CHAPTER LXXIV

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

LES BEAUX MESSIEURS DE BOIS-DORÉ

VOLUME II

BOIS-DORÉ CONFERS WITH THE RECTOR

THE MARQUIS AT LA CAILLE-BOTTÉE'S

MACABRE AND HIS BAND AT THE INN

MERCEDES WOUNDED BEFORE THE CHÂTEAU

GUILLAUME D'ARS PROPOSES MARRIAGE

MARIO FINDS PILAR'S TALISMAN

LES BEAUX MESSIEURS DE BOIS-DORÉ

(_Continued_)

XL

Since the Moorish woman had taught Adamas divers Eastern secrets for the

composition of cosmetic mixtures, the marquis's complexion, his beard

and his eyebrows had really improved. They were proof against wind, rain

and Mario's frantic caresses; moreover, their perfume was sweeter, and

they were more promptly prepared.

At first the old Celadon submitted to the beautifying process in

profound secrecy, at the time when the child left his room for his first

play. But, as Mario asked no embarrassing or impertinent questions, the

old man gradually relaxed his great precautions, and proceeded to his

daily rejuvenation with most ingenuous explanations.

The cosmetics were christened cooling perfumes, and the brilliant

coloring was called keeping the skin in condition.

Mario seemed not to know what malice was. But children see everything;

and he was not duped by Adamas, only he saw no cause for ridicule. His

dear father could do nothing ridiculous. He fancied that these artifices

were a part of the toilet of all persons of quality.

So it happened that, as he was more or less coquettish himself, he

conceived a strong inclination to have his own face made up _like a

gentleman's_. He made that request; and, as he was simply told in reply

that at his age such devices were not necessary, he did not look upon it

as a positive refusal. So that, one evening, happening to be alone for a

moment in his adoptive father's room, and seeing the phials scattered

over the table, it occurred to him to _perfume_ himself in white and

pink as he had seen Adamas perfume the marquis. That done, he thought

that he ought to enlarge and darken his eyebrows, and, finding that that

gave him a martial mien which delighted him hugely, he could not resist

the temptation to draw two pretty little black hooks above his lips and

a lovely royale underneath.

As he had no light except a single candle which had been accidentally

left on the table, he used the colors too freely, and could not draw the

outlines very sharply.

The supper-bell rang; he hurried to the table, well pleased with his

bad-boy aspect, and maintaining his seriousness admirably.

The marquis paid no heed at first; but, Lauriane having uttered a hearty

peal of laughter, he raised his eyes and saw that sweet little face so

strangely transformed that he could not refrain from laughing with her.

But in the depths of his heart the good marquis was vexed and grieved.

Mario certainly had had no idea of making sport of him; but the broad,

loud way in which he had daubed himself betrayed a little too frankly,

before Lauriane, the existence and use of that palette of beauty which

he believed that he had kept so carefully concealed in the drawers of

his dressing-table and on his face. He did not even dare ask the child

where he had obtained the materials for that coloring; he dreaded a too

ingenuous reply. So he contented himself with saying to him that he had

disfigured himself, and that he must go and wash his face.

Lauriane realized her old friend's embarrassment and uneasiness, and

restrained her merriment; but Mario's whim seemed to her all the more

amusing, and throughout the supper she suffered from that mad, girlish

longing to laugh which constraint transforms to nervous excitement.

The effect on Mario was magical, until at last the marquis mildly said

to them:

"Come, children, laugh your fill, since you have such a longing to

laugh!"

But he did not laugh himself, and at night he reproved Mario, who was

penitent, and promised never to do it again.

This antic afforded much amusement to Monsieur Clindor, who broke a

beautiful piece of porcelain in his uproarious mirth. Being rebuked by

the marquis, he lost his head and trod on Fleurial's paw. Adamas could

not resist Mario's droll aspect, and he, too, laughed! Bellinde was the

only one who kept a serious countenance, and the marquis was grateful to

her for it.

"That child is very mischievous," he said that night to Adamas, "and

everything that he does indicates a playful and most entertaining wit.

But we must not spoil him too much, Adamas!"

The next day there was more trouble: one of the phials of carmine on the

dressing-table was found to be broken, and the beautiful lace

table-cover was stained. It was laid at Fleurial's door at first, but

similar spots were discovered on Mario's white jacket. He was surprised,

and stoutly denied having approached the dressing-table.

"I believe you, my son," said the marquis, with a sigh. "If I deemed you

capable of lying, I should be too deeply grieved."

But on the next day the cosmetics were found to be mixed; the red with

the black and the black with the white.

"Zounds!" ejaculated the marquis, "this devil's work continues! Will it

be the same way with it as with the noses of my poor statues?"

He scrutinized Mario without speaking; there were black stains on the

ruffles at his wrists. It might have been ink; but the marquis had a

horror of spots, and begged him to go and change his linen.

"Adamas," he said to his confidant, "the child is mischievous, that is

all right; but if he is a liar and abuses my confidence in his word, it

will break my heart, my friend! I believed that he was made of a

superior substance, but God does not choose that I shall be too proud of

him. He allows the devil to make of him a child like other children."

Adamas took sides with Mario, who had just entered the boudoir adjoining

the bedroom.

At that moment they heard Bellinde engaged in a warm dispute with the

child. He was pulling her by the skirt, and she resisted by saying that

he took liberties above his age.

The marquis rose indignantly.

"Libertine!" he cried in despair; "already a libertine?"

Poor Mario ran forward, weeping bitterly.

"Father," he cried, throwing himself into his arms, "she is a wicked

girl. I was trying to bring her to you to show you what she has on her

hands. She touched my ruff, saying that it was stained, and it is she

who puts the stains on it; she wants to make you feel grieved and

prevent you from loving me. She takes advantage of the foolish things I

do to put other wicked things on my back. Father, she isn't a good

woman; she makes you think I am a liar, and, if you believe her----"

"No, no, my son, I do not believe her!" cried the marquis.--"Adamas!"

But Adamas was no longer there; he had run after Bellinde; he seized her

on the staircase, tried to drag her back by force, and received for his

pains a hearty cuff which made him relax his grasp.

At the sound of this scuffle, the marquis darted out into the hall.

Adamas had received a violent blow; he was dazed and was pressing his

cheek.

"That hussy must have used her claws!" he exclaimed, "my face is

all--Why, no, monsieur," he cried suddenly, overjoyed, "it isn't blood!

Look! it's the beautiful rouge from your phials! It's conclusive

evidence! Ah! upon my word! this business is clear enough at last. Now I

hope that you will have no further doubt of that red-headed girl's

malice!"

"Monsieur le comte," said the marquis to Mario with admirable gravity,

"I confess that I have doubted your word on two occasions. If I were not

your best friend, you would be entitled to demand satisfaction; but I

hope that you will deign to accept your father's apologies."

Mario leaped on his neck, and that same evening Bellinde, being paid and

discharged without a word of explanation, left the oasis of Briantes and

her fine shepherdess's name, to return to the realities of life under

her true name of Guillette Carcat, pending the time when she should

assume a more sonorous and mythological one, as we shall see in the

sequel.

While these tragical events gradually faded from the memory of our

characters, Monsieur Poulain did not fall asleep in his zeal.

It was on the 18th or 19th of December, when the abbé, cold as to the

nose and feet, but with his brain warmed by the hope of a triumph at

which he had long been aiming, arrived at Saint-Amand, a pretty town of

Berry, situated in a verdant valley, between two streams, and overlooked

by the gigantic and wonderful castle of Montrond, the residence of the

Prince de Condé.

The abbé dismounted at the Capuchin convent, whose vast enclosure,

shaped like a cross, lay under the protection of the princely abode. He

avoided seeing the prior, whose attentions and good offices he dreaded;

he preferred to do his work himself and to travel alone. He simply

accepted a frugal repast from one of the monks, his kinsman, shook off

the snow with which he was covered, and presented himself at one of the

wickets of the castle, where he exhibited a passport in proper form.

"Thanks to the works undertaken by Sully, and especially to the

improvements made by Monsieur le Prince," who had purchased that domain

from the fallen minister, "the castle of Montrond, which assumed more

importance at a later date, in the wars of the Fronde, had become a most

luxurious abode as well as an impregnable fortress. It was more than a

league in circumference; it comprised numerous buildings, an enormous

and magnificent château of three floors, a huge tower or donjon a

hundred and twenty feet high, the walls of which were crenellated, and

which was surmounted by a platform whereon was a statue of Mercury."[1]

"As for the fortifications, they were so abundant, arranged in the shape

of an amphitheatre and in tiers, that even one who had scrutinized and

studied them for a long time could hardly understand them."[2]

In that labyrinth of stone, that powerful vassal's lair, that

significant mystery, dwelt Henri de Bourbon, second of the name, Prince

de Condé, who, after three years of captivity for rebellion against the

crown, had become reconciled with the court and resumed his post as

governor of Berry.

In addition to that office he held those of lieutenant-general, bailiff

of the province, and captain of the great tower of Bourges: that is to

say he monopolized the political, civil and military power of the whole

centre of France, since he enjoyed the same privileges and held the same

offices in the province of the Bourbonnais.

Add to this power an enormous fortune, increased by the sums which,

_under the form of an indemnity_, each rebellion of the Condés cost the

crown, that is to say France; by the almost forced purchase of the

magnificent estates and châteaux which Sully possessed in Berry, and

which he had no choice but to surrender to Monsieur le Prince at a great

sacrifice, by reason of the pitilessness of the time and the

_misfortunes_ of the province; by the _secularisation_, that is to say

the suppression, to the prince's profit, of the richest abbeys of the

province, that of Déols among others; by the gifts which the rich

bourgeoisie of the cities were compelled by custom, flattery or

cowardice to make; by the heavy bowls of gold and silver filled with

Berry sheep in the form of gold and silver coins; by the _azure

chariots_, carved and decorated with silver satyrs, drawn by six

beautiful horses with harnesses of Russia leather trimmed with silver;

by taxes, exactions and vexations of every sort imposed upon the common

people: money under all names, under all forms, under all pretexts--that

was the sole motive, the sole aim, the sole grandeur, the sole joy, and

the sole talent of Henri, grandson of the great Condé of the

Reformation, and father of the great Condé of the Fronde.

Two great Condés, who were most ambitious and most blameworthy for

their conduct toward France, God knows! but capable, too, of rendering

noble service against the foreigner, when their selfish interests did

not lead them astray. Alas! therein we see the _frightful_ 17th century!

But they were endowed with courage, grandeur, aye, with heroism; while

he who plays a part in our narrative was simply covetous, cunning,

prudent, and, people said, something much worse.

His birth was tragic, his youth unhappy.

He first saw the light in prison, born of a widow who was accused of

having poisoned her husband.[3] Married himself when very young to the

lovely Charlotte de Montmorency, the constable's daughter, he had had

for a rival that too lusty and too venerable gallant, Henri IV. The

young princess was a flirt. The prince kidnapped his wife. The king was

accused of seeking to make war on Belgium for giving her shelter. The

charge was at once true and false; the king was madly in love, but

Condé, pretending a jealousy of which he was incapable, exploited the

king's passion to the advantage of his ambition, and forced the king to

take harsh measures against a rebel.

Unlucky in his family relations, in war and in politics, Monsieur le

Prince consoled himself for everything by love of wealth, and, when the

terrible ministry of Richelieu supervened, he was living very quietly,

rich and unhonored, in his good town of Bourges and in his fine château

of Saint-Amand-Montrond.

But, at the time when our rector Poulain, after six weeks of manœuvring

and intriguing, succeeded in finding his way into his presence, Monsieur

le Prince had not renounced all political ambition, and he was still to

play his rôle of vulture during the death agony of the Calvinist party

and that of the royal power, hoping to rise on the ruins of both.

The rector thought that he was perfectly well aware what sort of man he

had to deal with. He judged him by the reputation of a _good_ prince

which he had made for himself at Bourges; familiar, condescending,

talking to everybody without arrogance, playing with the school children

of the town and cheating them, very fond of gifts, gossipy, stingy,

whimsical and exceedingly pious.

The prince had all those qualities; but he had them in much greater

degree than anyone as yet supposed. History declares that he was too

fond of the society of children. He cheated from avarice and not simply

for amusement; he did not follow the example of Henri IV., who returned

the money. He was passionately fond of gifts; was a gossip from envy and

evil-mindedness; he was avaricious to frenzy, whimsical to superstition,

pious to atheism.

Lenet in his panegyric, says of him most ingenuously, or rather most

maliciously:

"He understood religion and knew how to make the most of it, knew every

fold of the human heart as thoroughly as any man I ever knew, and could

decide in an instant by what motive a man's action was guided in affairs

of every sort. He had the art of taking precautions against the artifice

of other men, without letting them be apparent. _He loved to gain an

advantage_. He undertook few affairs which he did not succeed in

carrying through, by temporizing when he could not gain his object in

any other way. He knew how to avoid any danger of losing that which was

due to him, and to grasp any opportunities which might benefit him in

any way. In short," says Lenet blandly in conclusion, "he seems to me to

have been a great man and a very extraordinary one."

So be it!

As for the prince's physical characteristics, they are thus described,

in a private letter, by a more illustrious pen than Lenet's:

"A face attractive at first sight; somewhat long, but with regular

features; nothing of the power or of the marked peculiarity of feature

of his son, the great Condé; smiling eyes; a face possessing no slight

charm, with its frame of long hair; moustaches turned up at the ends; a

long, heavy royale. Uncertainty in the shape of the forehead, which is

of medium height, largely developed in the upper portion; some

flabbiness in the cheeks. That smiling glance was one of those in which

one can detect, with some attention, the lack of dignity and of serious

faith, a petty, selfish disposition and much indifference. But that is

the second impression; the first is not disagreeable. The best of his

portraits bears the device: _Semper prudentia_."[4]

The statue of Mercury, the god of sharpers, standing on the summit of

the donjon, is even more eloquent.

[Footnote 1: Raynal, _History of Berry_.]

[Footnote 2: Memoirs of Monsieur Lenet.]

[Footnote 3: Charlotte de la Trémouille, wife of the first Henri de

Condé, was imprisoned eight years, then acquitted, but never exonerated.]

[Footnote 4: Henri Martin. Unpublished letter.]

XLI

Monsieur Poulain, while not a physiognomist in the highest sense, was a

shrewd observer none the less; but he was at first impressed only by the

agreeable side of the prince's countenance.

Monsieur de Condé received him alone in his closet, and invited him to

sit. He displayed the greatest consideration for any man who wore a

cassock.

"Monsieur l'abbé," he said, "I am ready to listen to you. Pardon me if

important duties have compelled me to keep you waiting a long while for

this appointment. You know that I have had to go to Paris to fetch

Monsieur le Duc d'Enghien; then I was obliged to find another nurse for

him, she whom his mother had selected having no more milk than a stone;

and then--But let us speak of yourself, who seem to me to be a man of

resolution. Resolution is a fine thing; but I am surprised to find you

so persistent in appealing to me concerning such a trivial affair. Your

clodhopper of--What do you call the place?"

"Briantes," replied the rector, respectfully.

The prince glanced furtively at him, and saw, beneath his humility, an

air of assurance which disturbed him.

It is a peculiarity of great minds to seek to fathom and make use of the

forces with which they come in contact. The prince was too suspicious

not to be timid. His first impulse was not so much to make use of people

as to refrain from doing so.

He affected indifference.

"Very good," he said; "your clodhopper of Briantes has killed in single

combat, or rather in a singular combat and in a suspicious way, a

certain--What is the dead man's name?"

"Sciarra d'Alvimar."

"Ah! yes, I know! I have inquired about him; he was a man of no

consequence, and one who fought unfairly himself. The fellows must have

been evenly matched. What does it matter to you, after all?"

"I love my duty," replied the rector, "and my duty bade me not to allow

a crime to go unpunished. Monsieur Sciarra was a good Catholic, Monsieur

de Bois-Doré is a Huguenot."

"Has he not abjured?"

"Where and when, monseigneur?"

"I neither know nor care. He is an old man, he is unmarried. He will

soon die a natural death. When the beast dies, the poison dies! I do not

see that there is much occasion to worry about him."

"Then your highness refuses to cause this affair to be investigated?"

"Investigate it yourself, monsieur l'abbé. I do not prevent you. Apply

to the proper authorities. This comes within the province of the

magistracy; I do not give my attention to the offences of the common

herd: I should never be done with them."

Monsieur Poulain rose, bowed low and walked to the door. He was

humiliated and deeply offended.

"Oh! stay, monsieur l'abbé," said the prince, who was desirous to

fathom him without seeming to do so; "if I am not interested in your

Monsieur d'Alvimar, I am deeply interested in you, who write an

exceedingly well-turned letter, furnish valuable information, and seem

to me to be a man of courage and spirit. Come, speak frankly to me.

Perhaps I may be able to assist you in some way. Tell me why you desired

to see me, instead of applying to your natural superiors, the higher

clergy?"

"Monseigneur," replied the rector, "such an affair was not within the

jurisdiction of the church."

"What affair?"

"The murder of Monsieur d'Alvimar; I have no other motive. Your highness

insults me by thinking that I have made use of that circumstance as a

pretext to gain access to you, in order that I may address some personal

petition to you; such is not the case. I am impelled solely by the

dissatisfaction which every sincere Catholic feels to see the

_pretenders_ begin anew their thieving and murdering in this province."

"You said nothing of theft," rejoined the prince. "Had this D'Alvimar

any property which was taken from him."

"I do not know, nor is that what I mean. I had the honor to write to

monsieur le prince that this Bois-Doré had enriched himself by

pillaging churches."

"True, I remember," said the prince. "Did you not give me to understand

that he had some sort of hidden treasure in his house?"

"I gave monseigneur most precise and accurate details. A part of the

treasure of the Abbey of Fontgombaud is still there."

"And it is your opinion that we should make him disgorge? That would be

difficult, unless by employing officers of the law; and the tardiness of

legal procedure would enable the old fox to put the _corpus delicti_ out

of sight. Do not you think so?"

"Perhaps Monsieur d'Aloigny de Rochefort, whom your highness has

appointed fiduciary abbé of Fontgombaud, might take measures----"

"No," said the prince, with some vehemence, "I forbid you--I beg you to

let him know nothing of this. I have already incurred sufficient blame

for the favors with which I have rewarded Monsieur de Rochefort's

valuable services; people would never cease saying that I enrich my

creatures with the spoils of the vanquished. Moreover, Rochefort is

accused of being too greedy, and, in truth, perhaps he is so to some

extent. I would not take my oath that he would confiscate these things

for the benefit of the religion."

"I have touched the tender spot," thought the rector; "the treasure

makes him prick up his ears. I must manage it so that monseigneur will

be my debtor."

The prince noticed the slightly disdainful inward satisfaction of his

visitor. The rector was not thirsty for money and jewels. He was thirsty

for influence and power. Condé realized it and kept a closer watch upon

himself.

"Moreover," he added, "it would be inadvisable to make a commotion over

a trifle. This treasure, hidden in an old chest in a country-house

garret, is not worth, I fancy, the trouble that would be necessary to

obtain possession of it."

"But it is a living spring which supplies the old marquis's

magnificence."

"He has been drawing upon it for a long time," rejoined the prince; "it

must be drained dry! I used to know your clodhopper slightly; he was a

burlesque marquis, of the King of Navarre's making. He was admitted to

_my dear uncle's_ intimate circle!"

Condé never spoke of Henri IV. except in an ironical tone overflowing

with aversion. Monsieur Poulain observed the bitterness of his tone and

smiled in a way to gratify the prince.

"The marquisate of Bois-Doré," he said, "is a jest which the old man

takes very seriously, and he persists in forcing upon everybody his

absurd passion for the late king."

"The late king had some good qualities," rejoined Condé, who considered

that the rector went too far, "and this old creature of whom we are

talking was not one of his worst creatures. He squandered all his

property in absurd finery; he cannot have anything left. He never goes

to Paris now, he never appears at Bourges, he lives in a hole. He has an

old chariot of the time of the League and a castle wherein I should be

ashamed to quarter my dogs. He has laid out gardens where all the

statues are of plaster; all this smells of mediocrity."

"These are details with which I did not supply monseigneur," said the

rector to himself. "He has been making inquiries, he has nibbled at the

bait.--It is true," he said aloud, "that our man is only a petty

provincial nobleman. He is known to have about twenty-five thousand

crowns of visible income, and people are justly surprised that he spends

sixty thousand without running into debt and without leaving his

estate."

"Can it be that the Abbey of Fontgombaud still holds out?" said the

prince with a smile. "But how do you know, monsieur l'abbé, that this

horn of plenty exists at the manor of Briantes?"

"I know it from a very devout young woman who has seen reliquaries and

chapel ornaments of great value there. A certain child's bed, all of

carved ivory, is a _chef-d'œuvre_, surmounted by a canopy----"

"Bah! bah!" said the prince, "some old woman's tale! We will look into

this matter if you insist, for the honor and welfare of the church,

monsieur l'abbé; but it is not a matter of great urgency. I must leave

you; but I would like first to know if I cannot serve you in any way.

Your archbishop is a very good friend of nine; it was I who procured his

translation. Do you desire a better living? I can speak to him of you."

"I desire none of the advantages of this world," the rector replied as

he took his leave. "I consider myself well placed wherever I can labor

for my salvation and pray for your highness's happiness."

"That is to say," thought the prince as soon as he was alone, "the

Bois-Doré's coffers are still full; otherwise this ambitious fellow

would have asked me first for his reward. He knows that I shall be

satisfied with the result, and he will ask me for more than I have

offered him. We shall see."

And the prince issued his orders.

On the evening of that same day, the dwellers at Briantes had just

wished one another good-night, and were about to separate, when

Aristandre, who was gatekeeper, sent word that a nobleman and his

retinue desired shelter and an opportunity to rest for a couple of

hours. It was raining and was very dark.

The marquis called for a light, and, wrapping himself in his cloak, went

out in person to order the portcullis raised.

"We are----" began an unfamiliar voice.

"Enter, enter, messieurs," replied the marquis, ever a slave to the laws

of chivalrous hospitality. "Come in out of the rain. You may tell your

names, if you please, when you have rested."

The horsemen rode in; there was two or three of them, and one, who

seemed to be in authority over the others, acted as if he would

dismount. Bois-Doré prevented him, as the pavement was very wet.

He walked ahead with Adamas, who carried the torch, and returned to the

courtyard, followed by his guest, without noticing an escort of twenty

armed men, who, having crossed the drawbridge one by one, entered the

courtyard after their master, while he was ascending the stairs with his

host.

This large escort surprised Aristandre, who, as his functions included

that of receiving the servants of visitors and opening the stables, came

forward to offer his services. But they refused to unsaddle, and

remained with their horses, some around a fire which was lighted in the

courtyard, others at the very threshold of the château.

When the marquis entered the salon with the stranger, he saw a man of

some thirty years of age, of medium stature and poorly dressed. His face

was almost entirely shaded by the flapping brim of his hat and the wet

plumes that fell about it on all sides. Little by little he made out the

face, but did not recognize it, or, at all events, could not remember

where he had seen it.

"You do not seem to remember me?" said the stranger. "To be sure, it is

a very long time since we met, and we have both changed greatly."

The marquis artlessly put his hand to his forehead, apologizing for his

failure of memory.

"I will not amuse myself by making you cudgel your brains," rejoined the

traveller. "My name is Lenet. I was little more than a boy when I saw

you in Paris at the Marquise de Rambouillet's, and it may very well be

that you paid no attention to such an unimportant personage as I then

was. Even now I am only a councillor, awaiting something better."

"You deserve to be all that you desire," replied Bois-Doré,

graciously.--"But, deuce take me," he said to himself, "if I remember

the name of Lenet, or if I know to whom I am talking, although his

manner recalls a thousand vague ideas."

"Order nothing for me," rejoined Monsieur Lenet, when he saw that the

marquis was issuing orders for his supper. "I go on to another château,

where I am expected. I have been delayed by the wretched roads, and I

beg to excuse my calling upon you at this hour. But I am entrusted with

a delicate commission for you, which I must execute."

Lauriane and Mario, who were in the boudoir, rose when they heard that

business was to be discussed, and passed through the salon to retire.

"Are those your children, Monsieur de Bois-Doré!" said the traveller,

returning the courtesy which they made him as they passed.

"Neither of them," replied the marquis, "and yet I am a father. This is

my nephew, who is my son by adoption."

"Now, this is my errand," continued the councillor, with a benignant air

and in a conciliatory tone, when the children had left the room, "I am

instructed by Monsieur le Prince, who is your lord and my own, and to

whom my family, from father to son, is closely attached, to inquire into

an unpleasant affair in which you are involved. I will go straight to

the fact. You have caused the disappearance of a certain Monsieur

Sciarra d'Alvimar, who was your guest as I am, with the difference that

he had no escort with him as I have, to protect my person and my

commission; for I must inform you that, under yonder window, are twenty

men, well armed, and in your village twenty others, ready to come to

their assistance, if you do not receive in a becoming manner the

messenger of the governor and grand bailiff of the province."

"This warning is unnecessary, Monsieur Lenet," replied Bois-Doré, with

much tranquillity and courtesy. "If you were alone in my house, you

would be the safer therein. It is enough that you are my guest, and by

so much the more are you protected by the commission of Monsieur le

Prince, to whose authority I am in nowise rebellious. Am I to accompany

you and account to him for my conduct? I am quite prepared, and entirely

undisturbed, as you see."

"That is not necessary, Monsieur de Bois-Doré. I have full power to

question you and deal with you according as I find you innocent or

guilty. Be good enough to tell me what has become of Monsieur

d'Alvimar?"

"I killed him in a fair duel," replied the marquis, confidently.

"But without witnesses?" rejoined the councillor with an ironical smile.

"There was one, monsieur, and the most honorable of men. If you wish to

hear the story----"

"Will it be long?" queried the councillor, who seemed distraught.

"No, monsieur; although it seems to me that I am entitled to explain my

conduct fully in a matter which concerns my life and my honor, I will

take as little of your time as possible."

XLII

Bois-Doré told the whole story succinctly, and exhibited his proofs.

Still the councillor seemed impatient and distraught. But his attention

seemed to be caught by one point. That point was the incident of La

Flèche's predictions at La Motte-Seuilly.

Bois-Doré, having to produce his brother's seal as the final proof of

his identity with D'Alvimar's victim, felt that he ought to mention that

circumstance; but, before he had time to explain definitely how little

real sorcery there was in Master La Flèche's prophecies, he was

interrupted by the councillor.

"Stay," said he, "I recall one charge against you which I had forgotten.

You are suspected of being addicted to magic, Monsieur de Bois-Doré.

And upon that charge I acquit you in advance, for I have no faith in the

soothsayer's art, and see nothing in it but a mental pastime. Will you

tell me if it happened that these gypsies predicted anything true?"

"Their predictions were fulfilled in every respect, Monsieur Lenet! They

declared that within three days I should be a _father_ and _avenged_.

They informed my brother's murderer that he would be punished within

three days, and these things came to pass as they said; but----"

"Tell me where these gypsies are?"

"I do not know. I have not seen them since. But it remains for me to

tell you----"

"No. This is enough," said Monsieur Lenet, still maintaining his honeyed

tone and smiling expression; "the cause has been heard. I believe you to

be innocent; but you were ill-advised to conceal the fact. Suspicions

will not easily be effaced; people will wonder as I do, why, instead of

making public the chastisement of your brother's assassin as an act

which did you honor, you concealed it as you would have done an

ambuscade. I shall not be able to make Monsieur le Prince understand."

At that point Bois-Doré was sorely tempted to interrupt the councillor

by an indignant exclamation; for it was evident to him that that man,

after claiming to have full powers in order to induce him to speak,

pretended to be unable to absolve him himself, in order to sell him his

influence.

"I agree," he said, "that in concealing D'Alvimar's death I followed bad

advice, which was entirely opposed to my own inclination. It was urged

upon me that Monsieur le Prince was a devout Catholic and that I was

accused of heresy----"

"And that is true enough, my dear monsieur. You are considered to be a

great heretic, and I do not deny that Monsieur le Prince is ill disposed

toward you."

"But you, monsieur, who seem to me to be less rigid in your ideas, and

who declare that you have confidence in my words--may I not rely upon

you to plead my cause and to bear witness in my behalf?"

"I will do my utmost, but I will not answer for the result, so far as

the prince is concerned."

"What must I do, pray, to dispose him favorably toward me?" said the

marquis, resolved to learn the terms of the bargain.

"I cannot say," replied the councillor. "He has been told that you have

in your household an Italian, a heretic of the worst sort, who, so it

seems, may well be a certain Lucilio Giovellino, condemned at Rome as a

believer in Giordano Bruno's detestable doctrines."

The marquis turned pale: he had maintained his tranquillity in face of

danger to himself; his friend's danger terrified him.

"Do you admit it?" said the councillor, carelessly. "For my own part, I

think that the poor devil was punished enough, and I wish him no other

harm than what has already been inflicted on him. You can tell me

everything. I will try to divert the prince's suspicions."

"Monsieur Lenet," rejoined Bois-Doré, obeying a sudden inspiration,

"the man to whom you refer is not a heretic, he is an astrologer of the

most marvellous learning. He has recourse to no magic arts, but reads

human destinies in the stars with such extraordinary skill that the

events of life seem to abide by decrees written on the skies. There is

nothing in his operations inconsistent with the duty of an honorable man

and a good Christian; and you know as well as I that Monsieur le Prince,

who is the most orthodox Catholic in the kingdom, constantly consults

astrologers, as the most illustrious persons in all times, even crowned

heads, have done."

"I do not know where you have learned what you say, monsieur," rejoined

the councillor, shrugging his shoulders; "I have long lived and still

live in the prince's confidence, and I have never known him to resort to

such practices."

"And yet, monsieur," replied the marquis with assurance, "I am certain

that he would in nowise censure my friend's practices, and I beg you to

say to him, that if he will deign to test his skill, he will be highly

gratified."

"The prince will laugh at your confidence; but I do not refuse to

mention the subject to him. Let us return to the most urgent question,

which is to extricate you from this difficulty. I do not conceal from

you that I have orders to make a search of your house."

"A search?" echoed the marquis in amazement; "a search for what purpose,

monsieur?"

"For the sole purpose of making sure that you have no cabalistic books

and instruments; for you are accused of practising magic, not so much

for the amusement of reckoning numbers and watching the stars, as for

suspicious objects and by virtue of a sort of worship of the spirit of

evil."

"Really, monsieur le conseiller, you have kept this for a _bonne

bouche_! Is this all of which I am accused? shall I not be required to

defend myself against anything worse?"

"Do not blame me," said the councillor rising. "I do not believe that

you are guilty of such heinous deeds; that is why I urge you to show me

every corner of your house, so that I may be able to state and to take

my oath that I found nothing here which was not honest and becoming.

Remember that I can force you to obey me; but, as I desire to treat you

courteously, I beg you to take a torch and light me yourself, without

calling any of your people; for, if you do, I shall be compelled to call

all of mine, and it is my present purpose to take only five or six, who

are at the door of this room."

A ray of light flashed through the marquis's mind; it was his treasure

that was wanted.

He made up his mind at once. Although he loved all those sumptuous toys

which he regarded as legitimate trophies and pleasant memories of his

exploits of long ago, there was no avarice in his fondness for them,

and, however much he might regret being unable to resort to them any

longer to the profit of his beloved Mario's magnificence, he did not

hesitate between that sacrifice and the welfare of Lucilio, concerning

which he was much more anxious than concerning his own.

"Let it be as you wish, monsieur!" he said, with a magnanimous smile.

"Where is it your pleasure that we begin?"

The councillor glanced about the salon.

"You have many beautiful and costly things here," he said carelessly;

"but I see nothing reprehensible, and I know that you would not conceal

your instruments of deviltry in rooms that are open to every comer. I

have heard of a closed chamber which you call your storeroom, and to

which you do not admit everybody. That is where I should like to go, and

I desire you to lead me thither without remonstrance or deception; for

not only have I a plan of your house, which is not large, but I have the

means to turn everything topsy-turvy, and I should be distressed to have

to proceed to that extremity."

"It will not be necessary," rejoined the marquis, taking a torch; "I am

ready to satisfy you.--Ah! by the way," he added, stopping at the door,

"I have not the keys of that room, and I cannot admit you without the

aid of my old servant. Is it your pleasure that I call him?"

"I will send for him," said the councillor opening the door. And he said

to his men, who were on the landing:

"One of you obey Monsieur de Bois-Doré.--Give your orders, marquis.

What is your servant's name?"

The marquis, seeing that he was entirely in his guest's power and was to

be kept in sight, resigned himself to the inevitable, and he was about

to name Adamas, without any display of useless anger, when that worthy's

face appeared behind those of the pikemen who were guarding the door.

"Adamas," he said, "bring me the keys of the storeroom.

"Yes, monsieur," was the reply "I have them about me, here they are;

but----"

"Come in," said the councillor to Adamas.

And, when he had obeyed, he added:

"Give me the keys, and remain in this room."

Adamas seemed overwhelmed. He felt in the pocket of his doublet, and

replied to the councillor, with a surprising lack of self-possession:

"_Yes, sire._"

At that word, the councillor, as if attacked by vertigo, laid aside his

suave manner, rushed across the room, and hurriedly closed the door

between himself and his men, which had been left open.

"To whom do you think you are speaking?" he cried, "and why do you

address me so?"

Adamas stood as if dazed, and his confusion was amusing to the last

degree.

The marquis had seen the king too often in his childhood, and the

portraits that had been made of him since, to believe for an instant

that the personage before him was the young Louis XIII. He thought that

his poor Adamas was going mad.

"Answer, I tell you!" continued the councillor impatiently. "Why do you

give me the name applied to majesty?"

"I do not know, monsieur," replied the crafty Adamas. "I do not know

what I am saying nor where I am. My head is in a whirl with some

surprising news which I have just learned, and which I ask your

permission to tell my master."

"Tell it! speak! say on!" cried the councillor in an extraordinarily

authoritative tone.

"Well, master," said Adamas, addressing the marquis, and apparently not

observing the councillor's agitation, "the king is dead!"

"The king is dead?" cried Monsieur Lenet, rushing toward the door, as if

to go out without taking leave of anyone.

But he paused, suddenly suspicious.

"From whom did you learn this news?" he said, scrutinizing Adamas with

gleaming eyes.

"I learned it from the decrees of destiny. I learned it from heaven

itself," said Adamas with an inspired air.

"What does this man mean?" demanded Monsieur Lenet. "Bid him explain

himself, Monsieur de Bois-Doré; I insist upon it, do you understand?

and if this news of his is false, woe to him and to you!"

"True or false, monsieur," replied the marquis, observant of his guest's

excitement, "the news surprises and disturbs me no less than yourself.

Explain yourself, Adamas; how do you know that the king is dead?"

"I know it by astrology, monsieur! He showed me the figures, and I know

them. I saw, I understood, I read as plainly as possible that the most

powerful individual in the realm had just died."

"The most powerful individual in the realm!" said the councillor

thoughtfully; "perhaps that is not the king!"

"You are right, monsieur," said Adamas ingenuously; "perhaps it is

monsieur le connétable. I do not know the signs well enough. I may have

made a mistake; but at all events it is either the king or Monsieur de

Luynes; I will answer for it with my life!"

"Where is this astrologer?" said the councillor hastily; "let him come

here, I wish to see him!"

"Yes, sire," replied Adamas, still bewildered and absorbed, hurrying

toward the door.

"Stay," said Lenet, detaining him. "I insist upon knowing why you call

me so. Tell me, or I will break your head!"

"Break nothing, monsieur!" replied Adamas; "I have lost my head; can you

not see that? That word comes to my lips, I know not how; as truly as

God is in heaven, this is the first time that I ever saw your face.

Shall I go to find the astrologer?"

"Yes, hasten! and woe to you all, if there is any trick or snare in all

this! I will put the torch to your hovel!"

Bois-Doré could do no more than protest his absolute ignorance of this

new episode. He did not in the least understand Adamas's conduct, indeed

he was somewhat disturbed by it.

He saw clearly enough that the faithful servant had overheard his

conversation with the councillor, and that, to save Lucilio, he was

making use of the idea that had occurred to him, of passing off the

Italian as an astrologer, knowing, as everybody knew, the respect which

the Prince de Condé entertained for the art of divination. But would

the serious-minded Lucilio give his assent to that stratagem? Would he

know how to play his part?

"However," thought Bois-Doré, "we must rely on Providence and on

Adamas's genius! It is simply a matter of getting rid of the enemy

without his taking possession of my friend's person and mine; after that

we will look to our safety in the future."

XLIII

After a few moments Lucilio appeared with Adamas. He was calm and

smiling as usual. He bowed slightly to the councillor, very low to the

marquis, and handed the latter a paper covered with hieroglyphics.

"Alas! my friend," said Bois-Doré, "I know nothing about it."

"Speak!" cried Lenet to the mute, who motioned that that was impossible.

"Then write!"

Lucilio sat down and wrote:

"I obey no orders here save those of the Marquis de Bois-Doré; I do not

know you. Leave this room; I will not write before you."

"_Mordieu_! yes you will!" cried the councillor, beside himself. "I

propose to know everything, and you shall answer me."

"Forgive him, monsieur," said Adamas; "like all great scholars, he is

very odd and capricious. If you wish him to reveal his secrets, speak to

him gently."

"Does he want money?" said the councillor; "he shall have it; let him

speak!"

Lucilio shook his head by way of refusal.

The councillor seemed to be on burning coals.

"Come," said he, after a moment of agitated silence, "I will find out

whether you are a learned man or a fool! Look at my hand and tell me

something."

Lucilio looked at the councillor's hand, rose, turned to Adamas and,

pointing to his scrawl, motioned to him to speak in his place.

"Yes! I see," said Adamas. "These symbols say that there is a man, a

prince, who wishes to place the crown of France on his head. But where

is the man who has that sign in his hand? I do not know him."

Lucilio pointed to the councillor's hand.

"Who am I, pray tell me?" said that personage, exceedingly surprised.

Lucilio wrote three words which the councillor alone read, and he with

evident emotion. His face changed and his tone became gentler.

"And the king is dead?" he said, trembling in every limb, with terror or

with joy. "You see that you must answer me, now!"

Lucilio wrote:

"The king is well; but Monsieur de Luynes died by the light of the

flames on the 15th of this month, at eleven o'clock at night."

The pretended Councillor Lenet had no sooner read these words than,

without the slightest sign of doubt, he pulled his hat over his eyes,

hurried into the hall, and without speaking except to order his men to

follow him, remounted and rode away at full speed with his whole escort,

addressing no word of thanks or apology, no promise or threat to his

hosts at Briantes.

Adamas, the marquis and Lucilio, who had escorted them in silence as far

as the outermost gate, in order to make sure that no suspicious

personage was left behind in the château or in the village, returned to

the salon, where they found Mario.

They were all so deeply moved that they sat for some moments without

speaking.

At last the marquis broke the silence.

"So it was Monsieur le Prince?" he said.

"Yes," said Lauriane. "I saw him at Bourges three months ago, and I

recognized him at once when I passed through this room and saluted him.

Did you never see him, my dear marquis?"

"Once or twice, when he was very young, at Paris, but never since.

However, when he mentioned the Prince de Condé, saying that he was in

his personal service, that name fastened itself to the face of the false

Councillor Lenet, and I became more and more convinced every moment that

I was dealing with the master in person. That is why I was so very

patient; and I thank God that I was! But how did it happen that you

thought----"

"Monsieur de Luynes did actually die, of scarlet fever, on the 15th of

this month, while the king's troops were pillaging and burning unlucky

Monheur, on the Garonne. Here is a letter from my father, telling me the

news, which one of his retainers, who arrived just after the prince and

his suite, succeeded in sending to me secretly by Clindor."

"This is great news, my children, and the whole policy of the government

will be turned topsy-turvy once more. But which of you had the idea----"

"I, monsieur," said Adamas, triumphantly; "as soon as Madame Lauriane

said: 'That stranger who is closeted with monsieur le marquis is the

prince and no other,' we all four hid in the little passage that you

know of."

"We were worried about you," said Mario, "on account of that big escort

of men who had a suspicious, threatening sort of look. Adamas suddenly

thought of what he afterwards did and said."

"Master Jovelin was none too anxious to lend a hand," added Adamas; "but

we had to save you, there was no time to reflect, and he played his part

cleverly enough, didn't he, monsieur? Now he has his fortune in his own

hands, and if he chooses to replace, or at least to equal in favor the

prince's famous astrologer, who has predicted that he would be King of

France at thirty-four----"

"I noticed," said the marquis to Jovelin, "that you could not make up

your mind to give him that promise. You simply told him that he had that

ambition. But what shall we do now, my friends? for, as you say, we are

basely betrayed, and we are exposed to many perils of which we have

never thought."

"We must do nothing, keep perfectly quiet," said Lauriane with decision.

"The prince is galloping south at this moment and will not think of us

again for some time."

"That is true," said the marquis; "he is off at full speed, in order to

reach the king's side first, and to grasp the power that Monsieur de

Luynes enjoyed, if not the favor. He will have to fight hard for it!

Retz, Schomberg and Puisieux will want their share of the cake, to say

nothing of the fact that madame the queen-mother and her little Bishop

of Luçon will give them some thread to wind! Bah! our petty affairs

have already gone out of our _good_ prince's head, and will never enter

it again perhaps. If only he did not issue any orders against us before

he came hither!"

"No, monsieur, there is no danger!" said Adamas. "He had his eye on your

treasure, the amount of which must have been grossly exaggerated to him,

since so great a prince does us the honor to call upon us for so small a

matter. Now we are warned; we can easily hide our little hoard and leave

trunks filled with débris for the satisfaction of the curious. The

secret exit from the château will be kept in good condition, and we

will be on our guard against people who ask for shelter from the rain.

But be assured that, if the prince does not come here again in person,

nobody else will think of doing it; for if he has given any orders at

all, they are that no one shall come and put his hand on the dish upon

which he has placed his powerful paw."

Adamas's reasoning was very sound. He concluded by calling down a

thousand maledictions on Bellinde, who alone could have discovered and

divulged Master Jovelin's real name, the death of D'Alvimar and the

existence of the treasure.

It was decided that they should consult with Guillaume d'Ars as to the

propriety of announcing D'Alvimar's death or continuing to keep it

secret; and to that end the marquis called upon him the following day,

in the afternoon.

Guillaume was absent and was not to return until evening.

The marquis sent a messenger to Briantes to bid them not be anxious if

he returned late, and went to pay a visit to Monsieur Robin de Coulogne,

who was then making a brief sojourn at his estate of Coudray, a pretty

château on the heights of Verneuil, about a league from the château of

Ars.

Robin, Vicomte de Coulogne, receiver-general of taxes in Berry and

farmer-general of the salt tax, was one of the natural enemies of the

ex-salt-smuggler Bois-Doré; and yet they had been the closest of

friends since the affair of Florimond Dupuy, lord of Vatan.

Those who know the history of Berry will remember that in 1611,

Florimond Dupuy, a fervent Huguenot and a great smuggler, had, to show

his detestation of the salt tax, kidnapped one of Monsieur Robin's

children. The marquis generously exerted himself to restore the child to

its father, at the risk of a rupture with Florimond, who was, according

to both friends and enemies, "a very uncomfortable bedfellow."

After this incident, the rebellion assumed such serious proportions,

that it was found necessary to send twelve hundred infantry, a company

of Swiss and twelve guns, to bring Monsieur Dupuy to terms in his

château.

Twenty-nine of his people were hanged on the spot, to convenient trees,

and his own head was cut off on Place de Grève. Young Robin was

afterward Abbé of Sorrèze. The elder Robin was a grateful and devoted

debtor of Monsieur de Bois-Doré, and we may well believe that the

marquis owed it to that friendship that he was never molested for his

former acts of complicity in the crime of salt-smuggling.

So Bois-Doré opened his heart to that faithful friend concerning a part

of the embarrassment with which he was threatened by the prince's visit,

and confessed that he was particularly disturbed concerning worthy

Lucilio, whose presence in his house the hypocritical zealots of the

province regarded with an evil eye.

"Your fears seem to me exaggerated," said the viscount. "Monsieur de

Groot, whom scholars call Grotius, and who was sentenced to life

imprisonment in his own country, succeeded in escaping, did he not,

concealed in a chest, thanks to the courage and adroitness of his wife,

and took refuge in Paris, where he is neither tormented nor even annoyed

by anyone? Why should not your Italian enjoy the same privileges in

France?"

"Because the government of France, which is not at all anxious to offend

the Gomarists of Holland and Maurice of Nassau, will be most eager to

please the pope by persecuting one of his victims. Twenty years

Campanella has been in prison, and although he is esteemed and pitied in

France, nothing is done to release him from the hands of his

executioners; God knows whether they would give him shelter at this

moment, openly!"

"Perhaps you are right," said Monsieur de Coulogne. "Very good; I

approve your idea of effecting your friend's escape, at the slightest

danger that may threaten your château; but I think that you should

select a place of refuge to which he can go at once in case of alarm.

Have you thought about it?"

"Yes, indeed," the marquis replied, "and I wish to consult you on that

point. You own an old manor-house near by, which seems to be quite

inhabitable, although I have never entered it. It is so near my house

that a man pressed for time can reach there in an hour. It is also near

a small farm-house of yours, and if you should give orders to the

farmers to that effect, they would be ready, if anything should happen,

to conceal and care for my poor fugitive. Will you do me this service?"

"Ask me for my life if you will, marquis; it is yours. So much the more

are my servants, my property, my houses at your service. But let me

reflect concerning the suitability of the place you have in mind: you

refer to my old manor of Brilbault, do you not?"

"Precisely."

"Very well, let us see: it stands quite alone in its grounds, and the

roads leading to it are detestable; so far so good. It is not upon the

road to any town or village; another point in its favor. The place

belongs to me, and the provost's people would never dare to cross the

threshold. Moreover, the house is supposed to be haunted by the most

uproarious and discontented spirits in the world, the result being that

no marauding peasant is tempted to enter, no passer-by to stop there.

This is better and better. Yes, I see that your choice, is a good one,

and I will go thither with you to-night, to give the farmer the

necessary orders."

Bois-Doré, having reflected in his turn, concluded that it would be

better for him to go alone, in order not to arouse suspicion.

"Your farmers are no strangers to me," he said. "They were formerly

associates of mine in--you know what!"

"Yes, yes, you villain," laughed the viscount; "they procured their salt

cheap through you! Very well, take that road when you return; the

streams are not full yet, and you can pass without danger. You can tell

Jean Faraudet, the farmer, as if I had taken advantage of your passing

to send him the message, to come to see me early to-morrow morning. You

can cast a glance at the house and examine the surroundings, so that you

will be able to direct your friend; indeed, it will be well for him to

go there secretly to-morrow night, in order to become familiar with the

roads and the entrances. In that way, if he should be obliged to take

refuge there, he could do so without losing his way or making any

mistake."

"Agreed," said the marquis, "and pray accept a thousand thanks for

setting my mind at rest."

The viscount kept the marquis to supper; after which he entered his

carriage just at nightfall, and took once more the road to Ars, which

was little better than that leading to Brilbault. His reason for taking

that direction was that he did not wish his chariot, which always

created a sensation, to be seen in the neighborhood of the ruined manor.

With even more forethought than Monsieur Robin had advised, he alighted

about a fourth of a league from the place which he proposed to inspect,

ordered his servants to go quietly to Ars, and, taking one of the

innumerable little paths in which Monsieur de Coulogne had probably

never set his foot, but which were as familiar to the old smuggler as

the paths in his rabbit warren, he disappeared in the damp underbrush,

after pulling his boots up above his knees.

XLIV

It was a mild night and not very dark, despite the heavy black clouds

which the wind drove across the sky, opening long furrows filled with

stars, which suddenly closed to open anew in another place.

It is said that our noble or bourgeois ancestors were unquestionably

more robust than we are to-day, while, on the contrary, our workmen and

peasant ancestors were less so.

Such is the belief of the old men of my province, and it seems to me to

be well-founded; well-to-do people were accustomed to an abundance of

fresh air and exercise of which modern life deprives us, or which it

makes unnecessary. The poorer classes were more poorly housed and not so

well fed as in our day, to say nothing of the immense number of

unfortunate wretches who were not housed or fed at all. The gentleman,

with his régime of fighting and hunting, retained his health and

strength to a very advanced age.

Bois-Doré, despite his sixty-nine years and the comparative effeminacy

of his habits, still had strong sight, lungs impervious to the cold, and

was sure-footed on the bare ground or on wet grass.

He slipped once or twice as he skirted the bushes, but he saved himself

by clinging to the branches, like a man who knows how to take care of

himself in a locality where the irregularities of the ground vary little

over a large extent of territory.

Thanks to the short cut he had taken, he reached the farm of Brilbault

in ten minutes.

Knowing the timid and superstitious character of the peasants, he

coughed and spoke before knocking; then, as he knocked, he gave his

name, and was received without alarm, at all events, if not without

surprise.

Although the condition of the farming class was still very wretched, it

was much less so, morally speaking, in Berry, which had long been a

province of freeholds, than in those provinces where serfdom still

existed. Moreover, in that region which is called the Black Valley,

material resources have always assured the farmer, whether proprietor or

tenant, a relative well-being which has saved him from great disasters

and great epidemics.

At this period the leprosy hospitals were already empty; the pest, still

so frequent in La Brenne and the neighborhood of Bourges, rarely

scourged Fromental. The dwelling-houses, which were filthy and

pestilential in the Marche and the Bourbonnais, were, at least in our

neighborhood, stoutly built and healthy, as is proved by a large number

of old country houses of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, which

are still standing and easily recognizable by their vast tiled roofs,

their windows framed with stone cut in the shape of prisms, and their

attic windows surmounted by great sheaves of grain moulded in terra

cotta.[5]

The marquis felt no repugnance, therefore, to entering the farmer's

house, taking his seat by the fireplace, and chatting for a few moments

there.

As everybody loved him, the _good monsieur_ could safely entrust to Jean

Faraudet and his wife, if necessary, the care of a friend of his who was

being prosecuted, he said, for an offence against the game laws; and

when he informed them that their master, Monsieur Robin, wished to see

them the next morning, to give them orders to that effect, they seemed

overjoyed and eager to obey, answering him with the sacramental phrase

expressive of zeal and willingness in that country:--"_Il y a bien

moyen_!"

Madame Faraudet, however, who was called La Grand' Cateline, could not

refrain from pitying the man who should be condemned to pass even a

single night at the château of Brilbault.

She firmly believed that it was haunted, and her husband, after laughing

at her as a sop to the marquis's scepticism, eventually admitted that he

would rather die than put foot inside the building after sunset.

"My friend's presence," said the marquis, "will give you courage, I

trust, for I promise you that it will drive away the evil spirits; but,

since you are not afraid to enter the house by daylight, I beg you to

put some wood on the hearth and prepare a bed in the best room that

there is."

"We will carry everything there that is necessary, my dear monsieur,"

replied La Grand' Cateline; "but the poor Christian who goes there won't

sleep a wink. He will hear a terrible uproar and hurly-burly all night,

just as we do, may the good Lord preserve us! and as you will hear them

yourself if you choose to wait till after twelve o'clock."

"I cannot wait," said the marquis, "and besides, the spirits wouldn't

stir, knowing that I was there. I know what cowards they are, for I

never have succeeded in hearing the voices that shout at the top of the

donjon at Briantes, on Christmas night, nor the doors that open

themselves at La Motte-Seuilly, nor the white lady who pulls aside the

bed-curtains at the château of Ars."

"It's a curious thing, Monsieur Sylvain," said the farmer with a knowing

air, "that there should be apparitions in our old château. We all know

that there may be such things in other châteaux, because there aren't

any of them where some great wrong hasn't been done or suffered; and

that's the reason why the poor Christians who have been tortured or

heartbroken in those houses return to them afterward to complain, as

souls asking for prayers or justice. But in the château of Brilbault,

which was never occupied, there never has been any good or evil done so

far as I know."

"We must believe," said the woman, who plied her distaff busily as she

talked, "that the former lord died in a distant land, by violence and in

sin; for you know the legend of Brilbault, don't you? It isn't long. A

noble had built this château as far as the roof, when he started for

the Holy Land with his seven sons. The château was sold again and

again, but no one ever fancied it. People thought that it brought

families ill-luck; that is why it has never been used except to store

crops. They put on a roof which is good for nothing now; but there are

still two fine rooms and such a hall! So big that two people can hardly

recognize each other from one end to the other."

"Can you let me have the keys?" said the marquis; "I would like to see

the interior."

"Here are the keys; but my dear Monsieur Sylvain of the good Lord, don't

go there! It is just the time for the deviltry to begin."

"What deviltry, my good friends?" said the marquis laughingly; "what

sort of creatures are these wicked devils?"

"I have never seen them, monsieur, nor wanted to see them," said the

farmer; "but I hear them well enough, I hear them too well! Some groan

and others sing. There's laughter, then yelling and swearing and weeping

till daybreak, when they all fly away through the air; for it is

securely locked, and no human being can enter without leave or help from

me."

"May it not be that your farm-hands go there to amuse themselves, or

some thief to prevent you detecting his thievery?"

"No, monsieur, no! Our workmen and servants are so frightened that with

all your money you couldn't hire them to go within two gunshots of the

château after sunset; indeed, you see they no longer sleep in our

house, because they say it's too near that infernal building. They all

sleep in the barn yonder at the end of the yard."

"So much the better for the little secret we have together to-night,"

said the marquis; "but so much the better too, perhaps, for those who

play the part of ghosts for the sole purpose of robbing you!"

"What could they steal, pray, Monsieur Sylvain? There's nothing in the

château. When I saw that the devil used torches there, I was afraid of

a fire, and I took out my whole crop, except a few little fagots and a

dozen bundles of hay and straw, which I left in order not to make them

too angry, for they say that imps like to play about in the hay and the

branches; and, to tell the truth, I found it all tossed about and

trampled; it was as if fifty living men had walked over it."

The marquis knew Faraudet to be very truthful and incapable of inventing

anything whatsoever to avoid doing him a service.

He began to think therefore that, if lights were seen in the old manor,

if voices were heard there, and above all, if feet or bodies trampled

and disturbed the straw, there was more reality than deviltry in that

state of affairs, and that the château, which the farmer and his wife

confessed that they had not dared to enter for more than six weeks,

might very well be used already as a refuge by fugitives.

"Whether they be maleficent or congenial, I propose to see them," he

said to himself.

And, putting his naked sword under his arm, carrying the keys of the

château in one hand and a lantern in the other, he started across the

fields toward the silent, ruined structure.

Faraudet, when his wife began to lament the _good monsieur's_ rashness,

was ashamed to let him go alone and decided to accompany him.

But when the marquis had crossed the bridge, he found that the poor

peasant was trembling so violently, that he feared that he should be

more embarrassed than assisted by a man in such a plight and begged him

to go no farther.

Most of the châteaux in the Black Valley, even those of the primitive

Middle Ages, are situated in the depths of the valleys instead of on the

high land, as in La Marche and the Bourbonnais. There is a very

plausible explanation of this anomaly. In a region devoid of any

considerable elevations, the water-courses afford the best means of

defence.

At Brilbault therefore, as at Briantes, La Motte-Seuilly,

Saint-Chartier, La Motte-de-Presles, etc., the manor-house was built on

a winding stream of sufficient size to fill with running water the

double circular moat.

The bridge over the outer moat was very narrow and supported upon arches

of no definite type, midway between the full arch and the ogive.

The whole château was of a transitional style of architecture; the

façade was of a curious shape; the door and the staircase window above

it were set in the wall to a depth of several mètres, as if for

protection from attacks from without.

The top of the building should have been _mascherolé_ at that point;

but it was originally left unfinished and was finally surmounted by a

roof entirely out of keeping with the rest of the structure, which

indicated a scheme of some grandeur never carried to completion.

The marquis went straight to the château as the crow flies; the

encircling walls had crumbled to such an extent and sustained so many

breaches, the moats were so completely filled in innumerable places,

that it was not necessary to go to the gates.

He noiselessly opened the main door, which was small and low, under a

rampant arch surmounted by an ogive of carved flower-work.

There he partly opened his lantern to look at the floor at his feet, for

the farmer had warned him to be careful of the staircase.

[Footnote 5: These sheaves, which are rare and much prized by

archæologists, have retained a sort of traditional vogue in certain

localities; the potteries of Verneuil make very pretty ones after old

models. The small urn, with four or six handles on several different

levels, and surmounted by birds or flowers, is reproduced in their

system of decoration.]

XLV

It was a spiral staircase of great beauty, broad enough for six persons

and as light as the sticks of a fan. It was built of a friable white

stone; many steps had been entirely destroyed by the fall of some

portion of the building; but those which remained seemed freshly hewn

and bore no trace of wear. At each half turn of the spiral was a step,

supported by a grinning face, a fantastic beast, or the bust of an armed

man carved in relief on the wall.

The marquis was interested in these figures, which seemed to move in the

flickering light of his lantern.

He ascended the stairs slowly, listening whenever he stopped; and as he

heard no other sound than that of the wind in the crumbling roof, and as

the doors of the rooms that he passed were secured by padlocks, he

became more and more doubtful of the existence of any inhabitants

whatsoever. Thus he reached the upper floor, where were the two

apartments originally intended for the châtelain.

As it was the custom, in the Middle Ages, for the lord of the manor to

have his own quarters under the eaves, and, if necessary, to destroy the

staircase and sustain a siege in his own apartments, gaps were often

left in building stairways, so that the châtelain could reach his nest

only by means of a ladder which he drew up after him at night. In other

instances the steps of the last flight were purposely made so thin that

a few blows with a bar sufficed to shatter them.

The latter was the case at the château of Brilbault; and the gaps for

which the marquis had to be on the lookout were caused by accident, as

we have said. With his long legs he was able to straddle them without

serious danger.

These two rooms being those which the farmer had mentioned as suitable

for Lucilio's occupancy in case of need, Bois-Doré's first impulse was

to go in and see if they were provided with window-frames, or at least

with shutters at the windows; for all of the narrow, deep-set windows in

the stairway, with stone benches placed diagonally across the

embrasures, admitted violent gusts of wind, from which he had difficulty

in protecting his light.

But, as he was on the point of opening those seignioral apartments, of

which he had the keys, the marquis hesitated.

If the manor-house was in reality resorted to as a place of refuge by

any person, that person was probably in those rooms, and, being

surprised in his sleep, would seek to defend himself without awaiting an

explanation. His proposed exploration therefore should be conducted with

due prudence. The marquis did not believe in ghosts, and was the less

disposed to fear living things because he was not seeking them with any

evil purpose. If some poor devil were in hiding there, he was resolved,

whoever he might be, to leave him there in peace and not betray the

secret he had surprised.

But the refugee's first fright might assume the form of hostility. The

marquis could have made no appreciable noise in entering and ascending

the stairs, as nothing stirred. It was most advisable for him to make

sure of the truth unseen and unheard, if possible, or at all events

without making his appearance too abruptly.

With that end in view, he entered a room with no door, where the most

absolute darkness reigned, all the windows being covered with boards or

stuffed with straw. The floor was covered with a layer of dust and

pulverized cement, of such depth that one's footsteps were deadened by

it as by ashes.

Bois-Doré walked for a long while, hardly able to see where he was

going. He had closed his lantern, which was unprovided with glass or

horn, but had a half cylinder of iron with three holes in it, according

to the custom of the province. He did not venture to open it until he

had reached the end of that vast apartment and had satisfied himself

that he was in an absolutely silent and deserted spot.

Then he placed his light on the floor in front of him and stepped back

to an enormous fire-place which was near at hand.

Standing there, he was able to accustom his eyes little by little to so

faint a light in so vast a space, and to make out that he was in a hall

which extended the whole length of the château.

He examined the fire-place by which he was standing. Like everything

else it was of white stone, and the square bases, projecting from the

massive columns, seemed as fresh and new as if they had been hewn the

day before; the double fillets of the mantel were neither marred nor

chipped, and the same was true of the escutcheon, without coat-of-arms,

which crowned the mantel. Even the smoke-flue, and the fire-place

itself, which was not sheathed with iron, bore no traces of fire, smoke

or ashes. The unfinished building had never been used, that was evident.

No one had ever occupied, no one now occupied that bare, cheerless hall.

Having satisfied himself of that fact, the marquis made bold to go to

ascertain why a barrier of boards, waist-high, extended diagonally

across that immense room at a point halfway between the two ends. Upon

reaching that point, he found himself looking into space. The floor had

fallen or been cut away, as had that of the lower stories, in quite half

of the building, perhaps to facilitate the storing of the crops.

The eye plunged into the darkness of an expanse that seemed as large as

the interior of a cathedral.

Bois-Doré had been there for some moments, trying to form a just idea

of his surroundings, when, from the depths which his eyes questioned in

vain, a sort of groan rose to his ears.

He started, closed his lantern, and concealed it behind the boards, held

his breath and listened intently, for his hearing was a little dull and

might deceive him as to the nature of the sounds.

Was it a door or a shutter closed by the wind?

He had not waited three minutes when the same groan was repeated, even

more distinct, and at the same time it seemed to him that a faint ray of

light, very far below him, illumined those depths, which, viewed from

his position, were literally an abyss.

He knelt to avoid being seen, and looked between the boards which served

him as a balustrade.

The light rapidly increased and soon became bright enough to enable him

to see, or rather to divine, in a vague blending of light and shadow,

the outline of a room on the ground floor, as large as that in which he

was, but evidently much higher before the crumbling of the intermediate

floors, as he could judge by the spring of the arched ceiling which

rested upon bases embellished with fanciful human and animal figures,

much larger and protruding farther than those he had previously seen on

the stairway.

The only furniture consisted of several piles of dry forage, and boards

arranged as a barrier near one end, with the broken remains of a number

of mangers. The room had been used for a long time as a stable for

cattle. Among the boards could be seen pieces of yokes and ploughshares.

Then all these things were shrouded in shadow once more, and the light,

ascending, struck the great stretch of wall which formed the gable end

of the building, and which was directly opposite the marquis, some forty

feet in height.

This light, now pale, now reddish, came from an invisible flame placed

under the ceiling of the ground-floor apartment--that is to say, under

that part of it which had not fallen, corresponding to that from which

the marquis watched this gloomy, flickering tableau.

Suddenly there was a noise of doors closing, footsteps and voices under

that ceiling, and a confused mass of moving shadows, sometimes of

enormous size, sometimes stunted as it were, was thrown in the most

curious fashion on the high wall, as if a great number of persons were

passing back and forth in front of a great fire.

"This is a very strange game of hide-and-seek," thought the marquis,

"and it is impossible to deny that this château is filled with

wandering, chattering ghosts. Let us hear what they say."

He listened, but he could not succeed in distinguishing a single phrase,

a word, a syllable, amid a loud murmur of words, songs, groans and

laughter.

The appalling resonance of the arched ceiling, which hurled the sounds

like shadows against the opposite wall, blended all the voices in a

single one--all the words in a confused murmur.

The marquis was not deaf, but he had the sensitive hearing peculiar to

old men, who can hear very distinctly sounds that are moderately loud

and words clearly articulated, but whom an uproar, a hurly-burly of

voices disturbs and confuses to no purpose.

Thus he distinguished intonations, nothing more: sometimes that of a

hoarse, loud voice, which seemed to be telling a story; sometimes the

refrain of a ballad abruptly interrupted by threatening accents; and

then a loud voice which seemed to ridicule and imitate the others, and

which raised a tempest of uproarious and brutal laughter.

Sometimes there were long monologues, then dialogues between two or

three, and suddenly shouts of anger or merriment which resembled roars.

Indeed, it might be that those people were speaking a language which the

marquis did not know.

He persuaded himself that they were simply a band of vagrants or

mountebanks out of employment, living by marauding, and waiting under

cover of that ruin for the spring to come, or perhaps in hiding there

because of some crime.

That laughter, those strange costumes outlined on the wall like Chinese

ghosts, those long harangues, those animated dialogues were connected

perhaps with the study of some burlesque art.

"If I were nearer to them," he thought, "I might be amused; no man is

ever ill received in any company, however bad it may be, if he enters it

offering his purse with a good grace."

So he took up his lantern and was preparing to descend, when the

conversations, songs and laughter changed into cries of animals, so

lifelike, so perfectly imitated, that one would have said that it was a

whole barnyard in commotion. There were the ox, the ass, the horse, the

goat, the rooster, the duck and the lamb, all braying and crowing

together. Then they all ceased, as if to listen to the barking of a pack

of hounds, the blast of the horn--all the typical noises of a hunt.

Was it a game? Did it occur to the actors to look at themselves on the

wall? They did not seem to be imitating the actions of the beasts whose

cries they mimicked.

In the midst of the uproar a child cried out in a shrill voice, perhaps

to do as the others did, perhaps because he was frightened in his sleep;

and Bois-Doré saw the shadow of a tiny person pass, with gestures like

those of a monkey. Next there came a huge head crowned by a sort of

plumed helmet, with an absurd nose outlined against the bright wall;

then a long-haired head which seemed to wear a priest's cap, and which

conversed with a long shadow that stood for many minutes as motionless

as a statue.

Then all the noises suddenly ceased, and naught could be heard save a

low groaning, which resembled the groaning caused by physical pain, and

which Bois-Doré had constantly detected, recurring at intervals, like a

doleful chord on an organ, in the pauses of that wild charivari.

The tumult stilled, the shadow of a gigantic crucifix was thrown upon

the wall.

The light seemed to change its position, and the cross became very

small; at last it disappeared, and its place was taken by a single

figure very sharply outlined, while a sepulchral voice recited in a

monotonous tone a prayer which seemed to be the prayer for those who are

in the death agony.

XLVI

Bois-Doré, who had held his place, detained by the amusement he derived

from that phantasmagoric spectacle and those strange noises, was

beginning to feel so cold that his teeth fairly chattered when this

tedious ceremony began.

This time, although he had determined to go to see what was taking

place, he was withheld by the appalling resemblance presented by the

last apparition. It became more precise and more unmistakable as the

sepulchral voice proceeded with its sepulchral prayer, and the marquis,

as if fascinated, could not remove his eyes from it.

That head, so easily recognizable by the short hair, cut _à la

malcontent_, by the Spanish ruff in which it was framed as it were, by

its sharp and angular, yet refined outlines, and lastly by the peculiar

shape of the beard and moustache, was the head of D'Alvimar, thrown back

in the rigor of death.

At first Bois-Doré fought against the idea; then it took entire

possession of him, became a certainty, a source of intense agitation and

insurmountable terror.

He had never believed that he was in any danger from ghosts. He said and

he thought that, having never put any man to death from revenge or from

cruelty, he was quite sure that he should never be visited by any soul

in anger or distress; but he was no more disposed than the majority of

sensible men of his time to deny the return of spirits to earth, or the

reality of the apparitions which so many persons entirely worthy of

confidence described in detail.

"This D'Alvimar is surely dead," he thought; "I touched his cold limbs;

I saw his body, already stiff in death, taken from his horse's back. He

has been reposing underground for several weeks, and yet I see him here

before me, I who have always refused to see anything supernatural where

others saw terrible phantoms! Was this man, contrary to all appearances,

innocent of the crime of which I accused him and for which I punished

him? Is this a rebuke of my conscience? Is it a vision of my brain? Is

it the chilling atmosphere of this ruin stealing over me and confusing

my faculties? Whatever it may be," he thought, "I have had enough of

it."

And, feeling the dizziness which is the precursor of a swoon, he dragged

himself out to the stairway. There he recovered himself somewhat, and

descended the ruinous spiral staircase with a firm step. But, when he

reached the foot, instead of mustering courage to force his way into the

apartments on the ground floor, he had no desire to see or hear anything

further; and impelled by an unconquerable feeling of repugnance, he

rushed forth into the fields, confessing his fear to himself, and ready

to avow it artlessly to the first person who should question him

concerning it.

He found the farmer, more dead than alive, waiting for him on the

bridge.

It was an heroic act on the good man's part to remain there. He was

incapable of saying or listening to anything whatsoever, and not until

he and the marquis had returned to the farmhouse, did he venture to ask

any questions.

"Well, my poor dear Monsieur Sylvain," he said, "I trust you have had

your fill of watching their lights, and listening to their bellowing! I

thought surely I should never see you come back!"

"It is certain that something out of the common course is taking place

in that ruin," said the marquis, tossing off a glass of wine which the

farmer's wife handed him, and which was by no means unacceptable.

"I fell in with no evil spirits there---"

"Ah! but you're whiter than your ruffles, my dear monsieur!" said La

Grand' Cateline. "Warm yourself, pray, my lord, so that you won't be

sick."

"To tell the truth, I was very cold," replied the marquis, "and I

fancied that I saw things which perhaps I didn't see at all; but the

walk will quicken my blood, and I fear to alarm my family by remaining

longer. Good night to you, good people! Drink to my health."

He paid them handsomely for their eagerness to oblige, and returned to

his carriage, which was waiting for him at the place where he had left

it. Aristandre had begun to be anxious; but, when the marquis assured

him that nothing unpleasant had happened to him, the honest coachman was

convinced that Adamas was not boasting when he declared that monsieur

still indulged in gallant adventures.

"There must be some pretty shepherdess at that farm!" he said to Clindor

as they drove homeward.

He was confirmed in this sagacious idea when his master forbade him to

speak of his trip through the fields.

Instead of stopping at Ars, the marquis bade him drive on to Briantes.

He was surprised at and already a little ashamed of the momentary panic

that had caused him to leave Brilbault without fathoming the mystery.

"If I say anything about it, they will laugh at me," he thought; "they

will say under their breaths that I am becoming a dotard in my old age.

It will be much better not to mention it to anyone; and, as it makes

little difference, after all, whether Brilbault is in the hands of a

band of gypsies or of sorcerers, I will look about for some other

quieter place of refuge for Lucilio."

As he approached the château, his mind, becoming constantly calmer,

questioned itself concerning its sensations.

What impressed him most deeply was the fact that he had been surprised

by terror at a moment when nothing had happened which tended to terrify

him; when, on the contrary, he had felt strongly inclined to laugh at

the whimsical antics of those imps and the amusing oddity of their

shadows on the wall.

As a result of his reflections on this subject, he ordered Aristandre to

stop at the Chambon meadow and walked the short distance from the road

to the cottage of Marie the gardener, called La Caille-Bottée.

That cottage still exists; it is occupied by market-gardeners. It is a

tumble-down structure, flanked by a stair-turret built of stones without

mortar. The pretty orchard, surrounded by dense hedges and wild

bramble-bushes, was, so it is said, a gift from Monsieur de Bois-Doré

to La Caille-Bottée.

He found the lay brother there, sharing the convent repast with his

mistress, who shared with him the wine and the fruit from her garden.

Their partnership was not avowed, however; they observed some

precaution, in order not to be "ordered to marry," and thereby to lose

the veteran's privilege enjoyed by Jean le Clope at the Carmelite

convent.

[Illustration: _THE MARQUIS AT LA CAILLE-BOTTÉE'S_

"_Have no fear, my friends," said the marquis, interrupting

their tête-à-tête. "We have a secret together,

and I simply wish to say a word to you._"

"_Present, captain!" replied Jean le Clope, coming

out from under the table where he had taken refuge._]

"Have no fear, my friends," said the marquis, interrupting their

tête-à-tête. "We have a secret together, and I simply wish to say a

word to you."

"Present, captain!" replied Jean le Clope, coming out from under the

table where he had taken refuge; "I beg you to forgive me, but I didn't

know who was coming to the house, and people make so much talk about

me!"

"Very unjustly, I doubt not," said the marquis with a smile. "But look

you, my friend; I have not seen you since a certain occurrence. I sent

you a slight acknowledgment by Adamas, to whom you swore that you had

faithfully carried out my orders. Having an opportunity to-night to

speak to you a moment alone, I wish to learn from you some of the

details as to the manner in which you did the business."

"What's that, captain? there's no two ways of burying a dead man, and I

did a Christian's duty as Christianly as the prior of _my_ community

could have done it."

"I do not doubt it, comrade; but were you prudent?"

"Does my captain doubt me?" cried the veteran, with a sensitiveness

which was particularly noticeable in him after supper.

"I do not doubt your discretion, Jean, but I have a little doubt of your

skill in concealing this interment; for Monsieur d'Alvimar's death is

known to my enemies to-day, and yet I can no more doubt the

trustworthiness of my servants than I can doubt yours."

"Alas! monsieur le marquis, your servants were not the only ones in the

secret," observed La Caille-Bottée sagaciously; "Monsieur d'Ars's

servants may have told; and besides, weren't you looking that night for

a man who had escaped and whom you wanted to catch?"

"That is true; he is the only one whom I suspect. I have not come here

to reproach you, my friends, but to ask you where, when and how you

buried that body."

"Where?" said Jean le Clope, glancing at La Caille-Bottée. "In our

garden, and if you want to see the place----"

"I do not care about it. But was it quite dark, or had the day begun to

break?"

"It was about--two or three o'clock in the morning," said the lay

brother with some hesitation, glancing again at the pock-marked old

maid, who seemed to suggest his answers with her eyes.

"And nobody saw you?" said Bois-Doré, watching them both closely.

That question threw the lay brother into confusion, and the marquis

detected more significant glances between him and his companion. It was

becoming evident to him that they were afraid they had been seen, and

that, in their fear of being contradicted by a reliable witness, they

dared not go into details concerning the manner in which they had

carried out the marquis's wishes.

He rose and repeated the question in an imperative tone.

"Alas! my good lord," said La Caille-Bottée, falling on her knees,

"forgive this poor cripple in body and mind, who has probably drunk a

little too much to-night, and can't say just what he wants to say!"

"Yes, forgive me, captain," added the veteran, deeply affected

apparently by the plight of his own brain, and kneeling in his turn.

"You have deceived me, my friends!" said the marquis, determined to

force the truth from them; "you did not bury Monsieur d'Alvimar

yourselves! You were afraid, or had scruples, or did not like to do it;

you notified Monsieur Poulain."

"No, monsieur, no!" cried La Caille-Bottée earnestly; "we would never

have done such a thing, knowing that Monsieur Poulain is against you!

Since you know that we didn't obey you, you must know also that it

wasn't our fault, and that the devil in person had a hand in it."

"Tell me what happened," rejoined the marquis; "I propose to find out

whether you will tell me the truth."

The gardener, convinced that the marquis knew more than she knew

herself, told her story succinctly as follows:

"When you had gone, dear monsieur, the first thing we did was to carry

the dead body into our garden, where we covered it over with a great

mat; for I wasn't at all anxious to bring it into the house, and didn't

see the use of it. I confess that I was terribly afraid of it, and I

wouldn't have consented to receive such company for anybody but you, my

good monsieur.

"Jean called me a fool and laughed at me, while he was drinking the rest

of his wine, to protect himself from the cold night air, so he said, but

perhaps it was to turn his mind away from the dismal thoughts that

always come to a body at the sight of a corpse, no matter how hard your

heart may be.

"I must also confess that the first thing poor Jean here thought of was

to take what there was in the dead man's pockets and in the saddle-bags

on the horse that brought him here. You hadn't said anything about it,

so we thought it belonged to us, and we were sitting here counting the

money on the table, so that we could hand over every sou to you, if you

should claim it.

"There was a good-sized purse full of gold, and Jean, who was still

drinking, enjoyed staring at it and handling it. What can you expect,

monsieur? poor people like us are surprised when we have any of it to

handle. And we were making plans about how we would spend that fortune.

Jean wanted to buy a vineyard, but I said it would be much better to

have an orchard well stocked with bearing nut trees; and here we sat,

half laughing with joy to find ourselves so rich, half disputing over

the use we should make of our money, when the cuckoo-clock struck four

in the morning.

"'Now,' says I to poor Jean, 'I am not afraid any more, and as you

aren't very spry with your wooden leg, although you can use the spade a

little with your good foot, I'll help you to dig the grave. I never

wished ill to any living man; but as long as this gentleman is dead, I

don't want him to come to life again. There are people in the world who,

by going out of it, benefit those who are left.'

"I shall have to admit my guilt, my dear monsieur, for that's the only

prayer that that wicked Jean and I said for the dead man.

"Well, we took the spade, and both of us went back into the garden and

took up the mat where we had hidden the body. Who was surprised,

monsieur? There was nothing under it; somebody had stolen our corpse! We

looked everywhere, turned everything over: nothing, monsieur, nothing!

We thought we had gone mad and had dreamed everything that had happened

that night, and I ran back into the house to see if the money wasn't a

vision.

"Well, monsieur, if you were not here questioning us, we might believe

that the devil had been acting a farce for us; for the drawer in which I

had put the money and jewels was open, and it had all flown away from

the house while we were in the garden, just as the dead man had flown

away from the garden while we were in the house."

As she finished her story, La Caille-Bottée bewailed the loss of the

money, and the lay brother, who only awaited an opportunity to weep,

shed tears too manifestly sincere for the marquis to entertain any doubt

as to the strange and twofold theft committed on their premises, of a

full purse and a deceased dead man, as the gardener said in a doleful

tone.

XLVII

During this duet of lamentations, the marquis reflected.

"Tell me, my friends," he said, "did you see no footprints in your

garden, no indication that your house had been entered by violent

means?"

"We paid no attention to that matter for some time," replied La

Caille-Bottée, "we were too much upset; but when it was daylight, we

examined everything as well as we could. There was nothing unusual in

the house. They must have come in as soon as our backs were turned; we

left the door and the drawer open, and the money in plain sight; we were

much to blame for that, alas!"

"In that case," observed the marquis, "the deceased did not go away

unaided, and had not only friends to take away his remains, but others

to recover his money and jewels."

"I imagine, monsieur, that there were only two of them for the first

task, and one for the last, and that one not connected with the others;

for we discovered the prints of two pair of feet on our flower-beds,

going toward the fence on the Briantes side, and those feet seemed to

have had on boots or pattens; while on the gravel in our little yard,

there were the marks of bare feet, little child's feet, going toward the

town. But, as there was already water in the paths, we couldn't discover

anything outside of our own place."

Bois-Doré reasoned thus mentally:

"Sancho, having made his escape, must have followed and watched us. Then

he probably went to Monsieur Poulain, who sent someone or came himself

with Sancho, to obtain D'Alvimar's body and bury it. That accounts for

the denunciation. For reasons of which I know nothing, the rector dared

not exhibit the body to his parishioners and denounce me publicly.

Perhaps he wished to give Sancho time to make his escape. As for the

money, some little reprobate must have noticed the going in and out,

listened at the door, and seized the opportunity: that is of very little

consequence to me."

Then, having reflected further upon the whole matter and asked various

questions which resulted in throwing no new light, he said:

"My friends, when we brought that dead man here across his horse, we

left the saddle-bags with you, with no other purpose than to rid

ourselves of them and wash our hands of everything that had belonged to

our enemy. The next day, however, on reflecting that those saddle-bags

might contain papers of interest to us, we sent to you to obtain them,

and you told Adamas that they contained nothing except a change of

clothing and a little linen--no papers or documents of any kind."

"That is the truth, monsieur," replied the gardener, "and we can show

them to you now, just as they were given to us. The thief didn't see

them lying on the bed, where we tossed them, or else he didn't choose to

burden himself with them."

The marquis caused them to be brought, and verified the truth of her

statement.

However, on examining them and turning them over, he discovered a sort

of secret pocket, which had escaped the notice of his hosts, and of

which the stitching had to be ripped in order to open it. He found there

some papers which he carried away, after compensating the gardener and

the veteran for the loss they had sustained, and enjoining silence upon

them until further orders.

It was after eleven o'clock when the marquis returned home.

Mario was not asleep; he was playing jackstraws with Lauriane in the

salon, being unwilling to go to bed until his father returned safely.

Lucilio was reading by the fire, not allowing his attention to be

distracted by the laughter of the children, but pleasantly soothed in

his deep meditations by that fresh, charming music, to which his loving

heart and his musical ear were peculiarly sensitive.

Since he had played the soothsayer in monsieur le prince's presence, the

children called him the astrologer, and teased him to make him smile.

The good-natured savant smiled as much as they wished without ceasing

his mental labor, for his kindly disposition and gentle instincts

remained united to his body, so to speak, and spoke through his

beautiful Italian eyes, even when his mind was voyaging in celestial

spheres.

Adamas, who, despite his adoration for his little count, was bored to

the point of melancholy by the absence of his divine marquis, was

wandering about the halls and the courtyard like a soul in distress,

when he heard at last the echoing trot of Pimante and Squilindre and the

grinding of the stones in the road, which were crushed under the wheels

of the monumental chariot like grapes in the wine-press.

"Here comes monsieur!" he cried, throwing open the door of the salon as

noisily and joyously as if the marquis had been absent a year; and he

ran to the kitchen to bring with his own hands a bowl of steaming punch,

concocted of wine and aromatic herbs--a cunningly compounded and

pleasant beverage of which he jealously guarded the secret, and to which

he attributed his old master's excellent health and lusty appearance.

Honest Sylvain embraced his son and greeted his daughter affectionately,

pressed his _astrologer's_ hand, drank the cordial which his faithful

retainer offered him, and, having thus gratified his whole family,

thrust his long legs almost into the fire, placed a small round table by

his side, and requested Lucilio to read certain papers which he had

brought, while Mario translated them aloud as best he could.