The champions having dismounted, the servants were left in the road to

watch the horses and the prisoner, Sancho, whom Guillaume ordered them

not to set free until the duel was at an end, in order that the

difficulties of the situation might not be complicated by unexpected

interference from any quarter.

Sancho was very desirous to be at liberty. He felt that he might be

useful to his master, as he never recoiled from the most difficult

undertaking; but he was too proud to complain and cry out. He remained

silent and stoical under guard of Bois-Doré's servants.

While Guillaume, with the two adversaries, was seeking a suitable spot

between the road and the boulders, Adamas and Aristandre were engaged in

an animated whispered colloquy. Aristandre was desperate, Adamas was in

a state of feverish excitement; but the idea that his master might fall

a victim to his own generous behavior never entered his head. He was

drunk, as it were, in his confidence in the marquis's strength and

skill.

"Why do you tremble like a child?" he asked the coachman. "Don't you

know that monsieur is capable of eating up thirty-six fellows like this

coxcomb of a Spaniard? Nothing but treachery could overcome such a

valiant man as he is; but the knave Sancho is carefully guarded, and

Monsieur Guillaume and I will have an eye to everything. Am I not a

second? Monsieur said so. You heard him. We are two honorable seconds,

and we will not allow a thrust or a parry that isn't within the rules."

"But you know no more than I do about the rules of duels between

gentlemen! Look you, I have a mind to climb up yonder without anyone

seeing me, and, if the Spaniard has too much luck, roll one of those big

stones down on him."

"As to that, if I could be sure that you wouldn't crush monsieur with

him, I wouldn't advise you not to do it, any more than I would think it

was a crime to put two bullets into his head myself, if I wasn't a

second. But my master is calling me. Don't you be afraid, all will go

well!"

Meanwhile the ground was chosen, a clear space of sufficient size, well

lighted by the moon. The swords were measured, Guillaume performing the

functions of second impartially for both champions, who had sworn to

rely upon him; for Adamas's presence could be only a matter of form.

The duel began.

Thereupon, despite his confidence and his enthusiasm, Adamas felt a cold

shudder run through every limb. He became dumb; with his mouth wide

open, his eyes starting from his head, he was unconscious of the

perspiration and the tears that rolled down his laughable yet touching

face.

Guillaume too had done his utmost to persuade himself that the results

of that strange combat could not be serious. But when the swords met,

his confidence vanished, and he blamed himself for not having prevented,

at any price, a meeting which, from the outset, threatened to have

serious consequences.

D'Alvimar had promised to place his adversary at his mercy and to spare

his life; but, in so far as the moonlight enabled him to distinguish his

expression, it seemed to Guillaume that rage and hate were exhibited

therein with increasing intensity, and his sharp, close sword-play gave

no indication of prudence or of generous purpose. Luckily the marquis

was still calm and held his ground with more endurance and elasticity

than could have been expected.

Guillaume could say nothing, and contented himself with coughing two or

three times, to warn D'Alvimar to show more moderation, without arousing

the sensibility of the marquis, who might have lost his head altogether,

if he had suspected that he was not taken seriously.

[Illustration: _THE DUEL BETWEEN THE MARQUIS

AND D'ALVIMAR._

_His game was a difficult one to

play. He wished to kill the marquis and to seem to kill

him unintentionally._]

But the contest was serious enough. D'Alvimar felt that he had an

adversary inferior to himself in theory; but he was himself disturbed

and preoccupied and inferior to himself in practice. His game was a

difficult one to play. He wished to kill the marquis and to seem to kill

him unintentionally.

So he tried to make him run himself through, by acting on the defensive;

and the marquis seemed to detect his stratagem, for he acted cautiously.

The duel was prolonged for some time without result. Guillaume relied on

the marquis's fatigue, thinking that D'Alvimar would not strike him

down. D'Alvimar found that the marquis showed no signs of giving way; he

tried to excite him by feints, hoping that a feeling of impatience would

lead him to depart from the surprising prudence of his play.

Suddenly the moon was veiled by a dark cloud, and Guillaume tried to

interpose to suspend the combat; he had not time: the two champions were

rolling on the ground.

A third champion rushed toward them, at the risk of being spitted; it

was Adamas, who, having lost his head and not knowing which had the

advantage, plunged wildly into the fray. Guillaume threw him back with

violence, and saw the marquis kneeling on D'Alvimar's body.

"Mercy, cousin!" he cried; "mercy for him who would have spared you!"

"It is too late, cousin," replied the marquis, rising. "Justice is

done!"

D'Alvimar was nailed to the earth by the marquis's long rapier; he had

ceased to live.

Adamas had swooned.

At the cry of mercy, Bois-Doré's servants had hurried to the spot. The

marquis was leaning against a rock, breathless and exhausted. But he

showed no weakness, and, the moon having emerged from the cloud, he

stood erect again to look at the body, and stooped to touch it.

"He is quite dead!" said Guillaume in a reproachful tone. "You have

killed a friend of mine, monsieur, and I am unable to congratulate you

upon it; for your suspicions must be unjust."

"I will prove to you that they were not, Guillaume," replied Bois-Doré,

with a dignity which shook his kinsman's confidence anew; "until then,

suspend your displeasure against me and your regrets for this wicked

man. When you know the truth, perhaps you will regret having compelled

me to risk my life in order to take his."

"But what shall we do with this unfortunate body now?" said Guillaume,

downcast and dismayed.

"I will not leave you in any difficulty on my account," said Bois-Doré.

"My men will carry it to the Carmelite convent of La Châtre, where the

monks will give it such burial as they choose. I have no idea of

concealing from anyone what I have done, especially as I still have to

punish the other assassin. But I cannot perform that distasteful task in

cold blood, and I propose to turn him over to the provost's lieutenant,

so that exemplary punishment may be dealt out to him. You will escort

him thither, Adamas. Why, where is my trusty Adamas?"

"Alas, monsieur," replied Adamas in a cavernous voice, "here I am at

your knees, and very ill over this affair. For a moment I thought that

you were dead, and I believe that I was dead myself for a good quarter

of an hour. Do not send me anywhere; I have no legs, and I feel as if I

had a millwheel in my head."

"Well, my poor fellow, if you are not good for anything more we will

send somebody else. I told you that you were too old to endure

excitement!"

The marquis walked back toward the horses, while his servants and

Guillaume's took up the dead body and covered it with a cloak. But when

they looked for the prisoner, they looked in vain.

They had not taken the precaution to bind his legs. Taking advantage of

a moment of excitement and confusion, when the servants, disturbed

concerning the result of the duel, had left the horses in charge of two

of their number, who had had much difficulty in holding them, he had

taken flight, or rather had stolen away and hidden somewhere in the

ravine.

"Never fear, monsieur le marquis," said Aristandre. "A man with his

hands bound can neither run very fast nor conceal himself very

skilfully; I promise you that I will catch him; I will undertake to do

it. Ride home and rest; you have well earned it!"

"No," said the marquis; "I must see that murderer again. Do two of you

search for him, while I and the other two ride with Monsieur d'Ars to

the Carmelite convent."

D'Alvimar's body was laid across his horse, and Guillaume's servants

assisted Bois-Doré's to transport it.

Bois-Doré rode on ahead with Guillaume, to have the gates of the town

opened, if necessary, for it was nearly ten o'clock.

On the road, Bois-Doré furnished his young kinsman with such precise

details concerning his brother's death, the recovery of his nephew, the

episode of the Catalan knife, the admission extorted from the culprit by

his indignation, and finally the testimony of the ring, that Guillaume

could not persist in upholding his friend's honor. He admitted that he

really knew very little of him, having become intimate with him on

slight acquaintance, and that at Bourges there had come to his ears some

reports, far from honorable if they were true, concerning the duel which

had forced the Spaniard to disappear. Monsieur Sciarra Martinengo was

said to have been struck by him, contrary to all the laws of honor, at a

moment when he had asked for a suspension of the combat, his sword being

broken.

Guillaume had refused to credit that charge; but Bois-Doré's

revelations made him look upon it as more serious, and he promised to go

to Briantes the next morning to inspect the evidence, and make the

acquaintance of the beautiful Mario.

XXXIII

In proportion as conviction entered his mind, Guillaume became expansive

and friendly with the marquis, no less from a sense of natural equity

than from an inborn tendency to be governed absolutely by his latest

impression.

"By my soul!" he said, when they were near the town, "you have acted

like a gallant man, and the blow that you dealt him, which nailed him to

the turf, was one of the most beautiful sword thrusts that I have ever

heard of. I have never seen its like, and when you have proved to me

that poor Sciarra was such a vile wretch as you say, I shall not be

sorry to have seen this one. If I had been less pained, I would have

congratulated you upon it. But whatever regret or satisfaction I may

feel because of this death I declare that you are a superb swordsman,

and I would that I were your equal at that sport!"

Our two cavaliers were already on the Pont des Scabinats--now des

Cabignats,--riding toward the gate in the fortifications, when Adamas,

who had recovered his courage and had duly reflected, overtook them and

begged them to listen to him.

"Do you not think, messires," he said, "that the bringing-in of this

body will cause a great commotion in the town?"

"Even so," said the marquis, "do you suppose that I wish to conceal the

fact that I have avenged my honor and my brother's death?"

"True, monsieur, you may well boast of it as a noble deed, but not until

the body has been consigned to the earth; for in these small places a

great noise is often made over a small matter, and the spectacle of a

gentleman carried across his horse in this way will make these bourgeois

of La Châtre open their eyes. You have enemies, monsieur, and at the

present moment Monseigneur de Condé is a very devout Catholic. If he

should learn that this Spaniard was covered with strings of beads and

blessed relics, that he had confessed to Monsieur Poulain, whose

housekeeper is lauding him to the skies in the village of Briantes as a

perfect Christian----"

"Well, well, what are you coming at with your old woman's gossip, my

dear Adamas?" said the marquis, impatiently.

Guillaume interposed.

"Cousin," he said, "Adamas is right. The laws against the duello are

respected by nobody; but evil-minded persons can invoke them at any

moment. This D'Alvimar had some powerful friends in Paris; and

unfriendly reports may, at one time or another, cause this to be used

against you and me, especially against you, who are not esteemed a very

ardent Catholic. Take my advice therefore, and let us not go into the

town but decide upon some other means of ridding ourselves of this dead

man. You are sure of your people and I can answer for mine. Let us have

no confidants among the churchmen and bourgeois of a small town, all of

whom, in this province, are very bitter against men who have opposed the

League and served under the late king."

"There is much truth in what you say," replied Bois-Doré; "but it is

most distasteful to me to tie a stone around a dead man's neck and toss

him into the river like a dog."

"Why, monsieur," said Adamas, "that man was worth less than any dog!"

"That is true, my friend; I thought so myself an hour ago; but I have no

hatred for a corpse."

"Very good, monsieur," said Adamas, "I have an idea which will make

everything all right; if we retrace our steps, we shall find within a

hundred yards, near the Chambon meadow, the gardener's cottage."

"What gardener? Marie la Caille-Bottée?"

"She is very devoted to monsieur, and they say that she was not always

pock-marked."

"Tush, tush! Adamas, this is no time for jesting!"

"I am not jesting, monsieur, and I say that that old woman will keep our

secret faithfully."

"And you propose to disturb her peace of mind by carrying a dead man to

her? She will die of fright!"

"No, monsieur, for she is not alone in her little isolated cottage. I

will take my oath that we shall find a good Carmelite there, who will

give the Spanish gentleman Christian burial in a grave somewhere on the

gardener's premises."

"You are too much of a Huguenot, Adamas," said Monsieur d'Ars. "The

Carmelites are not such dissolute fellows as you imply."

"I say no evil of them, messire; I am speaking of a single one, whom I

know, and who has nothing of the monk except the frock and the

paternosters. It is Jean le Clope, who followed monsieur le marquis to

the war, and for whom monsieur le marquis procured admission to the

convent as a disabled veteran."

"On my word, this is excellent advice," said the marquis.

"Jean le Clope is a reliable man, and he has seen too many bloodless

faces lying on the ground on battlefields to take fright at the task we

propose to entrust to him."

"Let us make haste then," said Monsieur d'Ars, "for my steward is dying,

as you know, and I would like to see him if it is not too late."

"Go, cousin," said the marquis. "Attend now to your own affairs; this

concerns me and me alone henceforth!"

They shook hands. Guillaume joined his escort and rode away with them

toward his château. The marquis and Adamas halted at La

Caille-Bottée's cottage, where they did in fact find Jean le Clope, who

warmly greeted his patron, calling him his captain.

As is well known, the convents were compelled to take charge of soldiers

disabled in the service of the king or of the lord of the province. Most

of the religious communities were bound by contract to receive and

support these relics of the calamities of war, who were sometimes too

fond of high living for pious recluses, sometimes much less corrupt than

the monks themselves. However it may have been with the Carmelites of La

Châtre, with whose history we are not here concerned, the secular

brother Jean le Clope was but little hampered by the rules of the

community, and, if he was not missing at meal hours, he was often

missing at curfew.

While the marquis was explaining what he expected from his devotion and

discretion, Adamas superintended the bringing of the body into the

lonely house, and, a quarter of an hour later, Bois-Doré and his

attendants rode homeward by way of La Rochaille.

They found Aristandre and his comrades profoundly disappointed at their

inability to discover what had become of Sancho.

"Well, monsieur," said Adamas, "perhaps God wills it so! That villain

will be very careful never to appear in a neighborhood where he knows

that he is unmasked, and he would have been a source of fresh

embarrassment to you."

"I confess that I have little taste for executions when my excitement

has subsided," replied Bois-Doré, "and that I should have avoided

witnessing that one. If I had turned him over to the provost, I should

have been obliged to say what I had done with his master, and, as we

must keep quiet on that point for the moment, it is all for the best. I

consider my dear Florimond's death sufficiently avenged, although the

Moor did not see which of the two, the master or the servant, dealt the

blow that ended his poor life; but in affairs of this sort, Adamas, the

most guilty, perhaps the real culprit, is he who directs it. The servant

sometimes deems it his duty to obey a wicked order, and this fellow

evidently did not act on his own account or profit by my brother's

wealth, since he has remained a servant as before."

Adamas did not share the longing to be indulgent which the marquis

experienced after his outburst of energy. He hated Sancho even more

bitterly than D'Alvimar, because of his arrogant manner toward his

equals, and because of his wariness, in which he had been unable to find

any flaw. He considered him quite capable of having advised and executed

the crime, but the thing that he dreaded more than all else was the

possible persecution of the marquis; so he assisted him to deceive

himself concerning the importance of the capture which he was compelled

to renounce.

When they reached the gate of the manor of Briantes, they heard the

irregular galloping of a riderless horse. It proved to be Sancho's,

which had returned to its lost stable. He exchanged a plaintive, almost

funereal neigh with D'Alvimar's steed, which a servant was leading by

the rein.

"These poor creatures feel the disasters that befall their masters, so

it is said," observed the marquis to Adamas: "they are intelligent

beasts and live in a state of innocence. For that reason I shall not

have these two killed; but as I do not choose to have anything on my

estate that ever belonged to that D'Alvimar, and as the price of his

property would soil our hands, I propose that they shall be taken ten or

twelve leagues away to-morrow night and set at liberty. Whoever will may

reap the benefit."

"And in that way," said Adamas, "no one will know where they come from.

You can entrust Aristandre with that mission, monsieur. He will not

yield to the temptation to sell them for his own benefit, and, if you

take my advice, you will let him start at once, and not take them into

the courtyard. It is useless to allow these horses to be seen in your

stable to-morrow."

"Do what you choose, Adamas," replied the marquis. "I am reminded that

that miserable wretch must have had money upon him, and that I should

have remembered to take it and give it to the poor."

"Let the lay brother have the benefit of it, monsieur," said the shrewd

Adamas; "the more he finds in the dead man's pockets, the better assured

you will be of his silence."

It was eleven o'clock when the marquis returned to his salon. Jovelin

rushed forward and threw his arms about him. His face sufficiently

indicated the agonizing anxiety he had felt.

"My dear friend," said Bois-Doré, "I deceived you; but rejoice, that

man is no more; and I return with a light heart. Doubtless my child is

asleep at this moment; let us not wake him. I will tell you----"

"The child is not asleep," the mute replied with his pencil. "He divined

my apprehensions: he is crying and praying and tossing about in his

bed."

"Let us go and comfort the dear heart!" cried Bois-Doré; "but look at

me first, my friend, and see if I have no stain on my clothes made by

that treacherous blood. I do not wish that the child should know fear or

hatred at an age too early for the calmness of conscious strength."

Lucilio relieved the marquis of his cloak, his helmet and his arms, and

when they had ascended the stairs they found Mario, barefooted, at the

door of his chamber.

"Ah!" cried the child, clinging passionately to his uncle's long legs,

and speaking to him with the familiarity which he did not as yet know to

be contrary to the customs of the nobility, "so you have come back at

last? You are not hurt, my dear uncle? No one has hurt you, eh? I

thought that that wicked man meant to kill you, and I wanted to run

after you! I was very unhappy! Another time, when you go out to fight,

you must take me, since I am your nephew."

"My nephew! my nephew! that is not enough," said the marquis taking him

back to his bed. "I mean to be your father. Will that displease you, to

be my son? And, by the way," he added, stooping to receive little

Fleurial's caresses, who seemed to have realized and shared the distress

of Jovelin and Mario, "here is a little friend of mine who no longer

belongs to me. Here, Mario, you were so anxious to have him! I give him

to you to console you for your unhappiness this evening."

"Yes," said Mario, putting Fleurial beside him on his pillow, "I

consent, on condition that he is to belong to us both, and is to love us

both alike. But tell me, father, has the wicked man gone away forever?"

"Yes, my son, forever."

"And the king will punish him for killing your brother?"

"Yes, my son, he will be punished."

"What will they do to him?" inquired Mario, thoughtfully.

"I will tell you later, my son. Think only how happy we are to be

together."

"They will never take me away from you?"

"Never!"

"Master Jovelin," he said, addressing the mute, "is it not a melancholy

thing to think of changing this child's sweet mode of speech, which

strikes so melodiously upon the ear? Nay, we will allow him to use the

familiar form of address to me in private, since in his mouth that

familiarity is a sign of affection."

"Must I say _vous_ to you?" queried Mario in amazement.

"Yes, my child, at least before other people. That is the custom."

"Ah! yes, that is how I spoke to Monsieur l'Abbé Anjorrant! But I love

you more than I loved him."

"So you love me already, Mario? I am very glad! But how does it happen?

You do not know me yet."

"No matter, I love you."

"And you do not know why?"

"Yes I do! I love you because I love you."

"My friend," said the marquis to Lucilio, "there is nothing so lovely

and so lovable as childhood! It speaks as the angels must speak among

themselves, and its reasons, which are no reasons, are worth more than

all the wisdom of older heads. You must teach this cherub for me. You

must fashion for him a noble brain like your own; for I am only an

ignorant creature and I wish him to know much more than I do. The times

are not so wholly given up to civil war as they were in my youth, and I

think that gentlemen should turn their thoughts toward the enlightenment

of the mind. But try to let him retain the pretty simple ways that he

owes to his life among the shepherds. In truth he is my ideal of the

lovely children who play among the flowers on the enchanted banks of the

Lignon with its transparent waves."

The marquis, having received from the hands of Adamas a cordial to

refresh him after the exertions of the evening, went to bed and slept

soundly, the happiest of men.

At a time when, in default of regular legal processes, people were

accustomed to take the law into their own hands, and when a suggestion

of pardon would have been considered blameworthy and cowardly weakness,

the marquis, although far more disposed than most of his contemporaries

to display great gentleness in all his dealings, thought that he had

performed the most sacred of duties, and therein he followed the ideas

and usages in vogue when chivalry was in its prime.

Certainly in those days it would have been impossible to find one

gentleman in a thousand who would not have deemed himself possessed of

the right to put to death by torture, or at least to order hanged before

his eyes, a guilty wretch like D'Alvimar, and who would not have

censured or ridiculed the excessively romantic sense of honor which

Bois-Doré had displayed in his duel.

Bois-Doré was well aware of it and was not disturbed by the knowledge.

He had three reasons for being what he was: first of all his instinct,

next the example of humanity set by Henri IV, who was one of the first

men of his time to express disgust at the shedding of blood without

peril to him who shed it. Henri III, when mortally wounded by Jacques

Clement, was so upborne by rage and thirst for vengeance that he was

able himself to strike his assassin, and to look on with joy when he was

thrown from the window; when Henri IV was wounded in the face by

Chastel, his first impulse was to say: "Let that man go!"--And thirdly,

Bois-Doré's religious code was found in the acts and exploits of the

heroes of _Astrée_.

In that ideal romance, it was without example that an honorable knight

should avenge love, honor or friendship without exposing himself to the

greatest dangers. We must not laugh too much at _Astrée_; indeed the

popularity of the book is most interesting to observe. Amid the sanguinary

villainies of civil discords, it is a cry of humanity, a song of

innocence, a dream of virtue ascending heavenward.

XXXIV

The marquis's first thought on waking was for his heir, whom, to conform

to the title which was finally adopted, we will call his son.

He recalled somewhat confusedly the events of that agitated night, but

he recalled perfectly the great questions of dress that had been raised

the day before in connection with his dear Mario. He called him in order

to resume the interview they had begun in the _treasure-room_. But he

received no reply and was beginning to be anxious, when the child, who

had waked and risen before dawn, came in and threw his arms about his

neck, all redolent with the fresh fragrance of the morning.

"Where have you been so early, my young friend?" inquired the old man.

"Father," replied Mario, gayly, "I have been to see Adamas, who has

forbidden me to tell you a secret that we have between us. Don't ask me

what it is; we are going to give you a surprise."

"Very good, my son; I will ask no questions. I like to be surprised. But

aren't we going to breakfast together on this little table by my bed?"

"I haven't time, little father! I must go back to Adamas, who says that

he begs you to go to sleep for another hour unless you want to spoil

everything."

The marquis did his best to go to sleep again, but to no purpose. He was

disturbed about many things. Madame de Beuvre was to come early on that

day with her father; Guillaume, too, in case his steward should be

better. Had suitable arrangements been made for the dinner? and could

Mario properly be presented to a lady in the costume of a mountain

shepherd? And, then, the poor child did not even know how to bow, to

kiss a lady's hand, or say a word or two of flattery? Would not all his

beauty, all his fascinating ways be ridiculed and treated with contempt

by those who were not blinded by the voice of blood?

Moreover, no adequate preparations had been made for the hunting party.

He had had too much excitement and anxiety to give any thought to that.

"If Adamas, who is never at a loss, were only here, he would console

me," thought the marquis.

But so great was his consideration for his faithful servant that he

would have pretended to sleep all day, if Adamas had demanded it.

He remained in bed until nine o'clock, but no one came to his relief;

and, as hunger and uneasiness began to make a serious impression upon

him, he determined to rise.

"What is Adamas thinking about?" he said to himself. "My guests will

soon be here. Does he want them to surprise me in my dressing-gown and

with this sallow face?"

At last Adamas entered the room.

"Oh! set your mind at rest, monsieur!" he exclaimed. "Do you think me

capable of forgetting you? There is no hurry. You will have no company

until two o'clock this afternoon; Madame de Beuvre has just sent word to

me to that effect."

"To you, Adamas?"

"Yes, monsieur, to me, for I devised the scheme of sending a messenger

to her to say that you had a great surprise in store for her, but that

nothing was ready. I took all the blame on myself, and I humbly

requested her not to arrive before the hour I have mentioned, adding

that you desired to keep her here to-night, with monsieur her father,

and not to offer her the diversion of hunting until to-morrow."

"What have you done, villain? She will think me insane or uncivil."

"No, monsieur, she took the thing very well, saying that everything that

you did was certain to prove your wisdom or your gallantry."

"In that case, my friend, we must think seriously----"

"About nothing, monsieur, nothing at all, I beseech you. You did enough

with your brain and your sword last night; for what purpose can God have

placed poor Adamas on earth if not to spare you all anxiety about the

details of simple matters?"

"Alas! my friend, it will not be easy--not possible even--in so short a

time, to make my heir presentable?"

"Do you think so, monsieur?" said Adamas, with an indescribable smile of

satisfaction. "I would like to see the thing that you desire that is not

possible! Yes, indeed, I would! I would like to see it! But permit me to

ask you, monsieur, how your heir is to be announced when he enters the

salon?"

"That is a very grave question, my friend; I have already been thinking

of the name and title the dear child should bear. Neither his father nor

mine was a man of quality; but as I propose to provide for his

succession to my title by the proper process and by obtaining the king's

consent, if necessary, I think that I can bestow upon him, in

anticipation, the title that my own son would have. Therefore, in my

house he will be called monsieur le comte."

"There can be no doubt about the propriety of that, monsieur! But the

name? Do you propose to call him plain Bouron, that poor child who

deserves so well to bear a more illustrious name?"

"Understand, Adamas, that I do not blush for my father's name, and that

that name, which was borne by my brother, will always be dear to me. But

as I am much more attached to the name that my king gave me, I propose

that Mario, also, shall bear it, and shall be Bouron de Bois-Doré,

which, by the customary abbreviation, will become plain Bois-Doré."

"That is what I intended to suggest! Come, monsieur, dress yourself and

eat your breakfast here in your bedroom with the child, for the hall

below is in the hands of my decorators; then I will make your toilet.

But you must wear to-day the clothes that I ask you to put on."

"Do what you please, Adamas, as you are responsible for everything!"

While eating and laughing and talking with his heir, honest Sylvain

suddenly fell into profound melancholy. He succeeded in concealing it

from the boy. But when Adamas, declaring that everything was going

satisfactorily, came to make him up for the day, he opened his heart to

him, while the child played about the château.

"My poor friend," he said, "I am amazed that the _numes célestes_, who

have watched over me with such paternal care of late, have allowed me

none the less to become involved in a terrible embarrassment."

"What embarrassment, monsieur?"

"Have you already forgotten, Adamas, that I offered my heart and my life

to a beautiful enchantress on the morning of the very day when I found

Mario? Now, as she did not reject, but simply postponed my offer, the

result is that I run the risk--according to you!--of having other heirs

than this child, to whom I would gladly devote my life and bequeath my

property."

"The devil! monsieur, I did not think of that! But do not be disturbed!

As it was I who put the fatal plan into your mind, it is for me to find

you a way out of the dilemma. I will think about it, monsieur, I will

think about it! Don't forget to beautify yourself and to make merry

to-day."

"Indeed I will not. But what coat is that you are giving me, my friend!"

"Your coat _à la paysanne_, monsieur; it is one of the handsomest you

have."

"In truth, I think it is the very handsomest; and it pains me to make

myself so fine when my poor Mario----"

"Monsieur, monsieur, let me arrange everything; our Mario will be very

presentable."

The marquis's "peasant" coat was white velvet and white satin, with a

profusion of silver lace and magnificent ruffles. White was then the

color of the peasants, who dressed in white linen or coarse fustian at

all seasons; so that whenever a person was dressed all in white, that

person was said to be dressed _à la paysanne_, and it was one of the

most popular fashions.

The marquis was certainly very amusing in that dress; but everybody was

so accustomed to see him disguised as a young man; he was tricked out

from head to foot with such beautiful things and such curious baubles;

his perfumes were so exquisite, and, in spite of everything, there was

so much nobility in his elderly charms, and so much kindly amiability in

his ways, that if people had found him suddenly transformed into the

serious, methodical personage that his years would naturally import,

they would have regretted the pleasure he gave the eyes and the

satisfaction he was able to afford the mind.

About two o'clock a scullion, dressed in ancient feudal costume for the

occasion, and stationed at the top of the entrance tower, blew a blast

on an old horn to announce the approach of a cavalcade.

The marquis, accompanied by Lucilio, betook himself to that tower to

receive the lady of his thoughts. He would have been glad to take his

heir with him; but Mario was in Adamas's hands, and, moreover, it was

part of a plan finally proposed by the latter, and adopted with some

modifications by his master, that the child's appearance on the scene

should be postponed until the conclusion of an explanation on a delicate

subject with Madame de Beuvre.

XXXV

Lauriane arrived, riding a beautiful little white horse which her father

had trained for her, and which she managed with remarkable grace.

Thanks to her mourning, which the fashion of that day permitted to be

white, she, too, was dressed _à la paysanne_, with a habit of fine

white broadcloth, a waist with stripes of silver lace, and a light lace

handkerchief over the inevitable widow's cap.

"Well, well!" cried the downright De Beuvre, when he saw the marquis's

costume, "so you have already assumed your lady's colors, my dear

son-in-law?"

His daughter succeeded in making him hold his peace before the servants;

but, when they were in the salon, despite the promise he had made her to

refrain from all jesting on the subject, he could not contain himself,

and asked with deep interest when the wedding was to be.

Instead of being annoyed or embarrassed, the marquis was exceedingly

pleased at this opening, and requested a secret interview touching a

matter of great gravity.

The valets were dismissed, the doors closed, and Bois-Doré, kneeling at

dear little Lauriane's feet, addressed her in these terms:

"Queen of youth and beauty, you see at your feet a loyal servant whom a

most momentous event has filled with pleasure and embarrassment, with

joy and grief, with hope and fear. When, two days since, I offered my

heart, my name and my fortune to the most amiable of nymphs, I deemed

myself unfettered by any other duty or attachment. But----"

Here the marquis was interrupted.

"Gadzooks! monsieur my son-in-law," cried De Beuvre, affecting violent

indignation and rolling his eyes fiercely, "you make sport of us, do

you, and think that I am a man to allow you to retract your word after

you have transfixed my poor child's heart with the deadly shaft of

love?"

"Oh! hush, pray, my dear father!" said Lauriane, smilingly and sweetly;

"you compromise me. Luckily I can be certain that the marquis will not

believe me to be so capricious that, after I have asked him for seven

years for reflection, I can be already so eager to summon him to keep

his word."

"Allow me to speak," said the marquis, taking Lauriane's hand in his. "I

know, my sovereign, that you have no love in your heart, and it is that

which gives me the courage to crave your pardon. And do you, my dear

neighbor, laugh with all your strength, for there is abundant occasion.

And I will laugh with you to-day, although yesterday I shed many tears."

"Really, my good neighbor?" said honest De Beuvre, taking his other

hand. "If you are speaking as seriously as you seem to be, I will laugh

no more. Have you any trouble of which we can assist to relieve you?"

"Tell us, my dear Celadon," added Lauriane, affectionately, "tell us

your sorrows!"

"My sorrows are dispelled, and, if you allow me to retain your

friendship, I am the most fortunate of men. Listen, my friends," he

said, rising with some effort. "The day before yesterday you heard a

prophecy made by people who were not really sorcerers: 'Within three

days, three weeks, or three months, you will be a father?'"

"Even so," said De Beuvre, recurring to his jesting humor; "do you

believe that the prophecy will be fulfilled?"

"It is fulfilled, my good neighbor. I am a father, and it is no longer

for myself that I ask, from you and the divine Lauriane, seven years of

hope and sincere affection: but for my heir, my only son, for----"

At that moment the folding-doors were thrown open, and Adamas, arrayed

in state, announced in a ringing voice and with an air of triumph:

"Monsieur le Comte Mario de Bois-Doré!"

Everybody was surprised; for the marquis did not expect his son to

appear so soon, and he did not know what sort of costume they would

succeed in arranging for him.

What was his joy when he saw that Mario also was dressed _à la

paysanne_, that is to say in a costume exactly similar in material and

cut to that which he himself wore; the satin doublet with innumerable

little slashes on the arms; the _colletin sans ailerons_, or shoulder

cape without flowing sleeves, of white velvet slashed with silver; the

full trunk hose, four ells in width, gathered below the knee, fastened

with pearl buttons, and open a little at the side to show the

rose-shaped buckle of the garter; silk-stockings, and shoes _à

pont-levis_, fastened with buckles in the shape of roses; the ruff _à

confusion_, that is to say of several rows of unequal size, with tucks

of varied patterns; the plumed hat, diamonds everywhere, a little

baldric all studded with pearls, and a tiny rapier which was a veritable

chef-d'œuvre!

Adamas had passed the night selecting, planning, cutting and fitting;

the morning in trying on. The skilful Moor and four other women had

risen before daylight and sewed for their lives. Clindor had ridden ten

leagues to procure the hat and the shoes. Adamas had arranged feathers

and decorations and ornaments; and the costume, which was in most

excellent taste, well cut and substantial enough to last several days

without being made over, was a wonderful success.

Mario, beribboned and perfumed like the marquis, with his naturally

curly hair, and over his left ear a rosette of white ribbons with a huge

diamond in the centre and silver lace below, came forward with much

grace. He was no more awkward than if he had been brought up as a

gentleman. He wore his rapier gracefully, and his appealing beauty was

heightened by all that white, which gave him the aspect of an innocent

maiden.

Lauriane and her father were so thunderstruck by his face and his

bearing, that they rose spontaneously as if to receive a king's son.

But there was more to come. Adamas, while coaching his young lord, had

tried to teach him a complimentary speech, taken from _Astrée_, for

Lauriane. To learn a few sentences by heart was a small matter to the

intelligent Mario.

"Madame," he said, with a fascinating smile, "it is impossible to see

you without loving you, but even more impossible to love you without

loving you beyond words. Allow me to kiss your lovely hands thousands of

times, which number will fall far below the number of deaths which your

denial of this petition will inflict upon me."

Mario paused. He had learned very rapidly, without reflecting or

understanding. The meaning of the words he was repeating suddenly struck

him as very comical; for he was in no wise inclined to suffer so

terribly if Lauriane refused to receive the thousands of kisses which he

was not particularly desirous to give her. He was sorely tempted to

laugh, and he glanced at the young lady, who had a similar desire, and

who offered him both hands with a playful and sympathetic air.

He cast etiquette to the winds, and following the impulse of his natural

trustfulness, threw his arms around her neck and kissed her on both

cheeks, saying out of his own head:

"Bonjour, madame; I beg you to like me, for I think you are a lovely

lady, and I love you dearly already."

"Forgive him," said the marquis, "he is a child of nature."

"That is why he attracts me," Lauriane replied, "and I waive all

ceremony."

"Hoity-toity!" exclaimed De Beuvre, "what does this mean, neighbor, this

pretty boy? If he is yours, I congratulate you: but I would not have

believed----"

Guillaume d'Ars was here announced, with Louis de Villemort and one of

the young Chabannes, who had called upon him in the morning, and to whom

he had told the tale of the miraculous recovery of Florimond's son.

"Is this he?" cried D'Ars, as he entered the room and gazed at Mario.

"Yes, it is my little gypsy. But how pretty he is now, mon Dieu! and how

happy you should be, my cousin! _Tudieu_, my gentleman," he said to the

child, "what a fine sword you have there, and what a gallant costume!

You wish to put your friends and neighbors to the blush! You outdo us

entirely, that is clear, and we cut no figure at all beside you. Come,

tell us your pet name, and let us become acquainted; for we are kinsmen,

by your leave, and it may be that I can serve you in some thing, were it

only to teach you to ride!"

"Oh! I know how," said Mario. "I have ridden _Squilindre_!"

"The big carriage horse? Tell me, my boy, did you find his trot

comfortable?"

"Not very," said Mario, laughing.

And he began to play and chatter with Guillaume and his friends.

"Come," said De Beuvre, leading Bois-Doré aside, "let me into the

secret, for I am wholly in the dark. You are gulling us, my dear

neighbor! you did not engender that noble boy! He is too young for that.

Is he an adopted child?"

"He is my own nephew," Bois-Doré replied; "he is the son of my dear

Florimond, whom you also loved, my neighbor!"

And he told Mario's story before them all, producing the evidence in

support of its truth, but without mentioning the name of D'Alvimar or

Villareal, and without hinting that he had discovered his brother's

assassins.

XXXVI

In face of the letters, the ring and the seal, it was impossible to

treat this romantic adventure as a fable.

Everybody showered attentions on pretty Mario, who, by his ingenuous

nature, his affectionate manner and his fearless glance, won every heart

spontaneously and irresistibly.

"So you are no longer betrothed to our old neighbor," said De Beuvre to

his daughter, leading her apart, "but to his brat; for that seems to be

the scheme he has in mind now."

"God grant it, father!" replied Lauriane, "and if he recurs to the

subject, I beg you to do as I shall,--pretend to assent to that

arrangement, which the dear man is quite capable of taking seriously."

"He took it seriously enough when he sued in his own behalf!" rejoined

De Beuvre. "The difference in age between you and this little fellow is

reckoned by years, whereas, between the marquis and you, it can properly

be reckoned by fourths of a century. No matter! I see that the dear man

has lost all idea of time with respect to other people as well as

himself; but here he comes; I am going to stir him up a little."

Bois-Doré, being called upon by De Beuvre to explain, declared most

solemnly that he had but one word, and that, having pledged his liberty

and his faith to Lauriane, he considered himself her slave, unless she

gave him back his promise.

"I give it back to you, dear Celadon!" cried Lauriane.

But her father interposed. He chose to tease her also.

"No, no, my child; this concerns the honor of the family, and your

father is not in the habit of allowing himself to be hoodwinked! I see

plainly enough that your whimsical and imaginative Celadon has conceived

a paternal affection for this handsome nephew, and that he is quite

content to be a father without having to take the trouble to be a

husband. Moreover, I see that he has taken it into his head to bequeath

his property to him, without regard to his future children; that is

something which I will not permit, and which it is your duty to prevent

by calling upon him to redeem his plighted word."

Monsieur de Beuvre spoke with such a serious face that the marquis was

deceived for an instant.

"I can but believe," he thought, "that my good fortune rejuvenates me

much, and that my neighbor, who used to gird at me so, does not deem me

so venerable now. Where the devil did Adamas get the idea of suggesting

that step to me?"

Lauriane read his perplexity on his face and generously came to his

assistance.

"My honored father," she said, "this does not concern you, since our

dear marquis did not ask for my hand without my heart; so that, inasmuch

as my heart has not spoken, the marquis is free."

"Ta! ta! ta!" cried De Beuvre, "your heart speaks very loud, my child,

and it is easy to see, by your indulgence to the marquis, that it is of

him that it speaks!"

"Can it be true?" said Bois-Doré, faltering in his resolution; "if I

had that good fortune, nephew or no nephew, by my faith!----"

"No, marquis, no!" said Lauriane, determined to have done with her old

Celadon's dreamy projects. "My heart has spoken, it is true, but only a

moment ago, since I first saw your charming nephew. Destiny so willed,

because of my very great affection for you, which made it impossible for

me to have eyes except for someone of your family and someone who

resembles you. Therefore I am the one to break the bond between us and

declare myself unfaithful; but I do it without remorse, since he whom I

prefer to you is as dear to you as to myself. Let us say no more about

it then until Mario is old enough to entertain affection for me, if that

blessed day is destined to arrive. Meanwhile, I will try to be patient,

and we will remain friends."

Bois-Doré, enchanted by this conclusion, warmly kissed the amiable

Lauriane's hand; but at that moment a terrific fusillade made the

windows rattle and brought all the guests to their feet. They ran to the

windows. It was Adamas, making a terrific uproar with all the falconets,

arquebuses and pistols that his little arsenal contained.

At the same time they saw the marquis's vassals and all the people of

the village thronging into the courtyard, shouting as if they would

split their throats, in concert with all the retainers and servants of

the château:

"Vive monsieur le marquis! Vive monsieur le comte!"

The good people were acting in implicit obedience to an order issued by

Aristandre, having no idea what it was all about; but what they did know

was that they were never summoned to the château without receiving a

banquet or some form of bounty, and they came without urging.

The windows of the salon were thrown open that the guests might listen

to the harangue, in the form of a proclamation, which Adamas declaimed

to that numerous audience.

Standing on the well, which had been covered by his orders so that he

might indulge without peril in animated pantomime, the radiant Adamas

improvised the most dazzling bit of eloquence that his Gascon ingenuity

had ever produced, that his ringing voice, with its soft southern

inflection, had ever thrown to the echoes. His gesticulation was no less

extraordinary than his diction.

It is to be regretted that history has not preserved the exact language

of this masterpiece; it had the fate of all products of inspiration: it

flew away with the breath that had given birth to it.

However, it produced a great effect. The result of poor Monsieur

Florimond's tragic death caused many tears to flow; and, as Adamas wept

easily and was ingenuously moved by his own eloquence, he was listened

to with the closest attention, even from the windows of the salon.

The guests were amused by the pathetic outburst of joy with which he

proclaimed the recovery of Mario, but the rustic auditory did not

consider it overdone. The peasant understands gestures, not words, which

he does not take the trouble to listen to; that would be labor, and

labor of the mind seems to him contrary to nature. He listens with his

eyes. So they were enchanted with the peroration, and good judges

declared that Monsieur Adamas preached better than the rector of the

parish.

The discourse at an end, the marquis went down with his heir and his

guests, and Mario fascinated and won the hearts of the peasants by his

affable manners and his sweet speech.

Being instructed by his father to bid the whole village to a grand

festival on the following Sunday, he did it so naturally and in terms

indicating such perfect equality, that Guillaume and his friends, and

even the republican Monsieur de Beuvre, had to remember that the child

himself was fresh from the sheepfold, to avoid being shocked.

The marquis, detecting their feeling, deliberated whether he should not

recall Mario, who was going from group to group, allowing himself to be

kissed, and returning the caresses with great heartiness.

But an old woman, the patriarch of the village, hobbled to him on her

crutches, and said in a a quavering voice:

"Monseigneur, you are blessed by the good Lord for being gentle and kind

to the poor and infirm. You have made us forget your father who was a

harsh man--harsh to you as well as to others. Here is a child who will

be like you and will keep us from forgetting you!"

The marquis pressed the old woman's hands and allowed Mario to do the

same by everybody. He asked them to drink his son's health, and himself

toasted the parish, while Adamas continued to wake the echoes with his

artillery.

As the multitude departed, the marquis spied Monsieur Poulain, who was

watching the proceedings from a small shed, where he had taken up his

position as in a box at the play. He cut off his retreat by going to him

and inviting him to supper, at the same time reproaching him for the

infrequency of his visits.

The rector thanked him with equivocal courtesy, saying with feigned

embarrassment that his principles did not permit him to break bread with

_pretenders_.

In those days men were called _reformers_ or _pretended reformers_,

according to the supposed earnestness of their religious opinions. When

a person said _pretenders_ simply, he thereby proclaimed for himself an

orthodoxy which refused to admit the bare idea of a possible

reformation.

This contemptuous expression wounded the marquis, and, playing upon the

word, he replied that he had no fiancés in his house.[23]

"I thought that Monsieur and Madame de Beuvre were affianced to the

errors of Geneva," retorted the rector, with a sneering smile. "Have

they procured a divorce from them, following the example of monsieur le

marquis?"

"Monsieur le recteur," said Bois-Doré, "this is no time to talk

theology, and I admit that I understand nothing about it. Once, twice,

will you join us, with or without heretics?"

"As I have told you, monsieur le marquis, with them, it is impossible."

"Very well, monsieur," retorted Bois-Doré, with a display of temper

which he could not control, "that is as you choose; but, on those days

when you do not deem me worthy to receive you in my house, you will,

perhaps, do well not to come to my house to tell me so; for, as you are

unwilling to enter, I am wondering why you came here, unless it was to

insult those who do me the honor of being my guests."

The rector was seeking what he called persecution; that is to say, he

wished to irritate the marquis so as to put him in the wrong as between

themselves.

"As monsieur le marquis admitted all the people of my family to a

merry-making," he replied, "I supposed that I was bidden like the rest.

Indeed, I had imagined that this charming child, whose recovery you are

celebrating, would need my ministry to be received into the bosom of the

Church--a ceremony whereby the rejoicings should have been inaugurated

perhaps."

"My child has been brought up by a true Christian and a true priest,

monsieur! He needs no reconciliation with God; and as to the Moorish

woman, concerning whom you esteem yourself so fully informed, let me

tell you that she is a better Christian than many people who pride

themselves on their piety. Let your mind be at rest, therefore, and come

to my house, I beg you, with an open countenance and no mental

reservations, or do not come at all. That is my advice to you."

"I propose to deal frankly with you, monsieur le marquis," replied the

rector, raising his voice. "Witness the fact that I ask you plainly

where Monsieur de Villareal is, and how it happens that I do not see him

among your guests."

This insidious and abrupt attack nearly unhorsed Bois-Doré.

Luckily Guillaume d'Ars, who approached him at that moment, heard the

question and took it upon himself to answer it.

"You ask for Monsieur de Villareal," he said, bowing to Monsieur

Poulain. "He left the château with me last evening."

"Pardon me," replied the rector, saluting Guillaume with more courtesy

than he displayed toward Bois-Doré. "Then I can address a letter to him

at your residence, monsieur le comte?"

"No, monsieur," replied Guillaume, annoyed by this persistence. "He is

not at my house to-day."

"But if he has gone temporarily only, you expect him to return this

evening, or to-morrow at latest, I presume?"

"I do not know what day he will return, monsieur; I am not accustomed to

question my guests. But come, marquis; they are calling for you in the

salon."

He led Bois-Doré away toward the De Beuvres, to cut short the

interrogatories of the rector, who withdrew with a strange smile and

threatening humility.

"You were speaking of Monsieur de Villareal," said De Beuvre to the

marquis; "I heard you mention his name. How does it happen that we do

not see him here? Is he ill?"

"He has gone," said Guillaume, who was much embarrassed and disturbed by

all these questions before numerous witnesses.

"Gone not to return?" inquired Lauriane.

"Not to return," replied Bois-Doré firmly.

"Well," said she, after a brief pause, "I am very glad of it."

"Did you not like him?" said the marquis, offering her his arm, while

Guillaume walked by her side.

"You will think me very foolish," replied the young woman, "but I will

make my confession none the less. I ask your pardon, Monsieur d'Ars, but

your friend frightened me."

"Frightened you?--That is strange; other people have said the same thing

to me about him! How was it that he frightened you, madame?"

"He bears a striking resemblance to a portrait at our house, which you

probably have never seen--in our little chapel! Have you seen it?"

"Yes!" cried Guillaume, as if struck by a sudden thought; "I know what

you mean. He did resemble it, on my word!"

"He _did_ resemble it! You speak of your friend as if he were dead!"

Mario interrupted the conversation. Lauriane, who had already conceived

a warm affection for him, chose to take his arm to return in doors.

Guillaume and Bois-Doré were left alone for an instant, behind the

others.

"Ah! cousin," said the young man, "what an extremely unpleasant thing it

is to have to conceal a man's death, as if one had reason to blush for

some dastardly deed, when, on the contrary----"

"For my own part, I should prefer to have no concealment whatsoever,"

the marquis replied. "It was you who urged me to this deception; but if

it is burdensome to you----"

"No, no! Your rector seems to have some suspicions. My D'Alvimar made a

great show of piety. The cassock would be on his side, and it is too

dangerous a game to play in this neighborhood. Let us continue to hold

our peace until the story of your brother's cowardly murder has

circulated thoroughly, and do you show the proofs of it to everybody,

without naming the culprits. Then, when you do name them, everybody will

be disposed to condemn them. But tell me, marquis, do you know whether

the wretched man's body----"

"Yes, Aristandre has inquired. The lay brother did his duty."

"But there was something about this D'Alvimar that I cannot understand,

cousin. A man so well-born, and whose manners were so refined!"

"The ambition of a courtier and Spanish poverty!" replied Bois-Doré.

"And furthermore, cousin, there is a philosophical paradox that has

often come to my mind: that we are all equal before God, and that he

sets no more store by a nobleman's soul than by a serf's. On that point,

it may be that the Calvinist doctrine is not far out of the way."

"By the way," rejoined Guillaume, "speaking of Calvinists, cousin, do

you know that the king's affairs are going badly over yonder, and that

he is having no success at all in taking Montauban? I learned at

Bourges, from some very well-informed persons, that on the first pretext

the siege would be raised, and that may change the whole political

status once more. Perhaps you were a little too hasty about abjuring!"

"Abjuring! abjuring!" echoed Bois-Doré, shaking his head; "I never

abjured anything. I reflect, I discuss matters with myself, and I take

one side or the other, according to the arguments that come to my mind.

In reality----"

"In reality, you are like me," laughed Guillaume; "you think of nothing

except being an honest man."

The supper, although the party was small, was served with extraordinary

magnificence. The hall was decorated with flowers and foliage entwined

with gold and silver ribbons; the most beautiful pieces of silverware

and porcelain were brought forth; the dishes and wines were most

exquisite.

Five or six of the most intimate friends and neighbors had arrived at

the last stroke of the bell; their coming was another surprise for the

marquis. Adamas had sent messengers all over the neighborhood.

There was no music during the banquet; they preferred to talk, for they

had so much to say to one another! Adamas contented himself with a

flourish of trumpets in the courtyard to announce each course.

Lauriane was seated opposite the marquis, with Mario at her right.

Lucilio was of the party; they had no reason to fear the evil intentions

of any guest.

[Footnote 23: The play upon words consisted in the fact that

_prétendus_, the word used by Monsieur Poulain, also, means _suitors_.

(Cf. the colloquial English phrase: his _intended_.)]

XXXVII

Half an hour after they left the table, Adamas requested his master to

ascend with his guests to the Salle des Verdures, where a fresh surprise

was prepared.

It was an entertainment after the fashion then in vogue, carried out as

well as it was possible to do it on such brief notice and in so confined

a space.

The end of the room was fitted up as a stage, with rich carpets laid

upon trestles, bearing hangings for a frame, and natural foliage for

wings.

When they had taken their places, Lucilio played a beautiful piece by

way of overture, and Clindor the page appeared on the scene, in the

costume of a shepherd of romance. He sang divers pretty rustic couplets,

of Master Jovelin's composition; then he set about watching his flocks,

consisting of real lambs, well-washed and decked in ribbons, who behaved

exceedingly well on the stage. Fleurial the shepherd dog, also played

his part becomingly.

Soft, soporific music was played on the _sourdeline_ to which the

shepherd fell asleep.

Thereupon a venerable old man came forward and searched the sleeper's

pockets and even the fleeces of the sheep with agonizing suspense. His

beard was so luxuriant, his white hair and eyebrows so bushy, that

nobody recognized him at first; but when he declaimed some lines of his

own composition to set forth the cause of his sorrow, they laughed

heartily as they recognized Adamas's Gascon accent.

That despairing old man was in pursuit of Destiny, which had stolen his

young master, his lord's beloved child.

The shepherd, suddenly awakened, asked him what he wanted. There was an

animated dialogue between them, wherein they repeated the same thing

many times, which, according to Adamas, had the advantage of forcing the

spectators to grasp what he called the _knot of the play_.

The shepherd assisted the old man in his search, and they were going

forward to attack a small fort among the branches at the back of the

stage, supposed to be in the distance, which was no other than that

formerly brought by the marquis _en croupe_ from the château of Sarzay,

when a terrible giant, dressed in fantastic fashion, opposed their

progress.

This giant, enacted by Aristandre, expressed himself at first in an

unknown tongue. As he had declared that he was incapable of remembering

three words, Lucilio, who had consented to assist Adamas in staging his

work, had instructed the charioteer, in his rôle of giant, to use, at

random, any meaningless, incoherent syllables; it was enough that he

should have an awe-inspiring manner and an appalling voice.

Aristandre followed these instructions very well, but when Adamas

insulted and irritated him in the most stinging way, calling him

monster, ogre and wizard, the honest giant, not choosing to be outdone,

emitted such horrifying oaths in good Berrichon that they had to make

haste to kill him, to prevent him from shocking the audience.

This scene offended Fleurial, who was not brave, and who leaped over the

candle footlights to take refuge between his master's legs.

When the monstrous coachman was laid low by Adamas's trusty blade, the

little fort crumbled away as if by magic, and in its place a sibyl

appeared.

It was the Moor, to whom they had given some beautiful Oriental fabrics

in which she had arrayed herself with much taste and poetic beauty.

She was very lovely so, and was received with loud applause.

Poor woman! brought up in bondage and her spirit broken by persecution,

and thereafter happy with a thatched roof and the humblest employment,

under the protection of a poor priest, this was the first time in her

life that she had ever been richly clad, greeted affectionately by

wealthy people, and applauded for her grace and beauty without any

insulting hidden motive.

At first she did not understand; she was afraid and would have fled. But

Adamas opportunely made use of the five or six Spanish words he knew, to

encourage her under his breath and make her understand that she gave

pleasure to the audience.

Mercedes looked about for the one person who interested her most deeply,

and saw close beside her, in the wings, Lucilio the manager, also

applauding.

A flame darted from his black eyes; then, terrified by that gleam of

happiness, which she did not fully appreciate, she lowered her long

lashes until their velvety shadow fell upon her burning cheeks. She

seemed even more beautiful--why, no one could say--and the applause

burst forth anew.

When she had recovered her courage, she sang in Arabic; after which she

replied to Adamas's questions in a way that seemed not to satisfy him.

After a discussion in pantomime, accompanied by music, she promised the

child he sought, on condition that he should submit to the test of

fighting a horrible monster made of gilt paper, who came upon the stage,

bounding and vomiting flames.

The intrepid Adamas, determined to dare anything to bring back his

master's child to the fold, rushed to meet the dragon, and was on the

point of running him through with his invincible blade, when the

creature was rent in twain like an old glove, and the comely Mario

stepped forth, dressed as Cupid, that is to say, in pink and gold satin

embroidered with flowers, with a wreath of roses and feathers on his

head, bow in hand and quiver slung over his shoulder.

The transformation of a child into Cupid in a dragon's belly is not

readily discovered in Adamas's manuscript stage-directions; but it seems

that it was accepted as very pleasing, for that episode won the greatest

success.

Mario recited some complimentary lines in praise of his uncle and his

friends, and the sibyl predicted the loftiest destiny for him. She

produced from the bushes divers marvellous things: a horn of plenty

filled with flowers and bonbons, which the child tossed to the

spectators; then the portrait of the marquis, which the child kissed

with pious veneration; and, finally, two escutcheons of colored glass,

one with the arms of the Bourons de Noyer, the other with those of

Bois-Doré, united under a coronet from which ascended fireworks on a

small scale, in the shape of a sun.

Let us say a word in passing concerning this coat-of-arms of the

marquis. It was very interesting, because it was invented by Henry IV.

himself.

In heraldic language, it was thus described: "_Gules, a naked arm or,

coming from a cloud, holding a sword uppointed, accompanied, in chief,

by three hens diademed argent_;" that is to say, a deep red shield, in

the centre of which a right arm, coming forth from a cloud, held a sword

with the point in the air, pointed toward three hens wearing silver

crowns, placed above the said arm.

Around the crest was this motto: _All men are thus before me_.

If we remember how our good Sylvain was created a marquis, we shall

readily understand this emblem, which might have been considered

derisory, except for the corrective afforded by the motto, which might

be thus translated: "Before this arm there is no foe who does not

display the heart of a chicken."

The play was enthusiastically applauded.

The marquis wept tears of joy to see the charming manners of his son and

the zeal of old Adamas.

They ate sweetmeats, they fought for Mario's kisses, and they separated

at eleven o'clock, which was very late, according to the provincial

ideas in those days.

The next day there was a bird-hunt. Lauriane insisted that Mario should

be of the party. She lent him her white horse, which was gentle and

docile, while she courageously mounted Rosidor. The marquis did not lack

spare mounts. The sport was mild, as befitted those who were the heroes

of the day. Mario took so much pleasure in it that Lucilio feared that

the sudden excitement would be too much for that youthful brain, and

that it would make him ill or delirious. But the child proved that he

had an excellent mental organization: he was intensely amused by all

those novel experiences, and still he did not become over-excited; at

the slightest appeal to his reason he recovered his composure and obeyed

with angelic sweetness. His nerves were not overwrought, and he entered

into happiness as into a paradise of love and liberty of which he felt

that he was worthy.

The supper on this second day of rejoicing gathered other friends at

Briantes; on the following day occurred the fête given to the vassals,

a Pantagruelian banquet and dancing under the old walnut trees in the

enclosure.

A competition in arquebus shooting was organized by Guillaume d'Ars.

Mario suggested to the village urchins trials of skill in running and

sling-throwing, and obtained permission to resume, for the purposes of

that contest, his mountaineer's costume, in which he felt much more at

ease.

He displayed an agility and skill which filled his competitors with

admiration. No one could dream for an instant of disputing the prize

with him; so he modestly withdrew from the competition, in order that

the prize might be awarded equitably to some other.

The festivities were brought to a close by a ceremony at once artless

and ostentatious, and at bottom really touching.

In the centre of the labyrinth in the garden rose a little

thatch-covered structure in imitation of a cottage.

The marquis called it the _Palace of Astrée_.

They carried thither the coarse patched clothes which Mario wore when he

first entered the domain of his ancestors. They fashioned them into a

sort of rustic trophy, with the poor guitar which had been his

breadwinner on his journey, and hung the whole inside the cottage, with

garlands of foliage and a card, whereon were written, under date of that

memorable day, these simple words, selected and executed in his finest

script by Lucilio: "_Remember that thou wast poor once on a time_."

At the same time Mario was presented with a great basket containing

twelve new suits, which he had the pleasure of distributing to twelve

poor little boys grouped on the tiny stoop of the cottage.

Lastly, the marquis ordered placed in the chapel of the parish church a

small mausoleum in marble, dedicated to the memory of the kindly and

saintly Abbé Anjorrant. Lucilio made the drawing and composed the

inscription.

The guests separated and quiet reigned once more at the château of

Briantes.

The marquis thereupon began to think seriously of his son's education.

But if he had been left to himself, amid the preoccupations concerning

dress which filled so much space in his life, his heir might very well

have forgotten what Abbé Anjorrant had taught him, to acquire valuable

notions concerning the art of the tailor, bootmaker, armorer and

decorator. Luckily, Lucilio was there, and he was able to steal a few

hours every day from those trivial pursuits.

He too, the loving heart, grew to be ardently attached to his friend's

child, not only because of the friend, but also because of the child

himself, who, by virtue of his affectionate docility and the keenness of

his intellect, made the task of tutor, ordinarily so unpleasant and

wearing, most pleasurable.

And yet Lucilio's task was not an easy one. He felt that he had charge

of a soul, and of an infinitely pure and precious soul. He strove, first

of all, to protect that youthful conscience with a fortress of beliefs

and convictions against all the tempests of the future. The times they

lived in were so unsettled!

Certainly there was no lack of enlightenment or of most excellent

progressive ideas. It was the age of novelties, people said: detestable

novelties according to some, providential according to others.

Discussion was rife everywhere and among all classes; and then, just as

to-day and yesterday and always, vulgar minds believed that they had

discovered infallible truths.

But the world of intellect had lost its unity. Calm and impartial minds

sought justice, sometimes in one camp, sometimes in the other; and as in

both camps intolerance, error and cruelty were of common occurrence,

scepticism found its profit in folding its arms and asserting the

incurable blindness and weakness of the human race.

It was a period just subsequent to the bloody conflicts between the

Gomarists and Arminians. Arminius was no more; but Barneveldt had just

mounted the scaffold. Hugo Grotius had been sentenced to imprisonment

for life, and was meditating in prison his noble _Theory of the Law of

Nations_. The Reformers were widely at variance on the question of

predestination. Calvinism, with its appalling fatalistic doctrine, was

doomed in the consciences of right-minded men. The French Lutherans,

imitating Melancthon's return to the truth, and abandoning Luther's

deplorable doctrines concerning _free will_, now upheld divine justice

and human liberty.

But right-minded men are scarce at all periods. The Calvinist sect and

its fervent ministers protested in a large part of France against what

they called a return to the heresy of Rome.

The events that took place in our Southern provinces, the frenzied

meetings determining upon a resistance that had become anti-French, the

republican spirit, ill understood, seconding by obstinacy and ignorance

the deplorable projects of the Austro-Spanish policy, which aimed at

kindling civil war in France; the glorious but regrettable resistance at

Montauban; so much blood shed, so much heroism expended to perpetuate

the struggle which Rome and Austria found to their advantage, proved

plainly enough that the light of intelligence was behind a cloud, and

that no liberal mind could say to itself: "I will go into this church, I

will go into this army, and there I shall find unadulterated the best

social truths of my time."

It was not advisable therefore to pay too much heed to facts, and when

one was well-informed and intelligent, to believe in any special truth

above all those which were preached throughout the world, since the

sword, the halter, the stake, murder, rape and pillage were the methods

of conversion used by the opposing parties in dealing with one another.

Lucilio Giovellino reflected upon all these things and resolved to

proceed according to the Gospel as expounded by his own heart; for he

saw too clearly that that divine Book, in the hands of certain Catholics

and certain Protestants, might become and was becoming every day a code

of fatalism, a body of doctrine leading to brutalization and frenzy.

So he began to instruct Mario in philosophy, history, languages and the

natural sciences all at the same time, trying to deduce from them all

the logic and kindness of God. His method was clear and his explanations

concise.

Poor Lucilio had once been eloquent and had detested written speech; and

sometimes even now he suffered from being obliged to compress his

thought in a few words; but misfortune is always of some profit to the

elect. It happened that his disinclination to write long, and his

impatience to disclose his thought, compelled him and accustomed him to

summarize his ideas with marvellous clearness and force, and that the

child was nourished upon facts, without useless details and fatiguing

repetitions.

The lessons were surprisingly short, and carried with them to that young

mind a certainty of insight which was exceedingly rare at that time, and

for good reason.

Bois-Doré, for his part, albeit he directed his child's attention to

trivial and foolish things, kept him pure and good, by virtue of that

mysterious insufflation which takes place between one noble nature and

another, without volition or knowledge.

All children are naturally disposed to resist too precise instruction;

they follow more readily an instinct which leads them, having itself no

knowledge where it is going.

When the marquis was disturbed in his puerile occupations, to render a

service or give alms, he never displayed either vexation or weariness.

He would rise, listen, ask questions, encourage and act.

Although naturally indolent and easy-going, he was never bored by any

complaint, never lost patience with any poor old woman's loquacity.

Thus, while apparently devoting his life to trifles, he passed very few

moments in that placid, benevolent life without doing good or affording

pleasure to somebody.

Thus his day, always begun with fine projects of work for his son--he

gave the name of work to attention to the toilet and instruction in good

manners,--was passed without deciding upon anything, without undertaking

anything, and leaving everything to the wise decisions of Adamas and the

captivating caprices of the child.

XXXVIII

Meanwhile, after the lapse of a few weeks, they had succeeded in

equipping Mario as a gentleman of quality, thanks to Adamas's untiring

zeal and the Moorish woman's clever wit, and the marquis had succeeded

in giving him some notions of horsemanship and fencing.

Moreover the old man and the child held mutually agreeable sessions

every morning for lessons in manners. The marquis would make his pupil

go in and out of the room ten times, to teach him how to enter

gracefully and courteously and how to retire modestly.

"You see, my dear count," he would say--that was the hour at which they

were supposed to address each other with graceful formality,--"when a

gentleman has crossed the threshold and advanced three steps into an

apartment, judgment has already been passed upon him by such persons of

merit or of quality as happen to be present. It is most essential

therefore that all of his own merit and quality must appear in the

carriage of his body and the expression of his face. Until this day, you

have been received with caresses and affectionate familiarity, and have

been relieved from the necessity of conforming to social

conventionalities of which you could know nothing; but this indulgence

will speedily cease, and if people see that you retain rustic manners

under such garments as these, they will blame your own disposition or my

indifference. So let us work, my dear count; let us work seriously: let

us repeat that last courtesy, which lacks brilliancy, and try once more

entering the room, which you did languidly and without dignity."

Mario was entertained by this sort of instruction, which gave him an

opportunity to array himself in his finest clothes, look at himself in

the mirrors and stalk proudly across the room. He was so clever and so

graceful, that it cost him little trouble to learn that species of

majestic ballet, in the most minute details of which he was carefully

drilled, and his old father, who was much more of a child than he, knew

how to make the lesson amusing. It was a complete course in pantomime,

wherein the marquis, despite his years, was still an excellent

performer.

"Look you, my son," he would say, arranging his hair and his clothes in

a certain way, "this is the _matamora_ style; look carefully at what I

do, in order that you may avoid doing it, unless in sport, and always

abstain from it in good society."

Thereupon he would represent a swaggering captain to the life, and Mario

would laugh until he rolled on the floor. For his own amusement he would

be permitted to enact the captain in his turn, and then it was the

marquis's turn to laugh until he fell back upon his chair exhausted; the

little fellow was such a clever, fascinating imp!

But we must return to the lesson.

Next the marquis would portray a loutish, dull, obtrusive boor, or a

sour, disagreeable pedant, or a sheepish simpleton; and as other actors

were needed to make the scene impressive, he would send for some members

of the household. They were fortunate when they could enlist Adamas and

Mercedes, who entered into the spirit of the thing with much zest and

cleverness. But Adamas was active and the Moor hardworking; they always

asked leave to go back to their work for Mario.

Then they would fall back upon Clindor, who was most willing, but was

built like a jumping-jack, and Bellinde, who was delighted to represent

a lady of quality, but who played that part in the most absurd and

laughable way. The marquis rallied her good-humoredly and called

attention to her absurdities, to enforce his precepts upon Mario, who

was much given to mockery and who made merry over the housekeeper's

foibles in a way to mortify her exceedingly.

She would go away in a rage, and Mario, laughing uproariously, and

forgetting that it was the hour for stately demeanor, would leap on the

marquis's knees, and kiss and fondle him; nor would the old man have the

courage to forbid him; for he too enjoyed it, nor was anything sweeter

to him than to have his child play with him as with a playmate of his

own age.

After dinner, they rode together. The marquis had procured for his heir

several of the prettiest jennets in the world, and he was an excellent

teacher. And so with fencing; but these exercises fatigued the old man

exceedingly, and he substituted other teachers, limiting his efforts to

directing them.

There was also a master in heraldry, who came twice each week. He bored

Mario considerably; but he made up his mind, with a resolution very rare

in a child, to object to nothing that his father imposed upon him so

gently.

He consoled himself for his studies in heraldry with his beautiful

little horses, his pretty little arquebuses, and Lucilio's lessons,

which attracted and interested him deeply.

He entertained for the mute a profound instinctive respect, whether

because his noble mind felt the superiority of so grand an intellect, or

because Mercedes's fervent veneration for Lucilio exerted a magnetic

influence upon him; for he remained in his heart the Moorish woman's

son, and, feeling that there existed a gentle jealousy between the

marquis and her on his account, he had the delicacy and the art to

devote himself equally to both, without arousing the apprehension of

those two childish hearts, at once generous and sensitive.

He had already served an apprenticeship in this matter of consideration

for his adopted mother, when they were living with Abbé Anjorrant; it

was not difficult for him to continue.

The study in which he took the most pleasure was that of music.

In that too, Lucilio was an admirable teacher. His delightful talent

charmed the child and plunged him into blissful reveries. But this task,

which would have absorbed all the rest, was thwarted to some extent by

the marquis, who considered that a gentleman should not study an art to

the point of becoming an artist, but should learn first what was called

the profession of arms, then a little of everything; "the best possible

subjects," he would say, "but not too much of anything; for a man who is

very learned in one subject disdains all others, and ceases to be

attractive."

Amid all these employments and amusements Mario grew to be the prettiest

boy imaginable. His complexion, naturally white, assumed a soft tone

like that of the inner petals of a flower, beneath the warm sun of

autumn in our provinces. His little hands, once rough and covered with

scratches, now gloved and cared for, became as soft as Lauriane's. His

magnificent chestnut hair was the pride and admiration of the

ex-wigmaker Adamas.

The marquis had wasted his efforts to teach him grace and charm of

manner by rules; he had retained his natural charm, and, as for the

graceful manners of a gentleman, he had acquired them instinctively on

the first day, when he put on the satin doublet.

So that the lessons in dancing which he received served only to develop

his physical organization, which was one of those which cannot be

destroyed.

As soon as his wardrobe was supplied, the marquis took him to pay visits

to all the neighbors within ten leagues.

The actual appearance of the child was a great event in the province,

for the jealous folk and the gossips had sneered about him at first as a

chimera and a shadow; but he assumed substance and reality every day.

When people saw him riding rapidly through the streets of La Châtre on

his little horse, escorted by Clindor and Aristandre, they began to

screw up their eyes and say to one another:

"So it was really true?"

They asked what his name was and what his name was to be. Would the

marquis, a man of quality, be content to have for his heir a petty

country squire? But had he the right to bequeath his title and his

_three hens diademed argent_ to a Bouron? Would the present king permit

it? Was it not contrary to the laws and customs of the nobility?

A momentous question!

It was discussed for a fortnight, and then people ceased to discuss it;

for one soon wearies of subjects that require deep thought, and when

they saw the old marquis and the little count go out to dine with some

neighbor, both dressed exactly alike, whether in white _à la paysanne_,

or in sky blue trimmed with silver purl, or in apricot satin with white

feathers, or in _light green_, or in _peach pink_, with ribbons

interwoven with gold and silver, and both reposing gracefully on the

crimson cushions of the stately chariot, drawn by their beautiful great

horses as beplumed as themselves, and followed by an escort of servants

whom one might have taken for noblemen, so well mounted and well armed

they were, and resplendent with gold lace, there was not a noble,

bourgeois or villein, in town or village, who did not jump to his feet,

crying:

"Up! up! I hear the marquis's carriage coming! Come quickly and let us

see the beaux messieurs de Bois-Doré ride by!"

While these things were taking place in the fortunate province of Berry,

the effervescence in the South of France was increasing in intensity.

About the 15th of November, there came reliable intelligence that the

king had been obliged to raise the siege of Montauban.

The young king was brave; he wept when he withdrew his forces.

Luynes, who had declared that he would subdue the party by corrupting

its leaders, had failed to seduce Rohan, the commanding-general in the

province and defender of the city. It was proved, unfortunately, that

that high-spirited nobleman was one of the rare exceptions, and that

Luynes's system was successful with the majority of the rebellious

nobles; but that system of _purchase_ ruined France and debased the

nobility.

Louis XIII. was conscious of it at times, and found his efforts

neutralized by the incapacity and unworthiness of his favorite.

The army was inadequately supplied and poorly paid. The confusion was

scandalous; the king paid the wages of thirty thousand combatants, and

there was not an effective force of twelve thousand to take the field.

The officers were disheartened. Mayenne had been killed. The Spanish

Carmelite Domingo de Jesu-Maria, to whose sanctity and enthusiasm the

German fanatics attributed the victory of Prague, had prophesied in vain

under the walls of Montauban.

False miracles find fewer believers in France than elsewhere. The

Calvinists raised their heads, and in the early days of December

Monsieur de Bois-Doré received a visit from Monsieur de Beuvre, who was

in a state of intense excitement and said to him in confidence:

"I have come to consult you concerning a most important matter, my dear

neighbor. You know that, being closely allied to the Duc de Thouars,

head of the house of La Trémouille, to which I have the honor to

belong, I thought last spring of joining the people of La Rochelle. You

prevented me, assuring me that the duke would melt away like snow before

the king; and it happened as you predicted. But because my kinsman the

duke committed an error, it does not follow that I was justified in

doing the like, and I reproach myself for abandoning my cause,

especially at the moment when it is recovering strength."

"Evidently your tongue betrays you, neighbor," replied Bois-Doré

artlessly; "you mean that the cause is in great need of you; for, if you

hurry to its assistance because it has the upper hand, I do not see

wherein your merit lies."

"My dear marquis," replied De Beuvre, "you have always prided yourself

on your chivalrous notions; but I am a plain man, and I speak of things

as they are. You are rich, your fortune is made, your career is

finished; you can afford to philosophize. I, although I am not poor,

have lost much of my property through having played my hand badly in

these last years. I feel active still, and inaction is tedious to me.

And then I cannot endure the airs of superiority that the old Leaguers

assume here in our province. The mischief-making of the Jesuits drives

me frantic. Must I abjure, pray, if I wish to live in peace, like you?"

"Like me?" said the marquis, with a smile.

"I know that your abjuration did not make a great sensation," replied De

Beuvre; "but, however that may be, it is too early for me to do it; I

prefer to fight, and I have five or six years of activity and good

health to do it."

"But you are very stout, neighbor!"

"You think that I am growing stout, because you do not see yourself

getting thin, neighbor! It is you who are becoming hollower, not I more

corpulent."

"Very well! I understand your reasons for making this campaign. You

think that it will be successful; but you are mistaken. The leaders and

the troops, the bourgeois and the ministers, all fight gallantly on a

certain day; but on the following day, they separate; they abhor one

another, they insult one another and each goes his own way. The game has

been lost ever since Saint Bartholomew, and the King of the Huguenots

won it only by abandoning the cause. He chose to be a Frenchman first of

all; and this that you propose will be of advantage neither to France

nor to yourself."

De Beuvre could not endure contradiction. He persisted, and taunted the

marquis with his lack of religious principle, albeit he himself was the

most sceptical of men.

As he listened to him, Bois-Doré saw plainly that he was tempted by the

excellent terms which the king was compelled to grant the Calvinist

nobles, whenever the royal cause received a check. De Beuvre was not a

man to sell himself, like so many others, but to fight stubbornly, and,

if victorious, to take advantage without scruple of the opportunity to

be most exacting in his demands.

"Since your mind is made up," said the marquis gently, "you ought to

have told me so at once, instead of asking my advice. I have only one

other consideration to urge upon you. You propose to equip yourself and

take the best of your people with you for this campaign. Think of the

annoyance that may be caused your daughter if the Jesuits should take it

into their heads to call Monsieur de Condé's attention to your absence!

And be sure that they will not fail to do it, that the château of La

Motte-Seuilly will be occupied in the king's name by evil-minded men;

that your daughter will be exposed to insult----"

"I do not fear that," said De Beuvre. "I shall be supposed to be at

Orléans, where everyone knows that I have a law-suit. I will go thence,

quietly, toward Guyenne, where I will assume some old _nom de guerre_,

as the custom is, to protect my property and my family during my

absence; I will be Captain Chandelle or Captain La Paille, or

Captain--no matter what."

"All that is often done, I know," rejoined Bois-Doré, "but it doesn't

always succeed; I promise to defend your château as effectively as I

and my people can do it; but if I were not afraid of making an

indelicate suggestion, I would offer to take your Lauriane into my

family during your absence."

"Offer, offer, neighbor! I accept, nor do I see wherein the indelicacy

consists. There is no impropriety in a woman's being in any place where

her virtue or her good name are not in danger, and I am entirely unable

to see that my daughter runs the risk of losing her heart or her reason,

with you who might be her grandfather, your little one who is only a

school-boy, your philosopher whose tongue cannot offend, and your page

who looks like a monkey. So I will bring her to you to-morrow, and leave

her with you until my return, well-assured that she will be happy and

safe under your roof, and that you will be to her, as to me, the best of

friends and neighbors."

"You can rely upon it," replied Bois-Doré. "I will go to fetch her

myself. My chariot is large enough; she can put her most valuable

property in it, without letting the neighbors know too soon that she is

doing anything more than taking one of her ordinary excursions."

XXXIX

On the following morning Lauriane was installed at Briantes, in the

Salle des Verdures, which the ingenious Adamas soon converted into a

luxurious and comfortable apartment.

The Moor asked leave to wait upon the young lady, who inspired

confidence and sympathy in her, and Lauriane, who on her side had much

regard and liking for her, asked her to sleep in the closet adjoining

her enormous room.

Lauriane parted from her father most courageously. The noble-hearted

child, living herself on faith and enthusiasm, suspected no selfish

calculation on his part. She would have found it difficult to understand

what it meant to be guided in one's reasoning, doubts and decisions by

personal interest. She knew that her father was as brave as a lion and

that his quick temper and the pride of gentle birth made him frank and

outspoken; that was enough for her to make a hero of him.

He was conscious of the innocence and the noble instincts of that young

mind, and he would not have dared to lower himself in her esteem by

allowing her to discover how much more truly than she supposed he was

the _honest man_ of his time; that is to say, the man who did as little

harm as possible, while taking care to keep his neck out of the collar.

The day of ideal virtues had passed: the world had entered "the brambles

of that shocking 17th century; an imposing desert, wherein moral and

material subsistence becomes more and more inadequate, wherein nature at

last ceases to support man; wherein the exhausted earth fails under

him."[24] Men who had grown old in the struggles of the preceding

century were not the men to rejuvenate the new century. But the children

had courage; they always have when they are left to themselves!

Lauriane, moved to enthusiasm by the gallant conduct of the Rohans and

La Forces at Montauban, urged her father to go, believing that his only

thought was to uphold the honor of the cause, and that he, like herself,

had naught in view but to preserve, at the price of fortune, of life, if

need be, the dignity and liberty of conscience granted by Henri IV.

She did not shed a tear as she gave him the last kiss; she followed him

with her eyes along the road, as long as she could see him; and, when he

was out of sight, she returned to her room and fell to sobbing.

Mercedes, who was working in the closet, heard her and walked to the

door, but dared not approach. She regretted that she did not know her

language so that she could comfort her.

The maternal instinct was so strong within her that she could not see a

young heart suffer without suffering herself, and without a feeling that

she must go to its aid. She thought of going in search of Mario; it

seemed to her that no sorrow could hold out against the aspect and the

caresses of her beloved child.

Mario came softly in on tiptoe and stood close beside Lauriane without

betraying his presence. Lauriane was already his darling sister. She was

so kind to him, so playful, so anxious to amuse him when he passed the

day with her!

Seeing her weep, he was frightened; he believed, with everybody else,

that Monsieur de Beuvre was absent for a few days only.

He knelt on the edge of the cushion on which she had placed her feet,

and gazed at her speechless. At last he ventured to take her hands.

She started, looked up, and saw before her that angelic face, smiling at

her through tear-bedewed eyes. Touched by the child's sensibility, she

pressed him to her heart with the utmost warmth and kissed his lovely

hair.

"What is the matter, pray, my Lauriane?" he asked, emboldened by this

outburst.

"Why, my poor darling," she replied, "your Lauriane is grieved, as you

would be if your dear father the marquis should go away."

"But your papa will return soon; he told you so when he went."

"Alas! my Mario, who can say that he will return at all? When one is

travelling, you know----"

"Has he gone very far away?"

"No, but--Nay, nay, I will not make you unhappy. I must go out and take

the air. Will you come with me and find your dear father?"

"Yes," said Mario, "he is in the garden. Let us go. Would you like me to

go and get my white goat to amuse you with her capers?"

"We will go together to look for her; come!"

She went out leaning on his arm, not like a lady leaning on the arm of a

gallant, but like a mother, with her boy's arm passed through hers.

As they descended the stairs they found Mercedes, whose lovely eyes

rested caressingly on them as they passed. Lauriane, who could make

herself understood by signs, needed only to look at her to understand

her. She divined her loving solicitude and held out her hand, which

Mercedes would have kissed. But Lauriane would not permit it, and kissed

her on both cheeks.

Never before had a Christian kissed the Moor, although she was herself a

Christian. Bellinde would have considered that she disgraced herself by

bestowing the slightest caress upon her, and, deeming her a heathen, she

even objected to eating in her company.

The noble-hearted little dame's fascinating cordiality was therefore one

of the greatest joys in that poor creature's life, and, from that

moment, she almost divided her affection between her and Mario.

She had always refused to try to learn a word of French, even striving

to forget the little Spanish that she knew, having an exaggerated fear

of forgetting the language of her fathers, as she had sometimes found

that it was forgotten by Moors isolated from their countrymen in foreign

lands, to whom she had not been able to make herself intelligible.

Hitherto it had been sufficient for her to be able to speak with the

learned Abbé Anjorrant, with Mario, and of late with Lucilio. But the

longing to talk with Lauriane and the kind-hearted marquis caused her to

overcome her repugnance. Indeed, she felt that it was her duty to

acquire the language of those affectionate people, who treated her as a

member of their race and their family.

Lauriane undertook to act as her teacher, and in a short time they were

able to understand each other.

Lauriane soon found herself very happy at Briantes, and, if it had not

been for the absence of her father, from whom, however, she soon

received good news, she would have been happier than she had ever been

in her life.

At La Motte-Seuilly she was almost always alone, as the robust De Beuvre

hunted in all weathers, loving to tire himself out; and, despite his

affection for her, he neglected the innumerable little delicate

attentions, the ingenious indulgences which the marquis placed at the

service of women and children.

Brought up somewhat sternly, she had had to resign herself to be a

little stern to herself, especially as the idea of a long widowhood had

presented itself to her mind as a result of the environment and the

circumstances in which her lot was cast. There had been moments when,

although she was not as yet conscious of a desire to lean upon a heart

not far removed in age from her own, she had felt that her own courage

bruised her, like a suit of armor that was too heavy for her slender

limbs. She had hardened herself by outbursts of piety and of resolution;

she had already almost succeeded in forcing herself to laugh when she

longed to weep; but nature resumed its rights.

When alone, she often wept in spite of herself, involuntarily yearning

for companionship, affection, a mother, a sister, a brother, a smile, a

pleasant word which would assist her to breathe and bloom in a softer

air than that of the chilling gloom of her old manor-house, the

depressing memory of the Borgias, and the political harangues of her

satirical and discontented father.

Thus a rapid transformation took place in her at Briantes. She became

what she longed to be, what she could not have ceased to be except for a

painful straining of her will, and what nature willed that she should be

once more: a child.

The marquis, having joyously cast aside the thought of making her his

wife, resolutely treated her as his daughter, taking pleasure in the

idea that she was so young that he could readily, without making himself

out too old, look upon her as Mario's older sister.

Moreover it happened that his extraordinary coquetry was even better

served by two children than by a single one. Those youthful companions,

whose delicate colors he loved to wear, and whose innocent amusements he

loved to partake, made him younger in his own opinion, to such a degree

that he sometimes persuaded himself that he was a mere boy.

"There are people who grow old, you see," he would say to Adamas; "I am

not one of that sort, for I enjoy myself only with innocent youth. I

tell you, my friend, I have returned to my golden age, and my ideas are

as pure and joyous as those of the little sweetheart and cherub yonder."

Thus Lauriane, Mario and the marquis became inseparable, and their days

passed in a constant succession of amusements interspersed with earnest

study and good deeds.

Lauriane had had no education at all. She knew nothing. She desired to

attend the lessons Jovelin gave Mario in the large salon. She would

listen, embroidering the marquis's crest upon a piece of tapestry; and

when Mario had read or recited his lesson, he would place Lucilio's

written demonstrations on her lap and read them over with her. Lauriane

was amazed to find how readily she understood things that she had

believed to be beyond a woman's intelligence.

She enjoyed the music lesson exceedingly, and sometimes played the

theorbo prettily while the Moor sang her sweet laments.

The marquis would lie stretched out in his long chair throughout these

little concerts, gazing at the characters on the _Astrée_ tapestry, and

would doze beatifically, fancying that he saw them move or heard them

sing.

Lucilio too had his share in this family happiness, which caused him to

forget to some extent the solitude of his heart and his ghastly future.

The stern yet simple-minded philosopher was not yet too old to love; but

he thought that he ought not to aspire to it, and, after having felt its

ardent flames more than once, he feared that he might fall into some

mere sensual connection, in which his heart would not be included. He

resigned himself therefore to live by devotion to others and to abandon

all illusions finally and absolutely.

He who had endured imprisonment, exile and poverty, and had undergone

martyrdom, appealed to himself to conquer the craving for happiness as

he had conquered all the rest, and he always emerged tranquillized and

triumphant from these meditations; but triumphant as one is after the

torture: a blending of feverish excitement and prostration, on one side

the heart, on the other the body; a life whose equilibrium is destroyed

and in which the mind can no longer tell in what sort of a world it is.

And yet Lucilio exaggerated his misfortune to himself. He was beloved,

not by a mind of rare intelligence--that is what he needed, at least he

thought so, to reconcile himself to his tragic destiny--but by a heart.

Before his learning and his genius, Mercedes was like a rose before the

sun. She drank in its rays without understanding them; but she was

enamored of his gentleness, his courage and his virtue, and her loving

heart was prostrate before him. She did not resist the sentiment, but

cherished it as a religious duty; she said nothing, however, because she

had more fear than hope.

We must not forget to mention in its place a little domestic revolution

that occurred at the château of Briantes a few days after Monsieur de

Beuvre's departure; for the importance of this seemingly trivial

incident became grievously manifest later to the too happy inmates of

the château.

Although the younger of the beaux messieurs de Bois-Doré was not always

the more child-like, Mario sometimes displayed a mischievous tendency,

especially when, as Adamas expressed it, "he and the little madame had

had their heads together." He was too kind-hearted and affectionate ever

to torment animals or human beings; he never had occasion to reproach

himself for pulling Fleurial's ear or addressing an unpleasant word to

Clindor; but inanimate things did not always inspire in him the respect

that certain of them inspired in the marquis. Of this number were the

little statues from the romance of _Astrée_, which embellished the

gardens of _Isaure_ and the famous labyrinth, and the den of old Mandrague,

by which he had been much entertained at first, but which gradually

began to pall upon him as playthings too utterly devoid of life.

One day, when he was trying a great wooden sabre which Aristandre had

carved for him, he pretended to threaten with it one of the stucco

personages representing the disguised Filandre, that is to say the

_pretended_ Filandre, because, as everyone knows, resembling his sister

Callirée so closely that it was impossible to distinguish them, he

donned female clothes in order to obtain admission to the private

apartments of the nymph he loved.

The shepherd was represented in that female disguise, and the artist

employed to mould the figures, trusting to the explicitly alleged

resemblance of the brother and sister, had ventured to spare his

imagination some labor by employing the same model for the two figures

facing each other, with those of Amidor, Daphnis, etc., in the

_rond-point_ of verdure, called the _grove of the errors of love_.

So, to distinguish the brother from the sister, the marquis had written

on the pedestal of the brother a fragment of the long monologue which

begins thus: "O vainglorious Filandre, who can ever pardon thy fault,

etc.?"

That crafty individual's face was so stupid, that Mario, while not

precisely hating him, loved to laugh at him and threaten him. He had

previously dealt him several harmless blows; but on this day, seeing

that the challenge he hurled at him amused Lauriane, he aimed a

sword-thrust at him with more force than he intended, and sent poor

Filandre's nose flying to the ground.

The exploit was no sooner performed than the child regretted it. His

father was as fond of Filandre as of the other shepherds.

Lauriane, after much searching, found the unfortunate nose in the grass,

and Mario, climbing on the pedestal, stuck it on as well as he could

with clay. But it was frosty weather and the next morning the nose was

on the ground. They stuck it on again; but the disguised Filandre was

such an idiot that he could not keep his nose, and at last the marquis

passed by at a time when he was without it.

Mario confessed; kind-hearted Sylvain saw his remorse and did not scold

him. But the next day not only was Filandre minus his nose, but his

sister Callirée; and on the next day Filidas and the incomparable Diane

herself were in the same plight.

This time Bois-Doré was seriously distressed and sorrowfully reproved

his child, who began to weep bitterly, declaring with evident sincerity

that he had never in his life broken off any other nose than the

vainglorious Filandre's. Lauriane also asserted her young friend's

innocence.

"I believe you, my children, I believe you," said the marquis, dismayed

by Mario's tears. "But why this grief, my son, since you are not the

culprit? Come, come, do not weep any more. I blamed you too hastily; do

not punish me for it by your tears."

They embraced affectionately, but this massacre of noses was most

surprising, and Lauriane observed to the marquis that some crafty and

evil disposed person must have done it for the purpose of making Mario

guilty in his eyes.

"That is certain," replied the marquis, thoughtfully. "It is one of the

vilest deeds imaginable, and I would like right well to find the author

of it and condemn him to lose his own nose! I would give him a good

fright, on my word!"

However, they tried to look upon it as nothing more than a piece of

childish folly, and suspicion fell upon the youngest person in the

château next to Mario. But Clindor displayed such righteous indignation

that the marquis had to apologize to him too.

On the following day, two or three more noses were missing, and the

indignant Adamas caused a guard to be stationed day and night in the

garden.

The vandalism ceased, and honest Lucilio, touched by Bois-Doré's

distress, compounded an Italian paste by means of which, with much

patience, he neatly replaced all the noses.

But who could be the perpetrator of the crime? Adamas suspected; but the

marquis, refusing to believe that anyone in his household was capable of

such infamous conduct, attributed it to some agent of Monsieur Poulain.

"That hypocrite," he said, "considering us all heathens and idolaters,

probably imagined that we worshipped those statues! And yet, Adamas,

they are all modest and decently dressed, as it is fitting that they

should be in a place where our children go to and fro."

"I would say with you that it is some villain who very evidently

entertains the detestable desire to cause monsieur le comte to be

scolded. Now, everybody here would lay down his life for him, they all

love him so, except one detestable creature----"

"No, no, Adamas!" rejoined the generous-hearted marquis. "It is

impossible! It would be too hateful on the part of one of the fair sex."

They were beginning to forget this momentous affair when something even

more unpleasant occurred.

[Footnote 24: Michelet, unpublished letter.]