and his speech something more noble than the title of shepherd denotes."
And, above the group, Cupid discharged an arrow larger than himself into
Galatée's heart, although he aimed at her shoulder, through the fault
of a tree which prevented him from taking the proper position. But the
arrows of love are so adroit!
What shall I say of the third panel, which pictured the terrible combat
between the blond Filandre and the redoubtable Moor, who held his
opponent spitted through the body, while the valiant shepherd, in nowise
disconcerted, skilfully buried the iron-shod point of his crook between
the monster's eyes?
And of the fourth panel, whereon the fair Mélandre, in the armor of
Chevalier Triste, was led into the presence of the cruel Lypandas?
But who does not know the marvels of that _fair land of tapestry_, as
one of our poets calls it, a fantastic, smiling land, wherein our
youthful imaginations saw and dreamed of so many wondrous things?
Monsieur de Bois-Doré's hangings were put together with marvellous
skill, in the sense that several adventures were successfully combined
in a single one, by the agency of distant groups scattered over the
landscape, and the honest nobleman had the pleasure of viewing all the
scenes of his favorite poem while making the circuit of his apartment.
But there were the most absurd drawings and the most impossible
combinations of colors that one can imagine, and there could have been
no better exemplification of the wretched taste, false and insipid,
which in those days was found side by side with Rubens's magnificent
work and the bold and lifelike drawings of Callot.
Every epoch runs thus to extremes; that is why we need never despair of
the one in which we live.
We must recognize the fact, however, that certain periods of the history
of art are more favored than others, and that there are some periods
whereof the taste is so pure and so fruitful, that the sentiment of the
beautiful finds its way into all the details of everyday life and into
all the strata of society.
When the Renaissance is at its height everything assumes a character of
refined originality, and one feels, even in the most trivial details,
that the excitements of social life have marvellously quickened the
flight of the imagination. The imaginative instinct descends from the
region of lofty intellects to the humble artisan; from the palace to the
hovel, nothing can accustom the eye and the mind to the sight of the
ugly and the trivial.
It had already ceased to be so under Louis XIII., and the provincials in
the neighborhood preferred Monsieur de Bois-Doré's modern tapestries
and furniture to the valuable specimens of the style of the last
century, which the _reiters_ had pillaged or broken in his father's
château fifty years before.
As for the marquis, who considered himself artistic, he did not regret
those antiquities, and whenever he could pick up some landscape-dauber
on the highway, he would bid him sketch before his eyes what he
artlessly called his ideas, in the way of furniture and decorations, and
would then have them manufactured at great expense, for he shrank from
no outlay to gratify his mania for tawdry and eccentric splendor.
Thus the château was filled to overflowing with buffets with secret
compartments and curious cabinets,--those wonderful cabinets, like great
boxes with drawers, where the pressure of a spring causes an enchanted
palace in miniature to appear, supported by twisted pillars, incrusted
with enormous false precious stones, and occupied by diminutive figures
in lapis-lazuli, ivory or jasper.
Other cabinets, sheathed in transparent shell over a red ground, with
gleaming copper ornaments in relief, or all inlaid with carved ivory,
contained some marvellous toy, of which the ingenious and mystery-laden
mechanism served to conceal billets-doux, portraits, locks of hair,
rings, flowers and other love-relics dear to the beaux of the period.
Bois-Doré hinted that those specimens of the cabinet-maker's art were
stuffed with treasures of that sort; some evil-minded scoffers declared
that they were empty.
Despite all these vagaries of his magnificence, Bois-Doré had
transformed his little manor-house into a luxurious nest, warm and
cheery, which had cost him more than it was worth, but which it would be
most delightful to find intact in one of the little provincial
châteaux, which to-day are neglected, dilapidated, falling in ruins, or
changed into farmhouses.
It would have taken three days to inspect all the curious trifles which
are described to-day by the new name of _bibelots_, but which would be
more appropriately called _bribelots_.[9] Our inquisitive and
investigating generation is entitled, however, to give whatever name it
chooses to a variety of exploration which is peculiar to it, and we
gladly accept the verb _bibeloter_, although it is only used by the
initiated.
However, we will not _bibeloter_--catalogue--here the interesting
collection of curios at Briantes; it would take too long; we will say
simply that Monsieur d'Alvimar might well have fancied himself in the
shop of a second-hand dealer, so striking was the contrast between the
profusion of gewgaws heaped upon sideboards and mantels, or piled in
pyramids on the tables, and the chilling bareness of the Spanish palaces
in which he had passed his youth.
Amid all that glass and porcelain, flagons, candlesticks, chandeliers,
punch-bowls, urns, to say nothing of the ewers, cups and small dishes of
gold, silver, amber or agate; the chairs of all shapes and sizes,
nailed, fringed and covered with Chinese silk; the benches and cupboards
of carved oak, with great clasps of openwork iron over a background of
scarlet cloth; the curtains of satin worked with gold flowers, large and
small, and embellished with gold-fringed lambrequins, etc., etc., there
were certainly some beautiful objects of art and charming products of
industry, mingled with much worthless trash and much inappropriate
elegance. In a word the general effect was brilliant and agreeable,
although there was altogether too much of it, and one hardly dared move
for fear of breaking something.
When D'Alvimar had expressed his surprise at finding that palace of the
fairy Babiole in the modest valleys of Berry, and Bois-Doré had
obligingly exhibited the principal treasures of his salon, Bellinde the
housekeeper, who went in and out issuing orders in a clear and resonant
voice, announced to her master in an undertone that the supper was
ready, while the page threw the doors wide open, shouting the usual
formula, and the clock of the château struck seven with a burst of
music in the Flemish style.
D'Alvimar, who had never been able to accustom himself to the abundance
of dishes in France, was surprised to find the table covered, not only
with gold plate and candlesticks adorned with glass flowers of all
colors, but with a quantity of food sufficient to have satisfied a dozen
persons with hearty appetites.
"Oh! this is not a supper," said Bois-Doré, whom he gently chid for
treating him like a gourmand; "this is simply a little lunch by
candlelight. Make an effort, and if my chief cook has not got tipsy in
my absence, you will see that the rascal knows how to awaken the
sluggish appetite."
D'Alvimar made no further remonstrance, and found that his appetite did
in fact come to him in spite of himself.
Never had he tasted such exquisite cheer at the table of the great
noblemen of his own nation, nor anything more exquisite in the most
splendid mansions in Paris. There were none but the daintiest little
dishes, deliciously seasoned, and most scientifically compounded after
the fashion of the time: bisque of crab, fat quail stuffed, pastry light
as air, perfumed creams of several flavors in marchpane shells, biscuits
with saffron and with clove, fine native wines, among which the old wine
of Issoudun could hold its own with the best vintages of Bourgogne; and
at dessert the headiest wines of Greece and Spain.
They passed two hours tasting a little of everything, Bois-Doré talking
of the cellar and cuisine like a consummate master, and Bellinde
directing the servants with unequalled knowledge and skill.
The young page played the theorbo very pleasantly during the first two
courses; but simultaneously with the third a new personage appeared and
caused D'Alvimar some uneasiness, although he could not tell why.
[Footnote 9: A coined word, derived from _bribes_, scraps or refuse.]
X
He was a man of some forty years, whom the marquis greeted by the name
of Master Jovelin, and who, without speaking, seated himself on a
leather-covered gilt chair in a corner of the room, in such way as not
to interfere with the going to and fro of the servants. He carried a
little red serge bag which he placed on his knees, and he glanced at the
table companions with a pleasant, smiling expression.
His face was handsome, although the features were without distinction.
His nose and mouth were large, he had a retreating chin and a low
forehead.
Despite these defects, it was impossible for an honest man to look upon
him without interest; and if one paid the slightest heed to his
beautiful black hair, which was sadly neglected, but of fine texture and
naturally curly, his magnificent white teeth which his melancholy but
cordial smile revealed, and his black eyes, so keen and intelligent, so
kind and sympathetic, that his yellow face was lighted up by them, one
felt as it were compelled to love him, ay, and to respect him.
He was dressed like a petty bourgeois, but very neatly, in a suit of
bluish-gray, with woollen stockings; the coat long and tightly buttoned,
a wide collar turned down and cut square across the chest, open sleeves
in the Flemish style, and a broad-brimmed felt hat without feathers.
Monsieur de Bois-Doré, having asked politely as to his health and
ordered a servant to give him a glass of Cyprus, which he declined with
a wave of his hand, said no more to him, but bestowed his attention on
his guest exclusively.
Such was the etiquette of that time, a man of quality being prohibited
from showing much consideration for an inferior, under pain of seeming
to insult his equals.
But D'Alvimar noticed that their eyes met frequently and that, after
every remark made by the marquis, they exchanged a smile of
intelligence, as if he desired to share all his thoughts with the
new-comer, perhaps to obtain his approbation, perhaps to divert his mind
from some secret trouble.
Surely, in all this there was no cause for alarm on D'Alvimar's part.
But it may be that he was not on very good terms with his conscience;
for that handsome and honest face, far from being attractive to him,
caused him a great mental perturbation and sudden distrust.
The marquis, however, did not say a word or ask a question referring to
the reasons of the Spaniard's flight to Berry. He talked entirely of
himself, and therein gave proof of great tact, for D'Alvimar had as yet
shown no inclination to be confidential, and his host found a way to
keep up the conversation without questioning him upon any subject
whatsoever.
"You find me in comfortable, well-furnished quarters and well-served,"
he said; "that is quite true. It is several years"--he did not say how
many--"since I withdrew from society to rest a while and recover from
the fatigues of war, awaiting events. I confess that, since the death of
our great King Henri, I care not at all for the court or the city. I am
not given to complaining, and I take the times as they come; but I have
had three great sorrows in my life: the first was when I lost my mother,
the second when I lost my younger brother, the third when I lost my
great and good king. And there is this peculiarity in my story, that all
three of those persons who were so dear to me died a violent death. My
king was assassinated, my mother fell from her horse, and my
brother--But this is too sad a subject, and I do not choose to tell you
unpleasant tales to prepare you for your first night under my roof. I
will simply tell you what it was that made me slothful and inclined to
domesticity. When I saw my King Henri breathe his last, I reasoned thus
with myself: 'You have lost all those you loved, you have nobody left
but yourself to lose; now then, if you do not wish your turn to come
soon, you will do well to turn your back on these regions of commotion
and intriguing, and go and nurse your poor, afflicted and weary person
in your native province.' You were right therefore to esteem me as
fortunate as a man can be, since I was wise enough to adopt the course
best suited to me, and to save myself from all annoyance; but you would
have made a mistake to think that I lack nothing; for, while I desire
nothing, I cannot say that I regret nobody. But I have regaled you
enough with my sorrows and I am not one of those who feed upon them,
refusing to be comforted or diverted. While we taste this jelly, do you
care to listen to a more skilful musician than our little page?--Do you
listen to him, too, my young friend," he added, addressing the page; "it
will do you no harm."
As he spoke to D'Alvimar, he had bestowed upon him he called Master
Jovelin one of those affectionate glances which resembled prayers rather
than commands.
The man in the gray suit unbuttoned the flowing sleeve which covered
another tighter sleeve of a dull red color, and threw it over his
shoulder; then he took from his bag one of those little bag-pipes with a
short, carved bass, which were then called _sourdelines_, and were
employed in chamber music.
This instrument, the tone of which was as sweet and veiled as the
bag-pipes of our own minstrels of to-day are noisy and shrill, was much
in vogue, and before Master Jovelin had concluded his prelude, he had
taken possession not only of the attention but of the very soul of his
hearers; for he performed marvellously on the _sourdeline_, and made it
sing like a human voice.
D'Alvimar was a connoisseur, and beautiful music possessed the power of
making his natural melancholy less bitter than usual. He abandoned
himself the more readily to this sort of relief, because his mind was
set at rest when he discovered that this silent and watchful individual,
whom he had taken at first for an insinuating spy, was an accomplished
and harmless musician.
As for the marquis, he loved the art and the artist, and he always
listened to his _master sourdelinier_ with religious emotion.
D'Alvimar expressed his admiration in well-chosen terms. Whereupon, the
supper being at an end, he asked leave to retire.
The marquis rose at once, motioned to Master Jovelin to await his return
and to the page to take a light, and himself escorted his guest to the
room that had been prepared for him; after which he returned to the
table, removed his hat, which, in those days, was a sign that ceremony
was dispensed with, contrary to the usage introduced at a later date,
ordered a sort of punch called _clairette_, compounded of white wine,
honey, musk, saffron and cloves, and invited Master Jovelin to sit
opposite him in the place D'Alvimar had just vacated.
"Now, Messire Clindor," said the marquis, smiling good-humoredly at the
page, whom, in accordance with his usual custom, he had burdened with a
name taken from _Astrée_, "you may go to sup with Bellinde. Leave us,
and tell her to take care of you.--Stay," he added, as the page was
about to leave the room, "I have been intending all day to reprove you
for your manner of walking. I have noticed, my young friend, that you
have adopted some habits which you may think are military, but which are
simply vulgar. Do not forget, therefore, that, although you are not
noble, you are in a way to become so, and that a well-mannered little
bourgeois in the service of a man of quality is on the road to the
acquisition of a little fief of which he may assume the name. But what
will it avail you that I assist you to rub the dirt off your birth, if
you persist in befouling your manners? Try to be a gentleman, monsieur,
not a peasant. Now then, adopt an easy carriage, try to put your whole
foot on the floor when you walk, and not begin your step with the heel
and end on the great toe; a trick which makes your gait and the clatter
of your shoes resemble the amble of a millers horse. Go now in peace,
eat well and sleep well, or else beware of the stirrup-leathers!"
Little Clindor, whose real name was Jean Fachot--his father was an
apothecary at Saint-Amand,--received the sermon of his lord and master
with great respect, saluted and left the room on tiptoe, like a
ballet-dancer, to make it perfectly evident that he could not touch his
heels first, since he did not touch them at all.
The old servant, who always remained to the last, having gone likewise
to his supper, the marquis said to his _sourdelinier_:
"Come, my dear friend, just take off that great hat, and eat, without
fear of the servants, a good slice of this paté and another of this
ham, as you do every evening when we are alone."
Master Jovelin uttered some inarticulate sounds by way of thanks, and
began to eat, while the marquis slowly sipped his _clairette_, less from
desire than from courtesy, to bear him company; for it is well to say
that, although the old man had many absurd foibles, he had not a single
vice.
Then, while the poor mute ate, the good châtelain carried on the
conversation all by himself, which was a very great pleasure to the
musician, for no other person would take the trouble to speak to a man
who could not answer. People had become accustomed to treat him as a
deaf-mute; that is to say, knowing that he could not repeat what he
heard, they indulged without hesitation in lying or slander in his
hearing. The marquis alone talked directly to him, with much deference
for his noble character, his great learning and his misfortunes, of
which the following is a brief narrative:
Lucilio Giovellino, a native of Florence, was a friend and disciple of
the unfortunate and illustrious Giordano Bruno. Trained in the sublime
ideas and vast learning of his master, he had, in addition, great
aptitude for the fine arts, poetry and languages. Lovable, eloquent and
persuasive, he had propagated with success the bold doctrine of the
plurality of worlds.
On the day when Giordano died at the stake with the calm dignity of a
martyr, Giovellino was banished from Italy forever.
This happened at Rome two years before the period of our narrative.
Under the hand of the tormenters, Giovellino had not chosen to adhere to
all of Giordano's doctrines. Although he was deeply attached to his
master, he had declined to accept certain of his errors, and as they
were able to convict him of only the half of his heresy, they had
inflicted only the half of his punishment: they had cut out his tongue.
Ruined, banished, exhausted by the torture, Giovellino had come to
France, where he played his sweet-toned bag-pipe from door to door, for
a crust of bread; and, Providence having guided him to the marquis's
door, he was taken in, nursed, cured, entertained by him, and--which was
worth far more to the poor fellow--appreciated and loved. He had told
him of his misfortunes in writing.
Bois-Doré was neither a scholar nor a philosopher; he had become
interested in him at first as a man who was persecuted, as he himself
had been for a long time, by Catholic intolerance. He would not,
however, have become attached to a savage, violent sectary, of the type
of a goodly number of Huguenots, who were no less addicted to
persecution in those days than their adversaries. He had a vague
knowledge of the blasphemies imputed to Giordano Bruno; he bade
Giovellino explain his doctrines to him. The mute wrote rapidly, and
with that refined lucidity of expression which great minds were
beginning not to disdain, wishing to instruct everybody, even the common
herd, in those great questions which Galileo was already investigating
in the domain of pure science.
The marquis enjoyed this conversation in writing, in which the essential
points were summarized soberly, and without the inevitable digressions
of speech. Gradually he conceived an enthusiastic, passionate interest
in these new definitions which afforded him repose and relieved him from
tedious disputes. He desired to read an exposition of Giordano's ideas,
also of those of his predecessor Vanini. Lucilio was able to express
them so that he could understand them, pointing out the weak or false
passages, in order to lead him to the only conclusions which human
knowledge asserts with certainty to-day: a creation as infinite as the
Creator, an infinity of stars peopling infinite space, not to serve as
luminaries and objects of interest to our little planet, but as sources
and sustenance of universal life.
This was very easy to understand, and man had understood it ever since
the first ray of genius had made itself manifest in mankind. But the
doctrines of the Church in the Middle Ages had reduced God and Heaven to
the proportions of our little world, and the marquis thought that he was
dreaming when he learned that the existence of the real universe was
not--as he had always imagined, so he said--a poet's fancy.
He did not rest until he had procured a telescope, and he expected, the
dear man, to see the inhabitants of the moon distinctly, his ideas were
raised so high. He had to abandon that hope; but he passed all his
evenings reading Giovellino's explanation of the movements of the stars,
and of the wonderful celestial mechanism, which Galileo was destined to
be condemned to abjure as heretical, a few years later, under torture,
on his knees, with a torch in his hand.
XI
"Well," cried the marquis, while his friend ate, hastening as a matter
of course, although his amiable and obliging host urged him to take his
time, "what have you done to-day, my redoubtable scholar? Yes, I
understand, pages of fine writing. Do not lose a line, I pray you! Those
are words of refined gold which will go down to posterity; for these
days of gloom will go hence into the dungeons of the past! Meanwhile,
always conceal your sheets carefully in the secret drawer of the
cupboard I have had placed in your chamber, when you do not write in
mine."
The mute made a sign that he had been writing in the marquis's study,
and that his sheets were in a certain ebony casket where the marquis
kept them. He made himself understood by gestures with great ease.
"That is still better," continued Bois-Doré; "they are even safer
there, as no woman enters the room. It is not that I distrust Bellinde,
but she seems to me altogether too devoutly inclined since the arrival
of this new rector whom Monseigneur de Bourges has sent us, and who is
not to be compared, I fear, with our old friend the former curé, whom
we owed to the last archbishop, Jean de Beaune.
"Ah! if only we had retained that excellent prelate, with his flowing
beard, his gigantic stature, his fat paunch, his Gargantuan appetite,
his handsome face, his great mind and his vast learning! one of the
shrewdest and best men in the kingdom, although, to look at him, one
would have taken him for a _bon vivant_ and nothing more!
"If you had come in his time, my dear friend, you would not have had to
keep out of sight in this little hunting-box; you would not have been
obliged to translate your name into French, to lock up your learning, to
pass for a poor bagpiper, and to give people hereabout to understand
that you were mutilated by the Huguenots; our excellent primate would
have taken you under his protection, and you would have printed your
noble thoughts at Bourges, to the great honor of your name and of our
province; whereas we now have for archbishops none but Condé's too
zealous servants.
"Yes, yes, I learned some fine things to-day, at De Beuvre's, concerning
that prince, a renegade to the faith of his fathers and the friendships
of his youth! He inundates us with Jesuits, and, if poor Henri IV.
should return to life, he would see some diverting masquerading!
Monsieur de Sully is falling deeper and deeper into disgrace. Condé is
purchasing from him by threats all his estates in Berry. Fancy! he has
forced him to give up the grand-bailiwick and the command of the great
tower! He is king of our province now, and people say that he dreams of
becoming King of France. So, you see, affairs are going badly
out-of-doors, and there is no safety except in our little fortresses,
and that only on condition that we are prudent and wait patiently for
the end of it all."
[Illustration: _BOIS-DORÉ AND JOVELIN, HIS
PROTÉGÉ._
_Giovellino took the hand that the marquis held out to
him over the table, and kissed it with the eloquent
warmth which took the place of speech with him._]
Giovellino took the hand that the marquis held out to him over the
table, and kissed it with the eloquent warmth which took the place of
speech with him. At the same time, he made him understand, by pantomime
and by his expression, that he was happy with him, that he did not
regret glory and the tumult of the world, and that he was altogether
disposed to be prudent, lest he should compromise his protector.
"As to the young gentleman whom I brought home with me and have done my
best to entertain," continued Bois-Doré, "you must know that I know
nothing about him except that he is a friend of Messire Guillaume d'Ars,
that he is threatened with some danger, and that he is to be concealed
and defended at need. But do you not think it odd that this stranger did
not once take me aside to confide his story to me, or that he did not do
it when we were naturally left together on our return hither?"
Lucilio, who always had a pencil and paper beside him on the table,
wrote to Bois-Doré:
"Spanish pride."
"Yes," rejoined the marquis, reading, so to speak, before he had
written, so accustomed had he become, in two years, to divine his words
from the first letters; "'Castilian pride,' that is what I said to
myself. I have known a goodly number of these hidalgos, and I know that
they do not consider it discourteous to show lack of confidence. So I
must needs exercise hospitality here in the old-fashioned way, respect
my guest's secrets and treat him courteously, as an old friend whom one
believes to be the most honorable man on earth. But that does not compel
me to accord him the confidence that he denies me, and that is why, as
you saw, I left you in a corner, like a poor, paid musician, when he was
here. And hereupon, my dear friend, I ask you to forgive me, once for
all, for any apparent lack of affection or courtesy to which I am forced
by regard for your safety, just as I clothe you in these common,
ill-fitting clothes."
Poor Giovellino, who had never been so well dressed and so tenderly
cared for in his whole life, interrupted the marquis by pressing his
hands, and Bois-Doré was deeply moved to see tears of gratitude fall
upon his friend's long, black moustache.
"Nay," he said, "you overpay me by loving me so dearly! I must reward
you now by speaking to you of the sweet Lauriane. But must I repeat what
she said to me about you? You will not be too puffed-up by it? No?--Well
then, here goes. In the first place:
"'How is your druid?'
"I replied that the said druid was hers much more than mine, and that
she ought to remember that Climante, in _Astrée_, was only a false
druid, as deep in love as every other lover in that beautiful story.
"'Nay, nay,' she replied, 'you are deceiving me; if your Climante were
as much in love with me as you represent him, he would have come with
you to-day, whereas two whole weeks have passed since we saw him. Will
you tell me that he starts when he hears my name, as in _Astrée_, and
that he utters sighs which seem _to rend his stomach in twain_? I do not
believe a word of it, and look upon him as an inconstant Hylas rather!'
"You see that the charming Lauriane continues to make sport of
_Astrée_, of you and of me. However, when I took leave of her at
nightfall, she said to me:
"'I insist upon your bringing the druid and his bag-pipe to us the day
after to-morrow, or I will give you a cool reception, I promise you.'"
The poor druid listened with a smile to Bois-Doré's story; he knew how
to jest on occasion, that is to say to take others' jesting in good
part. Lauriane was to him nothing more than a lovely child, whose father
he might have been; but he was still young enough to remember that he
had loved, and in the depths of his heart his sense of isolation was
exceedingly bitter to him.
As he thought of the past he stifled a sigh of regret, and began
instinctively to play an Italian air which the marquis loved above all
others.
He played it with so much grace and passion that Bois-Doré said to him,
resorting to his favorite oath, borrowed from Monsieur d'Urfé:
"_Numes célestes_! you need no tongue to talk of love, my dear friend,
and if the object of your passion were here, she must be deaf to avoid
understanding that your heart is pouring itself forth to hers. But come,
will you not let me read those pages of sublime learning?"
Lucilio signified that his head was a little tired, and Bois-Doré at
once sent him off to bed, after embracing him fraternally.
Giovellino, in truth, often felt that he was more of an artist and a
creature of sentiment, than a scholar and philosopher. His nature was at
once enthusiastic and meditative.
Meanwhile Monsieur de Bois-Doré had retired to his "night apartment,"
situated above the salon. He had spoken truly when he said to Lucilio
that no woman ever entered that sanctuary of repose or the cabinets
connected therewith; Bellinde herself was forbidden to cross the
threshold under the severest penalties.
Only old Mathias--dubbed Adamas, for the same reason that Guillette
Carcat was obliged to call herself Bellinde, and Jean Fachot,
Clindor--was privileged to assist in the mysteries of the marquis's
toilet, so perfectly sincere was he in the belief that the secret of his
rouge and his dyes could be revealed only by the arsenal of boxes,
phials and jars spread out upon his tables.
As usual, therefore, he found Adamas alone, preparing the curl-papers,
powders and perfumed unguents which were to preserve the marquis's
beauty even in his slumber.
XII
Adamas was a pure-blooded Gascon: stout of heart, keen of wit, untiring
of tongue. Bois-Doré artlessly called him his old servant, although he
himself was at least ten years his senior.
This Adamas, who had accompanied him in his last campaigns, was his
_âme damnée_, and filled his nostrils with the incense of perpetual
admiration, the more injurious to his mental equilibrium in that it was
the result of a sincere infatuation. It was he who persuaded him that he
was still young, that he could not grow old, and that, when he went
forth from his hands, glistening and high-colored like a page from a
missal, he was certain to supplant all the coxcombs and deceive all the
fair.
No man is great in the eyes of his valet de chambre, witness Sancho
Panza who told his master such sound truths. But Bois-Doré, who was
simply an excellent man, enjoyed the privilege of being a demi-god in
the eyes of his servant; and, while some heroes have been the
laughing-stock of their retainers, this laughable old man was taken
quite seriously by the majority of his.
So things go in this world. Everyone must have noticed, as I have, that
they sometimes go entirely contrary to logic and common-sense.
The old nobleman's extraordinary kindliness was responsible for this
state of affairs. Great characters make people too exacting. At the
slightest weakness on their part, people are astonished; at the
slightest impatience they are scandalized. He who has no character at
all never irritates anybody and reaps the advantages of his
never-failing good nature.
"Monsieur le marquis," said Adamas, kneeling on the floor to remove his
old idol's boots, "I must tell you a very strange occurrence that
happened to-day on your domain."
"Speak, my friend, speak, since you desire to speak," replied
Bois-Doré, who allowed his dresser to chatter familiarly with him, and
furthermore, when he was half asleep, loved to be soothed by some bit of
harmless gossip.
"You must know, then, my dear and well-beloved master," said Adamas,
with his Gascon accent, which we will not attempt to reproduce, "that,
about five o'clock this evening, a very extraordinary woman came here,
one of those poor creatures of whom we saw so many on the shores of the
Mediterranean and the Southern provinces; you know, monsieur, not very
dark women, with heavy lips, fine eyes, and black hair--like yours!"
As he made this comparison, in perfect good faith, Adamas respectfully
placed his master's wig on an ivory block.
"Do you mean those Egyptian women, who play all kinds of tricks?" said
Bois-Doré, paying no heed to the subject of the comparison.
"No, monsieur, no! This one is a Spaniard, who swears by Mahomet, I am
sure, when she is all alone."
"Then you mean that she is a Moor?"
"That's it exactly, monsieur le marquis; she's a Moor, and she doesn't
know a word of French."
"But you know a little Spanish?"
"A little, monsieur. I remember so well what I used to know of it, that
I talked with that woman almost as readily as I am speaking to you."
"Well, is that the whole story?"
"Oh! no; but give me time! It seems that this Moorish woman was one of
the great band of a hundred and fifty thousand, who perished, almost all
of them, some half score years ago, some by hunger and murder on the
galleys that were taking them to Africa, others by want and disease on
the shores of Languedoc and Provence."
"Poor creatures!" said Bois-Doré. "That was the most detestable deed
that ever was done!"
"Is it true, monsieur, that Spain drove out a million of these Moors,
and that barely a hundred thousand arrived in Tunis?"
"I couldn't tell you the number; but I can tell you that it was
downright butchery, and that beasts of burden were never treated like
those wretched human beings. You know that our Henri would fain have
made Calvinists of them, which would have saved them by making them
French."
"I remember very well, monsieur, that the Catholics of the South
wouldn't listen to such a thing, and said that they would murder them
all rather than go to mass with those devils. The Calvinists were not
any more reasonable, and the result was that our good king left the poor
wretches at peace in the Pyrenees, waiting for an opportunity to do
something for them. But after his death the queen regent wanted to rid
Spain of them, so they drove them into the sea, with or without ships.
Some, however, consented to be baptized and became Christians, to escape
that cruel fate, and the woman in question followed that wise course,
although I suspect her of not being perfectly sincere."
"What difference does that make to you, Adamas? Do you think that the
great Maker of the sun, the moon and the Milky Way----"
"I beg your pardon, monsieur?" said Adamas, who had not a very clear
understanding of his master's recently acquired knowledge, and indeed
was somewhat disturbed about it; "I don't recognize _milky voice_[10] as
a French expression."
"I will tell you about that another time," said the marquis yawning, for
he was drowsing in front of the fire that crackled on the hearth.
"Finish your story."
"Well, monsieur," Adamas continued, "this Moorish woman remained till
last year in the Pyrenees mountains, where she watched the flocks for
poor farmers; so that she continued to speak her Catalan patois, which
people understand well enough on the other side of the mountains."
"And that explains to me how, with your Gascon patois, which is not very
different from the mountain patois, you were able to talk Spanish with
this woman."
"That is as monsieur pleases; all the same, I said many Spanish words
which she understood perfectly.--And then I must tell you that she had a
little child with her, who isn't her own child, but of whom she is as
fond as a goat of her kid, and the pretty little lad, whose mind is
bigger than his body, speaks French as well as you and I. Now, monsieur,
this Moorish woman, whose name in French is Mercedes----"
"Mercedes is a Spanish name!" said the marquis, climbing into his great
bed with Adamas's aid.
"I meant to say that it was a Christian name," continued the servant.
"Six months ago, Mercedes took it into her head to go and find Monsieur
de Rosny, whom she had heard spoken of as the late king's right arm, and
who, she had been told, although he was in disgrace, was still powerful
because of his wealth and his virtue. So she started for Poitou, where
she was told Monsieur de Sully lived. Aren't you surprised, monsieur, at
the resolution of such a poor, ignorant woman, to travel across half of
France, on foot, with only a little child who is hardly ten years old,
with the idea of calling on such an exalted personage?"
"But you don't tell me what this woman's reason was for acting thus?"
"That is the wonderful part of the story, monsieur! What can it be, do
you think?"
"I could never guess! tell me at once, for it is late."
"I would tell you if I knew; but I know no more about it than you do,
and, try as hard as I would, I could not induce her to tell."
"Good-night, then."
"Wait till I cover the fire, monsieur."
And, as he covered the fire, Adamas continued, raising his voice:
"That woman is altogether mysterious, monsieur le marquis, and I would
like to have you see her!"
"Now?" said the marquis, rousing himself with a start. "You are joking;
it is time to go to sleep."
"To be sure; but to-morrow morning?"
"Is she in the house, pray?"
"Why, yes, monsieur! She asked for a corner to pass the night under
shelter. I gave her some supper, for I know monsieur does not wish us to
refuse bread to the unfortunate, and I sent her to lie on the straw
after talking with her."
"And you did wrong, monsieur; a woman is always a woman. And--I hope
that there are no other beggars there? I do not want any indecency on my
premises."
"Nor do I, monsieur! I put her and her child, all alone, in the small
cellar, where they are quite comfortable, I assure you; they do not seem
accustomed to such good quarters, poor things! And yet this Mercedes is
as neat and clean as one can be in such poverty. Moreover, she is not at
all ugly."
"I trust, Adamas, that you will not impose upon her destitute condition.
Hospitality is a sacred thing!"
"Monsieur is making fun of a poor old man! It is all very well for
monsieur le marquis to have virtuous principles! For my part, I assure
you that I have little need of them, being no longer tempted by the
devil. Besides, the woman seems very honest, and she does not take a
step without her child clinging to her dress. She must have run other
risks than that of pleasing me too much, for she has been travelling
with gypsies who passed through this region to-day. There was a large
party of them, partly Egyptians, partly picked up here and there, as
their custom is. She says that the vagabonds were not unkind to her, so
true it is that beggars stand by one another. As she did not know the
roads, she followed them, because they said they were going to Poitou;
but she left them to-night, saying that she had no further need of them,
and that she had business in this province. Now, monsieur, that is
another thing that seems very strange to me, for she would not tell me
why she acted so. What do you think of it, monsieur?"
Bois-Doré did not reply. He was sleeping soundly, despite the noise
that Adamas made, to some extent wilfully, to force him to listen to his
story.
When the old retainer saw that the marquis had really set out for the
land of dreams, he tucked in the sheets carefully, placed his beautiful
pistols in the morocco bag hanging at the head of his bed; on a table at
his right, his rapier unsheathed and his hunting knife, his folio
edition of _Astrée_, a superb volume with engravings, a large goblet of
hippocras, a bell with its hammer, and a handkerchief of fine Holland
linen saturated with musk. Then he lighted the night lamp, blew out the
multicolored candles, and arranged at the foot of the bed the red
velvet slippers and the dressing-gown of flowered silk serge,
light-green on dark-green.
Then, as he was about to leave the room, the faithful Adamas gazed at
his master, his friend, his demigod.
The marquis, with all his cosmetics washed off, was a handsome old man,
and the tranquillity of his conscience imparted a venerable air to his
face as he lay asleep. While his wig reposed on the table, and his
garments, stuffed to conceal the hollows that age had made in his
shoulders and his legs, lay scattered about on chairs, the angular
outlines of his great body, shrunken to half its size, could be traced
under a _lodier_ or coverlet of white satin, with coats-of-arms in
silver purl in relief at the four corners.
The headboard of the bed, a single panel ten feet high, as well as the
fringed tester connected therewith in the shape of a canopy, was also of
white satin stitched on thick wadding, and with large silver figures in
relief. The inside of the bed-curtains was of similar material; the
outer surface was of pink damask.
In that comfortable and sumptuous bed, that strongly-marked, venerable
face, martial still with all its gentleness, with its moustache
bristling with curl-papers, and its night-cap of wadded silk in the
shape of half a mortar, embellished with rich lace that stood erect like
a crown, presented a most singular combination of absurdity and
austerity in the bluish light of the night lamp.
"Monsieur is sleeping quietly," said Adamas to himself; "but he forgot
to say his prayers, and it is my fault. I will do it for him."
He knelt and prayed very fervently; after which he withdrew to his own
room, which was separated only by a partition from his master's.
The arsenal that Adamas had arranged around the marquis's bed was only a
matter of habit or luxury.
Everything was perfectly quiet around the little château; within the
château everybody was sleeping soundly.
[Footnote 10: Bois-Doré said _voie_ lactée; Adamas understood him to
say _voix_ lactée.]
XIII
The first to awake was Monsieur Sciarra d'Alvimar, who had also been the
first to fall asleep, being thoroughly tired out.
He did not like to remain in bed, and the habit born of straitened
circumstances, skilfully concealed, made the attentions of his valet
useless to him. This was the more fortunate, inasmuch as the old
Spaniard who was in attendance upon him would not readily have consented
to perform other functions than those of an esquire.
And yet that man was as devoted to him as Adamas was to Bois-Doré; but
there was as much difference in their relations as in their characters
and their respective situations.
They talked but little to each other, perhaps because they were
disinclined, perhaps because they understood each other on all subjects
at a single word. Moreover, the valet considered himself, up to a
certain point, his master's equal, for their families were equally
ancient and equally pure--such at least was their claim--of all
admixture with the Moorish or Jewish races, so solemnly ostracized, and
so solemnly persecuted in Spain.
Sancho of Cordova--such was the old esquire's name,--had been present at
young D'Alvimar's birth in the castle of the village where he himself
was living, reduced by poverty to the trade of swineherd. The young
châtelain, who was little richer than he, had taken him into his
service on the very day when he had determined to go to seek his fortune
in foreign lands.
It was said in that Castilian village that Sancho had loved Madame
Isabella, D'Alvimar's mother, and even that she had not been indifferent
to his passion. In this way they explained the attachment of that
taciturn and morose man for a cold and haughty youth, who treated him,
not as a valet properly so-called, but as an unintelligent inferior.
Thus Sancho, meditative or brutish, passed his life grooming horses and
keeping his master's weapons sharp and bright. The rest of the time he
played, slept or mused, avoiding familiarity with the other servants,
whom he looked upon as his inferiors, and forming no intimacies, for he
was suspicious of everybody, ate little, drank little, and never looked
a person in the face.
D'Alvimar dressed himself therefore and went out to inspect his
surroundings, although it was hardly daylight.
The manor house looked upon a small pond, from which a broad moat
issued, to return to it at another point after making the circuit of the
buildings, which consisted, as we have said, of a conglomerate mass of
architecture of several periods.
1st. An entirely new white pavilion, small in size, covered with
slates--a great luxury in a province where even tiles were rare--and
crowned with a double mansard roof with carved spandrels adorned with
balls.[11]
2d. Another pavilion, very old but completely restored, with a roof of
oaken tiles, and resembling certain Swiss chalets in shape. This
building, which contained the kitchens, offices and guest chambers, was
arranged after the fashion of the wild old days of unrest. It had no
outer door, and could be entered only through the other buildings; its
windows looked on the courtyard, and its façade, turned toward the
fields, had no other openings than two small square holes in the gable,
like two suspicious little eyes in a silent face.
3d. A prism-shaped tower with an ogival door of delicate workmanship;
the tower had a slated roof, also pentagonal, and surmounted by a belfry
and a slender weather-vane. This tower contained the only staircase in
the château, and connected the old and new buildings.
Other low structures attached to the main pile stood on the edge of the
moat, and were occupied by the indoor servants.
The courtyard, with its well in the centre, was surrounded by the
château, the pond, another building of a single story, with mansards
and stone balls, used for stables, hunting equipments and visitors'
servants; and lastly, by the entrance tower, which was smaller and less
beautiful than that at La Motte-Seuilly, but was flanked by a wall
pierced with loop-holes for falconets, covering the approaches to the
bridge.
This trivial fortification was sufficient because of the two moats: the
first around the courtyard, wide and deep, with running water; the
second around the poultry-yard, marshy and stagnant, but protected by
stout walls.
Between the two moats, at the right of the drawbridge, lay the garden;
it was of considerable size and enclosed by high walls and well-kept
ditches; on the left the mall, the kennels, the orchard, the farm and
the meadow, with the seignioral dove-cote, heron yard and falconry; an
immense enclosure reaching to the houses of the village, almost all of
which belonged to the marquis.
The village was fortified, and in some places the solid foundation of
its low walls was said to date from the time of Cæsar.
Comparing the small proportions of the manor-house with the extent of
the domain, with the rich furniture heaped up in the apartments, and the
master's luxurious habits, Monsieur d'Alvimar tried to divine the reason
of the contrast; and as he was by no means charitably inclined, he
concluded that the marquis concealed his wealth, not from avarice, but
because the source of that wealth was not altogether pure.
Therein he was not entirely in error.
The marquis had this in common with a great number of gentlemen of his
time, that he had lined his pockets somewhat unscrupulously during the
civil commotions, at the expense of the rich abbeys, and by means of the
exactions of the war time, rights of conquest, and the smuggling of
salt.
Pillage was a sort of recognized right in those days; witness the
petition of Monsieur d'Arquian, who appealed to the courts because his
château was burned by Monsieur de la Châtre, "contrary to all the
usages of war; for he would not have mentioned the destruction and
sacking of his furniture."
As for the contraband trade in salt, it would have been difficult, at
the beginning of the seventeenth century, to find a nobleman in our
provinces who considered himself insulted by the epithet, _gentilhomme
faux saulnier_.[12]
So that the wealth of which, by the way, Monsieur de Bois-Doré made an
excellent use by his inexhaustible generosity and charity, was not a
mystery in the region about La Châtre; but he wisely avoided drawing
the attention of the provincial government upon himself, by an enormous
house and a too splendid household.
He was well aware that the petty tyrants who were dividing among
themselves the wealth of France would not have lacked so-called legal
pretexts for making him disgorge.
D'Alvimar walked through the gardens, a laughable creation of his host,
of which he was unquestionably more vain than of his most glorious feats
of arms.
He had undertaken to produce, upon rather a limited space, the gardens
of _Isaure_, as they are described in _Astrée_: "That enchanted spot
was all fountains and flower-beds, avenues and noble trees."--The great
forest which formed such a charming labyrinth was represented by a
labyrinthine thicket wherein he had forgotten neither the square of
hazel-trees, nor the _fountain of the verity of love_, nor the _cavern
of Damon and Fortune_, nor the _den of old Mandrague_.
All these things seemed exceedingly childish to Monsieur d'Alvimar, but
not so utterly ridiculous as they would seem to us to-day.
Monsieur de Bois-Doré's monomania was sufficiently prevalent in his day
not to be considered eccentric. Henri IV. and his court devoured
_Astrée_, and in the petty German courts even princes and princesses
assumed the resounding names that the marquis imposed upon his servants
and his animals. The extreme popularity of Monsieur d'Urfé's romance
lasted two centuries; it touched and charmed Jean-Jacques Rousseau; nor
must we forget that, on the eve of the Terror, the skilful engraver
Moreau still introduced in his works ladies named Chloris, and gentlemen
named Hylas and Cidamant. But these illustrious names were borne, in the
engravings and in the romance, by imaginary marquises; while the new
shepherds were called Colin or Colas. Only a short step had been taken
toward the real; the shepherds and shepherdesses were not improved; from
being heroic they had become obscene.
D'Alvimar, wishing to obtain an idea of the surrounding country, walked
through the hamlet, which consisted of about a hundred hearth-stones and
was literally situated in a hole. It is so with many of those old
places. When they are not powerful enough to perch proudly and
threateningly upon some precipitous height, they seem to cower
designedly in the valleys, as if to avoid the eyes of marauding bands.
The locality is, however, one of the most charming in Lower Berry. The
gravelled roads leading thither are hard and clean at all seasons. Two
pretty little streams form a natural defence, which may have been turned
to advantage long ago for Cæsar's camp.
One of these streams fed the moats of the château; the other flowed
through two small ponds below the village.
The Indre, which is near at hand, receives these streams and hurries
them along a narrow valley, cut by sunken roads, heavily shaded, and
running through unenclosed, untilled land of wild aspect.
You must expect to find not grandeur but charm, in that little desert,
where virgin fields, thickets, wild grasses, genesta, heather and
chestnut trees encompass you on all sides.
On the bank of the Indre, which becomes a brook as you ascend toward the
source, wild flowers grow in a profusion most delightful to see.[13] The
placid, transparent stream has torn apart the fields that blocked its
path, and formed islets of verdure whereon trees grow vigorously.
Standing too close together to be imposing, they extend an arch of
foliage over the water.
The ground is fertile around the village. Magnificent walnuts and a
large number of tall fruit trees make it a very nest of verdure.
The greater part of the land belonged to Monsieur de Bois-Doré. He
farmed out the best portions; the others were his hunting-grounds.
Monsieur d'Alvimar, having explored this little bailiwick, which by
reason of its isolation and the absence of communications, led him to
hope for a like absence of unpleasant meetings, returned to the village
and deliberated whether he should pay a visit to the rector.
Monsieur de Beuvre had happened to say to Monsieur de Bois-Doré in his
presence:
"How about your new priest? does he still preach sermons after the
pattern of the League?"
This expression had attracted the Spaniard's attention.
"If this priest is zealous for the good cause," he thought, "he may be a
useful friend to me; for that De Beuvre is a Huguenot, and Bois-Doré
with his tolerance is little better. Who knows if I shall be able to
live, on friendly terms with such people?"
He began by inspecting the church, and was scandalized by its
dilapidated and bare condition, which bore witness to the neglect of the
last incumbent, the indifference of the lord of the manor, and the
lukewarmness of the parishioners.
Bois-Doré, whose abjuration, real or feigned, had caused a sensation,
had not thought of signalizing his return to orthodoxy by gifts to the
village church and alms to the chaplain. His vassals, who hated the
Huguenots, had not hailed his final return, in 1610, with truly
heartfelt rejoicing; but their suspicions had speedily given place to a
deep attachment, since, in place of a steward who drained them dry, they
had found a free-and-easy lord, lavish of benefactions.
Thus the good people of the village of Briantes were only moderately
devout; and, the peasants having resisted the payment of tithes to some
monastery or other, the archbishop had sent them a man exceedingly well
adapted to lead those stray lambs back to virtuous principles, and to
spy upon the châtelain's opinions.
The pious Sciarra knelt in the church and murmured some formula of
prayer; but he did not feel inclined to pray with the heart, and he soon
went out and bent his steps toward the rector's house.
He had not the trouble of going all the way thither; for he saw him in
the village square talking with Bellinde, and had an opportunity to
examine him.
He was a man still young, with a bilious, wheedling, treacherous face.
Probably his interest in temporal affairs was as keen as D'Alvimar's;
for he had no sooner spied that grave and fashionably dressed stranger
coming from the church, than his only thought was to wonder who he could
be.
He knew already that a new guest had arrived at the manor-house the
night before, for he had little other occupation than to make inquiries
about the marquis's doings; but how could a man, so devout as this early
visit of D'Alvimar's to the church seemed to indicate, consort with so
problematical a convert as Bois-Doré?
While he tried to obtain information on that subject from the
housekeeper at the château, he noticed that he could not look up
without finding the stranger's eyes fixed upon him.
He walked a few steps with Bellinde, in order to avoid his gaze, like
one who did not wish to risk a salutation before he knew with whom he
had to deal.
D'Alvimar, who understood or guessed his purpose, remained behind and
waited for him in the little cemetery which surrounded the church, fully
determined, after the examination he had made of his face, to address
him and form an alliance with him.
He stood there, musing upon his destiny, a problem by which he was
constantly beset, and which the sight of the scattered gravestones
seemed to render more irritating to him than usual.
D'Alvimar believed in the church, but he did not believe in the true
God. The church was to him above all else an institution of discipline
and terror, the instrument of torture of which a ferocious and
implacable God made use to establish his authority. If he had given his
mind to it, he would readily have persuaded himself that the merciful
Jesus was stained with heresy.
The idea of death was abhorrent to him. He dreaded hell, and--a natural
result of evil beliefs--he could not make his life conform to his rigid
principles.
He had no ardor except for discussion; when alone with himself, he found
that his heart was dry, his mind overstrained and confused by worldly
ambition. In vain did he reproach himself therefor. The thought of
damnation could not be fruitful of good, and terror is not remorse.
"So I must die!" he said to himself, gazing at the turf-covered mounds,
like furrows in a field, which covered the graves of those obscure
villagers; "die, it may be, penniless and without power, like the
wretched serfs who have not left even a name to be inscribed on these
little crosses of rotten wood! Neither influence nor renown in this
world! Wrath, disappointment, useless labors, useless efforts--crimes,
perhaps!--and all to reach the threshold of eternity, having never been
able to forward the glory of the church in this life, and having failed
to earn my pardon in the other!"
By dint of thinking about destiny, he persuaded himself that it was the
influence of the devil that had ruined his.
He thought for an instant of confessing to this priest, whose eyes had
seemed to him to glow with intelligence; but he was afraid to confide to
any person the secrets which were consuming his life and his repose.
Engrossed by these black thoughts, he saw Monsieur Poulain enter the
cemetery at last, and, coming toward him, salute him deferentially.
The acquaintance was soon made. With the first words they exchanged, the
two men felt that they were equally ambitious.
The rector invited D'Alvimar to breakfast with him.
"I can offer you only a very scanty repast," he said; "my cuisine does
not resemble that at the château. I have neither vassals nor valets at
my beck and call to serve as purveyors for my table. So that my frugal
fare will enable you to retain sufficient appetite to do honor to the
marquis's, whose bell will not ring for two or three hours to come."
There was, in this exordium, an undercurrent of jealous resentment
against the château which did not escape the Spaniard. He made haste to
accept the rector's invitation, feeling certain that he should learn
from him all that he had reason to hope or fear from the marquis's
hospitality.
[Footnote 11: This ornament, common in the time of Henri IV., may have
come to France with Marie de Médicis, as an allusion to the arms of her
family, which are, as everyone knows, seven little balls, literally
pellets, in memory of the profession of the founder of the family.]
[Footnote 12: Salt-smuggling nobleman.]
[Footnote 13: This is one of the few spots where we can still find the
wild balsam with yellow flowers.]
XIV
The rector began by speaking well of the marquis. He was a very good
man; his intentions were excellent; he gave freely to the poor, there
was no denying that; unfortunately he lacked judgment, he distributed
his benefactions helter-skelter, without consulting the _natural
intermediary_ between the château and the cottage, to wit the rector of
the parish. He was a little mad, harmless in himself, dangerous by
reason of his rank, his wealth, and the example of refined sensuality,
of frivolity and indifference in religious matters, which he afforded
those about him.
And then he had a very suspicious individual in his household: that
bagpipe player, who was not so dumb perhaps as he pretended to be, some
heretic or sham scholar, who dabbled in astronomy, perhaps in astrology!
Old Adamas was no better: he was a base flatterer and hypocrite; and
that page, so absurdly tricked out as a petty gentleman, who, being a
bourgeois, was not entitled to wear satin, and who came to mass on
Sundays in some sort of damask doublet!
The servants as a whole were a worthless lot. They were civil, nothing
more, to Monsieur Poulain; no marked attentions; he had not yet received
a special pressing invitation to dinner. They had simply told him once
for all, that a cover was always laid for him. That was too
unceremonious treatment. It was surprising on the part of a man who had
lived a long while at court. To be sure, at the court of the Béarnais,
they did not pride themselves on being over-refined, and nobodies were
petted and spoiled there most shamefully. In short, Bellinde alone of
all the people _at the château_ seemed to him a person of sense.
D'Alvimar considered Monsieur Poulain's judgment excellent; the bagpiper
especially seemed to him more than ever deserving of suspicion.
However, he did not dwell long upon these trivial matters. As soon as he
was assured that he would do well to repose no confidence in the old
marquis, he advanced a step in his investigations, and wished to know
what opinion he should hold of the leading men of the province.
Monsieur Poulain was well posted as to all the little secrets of the
provincial government at Bourges. He understood politics as D'Alvimar
did: to pry into everyone's private life as a step toward acquiring a
predominant influence in public affairs.
That evil-minded priest saw that he could safely speak; he admitted that
he was mortally bored in that little hamlet, but that he was patient,
because, some day or other, Monsieur de Bois-Doré or his neighbor
Monsieur de Beuvre might well afford him an opportunity for a little
petty persecution, of which he desired to be the victim rather than the
author.
"You understand me; it is much better to be on the defensive on solid
ground, than on the offensive and in the breach. One is never safe in a
breach; if these Berrichon heathen would only threaten me or even injure
me a little, I would make noise enough about it to obtain my release
from these paltry functions and this deserted province. Do not think me
ambitious; I am ambitious only to serve the Church, and, in order to be
of use, one must bow to the necessity of keeping oneself in view."
"This little priestling is shrewder than I am," said D'Alvimar to
himself; "he knows enough to wait until he is in a favorable position to
fire on the enemy; I have always been aggressive, that is what has
ruined me. But it is not too late to profit by good advice; I will come
often to this man in search of it."
In very truth, this priest, who seemed to be engrossed by church-porch
gossip, but who really was not at all interested in it except in so far
as he could make something out of it, was a shrewder man than D'Alvimar;
so much so that in an hour he fathomed him completely, distrustful as he
was, and learned, if not the secrets of his life, at all events those of
his character, and his disappointments, his defeats, his desires and his
needs.
When he had extorted his confession, seeming all the while to confess
himself, he spoke thus to him, going straight to his goal:
"You have more chances of success than I, since wealth is the great
element of power. A priest cannot make a fortune as a layman can. He
must be content to progress slowly, by the power of his intellect and
his zeal alone. He must not forget that wealth is not his goal, and he
cannot desire it except as an instrument As for you, you are at liberty
to acquire wealth at any time. You have simply to marry."
"I do not think it!" said D'Alvimar. "Women in these corrupt days are
more likely to make their lovers' fortunes than their husbands'."
"So I have heard," rejoined Monsieur Poulain; "but I know the remedy."
"Indeed! You possess a valuable secret!"
"Very simple and very easy. You must not aim so high as you have done,
perhaps. You must not marry a woman of the highest rank. You must look
for a substantial dowry and a modest wife in the provinces. Do you
understand me? You must spend your money at the court, and not take your
wife there."
"What! marry a bourgeoise?"
"There are young ladies of noble birth who are richer and more modest
than bourgeoises."
"I know of none such."
"There is one in this province, not very far away! The little widow of
La Motte-Seuilly."
"She has a competence at the most."
"You judge by appearances. People hereabout are not accustomed to
luxurious living. With the exception of this mad marquis, all the
resident nobility live without display; but there is plenty of money
here. Salt smuggling and the spoils of the convents have made the nobles
rich. Whenever you choose, I will convince you that, with Madame de
Beuvre's revenues, you will be able to live very handsomely in Paris.
Moreover she is connected with the best families in France, and none of
them would be sorry to have a Spaniard of the true faith become allied
to them."
"But isn't she a Calvinist like her father?"
"You will convert her, unless her Calvinism is simply a pretext for
allowing her to live at peace in her little château."
"You are far-sighted, monsieur le recteur! But suppose you declare war
upon that family some fine day?"
"Provided that I do not cause it to be despoiled of its property, such a
was might be of advantage to you under certain circumstances. Pray
observe that I do not advise you to maltreat and desert your wife, but
to insist upon being at liberty to absent yourself from her, to fulfil
the duties of your position. If she becomes bitter or rebellious, you
can checkmate her by her heresy. The freedom of conscience granted to
those people is dependent upon conditions which they often fail to
observe. So that we always have them in our power, witness the fact that
this same little widow finds it impossible to marry again. The young men
of the province, who are weary of the war between châteaux, are afraid
of marrying a war. So you would have no rival at this moment, except
possibly Monsieur Guillaume d'Ars, who is a moderate Catholic, and a
constant visitor at La Motte; but they will find a way at Bourges to
impose other bonds on him. He is a young popinjay, easily diverted.
Furthermore, given a widow who must be weary of solitude, such a man as
you are must be very awkward indeed to fail. I see, by your smile, that
you are not doubtful of success."
"Well, I admit that you speak truly," replied D'Alvimar, to whom there
suddenly came a vivid remembrance of the emotion which the young lady
had not succeeded in concealing from him, and the source of which he
might readily have misunderstood. "I think that, if I chose----"
"You must choose--Think about it," continued Monsieur Poulain, rising.
"If you have decided, I will write confidentially to certain persons who
can assist you materially."
He referred to the Jesuits, who had already shaken Monsieur de Beuvre's
resolution by threatening to prevent his daughters marriage. That
gentleman's own tranquillity could be assured, at the price of this
marriage. D'Alvimar understood the hint, promised the rector to consider
the matter seriously and give him an answer two days later, since, as it
happened, he was to pass the following day at Madame de Beuvre's.
The bell on the château announced the marquis's dinner. Monsieur
d'Alvimar took leave of the priest who had caused him to think more
hopefully of his destiny, and retraced his steps to the manor.
He felt more at ease and more light-hearted than he had been for several
days, because he felt that he was in communication with a keen mind,
ready to support him at need. His courage returned. This flight into
Berry, this disquieting residence with those who were hostile to his
faith and opinions, and this species of isolation which, two hours
earlier, had assumed the gloomiest colors in his mind, now smiled upon
him as the forerunners of a fortunate event.
"Yes, yes, that man is right," he thought. "That marriage would be my
salvation. I have only to make up my mind. Let me once turn that little
provincial's head, and I shall be able to confess to her my disgrace at
court. She will consider herself bound in honor to make up to me for it.
And even if I must play the _moderate_ for a few days--well, I will try
it! Courage! my horizon is brightening, and perhaps the star of my
fortune is about to come forth from the clouds at last."
He raised his hand as he spoke, and saw in front of him, on the bridge
leading to the courtyard, the Moorish woman's child boldly riding one of
the marquis's chariot horses.
Mercedes had asked leave of Adamas to pass the day at the château, and
the goodman had granted it in his master's name, proposing to present
her to him as soon as he should be visible.
As he was playing in the courtyard, the child had made a favorable
impression on the coachman--_cocher_; in those days the common term was
_carrossier_ or _carrosseur_; in Berry _carrosseux_--and he had
consented to put him upon _Squilindre_, while he himself, mounted on
_Pimante_, his mate, held the rein and led the team to the brook for its
daily leg-bath.
D'Alvimar was struck by the face of that child, who, on the preceding
day, had darted among his horse's legs to beg, and had fled from his
whip, and now, perched on the monumental Squilindre, looked down upon
him with an air of kindly triumph.
It was impossible to imagine a more interesting and touching face than
that little vagrant's. His beauty was of a quiet type, however; he was
pale, sunburned, and seemed not strong. His features were not absolutely
perfect, but there was in the expression of his soft black eyes and in
the sweet, sly smile that played about his delicately-chiselled mouth, a
something absolutely irresistible to all whose hearts were not closed to
the divine charm of childhood.
Adamas had yielded instinctively to that gentle influence, and the
rudest servants in the barnyard had yielded to it no less. Such rough
natures were oftentimes so kindly! Was it not of such that Madame de
Sévigné wrote that there were "peasants whose hearts were straighter
than straight lines, loving virtue as naturally as horses trot?"
But D'Alvimar, not being fond of innocence, was not fond of children,
and this one in particular caused in him a sense of discomfort which he
could not understand.
He had a shuddering, dizzy sensation, as if the portcullis had fallen
upon his head as he was returning to the château of Briantes, more
tranquil and less dejected than when he went forth.
He had been subject for some years to these sudden attacks of vertigo,
and he readily attributed to the faces that happened to be before him at
such times a phenomenon the cause of which was really in himself. He
believed in mysterious influences, and, to avert them, he denied and
cursed inwardly with great warmth the persons who seemed possessed of
that occult power.
"May that big horse break your neck!" he muttered, as he raised two
fingers of his left hand, under his cloak, to exorcise the evil eye.
He repeated that cabalistic gesture when he saw the Moorish woman coming
toward him across the courtyard.
She stopped for a moment, and, as on the preceding day, gazed at him
with an earnestness which irritated him.
"What do you want with me?" he demanded abruptly, walking toward her.
She made no reply, but, courtesying to him, hurried to her child,
alarmed to see him on horseback.
The marquis came forward with Lucilio Giovellino, to meet his guest.
"Pray, come and eat," he said to him; "you must be dying of hunger!
Bellinde is in despair because she did not see you go out this morning,
and consequently allowed you to take your walk without breaking your
fast."
Monsieur d'Alvimar thought it best not to mention his visit to the
vicarage and his breakfast there. He dilated upon the rural beauty of
the neighborhood, and on the soft, bright autumn morning.
"Yes," said Bois-Doré, "we shall have several days of it, for the
sun----"
He was interrupted by a piercing shriek outside the enclosure, and ran
as fast as he could to the bridge, whither D'Alvimar had preceded him
and Lucilio instinctively followed him.
They saw the Moorish woman on the edge of the moat, holding out her arms
in an agony of fear toward her child, whom the huge horse was bearing
down stream, and she was apparently on the point of throwing herself in
from the elevated point where she stood.
XV
This is what had happened.
The little gypsy, proud and overjoyed to be riding such a big
rocking-horse all by himself, had cajoled the coachman into allowing him
to hold the halter. Honest Squilindre, feeling that he had been turned
over to that tiny hand, and excited by the merry little heels drumming
against his sides, had ventured too far to the right, missed the ford,
and swum under the bridge. The coachman tried to go to his assistance,
but Pimante, being more suspicious than his mate, refused to leave the
solid ground; and the child, clinging to the mane, was delighted with
the adventure.
His mothers shrieks calmed his excitement, however, and he shouted to
her, in a tone which Lucilio alone understood:
"Don't be afraid, mother, I am holding on tight."
But they were fairly in the current of the little river which fed the
moat. The bulky, phlegmatic Squilindre had already had enough of it, and
his nostrils, tremendously dilated, betrayed his discomfort and his
anxiety.
He had not the wit to turn back. He was heading straight for the pond,
where the impossibility of passing the dam might well exhaust what
little swimming strength he still retained.
However, the danger was not imminent as yet, and Lucilio strove by
gestures to make the Moor understand that she must not jump into the
water. She paid no heed, and was descending the grassy bank, when the
marquis, realizing the danger that threatened those two poor creatures,
attempted to unbutton his cloak.
He would have thrown himself into the stream; indeed, he was about to do
it without consulting anybody, and before D'Alvimar had any suspicion of
his purpose, when Lucilio, who did detect it, and who wore nothing to
impede his freedom of movement, leaped from the bridge and swam
vigorously toward the child.
"Ah! dear, brave Giovellino!" cried the marquis, forgetting in his
emotion the French translation which disguised his friend's name.
D'Alvimar recorded that name in the archives of his memory, which was
very reliable, and, while the marquis approached the bank to pacify and
restrain the Moor, he remained on the bridge, awaiting with strange
interest the conclusion of the adventure.
His interest was not of the sort that every kind heart would have felt
at such a time, and yet the Spaniard was conscious of a keen anxiety.
He did not desire the death of the mute, which was in nowise likely to
result; but he did desire the death of the child, which seemed more than
possible. He did not pray to heaven to abandon that poor creature; he
did not seek the explanation of his cruel instinct; he submitted to it,
in spite of himself, as to a strange, unconquerable disease. He was more
and more conscious that that child inspired him with superstitious
terror.
"If this that I feel is a revelation of my destiny," he thought, "it is
in the balance and is being decided at this moment. If the child dies, I
am saved; if he is saved, I am lost."
The child was saved.
Lucilio overtook the horse, grasped his little rider by the collar of
his jacket, and tossed him to the bank, into the arms of his mother, who
had followed the changing scenes of this little drama, running by the
stream and shrieking.
Then he calmly returned to the too simple-minded Squilindre, who was
making a desperate assault on the dam at the pond, and, forcing him to
turn back, delivered him safe and sound to the frantic coachman.
The whole house had been attracted by the Moorish woman's shrieks, and
they were deeply moved to see her, weeping copiously the while, hug
Lucilio's knees and speak earnestly to him in Arabic, greatly surprised
that he did not say a word to her in reply, although he seemed to
understand the language, and did in fact understand it perfectly.
The marquis embraced Lucilio, saying to him in an undertone:
"Ah! my poor friend! for a man who has suffered at the hands of the
torturer, even to the very marrow of his bones, you are a sturdy
swimmer! God, who knows that you live only to do good, has deigned to
perform miracles in your person. Now go at once and change everything,
and do you, Adamas, see that yonder little devil is thoroughly dried and
warmed; he seems no more frightened than if he were just out of bed. I
wish you to bring him to me with his mother, after my breakfast; so make
them as clean as you can. Why, where has Monsieur de Villareal gone?"
The pretended Villareal had returned to the château, and was praying,
alone in his room, to the revengeful God in whom he believed, not to
punish him too severely for the eagerness with which he had, _without
just cause_, longed for the little gypsy's death.
We give the child this title, following the example of the servants of
the château, by whom he was surrounded at that moment; but when, after
his repast, Monsieur de Bois-Doré betook himself to an ancient
apartment of his castle, which Adamas dignified with the title of _salle
des audiences_, and sometimes of _salle de justice_; when that old
minister of the interior to the marquis introduced the Moorish woman and
her child, the marquis's first words, after a moment of impressive
silence, were these:
"The more I look at this little fellow, the more certain I feel that he
is neither Egyptian nor Moor, but rather a Spaniard of good family,
perhaps of French blood."
It was not necessary to be a magician to make that discovery;
nevertheless it was listened to with great respect by Adamas, who, in
his capacity of introducer, remained at the conference. Monsieur
d'Alvimar and Lucilio had been invited by the marquis to be present.
"See," continued Bois-Doré, with ingenuous pride in his own
penetration, putting aside the child's coarse white shirt, "his face is
sun-burned, but no more than our peasants are in harvest-time; his neck
is as white as snow, and he has feet and hands so small that serf or
villein never could show the like. Come, my little imp, be not ashamed;
and, as I am told that you understand French, answer our questions. What
is your name?"
"Mario," the child replied without hesitation.
"Mario? That is an Italian name!"
"I don't know."
"From what country are you?"
"I am French, I think."
"Where were you born?"
"I don't remember."
"I should think not," laughed the marquis; "but ask your mother."
Mario turned to the Moor, and opened his mouth to speak to her. His face
wore an expression of satisfaction and joy, because he had been welcomed
so like a father by this fine gentleman who held him between his legs,
and whose beautiful silk clothes and pretty little beribboned dog he
stroked timidly with the tips of his little fingers.
But when he met his mother's eyes, he seemed to read therein a warning
of great importance; for he gently extricated himself from Monsieur de
Bois-Doré's grasp, and went to the Moor, lowering his eyes and not
speaking.
The marquis asked him divers other questions to which he did not reply,
although he seemed, by the sweet and melting glance he turned upon him,
to apologize furtively for his discourtesy.
"It is my opinion, friend Adamas, that you exaggerated a trifle when you
declared that this boy spoke our language fluently," said the marquis.
"It is true that his pronunciation is very good, and that he says
several words without much foreign accent; but I fancy that that is all
he knows. As you know Spanish so well--for my part, I confess that I
know very little of it--make him explain himself."
"Useless, monsieur le marquis," said Adamas, not at all disconcerted, "I
give you my word that the little rascal speaks French like a clerk; but
he is frightened in your presence, that's the whole story."
"No, indeed!" rejoined the marquis; "he's a little lion and afraid of
nothing. He came out of the water laughing as heartily as when he went
in, and he must see that we are kind-hearted people."
Mario seemed to understand perfectly; for his affectionate eye said yes,
while the Moorish woman's intelligent and timid eyes, resting upon
D'Alvimar, seemed to say no, so far as she was concerned.
"Come, come," continued worthy Monsieur Sylvain, taking Mario between
his legs again, "I propose that we shall be good friends. I love
children and this one attracts me. Tell me, Master Jovelin, isn't it
true that that face was not made to deceive, and that that innocent
glance goes straight to the heart? There is some mystery under all this,
and I propose to solve it. Listen, Master Mario, if you answer me
truthfully, I will give you--What would you like me to give you?"
The child, obeying the artless impulse of his age, pounced upon
Fleurial, the beautiful little white dog which never left its master's
chair when he was seated.
It seemed that Mario was determined to risk everything to possess the
creature; but another glance from Mercedes warned him to restrain
himself, and he replaced the little dog on the marquis's knees, to the
great satisfaction of the latter, who had feared for a moment that he
had gone too far.
The child sadly shook his head and made a sign that he wanted nothing.
Thus far D'Alvimar had said nothing; as he recited his prayer after the
scene at the moat, he had reviewed rapidly, but with unerring accuracy,
all the events of his life. Nothing had come to his memory which could
have any connection, direct or indirect, with a woman and child in the
situation of these two.
The emotion he had felt therefore must have been purely imaginary; he
had regretted his failure to overcome it at once; he had recovered
possession of his reason.
During dinner the marquis had not mentioned Adamas's story concerning
Mercedes's mysterious journey. He himself had only listened to it with
one ear, as he was falling asleep the night before. So that D'Alvimar
eyed the two vagrants with calm contempt, and fancied that he had
discovered at last the commonplace explanation of his repugnance for
them.
He joined in the conversation.
"Monsieur le marquis," he said, "if you will permit me to retire, I am
sure that with a little money you will make this varlet talk all you
desire. It is possible that he is a Christian child stolen by this Moor,
for I have no question as to her nationality. However, you are much
mistaken, if you think that the color of the skin is a certain sign.
Some of these wretched children are as white as yourself, and if you
wish to make sure, you will do well to raise the hair that covers this
brat's forehead; perhaps you will find there the brand of the red-hot
iron."
"What!" said the marquis with a smile, "are they so afraid of the water
of baptism that they efface the sign by fire?"
"The mark I refer to is the brand of slavery," replied D'Alvimar. "The
Spanish law inflicts it upon them. They are branded on the forehead with
an S. and a nail's head, which represents in figurative language the
word _slave_."
"Yes," said the marquis, "I remember, it is a rebus! Well, for my part,
I consider it very shocking, and if this poor child is branded with it
and is a slave by your laws, I will purchase him and set him free on
good French soil."
Mercedes had not understood a word of what was being said. But she
watched with intense anxiety D'Alvimar approach Mario, as if to touch
him; but not for anything in the world would D'Alvimar have sullied his
gloved hand by contact with a Moor, and he waited for the marquis to
lift the child's hair; but the marquis did nothing of the kind, from a
feeling of generous compassion for the poor mother, whose humiliation
and anxiety he thought that he could understand.
As for Mario, he understood what was taking place; but controlled and,
as it were, fascinated by Mercedes's glance, he took refuge in stolid
silence.
"You see," said D'Alvimar to the marquis, "he hangs his head and
conceals his shame. Well, I know all I wish to know about them, and I
leave you in this respectable society. There is no danger that they will
unclench their teeth before a Spaniard, and they evidently know that I
am one. There is an instinctive aversion between that degraded race and
ours, so unerring that they scent our approach as wild game scents the
approach of the hunter. I met this woman yesterday on the highroad, and
I am sure that she put some spell on my horse, for he is lame this
morning. If I were the master of this house, such vermin would not
remain in it another instant!"
"You are my guest," rejoined Bois-Doré, blending with his courtesy an
accent of dignity and resolution of which Monsieur d'Alvimar deemed him
incapable, "and, in that capacity, you are entitled to entertain your
opinions without being called upon to defend them, whether they are or
are not identical with my own. If the sight of these unfortunate
creatures is distasteful to you, as I do not wish it to be said that you
were annoyed in any manner under my roof, I will arrange that they shall
not offend your eyes; but you cannot demand that I shall brutally turn a
woman and a child out-of-doors."
"Surely not, monsieur," said D'Alvimar, recovering his self-possession;
"by so doing I should ill requite your courtesy, and I ask your pardon
for my vehemence. You are aware of the horror with which my nation
regards these infidels, and I know that I should have held it in check
here."
"What do you mean?" demanded Bois-Doré, somewhat testily; "do you take
us for Mussulmans?"
"God forbid, monsieur le marquis! I intended to refer to the tolerant
spirit of the French in general; and as it is a law of civility that we
must conform to the customs of the country in which we accept
hospitality, I promise to keep watch upon myself, and to meet without
repugnance whomever it may please you to receive."
"Very good!" replied the honest marquis, offering him his hand; "in a
few moments, when I have finished here, is it your pleasure to go out
and kill a hare or two?"
"You are too kind," said D'Alvimar, as he was leaving the room; "but do
not disturb yourself on my account; with your permission I will go to
write some letters, awaiting the supper hour."
The marquis, having risen to salute him, seated himself again with his
careless grace, and said to Lucilio:
"Our guest is a very well-bred knight, but he is quick-tempered, and,
all things considered, he has one great drawback, which is that he is
too much of a Spaniard. Those sublime mortals despise everything that is
not Spanish; but I believe that they have crushed out their own life by
martyrizing and exterminating those wretched Moors. They will gnaw their
hands over it some day. The Moors were untiring workers and scrupulously
neat, in a land of sloth and vermin. They were gentle and humane before
they were tormented so cruelly. Well, well, if we have here a poor
remnant of that race which was so great in the past, let us not trample
on it. Let us be merciful! God for us all!"
Lucilio had listened to the marquis with religious attention, but while
he was saying the last words he was writing.
"What are you doing?" said Bois-Doré.
Lucilio handed him the paper, which seemed to the marquis an
undecipherable scrawl.
"This," said the mute with his pencil, "is a translation in Arabic of
the noble words you just said. See if the child knows how to read, and
if he understands that language."
Mario glanced at the paper which was handed him, ran to the Moor and
read it to her; she listened with great emotion, kissed the paper and
fell on her knees at the marquis's feet.
Then she turned to Giovellino and said to him in Arabic:
"Man of courage and virtue, say to this good man what I am going to say
to you. I did not wish you to speak my language before the Spaniard. I
was not willing that the child should say a word before him. The
Spaniard hates us, and, wherever he meets us, he does us harm. But the
child is a Christian, he is not a slave. You can see on my brow the
brand of the Inquisition; it is still there, although I was very small
when they branded me."
As she spoke, she untied the kerchief of multicolored sackcloth which
confined her long black hair, and pointed to her forehead on which there
was no sign of the red-hot iron. But she rubbed it with her hand, and
the ghastly _rebus_ stood out in white on the red skin.
"But look at this youthful brow," she said, lifting Mario's abundant,
silky locks. "If it had been branded like mine, it would not be possible
to mistake the mark. This brow was baptized by a priest of your
religion; the child has been reared in the faith and the language of his
fathers."
While the Moor was speaking, Lucilio had written a translation of her
words, and the marquis read as he wrote.
"Ask her for her story," he said to the mute; "make her understand that
we are interested in her misfortunes and that we will take her under our
protection."
It was not necessary for Lucilio to write Bois-Doré's interruptions.
Mario, who spoke Arabic as readily as French and Catalan, translated it
to his adoptive mother with remarkable fidelity.
We will continue the interview of those four persons, as if they had all
spoken the same language, and as if Lucilio, quick as he was with his
pencil, had not been incapable of speaking any language.
XVI
The Moorish woman began thus:
"Mario, my beloved, say to this kind-hearted nobleman that I speak
Spanish very little, and French still less; I will tell my story to his
_scrivener_, and he can read it.
"I am the daughter of a poor farmer of Catalonia. It was in Catalonia
that the few Moors who were spared by the Inquisition lived at peace,
hoping that they would be allowed to remain there and earn their living
by toil, since we had taken no part in the recent wars which were so
disastrous to our brothers in the other provinces of Spain.
"My father's name was Yesid in Arabic and Juan in Spanish; I was
baptized by _aspersion_ like the others, my Christian name was Mercedes,
my Moorish name Ssobyha.[14]
"I am now thirty years old. I was thirteen when we began to receive
secret warnings that we were to be stripped and driven from the country
in our turn.
"Even before I was born the terrible King Philip II. had ordered that
all Moors must learn the Castilian language within three years, and must
no longer speak, read or write in Arabic, openly or secretly; that all
contracts made in that language should be void; that all our books
should be burned; that we should exchange our national costumes for the
dress worn by Christians; that the Moorish women should go out without
veils, with faces uncovered; that we should have no national festivals
or songs or dances; that we should lay aside our family and individual
names and take Christian names; that no Moor, male or female, should
bathe in the future, and that the baths in the houses should be
destroyed.
"Thus they insulted us even in the decency of our manners and the health
of our bodies! My parents submitted. When they saw that it availed them
nothing, and that they were persecuted solely because of their money,
they thought only of collecting and concealing all that they could,
intending to fly when they should again be in danger of death.
"By dint of hard work and patience they amassed a little hoard. It was
to prevent the necessity of my begging, they said, as so many others had
had to do who had allowed themselves to be taken by surprise. But it was
written that I should ask alms like all the rest.
"We were still happy enough, notwithstanding the humiliation they heaped
upon us. Our Spanish lords did not love us; but, as they realized that
we alone in Spain were able and willing to till their lands, they asked
their king to spare us.
"When I was seventeen years old, King Philip suddenly issued a new
decree against all the Catalan Moors. We were banished from the kingdom
with such goods and chattels as we could carry on our bodies. We must
leave our houses within three days, under pain of death, and go, under
escort, to the place of embarkation. Every Christian who harbored a Moor
would be sent to the galleys for six years.
"We were ruined. However, my father and I concealed about our persons
such gold as we could carry, and we left our home without a complaint.
They promised to take us to Africa, the home of our ancestors. Thereupon
we prayed to the God of our fathers to take us once more for his
faithful children.
"They allowed us on the journey to resume our former costumes, which had
been preserved in our families for a whole century, and to chant our
prayers in our own language, which we had not forgotten; for, in spite
of the decrees, we used no other among ourselves.
"We were packed on the state galleys like sheep, but were no sooner on
board than they called upon us to pay for our passage. The majority had
nothing. They insisted that the rich should pay for the poor.
"My father, seeing that they cast into the sea those who could find no
one to help them, paid without regret for all those who were on our
ship; but when they saw that he had nothing left, they tossed him into
the sea with the rest!"
At this point the Moorish woman stopped. She did not weep, but her
breast was heaving with sobs.
"Execrable hounds of Spaniards! Poor Moors!" muttered the marquis.
"Alas!" he added, as if warned by a melancholy glance from Lucilio,
"France has done no better; the Regent treated them just the same way!"
"Finding myself alone in the world," continued Mercedes, "without a sou,
and deprived of all I loved, I tried to follow my poor father; they
prevented me. I was pretty. The commander of the galley wanted me for a
slave. But God unloosed the tempest, and they had to give all their
thought to struggling against it. Several vessels sank, thousands of
Moors perished with their persecutors. The galley upon which we were was
hurled by the storm on the coast of France, and was dashed to pieces
near a place of which I have never learned the name.
"I was washed upon the shore amid the dead and dying; that was my
salvation. I dragged myself among the rocks, and there, drenched to the
skin and utterly exhausted, having carefully concealed myself, for I had
no strength to go farther, I slept for the first time for many days and
nights.
"When I awoke the storm was at an end. It was quite warm. I was alone.
The wretched ship lay off the shore, the dead bodies on the beach. I was
hungry, but I had strength enough to walk.
"I left the shore as quickly as I could, fearing to encounter Spaniards
there, and walked toward the mountains, begging bread, water and
lodging. I was received very coldly; my costume made the peasants
suspicious.
"At last I met several women of my own race, who were settled in a
certain village, and who gave me other clothes. They advised me to
conceal my birth and my religion, because the people thereabout did not
like foreigners, and detested Moors above all others. Alas! it seems
that they are detested everywhere, for I was told later that, instead of
welcoming as brothers those who succeeded in reaching Africa, the men of
Barbary massacred them or reduced them to a worse slavery than that of
Spain.
"How could I follow the advice that was given me to conceal my origin? I
did not know the Catalan language well enough for that. At first people
gave me alms; but, when a Spaniard passed, he would say to the people of
the neighborhood:
"'You have a Moorish woman among you.'
"And they would turn me away. I wandered from valley to valley.
"One day I found myself on a highroad--I learned afterward that it was
the Pau road--and there it was that heaven caused me to fall in with a
woman even more unhappy than myself. She was the mother of the child
before you, who has become mine."
"Go on," said the marquis.
But Mercedes paused, seemed to reflect, and finally said to Lucilio:
"I cannot tell the story of the child's parents except to you
alone--you, who saved his life, and who seem to me to be an angel on
earth. If I may remain here a few days, and if I see no danger for
Mario, I swear that I will tell the whole story; but I am afraid of the
Spaniard, and I saw this old gentleman put his hand in his, after
reproving him for his harshness toward us. I understood it all with my
eyes; nobles are nobles, and we poor slaves cannot hope that the
kindest-hearted of them all will take our part against their equals."
"Equality has nothing to do with it!" cried the marquis as soon as
Lucilio had translated Mercedes's words for him in writing. "I swear, on
my faith as a Christian and my honor as a gentleman, to protect the weak
against the whole world."
The Moor replied that she would tell the truth, but that she should omit
certain unimportant details.
Then she resumed her narrative in these words:
"I was on the Pau road, but at a very lonely spot in the heart of the
mountains. There, as I was taking a little rest, having concealed myself
for fear of the wicked men whom one is likely to meet in all countries,
I saw a man pass with his wife.
"The woman was walking a little in advance; brigands ran up behind them,
and killed and robbed the man so quickly that his wife did not see it,
and, when she turned to speak to him, found him lying dead across the
road.
"At that sight she fell in a swoon, and I saw that she was _enceinte_.
"I did not know how to take her up and comfort her. I was on my knees
beside her, praying and weeping, when a man on horseback, dressed in
black, and with a gray moustache, suddenly appeared and asked me why I
was weeping so. I pointed to the woman lying on her husband's body. He
spoke to her in several languages, for he was a great scholar; but he
very soon saw that she was in no condition to reply.
"The shock that she had received hastened her labor.
"Some shepherds passed with their flocks. He called to them, and as they
saw that that good man was a priest of their Christian religion, they
obeyed his orders and carried the woman to their house, where she died
an hour after bringing Mario into the world, and giving the priest the
wedding-ring she wore on her finger, unable to say anything, but
pointing to the child and to heaven!
"The priest stayed at the shepherd's house until the two unfortunate
creatures were buried, and as he supposed that I had been the lady's
slave, he entrusted the child to me and bade me accompany him. But I did
not choose to deceive him, having seen that he was learned and humane. I
told him my story and how I happened to be a witness of the peddler's
murder."
"So he was a peddler?" said the marquis.
"Or a gentleman in disguise," Mercedes replied; "for his wife wore the
clothing of a lady under her cloak, and when we undressed him to lay him
out, we found a shirt of fine linen and silk short clothes under his
coarser garments. His hands were white, and we also found upon him a
seal on which there was a crest."
"Show me the seal!" cried Bois-Doré deeply moved.
The Moor shook her head, saying:
"I haven't it."
"This woman distrusts us," rejoined the marquis, addressing Lucilio,
"and yet this story interests me more than she thinks! Who knows
that--Come, my dear friend, try to make her tell us at least the precise
date of this adventure she is describing."
Lucilio motioned to the marquis to question the child, who answered
without hesitation:
"I was born an hour after my father's death and an hour before the death
of good King Henri the Fourth of France. That is what Monsieur l'Abbé
Anjorrant, who took care of me, told me, bidding me never forget it, and
my mother Mercedes said I might tell you, on condition that the Spaniard
shall not know it."
"Why?" said Adamas.
"I do not know," replied Mario.
"In that case beg your mother to go on with her story," said Monsieur de
Bois-Doré, "and rely upon our keeping her secret, as we have promised
to do."
The Moor resumed her narrative thus:
"The good priest, having procured a goat to nourish the child, took us
away, saying:
"'We will talk about religion later. You are unfortunate, and it is my
duty to have pity upon you.'
"He lived some distance away, in the heart of the mountain. He placed us
in a little cabin built of blocks of marble and covered with great flat
black stones, and there was nothing in the house but dried grass. That
saint had nothing better to give us than a roof over our heads and the
word of God. He lived in a house little more luxurious than the hut in
which we were.
"But I had not been there a week before the child was neat and well
cared for, and the house quite comfortable. The shepherds and peasants
did not turn their backs upon me, their priest had so thoroughly imbued
them with gentleness and pity. I soon taught them certain things about
the care of their flocks and the cultivation of their fields which they
did not know, but which are familiar to all Moorish husbandmen. They
listened to me, and, finding that I could help them, they allowed me to
lack nothing that I needed.
"I should have been very happy at falling in with that man of peace and
that indulgent country, if I could have forgotten my poor father, the
house in which I was born, my kinsmen and my friends, whom I was never
to see again; but I came to love the poor orphan so dearly, that little
by little I was consoled for everything.
"The priest educated him and taught him French and Spanish, while I
taught him my language, so that I might have one person in the world
with whom I could speak it; but, do not think that, in teaching him
Arabian prayers, I turned him away from the religion the priest was
teaching him. Do not think that I spurn your God. No, no! when I saw
that sincere, compassionate, learned, virtuous man, who talked so
eloquently of his prophet _Issa_[15] and of the beautiful precepts of
the _Engil_,[16] which do not tell us to do what the Koran forbids, it
seemed to me that the best religion must be the one that he practised;
and as I had not received baptism, despite the immersion of the Spanish
priests--for I sheltered myself with my hands so that no drop of
Christian water should fall on my head,--I consented to be baptized anew
by that holy man, and I swore to Allah that I would never again deny in
my heart the worship of Issa and Paraclet."[17]
This artless declaration gave great satisfaction to the marquis, who,
despite his recent philosophical notions, was, no more than Adamas, an
upholder of the heathen idolatry attributed to the Moors of Spain.
"So," he said, patting Mario's brown cheeks, "we are not dealing with
devils, but with human beings of our own species. _Numes célestes_! I
am very glad to hear it, for this poor woman interests me and this
orphan touches my heart. And so, my handsome friend Mario, you were
brought up by an excellent and learned curé of the Pyrenees! and you
are a little scholar yourself! I cannot speak Arabic to you; but if your
mother will consent to give you to me, I promise to have you brought up
as a gentleman."
Mario did not know what being a gentleman was. He was unquestionably
very far advanced for his age, and for the period and the environment in
which he had been reared; but, in every other direction than religion,
morality and languages, he was a genuine little savage, having no
conception of the society which the marquis invited him to enter.
He saw in the proposal nothing but ribbons, sweetmeats, pet dogs, and
beautiful rooms filled with _bibelots_, which he took for toys. His eyes
shone with ingenuous greed, and Bois-Doré, who was as ingenuous as he
in his way, cried:
"_Vive Dieu_! Master Jovelin, this child was born to high station. Did
you see how his eyes sparkled at the word gentleman? Come, Mario, ask
Mercedes to remain with us."
"And me too!" said the child, naturally assuming that the offer was made
first of all to his adopted mother.
"You and she," replied Bois-Doré; "I know that it would be very cruel
to separate you."
Mario, overjoyed, hastened to say to the Moorish woman in Arabic,
covering her with kisses:
"Mother, we are not to travel the highroads any more. This kind lord is
going to keep us here in his fine house!"
Mercedes expressed her thanks with a sigh.
"The child is not mine," she said, "he is God's, who has placed him in
my care. I must seek his family until I find it. If his family no longer
exists, or does not want him, I will return here, and on my knees I will
say to you: 'Take him and turn me away if you will. I prefer to weep
alone outside the door of the house where he lives and is happy, than to
make him beg his bread any more."
"This woman has a noble heart," said the marquis. "We will assist her
with our money and our influence to find the persons she is seeking; but
why does she not tell us what she knows of them? Perhaps we shall be
able to assist her at once when we know the child's family name."
"I do not know his name," said the Moor.
"What hope had she then, when she left the mountains?"
"Tell them what they want to know," said Mercedes to Mario, "but nothing
of that which they must not know yet."
[Footnote 14: Aurora.]
[Footnote 15: Jesus.]
[Footnote 16: The Gospel.]
[Footnote 17: The Holy Spirit.]
XVII
Mario, enchanted to have an opportunity to tell his story, but without
imprudence or affectation, with all the charm of his natural candor and
of his limpid glance, began as follows:
"We were very happy there; there were grottoes, cascades, high peaks and
tall trees; everything was much bigger than it is here, and the water
made much more noise. My mother kept some very good cows, and she dyed
and spun wool and made a very strong cloth. Look at my white cap and her
red cape. She made the material for both of them. I worked too. I made
baskets; oh! I can make very nice ones! If I come back here to be a
gentleman, you shall see! I will make all the baskets for the house!
"I spent two hours every day learning to read and write French and
Spanish with Monsieur le Curé Anjorrant. He never scolded me, he was
always pleased with me. No one ever saw such a kind-hearted man! He
loved me so much that my mother was jealous sometimes. She used to say
to me:
"'Come, I will wager that you love the priest better than you do me!'
"But I would say:
"'No, indeed! I love you both the same. I love you as much as I can. I
love you as big as the mountains, and more too; as big as the sky!'
"But when I was ten years old, everything changed. All of a sudden
Monsieur Anjorrant was taken very sick, because he walked too much in
the snow to save some little children who were lost and whom he found,
for we used to have snow in winter, sometimes as high as the top of your
house. And all of a sudden Monsieur Anjorrant died.
"My mother and I cried so much that I don't see how we have any eyes
left to see with.
"Then my mother said to me:
"'We must do what our father, our friend who is dead, wanted us to do.
He has left with us the papers and jewels which may serve to make your
family acknowledge you. He has written to the French minister about you
many times. He never had any answer. Perhaps they did not get his
letters. We will go and see the king, or someone who can speak to him
for us, and if you have a grandmother or aunts or cousins, they will see
to it that you do not remain a slave, because you were born free, and
freedom is the greatest thing in the world.'
"We started with very little money. Good Monsieur Anjorrant left nothing
for anybody. As soon as he got a piece of money he would give it to
somebody who needed it. We walked and walked; France is so big! For
three months now we have been on the road. My mother, when she saw how
far it was, was afraid we should never get there, and we begged bread
and shelter at every door. People always gave us something, because my
mother is so sweet, and they thought I was a pretty boy. But we did not
know the roads, and we took many steps which delayed us instead of
taking us forward.