The Count de Meyrand was awake early, and dressed with the most
scrupulous exactness of appearance, without a riband tumbled or a point
out of place. He descended slowly about seven of the clock from the
chamber in which he had passed the night, by the long black
double-railed staircase, that led at once from the rooms above into the
kitchen, which, as I have said before, served also as the saloon of the
inn. His air and his countenance bore the same appearance of
indifference which they usually displayed, and he made no inquiry
whatsoever regarding the events of the preceding evening, although he
had retired to rest more than an hour before Bernard de Rohan had
returned to the inn. His servants came and went, seeking directions
concerning this thing and that, and communicating with him, from time to
time, in a low tone. The aubergiste, with many a lowly reverence, asked
his distinguished guest manifold questions concerning his breakfast; but
still the Count de Meyrand was not heard to ask any questions either
regarding the fate of his friend, or the somewhat remarkable events
which had lately taken place.
At length, however, the jovial priest made his appearance; and whether
it was that the count was in a better humour for raillery than on the
night before, or whether he remarked, by the keen twinkling of the
other's eye, that he was about to commence an attack upon him, which
would not easily cease, he chose to be the first to open the encounter,
saying, "Well, good father, though I know it is not an easy thing to
cool a priest's courage, yet I trust your last night's expedition has
rather diminished your chivalrous ardour."
"Not a whit," replied the priest. "Everything depends upon how much a
man's courage wants cooling. Yours, noble count, seems not of a quality
very likely to boil over; and, doubtless, ten steps from the door of the
inn would have sent you home shivering. Mine carried me, however, a
little farther."
"Ay, doubtless," interrupted the count, "up to the point where you met
with these rogues; and then you waited behind a great stone to see who
had the best of the fray. Is it not so? I see you have brought home no
desperate wounds with you."
"None," replied the priest, "that I cannot bear as tranquilly and well
as you, my noble lord, could bear the sorrow of your best friend. My
trade, however, is not bloodshed; I love not hard blows, and shall
always keep out of their way as far as I can. So my confession is made;
but here comes one who has a greater liking for wounds and bruises than
I have; and now Heaven send us all as good food as I have a good
stomach. Mine host! mine host! that omelet will be overdone, and the sin
of burned eggs is one to which I refuse absolution. By Hercules! as the
Romans used to say--Body of Bacchus! as the Italians say--Dame! as we
say in France, did ever mortal man see such a basket of fine trouts?
Why, it is a gift for an abbot! Look! my noble baron, look!" he
continued, turning to Bernhard de Rohan, who now made his appearance;
"did you ever see such fair river-gods in your life? Put them upon the
ashes, host, put them upon the ashes!"
Bernard de Rohan did not pay so much attention to the fishes as the
priest, by his commendation, seemed to think they deserved; but, turning
to his friend, he shook him by the hand, saying, "Well, Meyrand, you
certainly always were a very unaccountable sort of personage, or I
should be inclined seriously to quarrel with you for suffering me to go
last night without assistance, at the imminent risk of getting my throat
cut for want of your help."
"If you risked getting your throat cut, De Rohan," replied his
companion, "that was your fault; I had nothing to do with that; I even
deviated so far from my usual habits as to ask you to stay, and not do
it. I have always a reason for everything I do, good Sir Bernard, and I
take it for granted that other people have a reason too. I supposed that
you had some motive for going and getting your throat cut, and therefore
did not in the least blame you for doing so, if you chose; but I had no
reason for anything of the kind, and therefore I stayed where I was.
Indeed, I had every reason in the world not to go: I was warm and
comfortable, and had good wine and good viands before me; I was tired
with a long day's hunting, and had got my boots off. Then what to me was
the Lord of Masseran, that I should try to save his life or liberty? I
had no motive for serving him: indeed, quite the contrary. Every one
knows him to be an egregious scoundrel, and at this moment he owes me
thirty thousand crowns, which he will never pay, and which I have no
chance of getting, unless some honest brigand should cut his throat,
when the King of France would doubtless take possession of his lands and
pay his creditors."
"Good faith, you are better acquainted with him than I am," replied
Bernard de Rohan. "Pray let me know something of his history; for I
never heard anything of him till some six months ago, when letters from
France informed me that the widowed Countess of Brienne, the mother of
my friend and comrade, Henry of Brienne, was about to be married to a
Marquis of Masseran."
"Oh! his history is told in a few words," replied the Count de Meyrand,
laughing; "but serve the breakfast, my good host, and do not stand with
your mouth open listening to the venerable character of your noble lord,
for I take it we are here upon his domain."
"No, no!" replied the host, "he is no lord of mine, noble sir; this is
ducal domain we stand upon."
"It matters not," answered the count; "this Lord of Masseran, then,
Bernard, though his mother was a Frenchwoman, was born on the other side
of those Alps, a Piedmontese vagabond; half Frenchman, half Italian; a
sort of water-snake, neither adder nor eel; though a sort of third-size
sovereign, an underling of the Duke of Savoy. He who would have been
beggarly for a French gentleman, was ten times more beggarly for a
prince; and thus, in all probability, he would have gone on
living--filled with all the small Italian vices of our day; sharing, it
is said, with the brigands who take refuge on the territories of such
small lords; and employing the stiletto or the drug when it suited his
purpose to get rid of troublesome friends--thus, I say, he would have
gone on living what is considered in Italy a very respectable, quiet,
insignificant life, had a fancy not suddenly come into the head of our
worthy king to take possession of the dominions of his friend and
cousin, the Duke of Savoy, which fancy at once raises this Lord of
Masseran into a person of importance. He has, it seems, upon his lands
one or two small towns and one or two small castles; but these towns and
these castles are so situated as to command several passes and defiles
valuable to France. Now my Lord of Masseran is a conscientious man, and,
of course, nothing would ever induce him to take part with any one who
could not pay him for the same. From the poor Duke of Savoy not a livre
tournois was to be expected. The King of France himself, though a
perfect Croesus in promises, was known to be somewhat threadbare in
the treasury. He, however, was the more hopeful speculation of the two,
for he had power if he had not money, and there was a probability of his
paying one friend out of what he pillaged from another. With him, then,
my Lord of Masseran chose to deal, and promised to give free passage to
the troops of France upon certain conditions, which are, of course, a
secret. One thing, however, is evident; my Lord of Masseran did with the
king as some of our followers do when they take service of us. He asked,
in short, for something in hand. Now the worthy monarch of France had
nothing to give but the hand of a fair widow in her fortieth year. With
that hand, however, went a dowry of some twenty thousand crowns a year,
and the Lord of Masseran came to Paris and opened the campaign against
the widow's heart. She has the repute, as you should know better than
any one, of being somewhat hard and stern in her purpose, and cutting
with her tongue. She was inconsolable, too, for the death of her noble
husband; always wore black, like the mother of the late king, and looked
the picture of widowhood. My Lord of Masseran, however, with his
Piedmontese eloquence, found means to win the widow, with the support of
the king. The lady thought, it would seem, to spend her days in Paris;
but that city soon became a residence unsuited to the health of her new
husband. There were strange stories current regarding him; but there was
one thing certain, namely, that he was marvellously fond of those small,
square, spotted pieces of mischief, which have the art of conveying so
many fortunes from hand to hand. He played largely; he won generally;
and his fortune seemed immense. One night, at the Louvre, he borrowed
from me the large sum I have named, with a promise to repay it the next
morning; but it would seem that, after I left the hall, either fortune
went against him, or he took an irresistible longing for Savoy. His lady
raved and raged, we are told: but she found that she had now to do with
one, upon whose dull ear the sweet sounds of a woman's tongue, raised to
ever so high a pitch, had no effect. The Lord of Masseran paid not the
least attention to anything that she said; he did not seem to hear her;
but, with the most kind courtesy and ceremonious respect, handed her to
the carriage which was prepared to bear her away; and she found herself
on the road to Savoy before she could arrange any scheme for resistance.
This is his history; mine is soon told: I choose not so easily to
abandon my hold of my Lord of Masseran; and I am here hunting his game,
riding through his woods, and visiting his castle gate; for he seems to
me to be as deaf to my sweet solicitations for repayment as he showed
himself to the melodious intonations of his lady's voice. Now, priest,
though your clerical appetite may be good, do not devour all the trout
in the dish, for I am hungry as well as you, and have told a long
story."
"And a good one too," replied the priest, laughing, and putting over the
dish to the count; but he suddenly added, "Have you never got within the
gates of his castle, then, my noble lord?" and he fixed his eyes full
upon the face of the Count de Meyrand.
A very slight change of colour took place on the count's cheek; but he
replied at once, "Oh yes, I have been within, but to no purpose."
"He must be an obdurate man indeed," said the priest, "if your
persuasions, my noble lord, can have no effect upon him. I wonder what
mine would have! Perhaps he might listen to the voice of the Church: I
will go up and try."
"Why what hast thou to do with him?" demanded the count, suddenly
turning his eyes sharply upon the priest. "On what pretext wilt thou go
thither?"
"To exercise my calling," replied the priest, with a sly smile; "to
exercise my calling in one of its various ways."
"I knew not that your calling had various ways," replied the count, his
usual air of indifference verging into a look of supercilious contempt.
"Oh yes it has," replied the priest, well pleased, as it seemed to
Bernard de Rohan, that he had piqued the count out of his apathy. "Our
calling has various ways of exercising itself. We address ourselves to
all grades and classes. If I convert not the Lord of Masseran, I may
convert his cook, you know. My efforts for the good of his soul may
prove for the benefit of my own body; and the discourse that is held
over venison and capons comes with a fervour and an unction which is
marvellously convincing."
There was a sly and jocular smile upon the priest's countenance,
especially while addressing the Count de Meyrand, that somewhat puzzled
Bernard de Rohan, and evidently annoyed the count himself. It was not
difficult to see that, in the most serious things he said--though,
indeed, there were few that he did say which were serious at all--there
was a lurking jest, that seemed pointed at something which the hearer
did not clearly see, but which might or might not be something in his
own character, purposes, or pursuits.
The significance of his tone towards the Count de Meyrand, however, did
not pass without that gentleman's observation; and, after listening to
him for several minutes more, while the party concluded their breakfast,
he turned towards him as he rose, saying, "It seems to me, priest, that
you would fain be insolent. Now let me tell you, that, though you are
very reverend personages in Savoy, and men meddle with you warily, in
France we have a way of curing clerical insolence, which is a good
scourging with hunting-whips. Perhaps you do not know that this is the
way French gentlemen treat those who are insolent."
"I know it well," replied the priest, turning upon him sharply, "I know
it well, as I happen to be a French gentleman myself."
He instantly changed his tone, however, and added, with his wonted
smile, "Nay, but now, Heaven forbid! that I should be insolent to the
noble Count de Meyrand. He being a generous and well-bred gentleman,
and, like every other gentleman, indifferent to all things upon earth,
can never take offence where no offence is meant; but, as he looks
furious, I will take myself out of harm's way. The blessing of a whole
skin is great. Adieu, my son! adieu! We shall meet some time again, when
I shall find you, I trust, restored to temper, and as lamb-like and meek
as myself."
While he thus spoke, the priest gradually made his way to the door and
issued forth; while the Count of Meyrand, calling one of his attendants
to him, whispered something which Bernard de Rohan construed into an
order unfavourable to the safety of the jovial priest's shoulders.
"Nay, nay, Meyrand," he said, "let him have his jest, for pity's sake.
Recollect he is a priest."
"His gown sha'n't save him," replied the count. "Those priests have too
much immunity already in all parts of the world. But what do you now, de
Rohan? Will you hunt with me to-day, and we will drive this Lord of
Masseran's deer from one end of Savoy to the other? or do you go on to
Paris at once, and deny me your good company?"
"I write to Paris," replied the cavalier, "and send off a messenger
immediately. But I myself go up to seek this Lord of Masseran. I have
despatches for him from the Marechal de Brissac, and also some orders to
give by word of mouth."
"I hope they are not disagreeable orders," replied the count, turning
towards the door of the inn; "for he is not one of those whom I should
like to offend in his own castle."
"Oh no, I shall say nothing that should offend him," replied Bernard de
Rohan. "But, besides that, I shall not go till after the arrival of the
rest of my men, who come across the mountain this morning; and he might
find it rather dangerous to do me harm."
"His ways of dealing with troublesome friends are various," replied the
count. "I should love neither to dine nor to sleep in his dwelling. A
word to the wise, good friend, a word to the wise! Now, my men, quick!
quick! get ready the horses, bring out the dogs. You will not be
tempted, De Rohan?"
"I cannot now," replied his friend. "Another day, if I stay so long. I
wish you sport, I wish you good sport;" and, turning towards his
chamber, he caused a table to be brought, and materials for writing to
be placed before him. He there remained for nearly an hour and a half,
busily tracing upon paper those small black characters which, since some
man--whether Cadmus, who, if he did it, may well be said to have sown
dragons' teeth and reaped a harvest of strife, or whoever else the
learned world may have it--those black characters, I say, which, since
some man, not contented with what mischief the tongue can do, invented
writing for the propagation thereof, have worked more of wo and
mischief, as well as of happiness and prosperity, than any other
invention that the prolific mind of man ever brought forth. At length
the sound of a trumpet coming down the hill saluted his ear, and in a
few minutes after it was announced to him that the rest of his train had
arrived.