that he was handsome,

generous and brave; his adventures were brief but numerous; his heart

craved friendship rather than wild passion; and by his discretion and

his gentle manners he had earned the privilege of remaining everybody's

friend. He had been quite happy, therefore, without exerting himself to

be adored, and, to speak frankly, he had loved all the ladies more or

less without adoring any one of them.

He might have been accused of egotism, had it been possible to reconcile

such an accusation with the other one freely brought against him, of

being too kind and too humane. He was in some measure a caricature of

the good Henri, whom many called an ingrate and a traitor, but whom one

and all loved none the less after they had come in contact with him.

But time had moved on, and that was a fact which Monsieur de Bois-Doré

had not deigned to perceive. His supple frame had hardened and

stiffened, his shapely legs had withered, the hair had receded from his

noble brow, his great eye was surrounded with wrinkles as the sun is

with rays, and of all his vanished youth he had retained naught save the

teeth, somewhat long, but still white and even, with which he

ostentatiously cracked nuts at dessert in order to draw attention to

them. Indeed it was a common remark among his neighbors that he was much

annoyed if they forgot to place some nuts on the table before him.

When we say that Monsieur de Bois-Doré had not observed the inroads of

time, it is simply another way of expressing his perfect satisfaction

with himself; for it is certain that he saw that he was growing old, and

that he fought against the effect of advancing years with valiant

determination. I believe that the utmost energy of which he was capable

was put forth in that struggle.

When he saw that his hair was turning white and falling out, he made the

journey to Paris for the sole purpose of ordering a wig from the best

artist in wigs. Wigmaking was becoming an art; but the investigators of

details have informed us that at least sixty pistoles were required to

obtain one with a white silk parting, and the hairs inserted one by one.

Monsieur de Bois-Doré was not deterred by that trifling sum, for he was

a rich man, and could well afford to expend twelve to fifteen hundred

francs of our money upon a semi-ceremonious costume, and five or six

thousand upon a full dress-coat. He hastened to provide himself with a

stock of wigs: first he fell in love with a flaxen mane, which was

wonderfully becoming to him, according to the wigmaker. Bois-Doré, who

had never before seen himself as a blond, was beginning to believe it,

when he tried on one of a chestnut hue, which, still according to the

dealer, was no less becoming than the other. The two were of the same

price: but Bois-Doré tried on a third, which cost ten crowns more, and

which caused the dealer's enthusiasm to overflow: that was really the

only one, he said, which brought out Monsieur le marquis's fine points.

Bois-Doré thought of the time when the ladies used to say that it was

very unusual to see hair as black as his with so white a skin.

"This wigmaker must be right," he thought.

But, standing before the mirror a few moments, he was surprised to see

that that dark mane gave him a harsh, savage air.

"It is astonishing how it changes me," he said to himself. "However,

this is my natural color. In my youth my appearance was as mild as it is

now. My thick black hair never gave me this cutthroat look."

It did not occur to him that all things harmonize in the operations of

nature, whether it is putting us together or taking us apart, and that

with the gray hair his appearance was as it should be.

But the wigmaker told him so many times that he looked no more than

thirty years old with that lovely wig, that he purchased it, and at once

ordered another, for economy's sake, as he said, in order to save the

first one.

However, he changed his mind the next day. He considered that he looked

older than before with that youthful head, and all the friends whom he

consulted shared that opinion.

The wigmaker explained to him that the hair, eyebrows and beard must be

made to correspond, and he sold him the dye. But thereupon, Bois-Doré

found that his face was so deathly pale amid those blotches of ink, that

it was necessary to explain to him that he would require rouge.

"It would seem," he said, "that when you begin to resort to artificial

methods, you can never stop?"

"That is the general rule," replied the rejuvenator; "choose whether you

will be old or appear old?"

"But am I old, pray?"

"No, since you can still appear to be young by the use of my receipts."

From that day Bois-Doré wore a wig; eyebrows, moustaches and beard

painted and waxed; chalk on his nose; rouge on his cheeks; fragrant

powders in every fold of his wrinkles; and, lastly, perfumes and

scent-bags all over his person; so that, when he left his room, you

could smell him in the poultry-yard; and if he simply passed the kennel,

all his coursing dogs sneezed and made wry faces for an hour.

When he had thoroughly succeeded in making an absurd old automaton out

of the handsome old man he had been, he took measures to spoil his

figure, which had the dignity befitting his years, by having his

doublets and short-clothes lined with double rows of steel, and holding

himself so erect that he went to bed every night with a lame back.

It would have killed him, had not the fashion changed, luckily for him.

The stiff, close-fitting doublets of Henry IV. gave way to the light

surtouts of the young favorites of Louis XIII. The hoop-shaped

short-clothes were succeeded by broad, full breeches which yielded to

every movement of the body.

It cost Bois-Doré a pang to give way to these innovations, and to part

with his rigid _godronné_ ruffs just to be a little more comfortable in

the light _rotondes_. He sorely regretted the stiff lace, but ribbons

and fluffy laces seduced him by slow degrees, and he returned from a

brief visit to Paris dressed in the style affected by young men of

fashion, and imitating their heedless, exhausted airs, sprawling in easy

chairs, striking weary attitudes, rising from his seat in waltz time; in

a word, enacting, with his tall figure and strongly-marked features, the

rôle of insipid little marquis, which Molière, thirty years later,

found complete in its absurdity and ripe for his satire.

This method enabled Bois-Doré to conceal the real burden of his years

beneath a disguise which transformed him into a sort of absurd ghost.

To D'Alvimar he seemed an appalling spectacle, at first sight. The

Spaniard could not understand that profusion of ebon curls around the

wrinkled face, those heavy, awe-inspiring eyebrows over the soft, mild

eyes, that brilliant rouge, which seemed like a mask placed in jest upon

a venerable and benevolent face.

As for the costume, its extreme elegance, the quantity of lace,

embroidery, rosettes and plumes, made it ridiculous beyond words at

midday, in the country; not to mention the fact that the pale, delicate

hues which our marquis affected were horribly out of harmony with the

lion-like aspect of his bristling moustache and his borrowed mane.

But the old gentleman's greeting neutralized most agreeably the

repellent effect produced upon D'Alvimar by that burlesque figure.

Monsieur de Beuvre had risen to present Guillaume's friend to the

marquis, and to remind him that he was placed in his care for several

days.

"It is a pleasure and an honor which I should claim for myself," said

Monsieur de Beuvre, "if I were in my own house; but I must not forget

that I am under my daughter's roof. Moreover, this house is much less

rich and splendid than yours, my dear Sylvain, and we do not wish to

deprive Monsieur Villareal of the pleasures that await him there."

"I accept your hyperbolical statements," replied Bois-Doré, "if they

will but dazzle Monsieur de Villareal so far as to induce him to remain

a long while under my care."

Whereupon he extended his arms, swathed in lace to the elbow, and

embraced the pretended Villareal, saying with a frank laugh that showed

his fine white teeth:

"Were you the devil himself, monsieur, from the moment that you are

entrusted to me, you become as a brother to me."

He was careful not to say "as a son." He would have been afraid of

revealing the number of his years, which number he believed to be

shrouded in mystery because he had forgotten it himself.

Villareal d'Alvimar could readily have dispensed with that embrace on

the part of a Catholic of such recent date, especially as the perfumes

with which the marquis was reeking took away the little appetite he had,

and as, after embracing him, he pressed his hands vigorously between his

dry fingers, armed with enormous rings. But D'Alvimar had to consider

his own safety first of all, and he felt sure, from Monsieur Sylvain's

cordial and hearty manner, that he had really been placed in loyal and

trustworthy hands.

He adopted the plan, therefore, of expressing profound gratitude for the

twofold hospitality of which he was the object, exhibiting himself in a

most favorable light; and when they left the table, the two old noblemen

were delighted with him.

He would have been glad to take a little rest, but the châtelain

incited him to a game of draughts, then to one of billiards with

Bois-Doré, who allowed himself to be beaten.

D'Alvimar loved all games, and was by no means averse to winning a few

gold crowns.

The hours passed away in what might be called a resultless association,

since these diversions led to no conversation sufficiently serious to

place the three gentlemen in a position to know one another.

Madame de Beuvre, who had retired after dinner, reappeared about four

o'clock, when she saw preparations being made in the courtyard for the

departure of her guests.

She proposed a walk in the garden before separating.

VI

It was late in October. The days had grown short, but were still mild

and bright, the St. Martin's summer having not yet come to an end. The

trees were quite bare, their graceful tracery outlined against the

bright red sun just sinking behind the black thickets along the horizon.

They walked over a bed of dry leaves along the paths lined with box-wood

and trimmed yews, which imparted an orderly and dignified stiffness to

the gardens of that period.

In the moats fine old carp followed the promenaders, looking for the

bread crumbs which Lauriane was accustomed to bring them.

A little tame wolf also followed her like a dog, but was held in awe and

tyrannized over by Monsieur de Beuvre's favorite spaniel, a playful

young beast, who showed no aversion for his suspicious companion, but

rolled him over and snapped at him with the superb indifference of a

child of noble birth deigning to play with a serf.

D'Alvimar, on the point of offering his arm to the fair Lauriane, paused

as he saw Monsieur de Bois-Doré approach her, apparently with the same

purpose.

But the courtly marquis also stepped back.

"It is your right," he said; "a guest like yourself should take

precedence of friends; but pray appreciate the sacrifice I make to you."

"I do appreciate it fully," replied D'Alvimar, as Lauriane placed her

little hand lightly on his arm; "and of all your kindnesses to me, I

value this most."

"I am rejoiced to see," replied Bois-Doré, walking at Madame de

Beuvre's left hand, "that you understand French gallantry as did his

late majesty, our Henri, of blessed memory."

"I trust that I have a better understanding of it than he, by your

leave."

"Oh! that is much to claim!"

"We Spaniards understand it differently, at all events. We believe that

a faithful attachment to a single woman is preferable to unmeaning

gallantry toward all."

"Oho! in that case, my dear count--you are a count, are you not, or a

duke?--I beg your pardon, but you are a Spanish grandee, I know that, I

can see it.--So you believe in the perfect loyalty of romance? There is

nothing nobler, my dear guest, nothing nobler, on my word!"

Monsieur de Beuvre called Bois-Doré away, to show him some trees that

he had recently set out, and D'Alvimar took advantage of the

interruption to ask Lauriane if Monsieur de Bois-Doré had intended to

make sport of him.

"By no means," she replied; "you must know that our dear marquis's

favorite food is D'Urfé's romance, and he almost knows it by heart."

"How does he reconcile this taste for a noble passion with the tastes of

the old court?"

"That is a very simple matter. When our friend was young, he loved all

the ladies, so they say. As he grew older, his heart grew cold; but he

thinks that he conceals that fact, as he thinks that he conceals his

wrinkles, by pretending to have been converted to the superior virtue of

noble sentiments by the example of the heroes of _Astrée_. So that, to

excuse himself for not paying court to any fair lady, he boasts that he

is faithful to a single one, whom he never names, whom no one ever has

seen or ever will see, for the excellent reason that she exists only in

his imagination."

"Is it possible that at his age he still feels bound to pretend to be in

love?"

"He must do so, since he wishes to pass for a young man. If he were

willing to admit that all women had become equally indifferent to him,

why should he take the trouble to smear his face and to wear false

hair?"

"So in your opinion it is not possible to be young without being

enamored of some woman?"

"Oh! I know nothing about it," replied Madame de Beuvre gayly; "I have

had no experience and I know nothing of men's hearts. But I sometimes

hear it said that such is the fact, and Monsieur de Bois-Doré seems to

be convinced of it. What is your own opinion thereon, messire?"

"It seems to me," said D'Alvimar, who was curious to know the young

woman's ideas, "that one can live a long while on a past love, awaiting

a love to come."

She made no reply, but looked up at the sky with her lovely blue eyes.

"Of what are you thinking?" he asked her, with a familiarity that was

perhaps a little too sympathetic. Lauriane seemed surprised at this

impertinent question. She looked him straight in the face with an

expression that seemed to say: "What business is that of yours?" But she

replied with a smile, not seeking to defend herself with unnecessarily

stern words:

"I was not thinking of anything."

"That is impossible," rejoined D'Alvimar; "one is always thinking of

something or somebody."

"But we think vaguely, so vaguely that in a moment we have forgotten."

Lauriane did not speak truly. She had been thinking of Charlotte

d'Albret, and we will translate all that had passed through her mind in

that brief reverie.

That poor princess had appeared to her, as it were, to make the reply

which D'Alvimar was seeking, and that reply was as follows:

"A maiden who has never loved sometimes accepts rashly the first love

that presents itself, because she feels impatient to love, and sometimes

she falls into the arms of a knave who tortures her, wrecks her life and

deserts her."

D'Alvimar was far from suspecting the curious warning that that young

heart had received; he fancied that she was indulging in a bit of

coquetry, and the game attracted him, although his heart was as cold as

marble. He persisted.

"I will warrant," he said, "that you have dreamed of a love more real

than that which Monsieur de Bois-Doré parades before you; of such a

love as you could inspire in a man of heart, even if you could not

yourself feel it."

No sooner had he uttered these commonplace words of challenge, in a tone

to which he was able to give a melting quality and which he deemed most

persuasive, than Lauriane suddenly withdrew her arm from his, turned

pale and stepped back.

"What is it, in heaven's name?" he exclaimed, trying to recover her arm.

"Nothing, nothing," she said, trying hard to smile. "I saw a snake among

the rushes and it frightened me; I am going to call my father to kill

it."

And she hastened toward Monsieur de Beuvre, leaving D'Alvimar beating

the rushes on the sloping bank of the moat with his cane, in search of

the accursed reptile.

But no reptile, beautiful or ugly, made its appearance, and when he

looked after Madame de Beuvre, he saw her just going from the garden

into the courtyard.

"There's a sensitive plant," he thought as he watched her! "whether she

really was frightened by a snake, or whether my words caused this sudden

disturbance. Ah! why have not queens and princesses, who hold exalted

destinies in their hands, the amorous sincerity of these little country

dames!"

While his vanity thus accounted for Lauriane's emotion, she had gone up

to Charlotte d'Albret's chapel, not to pray--she did not often visit

that Catholic oratory, ordinarily closed as the sanctuary of a venerable

memory--but to make sure of a fact which had caused her a violent shock.

In that little chapel there was a portrait, blackened and discolored by

the lapse of years, which was never shown to any one, but was preserved

there, where it had been found, out of respect for those articles which

had belonged to the saint of the family.

Lauriane had seen the portrait but twice in her life. Once by chance,

when an old woman employed to clean the chapel had opened the sort of

closet in which it was kept, in order to dust it.

Lauriane was a child at that time. The portrait had frightened her,

although she could not tell why.

The second time, not long before, her father had told her the poor

duchess's story, with certain details, furnished by tradition, and had

said to her:

"And yet our saintly ancestress did not abhor _that monster_. Whether

she had actually loved him for a moment before she knew of the crimes

with which his hands were stained, or whether she made it her duty to

pray for him, impelled solely by Christian charity, she had his portrait

in her chapel."

Thereupon Lauriane, having learned whose terrifying features were

represented in that old painting, had felt a desire to see it again. She

had scrutinized it carefully, coolly, and had made a mental vow that she

would never marry a man who bore the faintest resemblance to that

terrible face.

Although she had examined the portrait without the slightest agitation,

the spectre had haunted her eyes for some time, and, whenever they fell

upon a repellent face, she involuntarily compared it with the abhorred

type; but she had eventually forgotten the incident, for she was

naturally cheerful and placid, and as stout-hearted as most of the young

châtelaines of the period of commotion and danger which was hardly at

an end.

And so, when she met D'Alvimar, it had not once occurred to her to

compare his face with the picture; and even in the garden, as she

chatted merrily with him, her arm in his, and looked him in the face,

she had felt no apprehension. But why had she thought of Charlotte

d'Albret while he was speaking to her? She had no idea; she paid no

great heed to the coincidence at first.

But D'Alvimar had insisted upon knowing her thoughts; he had almost

spoken to her of love. At all events he had said more to her on that

subject in two words, although she had never seen him before, than any

of the masculine friends, young or old, whom she met frequently, had

ever dared to do.

Surprised by such excessive audacity, she had looked at him again, but

this time by stealth. She had detected a treacherous smile on that

charming face; and at the same time his profile, outlined against the

ruddy background of the horizon, had extorted a cry of alarm from her.

That handsome youth, who seemed determined to provoke the first

pulsations of her heart, resembled Cæsar Borgia!

Whether that was a mere fancy or a certainty, it was impossible for her

to remain an instant longer on his arm.

She had invented a pretext for her alarm. She had fled, and she had gone

to look at the portrait, in order to banish or confirm her suspicions.

VII

As the daylight was rapidly fading and it was already dark on the

courtyard side of the château, she turned back and went for a light to

her room, which was in the wing adjoining the little gallery under the

chapel.

The closet containing the portrait was nothing more than a square

cupboard of plain boards, fastened to the wall, like those in village

churches in which are kept the banners used in processions. She hastily

opened it, placed her candle so that its light fell upon the picture,

and gazed at the infamous wretch's features.

It was a fine painting. Cæsar and Lucretia Borgia were contemporaries

of Raphael and Michelangelo, and this portrait, somewhat dry in

execution, was in Raphael's first manner. It belonged to the same

school.

The face of the Duc de Valentinois showed no sign of the livid blotches

and hideous pustules which some historians describe, nor the squinting

eyes, "gleaming with an infernal brilliancy which even his comrades and

chosen intimates could not endure." Whether because the artist had

flattered him, or because he had painted him at a period of his life

when vice and crime did not as yet "stand out" on his face, he had not

made him ugly. He had painted the cardinal brigand in profile, and that

one of his eyes which he had copied was looking straight ahead.

The face was pale, ghastly pale, and thin, the nose sharp and narrow,

the mouth almost lipless, so pale and colorless were the lips, the chin

angular, the outlines pure, the beard and moustache red and carefully

combed, and the general effect distinguished. But seen thus in its most

favorable aspect, that knavish face was perhaps more repulsive than if

it had been eaten by leprosy. It was calm and thoughtful, and it bore no

resemblance to the flat head of the viper.

No, no, It was much worse; it was a well-shaped man's face, with all the

intellectual faculties admirably developed for evil. The long, half-shut

eye seemed absorbed in blissful meditation of a crime, and the

imperceptible smile on the transparent lips had the drowsy mildness of

sated ferocity.

It was impossible to say definitely in what the horror of the expression

consisted: it was everywhere. One felt chilled in body and mind as one

questioned that cruel and insolent countenance.[7]

"I dreamed it!" said Lauriane, scrutinizing the features one by one.

"That is not the Spaniard's brow, nor his eye, nor his mouth. It is of

no use for me to look, I can find nothing of him here."

She closed her eyes to recall his features without looking at the

portrait. She saw him full face: he was charming, with a proud and

resigned expression of melancholy. She saw him in profile: he was

playful, a little satirical perhaps, he smiled.--But as soon as she

recalled that smile, she saw the profile of the infamous Cæsar, and it

was impossible for her to separate the two impressions, as if they were

glued together.

She closed the cupboard, and glanced at the pulpit of carved wood, the

little altar, and the black velvet cushion whitened and worn threadbare

by Charlotte's knees. She fell on her knees upon it and prayed, not

pausing to think whether she was in a church or a meeting-house, whether

she was Catholic or Protestant.

She prayed to the God of the weak and afflicted, the God of Charlotte

d'Albret and Jeanne de France.

Then, feeling somewhat reassured, and seeing that her guests' horses

were ready, she went down to the salon to receive their adieux.

She found her father greatly excited.

"Come here, my dearest daughter," he said, taking her hand to lead her

to the chair which Bois-Doré and D'Alvimar hastened to bring forward

for her; "you will restore harmony among us. When the ladies leave the

men together, they become bad-tempered, they talk of politics or

religion, and on those points no two men can ever agree. You are most

welcome therefore, who are as mild and gentle as the doves; come and

tell us about your doves, whom, I suppose, you have just been putting to

bed."

Lauriane confessed that she had forgotten her pets. She felt that

D'Alvimar's keen and piercing eye was fixed upon her. She made bold to

look at him. It was certain that he bore no more resemblance to Borgia

than good Monsieur Sylvain himself.

"So you have been quarrelling with our neighbor again?" she said to her

father as she kissed him, while she held the old marquis's hand. "Well,

what harm is done, since you confess that you need a little

contradiction to assist your digestion?"

"_Mordi_! no," rejoined Monsieur de Beuvre, "if it were with him I would

not confess, for I should simply have committed an everyday sin; but I

have allowed myself to fall into a contradictory mood with Monsieur de

Villareal, and that is contrary to all the laws of hospitality and

propriety. Make peace between us, my dear daughter, and tell him, for

you know me, that I am a pig-headed, quarrelsome old Huguenot, but

honest as gold, and entirely at his service none the less."

Monsieur de Beuvre exaggerated. He was not a very bloodthirsty Huguenot,

and religious ideas were sadly tangled in his brain. But he harbored

some intense political hatreds and animosities, and he could not hear

the names of certain of his adversaries without giving vent to his

uncompromising frankness of speech.

Now, D'Alvimar had offended him by assuming the defence of the

ex-Governor of Berry, Monsieur le Duc de la Châtre, to whom the

conversation had drifted.

Lauriane, being informed of the subject of dispute, gently delivered her

verdict.

"I absolve you both," she said; "you, monsieur my father, for the

thought that the example of the late Monsieur de la Châtre is not

worthy to be followed in any particular save physical bravery and

wit;--you, Monsieur de Villareal, for having pleaded the cause of a man

who is not here to defend himself."

"Well judged!" cried Bois-Doré; "now let us change the subject."

"Yes, to be sure, let us say no more of that tyrant!" rejoined the old

Huguenot; "let us say no more of that fanatic!"

"It pleases you to call him a fanatic," retorted D'Alvimar, who was

incapable of yielding an inch; "for my own part, and I knew him well at

court, if I had ventured to reproach him at all, it would have been for

not being zealous enough in his love for the true religion, and for

looking upon it solely as an instrument with which to crush rebellion."

"True, true," said Bois-Doré, who abhorred disputes and thought of

nothing but putting an end to one in progress, whereas De Beuvre moved

uneasily in his chair, making it very plain that he had not done with

it.

"After all," continued D'Alvimar, hoping to make his peace, "did he not

faithfully and zealously serve King Henri, to whose memory you all seem

to be devoted hereabout?"

"And with reason, monsieur!" cried De Beuvre; "with reason, _mordi_!

Where will you find a wiser and more humane king? But for how long a

time did your frantic Leaguer of a La Châtre fight against him? how

many times did he betray him? how much money had to be paid him to

induce him to remain quiet? You are a young man, and a society man; you

saw only the courtier and the smooth talker; but we old provincials know

our petty provincial tyrants, I tell you! I wish that Monsieur de

Bois-Doré would tell you how that illustrious warrior effected the

glorious conquest of Sancerre by falsehood and treachery!"

"Bless my soul!" said Bois-Doré, with some temper, "how do you expect

me to remember such things?"

"Why should it not please you to remember them, I pray to know?"

retorted De Beuvre, paying no heed to the marquis's annoyance; "you were

not at the breast, I fancy?"

"But I was so young, that I remember nothing about it."

"Well, I remember," cried De Beuvre, vexed by his friend's defection.

"Now, I am ten years younger than you, my friend, and I was not there; I

was a page to young Condé, the grandfather of the present one, and a

very different man, I promise you."

"Come, come," said Lauriane, venturing upon a most mischievous step in

order to pacify her father and turn the quarrel aside from its main

subject; "our dear marquis must needs confess that he was at the siege

of Sancerre and bore himself valiantly there, for everybody knows it,

and modesty alone leads him to refuse to remember it."

"You know very well that I was not there," said Bois-Doré, "since I was

here with you."

"Oh! I am not speaking of the last siege, which lasted only twenty-four

hours, last May, and which was simply the _coup de grâce_; I refer to

the great, the famous siege of 1572."

Bois-Doré had a horror of dates. He coughed, moved about, and poked the

fire, which did not need it; but Lauriane was determined to immolate him

under bouquets of praise.

"I know that you were very young," she said, "but even then you fought

like a lion."

"It is true that my friends performed wonders," replied Bois-Doré, "and

that it was a very hot struggle; but I could not strike very hard,

however eager I may have been, at that age."

"_Mordi_! you took two prisoners yourself!" cried De Beuvre, stamping on

the floor. "Look you, it drives me frantic to see a stout-hearted old

fighter like you deny his gallant exploits rather than admit his age!"

Bois-Doré was deeply wounded, and his face became sad; it was his only

way of manifesting his displeasure to his friends.

Lauriane saw that she had gone too far; for she was sincerely attached

to her old neighbor, and when he ceased to laugh at her teasing, she no

longer cared to laugh herself.

"No, monsieur," she said to her father, "permit your daughter to tell

you that you are only jesting. The marquis was much less than twenty,

and his conduct was all the more glorious."

"What! he was not twenty years old?" cried De Beuvre; "can it be that I

have become, all of a sudden, the older of the two?"

"One is never older than one appears," replied Lauriane, "and it is only

necessary to look at the marquis----"

She paused, lacking the courage to tell a downright falsehood even to

console him; but the intention was enough, for Bois-Doré was content

with very little.

He thanked her with a glance, his brow cleared; De Beuvre began to

laugh, D'Alvimar admired Lauriane's charming delicacy, and the storm was

turned aside.

[Footnote 7: I do not know what has become of the portrait here

described. I saw one like it in the possession of the illustrious

General Pepe. It is well known that there is a portrait by Raphael which

is a masterpiece. In it Borgia is almost handsome; at all events there

is so much distinction in his face and refinement in his person that one

hesitates to detest him. But close scrutiny causes a sensation of

genuine terror. The hand, straight, slender and white as a woman's,

tranquilly grasps the hilt of a dagger hanging at his side. It holds it

with remarkable grace; it is ready to strike. The impending movement is

so admirably foreshadowed, that we can see in anticipation how the blow

is to be dealt, downward, into his victim's heart. There is grandeur in

that portrait, in the sense that the great artist has left his stamp

upon it, but without attempting to disguise the moral wickedness of his

model, which he makes to shine forth triumphantly through the appalling

tranquillity of his features.]

VIII

They conversed pleasantly for a few moments. Monsieur de Beuvre urged

D'Alvimar not to take fright at his outbreaks, and to come again on the

second day thereafter with Bois-Doré, who was accustomed to dine at La

Motte every Sunday. Thereupon a servant announced that _la carroche_ of

monsieur le marquis was ready.--Everyone knows that, previous to the

time of Louis XIV., who ordered otherwise, _carrosse_ was of both

genders, and more frequently feminine, after the Italian _carrozza_.

Now, Monsieur de Bois-Doré's _carroche_ or _carrosse_ was an enormous,

lumbering chariot, which four fine strong Percheron horses drew with

admirable courage; they were somewhat too fat, perhaps, for one and all,

men and beasts alike, were well-fed under worthy Monsieur Sylvain's

roof.

This venerable equipage, constructed to defy the difficulties of roads

carriageable or not, was stout enough to stand any test, and, if it left

something to be desired in the way of ease, one was assured at all

events of not breaking many bones in case of an upset, because the

interior was so bountifully stuffed. There were six inches of wool and

tow under the damask lining, so that one had a sense of security, if not

all possible comfort.

For the rest, it was a handsome chariot, all covered with leather,

embellished with gilt nails which formed a decorative border for the

panels. For convenience in entering and alighting, there was a small

ladder, which was placed inside when not in use.

In the four corners of this citadel on wheels, there was a very arsenal

of swords and pistols, not forgetting the powder and ball; so that, at

need, they could sustain a siege therein.

Two servants on horseback, carrying torches, headed the procession; two

other torch-bearers rode behind the carriage with D'Alvimar's servant,

who led his master's horse.

The marquis's young page sat on the box beside the coachman.

The party clattered noisily under the portcullis of La Motte-Seuilly;

and the rattling of the chains of the drawbridge as it rose behind the

procession, amid the joyous barking of the watch dogs as they were set

loose in the courtyard, combined to make an uproar which could be heard

as far as the hamlet of Champillé, a good fourth of a league away.

D'Alvimar felt called upon to say a few words to Bois-Doré in praise of

his fine carriage, an article of comfort and luxury still rare in the

country districts, and considered a marvel of magnificence, particularly

in Berry.

"I did not expect," he said, "to find the luxury of the great cities in

the heart of Berry, and I see, monsieur le marquis, that you lead the

life of a man of quality."

Nothing could have been more flattering to the marquis than this last

expression. Being a simple gentleman, he was not and could not be,

despite his title, a _man of quality_. His marquisate was a little farm

in the Beauvoisis which he did not even own. On a certain day of fatigue

and peril, Henri IV., arriving with him and a very small escort at that

farm, where the chances of partisan warfare had compelled them to halt,

and which they found entirely abandoned,--Henri IV., we say, was in

great danger of not breakfasting at all, when Monsieur Sylvain, who was

a most resourceful man in adventures of this sort, discovered in a

thicket a number of fowls which had been left behind and had become

wild. The Béarnais had taken part in the hunt with great zest, and

Sylvain had undertaken to cook the game to a turn.

This unlooked-for repast had put the King of Navarre in excellent humor,

and he had conferred the farm upon his loyal retainer, erecting it into

a marquisate by his good pleasure, to reward him, he said, for having

rescued a king from death by starvation.

His possession was limited to this sojourn of a few hours on the little

fief he had won without striking a blow. It had been retaken on the

following day by the contrary party; and, after the peace, its lawful

owners had re-entered into possession.

It mattered little to Bois-Doré, who cared nothing for that hovel but

much for his title, and to whom the King of France afterward laughingly

fulfilled the promise he had made as King of Navarre. The dignity was

not conferred upon the Berrichon squire by any parchment; but, under the

protection of the omnipotent monarch, the title was tolerated, and the

obscure country gentleman admitted to the king's select circle as

Marquis de Bois-Doré.

As no one made any objection, the king's jest and his sufferance created

a precedent at least, if not a right, and to no purpose did people make

merry at the expense of Monsieur Sylvain Bouron du Noyer--such was his

real name,--he esteemed himself a man of quality despite the scoffers.

After all he had a better claim to the title and bore it more honorably

than many other partisans.

D'Alvimar was not aware of any of these circumstances. He had paid

little attention to what Guillaume d'Ars had told him hurriedly. It did

not occur to him to scoff at his host's nobility, and our marquis, being

accustomed to be teased upon that point, was infinitely grateful to him

for his courtesy.

However he felt bound to assume the airs of a man in robust health, in

order to neutralize that troublesome date of the siege of Sancerre.

"I keep this carriage," he said, "for no other purpose than that I may

be able to offer it to the ladies in my neighborhood when occasion

offers; for, so far as I am concerned, I much prefer the saddle. One

travels faster and with less hindrance."

"So you treated me like a lady," rejoined D'Alvimar, "by sending for

this carriage during the day. I am overwhelmed, and if I had thought

that you did not fear the cool evening air, I should have begged you to

make no change in your habits."

"But I thought that, after the long journey you have taken, you had

ridden enough for to-day; and as to the cold, to tell you the truth, I

am a terribly lazy mortal, and indulge myself in many little comforts

which are not at all necessary to my health."

Bois-Doré attempted to reconcile the slothful nonchalance of young

courtiers with the sturdy vigor of young country gentlemen, and he was

sometimes sorely embarrassed over it. He was, in truth, still hale and

hearty, a good horseman and in good health, despite occasional twinges

of rheumatism which he never mentioned, and a slight deafness which he

did not admit, attributing the mistakes made by his ear to his

absent-mindedness.

"I must needs apologize to you for the discourtesy of my friend De

Beuvre," he said. "Nothing can be in worse taste than these religious

discussions, which are no longer in fashion. But you will pardon an old

man's obstinacy. In reality De Beuvre worries no more than I do about

these subtleties. It is infatuation for the past which causes now and

then an attack of inveighing against the dead, and thereby making

himself a good deal of a bore to the living. I do not see why old age is

so pedantic over its reminiscences, as if, at any age, one had not seen

enough things and enough people to be as much of a philosopher as is

necessary! Ah! commend me to the good people of Paris, my dear guest,

for ability to talk with refinement and moderation on every subject of

controversy! Commend me to the Hôtel de Rambouillet for example! Of

course you have frequented the _blue salon of Arthenice_?"[8]

D'Alvimar was able to reply that he was received by the marchioness,

without departing from the truth. His wit and his learning had thrown

open to him the doors of the fashionable Parnassus; but he had acquired

no footing there, his intolerance having made itself manifest too soon

in that sanctuary of French urbanity.

Moreover he had little taste for the literary sheepfold. The ambition of

the age was consuming him, and the pastoral, which is the ideal of

repose and unostentatious leisure, was not at all in his line. So that

he was overcome with fatigue and drowsiness when Bois-Doré, overjoyed

to have somebody to talk with, began to recite whole pages from

_Astrée_.

"What can be more beautiful," he cried, "than this letter from the

shepherdess to her lover:

"'I am suspicious, I am jealous, I am hard to win and easy to lose, and

more easy to offend and most exceeding hard to appease. My desires must

be decrees of fate, my opinions arguments, and my commands inviolable

laws.'

"What style! and what beautiful character painting! And does not the

sequel contain all the wisdom, all the philosophy and morality that a

man can need? Listen to this, Sylvie's reply to Galatée:

"'You must not doubt that this shepherd is in love, being so honorable a

man!'

"Do you understand, monsieur, the deep meaning of that sentiment?

However, Sylvie herself explains it:

"'The lover desires nothing so much as to be loved; to be loved one must

make oneself lovable; and that which makes one lovable is the same which

makes one an honorable man?'"

"What? what does that mean?" cried D'Alvimar, awakened with a start by

the remarks of the learned shepherdess, which Bois-Doré roared into his

ear to drown the clattering of the _carrosse_ over the hard pavement of

the old Roman road from La Châtre to Château-Meillant.

"Yes, monsieur, yes, I would maintain it against all the world!"

rejoined Bois-Doré, not observing his guest's start; "and I tire myself

out repeating it to that old dotard, that old heretic in matters of

sentiment!"

"Who?" queried D'Alvimar in dismay.

"I am speaking of my neighbor De Beuvre, a most excellent man, I promise

you, but infatuated with the idea that virtue is found only in

theological works, which he does not read, inasmuch as he could not

understand them; whereas I maintain that it is found in poetic works, in

agreeable and becoming thoughts, which every man, however simple he may

be, may turn to his advantage. For example, when young Lycidas yields to

the mad love of Olympe----"

At this juncture D'Alvimar resolutely went to sleep again, and

Bois-Doré was still declaiming when the chariot and the escort woke the

echoes on the drawbridge of Briantes, with an uproar equal to that they

had made on leaving La Motte.

It had grown quite dark; D'Alvimar could see naught of the château but

the interior, which seemed to him very small, and which was so, in fact,

compared with the enormous dwellings common at that period.

To-day the apartments in the château would seem very large, but in

those days they seemed very diminutive.

The portion occupied by the marquis, which had been ruined by the bands

of partisans in 1594, was of recent construction. It was a square

pavilion, flanked by a very old tower and by another even more ancient

building, the whole forming a single mass of composite architecture,

graceful in its narrow proportions, and of attractive and picturesque

aspect.

"Do not be dismayed at the poor appearance of my cottage," said the

marquis, leading the way into the hall, while the page and Bellinde

lighted them; "it is just a hunting-box and bachelor's den. If I should

ever take it into my head to marry, I should have to build; but I have

not thought of it thus far, and I trust that, being yourself a bachelor,

you will not find this hovel too inconvenient."

[Footnote 8: Arthenice, an anagram of _Catherine_ Marquise de

Rambouillet; it is said to have been invented by Malherbe.]

IX

In truth the bachelor's den was arranged, carpeted and decorated with a

magnificence of which the low carved door and the narrow vestibule, from

which the spiral staircase rose abruptly, gave no indication.

On the flagged hall were excellent Berry mats, on the wood floors richer

carpets from the looms of Aubusson, and in the salon and the master's

bedroom Persian rugs of very great value.

The window-panes were large and of plain glass; that is to say, they

were diamond-shaped, about two inches square and unstained, with

medallions, bearing a coat-of-arms in colors, in relief. The hangings

represented slender, fascinating ladies and dainty little gentlemen,

whom it was very easy to identify as shepherds and shepherdesses by

their satchels and crooks.

The names of the principal characters of _Astrée_ were embroidered in

the grass under their feet, and their eloquent speeches were issuing

from their mouths, meeting the no less eloquent replies of their

neighbors.

On a panel in the _salon de compagnie_ the ill-fated Celadon was

represented, plunging with graceful contortions into the blue waters of

the Lignon, which rippled in circles in anticipation of his fall. Behind

him the incomparable Astrée, giving free vent to her tears, ran up too

late to stop him, although his foot was almost in the shepherdess's

hand. Above this pathetic group a tree, more like a sheep than the sheep

themselves in those fantastic fields, reared to the ceiling its fleecy,

curly branches.

But, in order not to rend the heart by this lamentable spectacle of the

demise of Celadon, the artist had represented him, on the same panel, on

the other side of the Lignon, tossed up by the water, and lying betwixt

life and death among the bushes, but rescued by "three lovely nymphs,

whose unbound hair fell in waves over their shoulders, covered with a

garland of pearls of divers shapes. The sleeves of their gowns were

turned back to the elbow, whence a shirred undersleeve of thin lawn

extended to the wrist, where two large bracelets of pearls secured it.

Each one had at her side the quiver filled with arrows, and carried in

her hand an ivory bow. Their dresses were turned up so that their gilded

buskins could be seen halfway to the knee."

Beside these lovely creatures stood little Meril guarding their chariot,

shaped like a shell, with a parasol above, and drawn by two horses which

might readily have been mistaken for sheep, their eyes were so mild and

their heads so round.

The next panel represented the shepherd, saved and supported by the

obliging nymphs, and busily discharging through his mouth all the water

of the Lignon which he had swallowed; which occupation did not prevent

his saying, in words written all along the gushing stream: "If I

survive, how can Astrée's cruelty fail to kill me?"