"Then we met some very funny people, who called themselves Egyptians,

and they told us we could go to Poitou with them if we knew how to do

anything. My mother can sing very well in Arabic, and I can play the

_tympanon_ a little, and the guitar of the Pyrenees. I will play for you

all you want. Those people thought that we knew enough. They were not

unkind to us, and there was a little Moorish girl with them named Pilar,

whom I was very fond of, and a bigger boy, La Flèche, who is a

Frenchman and who amused me with his wry faces and his stories. But they

were almost all thieves, and it pained my mother to see how gluttonous

and lazy they were.

"That is why she said to me every day:

"'We must leave these people, they are good for nothing.'

"We finally left them yesterday, because----"

"Because?" repeated the marquis.

"That is something my mother Mercedes will tell you later, perhaps, when

she has prayed to God to reveal the truth to her. That is what she told

me, and it is all I know."

"Taking everything into consideration," said the marquis, rising, "I am

deeply interested in these people, and I propose that they shall be well

treated and cared for under my roof, until it shall please God to point

out to me in what way I can assist them further. But did you not tell

me, my faithful Adamas, that this Mercedes had a letter for Monsieur de

Sully?"

"Yes, yes!" cried Mario. "That is the name on Monsieur Anjorrant's

letter."

"Very well, that simplifies matters. I am very much attached to him, and

I will undertake to send you to him without fatigue or discomfort. So

make yourself at home here and ask for whatever you want.--Adamas, both

the mother and the child are very neat and clean, and their mountain

garb is not unbecoming. But have they every thing that they possess on

their bodies?"

"Yes, monsieur, except the much shabbier clothes that they wore last

night and this morning; they have two shirts each and other things in

proportion. But the woman washes and combs the child and mends his

clothes whenever she is not walking. See how nicely kept his hair is!

She knows all sorts of Arabian secrets for maintaining cleanliness; she

knows how to make powders and elixirs which I intend to learn from her."

"That is a very good idea; but remember to give her some linen and other

materials, so that she may be well provided. As she is so clever with

her fingers, she will make the most of them. I am going out for a walk;

after which, if she has no objection to singing one of her national

songs to the accompaniment of the little fellow's guitar, I shall be

very glad to hear their outlandish music. Au revoir, Master Mario! As

you have talked very civilly, I intend to give you something soon; be

sure that I shall not forget it."

The lovely boy kissed the marquis's hand, not without a most expressive

glance at Fleurial, the little dog, whom he would have preferred to all

the treasures in the house.

To be sure Fleurial was a marvel; of the marquis's three canine pets, he

was justly enough the favorite, and never left his master when he was in

the house. He was as white as snow, woolly as a muff, and, in contrast

to the ways of most spoiled curs, as gentle as a lamb.

When the marquis had taken his accustomed walk, spoken kindly to those

of his vassals whom he met, and inquired for those who were ill, so that

he could send them what they needed, he returned and sent for Adamas.

"What shall I give this pretty little Mario?" he said. "We must find

some plaything suited to his years, and there are none such here. Alas!

my friend, there are three of us in this house who are fast turning into

old bachelors: Master Jovelin and you and I."

"I have been thinking about it, monsieur," said Adamas.

"About what, my old servant? marriage?"

"No, monsieur; as that isn't to your taste, it isn't to mine either; but

I have thought of the plaything to give the child."

"Go to fetch it at once."

"Here it is, monsieur!" said Adamas, producing the object, which he had

deposited in the window recess. "As I noticed that the child was dying

with longing for Fleurial, and as you could not give him Fleurial, I

remembered seeing in the garret a number of toys that had been lying

there a long while, and, among others, this dog of tow, which is not

very badly worm-eaten, and which resembles Fleurial, except that its

coat is like a black sheep's and it hasn't much tail left."

"And except a thousand other differences, which result in its not

looking in the least like him! But where did you say this toy came from,

Adamas?"

"From the garret, monsieur."

"Very good; and you say that there are others there?"

"Yes, monsieur; a little horse with only three legs, a broken drum, some

little toy weapons, the remains of a feudal donjon----"

Adamas paused abruptly as he noticed that the marquis was gazing with an

absorbed expression at the stuffed dog, while a tear made a furrow

through the paint on his cheek.

"I have done some stupid thing!" said the old servant to himself; "for

God's sake, my dear good master, what makes you weep?"

"I do not know--a moment's weakness!" said the marquis, wiping his cheek

with his perfumed handkerchief, upon which a considerable portion of the

roses of his complexion remained; "I fancied that I recognized that

plaything, and if I am right, Adamas, it is a relic that must not be

given away! It was my poor brother's!"

"Really, monsieur? Ah! I am nothing but an old fool! I ought to have

thought of that. I supposed that it was something that you used to play

with when you were a little child."

"No! when I was a child, I had no playthings. It was a time of war and

sorrow in this country; my father was a terrible man, and to amuse me

showed me fetters and chains, peasants astride the wooden horse, and

prisoners hanging on the elms in the park. Later, much later, he had a

second wife and a second son."

"I know it, monsieur--young Monsieur Florimond, whom you loved so

dearly! The flower of young gentlemen, most assuredly! And he

disappeared in such a strange way!"

"I loved him more than I can say, Adamas! not so much for any relations

we had together after he grew to manhood, for then we followed different

banners, and met very seldom, just long enough to embrace and to tell

each other that we were friends and brothers in spite of everything; but

for his sweet, charming ways in his childhood, when, as I have told you,

I had occasion to take care of him and watch over him during one of my

father's absences which lasted about a year. His second wife was dead

and the province very unsettled. I knew that the Calvinists detested my

father, and I thought it my duty to protect that poor child, whom I did

not know, and who grew to love me as if he realized our father's

injustice to me. He was as gentle and beautiful as this little Mario. He

had neither kindred nor friends about him, for in those days some died

of the plague and others of fright. He would have died, too, for lack of

care and cheer, had not I become so attached to him that I played with

him for whole days at a time. It was I who brought him these toys, and I

have good reason to remember them, now I think about it, for they came

within an ace of costing me very dear."

"Tell me about it, monsieur; it will divert your thoughts."

"I will gladly do so, Adamas. It was in fifteen hundred--never mind the

date!"

"Of course not, of course not, monsieur, the date is of no importance."

"My dear little Florimond was tired of having to stay in the house, but

I dared not take him out-of-doors, because parties of troops of all

factions were constantly passing, who killed everybody and recognized no

friends. I happened to think of a diversion which had tempted me sorely

in my own childhood. At the château of Sarzay I had seen many of those

stuffed animals and other toys with which the young Barbançois used to

play. The lords of Barbançois, who held that fief of Sarzay, from

father to son, for many years, were among the fiercest enemies of the

poor Calvinists, and at that time they were at Issoudun, hanging and

burning as many as they could. In their absence the manor of Sarzay was

not very carefully guarded. The country roundabout being absolutely

devoted to the Catholics and to Monsieur de la Châtre, they had no

suspicion of poor me, for I was too entirely alone and too poor to

undertake anything.

"It occurred to me to go thither on some pretext, and to lay violent

hands on the toys, unless some servant would sell them to me, for it was

useless to try to find any elsewhere. They were luxuries, and were not

sold in out of the way places.

"I presented myself, therefore, as coming from my father, and asked to

be admitted to the château to speak to the young folks' nurse, for they

were then old enough to ride, like myself, and were scouring the

country. I went in, explained my errand, and was coldly received by the

nurse. She knew that I had already fought with the Calvinists and that

my father did not love me: but money softened her. She went to a room at

the top of the house and brought down what the children, now full-grown,

had injured least.

"So away I went with a horse, a dog, a citadel, six cannons, a chariot

and many little iron dishes, the whole in a big basket covered with a

cloth, which I had fastened upon my horse behind me. It came up to my

shoulders, and, as I rode out of the courtyard, I heard the servants

laughing at the window and saying to one another:

"'He's a great booby, and, if we never have to deal with any Reformers

of a different stamp, we will soon settle their business.'

"Some were inclined to shoot at me, but I escaped with nothing worse

than a fright. I dug my spurs into my horse, my baggage jingling behind

like a Limousin tinker's bag of old iron.

"However, all went well, and I rode tranquilly along the crossroad, in

order not to pass through La Châtre with that outfit; but I had to

cross the Couarde, by the bridge on the Aigurande road, and there I

found myself face to face with a party of ten or twelve reiters riding

toward the town.

"They were simply marauders, but they had with them one of the vilest

partisan troopers of the time, a certain knave whose father or uncle was

in command of the great tower of Bourges, and was known as Captain

Macabre.

"This fellow, who was about my own age but already old in villainy,

acted as guide to such bands of pillagers, who were very willing to let

him try his hand with them. I had fallen in with him several times, and

he knew that, having fought for the Calvinists, I ought not to be

roughly handled by the Germans. But when he saw the load I was carrying,

he concluded that I was a valuable prize, and, assuming a mighty

swagger, he ordered me to dismount and turn over horse and baggage to

his men, who called themselves for the moment cavalry of the Duc

d'Alençon.

"As they did not know a word of French, and young Macabre acted as their

interpreter, it would have been utterly useless for me to try to parley

with them. Knowing with whom I had to deal, and that, after I had

submitted and dismounted, I should be soundly beaten and possibly shot,

by way of pastime, as was the habit of the marauding bands, I risked all

to win all.

"With my boot and stirrup together I kicked Macabre violently in the

stomach--he had already dismounted to unhorse me--and stretched him flat

on his back, swearing like forty devils."

"And you did well, monsieur!" cried Adamas, enthusiastically.

"The others," continued Bois-Doré, "were so far from expecting to see a

stripling like me do such a thing under their noses, they being old

troopers one and all, and armed to the teeth, that they began to laugh;

whereof I took advantage to ride away like a shot; but, having recovered

from their amazement, they sent after me a hailstorm of German plums,

which they called in those days Monsieur's plums, because those Germans

used the plans drawn by Monsieur, the king's brother, against the

queen-mother's troops.

"Fate willed that I should not be hit, and, thanks to my excellent mare,

who carried me swiftly through the tortuous sunken roads of the Couarde,

I returned home safe and sound. Great was the joy of my little brother

as he watched me unpack all those gewgaws.

"'My dear,' I said to him, as I gave him the citadel, 'it was very lucky

for me that I was so well fortified, for, if it had not been for these

stout walls which I had over my spine, I fancy that you would never have

seen me again.'

"Indeed, Adamas, I believe that if you should take this stuffed dog to

pieces, you would find some lead inside; and that, if the citadel did

not protect me, the animals protected the citadel at all events."

"If that is the case, monsieur, I shall keep all the things most

carefully, and place them as a trophy in some room in the château."

"No, Adamas, people would laugh at us. And here comes that beautiful

boy; we must give him the dog and all the rest, for the things that come

from an angel should go to another angel, and I see in this Mario's eyes

the innocence and affection that were in my young brother's eyes.--Yes,

it is certain," continued the marquis, glancing at Mario and Mercedes,

as they entered the room, escorted by Clindor the page, "that if

Florimond had had a son, he would have been exactly like this boy; and,

if you wish me to tell you why I was attracted to him at first sight, it

was because he recalled to my mind, not so much by his features as by

his bearing, his soft voice and his gentle manners, my brother as he was

at about that age."

"Monsieur your brother never married," said Adamas, whose mind was even

more romantic than his master's; "but he may have had natural children,

and who knows whether----"

"No, no, my friend, let us not dream! I had a vision while this Moorish

woman was telling us the story of the murdered gentleman. Would you

believe that I actually fancied that it might have been my brother?"

"Well, and why should it not have been, monsieur, since no one knows how

he died?"

"It was not he," replied the marquis, "for this little Mario's father

was killed before the death of our good King Henri, whereas my last

letter from my brother was dated at Genoa on June 16th, that is to say

about a month after that event. It is not possible to reconcile the

two."

XVIII

While the marquis and Adamas exchanged these reflections, the Moorish

woman had made her preparations for singing, and Lucilio had arrived to

listen to her.

The marquis was so pleased with her manner that he begged Lucilio to

write down the airs she sung. Lucilio was even more captivated by them,

as being, he said, "very old and rare, of great beauty and perfect in

their way."

[Illustration: _MERCEDES AND MARIO ENTERTAIN

THE MARQUIS._

_Mercedes sang better and better as they encouraged

her, and Mario played her accompaniments very well._]

Mercedes sang better and better as they encouraged her, and Mario played

her accompaniments very well.

He was so fascinating with his long guitar, his wise expression, his

lips half-parted and his beautiful hair falling in waves over his

shoulders, that one could never weary of looking at him. His costume,

which consisted of a coarse white shirt, and brown woollen

knee-breeches, with a red girdle and gray stockings with strips of red

cloth wound around the legs, heightened the grace of his movements and

the elegance of his shapely figure.

He received with joyous bewilderment the toys which were brought from

the garret, and the marquis was gratified to see that, after an admiring

scrutiny of all those marvellous things, he arranged them in a corner

with a sort of respect.

The fact was that they did not appeal to him very strongly, and that,

when his surprise had passed, his thoughts returned to Fleurial, who was

alive, playful and affectionate, and would have followed him in his

wandering life, whereas the possession of horses, cannon and citadels

was only the dream of an instant in that life of want and constant

motion.

The rest of the day passed with no new outbreak on the part of Monsieur

d'Alvimar.

He saw Monsieur Poulain again and told him that he had decided to lay

siege to the fair Lauriane.

At supper he did his best to avoid having in the person of the marquis

an enemy or an obstacle in his intercourse with her, and he succeeded in

creating a favorable impression. He did not encounter the Moor or the

child, nor did he hear them mentioned, and he retired early to muse upon

his projects.

The marquis's whole retinue was overjoyed to keep Mario a few days; so

Adamas announced. He had covers laid for the child and his mother at the

second table, at which he himself ate, in the capacity of valet de

chambre, with Master Jovelin, whom Bois-Doré purposely treated as an

inferior, and with Bellinde the housekeeper and Clindor the page.

The coachman and other servants ate at different hours and in a

different place. Theirs was the third table.

There was a fourth for the farm hands, wayfarers, poor travellers and

mendicant monks; so that, from dawn until dark, that is to say, until

eight or nine o'clock at night, eating was in progress at the château

of Briantes, and some chimney was always pouring forth a rich, greasy

smoke, which attracted swarms of urchins and beggars from a long way

off. They always received a bountiful supply of broken food at the main

gate, and laid the fifth table on the turf along the avenue, or on the

banks of the ditches.

Despite this generous hospitality and this numerous retinue, which did

not correspond with the narrow proportions of the château itself, the

marquis's income met all demands, and he always had money to spare for

his innocent whims.

He lost very little by peculation, although he kept no accounts; as

Adamas and Bellinde detested each other, they watched each other

closely, and although Bellinde was not the woman to abstain altogether

from plunder, the fear of arousing suspicion made her prudent and

necessarily moderate in the matter of profit. Being handsomely paid, and

always magnificently dressed at the expense of the châtelain, who did

not choose to see rags or dirt about him, she certainly had no excuse

for malversation; but she complained none the less, being one of those

who cherish a stolen sou and disdain an honestly acquired louis.

As for Adamas, if he was not the soul of probity in all his

relations--for he had fought in the civil wars and had acquired the

manners of the partisan troops,--he was so devoted to his master, that

if, in the eminent post of confidential servant which he had attained,

he had dared to pillage other people and hold them to ransom, it would

have been solely to enrich the manor of Briantes.

Clindor made common cause with him against Bellinde, who hated him and

treated him like a dog dressed in boy's clothes.

He was an honest little fellow, half clever, half stupid, uncertain as

yet whether he should pose as a man of the third estate, a title which

was assuming more real importance every day, or should assume the airs

of a future gentleman, a species of vanity which was to keep the third

estate for a long time to come in an equivocal attitude and cause it to

play the rôle of dupe between factions, despite its intellectual

superiority.

The secret of the Moorish woman's nationality was not divulged. In order

not to expose her to the suspicious intolerance of Bellinde, who made a

great show of piety, Adamas represented her as a Spaniard pure and

simple.

Not a word of her story or of Mario's transpired.

"Monsieur le marquis," said Adamas to his master as he undressed him,

"we are children and know nothing at all of the artifices of the toilet.

This Moor, with whom I have been talking upon serious subjects, has

taught me more in an hour than all your Parisian artists know. She has

the most valuable secrets about all sorts of things, and knows how to

extract miraculous juices from plants."

"Very good, very good, Adamas! Talk about something else. Recite some

verses to me as you shave me; for I feel depressed, and I might truly

say with Monsieur d'Urfé, speaking of Astrée, that the effervescence

of my ennui disturbs the repose of my stomach and the breath of my

life."

"_Numes célestes_! monsieur," cried the faithful Adamas, who loved to

use his master's favorite expressions; "so you are still thinking of

your brother?"

"Alas! his memory came back to me yesterday, I don't know why. There are

such days in every man's life, you know, when a slumbering sorrow wakes.

It is like the wounds one brings back from the war. Let me tell you

something of which that orphan's pretty ways made me think just now. It

is that I am growing old, my poor Adamas!"

"Monsieur is jesting!"

"No, we are growing old, my friend, and my name will die with me. I have

a few distant cousins, to be sure, for whom I care but little, and who

will perpetuate my father's name, if they can; but I shall be the first

and last of the Bois-Dorés, and my marquisate will descend to no one,

being entirely honorary and determinable at the king's pleasure."

"I have often thought about it, and I regret that monsieur has always

been too active to consent to put an end to his bachelor life and marry

some beautiful nymph of this neighborhood."

"To be sure, I have done wrong not to think of it. I have roamed too

much from fair to fair, and although I never met Monsieur d'Urfé, I

would stake my life that, having heard of me somewhere, he intended to

describe me under the features of Hylas the shepherd."

"And suppose it were so? That shepherd is a very amiable man,

exceedingly clever, and the most entertaining, in my opinion, of all the

heroes of the book."

"True; but he is young, and I tell you again that I am beginning not to

be young any more and to regret very bitterly my having no family. Do

you know that I have had the idea of adopting a child, or have been

conscious of a longing to do so, at least a score of times?"

"I know it, monsieur; whenever you see a pretty, attractive little baby,

that idea comes back to you. Well, what prevents you?"

"The difficulty of finding one with an attractive face and a good

disposition, who has no parents likely to take him away from me when I

have brought him up; for to dote on a child just to have him taken from

you at the age of twenty or twenty-five----"

"But the interval, monsieur."

"Oh! time flies so fast! one is not conscious of its flight! You know

that I once thought of taking some young poor relation into my house;

but my family are all old Leaguers, and their children are ugly, or

obstreperous, or dirty."

"It is certain, monsieur, that the younger branch of the Bourons is not

attractive. You appropriated the stature, all the charm and all the

gallantry of the family, and no one but yourself can give you an heir

worthy of you."

"Myself!" said Bois-Doré, slightly dazed by this declaration.

"Yes, monsieur, I am speaking seriously. Since you are tired of your

liberty; since I hear you say, for the tenth time, that you mean to

settle down----"

"Why, Adamas, you speak of me as if I were an old rake! It seems to me

that, since our Henri's sad death, I have lived as becomes a man

overwhelmed by grief, and a resident nobleman in duty bound to set a

good example."

"Certainly, certainly, monsieur, you can say all that you please to me

on that subject It is my duty not to contradict you. You are not obliged

to tell me of your delightful adventures in the châteaux or groves of

the neighborhood, eh, monsieur? That is nobody's business but yours. A

faithful servant ought not to spy upon his master, and I do not think

that I have ever asked monsieur any indiscreet questions."

"I do justice to your delicacy, my dear Adamas," replied Bois-Doré, at

once embarrassed, disturbed and flattered by the chimerical suppositions

of his idolatrous valet. "Let us talk of something else," he added,

afraid to dwell upon so delicate a subject, and trying to believe that

Adamas knew of adventures of his of which he had no knowledge himself.

The marquis did not boast openly. He was too well bred to tell of the

love-affairs he had had and to invent others that he had never had. But

he was delighted that he should still be accredited with them, and

provided that no particular woman was compromised, he did not contradict

those who said that he was favored of all women. His friends connived at

his modest conceit, and it was the great delight of the younger men, of

Guillaume d'Ars in particular, to tease him on that point, knowing how

agreeable such teasing was to him.

But Adamas was not so ceremonious. He was not very much of a Gascon on

his own account; having blended his personality with the radiations from

his master's, he was a Gascon for him and in his place.

So he continued the discussion with much self-possession, declaring that

monsieur was quite right to think of marrying. It was a subject which

was often renewed between them, and of which neither of them wearied,

although it had never had any other result in thirty years than this

reflection from Bois-Doré:

"To be sure! to be sure! but I am so peaceful and so happy thus! There

is no hurry, we will talk about it again."

This time, however, he seemed to listen to Adamas's boasting on his

account with more attention than usual.

"If I thought that there was no danger of my marrying a barren woman,"

he said to his confidant, "I would marry, on my word! Perhaps I should

do well to marry a widow with children?"

"Fie! monsieur," cried Adamas, "do not think of such a thing. Take some

young and lovely demoiselle, who will give you children after your own

image."

"Adamas!" said the marquis, after a moment's hesitation, "I have some

doubt whether heaven will send me that blessing. But you suggest an

attractive thought, which is to marry a woman so young that I can

imagine that she is my daughter and love her as if I were her father.

What do you say to that?"

"I say, that if she is young, very young, monsieur can at need imagine

that he has adopted a child. And if that is monsieur's idea, there is no

need to go very far; the little lady of La Motte-Seuilly is exactly

suited to monsieur's wants. She is beautiful, she is good, she is

virtuous, she is merry; those qualities are what we need to brighten up

our manor-house, and I am very sure that her father has thought of it

more than once."

"Do you think so, Adamas?"

"To be sure! and so has she! Do you suppose that, when they come here,

she draws no comparison between her old château and yours, which is a

fairy palace? Do you suppose, that, for all she is so young and

innocent, she has never discovered what sort of man you are compared

with all the other suitors whom she has ever seen?"

Bois-Doré fell asleep thinking of the absence of suitors about the fair

Lauriane, of the enmity that the neighbors bore the rough and outspoken

De Beuvre, and of the annoyance which De Beuvre felt on account of that

state of things, temporary doubtless, but of which he exaggerated the

possible duration.

The marquis persuaded himself that his proposal would be hailed as one

of fortune's greatest boons.

The religious question would adjust itself as between them. In any

event, if Lauriane should reproach him for having abjured Calvinism, he

saw no objection to embracing it a second time.

His self-conceit did not permit him to consider the possibility of an

objection based upon his age. Adamas had the gift of dispelling that

unpleasant memory every night by his flatteries.

Honest Sylvain therefore fell asleep on that evening more absurd than

ever; but whoever could have read in his heart the purely paternal

feeling that guided his course, the boundless philosophical tolerance

with which he looked forward to the possibility of being made a cuckold,

and the projects of indulgence, of submission and absolute devotion

which he formed with regard to his youthful helpmeet, would certainly

have forgiven him, even while laughing at him.

When Adamas went into his own room, it seemed to him that he heard the

rustling of a dress in the secret stairway. He rushed into the passage

as quickly as possible, but failed to catch Bellinde, who had time to

disappear, after overhearing, as she had often done before, all the

conversation between the two old fellows.

Adamas knew her to be quite capable of playing the spy. But he concluded

that he was mistaken, and barricaded all the doors when there was

nothing to be heard save the loud snoring of the marquis and the muffled

yelping of little Fleurial, who lay at the foot of the bed dreaming of a

certain black cat, which was to him what Bellinde was to Adamas.

XIX

They arrived at La Motte-Seuilly about nine o'clock the next morning.

The reader has not forgotten that in those days dinner was served at ten

in the morning, supper at six in the evening.

On this occasion our marquis, who was fully determined to open his

matrimonial projects, had deemed it best to use some lighter and less

cumbersome means of locomotion than his magnificent lumbering chariot.

He had mounted, not without a mighty effort, his pretty Andalusian

steed, called _Rosidor_--another name from _Astrée_,--an excellent

beast with an easy gait and placid disposition, a little mischievous, as

it was fitting that he should be in order to give his rider a chance to

shine--that is to say, ready at the slightest sign with leg or hand, to

roll his eyes savagely, curvet, dilate his nostrils like a wicked devil,

rear to a respectable height, and, in a word, assume the airs of a

bad-tempered brute.

"For all that, the best fellow in the world."

As he dismounted, the marquis ordered Clindor to lead his horse around

the courtyard for a quarter of an hour, on the pretext that he was too

warm to be taken to the stable at once, but in reality so that his hosts

might know that he still rode that restive palfrey.

Before he entered Lauriane's presence, honest Sylvain went to the room

set aside for him in his neighbor's house, to readjust his clothes, and

perfume and beautify himself in the jauntiest and most refined manner.

On his side Monsieur Sciarra d'Alvimar, dressed in black velvet and

satin, after the Spanish fashion, with hair cut short and a ruff of rich

lace, had only to change his boots for silk hose and shoes bedecked with

ribbons, to show himself at his best.

Although his sedate costume, then considered old-fashioned in France,

was better suited to Bois-Doré's age than his own, it gave him an

indefinable air of a diplomat and a priest at once, which emphasized the

more strongly his extraordinarily well-preserved youth and the

self-assured refinement of his person.

It seemed that old De Beuvre had anticipated a day of offers of

marriage; for he had made himself less like a Huguenot, that is to say

less austere in his dress than usual, and, deeming his daughter's dress

too simple, he had urged her to don a handsomer one. So she made herself

as fine as the widow's weeds, which she was in duty bound to wear until

she married again, would permit. In those days custom was not to be

trifled with.

She arrayed herself in white taffeta, with a raised skirt over an

underskirt of grayish white, called _rye bread color_. She put on a lace

neckband and wristbands, and as the widow's hood--Mary Stuart's little

cap--relieved her from the necessity of conforming to the fashion of

wearing the ugly powdered wigs which were then in vogue, she was able to

show her lovely fair hair brushed back in a wavy mass which left her

beautiful forehead bare and framed her finely-veined temples.

In order not to seem too provincial, she sprinkled her hair with Cyprus

powder, which made her more than ever like a child. Although the two

suitors had severally determined to be agreeable, they were somewhat

embarrassed during the dinner, as if they had conceived some suspicion

that they were rivals.

Indeed, Bellinde had repeated to Monsieur Poulain's housekeeper the

conversation she had overheard. The housekeeper had told the rector, who

had put D'Alvimar on his guard by a note thus conceived:

"You have, in the person of your host, a rival with whom you can amuse

yourself; make the most of the opportunity."

D'Alvimar laughed in his sleeve at the idea of rivalry from such a

quarter; his plan was to attack the young lady's heart at once. Little

he cared for her father's approval. He thought that, if he were once in

control of Lauriane's feelings, there would be no difficulty about the

rest.

Bois-Doré reasoned differently. He could not doubt the esteem and

attachment of both father and daughter for him. He did not hope to take

her imagination by surprise and turn her head; he would have liked to be

alone with them, to set forth in simple terms his advantages in the way

of rank and wealth; after which he hoped, by humble attentions, to make

his purpose manifest ingeniously and honorably. In short, he determined

to act the part of a well-bred youth of good family, while his rival

preferred to carry the place by storm like a hero of romance.

De Beuvre, who saw that D'Alvimar was becoming sentimental, vexed his

old friend sorely by leading him away along the little stream, to ask

him numerous questions touching his guest's rank and fortune; to which

Bois-Doré could make no other reply than that Monsieur d'Ars had

recommended him to him as a man of quality to whom he was much attached.

"Guillaume is young," said Monsieur de Beuvre; "but he realizes too well

what he owes us to introduce to us a man unworthy of a cordial reception

at our hands. Still, I am surprised that he told you nothing more; but

Monsieur de Villareal must have confided to you his motive in coming

hither. How does it happen that he did not accompany Guillaume to the

fêtes at Bourges?"

Bois-Doré could not answer that question; but in his inmost heart De

Beuvre was convinced that this mystery concealed no other design than

that of paying court to his daughter.

"He must have seen her somewhere, when she did not notice him," he said

to himself; "and although he seems a very earnest Catholic, he also

seems very much in love with her."

He said to himself further that, in the then state of affairs, a

Catholic Spanish son-in-law might restore the fortunes of his house and

repair the wrong he had done his daughter by joining the ranks of the

Reformers.

If for no other reason than to give the lie to the Jesuits, who had

threatened him, he would have been glad to learn that the Spaniard was

of sufficiently good family to pretend to the hand of Lauriane, even if

he were only moderately wealthy.

Monsieur de Beuvre reasoned like a sceptic. He did not talk so loudly of

Montaigne's _Essays_, as Bois-Doré did of _Astrée_, but he fed his

mind upon them assiduously, and he read no other book.

Bois-Doré, being more straightforward in his politics than his

neighbor, would not have reasoned as he did if he had been a father. He

was no more attached than he to religion; but of the beliefs of the

olden time, he had never laid aside the love of country, and the spirit

of the League would never have induced him to trifle with it.

He did not suspect the thoughts of his friend, absorbed as he was by his

own, and during a quarter of an hour, as if playing at cross purposes,

they discussed, without understanding each other, the urgent need of a

good marriage for Lauriane.

At last light was thrown upon the discussion.

"You!" cried De Beuvre in stupefaction, when the marquis had declared

himself. "Bless my soul! who the devil could have expected that? I

imagined that you were talking in veiled words about your Spaniard, and

it seems that you mean yourself! Look you! neighbor, are you in your

right mind, and don't you mistake yourself for your grandson?"

Bois-Doré gnawed his moustache; but, being accustomed to his friend's

jesting, he soon recovered himself, and strove to persuade him that

people were mistaken about his age, and that he was not so old as his

own father was when he remarried, at the age of sixty, with most

successful results.

While he was wasting time thus, D'Alvimar was striving to make the most

of it.

He had succeeded in bringing Madame de Beuvre to a halt under the great

yew, whose branches, drooping to the ground, formed a sort of apartment

of dark verdure, where one was entirely isolated in the middle of the

garden.

He began awkwardly enough with extravagant compliments.

Lauriane was not on her guard against the poison of praise; she knew

little of the refined manners of young men of quality, and was not able

to distinguish the false from the true; but, luckily for her, her heart

had not yet felt the tedium of solitude, and she was much more of a

child than she seemed to be. She considered D'Alvimar's hyperbolical

language highly amusing, and laughed at his gallantry with a heartiness

that disconcerted him.

He saw that his fine phrases had no luck, so strove to talk of love in a

more natural vein. Perhaps he would have succeeded and would have sown

confusion in that young heart; but Lucilio suddenly appeared, as if sent

by Providence, to interrupt this dangerous interview with the sweet

notes of his _sourdeline_.

He had been averse to coming with Bois-Doré, knowing that he would be

made to dine in the servants' quarters and would not see Lauriane before

noon.

Lauriane, as well as her father, was acquainted with the tragic story of

Bruno's disciple, and, following Bois-Doré's example, they

ostentatiously treated him at La Motte-Seuilly as a musician simply,

fearing to compromise him, although they really entertained for him the

high esteem that he deserved.

Lucilio was the only one who had not thought of making a toilet for the

occasion. He had no hope of attracting attention; indeed, he had no

desire to draw any eye upon himself, knowing that the mysterious

intercourse of minds was the most to which he could aspire.

So he approached the yew without useless timidity or pretended caution;

and, relying upon the beauty and sincerity of what he had to say in

music, he began to play, to the great displeasure and vexation of

D'Alvimar.

Lauriane, too, was annoyed for a moment by the interruption, but she

reproached herself when she read on the bagpiper's beautiful face an

ingenuous purpose to gratify her.

"I do not know why it is," she thought, "that there seems to be on that

face a sort of radiance of genuine affection and of a healthy

conscience, which I do not find on the _other's_ face."

And she glanced once more at D'Alvimar, now thoroughly irritated, morose

and overbearing, and felt something like a shiver of fear--perhaps of

him, perhaps of herself.

Again, whether because she was very sensitive to music, or because her

emotions were keyed up to a high pitch, she fancied that she could hear

in her brain the words of the beautiful airs Lucilio was playing to her,

and those imaginary words were:

"See the bright sun shining in the clear sky, and the swift streams

receiving its rays on their changing surfaces!

"See the beautiful trees bent in black arches against the pale golden

background of the meadows, and the meadows themselves, as cheery and

bright as in the springtime, under the embroidery of the pink flowers of

autumn; and the graceful swan, that seems to paddle rhythmically at your

feet; and the migratory birds flying across yonder multicolored clouds.

"All these are the music that I sing to thee: youth, purity, faith, love

and happiness.

"Listen not to the strange voice which thou dost not understand. It is

soft but deceptive. It would extinguish the sun over your head; it would

dry up the water under your feet; it would wither the flowers in the

fields and shatter the wings of the birds among the clouds; it would

cause cold, fear and death to descend upon thee, and would exhaust

forever the source of the divine harmonies I sing to thee."

Lauriane no longer saw D'Alvimar. Lost in a delicious reverie, she did

not see Lucilio. She was transported into the past, and, thinking of

Charlotte d'Albret, she said to herself:

"No, no, I will never listen to the voice of the demon!--My friend," she

said aloud, rising, when the musician stopped, "you have done me an

immense amount of good, and I thank you. I have nothing to give you

which can pay for the noble thoughts which you are able to suggest to

us; that is why I beg you to accept these fragrant violets, which are

the emblem of your modesty."

She had refused to give D'Alvimar the violets, and she ostentatiously

gave them to the poor musician, before his face.

D'Alvimar smiled triumphantly, thinking that she meant to incite him by

a challenge more stimulating than an avowal. But such was not Lauriane's

thought, for, making a pretence of fastening the flowers in Lucilio's

hat, she said to him under her breath:

"Master Giovellino, I ask you to be a father to me, and not to stir from

my side until I tell you to."

Thanks to his keen Italian penetration, Lucilio grasped her meaning.

"Yes, yes, I understand, rely on me!" his expressive eyes replied.

And he seated himself on the huge roots of the yew, at a respectful

distance, like a servant awaiting such orders as may be given him, but

near enough to make it impossible for D'Alvimar to say a word which he

did not hear.

D'Alvimar divined the whole plan. She was afraid of him; that was still

better! He held the bagpiper in such utter contempt that he began anew

to pay court to his hostess before him as if he were a log of wood.

But his dangerous magnetism lost all its virtue.

It seemed to Lauriane that the presence of a calm, virtuous man like

Lucilio was an antidote. She would have blushed to display any vanity

before him. She felt that his eyes were upon her, and that feeling was a

protection. She saw that the Spaniard was piqued, and was gradually

growing angry. She tried her strength by resisting him.

He wanted her to dismiss that interloper, and he told her so,

designedly, in a tone loud enough to be overheard by him.

Lauriane flatly refused, saying that she desired more music.

Lucilio at once began to inflate his bagpipe.

D'Alvimar put his hand to his breast, drew a very sharp Spanish knife,

and, having removed it from its sheath, began to play with it as if to

keep himself in countenance; sometimes pretending to write with the

point on the old yew, sometimes to hurl it at something as if to show

his dexterity.

Lauriane did not understand his threat.

Lucilio was impassive, and yet he was too much of an Italian not to be

familiar with the cold-blooded anger of a Spaniard, and with the

possible destination of a stiletto apparently thrown at random.

Under any other circumstances he would have been anxious concerning his

instrument, which D'Alvimar's eye seemed to be watching, as if for a

chance to pierce it. But he was complying with Lauriane's wish; he was

fighting in behalf of innocence, as Orpheus fought for love with his

triumphant lyre; and he courageously attacked one of the Moorish airs

which he had heard and written down the day before.

D'Alvimar felt that he was defied, and the fire of wrath that was

smouldering within him began to burn him.

Being as dexterous as a Chinaman in throwing the knife, he determined to

frighten the impertinent minstrel, and began to make the gleaming blade

fly all around him, drawing nearer and nearer as he proceeded with his

soft and plaintive song. Lauriane had walked away a few steps, and at

that moment her back was turned to that horrible scene.

"I have defied tortures and death," said Giovellino to himself. "I will

defy them again, and this Spaniard shall not have the pleasure of seeing

me turn pale."

He turned his eyes in another direction and played as carefully and

accurately as if he were at Bois-Doré's table.

Meanwhile D'Alvimar, moving hither and thither, amused himself by

standing in front of him and aiming at him, as if he were tempted to

take him for a target; and by virtue of one of those inexplicable

fascinations which are as it were the punishment of cruel jests, he

began really to feel that horrible temptation.

The cold perspiration stood out on his body and a film passed over his

eyes.

Lucilio felt it rather than saw it; but he chose to risk everything

rather than show a moment's fear in the face of the enemy of his native

land, who likewise cast contempt upon his manly dignity.

XX

While this terrible game was in progress, a strange spectator was

looking on within two steps of the heedless Lauriane; it was the young

wolf brought up in the kennels, who had adopted the habits and manners

of a dog, but not his instincts and nature. He fawned upon everybody but

was attached to nobody.

Lying at Lucilio's feet, he had watched the Spaniard's cruel game with

evident uneasiness, and, the dagger having fallen close beside him

several times, he had risen and sought shelter behind the tree, thinking

of nothing but his own safety.

However, as the game continued, the animal, who was just beginning to

feel his teeth, showed them several times in silence, and, considering

that he was attacked, felt for the first time in his life the instinct

of hatred of man.

With his eye on fire, muscles tense, hair erect and quivering, he was

concealed from D'Alvimar by the colossal trunk of the yew, where he

watched for a favorable moment, and suddenly sprang out and tried to

seize him by the throat.

He would have wounded him at least, if he had not strangled him, had he

not been thrown back by a vigorous kick from Lucilio, which sent him

rolling over and over along the ground.

The sudden interruption of the music, and the plaintive sound made by

the bagpipe as the artist dropped it, caused Lauriane to turn hastily.

Entirely ignorant of what was taking place, she ran up in time to see

D'Alvimar, frantic with rage, disemboweling the beast with his knife.

He performed that act of reprisal with all the heat of revenge. It was

easy to read on his pale face and in his bloodshot eye the profound and

incomprehensible joy that he felt in having something to murder.

Thrice he buried the blade in the throbbing entrails, and at the sight

of blood his lips contracted with an expression of voluptuous pleasure,

while Lauriane, trembling from head to foot, pressed Lucilio's arms with

both hands, saying in a low voice:

"Look! look! Cæsar Borgia! it is he in person!"

Lucilio, who had often seen at Rome the portrait painted by Raphael, was

even better able to appreciate the resemblance, and nodded his head to

indicate that he was deeply impressed by it.

"How now, monsieur?" said the young woman, deeply moved, to the

triumphant Spaniard; "do you think that you are in the heart of the

forest, and do you expect to make yourself agreeable to me by presenting

me with the head or the claws of a creature that I have fed with my own

hands, and that I was caressing before you a moment ago? For shame! you

are not civil; and with that bloody knife in your hand, you look more

like a butcher than a gentleman!"

Lauriane was angry; she had no other feeling now for the stranger than

one of aversion.

He, as if emerging from a dream, apologized, saying that the wolf had

tried to devour him; that such creatures were bad company in a house,

and that he was very glad to have rescued _madame_ from an accident

which might as well have happened to her as to him.

"Do you mean that he attacked you?" she said, and glanced at Lucilio,

who nodded assent.--"Did he bite you?" she added; "where is the wound?"

And as D'Alvimar had not even a scratch, she was indignant that he had

manifested fear of a beast that was so young and so far from dangerous.

"The word fear is not very fair to me," he replied in a sort of frenzy;

"I did not suppose that it could be thrown at one who still holds the

instrument of death in his hands."

"How proud you are of having killed that young wolf! A child could have

done it, and it would have been pardonable in a child, but not in a man,

who could easily have got rid of him with a blow of a whip. I tell you,

messire, you were terribly frightened, and fright is the disease of

those who love to shed blood."

"I see," said the Spaniard, suddenly downcast, "that I am in disgrace

with you, and I recognize in this, as in everything else, the effect of

my ill luck. It is so persistent that there have been many times when I

have thought of yielding to it as victor in a battle in which I find

naught save discomfort and discomfiture."

There was much truth in what D'Alvimar had said; and as, after he had

instinctively wiped his dagger, he seemed to hesitate to replace it in

its sheath, Lauriane, impressed by the sinister gleam in his eye,

concluded that he was a little mad, as the result of some great

misfortune, and inclined to take his own life.

"If I am to forgive you," she said, "I demand that you hand me the

weapon of which you have just made such an unworthy use. I do not like

that treacherous blade, which French gentlemen no longer carry, except

when hunting. The sword is enough for a true knight, and one should take

time for reflection before unsheathing it in a lady's presence. I should

always be afraid of a man who conceals about his person a weapon so easy

to handle and so prompt to kill; and as this one does not seem to be of

great value, I ask you to sacrifice it to me, by way of reparation for

the pain you have caused me."

D'Alvimar thought that in thus disarming him she intended to caress him.

Nevertheless, it cost him a pang to part with so trusty a weapon, and he

hesitated.

"I see," said Lauriane, "that it is a gift from some fair dame whom you

are not at liberty to disobey."

"If you have any such thought as that," he retorted, "I will very

quickly disabuse you of it."

And, kneeling on one knee, he handed her the poniard.

"It is well," she said, withdrawing her hand, which he tried to kiss. "I

forgive you, as a guest whom I do not desire to humiliate; but that is

all, I assure you; and as for this wretched blade, if I keep it, I do so

not for love of you, but to prevent the evil that it might do."

They were then at the foot of the donjon, where they met the marquis and

Monsieur de Beuvre, engaged in earnest conversation.

Lauriane was about to tell them what had happened, but her father did

not give her time.

"Look you, my dearest daughter," he said, taking her hand and putting it

through the marquis's arm; "our friend wishes to tell you a secret, and

while he is telling it, I will do my best to entertain Monsieur de

Villareal. You see," he added, addressing Monsieur de Bois-Doré, "I

entrust my lamb to you without fear of your sharp teeth, and I say

nothing to her to lower you in her estimation! Speak to her therefore as

you choose. If you are burned, I wash my hands of it, it will be of your

own seeking."

"I see," said Madame de Beuvre to the marquis, "that you have some

request to make."

And as she supposed that it referred, as usual, to some hunting party on

his estates, she added that, whatever it might be, she granted it

beforehand.

"Beware, my child!" laughed Monsieur de Beuvre; "you don't know what you

are pledging yourself to!"

"You do not frighten me," she replied; "he can speak quickly."

"Indeed! you think so! but you are sadly mistaken," rejoined Monsieur de

Beuvre. "I will wager that his compliments will last more than an hour.

So go, both of you, to some room where you will not be disturbed, and

when you have said all you have to say, you can join us again."

The marquis was not disconcerted by this jesting. He had not reached the

resolution to prefer his request without stifling some vivid

apprehensions touching the marriage state, into which he had delayed

entering for about forty years.

If he had decided at last, it was because he wished to make someone else

rich and happy, and, having once adopted that idea, he considered it his

duty not to allow himself to be turned aside from it.

No sooner had they reached the salon, therefore, than he offered his

heart, his name and his fortune, after the style in vogue in _Astrée_,

with the unbridled passion which knows nothing milder than horrible

torments, sighs that rend the heart, terrors that cause a thousand

deaths, hopes that take away the reason, etc.; and all this with such

chaste and cold propriety that the most timid virtue could not take

alarm.

When Lauriane realized that he was talking about marriage, she was as

surprised as her father.

She knew that the marquis was capable of anything, and instead of

laughing at him she felt sorry for him. She had a warm friendship for

him, and respect for his goodness of heart and loyalty. She felt that

the poor old man would lay himself open to interminable taunts, if she

should set the example, and that the friendly and kindly raillery of

which he had hitherto been the object, would become stinging and cruel.

"No," thought the judicious child, "it shall not be so, I will not

suffer my old friend to be the laughing-stock of his servants.--My dear

marquis," she said, exerting herself to speak after his style, "I have

often reflected upon the possibility and the suitability of the plan

which you propose to me. I had divined your noble and virtuous flame,

and, if I have not reciprocated it, it is only because I am still so

young that mischievous Cupid has paid no attention to me as yet. Allow

me therefore to frolic yet a little while in the enchanted isle of

Ignorance of Love; I can be in no haste to come forth, since I am happy

in your friendship. Of all the men whom I know, you are the best and

most lovable, and, when my heart speaks, it may well be that it will

speak to me of you. But that is written in the book of destinies, and

you must e'en give me time to question mine. If, by some fatality, it

should be my destiny to be ungrateful to you, I would confess it

honestly and sorrowfully, for it would be my loss and my shame; but your

heart is so great and so kind that you would still be my brother and my

friend despite my folly."

"That would I, I swear it!" cried Bois-Doré with ingenuous warmth.

"Very well, my loyal friend," continued Lauriane, "let us wait awhile. I

ask you for a seven years' trial as the ancient custom is among knights

without reproach; and do me the favor to allow this agreement to remain

a secret between us two. Seven years hence, if my heart has remained

insensible to love, you will renounce me; and in like manner, if I share

your passion, I will tell you so without mystery. I swear to you

likewise, that if, before the expiration of our agreement, I am moved,

despite myself, by another's attentions, I will humbly and frankly make

confession to you thereof. Of that there seems but little likelihood;

yet do I seek to provide for everything, so earnestly do I desire to

preserve at least your friendship, if I lose your love."

"I submit to all your conditions," replied the marquis, "and I pledge to

you, adorable Lauriane, the faith of a gentleman and the fidelity of a

perfect lover."

"I rely thereupon," she said, offering him her hand; "I know that you

are a man of heart and an incomparable lover. And now, let us return to

my father, and let me tell him of that which is agreed between us, so

that our secret may be shared by him alone."

"I agree," said the marquis; "but shall we not exchange pledges?"

"What shall they be? I am willing; but let it not be a ring. Remember

that, being a widow, I can wear no other ring than the gift of a second

husband."

"Permit me to send you to-morrow a present worthy of you."

"No, no! that would mean admitting others to our confidence. Give me any

trinket that you have about you. See, that little box of ivory and

enamel that you have in your hand!"

"'Tis well! but what will you give me? I see you have the right

understanding of this exchange. It must be something that we have upon

us when we exchange promises."

Lauriane looked in her pockets and found there only her gloves, her

handkerchief, her purse and Monsieur Sciarra's dagger. The purse came to

her from her another: she gave him the dagger.

"Hide it carefully," she said, "and, so long as I allow you to keep it,

hope. In like manner, if I come and ask you for it----"

"I will pierce my bosom with it!" cried the old Celadon.

"No! that is something that you will not do," said Lauriane, with the

utmost seriousness, "for I should die of grief; and, moreover, you would

break the promise you have given me to remain my friend whatever

happens."

"That is true," said Bois-Doré, kneeling to receive the pledge. "I

swear to you that I will not die, even as I swear that I will neither

love nor glance at any other fair, so long as you shall not have torn

from my heart the hope of winning yours."

XXI

They returned to the garden, where Monsieur de Beuvre greeted them with

a bantering air. The grave and tranquil demeanor of Lauriane, the

radiant and tender expression which the marquis could not dissemble,

surprised him so that he could not refrain from questioning them,

covertly though transparently, in D'Alvimar's presence.

But Lauriane replied that she and the marquis were in perfect accord,

and D'Alvimar, unwilling to believe his ears, took that assertion for a

bit of coquetry aimed at him.

Thereupon Monsieur de Beuvre's anxiety became very keen, and, leading

his daughter aside, he asked her if she were speaking seriously, and if

she were insane enough or ambitious enough to accept a spark born in the

reign of Henri II.

Lauriane told him how she had postponed her reply and any definitive

agreement for seven years.

After laughing as if he would burst, De Beuvre, when Lauriane urged him

to keep her secret, had some difficulty in understanding his daughter's

kindly delicacy.

He would have enjoyed making merry over the marquis's discomfiture, and

he considered that to have laughed in his face would have been an

excellent way to teach him a lesson.

"No, father," replied Lauriane; "on the contrary, it would have grieved

him terribly, and nothing more. He is too old to correct his foibles,

and I cannot see what we should gain by insulting so excellent a man,

when it is easy for us to lull him to sleep in his reveries. Believe me,

if coquetry is ever innocent in a woman, it is innocent when practised

upon old men; indeed, it is often an act of kindness to allow them to

enjoy their fantasy. Be assured that, if I should ever tell him that I

am in love with some other man, he would be well pleased; whereas, if I

had told him that I could never love him, he would very probably be ill

at this moment, not so much because of my cruelty as of the cruelty of

his old age, which I should have placed squarely before him without

consideration or compassion."

Lauriane had some influence over her father. She procured his promise

that he would abstain from teasing the marquis about his love-affair

with her, and D'Alvimar, with all his penetration, suspected nothing of

what had taken place between them.

It was really a kind action that Lauriane had performed; and, as there

is an open account between us and Providence, she was rewarded for it at

once by that invisible assistance which is the recompense, often

immediate, of every generous impulse of our hearts.

Lauriane was a good deal of a child, but there was the making of a

strong woman in her; and, even if she was capable, like every daughter

of Eve, of yielding momentarily to a dangerous fascination, she was also

capable of recovering herself and of finding a firm support in her

conscience.

She passed the rest of the day, therefore, untouched by D'Alvimar's

gallant hints; and it seemed to her that, by giving her dagger to the

marquis as the pledge of a generous affection, she had rid herself of

something that had disturbed her and burned her hands. She took pains

not to be left alone with the Spaniard, and not to encourage any of the

efforts he made to lead the conversation back to the delicate

commonplaces of love.

Moreover, all private conversation was interrupted and the attention of

the whole party diverted by a strange incident.

A young gypsy appeared and requested permission to entertain the

illustrious company by his accomplishments; I believe that the rascal

said "his genius."

He had no sooner made his appearance than D'Alvimar recognized the young

vagabond who had served as interpreter between Monsieur D'Ars and the

Moorish woman on the moor of Champillé, and who had declared that he

was French by birth and that his name was La Flèche.

He was a young man of some twenty years, with a handsome face, although

it already showed the ravages of debauchery. His eye was keen and

insolent; his lips flat and treacherous; his speech conceited, impudent

and satirical; he was short of stature, but well-formed, as active with

his body as a pantomimist, and with his hands as a thief; intelligent in

everything that is serviceable in evil-doing; stupid in respect to any

useful work or any sound reasoning.

Like all of his profession, he possessed a few rags in addition to what

he wore, and these he used as a costume in which to perform his tricks.

He made his appearance dressed in a sort of Genoese cloak lined with

red; on his head one of those hats bristling with cocks' feathers, hats

without name or shape or excuse for being; pretentious yet despairing

ruins, whose gorgeous improbability Callot has immortalized in his

Italian grotesques.

Short, slashed boots, one much too large, the other much too small for

his foot, disclosed stockings once red, now faded to the hue of wine

lees. An enormous scapulary covered the miscreant's breast, a safeguard

against the charge of paganism and sorcery that was constantly hanging

over his head. Lustreless light hair, of absurd length, fell over his

lean face, aflame with red ochre, and an incipient moustache joined two

patches of downy white hair planted under his smooth and glistening

chin.

He began in a voice like a cracked trumpet:

"I beg this illustrious company to deign to excuse the assurance with

which I venture to throw myself at the feet of its indulgence. In truth,

does it befit a varlet of my sort, with his bristling face, his scarred

doublet and hat, which have long been candidates for the post of

scarecrow, to appear before a lady whose eyes put the sunlight to shame,

and to utter a multiplicity of foolish things? She will tell me perhaps,

that I must take heart, that I am not a peasant pack-saddler, nor a

miserable spy, nor a servant to be beaten from morning till night, for

it is said of servants that they are like walnut-trees, the more they

are beaten the more they bear. She will tell me too that I am neither a

sharper, nor a pickpocket, nor a coxcomb, nor a bully, nor an arrogant

cur, nor a puppy, nor a giant-killer, nor a barbarian, nor a snail; that

I am not an evil-looking fellow, despite a slightly vulgar countenance;

but in the face of such qualities as those of the lady I see before

me--it doesn't cripple a goddess to look at her,--and before an

assemblage of noble lords who resemble a party of monarchs more than a

cartload of calves at market, the bravest man in the world loses his

bearings and becomes simply a gutter of ignorance, a sewer of

stupidities, and the cesspool of all sorts of impudence."

Master La Flèche might have chattered on for two hours in this strain,

with intolerable volubility, had they not interrupted him to ask him

what he could do.

"Everything!" cried the good-for-naught. "I can dance on my feet, on my

hands, on my head and on my back; on a rope, on a broomstick, on the

point of a steeple or on the point of a lance; on eggs, on bottles, on a

galloping horse, on a hoop, on a cask, and on running water, but this

last only on condition that some one of the company will deign to be my

vis-à-vis on stagnant water. I can sing and rhyme in thirty-seven

languages and a half, provided that some one of the company will deign

to answer me, without an error, in thirty-seven languages and a half. I

can eat rats, hemp, swords, fire----"

"Enough, enough," said De Beuvre impatiently; "we know your catalogue:

it is the same with all such braggarts as you. You claim to know

everything, and you know but one thing, which is how to tell fortunes."

"To be quite frank," retorted La Flèche, "that is what I excel in, and

if your radiant highnesses will write your names, I will draw to see

with whom I shall begin; for destiny is an ill-tempered fellow who knows

no distinction of rank or sex."

"Go on and draw; here is my token," said Monsieur De Beuvre, tossing him

a piece of money. "Your turn, my child."

Lauriane tossed him a larger coin, the marquis a gold crown, Lucilio

some copper, and D'Alvimar a pebble, saying:

"I see that you all give money to the conjurer, but in my opinion he

deserves only to be stoned."

"Beware," said Lauriane, smiling, "he will predict only unpleasant

things for you; everyone knows that, in the matter of horoscopes, you

only get what you pay for."

"Do not think that; destiny is my master," said La Flèche, putting the

money into a box, and suddenly affecting to speak simply and with a

fatalistic air.

He turned his indescribable hat, which seemed to threaten heaven like an

insolent castle tower, pulled it over his eyes like an extinguisher,

made several wry faces, pronounced divers unmeaning words supposed to be

cabalistic formulas, and, having turned his back in order to wipe off

the coarse paint unseen, showed his face made pale by prophetic

inspiration.

Then he traced upon the gravel the great _asphère_ of ignorant

necromancers, with all the symbols of street-corner astrology; he placed

a stone in the centre and threw the box at it, which broke and

distributed the contents over the symbols drawn in the different

compartments.

Thereupon D'Alvimar stooped to pick up his pebble.

"No, no!" cried the gypsy, darting into the circle with the agility of a

monkey, and placing his foot on D'Alvimar's token, without effacing any

of the signs that surrounded it; "no, messire, you cannot interfere with

destiny. It is above you as it is above me!"

"Certainly not," said Lauriane, putting her little cane between

D'Alvimar and La Flèche. "The magician is master in his magic circle,

and by disarranging your destiny, you may disarrange ours too."

D'Alvimar submitted; but his face betrayed an extraordinary agitation

which he instantly suppressed.

XXII

La Flèche began with the token nearest the central stone, which he

called Sinai.

It was Lucilio's; the gypsy pretended to measure angles and make

computations, then said in rhyming prose:

"Homme sans langue et de grand cœur,

Savoir de misere est vainqueur."[18]

"You see," whispered Bois-Doré to D'Alvimar, "the rascal has divined

our musician's melancholy plight."

"That was not very difficult," rejoined D'Alvimar contemptuously. "For a

quarter of an hour past the mute has been talking to you by signs."

"So you have no faith at all in divination?" replied Bois-Doré, while

La Flèche continued his calculations with a preoccupied air, but with

his ears open to all that was going on about him.

"Why, do you believe in it yourself, messire, I would ask?" said

D'Alvimar, pretending to be surprised at the seriousness with which the

marquis asked the question.

"I? Why--yes, more or less, like everybody else!"

"No one believes in this nonsense nowadays!"

"Oh! yes; I believe in it quite seriously," said Lauriane. "I beg you,

sorcerer, if my destiny is unfavorable, either to leave me a little

hope, or to find in your learning some means of averting it."

"Illustrious queen of hearts," replied La Flèche, "I obey your

commands. You are threatened by a great danger; but if, during three

days from the present moment,

'Vous ne donnez point votre cœur,

Du diable il sera le vainqueur."[19]

"Can you invent no other rhymes?" exclaimed D'Alvimar. "Your vocabulary

is not rich!"

"Everyone is not rich who wishes to be, messire," rejoined the gypsy;

"and yet there are those who wish it very earnestly, so earnestly that

they do everything to obtain wealth, even at the risk of the axe and the

halter!"

"Do you read such things in this gentleman's destiny?" said Lauriane,

who had been deeply impressed by the conjurer's warning to herself, and

now strove to turn the whole affair into a jest.

"Perhaps!" said Monsieur d'Alvimar carelessly; "one never knows what may

happen."

"But one can find out!" cried La Flèche. "Come who wants to know?"

"No one," said the marquis, "no one, if there is anything unpleasant in

store for any of us."

"Well, neighbor, you have faith, on my word!" said De Beuvre, who did

not exactly believe in anything. "You are an excellent customer for any

mountebank who chooses to fill your ears with idle tales!"

"As you please," rejoined Bois-Doré, "but I cannot help it. I have seen

such surprising things! A score of times things that have been predicted

have happened to me."

"How can you believe that an ignorant idiot like this fellow can look

into the future, of which God alone knows the secrets?" said D'Alvimar.

"I do not believe in the knowledge of the operator himself," replied

Bois-Doré, "except in so far as, by long practice, he knows how to

compute numbers, and those numbers are to him like letters in a book

whereof the peculiar quality of numbers composes words and phrases."

De Beuvre laughed at the marquis, and called upon the gypsy to tell all

he knew.

D'Alvimar would have been glad of a different result of the discussion,

for his incredulity was only feigned; he believed that the devil had a

hand in all evil, and he determined inwardly to commend La Flèche to

the attention of Monsieur Poulain, to be locked up and burned at the

first opportunity. But he was none the less consumed, in spite of

himself, with anxiety to open the book of his destiny, and he was

strongly impelled, moreover, to assume the rôle of a man free from

superstitions, before Madame de Beuvre.

La Flèche, being called upon to speak, since he had studied his chart

sufficiently, indulged in some serious reflections. He was afraid of the

Spaniard. He knew that he ran no risk with people who believed in

nothing, for they are not the sort who denounce or accuse sorcerers; and

he was too sharp not to understand that, when he tried to withdraw his

token, D'Alvimar's object was to escape the revelations which he

pretended to despise.

He adopted the course to which he was accustomed to resort when he had

to do with people who were inclined to become over-excited--he began to

make meaningless remarks to everybody.

He hoped that D'Alvimar would retire, and that he could make some

pleasant prediction for the others, for which they would pay handsomely;

for in the three days that he had been wandering about the neighborhood,

prowling everywhere, listening at doors, or pretending not to understand

French to induce people to talk in his presence, he had learned many

things; and he knew one fact about D'Alvimar which that gentleman would

have been very glad to bury in profound oblivion.

But D'Alvimar, tranquillized by the trivial nature of the predictions,

did not retire; La Flèche had ceased to entertain any of the party, and

was on the point of making a fiasco, after great preparations to reap a

fine harvest.

They were about to dismiss him. He drew himself up.

"Illustrious noble lords," he said, "I am not a sorcerer, I swear it by

the image of my patron saint which I wear upon my breast; I protest

against any compact with the devil. I practise only white magic,

permitted by the ecclesiastical authorities; but----"

"Well, if you are not pledged to the devil, go to the devil!" laughed

Monsieur de Beuvre; "you bore us!"

"Very good," said La Flèche insolently; "you want black magic, and you

shall have it, at your own risk and peril! but I will have nothing to do

with it, I wash my hands of it!"

He turned at once to a basket which he had brought with him, and in

which they supposed that he kept some juggling apparatus or some strange

beast, and took from it a little girl of eight or ten years, who seemed

to be no more than four or five, she was so small and slender; and, with

all the rest, dark-skinned, with a tangled mass of hair; a veritable

imp, dressed all in red, who began, while he held her in his arms, by

striking him again and again, pulling his hair, and tearing his face

with her nails.

They thought at first that this frantic resistance was part of the

performance, until they saw the blood flowing in a stream down the

gypsy's nose.

He paid little heed to it, but said, as he wiped his face with his

sleeve:

"That is nothing; the princess was asleep in her basket, and she is

always cross when she wakes."

Then he added in Spanish, speaking to the child in an undertone.

"Never fear! you shall dance for this to-night!"

The child, whom he had deposited on the stone of Sinai, cowered like a

monkey and glared about her with the eyes of a wild cat.

In her emaciated ugliness there were such strongly marked indications of

suffering and of fierce temper, of unhappiness and of hatred, that she

was almost beautiful, and indubitably terrifying.

It made Lauriane's heart ache to see the extreme emaciation of the

wretched creature, who was almost naked under the gaudy, but filthy rags

she wore. She shuddered as she thought of the probable fate of that

child, driven to frenzy doubtless by the tyranny and the blows of a vile

mountebank; and she walked away a few steps, leaning on the arm of her

good Celadon, Bois-Doré, who, although he did not say so, felt almost

as distressed as she.

But De Beuvre was of tougher fibre, and he urged La Flèche to make the

evil spirit speak.

"Come, my lovely Pilar," said La Flèche, accompanying each word with a

gesture big with threats, which were readily intelligible to his victim;

"come, queen of the elves and hobgoblins, you must speak. Pick up that

coin which is nearest you."

Pilar sat motionless for a long time, pretending to be asleep; she was

shivering with fever.

"Come, come, gallows-bird, tow for the stake!" continued La Flèche,

"pick up that gold piece, and I will tell you where Mario, your beloved

Mario, is."

"What's that!" said the marquis, turning back; "what does he say about

Mario?"

"Who is Mario?" asked Lauriane.

"Silence!" cried De Beuvre; "the devil speaks, and you are interested,

neighbor!"

The child spoke thus in French, in a shrill voice and with a strongly

marked accent:

"Celui de qui depend ce gage,

S'il veut ecouter le presage

Et se bien garer de l'amour--[20]

"I have said enough, I won't say any more," she added in Spanish.

She had forgotten her lesson. Neither prayers nor threats availed to

refresh her memory; but she did not admit that she had been coached; she

was already a sorceress and proud of her profession. She knew the magic

chart much better than La Flèche, and she loved to prophesy. By trying

to teach her poetry, which she called another kind of magic, La Flèche

had irritated her, and the feeling that she should not succeed had

wounded her self-esteem.

She shook her head, bristling with hair as black as ink, stamped her

foot and gave way to a paroxysm of pythoness-like rage.

"Good! good!" cried La Flèche, determined to make use of her, in one

way or another. "Now it is coming! the devil is entering her body, she

will speak in a moment!"

"Yes," said the child in Spanish, darting madly into the circle, "and I

know it all better than you, better than all the others. Come! come!

come! I know; question me!"

"Let us speak French," said La Flèche. "What will happen to the noble

lord whose token I hold?"

It was the marquis's.

"Joy and consolation!" said the child.

"Very good! but in what form?"

"Vengeance!"

"I, vengeance?" said Bois-Doré. "That is not my disposition."

"No, surely not," said Lauriane, glancing involuntarily at D'Alvimar.

"The devil must have mistaken the token."

"No! I am not mistaken," replied the elf.

"Really?" said La Flèche. "If you are quite sure, speak, she-devil! So

you think that this noble lord here present has some insult to avenge?"

"In blood!" replied Pilar, with the energy of a tragic actress.

"Alas!" said the marquis to Lauriane under his breath, "that is only too

true, I doubt not! My poor brother, you know!" And he added, aloud: "I

wish to question this little soothsayer myself."

"Do so, monseigneur," said La Flèche. "Listen, black fly! and speak

truly to a gentleman who is of much more consequence than you!"

Thereupon, the marquis, turning to Pilar, questioned her gently:

"Tell me, my poor little girl, what I have lost?"

"_A son_!" she replied.

"Don't laugh, neighbor," said the marquis to De Beuvre, "she tells the

truth. He was like a son to me!"

And to Pilar:

"When did I lose him?"

"Eleven years and five months since."

"And how many days?"

"Less five days."

"She is mistaken there," said the marquis to Lucilio; "for I heard from

him after the time she mentions; but let us see if she can read the

rest."

Again he turned to the child.

"How did I lose him?" he asked.

"By a violent death!" she replied; "but you will have consolation."

"When?"

"Within three months, three weeks or three days."

"What sort of consolation?"

"Three sorts: vengeance, wisdom, a family."

"A family? Am I to be married, pray?"

"No; you will be a father!"

"Really?" cried the marquis, undisturbed by Monsieur de Beuvre's hearty

laughter. "When shall I be a father?"

"Within three months, three weeks or three days. I have told everything

about you, and I want to rest."

The sitting was suspended with a deluge of jests showered by Monsieur de

Beuvre on the marquis.

In order that the predicted advent of an heir should take place within

three months, three weeks or three days, three women must have "received

the order."

The poor marquis was so well aware of the contrary that all his faith in

magic was destroyed.

He submitted to be made fun of, protesting his innocence, but not over

desirous that they should believe it to be so absolute as it really was.

The child asked leave to prepare her conjurations for the last token.

It was D'Alvimar's pebble.

But in order that the reader may understand what follows, it is

necessary that he should know what Pilar and her master, La Flèche, had

agreed upon.

What La Flèche knew and wished to impart to Bois-Doré, he expected to

have the child divulge when D'Alvimar was not present. The child, from

caprice and vanity, refused to adhere to the agreement made between

them. She insisted upon reciting her whole lesson, even though she had

to suffer for it, and though La Flèche might lose his life or his

liberty.

It may be that these perils, in which, as she well knew, she could

involve him, sharpened her instincts of hate.

So she spoke as she chose, despite the warning gestures and grimaces of

her master, who could say nothing to her in Spanish which D'Alvimar

would not understand.

She picked up the stone, examined the signs that surrounded it,

pretended to make a computation, and said in Spanish, threateningly and

with appalling vehemence:

"Woe and disgrace to him whose token fell on the red star!"

"Bravo!" said D'Alvimar, with a nervous, forced laugh; "go on, filthy

creature! Go on, go on, progeny of dogs, offscouring of the earth, tell

us the decrees of heaven!"

Pilar, angered by these insults, became so wild that she terrified all

who saw her, even La Flèche himself.

"Blood and murder!" she shrieked, jumping up and down with convulsive

gestures; "murder and damnation! blood, blood, blood!"

"All this for me?" said D'Alvimar, unable to conceal his terror at that

moment.

"For you! for you!" cried the frenzied creature, "and death and hell!

soon, instantly, within three months, three weeks or three days! damned!

damned! hell!"

"Enough! enough!" said Bois-Doré, who understood but little Spanish,

but who saw that D'Alvimar was pale and on the verge of swooning; "this

child is possessed of a bad devil, and it may be that it is sinful to

listen to her."

"Yes, monsieur," rejoined D'Alvimar, "doubtless she is possessed of the

devil, and her threats are vain and beneath contempt, for hell is

powerless against the will of God; but if I were châtelain and

dispenser of justice here, I would throw this brigand and this vile worm

into prison, and I would hand them over to----"

"La la!" said Monsieur de Beuvre, "there is no reason for being so

angry. I don't know what was said to you, but I am surprised that you

ended by sneering at it. However, I agree that this mad young monkey's

gusts of temper are a disgusting comedy, and I see that my daughter is

disturbed by them. Come, knave," he said to La Flèche, "we have had

enough. Keep the tokens, if all consent, and go and get yourself hanged

elsewhere."

La Flèche had not awaited this permission to decamp. He was in great

haste to elude the Spaniard's benevolent designs in respect to him.

Little Pilar was not at all disturbed. On the contrary, she picked up

the gold and silver pieces which had served as tokens, and when she came

to D'Alvimar's stone she threw it disdainfully at his feet. He was so

angered that he would perhaps have treated her as he did the young wolf,

had he still the weapon of which he had made such prompt and deadly use.

But when he involuntarily felt for it, he found nothing, and Lauriane,

who was watching him, congratulated herself upon having disarmed him. He

met her eyes and made haste to smile; then he tried to change the

conversation, and Bois-Doré asked Lucilio for an air on the bagpipe to

dispel the unpleasant effect of this episode, while La Flèche, carrying

his great basket on his head and his instruments of magic under his arm,

and dragging along with the other hand the little sybil, still quivering

from head to foot, hastily passed the drawbridge and portcullis.

"Now will you give me something to eat?" she said, when they were in the

open country.

"No, you did your work too badly."

"I am hungry."

"So much the better!"

"I am hungry, I can't walk any more."

"Into your cage you go, then!"

And he put her in the basket, despite her resistance, and ran away with

her at full speed.

The unfortunate creature's shrieks died away without echo in the vast

plain.

"Mario! Mario!" she wailed in a voice broken by sobs; "I want to see

Mario. Villain! assassin! You promised that I should see Mario, who used

to give me things to eat and play with me, and his mother, who kept me

from being beaten! Mercedes! Mario! come to help me! Kill him! he is

hurting me, he is shaking me, he is killing me, he is starving me to

death! Damnation on him! death and blood and murder! The lash, the

stake, the wheel, hell itself for the wicked!"

[Footnote 18:

Man without tongue and of great heart,

Learning has triumphed over misery.]

[Footnote 19:

You do not give your heart away,

It will triumph over the devil.]

[Footnote 20:

He from whom this token comes.

If he but heed to the presage

And hold aloof from love--]

XXIII

While the gypsy fled toward the north, the marquis, with D'Alvimar and

Lucilio, rode in the opposite direction toward Briantes.

He was most anxious to tell his faithful Adamas of what he regarded as a

happy issue of his enterprise; and, although he thought that he owed it

to his love to indulge in a few stifled sighs of anxiety or impatience,

he was by no means ill-pleased, taking everything into consideration, to

have seven years before him in which to adopt a new matrimonial

resolution.

D'Alvimar was in a very bad humor, not only because of the predictions

which had stirred his bile and disturbed his brain, but also because of

the tranquil manner in which Madame de Beuvre had taken leave of him,

while she had given both her little hands to the marquis, as she gayly

promised him a visit on the second day following.

"Can it be possible," he thought, "that she has accepted that old man's

gold pieces, and that I am supplanted by a rival of seventy?"

He was exceedingly desirous to question his host, to poke fun at him, to

quarrel with him. But it was impossible to enter into conversation with

Bois-Doré on that subject. The marquis bore himself with an air of

discreet and modest triumph, which caused him to outdo himself in

courteous attentions to his guest.

D'Alvimar was able to avenge himself for his discomfiture in no other

way than by doing his best to splash Master Jovelin, who rode behind the

marquis.

When they reached the château, as the supper hour had not arrived, he

walked to the rectory to consult with Monsieur Poulain.

"Well, monsieur," said the trusty Adamas, as he removed his master's

boots--in his capacity of _homme de chambre_ he almost never left the

château of Briantes--"well, monsieur, must we think about preparing the

betrothal banquet?"

"To be sure, my friend. We must think about it at once."

"Really, monsieur? Well, I was sure of it, and I am so pleased that I

don't know where I am. Just fancy, monsieur, that that red hackney whom

you call Bellinde, and who would be better named Tisiphone----"

"Fie! fie, Adamas! You know that I do not like to hear one of the sex

spoken of in a slighting manner. What new trouble is there between you?"

"Pardon me, my noble master, but the trouble is that that ill-tempered

creature listens at doors, and that she knows of the step monsieur has

taken to-day. Only a little while ago she was laughing about it like a

cackling hen with that stupid housekeeper of the rector."

"How do you know that, Adamas?"

"I know it by magic, monsieur; but, at all events, I know it!"

"By magic? Since when have you been dabbling in the occult sciences?"

"I will tell you, monsieur. I have nothing to hide from you, but will

you not deign to tell me first how you made your sentiments known to the

peerless lady of your thoughts, and how she replied; for I am sure that

nothing so eloquent was ever said under the heavens since the world was

made, and I would like to be able to write as fast as Master Jovelin, so

that I could put it on paper as monsieur repeats it to me."

"No, Adamas, no word of it shall ever issue from my mouth, sealed as it

is by the oath of a loyal knight. I swore that I would not divulge the

secret of my felicity. All that I can say to you, my friend, is to

rejoice now with your master, and to hope with him in the future!"

"Then it is all arranged, is it, monsieur, and----"

Adamas was interrupted by a soft scratching, as of a cat, at the door.

"Ah!" he said, after he had looked out, "it is the child; he wants to

bid you good-night.--Go away, my young friend, monseigneur will see you

later; he is busy now."

"Yes, yes, Adamas, let him come again! I have something to say about

children. Some very strange ideas on the subject of paternity came into

my head yesterday. This freak is worthy of the lowest bourgeois! No! no!

I am no longer the old bachelor who wanted to marry in hot haste, to

have done with it. I am a young man, Adamas, yes, a young lover, a

dandy, on my word, affectionately sentenced to prove his constancy by

the test of time, to sigh and write poetry; in a word, to await, in the

torments and ecstasies of hope, the good pleasure of my sovereign."

"If I understand rightly," said Adamas, "this jealous divinity mistrusts

my master's fickle humor, and demands that he renounce all love-making!"

"Yes, yes, that is it, Adamas; that must be it! A little distrust! That

is a fitting punishment for my wild youth; but I shall be so well able

to prove my sincerity--Go to the door; he is still knocking!"

"What!" said Adamas seriously to Mario, opening the door slightly, "is

it you again, my little imp? Did I not tell you to wait?"

"I have waited," Mario replied, in his soft voice--soft and caressing

even in his mischief; "you told me to go away and come back. I went to

the end of the next room, and now I have come back."

"The little rascal!" said the marquis; "let him come in.--_Bonjour_, my

young friend; just come to kiss me, then play quietly with Fleurial. I

have some important business to discuss with good Monsieur Adamas. Come,

Adamas, the day after to-morrow I am to entertain my incomparable

neighbor. We must be preparing for it; a little informal dinner,

fourteen courses at the most."

"You shall have them, monsieur. Do you wish me to call the master-cook?"

"No, I do not like to order my repasts, and, however clean and neat the

kitchen people may be, they always smell of the kitchen. Help me to

plan----"

"What knife is that?" said Mario, very earnestly, as the marquis, always

good-humored and momentarily preoccupied, held him between his legs and

allowed him to ransack his pockets.

"Nothing, nothing," said the marquis, trying to recover the pledge that

Lauriane had given him. "Give it back to me, my boy; children must not

touch such things. They bite, you see! Give it to me!"

"Yes, yes, here it is!" said Mario; "but I saw what was written on it,

and I know whose it is."

"You don't know what you are saying!"

"Yes, I do; I say that it belongs to the Spanish gentleman you call

Villareal. Did he give it to you?"

"Come, come, what is this you are muttering? You are dreaming!"

"No, kind monsieur! I saw the device on the blade. It is in Spanish, and

I know it very well; my mother Mercedes has one just like it, with the

same device."

"What does the device mean?"

"_I serve God_.--_S. A._"

"What does S. A. mean?"

"They must be the initials of the man who owns the dagger. That is where

they are usually put, in open work, near the hilt."

"I know that; but why do you say that this dagger belongs to the Spanish

gentleman named Villareal?"

The child made no reply and seemed embarrassed. He was no longer under

the Moorish woman's watchful and suspicious eye. He had said more than

he ought, and he remembered her injunctions too late.

"_Mon Dieu_! monsieur," said Adamas, "children talk sometimes for the

sake of talking without knowing what they say. Let us go back to the

important subject. Your keeper, Père Andoche, brought in to-day a

string of birds so fat that----"

"Yes, yes, you are right, my friend; let us arrange about the dinner.

But, I don't know--I wonder how she had that Spanish dagger in the

pocket of her skirt?"

"Who, monsieur?"

"Why, _she_, _parbleu_! Of whom else can I speak henceforth?"

"To be sure; I beg pardon, monsieur! Let us talk about the dagger. I

supposed that it was a gift from Monsieur de Villareal, or that he had

lent it to you. For it is the truth that it comes from him. Those

letters S. A. are on his other weapons, which are very handsome, and

which I noticed this morning while his servant was polishing them."

The marquis relapsed into meditation.

How did Lauriane obtain Villareal's dagger? She must have received it

from him, since she had disposed of it as her own property.

In vain did he search the genealogical tree of the De Beuvres, he found

there no name to which the initials S. A. could refer.

"Can it be," he said to himself, "that she made the same agreement with

him that she afterward made with me?"

He consoled himself, however, by the thought that she apparently cared

but little for the former compact, since she had sacrificed it to him;

but there was none the less something incomprehensible in the episode,

and the honest marquis was not yet foolish enough not to fear that he

was the victim of some practical joke.

And then, what the child had said complicated the confusion in his mind,

and he could not imagine what intrigue of destiny or mystification

encompassed that dagger.

He was inclined to go to have an explanation at once with his guest; but

he remembered that Lauriane had urged him to conceal her pledge and to

let no one see it.

Adamas saw the anxiety on his master's brow and was touched by it.

"What is it, monsieur," he said, "what can your poor old Adamas do to

relieve your perplexity?"

"I do not know, my friend. I would like to be able to divine how it

happens that the Moor has a weapon like this, bearing the same device

and the same initials."

Then, lowering his voice so that Mario could not hear:

"You told me, and it has seemed to me that that young woman was very

honest. But can she have stolen this dagger from our guest? That is

something that I cannot endure, that there should be thieving in my

house."

Adamas instantly espoused his master's suspicions, especially as Mario,

feeling that he had spoken heedlessly, was gliding out of the room on

tiptoe, to avoid further questions. Adamas detained him.

"You have been telling us fairy tales, my pretty boy," said he, "and for

that you deserve to lose my lord and master's favor. It is not true that

your Mercedes has what you say she has, or----"

The marquis interrupted him, not wishing that the charge should be made

before the child.

"Has your mother had the dagger a long time, my boy?" he said.

The child had passed some time with the gypsies, so he knew what

stealing was. He was blest, moreover, with extraordinary shrewdness. He

understood the suspicion he had brought on his adopted mother, and he

preferred to disobey her rather than not justify her.

"Yes," he replied, "a very long time."

And, as he had assumed an exceedingly proud and self-assured air, the

marquis and Adamas felt that they had in their hands a means of making

him speak.

"Then it was Monsieur de Villareal who gave it to her?" said Adamas.

"Oh! no, he left it behind----"

"Where?" queried the marquis. "Come, you must tell us, or I shall have

no more confidence in you, boy. Where did he leave it?"

"In my father's heart!" replied Mario, in whose eyes there shone an

extraordinary light. He longed to pour out his heart; the mystery

weighed heavily upon him; he had said the first word and he could not

keep silent.

"Adamas," said the marquis, moved by a sudden, indefinable emotion,

"close the doors, and do you, my child, come here and speak out. You are

with friends, have no fear, we will defend you, we will see that you

have justice. Tell me all that you know about your family?"

"If you love me," said the child, "you must punish Monsieur de

Villareal, because he murdered my father."

"Murdered him?"

"Yes, Mercedes saw him!"

"When was that?"

"The day I was born, the day my mother died."

"Why did he murder him?"

"To get a lot of money and jewels that my father had."

"Robber and assassin!" said the marquis, looking at Adamas; "a man of

quality! a friend of Guillaume d'Ars! Is it conceivable?"

"Monsieur," said Adamas, "children often invent stories, and I believe

that this boy is making sport of us."

The blood rose in Mario's cheeks.

"I never tell a lie!" he said with touching vehemence. "Monsieur

Anjorrant always said: 'That child is not at all untruthful.' My

Mercedes always told me that I must never lie, but keep silent when I

didn't wish to reply. Since you make me speak, I say what is true."

"He is right," exclaimed the marquis, "and I see that he has noble blood

in his heart, the beautiful boy!--Say on, I believe you. Tell me what

your father's name was."

"Ah! that I do not know."

"On your honor, my boy?"

"It is the truth," replied the child; "my mother's name was Marie, that

is all I know, and that is why Monsieur Anjorrant gave me the name of

Mario when he baptized me."

"But I remember that Mercedes said that the lady gave the curé a

wedding ring," said Adamas; "she also spoke of a seal."

"Yes," said Mario, "the seal belonged to my father, there was a coat of

arms on it: but it was stolen from us not long ago. As for the ring,

neither Monsieur Anjorrant, nor my Mercedes, who is very clever, nor I,

nor anybody has ever been able to open it. But there's something inside.

My mother, who died without saying a word except her name, Marie,

motioned to the curé to open her ring. She had not the strength to do

it; but he could not."

"Go and get it," said the marquis, "perhaps we can do it."

"Oh! no," replied Mario in dismay; "my Mercedes won't like it, and, if

she knows that I have spoken, she will be very sorry."

"But, after all, why does she conceal all this from us, who may be able

to help her to find your family?"

"Because she thinks that you will listen to the Spaniard, and that he

will kill her if he learns that she has recognized him."

"But does he not recognize her?"

"He never saw her, for she was hiding."

"Has she ever seen him since that terrible business?"

"No, never."

"And, after ten years, she feels sure that she can identify him! It is

very doubtful."

"She says that she is sure of it, that he has grown hardly any older,

that he is dressed in black as he was then; and she is very sure that

his old servant is the same man who was with him then. Oh! she looked

closely at them. When we met them three days ago, near another château

not far from here----"

"Ah! yes," said the marquis, "tell us how she met him."

"He was with a kind, handsome young lord, whom I have since heard spoken

of as Guillaume. Monsieur Guillaume had given a lot of money to the

gypsies we were with. And suddenly, when the Spaniard looked very stern

and was going to strike me, Mercedes said:

"'It is he! look! it is he! and the other, the old valet is the other!'

"And she ran after them to see them better, until Monsieur Guillaume

told us that we annoyed him. Then Mercedes made some one ask him his

name and his friend's name, so that we could pray for them, she said.

But Monsieur Guillaume laughed at us, and the gypsies went off in

another direction. My Mercedes let them go without us, and said to me:

"'We have your father's murderers, I promise you. We must find out their

names.'

"Then we turned back and went to the château of La Motte to beg; and as

they didn't pay much attention to us, Mercedes told me to listen to what

the servants and the peasants said; and in that way we found out that

the Spaniard was going to stay with the _marquis_, because the _marquis_

had sent for his chariot and ordered his guest chamber to be prepared

for a stranger. And then we talked with a shepherdess in a field near

there. She told us:

"'The marquis is the kindest of men. You can go to pass the night at his

château; he will treat you well. That's his château yonder.'

"So then we came here at once, and yesterday morning we saw the murderer

again, the two murderers! And when I saw the letters on the pistols and

the great sword that the servant had, and I said to Mercedes:

"'Show me the wicked knife that killed my poor papa; I think those are

the same letters that are on it.'"

"And are you sure of it?" said the marquis.

"I am very sure; and you will see for yourself if Mercedes will show

them to you."

"Where is she now?"

"With Monsieur Jovelin, whom she is very fond of because he jumped into

the water for me."

"Jovelin absolutely must extort her secret from her," said the marquis

to Adamas; "go, bring him here, that I may speak with him."

XXIV

Adamas went out and soon returned to say that Jovelin would come at

once. He had found him engaged in a very animated conversation with the

Moor, she speaking Arabic, he writing down all that she said, and making

many gestures which she seemed to understand.

"He motioned to me that he must not be interrupted," said Adamas; "I

think, monsieur, that he is inducing her to tell the truth by gentleness

and persuasion; let us not disturb him. He writes quickly, but she does

not read very well, even in her own language, and it is wonderful to see

how he makes himself understood with his hands. Be patient, monsieur; we

shall soon find out something."

They waited a quarter of an hour, which to the marquis seemed a century.

Time was flying; the first bell had rung for supper. It would be

necessary to sit at the table with Villareal, without having obtained

any definite information.

The marquis was in a state of intense excitement. He kept rising and

sitting down again, muttering to himself unintelligible words which

sorely puzzled Adamas.