DR. JOHANNES CABALLUS
I made all arrangements betimes for an early start the next morning;
and, with a remembrance of what had passed between us last night,
ordered a table, with one cover only, to be set for mademoiselle near
the window of the dining-room. Then I went out into the garden to
while away the time there until my charge was ready for the journey.
There was a little walk outside the open window, through which I could
see all that passed within the dining-room. Here I paced backwards and
forwards, reflecting on the events of the past few hours. I could, of
course, see that for some reason or other Diane had apparently broken
with De Ganache. It was not a trick of heartless coquetry--for that I
gave her credit. Yet the change had been so swift and sudden that it
was difficult to assign any other reason for it. So far as I was
concerned I was sure my affair was utterly hopeless; but the air of the
Italian campaign would doubtless cure me, and I almost caught myself
wishing that I had lost the game last night and was free to turn my
horse's head where I listed.
In this disjointed thought I passed some time, and it was well after
nine o'clock that Diane came forth from her room. Through the window I
saw her descending the stair, and, not wishing to intrude, withdrew to
the extreme end of the walk, where I began to be interested in the
operations of a spider weaving his web in a rose bush. I could,
however, see into the room, and observed Diane stop near the table,
hesitate a little, and then sit down. Pechaud began to flutter around
her, but after a little she rose, and coming to the window looked
straight out at me. My spider had by this time vanished into the
petals of a half-open rose, and turning I met Diane's look, and lifted
my hat in formal greeting, remaining, however, where I was, as I was
determined to keep the position she had assigned to me.
"Monsieur Broussel!"
"Mademoiselle!" And now I stepped up to the window.
"Will you let me know when we start?"
"As soon as ever you are rested sufficiently, mademoiselle."
My tone was coldly polite, and there was equal indifference in her
voice.
"It is very good of you to say this; but now that I have decided to go
to Paris the sooner it is over the better."
"The horses are ready."
"Then, perhaps, we had better start."
"I am at your service, mademoiselle." And a quarter of an hour later
we were on our way once again. I did not take the direct road by
Châtellerault, but turned half westward, intending to enter Touraine by
way of Chinon, and then to follow the route by which I had come to
Poitiers.
It was a summer day, such as can only be met with in France. Overhead
billowy white clouds rolled and piled in the sapphire blue of the sky.
A wind, fresh and cool, blew from the west, sweeping over the plain,
hissing into the crests of the yellow broom and purple loosestrife, and
bending them into lines of colour that chased each other like waves
over the grey-green moorland. As we left the plain and came to the
undulating lands of northern Poitou, where the country twisted down to
the Bienne, the hedgerows, all glimmering in gold and green, and gay
with blossoming thorn, were awake with the song of the thrush and the
black-cap. We had passed Lencloître on our left, and in that dip, dark
with walnut-trees, lay the little hamlet of Razines, which had so many
memories for me.
Up to now neither mademoiselle nor I had exchanged a word, as I rode
well in the rear of our party, sending Capus, who knew the country, to
lead us. Diane had so far kept her word, and rode behind Capus in
silence. At intervals I pushed a little to one side and watched her,
and now and again, as we came to a turn or a bend in the road, I saw
her full and fairly, but she never so much as glanced in my direction.
A little farther on we skirted some rising ground, and there, to our
half-left, lay Richelieu, the smoke still rising from its burning
houses, and, caught by the wind, stretching out in a long horsetail
across the country. Mademoiselle reined up and watched the scene for a
little, our party halting behind her. As we did so we heard a loud
neigh, and a riderless horse, the saddlery still on him, came out of
some stunted trees and trotted towards us. At a sign from me one of my
men caught the horse and freed him of his bit and saddle, whilst I
galloped up to the trees, upon which half a dozen or so of ravens were
sitting. When I reached them I found what I expected there, and the
hideous birds croaked down on me as if in derision, for what was lying
there was past all aid of man. I came back as I went, and Diane asked:
"Is there anyone there, monsieur?"
"No, mademoiselle. And 'tis almost time for our midday halt; a little
farther on and we will rest."
Diane turned her horse's head, and I was about to turn back once more
to my place when she said in a low tone:
"Monsieur, I have something to say to you."
I bowed, and rode up beside her. And we let the men go onward,
dropping together to the place I had left in the rear.
"Monsieur," she said after a little, "I have been trying to say what I
want all the morning. I want you to forgive me for the cruel words I
used to you last night. I--I never meant them." She was flushed and
trembling as she spoke, and I saw the tears in her eyes. I lifted my
hat at her words.
"Mademoiselle, after all you were right. I am but Bertrand Broussel, a
citizen of Paris, as you know, and you----"
"Oh yes; I know all that; but, oh! I feel hot with shame when I think
of my words. Monsieur, say you forgive me!"
"With all my heart, mademoiselle! Think no more of it, I pray you."
And then, to change the subject, I pointed to a grove of trees in front
of us. "There, mademoiselle, is where we halt for an hour or so. What
say you to a race there?"
"Are you not afraid of that?"
"I will risk it," I said. And, with a laugh, she touched her Norman
with the whip, and I kept Lizette pounding after her, until she pulled
up, flushed and hot, near the trees, beside which the Mable purled past.
"Beaten again," she said as I came up.
"It is my fate." And, pulling up, I pointed to the river. "Do you
remember this river, mademoiselle?"
"The Mable!" And she shuddered. "But surely it was not here that we
crossed on that awful night?"
"No; some miles lower down." And then I helped her to dismount, and
attended to the horses, whilst she borrowed my sword, and tying her
'kerchief to the point signalled to our men to come on.
There are days when all that happens is trivial, yet the memory of
which is ever to be marked in white; and this was such an one to me. I
let myself forget the impossible during that brief two hours' halt; nor
ever had I known Diane so gracious. We spoke much of Paris. She had
never seen the great city nor the Court, and I told her what I knew,
though my knowledge of the Louvre was a little old. As a child she had
seen the Queen once--on the day of the Lists of Amboise--and wondered
whether she were altered.
"She is much the same. Time has dealt gently with her."
"Is it true that in secret she is of our--I mean my faith?"
"It is said that she favours the new religion, but I know not if this
is true. It is certain, however, that she has never joined in the
persecution, and 'tis said that both D'Andelot and Marot owed their
escape to her."
"And you, monsieur--are you too of the faith?"
"Mademoiselle, I think, if the truth be told, that men who, like
myself, have lived much in the world do not bind themselves in their
hearts to this faith or to that, whatever they profess with their lips."
"But, monsieur----"
"Listen, mademoiselle. This does not mean that we do not know how
infinite is the distance between us and God nor how hard the road is to
His throne."
"There is the path of faith, monsieur."
"That is the path we search for, sometimes unconsciously; and perhaps,
with God's aid, I may find it ere I die."
Then there was a silence, and after that the talk drifted to other
things. And I but mention this conversation because it was due to it
and it alone that I was set upon the track that led to the True Road.
A little later Pierrebon, who was indulging his appetite for a good
sleep, awoke from his nap, and discovered it was time to be moving.
So, fording the river, we took our way north. Towards sunset we saw
the walls of the priory of Ile Bouchard, around which clustered the
houses of the village, like barnacles to a galley's side. On arrival
here I craved the hospitality of the good monks for the night, and this
was readily afforded us. Early the following morning, having bidden
farewell to our kind hosts, we looked our last on the grey pile, half
monastery and half fortress, and went our way through the stunted
forest that straggled downward to the Vienne. Between these narrow
strips of woodland, through which the path wound, rose ragged knolls
clad in short, dark green juniper, and here and there were bright
splashes of colour, where flowering wild weeds clustered at the bases
of the brown ribs of rock that stood up starkly over all. We crossed
the river by the ferry between Auche and Rivière, where the little
Veude falls into the Vienne, and halted for a space on a bluff to
survey the landscape. At this hour of the morning, with the air so
gay, the sky so blue, and the sun so bright, the lights were still soft
enough to allow the whole beauty of the scene to be strongly felt. At
our feet the river went dancing along in a sweeping blue curve, its
left bank clothed with rich vineland, and on its right a belt of
forest--the outskirts of the forest of Chinon--which stretched, a sea
of green, grey, and dim, mysterious purples, to the far-distant Loire.
There, on its wooded height, the pentice roofs glistening in the
sunlight, stood Chinon, with its triple castle, so full of the memories
of history; and all around spread the wide Tourangeais.
"Tourangeaux, Angevins
Bons esprits et bons vins,"
sang Capus, grizzled old war-dog though he was, and, the spirit of the
morning seizing us, we urged our horses down the slope, and scurried
through the forest towards Chinon.
After a little we slackened pace and went on slowly, until, towards
midday, when about half a league--or perhaps less--from Chinon, we came
upon a roadside inn, all covered with climbing roses in bloom, whilst
the air was full of the cooing of numberless pigeons that circled
around and perched upon a dovecote that looked like a tower. Here
mademoiselle stopped, declaring that she would travel no farther that
day; and accordingly, having made arrangements for our accommodation, I
walked out with Diane into a long, straggling garden that lay at the
back of the house. At the extreme end of the garden was a
summer-house, and on entering this we found it occupied by an old man,
who sat reading therein. We were about to draw back, but he rose,
leaning upon a stout stick, and very courteously invited us to be
seated. His hooded black cassock, and the tonsure which was visible,
as he had removed his cap, marked the priest. He was very feeble, as
we could see, though his eyes, bright and piercing, contrasted
strangely with the deadly pallor of his cheeks. A straggling grey
moustache and beard partly concealed his mouth, which was set in a
smile half mirthful and half sardonic. I put him down as the curé of a
neighbouring hamlet, as he gave us the benediction, and invited us to
join him, saying as he did so:
"Mademoiselle, I have long looked in dreamland for the lady who would
be chosen above all others as Abbess of Thelema--and now, behold! you
have come!" Plucking a rose as he spoke he bowed with old-world grace,
and held it out with a shaking hand to Diane, who took it with a flush
on her face, and thanks on her lips, but a puzzled look in her eyes.
"I see, Monsieur le Curé," I said, "you are an admirer of Doctor
Rabelais."
"He is the most intimate friend I have, and, as you are doubtless
aware, the Doctor is a townsman of Chinon."
"That, perhaps, is his book you are reading?"
"Alas, no! 'tis merely a Hebrew lexicon I was studying to decide a
dispute I have with my friend Doctor Johannes Caballus of the
University of Orange; but--you are learned in Hebrew, monsieur?"
"I cannot say I am," I laughed, "though we meet on common ground in
admiration of Rabelais."
"In that case, monsieur, you and mademoiselle must be my guests at
dinner. It is almost the hour, and we will dine here." And without
waiting for a reply he seized a small handbell that lay beside him and
rang it. In a little the host appeared, and the curé turned to him:
"Is dinner, as I ordered it, ready?"
"Monsieur!"
"Then serve it here, and set the table for four. Mayhap the Doctor
Johannes Caballus may join us. Let me see what there is for dinner.
Ah! three sucking-pigs, and a fourth to follow in quince sauce, six
capons, twelve pigeons, twelve quails, four legs of mutton _en brune
paté_, twelve sweetbreads, four tongues, four veal----"
But the landlord had fled, and Diane was staring with wide-open eyes,
whilst I confess I thought that we had a harmless lunatic before us.
"Perhaps, monsieur, we have Gargantua dining with us?"
"That would be but a flea-bite to him. But there is the Doctor
Caballus." And pushing aside the roses he pointed before him; all we
could see was a sleek mule sunning itself in a patch of green.
"There is only a mule there," said Diane.
"True; but he is a Doctor of Laws of the University of Orange. I must
tell you that the estimable beast is the property of Doctor Rabelais,
who permits me to use him, being, as I said, a friend of friends to me.
It so happened that the University of Orange conferred degrees on
payment of fees without seeing or testing the candidate. My friend
Rabelais, who loves a merry jest, sent them the money for a Doctor's
degree for one Johannes Caballus, the same being his mule. And in due
course the parchment came; and so our friend there is as much a Doctor
of Laws as my lords the Bishops of Seez or Montpelier. But here comes
our dinner."
I need not say that the dinner was not the feast for giants that was
ordered; but, though it was plentiful, all that our old friend could
eat was a little dish of peas fried in fat, which he washed down with
thin wine and water. He kept all the talk to himself, delighting us
with a thousand merry quibbles and jests, until, finally, he called for
his mule, saying that he must depart.
"Mademoiselle," he said as he wished us farewell, "you are going on a
long journey, and I on a much longer, but I know that wherever you are
there will be the house of Thelema." And as I helped him to pull his
domino over his shoulders he whispered in my ear: "_Beati qui in domino
moriuntur_."
Then, slowly and painfully mounting his mule, and chuckling at his grim
jest, he ambled away, the landlord bowing respectfully to him as he
passed.
"Who is he?" asked Diane.
"That, mademoiselle," said our host, "is the Doctor Rabelais, whose
name is honoured as that of the King here. He has a small estate
called La Devinière hard by, and comes here at times for his health.
He returns to Paris to-morrow; but he will never come back--that I
know." And he shook his head sorrowfully.
* * * * * *
We never met again, for Rabelais died a month later; but in my library
at Orrain, which now contains close upon a hundred volumes, I have a
copy of his works bound in red velvet, and clasped with silver. Nor
ever do I touch it without thinking of that rose-clad summer-house in
the old garden in Touraine.