Mario nearly swooned when, as they were about entering the carriage, he

was informed that Lauriane would not return with them and was going away

for an indefinite period. His father had tried to lighten the blow; but

De Beuvre insisted upon dealing it, either to test the boy's sentiments,

or to have his revenge for the lesson in prudence he had received with a

bad grace from the least prudent of men. Lauriane, who knew nothing as

yet--her father having told her simply that they were to remain a few

days longer at Bourges,--rushed downstairs when she heard the marquis's

pained exclamation at the sight of Mario pale and swooning. But Mario

soon recovered, declared that he had had an attack of cramp, and jumped

into the great carriage with his eyes closed. He did not wish to see

Lauriane, whose tranquillity, down to that moment, wounded him to the

lowest depths of his heart. He supposed that she knew everything, and

had decided, without regret, to part from him forever.

The marquis longed to remain, to have an explanation with De Beuvre. He

had the courage to refrain, when he saw how brave Mario was: whatever

the result, the young man had reached an age when separation for a few

years had become necessary.

Mario, expansive as he was on all other subjects, opened his heart to no

one, and affected the most perfect serenity during the journey.

At Briantes the marquis questioned him adroitly, Mercedes imprudently.

He held his ground, saying that he loved Lauriane _much_, but that his

grief would affect neither his reason nor his work.

He kept his word. His health suffered a little; but he assented to all

the measures that he was urged to adopt in that regard, and he soon

recovered.

"I hope," the marquis would say sometimes to Adamas, "that he will not

be too sentimental, and will forget that wicked girl who does not love

him."

"For my part," said the sage Adamas, "I hope that she loves him more

than she seems to do; for if our Mario should lose the hope that keeps

him alive, we should have cause for anxiety!"

In 1627, that is to say the next year, the château of Briantes was

threatened anew with disaster. It was proposed to raze its stout walls,

its little bastions and its fortified towers.

Richelieu, being definitely established in supreme authority, had

decreed and ordered the destruction of the fortifications of cities and

citadels throughout the kingdom. This excellent measure, construed most

broadly, extended to "all fortifications constructed within thirty

years, about the houses and châteaux of private individuals, without

the express permission of the king."

Briantes was not in that category; its defences dated from feudal days

and were useless against cannon. The sheriffs and magistrates of La

Châtre, displeased at having to shave themselves, as Adamas the

ex-barber said, would have been glad to shave all the noble lords, their

neighbors. But Bois-Doré, feeling the necessity of protection against

bands of adventurers and highwaymen, maintained his rights and forced

them to be respected. He was too much beloved by his vassals to fear

that they would act like those of many other nobles, who voluntarily

posed as executors of the great cardinal's orders.

The measure was very popular and at the same time very sweeping. It was

hunting down the spirit of the League in its feudal lairs. But the

orders were carried out only in Protestant neighborhoods, and that bold

decree remained upon paper, like many of Richelieu's bold conceptions.

Berry escaped by showing its claws, as always. Monsieur le Prince did

not allow a stone to be removed from his fortress of Montrond; the

châteaux of the great and petty nobility remained standing, and the

great tower of Bourges did not fall until the reign of Louis XIV.

Bois-Doré had hardly recovered from this excitement when he was

assailed by another, more serious yet less alarming.

"Monsieur," said Adamas to him one evening, "I must needs regale you

with a story which Monsieur d'Urfé would have put in the form of a

romance, for it is most pleasant."

"Let us have your story, my friend!" said the marquis, pulling his lace

cap over his bald skull.

"It relates, monsieur to your virtuous druid and the fair Moor."

"Adamas, you are becoming a joker and a satirist, my good man. No

calumny, I beg you, concerning my excellent friend and the chaste

Mercedes!"

"Why, monsieur, where would be the harm if those two worthy persons

should be united by the bonds of matrimony? Do you know, monsieur, that

this morning, as I was arranging the learned man's library--he will

allow nobody but me to touch his books, and, in truth, it requires a man

with some little learning--I saw the Moor stealthily kiss a bouquet of

roses which she places on his table every morning while he is

breakfasting with you. Then she suddenly saw me, and, turning as pale as

the scarf she wears on her head, she fled as if she had committed some

great crime. I have suspected something, monsieur, for a long time, a

very long time. All this friendship, all these little attentions of

hers--I was sure that they would lead them both to love."

"To be sure," said the marquis. "But go on, Adamas!"

"Well, monsieur, the discovery made me laugh loud and long, not in

mockery, but with satisfaction, for one is always pleased to guess or

surprise a secret, and when you are pleased, you laugh. And so Master

Jovelin, returning to his room, asked me mildly, with his eyes, why I

was laughing so heartily, and I told him, innocently enough, to make him

laugh too--and also, I confess, to see how he would take it."

"And how did he take it?"

"His face shone like a sunbeam, exactly like a pretty girl's; and one

cannot but believe that happiness remakes a man; for his face, with its

great mouth and great black moustache, lighted up like a star, and he

seemed to me as beautiful as he is sometimes when he is playing his

sweet-toned bagpipe."

"Very good, Adamas, you are training yourself to be a fine speaker. And

then?"

"Then I went out, or rather I pretended to go out; and, on looking back

through the partly open door, I saw dear Lucilio take up the flowers,

kiss them passionately, and put them in his doublet, flowers, thorns and

all, as if he took pleasure in being pricked and feeling the soft petals

at the same time. And he paced the floor, pressing that love-token to

his breast with both hands."

"Better and better, Adamas! What next?"

"Then the Moor entered by another door and said to him:

"'Is it time to call Mario for his lesson?'"

"What was his reply?"

"He said no with his eyes and his head; so that I could see that he

wished to detain her. She started to go away, thinking that he was busy

with some of his monkey-tricks; for she acts with him, monsieur, like a

servant who has no hope of pleasing her master. But he knocked on the

table to recall her. She went back. They looked at each other; not long,

for she soon lowered her lovely black eyes and said to him in Arabic, at

least I judged so from her manner:

"What is your wish, master?"

He pointed to the goblet in which she had placed the roses; and she,

seeing that they were not there, said:

"'It must be that sly creature Adamas who took them away, for I never

forget them.'"

"She said that?"

"Yes, monsieur, in Arabic. I could guess at every word! Then she ran to

fetch more flowers, and he followed her to the door like a man fighting

against himself. He went back to his table, put his head in his hands,

and, my word for it, monsieur, he found the noblest sentiments

imaginable in his heart to reconcile his love with his virtue."

"But why should he fight so against it?" cried the marquis; "does he not

know that I should be overjoyed to have him marry that beautiful, good

woman? Go, bring him to me, Adamas; he retires late and will still be at

work. Mario is asleep, and this is the most propitious moment for

discussing so delicate a subject."

LXVIII

The good marquis had no difficulty in confessing Lucilio.

He frankly admitted that he had adored the Moor for a long while and

that for some time he had fancied that his love was returned. But he

summed up the situation with his concise pen.

In the first place he was afraid of attracting persecution which he had

thus far escaped in France only by a miracle. Then, when it had seemed

to him beyond question that Richelieu, despite all his warfare against

the Reformed religion, had adopted as an inflexible policy the

maintenance of the Edict of Nantes in favor of liberty of conscience in

every form, he had decided to await Mario's marriage to Lauriane or to

some other woman who had won his heart. Whatever his dear pupil's frame

of mind might be, whatever hope or regret, placid expectation or secret

excitement, he did not choose to set before him the selfish and perilous

spectacle of a marriage for love.

The marquis approved his friend's generous forethought; but he found an

expedient.

"My excellent friend," he said to him, "the Moor is close upon thirty,

and you have passed your fortieth year. You are still young enough to

attract each other, and your ages are well balanced; but, without

offence, you are no longer boy and girl, to leave blank pages in the

book of your felicity! Make the most of the happy years that still

remain. Marry. I will travel with Mario for a few months, and while we

are absent I will tell him that I alone conceived the idea of a marriage

of reason between Mercedes and you. I will invent some pretext to

explain why you could not wait until our return, and when he sees you

again, his mind will be accustomed to the new condition of affairs.

Marriage always has a sobering effect, and then I trust to you to

conceal the joys of the honeymoon behind the thick clouds of prudence

and self-restraint."

So it was that the marquis took Mario to Paris. He showed him the king

and his court, but at a distance; for society had changed greatly in the

fifteen years that worthy Sylvain had been living on his estates. The

friends of his youth were dead, or had withdrawn, as he had, from the

hurly-burly of the new society. The few great personages still on the

stage with whom he had formerly had some acquaintance, hardly remembered

him, and, except for his antiquated attire, would not have recognized

him.

Mario's attractive and modest manners were observed however: the _Beaux

Messieurs_ were warmly welcomed in some houses of distinction, but no

one suggested taking them any higher; and indeed neither of them desired

very earnestly to approach the pale sun of Louis XIII.

Mario was terribly disappointed when he saw the fainthearted son of

Henri IV. ride by, and the marquis had discovered in that face no

encouragement to pursue his design of obtaining the royal confirmation

of his title of marquis.

New edicts appeared every day against the usurpation of titles; edicts

little respected, for the nobles, old and new, continued to assume names

of domains of very doubtful authenticity. Their obscurity protected

them. Bois-Doré was forced to recognize that he had no better refuge

than that.

Furthermore, he could not avoid the discovery that in Paris nobody was a

_beau monsieur_ who was not of the court. To be sure, in their daily

drives and on Place Royale, more or less people turned to gaze at the

strange contrast between his painted face and Mario's deliciously fresh

complexion; and for some time the goodman, thinking that he was

recognized, smiled at the passers-by, and put his hand to his hat, ready

to welcome overtures which no one thought of making. That gave him an

air of dazed hesitancy and vulgar affability which aroused laughter. The

ladies who sat under the young trees in the Cours-la-Reine, or walked

back and forth fan in hand, said to one another:

"Who is that tall old fool, pray?"

And if those ladies were of the society in which Bois-Doré had

reappeared, or bourgeoises of the quarter where he lodged, sometimes

there would be one who would reply:

"He is a nobleman from the provinces, who prides himself on having been

a friend of the late king."

"Some Gascon, I suppose? They all saved France! Or some Béarnais? They

were all foster-brothers of our dear Henri!"

"No, an old ass from Berry or Champagne. There are Gascons everywhere."

So it was that honest Sylvain was quite effaced in that forgetful,

ostentatious crowd, strive as he would to appear to advantage there. He

said to himself with some vexation that it was better to be first in

one's village than last at court. It is certain however that, with a

little impudence and scheming, he could have pushed Mario ahead as so

many others were pushed; but he dreaded some affront on the score of his

problematical marquisate.

He resigned himself therefore to play the part of the provincial boor,

and would have suffered terribly from ennui, had not Mario, who was

always studious and intelligently artistic in his tastes, taken him to

see the monuments of art and science which were the principal

attractions of the capital of the kingdom in his eyes.

The pleasure and profit which the young man derived from them consoled

the old man in some measure for what he called in his secret thoughts an

abortive journey.

He did not tell Mario of all his disappointments. He still cherished the

hope of discovering his mother's family and acquiring thereby a fine

Spanish title, an inheritance of some sort. He had written many times to

Spain to make inquiries and to furnish information concerning Mario, in

case the said family should display any interest. He had never received

any but vague, perhaps evasive replies.

At Paris he determined to go in person to the Embassy. He was received

there by a sort of private secretary, who informed him, in substance,

that, in compliance with his frequent requests they had at last

elucidated a mysterious affair. The young woman who had eloped and

disappeared did in fact belong to the noble family of Merida, and Mario

was the issue of a secret marriage, the validity of which might be

contested.

The young woman had left no claim to any fortune, and her family were by

no means anxious to recognize a young man reared by an old heretic, only

partially purged of his heresy.

The marquis, deeply incensed, determined to stop there and to repay the

contempt of those haughty Spaniards with oblivion. It had cost his pride

dearly enough to besiege the doors of an embassy which he, as a former

Protestant and a good Frenchman, bitterly detested.

And yet he was sad, and confided his distress to his inseparable Adamas.

"Of a surety," he said to him, "the pleasantest and most honorable life

is that of the provincial nobility. But, while it is suited to those who

have fought and suffered, it may become burdensome and even shameful in

the case of a young heart like Mario's. Have I reared him with the

greatest care, have we made of him, thanks to his precocious talents, an

accomplished gentleman, fit for any station, only to bury him in a

country manor, on the pretext that he has no need to make his fortune,

and that he is tender-hearted and humane? Should he not have a little

taste of war and adventure, and by some brilliant deed win that

marquisate which the great cardinal's ideas of universal levelling may

take from him any day? I know that the child is very young, and that we

have lost no time as yet; but his inclinations seem to tend in the

direction of study, and I ransack my wits to determine how he will find

a way to distinguish himself in that direction."

"Monsieur," replied Adamas, "if you think that your son will be more of

a cripple than you in battle, you hardly know him."

"I do not know my son?"

"Well, no, monsieur, you do not know him: he is a mysterious creature

who loves you so dearly that he never dares to have an idea to perplex

you or a trouble for you to share. But I know what is in the bag: Mario

dreams of war as much as of love, and the time is near at hand when, if

you do not divine his ambition, you will have him either sick or

melancholy on your hands."

"God forbid!" cried the marquis. "I will question him on this subject

to-morrow!"

In such a matter, when a man says to-morrow, it means that he is

inclined to shirk, and the marquis did in fact shirk. Paternal weakness

fought a great battle with paternal pride, and won the day. Mario was

not yet strong enough to endure the fatigues of war; and, furthermore,

the war with England or Spain to which all indications pointed, seemed

to be postponed for a brief space by Richelieu's mighty efforts to

create a French navy. There was no need of haste; there was plenty of

time; the opportunity would come soon enough!

So they returned to Briantes late in the autumn and found Lucilio

married to Mercedes.

Mario, on being informed of this event in Paris, manifested more

satisfaction than surprise. He had felt for a long while, in the burning

air which his Moor involuntarily breathed upon him, as well as in

Lucilio's gentle melancholy and in the adroit and affectionate language

of his bagpipes, the waves of passion which sometimes set his own blood

on fire. His heart felt as if it were caught in a vise at the thought of

happy love; but he had extraordinary control over himself. As his father

lived only in his life, he had at an early age accustomed himself to

conceal his emotions from him; and, when Adamas reproved him for keeping

his thoughts too much to himself, he would reply:

"My father is old; he is wrapped up in me as a mother is in her child.

It is my duty not to shorten his days by causing him anxiety, and heaven

has entrusted to me the mission of making him live a long while."

Lauriane was living in Poitou, and they rarely heard from her. She wrote

in an affectionate and respectful tone to the marquis, but she hardly

mentioned Mario's name, as if she dreaded to remind him of herself.

By way of compensation she wrote in the most affectionate terms of the

Moor, Lucilio, and the faithful retainers of the family. It seemed that

her affection, held in check with those who had the first claim upon it,

instinctively took its revenge with the others. She announced several

times, with a sort of affectation, that there were divers projects of

marriage under consideration, and that she would soon inform them of her

decision, desiring, she said, to make a choice that would be agreeable

to the marquis, whom she looked upon as a second father.

The strange feature of these alleged marriage projects was that she

recurred to them year after year, as if they were constantly abandoned

and revived, without imparting anything of interest to her friends as to

her choice; as if her real purpose were to say to them: "I do not marry

because I am not so inclined; but do not for one moment think that I am

reserving myself for you."

Such was, in fact, her purpose in writing these letters, and her state

of mind may be thus described:

When he took her away from Berry, intending soon to part from her,

Monsieur de Beuvre had inflicted a cruel wound upon her heart by

inventing a fable to the effect that the marquis and his heir, when

consulted by him at Bourges, had met his advances very coldly. Mario had

shown himself a very fervent Catholic on that occasion; he had sworn

that he would never enter into a _mixed_ marriage.

Lauriane should have distrusted a father in whom the thirst for gold had

penetrated to the very entrails, and who, being in haste to go away, was

determined at any price to persuade her to marry promptly. She refused

to marry in anger and without due consideration; but she promised to

reflect upon it, and in her heart proudly abandoned the ungrateful

Mario. She had loved him at Bourges--really loved him for the first time

after years of placid friendship. And that first love of her life,

almost before it was admitted, hardly revealed to herself, she had had

to blush for in very shame, and to crush it without a sign of weakening!

She had some suspicions; but, while her father did not swear that he

exaggerated nothing, he could at least give her his word of honor that

he had proposed their betrothal to the marquis, and that he had evaded

the proposal on the pretext that Mario was still too young to have the

idea of love suggested to him. Lauriane was too pure to realize the

risks she might have run by returning to Briantes. She remembered that,

at the moment of parting from her, Mario, who was said to be ill, had

shrugged his shoulders and turned his head away, saying:

"You make too much ado about a little cramp. I have no pain now."

So she said again to her father what she had said to him with all

sincerity some time before, that she had never looked upon that marriage

as a possibility; and she encouraged him to go away, as he desired to

do, promising him that she would marry any suitable aspirant who did not

inspire aversion in her.

But such an aspirant did not appear. All those whom Madame de la

Trémouille presented to her failed to please her. She found in them the

positivism which had invaded her father like a passion, but she found it

in the form of cold and somewhat cynical selfishness. The halcyon days

of the Reformation were passing away, like the social structure of the

preceding century. The Reformed religion was heroic only under cruel

persecution, and Richelieu, crushing the remains of the party by the

inevitable logic of events, bore no resemblance to a persecutor. France

said to the Protestants by his mouth: "Confine yourselves to religious

liberty; let politics alone. Turn your faces with us against the enemies

without the realm!"--The Protestants proposed to become a republic; they

became a Vendée.

Save the French Puritans--that redoubtable, heroic, indomitable party,

which stood at bay and immolated itself at La Rochelle two years

later--all French Protestants were at this time inclined to adhere to

the principle of French unity; but many had determined not to give in

their adhesion until after a victory which should secure favorable and

lasting terms for their party.

Now, among those who reasoned well, but who were about to be led on to

reason ill and to choose between a foreign alliance and final

extermination, the nobility were generally speaking less pure in their

purposes than the bourgeoisie and the common people. They made

reservations in their own interest; those most highly placed insisted

upon being purchased, and translated their craving for religious liberty

into a craving for offices and money.

Lauriane was intensely indignant at these numerous defections which were

announced every day, or which awaited their turn in shameful

anticipation. She had formed a more chivalrous idea of the honor of the

party. She was forced now to recognize the fact that her father, whose

greed had so humiliated her, was simply doing a little more tardily what

most men of his age had done all their lives, and what most young men

were eager to do in their turn. Still, Monsieur de Beuvre was one of the

best; for he had no idea of betraying his flag. He simply made haste to

make his bargain before the flag was dragged in the dust.

It was possible that Lauriane might fall in with an exception to the

general rule. There were exceptions, for she herself was one. She did

not fall in with them, perhaps because she was so pensive and distraught

that she did not know how to look for them.

Youth and beauty are justifiably proud. They wait to be discovered and

reveal naught themselves, because they dread to have the appearance of

offering themselves.

LXIX

Although we have hitherto done our utmost to follow our characters step

by step through the ordinary life of the _stay-at-home nobility_, which

our authorities enabled us to study with some care, we are forced now to

pass over a brief interval of time, and to seek the Beaux Messieurs de

Bois-Doré far from their peaceful domain.

It was in 1629, the first day of March, I believe. Mont Genèvre,

covered with snow, presented a scene of extraordinary animation upon

both slopes, and even to the very opening of the ravine called the Pas

de Suse.

The French army was marching upon the Duc de Savoie, that is to say upon

Spain and Austria, his trusty allies.

The king and the cardinal climbed the mountain in spite of the intense

cold. The cannon were dragged up through the snow. It was one of those

scenes of grandeur which the French soldier has always acted so

magnificently amid the sublime grandeur of the Alps, under Napoléon as

under Richelieu, and under Richelieu as under Louis XII., without

diverting himself with attempts to dissolve the rocks, as Hannibal's

genius is said to have done, and without other artifice than intrepid

determination, ardor and cheerfulness.

In one of the paths trodden through the snow parallel with the road, two

horsemen happened to be ascending side by side the precipitous slope of

the mountain on the French side. One was a young man of some nineteen

years, of robust frame and with a grace of movement most pleasant to

behold under the becoming warlike costume of the age. So far as colors

were concerned, the young man was dressed in accordance with his own

fancy. His equipment and his weapons, as well as his isolation,

indicated a gentleman making the campaign as a volunteer.

Mario de Bois-Doré--the reader will assume that it is he whom I am

describing--was the comeliest cavalier in the whole army. The

development of his youthful strength had in no wise diminished the

wonderful charm of his noble and intelligent face. His expression was

like an angel's in purity; but the sprouting beard reminded one that

this youth with the divine glance was but a simple mortal; and that

young moustache faintly outlined the curve of a smile, somewhat

indifferent, perhaps, but with a cordial kindliness showing through its

melancholy.

Magnificent brown hair, of a soft shade and curling naturally, framed

the face to the neck, and fell in a heavy braid--the _cadenette_ was

more in vogue than ever--below the shoulder. The face wore a delicate

flush, but was pale rather than ruddy. The exquisite distinction of

manners and dress was the principal characteristic of that figure, which

did not attract the glance, but from which the glance found it difficult

to detach itself when it had rested upon it.

Such was the impression of the horseman whom chance had brought side by

side with Mario.

The last-mentioned horseman was about forty years of age; he was thin

and sallow, with regular features, very mobile lips, a piercing eye, and

an expression of cunning tempered by a disposition to serious

reflection. He was dressed in rather a problematical costume, all in

black, and in a short cassock, like a priest on a journey, but armed and

booted like a soldier.

His bony, active horse easily kept pace with his companion's ardent and

impetuous steed.

The two horsemen had saluted each other without speaking, and Mario had

slackened his pace to allow the other, as his senior, to ride first. The

traveller seemed to appreciate that scrupulous courtesy, and declined to

pass the younger man.

"In truth, monsieur," said Mario, "our horses seem to keep step, which

fact proves the good-will of both, for I have difficulty in keeping mine

to a pace which does not leave all the others behind, and I have had to

give my companions a long start, in order not to reach the top of the

pass before them."

"That which is a fault in your noble beast is a good quality in mine,"

replied the stranger. "As I almost always travel alone, I go my way

without giving anyone reason to blame me for fatiguing my horse. But may

I ask you, monsieur, where I have had the honor of seeing you? Your

amiable face is not altogether strange to me."

Mario looked closely at him and said:

"The last time that I had the honor of seeing you was at Bourges, four

years since, at the baptism of Monseigneur le Duc d'Enghien."

"Then you are really the young Comte de Bois-Doré?"

"Yes, Monsieur l'Abbé Poulain," replied Mario, putting his hand once

more to his plumed hat.

"I am overjoyed to find you as you are, monsieur le comte," rejoined the

rector of Briantes; "you have grown in stature, in attractiveness, and

in merit as well, I can see by your manners. But do not call me _abbé_;

for I am not one as yet, alas! and it is possible that I may never be."

"I know that Monsieur le Prince has always refused to assent to your

appointment; but I thought----"

"That I had found something better than the Abbey of Varennes? Yes and

no. While awaiting the opportunity to assume some title, I succeeded in

leaving Berry, and chance attached me to the fortunes of the cardinal,

in the service of Père Joseph, to whom I am devoted body and soul. I

can say to you, between ourselves, that I am one of his messengers; and

that is why I have a good horse."

"I congratulate you, monsieur. Père Joseph's service can call for no

work that a patriotic Frenchman may not do, and the cardinal's fortune

is the destiny of France."

"Do you really mean what you say, Monsieur Mario?" queried the priest

with an incredulous smile.

"Yes, monsieur, on my honor!" the young man replied, with an accent of

sincerity which overcame the diplomatic priest's suspicions. "I do not

wish Monsieur le Cardinal to know that he has two cordial admirers in my

father and myself; but do us the honor to believe that we are loyal

enough to desire to serve the cause of the great minister and of the

fair kingdom of France, with our hearts and bodies, as well as you, if

we can."

"I believe in you implicitly," replied Monsieur Poulain, "but I have

less faith in monsieur your father! For example, he did not send you to

the siege of La Rochelle last year. You were still very young, I know;

but younger men than you were there, and you must have chafed at having

to miss the glorious rendezvous of all the young nobility of France."

"Monsieur Poulain," rejoined Mario, with some severity, "I thought that

you were bound to my father by the ties of gratitude. All that he was

able to do for you he did, and if the Abbey of Varennes has been

secularized for the benefit of Monsieur le Prince, you can not blame my

father, who was largely defrauded in that affair."

"Oh! I do not doubt it!" exclaimed Monsieur Poulain; "give me the Prince

de Condé of all men to tangle up accounts! and I blame him and him

alone. As for your father, monsieur le comte, let me tell you that I

still love and esteem him infinitely. Far from having any thought of

injuring him, I would give my life to know that he had devoted himself

without mental reservation, to the Catholic cause."

"My father does not need to devote himself to the cause of his country,

monsieur! I mean to say that he warmly embraces the cardinal's cause

against all the enemies of France."

"Even against the Huguenots?"

"The Huguenots are no more, monsieur! Let us leave the dead in peace!"

Monsieur Poulain was impressed anew with the dignified expression of

that sweet face. He felt that he was not dealing with an ambitious and

frivolous youth, like others with whom he was familiar.

"You are right, monsieur," he said. "Peace to the ashes of the men of La

Rochelle, and may God hear you, to the end that they may not come to

life again at Montauban and elsewhere. Since your father has recovered

so fully from his religious indifference, let us hope that he will, if

need be, permit you to march against the rebels in the South."

"My father always has permitted me to follow my own inclination; but

understand, monsieur, that it will never lead me to march against

Protestants, unless I see that the monarchy is in great danger. Never

will I draw the sword against Frenchmen, from ambition or vainglory;

never can I forget that that cause, once glorious, now brought low,

placed Henri IV. on the throne. You were reared in the spirit of the

League, Monsieur Poulain, and now you are fighting against it with all

your strength. You have changed from the wrong to the right, from the

false to the true; I have lived and I shall die in the path upon which

my feet were placed: loyalty to my country, detestation of intrigues

with the foreigner. I am entitled to less credit than you, having never

had occasion to change my views; but I promise you that I will do my

best, and that while respecting freedom of conscience in others, I will

fall with all my strength upon the allies of Monsieur de Savoie."

"You forget that they are the allies of the Reformed religion to-day."

"Say of Monsieur de Rohan! Thereby Monsieur de Rohan is consummating the

ruin of his party; and that is why I said to you: Peace to the dead!"

"Well, well!" said Père Joseph's trusted agent, "I see that, like the

excellent marquis, you have a romantic mind, and that you will be

guided, according to his example, by sentiment. May I, without

indiscretion, inquire for the health of monsieur your father?"

"You will soon see him in person, monsieur. He will be glad to see you.

He is riding ahead, and we shall overtake him within a quarter of an

hour."

"What do you say? Monsieur de Bois-Doré, at seventy-five or eighty

years of age----"

"Takes the field against the enemies and assassins of Henri IV.! Does

that surprise you, Monsieur Poulain?"

"No, my child," replied the ex-Leaguer, now become, by the force of

events, a continuator and admirer of the policy of the Béarnais; "but

it seems to me that he is a little late in setting about it!"

"What would you have, monsieur? he did not choose to take the field all

alone; he waited for the King of France to set the example."

"Faith," said Monsieur Poulain with a smile, "you have an answer for

everything! I long to salute the marquis's noble old age! But it is

impossible to trot here. Pray tell me of a man to whom I owe my life:

Master Lucilio Giovellino, otherwise called Jovelin, the great

bag-piper."

"He is happy, thank heaven! He has married my dearest friend, and they

are doing us the favor to take charge of our house and our property

during our absence."

"Your dearest friend? Do you refer to Mercedes, the beautiful Moor? I

should have supposed that you preferred to her--with feelings of a

different nature, it is true--a younger and even lovelier friend."

"Do you mean Madame de Beuvre?" rejoined Mario, with a frankness in

striking contrast to Monsieur Poulain's insinuating curiosity. "I can

readily answer you as I would answer the whole world. She is, in very

truth, a person whom I loved fervently in my childhood, and whom I shall

respect all my life; but her affection for me is very placid, and you

may question me concerning her without reserve."

"Is she not married yet?"

"I have no idea, monsieur. As we have been travelling for several

months, we have little news of our friends at a distance."

Monsieur Poulain scrutinized Mario by stealth. He had the tranquillity

of a broken heart, but not the prostration of a hopeless soul.

"Do you not know," said the rector, "that Monsieur de Beuvre was with

the English fleet before La Rochelle?"

"I know that he was killed there, and that Lauriane has no one but

herself to depend upon."

"She was in Poitou when the Duc de Trémouille, after the desertion of

the English, went to the king's camp to abjure his heresy."

"She did not accompany him there!" said Mario, hastily. "She asked

permission to share the captivity of the heroic Duchesse de Rohan, who

refused to submit; and, having failed to obtain that favor, she was

preparing to return to Berry when we left our province."

"I knew all that," said Monsieur Poulain, who seemed, in truth, to be

well posted upon all subjects.

"If you did not know it," Mario replied, "I should not regret having

told you. Surely you would not furnish the Prince de Condé with a new

pretext for confiscating Madame de Beuvre's property?"

"No, indeed!" replied the rector laughing outright, with a sort of

cordiality. "You reason well, and a man may, without great risk, be as

frank as you are, when he knows his companions. But have entire

confidence in me, for I have broken entirely with the Jesuits, at my

risk and peril!"

Monsieur Poulain spoke the truth.

A few moments later he was in the Marquis de Bois-Doré's presence, and

the interview was very civil--almost friendly--on both sides.

LXX

The marquis did not need to convoke the ban and arrière-ban in order to

raise a small troop of volunteers. His best men, sure of being well

rewarded, had followed him enthusiastically.

The intrepid Aristandre took a keen personal delight in the idea of

thrashing messieurs the Spaniards, whom he detested in memory of Sancho;

the faithful Adamas rode a gentle palfrey in the rear-guard, and carried

in his saddle-bags his master's perfumes and curling-tongs, nothing

more!

Save for a touch of the tongs to what little hair was still left on his

neck, and a little scented water for his own enjoyment, the marquis was

as simple in his toilet as he had formerly been dazzling. No more wigs,

no more paint, almost no lace, embroidery and purl; simply an ample

doublet of woolen cloth, with open sleeves, short-clothes of the same

material extending below the knee, boots fitting tight to the leg, with

plain linen ruffles falling over the tops, a broad unembroidered

neckband, and over the whole an immense, thick fur-lined cloak--such was

the costume of the Beau Monsieur de Bois-Doré.

The metamorphosis can be explained in a few words.

Mario had fought a duel to discipline an impertinent knave who in his

presence had made sport of the marquis's plaster mask, black hair and

innumerable bows and buckles. Mario had dealt severely with his

adversary--it was his first affaire!--but Bois-Doré, being informed of

the episode after it was over, did not choose to expose his son to a

repetition of it. Suddenly, and without a word to any one, he abandoned

his dye and his wig one day on the pretext that Monsieur de Richelieu

was justified in proscribing luxury, and that everyone should set a good

example. Being thus resigned to appear old and ugly, he heroically

appeared before his family. But to his great surprise they all uttered

an exclamation of pleasure, and the Moor artlessly said to him:

"Ah! how handsome you are, master! I thought you much older than you

are!"

The fact is that the marquis was exceedingly well preserved under his

mask, and was extraordinarily handsome considering his great age. He did

not know--he was not likely to know--what infirmities were. He still

retained his teeth; his ample, bald forehead was furrowed by graceful

wrinkles, without a trace of malice or hatred; his moustache and royale,

white as snow, stood out against his yellowish-brown complexion, and his

great eye, keen and laughing, still shone mildly through his long,

bushy, bristling eyebrows.

He was still erect as a young poplar, and stiff in proportion; but he no

longer shrank from placing his foot in Aristandre's powerful hand to

mount his horse. Once in the saddle, he was as firm as a rock.

Thereafter he received so many sincere compliments upon his beautiful

old age, that he changed his whole system of coquetry: instead of

concealing his age, he exaggerated it, representing himself as eighty

years old although he was but seventy-seven, and taking the keenest

pleasure in astonishing his young comrades-in-arms by his tales of the

old wars, long buried in the archives of his memory.

On the 3d of March--that is to say on the second day after the meeting

of the Beaux Messieurs de Bois-Doré with Monsieur Poulain--the royal

vanguard, consisting of ten or twelve thousand picked men, camped at

Chaumont, the last village on the frontier. The volunteers, having no

materials for a camp, passed the night as best they could in the

village.

The marquis tranquilly retired in the first bed that came to hand, and

fell asleep like a man inured to the trade of war, who knew how to make

the best of the hours of repose, to sleep for one hour when he had but

one, and for twelve, to provide against emergencies, when he had nothing

better to do.

Mario, intensely excited and impatient to fight, sat up with several,

young men, volunteers like himself, with whom he had become acquainted

on the road.

It was in a wretched inn, the common room of which was so crowded that

one could hardly turn about, and so filled with tobacco smoke that men

could not recognize one another.

While the regular troops were as sedate and silent as the most rigid

community of monks, the bands of volunteers were merry and uproarious.

They drank and laughed and sang obscene songs, recited erotic or amusing

verses; they talked of politics and love-making; they quarreled and

embraced.

Mario sat by the fireplace dreaming, amid the uproar. Close beside him

stood Clindor, become as stout-hearted a youth as his master, but

somewhat awed to find himself surrounded by the nobility. He took no

part in the noisy conversation; but he was burning to muster courage to

do so, while Mario's reverie was cradled by the tumult, which neither

tempted nor annoyed him.

Suddenly Mario saw a creature of most extraordinary aspect enter the

room. It was a small, thin, dark girl, dressed in an incomprehensible

costume; five or six skirts of brilliant hues, each one shorter than the

next below; a waist glistening with tinsel and spangles, a quantity of

multi-colored plumes in her crimped and curled hair, innumerable

necklaces and gold and silver chains; she was covered with bracelets,

rings, and glass ornaments, to her very shoes.

That strange creature was of no age. She might have been a precocious

child or a worn-out woman. She was very small, ugly when she chose to

smile and talk like other people, beautiful when she flew into a temper,

which latter seemed to be with her a constant necessity or a normal

condition. She insulted the inn-servants because they did not serve her

quickly enough, swore at the troopers because they did not make room for

her, clawed those who tried to take liberties with her, and retorted

with indescribable blasphemy upon those who made sport of her absurd

costume and her savage humor.

Mario was wondering with what purpose so shrewish a creature had

introduced herself into such company, when a stout woman with a pimply

face, absurdly bedizened with wretched gewgaws, also entered the room,

laden with boxes like a mule, and called for silence. She had some

difficulty in obtaining it, but at last delivered in French a sort of

announcement, overflowing with hyperbolical laudation of her companion,

the incomparable Pilar, Moorish dancer and infallible soothsayer,

possessed of all the learning of the Arabs.

That name Pilar aroused Mario from his lethargy. He examined the two

gypsies, and, despite the change that had taken place in them,

recognized in one the pupil, victim and executioner of the miserable La

Flèche; in the other the ex-Bellinde of Briantes, the ex-Proserpine of

Captain Macabre, now styling herself Narcissa Bobolina, lute-player,

dealer in laces, and on occasion mender and plaiter of ruffles.

The company assented to an exhibition of the talents proclaimed.

Bellinde played the lute with more energy than correctness, and the

dancer, for whom they made room by climbing on the tables, gave a

display of epileptic agility, her extraordinary suppleness and energetic

grace winning frantic applause from an assemblage already much excited

by wine, tobacco and discussion.

Pilar's success with those inflamed imaginations simply intensified

Mario's disgust, and he was about to retire; but he had sufficient

curiosity to listen to the predictions which she was beginning to make

on general subjects, while waiting for someone to ask her to reveal the

secret of his future.

"Speak, speak, young sibyl!" was the cry on all sides. "Shall we be

lucky in war? Shall we force the Pas de Suse to-morrow?"

"Yes, if you are in a state of grace," she replied disdainfully; "but as

there is not a man among you who is not covered with mortal sins as with

blotches of leprosy, I am sorely afraid for your soft white skins!"

"Stay," said someone, "we have here a chaste and gentle stripling, an

angel from heaven, Mario de Bois-Doré! Let him begin the test and

question the soothsayer."

"Mario de Bois-Doré?" cried Pilar, her sparkling eyes becoming dull and

lifeless. "He is here, you say? where? where? Show him to me!"

"Come, Bois-Doré," they shouted on all sides, "do not hide your face,

but hold out your hands."

Mario came forth from his corner and showed himself to the two women,

one of whom darted forward to grasp his hand, while the other turned her

head away as if to avoid being recognized.

"I saw you, Bellinde," said Mario to the latter; "and as for you,

Pilar," he added, withdrawing his hand, which she seemed to wish to put

to her lips, "look at _my lines_, that is enough."

"Mario de Bois-Doré!" cried Pilar, suddenly losing control of herself,

"I know them well enough, the lines in your fatal hand! I studied them

carefully enough long ago. I never told your fortune; it is too cruel

and too unhappy."

"And I know your science," retorted Mario, shrugging his shoulders. "It

depends on your whim, your hatred, your folly."

"Very well, put it to the test!" cried Pilar, more and more incensed;

"and if you do not believe in my science, do not fear to listen to your

sentence. To-morrow, my pretty Mario, you will sleep on your back, on

the edge of a ditch; but to no purpose will your lovely eyes be open and

staring, you will never again see the light of the stars."

"Because there will be clouds in the sky," observed Mario, undisturbed.

"No, the weather will be fair; but you will be dead!" said the sibyl,

wiping the cold perspiration from her forehead with her hair. "Enough!

let no one else question me! I shall say things that are too harsh to

all of you here!"

"You will take back your words, you wicked she-devil!" cried the young

man who had procured for Mario the pleasure of this agreeable prophecy.

"Do not let her leave the room, friends! These infernal witches lead us

into death by the confusion they sow in our minds. They are the cause of

our losing, in the face of danger, the confidence that saves. Let us

compel her to swallow her words and to confess that she said them from

pure deviltry."

Pilar, supple as a snake, had already glided from the room. Some ran

after her. Bellinde fled by another door.

"Let them go," said Mario. "They are two venomous beasts whose story I

will tell you some other time. I am not at all disturbed by the

prediction; I have paid for my knowledge of what that noble science is

worth!"

They pressed Mario with questions.

"To-morrow," he said, "after the battle, after my threatened death!

Permit me now to go to see if my father is carefully guarded by his

people; for I know one of those women, perhaps both of them, to be quite

capable of seeking to injure him."

"And we," replied his young friends, "will make a circuit of the village

to be sure that there is no band of thieving, murdering gypsies in

hiding anywhere."

They made the circuit with great care. It seemed quite useless, the

regular camp having sentries posted and vigilant patrols who covered all

the neighborhood to a considerable distance. They learned from the

villagers that the two women had arrived alone on the preceding day and

lodged in a house which they pointed out. They declared that the women

were then in the house, and Mario did not consider it necessary to set a

watch upon them. It was enough in his judgment, to guard the house in

which his father was.

The night passed very quietly; too quietly for the liking of the

impatient young gentlemen, who hoped to be awakened by the signal for

battle. But they were disappointed. The Prince of Piedmont,

brother-in-law of Louis XIII., had come on behalf of the Duc de Savoie

to open negotiations, and the conferences effected a suspension of

hostilities to the great dissatisfaction of the French army.

The following day passed in feverish suspense, and the gypsy's

prediction, having come to naught, ceased to alarm Mario's friends.

The two vagabonds had packed up and passed through the vanguard on their

way to France, there to ply their wandering trade. There was no fear

that they would be allowed to retrace their steps. The cardinal had

issued the strictest orders that all women and children, and especially

women of disorderly lives, should be rigorously excluded from the

camp-followers. Lewd women, gypsies, dancing girls and sorceresses were

threatened with death if caught within the lines.

During the evening of the 4th of March, Mario was called upon to narrate

the adventures of big Bellinde and little Pilar. He did it in a clear

and simple way that drew upon him the attention of all who were present.

Hitherto his modesty had prevented him from attracting notice: his

interesting narrative, and the touching, natural, and at the same time

entertaining way in which he told it caused his delighted comrades to

forget the pleasures of the gaming-table and the advanced hour.

He might, had he chosen, have told the whole story of his life; but an

indescribable feeling of timidity made him omit any mention of

Lauriane's name.

LXXI

It was after midnight when they separated. Each group repaired at once

to the more or less execrable lodgings it had secured, and Mario was

standing with Clindor at the door of his own lodgings, when a vague

shadow, crouching on the threshold, rose and came toward him.

It was Pilar.

"Mario," she said, "do not be afraid of me. I have never injured you,

and I have no reason to wish your old father ill. I do not espouse

Bellinde's hatred of you."

"Does Bellinde still hate my father?" said Mario. "Has she forgotten

that he saved her from being hanged as Captain Macabre was?"

"Yes, Bellinde has forgotten it, or perhaps she never knew it; but it is

too late to tell her of it, and she doesn't hate anyone now."

"What do you mean?"

"That I have done to her what she wanted to do to you."

"What was that? Tell me!"

"No, Mario, it's of no use; you would not love me any more for it; and

you hate me now, I know."

"I hate no one," replied Mario; "I hate evil, and evil instincts horrify

me. You have retained yours, unfortunate girl! I knew it yesterday, when

you took a frantic delight in trying to disturb my mind. You will never

succeed, you may as well understand that and leave me in peace; it is

better for you that I forget you."

"Listen, Mario," exclaimed Pilar half aloud, in a choking voice. "This

is not the way to treat me. Really, it is not, if you love anyone on

earth! for I love you and I have always loved you. Yes, in the days when

we were equally poor, sleeping on the same heather and begging on the

same road, I was in love with you. I was born so; I cannot remember a

single day in my whole life when I was not consumed by the passion of

love or hatred. I never had any childhood! I was born of flame and I

shall die of flame, a genuine spark from the stake! What does it matter?

Even so, I am worth more to you than your Lauriane, who has always

despised you and who will never love anything but her old

heretics--luckily for her! Yes, luckily for her, I tell you! for I know

all about both of your lives. I have been twice in your province, and

one day I passed close to you without your recognizing me. You tossed me

a small coin. See, here it is at my neck, concealed under my necklaces

as my most precious treasure; I made a hole in it, and I wrote your name

on it with the point of a knife. It is my talisman. When I no longer

have it, I shall die!"

"Come, come," said Mario, "enough of this nonsense! What do you want

now? Why did you return here at the peril of your life, and why did you

wait for me at this door? Give me back that coin, and take these gold

pieces which you may need."

"Keep your gold, Mario; I do not need it; I wish to keep and I shall

keep your pledge, although you blush to know that your name is written

on my breast. I have come here to tell you my story, and you must listen

to it."

"Tell it quickly then; it is very cold and I am sleepy."

"I wish to tell it to you alone, and your page is listening. Come

outside the walls with me."

"No, my page is sleeping against the door. Speak here, and make haste,

or I leave you."

"Listen then, I shall soon have told it all. You know that my father was

hanged and my mother burned!"

"Yes, I remember that you often told me so. Well?"

"Well, La Flèche brought me up to torment me. It was he who broke my

bones to make me more flexible, and carried me about in a cage to make

me ill and frantic. He exhibited me like a wild beast that bites

everybody."

"But you took a horrible revenge upon him, did you not?"

"Yes, I suffocated him with sand and stones and dirt, when he was

calling: 'Help! I am thirsty! I am thirsty!'--One of his arms still

moved, and he tried to choke me with it. But, at the risk of my life, I

forced what life he had left down his throat. Didn't I owe him that?

Wasn't it my right? You would have saved him perhaps, and he would have

paid you like Bellinde, who, but for me, would have succeeded in

poisoning you all yesterday, you and your father and your servants, in

order, so she said, to fulfil the prediction I had made before

witnesses, and to protect my fame as a soothsayer."

"And then you----"

"I owed her that, too! Listen, listen to my story! After avenging myself

on La Flèche, I hid in the pavilion in your garden. I had seen that you

were angry with me, and I was waiting for your anger to pass. I thought

that you would look for me, that you would be anxious about me, and

would keep me in your château to love me. But toward evening, you came

there with your Lauriane, and you told her that you hated me and I heard

every word! Then I dropped a stone on her to kill her, and I hid myself.

But you thought the stone had fallen of itself and you left me there.

"I passed the night there, dying with cold and hunger. I was in a frenzy

of rage; that kept me up. I cursed you both; I cursed myself for having

offended you. I meant to let myself die; but I had not the courage, and

as I wanted nothing more of you, whom I believed that I hated, I went to

Brilbault to get Sancho's money, which La Flèche had made me steal two

or three months before, at La Caille-Bottée's house.

"In those days I didn't know the value of money, and I hated La Flèche

so bitterly that I gave it all back to Sancho, who had hidden it so

carefully that he was able to manage the gypsies with promises and a few

crowns from time to time. But I knew where he had buried his treasure,

and there was a good deal of it left; a good deal to me, at least, I

needed so little. I divided it into several parts and hid them in

different places.

"I had taken it into my head that I could live alone without being

dependent on anybody, and wander all over the world at will, child that

I was! But I soon got tired of it, and as I happened to fall in with

Bellinde, who was flying from the country, with her head shaved and in a

miserable plight, I told her that I had some little hidden treasures,

but was very careful not to tell her where they were! Oh! how she

flattered me, tormented me, made me tipsy and questioned me even in my

sleep, trying to find out! She never lost the hope of extorting my

secret from me; that is why she became my mother and my servant, always

fawning on me and betraying me. Ah! yes, she betrayed me shamefully! She

sold me, she abandoned me when I was still a child; and when, later, I

realized and felt my shame, I swore that I would be revenged upon her

when I no longer needed her. Now, the crows are feeding oh her flesh,

and it was a righteous deed, God knows!"

"You are a wretched, horrible girl!" said Mario. "Now have you

finished?"

"Now, I want you to love me, Mario, or I will avenge myself on your

Lauriane, whom you still love, I know that; for you didn't choose to

speak of her to your comrades in the inn just now. Oh! I was there too,

hidden in the garret, where I heard all the evil you said of me."

"Since you heard all, how can you be mad enough to ask me to love you?"

"I am not mad! One can pass from hatred to love, I know by my own

experience. You abhor and adore at the same time. Besides, you admitted

that I had fine eyes now, and slender arms, and a sort of diabolical

beauty. That is what you said at the inn just now. And many of those

gentlemen offered me the night before money to buy other silk skirts and

other ear-rings, because, beautiful or ugly, I had turned their heads.

But I want nothing from them and nothing from you! I still have money

hidden in Berry, and I can go there when I choose. Beware, Mario! Your

Lauriane will answer to me for you. Take me with you, or renounce her."

"As you confess your evil purposes so boldly, I arrest you," said Mario.

He tried to seize her, being determined to turn her over to the camp

authorities; but he seized nothing but her scarf: the girl herself,

fleeter and more unsubstantial than the clouds driven by the wind,

eluded him and vanished. He pursued her and might have caught her, for

he too knew how to run; but he had hardly turned the corner when the

bugles sounded boots and saddles; it was the signal of departure for the

long-expected battle.

Mario forgot the wild threats that had excited him and hastened to his

father, who was hurriedly dressing.

At daybreak the whole army was on the march.

"The Pas de Suse is a gorge about a quarter of a league in length, in

some places less than twenty paces wide, and obstructed here and there

by fallen rocks. The tergiversation of the Prince of Piedmont had had no

other purpose than to delay the advance of our army for a few days. The

enemy had used the interval to good advantage in strengthening their

position.

"The gorge was intersected by three strong barricades protected by

bastions and ditches. The cliffs commanding it on each side were alive

with soldiers, and protected by small redoubts.

"Lastly, the cannon of Fort Tallasse, built on a neighboring mountain,

swept the open space between Chaumont and the entrance to the gorge. It

was one of those positions where it seems possible for a handful of men

to check the advance of an army.

"Nothing, however, could check the _furie française_."[10]

So many accomplished historians have described this glorious action,

that we shrink from attempting the task after them; it is not our

business to write history according to official facts, but to seek it in

episodes that have been overlooked. That is why we shall follow the

Beaux Messieurs de Bois-Doré through the carnage, and not allow

ourselves to be dazzled by the majesty of the picture as a whole. An

additional reason for adopting this course is that they had little

leisure to contemplate it themselves.

It was a magnificent scene: a combat of heroes on a sublime stage!

The first cannon-shot awoke echoes of intense excitement in Mario's

heart. How he passed the first barricade, whether upon a winged horse or

"upon the fiery breath of the god Mars himself;" how he forgot his sworn

promise to his father not to leave his side, he never knew. All the

passion of his soul, all the fever in his blood, ordinarily restrained

by modesty and filial love, produced a sort of volcanic eruption within

him.

He even forgot for a moment that his father was following him into the

very midst of the fray, and, in order not to lose sight of him, was

exposing himself to no less risk.

Aristandre was there, it is true, stationed like a marble wall about his

master; but Mario, when the fighting was most desperate, turned more

than once to look for the old man's gray plume, which towered above all

the rest, and each time, as he saw it waving still, he thanked God and

trusted to his lucky star.

The whole affair was carried through so impetuously that it did not cost

France the lives of fifty men. It was one of those miraculous days when

every man has faith, and when nothing is impossible.

The position carried, Mario was galloping along the Suse road in pursuit

of the fugitives, among whom was the Duc de Savoie in person, when he

saw a masked horseman riding toward him at full speed on his right.

"Halt, halt!" he shouted; "the king's service before everything! Take my

despatches! I know you; I trust you!"

As he spoke, the horseman slipped from his horse in a swoon, while the

horse himself, utterly exhausted, fell on his knees.

Mario was the only one of the young men who had the self-restraint to

renounce the opportunity to display his prowess farther; he leaped from

his horse and picked up the sealed package which the courier had

dropped.

But as he was about turning back toward the royal camp, a party of armed

men, who seemed not to have taken part in the action, and who were

evidently pursuing the messenger without regard to where they were

going, suddenly appeared at Mario's right and rode toward him, shouting

in Italian that his life would be spared if he surrendered the package

without giving the alarm.

Mario shouted for help with all his strength. No one heard him. His

father was still far behind, his companions already far ahead. He fired

his carbine to attract attention, and, to avoid wasting his shot, aimed

it at his assailants, one of whom rolled in the dust. Mario did not wait

for the others. He had remounted, and rode away like an arrow, amid a

hailstorm of bullets, some of which lodged in his hat, others in the

bank by the road.

He heard a tumult behind him, yells, shots. He paid no heed and did not

turn.

He had not seen the messenger's face or recognized his voice. He

regretted having to abandon to the enemy a man who might be useful. But

if was of the utmost importance to save the despatches, and it was only

by a miracle that he saved them.

His retrograde course surprised those whom he met; At a short distance

from the royal headquarters, he met his father, who was alarmed to see

him pass thus without stopping, and supposed that he was wounded and

that his horse was running away.

But Mario shouted: "Nothing! nothing!" and vanished in a cloud of dust.

At first he was turned away from the king's tent; he at once determined

upon his course of action and hastened to the cardinal's.

The cardinal had already been exposed to so many attempts at

assassination that it was no easy matter to obtain access to him. But

the despatches which Mario waved above his head, and the excellent young

man's winning countenance suddenly inspired the great minister with

entire confidence. He summoned him to his presence and took the package,

which Mario, in his haste, did not think to present to him with one knee

on the ground.

[Footnote 10: Henri Martin, _History of France_.]

LXXII

The cardinal read the despatch.

It contained some good news: perhaps a report of the small number of

troops that Gonzalez of Cordova had before Casal; perhaps of a

conspiracy of the queens against the power which saved France.

Whatever it may have been, the cardinal folded the despatch with a

shrewd smile and looked up at Mario, saying:

"Propitious fate has ordained everything so well to-day, that it has

chosen an archangel for messenger. Who are you, monsieur, and how does

it happen that you are the bearer of such a despatch?"

"I am a volunteer," Mario replied. "I took this despatch from the hand

of a dying man, which was held out to me in the midst of our pursuit of

the enemy. He said to me: 'The king's service before everything.'--I

could not obtain access to the king, so I thought I would seek access to

your eminence."

"So you thought that it was all the same, in the sense that the king can

have no secrets from the minister?"

"I thought that he should have none," replied Mario, calmly.

"What is your name?"

"Mario de Bois-Doré."

"Your age?"

"Nineteen years."

"Were you at La Rochelle?"

"No, monseigneur."

"Why not?"

"I do not care to fight against those of the Reformed religion."

"Are you one of them?"

"No, monseigneur."

"But you approve of them?"

"I pity them."

"If you have any favor to ask of me, do it quickly, for time is

precious."

"Give us days like this often, that is all that I ask," replied Mario;

and, in his eagerness not to waste the cardinal's time, he took his

leave without observing that His Eminence was inclined to speak further

with him.

But other duties demanded the great minister's attention. He turned to

something else and forgot Mario.

On the following day, as they were pitching their camp at Suse, Mario

thought that he saw Monsieur Poulain pass dressed as a countryman. He

called him, but received no reply.

Monsieur Poulain was in hiding, according to his custom. Being regularly

employed upon secret missions, the ex-rector showed his face as little

as possible in certain localities, and never appeared openly in the

presence of the eminent personages who employed him.

While the king--that is to say the cardinal--was receiving the Duc de

Savoie's submission at Suse, which ceremony necessarily lasted several

days, the marquis was reposing after his excitement.

Although Richelieu's campaigns in nowise resembled the partizan warfare

of his youthful days, Bois-Doré had borne himself as tranquilly as if

he had never left the battle-field; but it had been a rude shock to him

to see Mario subjected to that test. In the first place, he had been

afraid that Mario would not come up to his hopes; for, since the

terrible night of the attack upon Briantes and Sancho's death, Mario had

often exhibited much repugnance for bloodshed. Sometimes, indeed, when

he saw how little interest he took in the siege of La Rochelle, which

excited all the youthful minds in their neighborhood, the marquis,

although well satisfied with his principles, had been somewhat afraid of

his prudence. But when he saw him rushing upon the Spaniards and

climbing over the redoubts in the Pas de Suse, he thought him far too

rash, and asked pardon of God for bringing him there. At last, however,

he had recovered confidence, and, upon learning of the episode of the

despatch, he wept for joy and chattered with pleasure in the bosom of

the faithful Adamas.

Adamas attracted attention in the town by his arrogant airs and his

utter contempt for everybody except Monsieur le Marquis and Monsieur le

Comte de Bois-Doré. Aristandre was well pleased to have killed many

Piedmontese, but he would have liked to kill more Spaniards. Clindor had

not behaved badly. He was terribly frightened at the beginning, but he

said that he was all ready to go through it again.

But Mario, amid the gratification of all his dear ones, was oppressed by

profound disquietude. Although he despised vain predictions, and had

passed through his baptism of fire without thinking of them, he trembled

at the recollection of a foolish threat, and Pilar appeared again and

again in his dreams, as the spirit of evil, in the guise of an invisible

and intangible enemy. He learned, to his cost, that the weakest

adversaries may, by a perseverance of hatred, become the most

formidable. He had Lauriane constantly before his eyes; it seemed to him

that she was threatened by some terrible danger. He took his fears for

presentiments.

One morning he returned to Chaumont, as if for exercise. He inquired for

the little gypsy to no purpose. He rode over to Mont Genèvre, and

learned that a woman's body had been found there on the morning of the

3d of March. At first they had thought that she was frozen to death; but

when they buried her they noticed that her lips and her neckerchief bore

the marks of burning, as if she had been forced to swallow some

corrosive poison. The mountaineers who gave Mario this information

proposed to show him the body. They had buried it in the snow

temporarily, the ground being frozen so hard that a grave could not

easily be dug.

Mario at once identified the body as Bellinde's. So Pilar had told the

truth. She had disposed of her companion; she might by the same means

dispose of her rival.

Mario returned to Suse at full speed and told his father the whole

story.

"Let me go to Briantes," he said. "Await me here to continue the

campaign, if it is to be continued. If a definitive treaty is signed,

you will know it in a few days, and will join me at home, without haste

and without tiring yourself. I can go more quickly alone, quickly enough

to arrive before that detestable creature, who has neither the means nor

the power to travel by post."

The marquis consented. Mario instantly made his arrangements to start

the next day with Clindor.

During the evening Monsieur Poulain visited them, with the utmost

precaution. He was in most excellent spirits, and, at the same time,

most mysterious.

"Monsieur le marquis," he said to Bois-Doré, when he was alone with him

and Mario, "I owed you much before, and I shall owe my fortune to your

amiable son! The valuable despatch of which I was the bearer, and which

he succeeded in saving, assures me a less dangerous and more honorable

place in the confidence of Père Joseph, that is to say, of the

cardinal. I have come to pay my debt, and to inform you that your sole

ambition is gratified. The king confirms your claim to the marquisate of

Bois-Doré, on the sole condition that you shall construct somewhere on

your domains a house to which you shall give that name, and which shall,

by royal letters patent, be made transmissible to your heirs and their

descendants. His eminence hopes that you will continue to serve in his

army, if the war continues, and he will avail himself of his first

leisure moment to summon you to his presence, in order to congratulate

you upon the courage and devotion of the _old man_ and the _child_; I

ask your pardon, those were his words. Monsieur le cardinal noticed you

both in the charge, and he afterward inquired your names. He was also

particularly gratified with you, monsieur le comte, because you asked

him simply for more fighting as your reward. I had the honor to appear

before him in my humble person, and to tell him the story of my perils

and your own, not forgetting that, at eleven years of age, you killed

with your own hand your father's murderer; and lastly I reminded him

that he was indebted for the receipt of news that was no less

advantageous than agreeable to him to this same child, who is as shrewd

and intelligent as he is brave. So you have a good start, Monsieur

Mario. Humble as I am, I will help you forward with all my strength if

opportunity offers."

Despite the marquis's very earnest desire to present Mario to the

cardinal, Mario refused to await the uncertain fulfilment of the promise

of an audience.

Having warmly thanked Abbé Poulain--he told them under his breath, with

a smile, that they might call him so thenceforth,--Mario, happy in the

joy of his father and Adamas because of the famous marquisate, threw

himself on his bed, slept a few hours, embraced his old friends once

more, and started for France at daybreak.

Mario attempted to travel too fast. Although he had an admirable horse,

he thought that he would do better to travel by post at full speed, and

his own strength failed him. He had received a slight wound in the

affair of the Pas de Suse, and had carefully concealed it; the wound

became inflamed, he was attacked by fever, and when he reached Grenoble

fell helpless on his bed. Clindor, in dismay, discovered that he was

delirious.

The poor page ran to fetch a doctor. He was not skilful; he irritated

the wound still more by his remedies. Mario was very ill. His impatience

and disappointment at being thus delayed aggravated his condition.

Clindor decided to send a messenger to the marquis; but he lost his head

and sent him to Nice instead of to Suse.

One evening when he was weeping in desperation on the landing outside

the room in which Mario lay helpless, he thought that he heard him

talking to himself and hastily entered the room.

Mario was not alone; a slender, pale-faced creature, dressed in red, was

leaning over him as if to question him.

Clindor was afraid. He thought that the devil had come to torment his

poor young master's last moments, and he was trying to remember some

formulas of exorcism, when by the dim light of the night lamp he

recognized Pilar.

His fear increased. He had overheard her conversation with Mario at

Chaumont. He knew therefore that she loved him to frenzy. He believed

that she was entirely under the influence of Satan, and fear produced

its accustomed effect upon him, that is to say it made him brave; he

threw himself upon her, sword in hand, and nearly wounded Mario, whom

Pilar exposed as she avoided the blow.

He was not able to strike a second time; Pilar disarmed him, he knew not

how, jumping upon him so quickly and unexpectedly that he was forced to

fall back.

"Be quiet, stupid idiot that you are!" she said; "I did not come here to

injure Mario, but to save him: don't you know that I love him, and that

his life is mine? Do what I bid you do, and in two days he will be on

his feet."

Clindor, not knowing which way to turn, and realizing that the charlatan

whom he had summoned made the patient worse with each new prescription,

yielded to Pilar's ascendancy. Despite the fear she caused him, she

acted upon his will by virtue of a fascination which he did not admit,

but which he could not shake off. At times he trembled to entrust

Mario's life to her, but he obeyed, saying to himself that he was

bewitched by her.

In Mario's case the fever was simply a result of nervous irritation: a

day of repose would have cured his wound. But the physician had applied

a healing ointment which produced the effect of poison throughout his

whole system.

Pilar washed and purified the wound. She possessed those _secrets_ of

the Moors to which the Christians of Spain had recourse as a last

resort. She administered powerful antidotes. The purity of the patient's

blood and the wonderful equilibrium of his constitution seconded the

effect of the remedies. He partly recovered consciousness that same

night; and on the following morning he was no longer delirious. In the

evening, although terribly weak, he felt that he was saved.

In his transports of joy, Clindor unconsciously made a declaration of

love to the clever gypsy. She paid no heed whatever. She concealed

herself behind the head of the bed so that Mario might not see her. She

was well aware that her appearance would agitate him.

Two days later, Mario felt so fully restored that he ordered Clindor to

look about for a post-chaise which he could purchase, so that they might

continue their journey. Clindor, seeing that it was too soon, pretended

that he could not find one, whereupon Mario bade him bring horses for

them to ride.

Clindor was driven to despair by his persistence; Pilar interposed.

Mario nearly fell ill again with anger when he saw her and learned that

he owed his life to her. But he soon became calm and said to her in a

mild tone:

"Whence do you come? where have you been since you made those threats?"

"Ah! you are afraid for _her_!" rejoined Pilar with a bitter smile. "Set

your mind at rest; I have had no time to go thither. I will not go, if

you will cease to hate me."

"I will, Pilar, if you abandon all thought of vengeance; but, if you

persist in it, I shall hate you as much as I hate the life I owe to

you."

"Let us not speak of that for the moment; you can safely remain quiet

and not return to your province, since my presence with you is a

guaranty that everything is well."

Therein Pilar touched the crucial point of the situation. Mario

restrained his impatience and consented to remain at Grenoble until he

should be fully cured. He had to consent also to allow Pilar to wait

upon him. He could not dream of turning over to the strong arm of the

law the woman who had just saved his life and whom it was his duty to

try to convert from her evil ways by gentleness. He dared not irritate

her by displaying his contempt, and despite the unconquerable repugnance

she inspired in him, he was reduced to the necessity of being perturbed

in mind when she was long absent and of rejoicing when she returned.

This state of affairs became intolerable after two or three days. Pilar,

incapable of any sort of moral reasoning, was determined to be loved;

she described her passion with a species of wild eloquence, saying and

believing that it was chaste, because it was not governed by the senses,

and sublime, because it had all the fervor of an unbridled imagination

and a wilful temper. She heaped curses upon Lauriane and bitter

reproaches upon Mario, exhibiting her mad passion shamelessly before

poor Clindor, who took fire beside that volcano.

Mario soon wearied of the absurd rôle he was compelled to play. In vain

did he try to transform that nature, incapable as it was of loving the

right for the right's sake, or even of conceiving that Mario or anyone

else on earth could so love it.

"If you did not love that Lauriane so madly," she said to him with

appalling frankness, "you would entrust me with your vengeance; for she

always has despised you and always will."

LXXIII

Mario was able to leave his bed at last, and one evening he went out

alone, starving for fresh air and liberty, to test his strength, being

fully determined to continue his journey even though he must procure

Pilar's imprisonment until further notice, or though he must allow her

to accompany him in order to hold her in subjection.

Meditating upon the most advantageous plan to adopt, he walked slowly

toward the Convent of the Visitation, aimlessly, as if attracted by its

elevated site. Suddenly he found himself face to face with a person who

stopped in front of him. He too stopped. It was as if they were both

irresistibly forced to look at each other.

To judge from her appearance and her manner, the stranger was a woman of

noble rank, richly dressed, short and slender, pale, but young and

beautiful, so far as he could see through the black mask which women of

refinement wore when walking.

She wore a widow's cap and was dressed in black throughout. Her flaxen

hair was arranged in two graceful masses over her hair. She was entirely

alone. No companion, no servant before or behind her.

The graceful and modest charm of her carriage had impressed Mario at a

distance. As she approached, her light hair and black attire had made

his heart beat fast. At a little distance he put away the illusion; face

to face, he was agitated and uncertain.

The same perplexity seemed to assail the masked lady. At last she passed

on, returning Mario's salute.

Mario walked a little way, not without turning several times; he walked

a little farther and stopped again.

"At the risk of being discourteous and receiving a sharp rebuke, I

propose to find out who that woman is!" he said to himself.

He retraced his steps, walking rapidly, and found himself again face to

face with the masked lady, who also had turned back. They both

hesitated, and were very near passing a second time without speaking. At

last the lady determined to break the ice.

"I ask your pardon," she said with some emotion, "but unless I am

deceived by a striking resemblance, you are Mario de Bois-Doré?"

"And you are Lauriane de Beuvre?" cried Mario, intensely excited.

"How does it happen that you recognized me, Mario?" said Lauriane,

removing her mask. "See how I have changed!"

"Yes," said Mario, beside himself with joy, "you were not half so lovely

before!"

"Oh! do not feel compelled to be gallant to that point," said Lauriane.

"My father's death, the sufferings of my party, and the downfall of all

my hopes have aged me more than the years have done. But tell me of

yourself and yours, Mario!"

"Yes, Lauriane; but take my arm and let us go to your home; for I must

speak to you, and unless you are under proper protection here, I will

not leave you."

Lauriane was surprised at Mario's excited air; she accepted his arm and

said to him:

"I could not, if I would, take you to my present home. It is the convent

which you see yonder on the plateau. But you can escort me to the gate

and on the way we will tell each other all about ourselves."

Being urged to tell her story first, she told Mario that after the fall

of La Rochelle, having failed to obtain permission to share Madame de

Rohan's imprisonment, she had attempted to return to Berry. But she had

learned in time that the Prince de Condé had given orders to arrest her

again in case she should make her appearance there.

An old aunt, her only remaining relation and faithful friend, was

superior of the Convent of the Visitation at Grenoble: she was a former

Protestant, who had been consigned to that institution when very young,

and had allowed herself to be converted there. But she had retained a

very great sympathy for the Protestants, and she urged Lauriane most

affectionately to come to her for shelter and protection until the end

of the war in the South. Lauriane had found some repose and much

affection there. She had been no more persecuted there than by the nuns

at Bourges. From consideration for her aunt, they had even pretended not

to know that she was a heretic, and she was allowed to go out alone and

masked, to carry alms and consolation to the divers unfortunate

Protestants living in the suburbs.

"Lauriane," said Mario, "you must not go out any more; you must not show

yourself in public again until I tell you. It is due to the

interposition of Providence that you have not been met and recognized by

an invisible and dangerous foe. Here we are at the gate of the convent;

swear by your father's memory that you will not pass through this gate

again until you have seen me."

"Shall I see you again then, Mario?"

"Yes, to-morrow. Can you receive me in the parlor?"

"Yes, at ten o'clock."

"Do you swear that you will not go out?"

"I swear it."

This time Mario was overjoyed to see the gate of the cloister close

between Lauriane and himself. He considered that she was safe there if

Pilar did not discover her. He carefully explored the immediate

neighborhood of the convent, to satisfy himself that he had not been

followed and watched by her. He knew that she was capable of sacrificing

the whole community in order to reach her rival.

He returned to his apartments and did not find her there. Clindor had

not seen her since his master went out.

All Mario's anxiety revived. He was going down to the street when he

heard an uproar which made him quicken his pace. He saw Pilar being

taken to prison by a party of archers. She uttered piercing shrieks, at

once heart-rending and savage; and when she saw Mario, she held out her

hands to him imploringly with a despairing expression which shook his

resolution for a moment.

"Ah! cruel!" she cried, "it is you who cause me to be cast into a

dungeon as the reward of my love and my care! Infamous wretch! you wish

to be rid of me. Curse you!"

Mario, without replying, questioned the leader of the squad in whose

custody she was.

"Can you tell me," he said, "whether you propose simply to imprison her

for the night as a vagrant, or whether you have arrested her on

suspicion of some crime or misdemeanor?"

He was informed that she was accused of a misdemeanor. The physician who

had treated Mario with such ill success, irritated to find that he had

been cured by an adventuress, accused her of breathing upon her

patients, in terms which were equivalent in those days to a charge of

unlawfully practising medicine, which charge was likely to have far more

serious consequences then than in our day, since the question of

witchcraft could always be raised, a crime which the most learned

magistrates took seriously and punished with death.

"Whatever may happen to her," said Mario to himself, "it is most

important that this dangerous girl should lose track of Lauriane, whom

perhaps she has already discovered."

On the following morning he hurried to the convent.

"Now," he said to his friend, "we may breathe freely, but we cannot go

to sleep over the volcano."

And he told the whole of his strange adventure with the gypsy.

Lauriane listened attentively.

"Now," she said, "I understand everything. Let me tell you, Mario, why I

was so deeply moved when I saw you yesterday, and why I had the

assurance to speak to you without being certain that I recognized you.

Also, why I hesitated the first time, thinking that I was deceived by my

imagination. A week ago, I received an anonymous letter full of insults

and threats, in which I was told that you had been killed in the battle

of the Pas de Suse. I was overwhelmed by that news. I wept for you,

Mario, as one weeps for a brother, and I wrote a letter to your father

and sent it instantly to the mail carrier. Little by little, however,

reflection led me to doubt the truth of the suspicious intelligence I

had received, and when I met you I was on my way to the town, to

ascertain, if possible, the names of the nobles who were killed in that

battle. I had resolved, if yours was among them, to go to your father

and try to sustain him and care for him in that terrible trial. I surely

owed him that, did I not, Mario, for all his kindness to me in years

gone by?"

Mario gazed at Lauriane; he could not tire of contemplating her altered

features, her eyes inflamed by grief and tears, the traces of which

seemed very fresh.

"Ah! my Lauriane," he cried, kissing her hands, "so you have retained a

little affection for me?"

"Affection and esteem," she replied; "I knew that you had refused to

fight against the Protestants."

"Ah! I will never do that! and yet I never told my principal reason! I

can tell it to you now: I would not run the risk of firing upon your

father and your friends. Lauriane, I always loved you dearly; why were

your letters to my father always so cold with respect to me?"

"I, too, can speak with perfect frankness now, my dear Mario. My father,

when we went to Bourges the last time, four years ago, had the strange

idea of affiancing us to each other. Your father rejected, as he was

bound to do, the suggestion of so ill-assorted a union; and I, a little

humiliated by my poor father's thoughtlessness, informed you several

times of marriage projects, to which I gave but slight consideration in

the melancholy situation in which I then was. At the same time I was

cold to you in words, my dear Mario, and perhaps somewhat humiliated by

the thought of the presumption which you would naturally attribute to

me. Let us smile to-day at all that past misery, and do me the justice

to believe that I do not entertain the slightest thought of marriage. I

am twenty-three years old; my time has gone by. My party is crushed, and

my fortune will be confiscated whenever it suits the Prince de Condé's

caprice. My poor father is dead, stripped by the hazard of war of the

property he had amassed in his maritime expeditions. So I am neither

rich nor beautiful nor young. I have but one cause of rejoicing: it is

that I can live hereafter not far from you, without being suspected of

aspiring to anything except your friendship."

Mario listened, trembling and bewildered.

"Lauriane," he said impetuously, "you show your disdain of my name, my

youth and my heart when you speak of the tranquil bond of friendship

which it would be easy for you to resume. But it is for me to say: It is

too late. I have always loved you reverently, and I do not think that my

love is any less reverent because I have loved you more passionately

since I lost you and since I have found you again. I, too, Lauriane,

have suffered keenly! But I have never despaired altogether. When I had

carefully concealed my grief, in order not to allow myself to languish

and die, God sent me, in His merciful compassion, gusts of hope in Him

and of faith in you.

"'She knows, she must know that it would kill me,' I would say to

myself; 'she will love me, she will not love another, because of her

kindness of heart if for no other reason! I am only a child, but I can

soon and very quickly make myself worthy of her, by working hard, by

keeping my heart pure, by having courage, by making them happy who will

love me, and by fighting gallantly when there comes a righteous war':

for this one is righteous, is it not, Lauriane, and your heart cannot be

so changed that you love the Spaniards to-day?"

"No, surely not!" she replied. "And it was because Monsieur de Rohan

insisted upon this mad, disgraceful and desperate alliance that I

awaited the result of events here, and took no deeper interest in them."

"You see, Lauriane, that nothing separates us now. If I am not the good

and learned man that I would like to be, I believe at all events that I

know as much and can fight as stoutly as most of the young men of

twenty-five to thirty years, with whom I came in contact in the army. As

for my affection, Lauriane, I can answer for its lasting so long as my

life shall last. I am entitled to no credit for it, for I was born

loyal, and from childhood it has been impossible for me to consider any

other woman than you lovely and lovable; I placed my heart in your

keeping the first day that I saw you. I have never become accustomed to

living apart from you, and I have never passed a single day at Briantes

without sitting down to dream of you, instead of playing and amusing

myself, whenever I left my studies for an instant. What I thought, what

I said to you eight years ago, in the famous labyrinth, I still think

and I say to you again to-day.

"I cannot live happily without you, Lauriane! In order to be happy, I

must see you always. I know that I have no right to say to you: 'Make me

happy!'--You owe me nothing! but perhaps you will be happier with me

than you were with your poor father, or than you are now, alone,

persecuted, and obliged to conceal yourself. I do not need that you

should be rich; but if you are bent upon being rich, I will enforce your

rights as soon as peace is assured; I will defend you against your

enemies. Married to me, you will have absolute freedom of conscience;

and under my protection you can pray as you choose. We will not fight

for our altars, as the King and Queen of England are doing at this

moment. If you must have a title, why I am bemarquised for good and all.

Whether you are still beautiful or not, I do not know, I never shall

know. I see that you have changed. You are paler now and thinner than

when you were sixteen years old; but in my eyes you are much lovelier

so, and if you had never been lovely, it seems to me that I should have

loved you no less dearly.

"If therefore a woman's happiness consists in being beautiful in the

eyes of the man she loves, love me, Lauriane, and you will have that

happiness. Listen, Lauriane, and let me speak to you as in the old days.

I have been submissive and brave down to this day; do not deprive me of

my strength; if you wish to wait still longer and know me as a friend

and a brother, I will wait until you trust me. If you wish me to go back

to the army--and, in truth, such is my desire--come to the camp as my

father's ward and adopted daughter. I will see you only when you choose,

not at all if you insist, until you accept me for your husband. But do

not leave us again; for, with or without your love, we are and desire

always to be your family, your friends, your defenders, your slaves,

whatever you wish us to be, provided that you permit us to love you and

serve you."

Lauriane pressed Mario's loyal hands in hers.

"You are an angel," she said, "and it requires courage on my part to

refuse you. But I love you too well to chain your brilliant destiny to

mine, melancholy, as it is, and alas! complete; I love your father too

well to be willing to cause him this sorrow."

"My father? you doubt my father?" cried Mario, beside himself. "Ah!

Lauriane, do you not understand that your father deceived you! Say that

you do not love me, that you have never loved me!"

At that moment there was a violent ringing at the gate of the convent,

and a moment later the Marquis de Bois-Doré rushed into the parlor and

embraced Mario and Lauriane in turn.

He had not received Clindor's message, but Lauriane's letter; and as the

treaty was signed and he was returning to Berry, he had come to the

convent to take her home with him. He was greatly surprised to find

Mario there, thinking that he had already returned to Briantes.

The situation was explained to him; then Mario, still intensely

agitated, said to him:

"You arrive in good time, father. Lauriane here thinks that you do not

love her!"

A second explanation ensued. The marquis perceived Mario's agitation and

grief, and he smiled.

Lauriane suddenly understood that smile.

"Dear marquis," she cried, blushing and trembling from head to foot,

"give me back the letter I wrote you when I thought that your son was

dead! Give it back to me, I insist; do not show it."

"No, no," replied the marquis, handing the letter to Mario with a sly

expression; "he shall never see it, unless he snatches it from my

hands--which he is quite capable of doing, as you see!"

LXXIV

The letter was short and disconsolate; Mario had soon devoured it with

his eyes, while Lauriane hid her face on the old man's shoulder.

Lauriane, in the first outburst of bitter grief, had written the marquis

that she had always loved Mario since their separation and should wear

mourning for him all her life.

"For now," she said, "I feel for the first time that I am really

widowed!"

"You are not, you never will be, my Lauriane," said the marquis,

removing her little black cap for a moment. "I have never desired any

other daughter than you, and we will go home and prepare for the wedding

at Briantes."

I leave you to imagine the rejoicing at the old manor at the

simultaneous return of the Beaux Messieurs de Bois-Doré, Lauriane,

Adamas, Aristandre, and even Clindor, who, the better to destroy the

spell cast upon him by the gypsy, hastened to pay court to all the

village maidens.

The marriage of Monsieur Sylvain's beloved children could not be

celebrated publicly until Lauriane had made submission to the king and

obtained her pardon, for she had proclaimed herself a rebel in a moment

of desperation; and, despite Monsieur Poulain's influence, the king

remained inflexible so long as the _War in the South_ lasted.

It was short and bloody. It was the last gasp of the party as a

political faction.

"Upon the ruins of that demolished party, Richelieu caused the son of

Henri IV. to swear to maintain the religious liberty proclaimed by his

father."[11]

Thereafter they could safely present to Louis XIII. the Marquis de

Bois-Doré's petition in behalf of his daughter-in-law. To that end

Mario went in person to Nîmes, where the king had made a triumphal

entry with Richelieu. Monsieur de Rohan had gone to Venice.

Mario obtained a decree restoring his wife's estates in despite of

monsieur le prince, who was sniffing eagerly at them, and likewise

restoring her liberty without condition or reservation. The cardinal

received him and rebuked him mildly for having taken no part in that

war. Mario requested another opportunity to fight in Italy, and the

cardinal, as he dismissed him, said in an undertone, with a most affable

smile:

"I promise you the opportunity, but say nothing about it unless you wish

me to fail!"

Mario found the Abbé Poulain at Nîmes, thoroughly exhausted and

delighted to have a few weeks of repose. He had assisted Mario so

cordially, that the young man invited him to come to Briantes, and they

set out together, the priest congratulating himself upon the prospect of

celebrating the marriage of the young people.

They started on an intensely hot day. It was early in July. The country

which they rode through had been laid waste by the war and not a tree,

not a cottage was standing.

By the king's command the troops had ravaged the territory around all

the rebellious cities, in order to starve the inhabitants.

"We are passing through a conflagration," said Monsieur Poulain to

Mario; "the sun treats us as we treated this poor soil, and I verily

believe that our clothes will take fire."

"Really, monsieur l'abbé," said Clindor, who loved to mingle in the

conversation, "there's a very unpleasant smell of something burning!"

"I believe that some house is still burning behind yonder hill," said

Mario; "do you not see smoke?"

"There is very little of it," said the abbé; "some little hovel, I

presume. I confess, monsieur le comte, that I am weary of so much

misery. I used to hate the Huguenots; now that they are down, I am like

you, I pity them. I witnessed the Privas affair. Well, I have had enough

of it, and I defy the greatest gluttons of vengeance to say that they

are not surfeited with it."

"I should say as much!" said Mario with a sigh; "but listen to those

shrieks, monsieur l'abbé; there is somebody in great distress. Let us

go to see."

Behind the hill where the smoke was ascending, they heard shrieks, or

rather one long, piercing, heart-rending shriek. The appalling duration

of that distant cry, which seemed to be uttered by a child, made a

profound impression on the abbé. Clindor could not believe that it was

a human voice.

"No, no," he said, "either that is a shepherd's pipe, or somebody is

killing a kid."

"It is a human being expiring in torture," said Monsieur Poulain; "I

know that frightful music only too well!"

"Let us hasten then!" cried Mario; "we may be in time to save an

unfortunate fellow creature. Come, come, monsieur l'abbé! The peace is

signed; no one has the right to torture Huguenots!"

"It is too late," said the priest, "the sounds have ceased."

The shrieks had suddenly ceased and the smoke had disappeared. Perhaps

they were mistaken. However, they urged their horses and soon reached

the top of the hill.

Thereupon they espied, in the valley beyond, and much farther away than

they had supposed, a group of peasants bustling about a half-extinct

fire. Before they came within ear-shot, the men had dispersed. A single

old woman remained near the smoking ashes, which she was turning over

with a fork as if in search of something. Mario arrived first at the

spot, where his nostrils were assailed by an acrid, intolerable odor.

"What are you looking for there, mother?" he said; "what have you been

burning?"

"Oh! nothing, my fine gentleman! nothing but a witch who gave us the

fever with her look whenever she passed. Our men made an end of her, and

I am looking to see if she didn't leave her secret in the ashes."

"What? her secret?" said Mario, disgusted by the sang-froid of that

harridan.

"You see," replied the old woman, "she had something around her neck

that glistened, and she lost it struggling when they put her in the

fire. Then she shrieked: 'I have lost it, I am lost myself!'--It must

have been an amulet to protect her from a violent death, and I would

like to find it."

[Illustration: _MARIO FINDS PILAR'S TALISMAN._

"_Look" said Mario, picking up a coin with a hole

in it, which he saw shining at his feet, "is this it?_"

"_Yes, yes, that's it, my fine gentleman! Give it

to me for the trouble I had keeping the fire burning._"]

"Look," said Mario, picking up a coin with a hole in it, which he saw

shining at his feet, "is this it?"

"Yes, yes, that's it, my fine gentleman! Give it to me for the trouble I

had keeping the fire burning."

Mario threw the coin far away, impelled by a feeling of unconquerable

horror. He had read upon it a name carved with a knife. It was Pilar's

talisman. Naught else remained of her save that testimony of her fatal

love, a few charred bones, and the disgusting odor of burned flesh with

which the atmosphere was heavy.

Overwhelmed with horror and pity, Mario rode rapidly away, refusing to

give Clindor, who questioned him closely, the key to the riddle; and,

during a considerable part of the journey, he was unable to shake off

the painful impression produced by that shocking incident.

But when they drew near the manor, we can readily believe that he had

forgotten everything, and thought only of the joy of seeing once more

his dear betrothed, his beloved father, his loving Mercedes, his

paternal tutor Lucilio, the sage Adamas, and the heroic charioteer,--all

those loving hearts who, while spoiling him to the best of their

ability, had succeeded as by a miracle in making him the best and most

charming of mortals.

The wedding festival was magnificent. The marquis opened the ball with

Lauriane, who, being happy and at peace once more, seemed not a day

older than the handsome Mario.

[Footnote 11: Henri Martin.]