a temper, and rushing over to the foot of the bed, put out his hand to
seize the sword and give them a wrathful prick or two all round—but
lo! sure enough, it was _not_ there!
There then followed a tremendous uproar. They searched the room from
end to end; they tore down all the old tapestries; they peered under
all the chairs; they climbed up and crawled all over the high canopy
of the ancient bed; they shook the mattresses; and in their zeal, even
looked in the count’s shaving mug and under the brass candlesticks.
Meantime, Hugo himself, in a towering passion, was striding up and
down the room, cuffing his pages, accusing everybody of robbery, and
threatening right and left to hang every man of them if the sword were
not instantly found!
At last, however, neither threats nor rage proving of the least avail
in bringing to light the lost sword, he descended, followed by his
terrified retinue, to the inn courtyard, and calling out Monsieur
Jean, he stirred up another terrible commotion. He accused everybody
of everything, and finally wound up by insisting that the craven Count
Boni had hired some robber to steal the sword in hopes that the duel
might not be fought. He swore that he would none the less kill poor
Boni, sword or no sword, and meantime ordered the man-at-arms, who had
slept outside his door, to be mercilessly beaten; for Hugo declared the
thief must have entered through the door, as no man could possibly have
come in between the bars of the window.
At this Geoffrey, who had been up for a long while, and had witnessed
all this uproar in the courtyard, felt himself in a very unhappy
position; he had not expected all this. Indeed, he had given very
little thought as to what might happen to himself or anybody else,
when once he had hidden the sword. He knew now that fearful punishment
awaited him if he were found out; but he could not bear to have the
good Count Boni’s honor blackened, or that the poor man-at-arms, who
was entirely innocent of blame, should suffer, because of what he,
Geoffrey, had done.
So biting his lips hard to keep up his courage and tightly clenching
his hands behind him, Geoffrey, who was a brave, manly little fellow,
straightway strode out and, standing in front of the raging Count Hugo,
said:
“Sir, neither Count Boni nor yonder man-at-arms had aught to do with
the loss of your evil sword. I took it away myself!”
[Illustration]
At this Count Hugo stared at the little boy for a moment in speechless
surprise. Then, roaring out a terrible oath in a voice like thunder, he
pounced like a wildcat upon poor Geoffrey, and shook him till his teeth
chattered.
“Thou—thou—miserable varlet!” roared and sputtered the count.
“Thou base-born knave! So thy monkey fingers have dared to meddle
with my precious sword! Faugh! Where hast thou put it? Tell me
instantly,—_parbleu!_—or I will crack every bone in thy worthless
body!”
And here he fell so viciously to shaking and cuffing him again, that
poor Geoffrey could hardly open his mouth to answer; but at length he
managed to gasp out resolutely:
“I will not tell thee till to-morrow. Then I will restore it to thee! I
do not wish to keep the heathenish thing!”
At this the rage of the count knew no bounds, and he doubtless would
have killed the poor little boy then and there, had not Monsieur Jean
and others among the terrified spectators rushed between them and
besought Hugo to be merciful, and give the boy at least till the morrow
to fulfil his word.
Hereupon, the count, who even in his wrath saw reason in what they
said, savagely flung Geoffrey over to one of his men-at-arms,
commanding him to chastise him, chain him, and keep close watch over
him till the morrow. For the count reflected that if he should hang
the boy then, as he fully intended to do by and by, he would cut off
the only possible means of finding out where his sword was hidden. For
while the lad was stubborn as a rock, Hugo had to admit that he seemed
honest, and so perhaps would keep his promise to restore his prized
weapon.
But the more the count thought of Geoffrey’s act, the more it puzzled
him to account for it. As he recalled the disturbance of his sleep
the night before, he began to understand that Geoffrey was the real
cockatoo of the affair.
“Faugh!” he said to himself, “to think ’twas the clanking of my
own good sword that I mistook for the rattling of that chattering
popinjay’s chain!” But he could not account for the boy’s curious
promise to restore the weapon on the morrow. If he meant to return it,
why did he take it at all? And why did he confess and get himself into
trouble, when no one thought of accusing him? The first part of this
question Count Hugo could not answer, because he knew nothing of the
coming of the heralds and Geoffrey’s wish to put off the duel; while
the last part was equally puzzling to him, because he had no sense of
honor, and could not see why one should suffer if an innocent man would
do just as well.
At any rate, he soon tired trying to understand the matter. Having
placed the boy in safe keeping till the morrow, the next thing was to
have his “second”—(for so the friends were called who arranged the
details of duels for those who were to do the fighting)—see Count
Boni’s second, who had arrived some time before, and have the duel
fixed for the following morning, when Count Hugo vowed he would fight
to the death with somebody’s sword,—whether his own or another’s.
These matters settled, he remembered that it was fully noon, and he had
not yet breakfasted; so he haughtily withdrew to the inn parlor, and
commanded Monsieur Jean to have him served instantly.
Meanwhile poor Geoffrey went off with the man-at-arms, who was secretly
sorry for the little boy, and so did not chastise him so cruelly as
the count would have wished; although he was obliged to give him a few
bloody cuts with the lash across his face and hands, for the sake of
appearances, in case Hugo should happen to inspect him.
Poor little boy! Ah! how eagerly he longed for the arrival of the
heralds, as the jongleur had predicted. But then the dreadful thought
would come, what if something should delay their journey! Or worst
of all, what if the jongleur had not spoken the truth, and there were
no heralds anyway! These doubts and fears tormented Geoffrey more and
more as the hours wore on, and still no sign of the longed-for king’s
messengers.
He began to wish dismally that he had set farther off the time for
restoring the sword; though he felt sure that unless prevented by the
king’s edict, Count Hugo would fight on the morrow anyhow, despite the
loss of that particular weapon. It then suddenly occurred to him, that
even if the heralds came and stopped the duel as he wished, how was he
himself to escape from the clutches of Count Hugo? This thought sent
a cold chill through him; but when he thought of his dear Count Boni
and the grief of poor little Isabeau, he was not a whit sorry for what
he had done, and with childish hopefulness looked forward to some good
chance to free him.
Surely, surely, he said to himself, the king’s heralds were persons
in authority, and would not see him killed by the cruel Hugo, even if
he had taken and hidden the heathenish old sword. Did he not mean to
give it back, and had he not done it because of the very law they were
coming to proclaim? Surely they would help him in some way!
And so the afternoon wore wearily on. Count Hugo came once or twice
to see that the man-at-arms had properly beaten him, and even
meditated putting him to some torture to make him disclose at once
the whereabouts of the sword. But he scarcely dared, as he feared an
uprising of the people of the inn, who, he saw, were very fond of
Geoffrey; so he contented himself with cruelly striking the lad once or
twice, and determining to deal summarily with him when he should take
him away from Dives.
For at that time powerful noblemen did very much as they pleased. The
good King Louis had been away fighting in the Holy Land for so long
that affairs in France had for the most part taken care of themselves;
and though since his return the king was striving hard to correct many
abuses, there were many things yet to be looked after. So Count Hugo
thought he should have no trouble in carrying Geoffrey away as his
private prisoner because of the taking of his sword.
After the count’s last visit, when he had informed Geoffrey of some
of the punishments he meant to visit upon him when he got him off in
his own castle, the poor boy began really to despair! It was growing
late, and the sun was almost to its setting, and still not a sound to
tell of any unusual arrival in Dives. The little boy lay back, and
shut his eyes tight, trying to forget his miseries, and the dreadful
things ahead of him; but try as he might, now and then a big tear would
force itself through his closed lids, and trickle down his poor little
blood-stained cheeks.
And so another hour wore on, Geoffrey growing all the while more
despairing and miserable in his gloomy prospects. But at last, just as
he had given up all hope of the heralds, and concluded that the plight
he had got himself into had been all useless after all,—he suddenly
started up, and clutching the sleeve of the man-at-arms, exclaimed,
“Hark! what is that?”
“Hush, hush, little one! ’tis nothing,” said the man, who was a stupid
fellow, half dozing, and merely thought the lad crazed by his fright.
“Nay!” cried Geoffrey, “but listen!”
Here the guard somewhat pricked up his ears.
“By my faith!” he answered, “I believe ’tis a blare of trumpets! Some
noble must be coming to Dives!”
But Geoffrey, with eyes shining, held his breath, and listened to the
sounds, which seemed to be coming nearer. First there was a great
fanfare of trumpets; then a blare of horns; and then he could hear the
clatter as the inn folk hastened across the paved courtyard to the
gateway to see what was going on in the street without. In a little
while some of them seemed to return, and Geoffrey, who was burning to
know, but could not stir for his chains, besought the man-at-arms to
ask some one the cause of the commotion; so going over to the window of
the room, he called out to a passer-by.
“Ho, comrade! what is the meaning of yonder uproar?”
“’Tis the king’s heralds,” answered the voice from without; “he hath
sent them to proclaim a new law forbidding duels!”
Then, before long, the heralds, having made the tour of the Dives
streets, came riding toward the inn, escorted by a train of Dives
people. Geoffrey heard their horses’ hoofs as they pricked in through
the gateway, and also had the great joy of hearing them make the
proclamation itself; for having heard that at that very moment a
nobleman was lodging in the inn, come there for the purpose of a now
unlawful duel, they halted in the middle of the courtyard, and rising
in their stirrups, blew their trumpets, and again elaborately announced
the royal edict,—this time for the express benefit of their two
countships, Hugo and Boni.
Hearing this, Geoffrey was wild with delight; it was all working out
just as he had counted on! That is, all but one fact, which he all
at once ruefully remembered; he himself was at that moment still a
prisoner of the cruel Count Hugo. He had not counted on that at all!
O, he thought, if he could only get out and throw himself on the
mercy of the heralds! They were his only hope; for Count Boni as yet
knew not why he had taken the sword, and was perhaps angry with him
and would not come at once to help him. So he piteously begged and
besought the man-at-arms to take off his chains and let him go only so
far as the courtyard. But the man, though he felt sorry for the boy,
had too hearty a terror of the consequences to himself if he let him
out against Hugo’s orders; so he turned a deaf ear to all Geoffrey’s
entreaties, and gruffly told him he could do nothing for him.
At this the poor little boy fell to sobbing, and sobbed and sobbed most
of the night; for the dark had now fallen, and the little fellow was
quite hopeless for the morrow, when he knew Count Hugo meant to take
him away.
Meantime, that nobleman had passed into another terrible rage when he
heard the edict of the heralds. He was furious! Furious at the king,
the heralds, at Geoffrey and the world in general; because he saw
himself thwarted in his plans to kill Boni,—as he felt confident he
could do, with his unholy skill with the sword,—and to seize Boni’s
rich estate. All this put him in a frightful temper; although he was
wise enough to know that he dare not defy the king. So he scolded and
swore at everybody in sight, and then sulkily withdrew to his own
apartments, after giving orders to have his coach made ready to leave
early in the morning; for he wished to get off with Geoffrey at least,
before any one could prevent _that_! And on the boy he meant to wreak
full vengeance.
So the next morning Hugo, contrary to his custom, was astir early; he
had breakfasted in his room, and then hastening down to the courtyard,
got into his yellow coach and sent instant orders for the man-at-arms
to bring Geoffrey and mount the coach also; for he wished to keep an
eye on his victim and also to demand fulfilment of his promise to
restore the sword. But just as the man-at-arms was on his way to the
count, with his miserable little prisoner, he was intercepted by the
two heralds, who had been astir earlier even than Hugo.
Indeed, they were up because they had had a word or two put into their
ears the night before by the jongleur, who had sought them out and had
a bit of a talk with them. Now the jongleur was a shrewd fellow, and
recalling his conversation under the plane-tree with Geoffrey, had put
two and two together, and had pretty well understood the boy’s reasons
for carrying off the sword; and admiring him, he had determined to do
the best he could to save him, if explaining things to the heralds
could effect this. And it seemed it could; for now the heralds, laying
hold of the boy, first asked him if he had restored the stolen sword.
“Nay, sirs,” he answered, “but I will right gladly do as I promised, if
ye will let me go and get it!”
So one of the heralds went with him down into the garden, and stood
over Geoffrey as he uncovered the weapon and gathered it up still safe
in its scabbard. Then conducting him back to the courtyard, and to the
door of the count’s coach, the two king’s messengers stood, one on
each side, as the boy, making an obeisance, presented the sword to the
glowering count.
The heralds then solemnly announced to all,—for everyone in the inn
had gathered about by this time,—that they bore witness that the
lad had duly restored the stolen property to its rightful owner; and
that punishment for his taking it must be meted out by his rightful
suzerain, the noble Count Boni, to whose estate the boy’s family
belonged. They demanded this right for Geoffrey, in the name of the
king.
Now Count Hugo knew well enough that every peasant had a right to be
tried for a crime by the nobleman of his own home; but he had trusted
to carry things off with a high hand, thinking no one at the inn would
dare oppose him; as was undoubtedly the case. But with the king’s
heralds it was different; they did not fear him, and so he was obliged
to give up the boy.
This last thwarting of his plans, however, was almost too much for
Hugo! White with rage, he thundered to his driver to whip up the
horses, and off he clattered, disdainfully turning his back on the
Guillaume-le-Conquérant inn and all that it contained; and his swarm
of retainers followed him, all quaking in their boots from fear of
their master’s violent temper.
After the count’s departure, Geoffrey, still in charge of the heralds,
was taken into the great kitchen of the inn, where everybody gathered
about, delighted at the little boy’s escape from Hugo’s clutches. The
cook gave him some nice little cakes fresh from the oven; the peacocks
trailed past the open door proudly spreading their beautiful tails; and
the pink and white cockatoo overhead screamed his “Tee deedle!” and
seemed as pleased as anybody.
After a while the heralds gave Geoffrey over into the charge of Count
Boni’s second, who had meantime arrived to say that the count was
outside the walls of Dives, at the appointed place, and ready to meet
Hugo in the proposed duel. The second was greatly surprised when he
heard how matters had turned out; for he had spent the day before with
Count Boni at the Château Beauvais, and neither he nor his master had
yet heard of the proclamation or the subsequent departure of Count
Hugo. However, he took the little boy with him back to Count Boni, to
whom he delivered the message the heralds had sent: that he, Boni, was
to decide on what punishment Geoffrey was to receive for the taking of
Hugo’s sword; though it really seemed that the child had had punishment
enough already, at the hands of the cruel count himself!
When Count Boni was told all these things, at first he was greatly
displeased; for he was young and high-spirited, and very angry with
Hugo, whom he wished to fight regardless of the danger he ran from
such an unscrupulous antagonist, and he did not like it that a little
peasant boy had interfered.
Though when he understood how much the boy had risked and suffered for
love of himself and little Isabeau, he could not find it in his heart
to wish Geoffrey punished. And indeed, in after years he came heartily
to thank the warm-hearted, devoted little lad, whose impulsive act had
no doubt kept him from losing both life and property to a wicked and
dishonorable man.
Meantime Count Boni felt himself in a very delicate position. As
Geoffrey’s overlord, it was his duty to punish him for taking the
sword, even though it had been restored to its rightful owner; but as
the sword had been taken because the little boy wished to keep Count
Boni himself from the chance of being killed, how could he inflict
severe punishment upon him? Indeed, this question was so difficult that
the count concluded he must take time to think it over, and meantime
he held Geoffrey prisoner at the château. This did not prevent the boy
from having the kindest treatment and the freedom of the grounds, where
he enjoyed many a merry romp with little Isabeau, who was happy as a
bird, and thought Geoffrey the nicest and most wonderful boy in all
the world because he had succeeded in preventing the duel. Nor was
the least cloud cast over their glee when one day they heard that the
wicked Hugo had died in a fit of apoplexy, brought on by one of his
terrible rages. In fact, if the truth must be told, they went off by
themselves and had a shamelessly gay extra romp in celebration of the
news.
Thus several weeks had passed, when one day there arrived at the
château a messenger from the king, demanding the custody of a peasant
boy by the name of Geoffrey.
Poor Geoffrey was again badly frightened, thinking that this time
surely he would receive punishment! But his fears were turned to
delight when Count Boni told him that the king had sent, not to
imprison him, but to have him live in the royal household. The
messenger explained to Boni that when the heralds returned to Paris,
they told King Louis the story of the little boy, and that he was
greatly pleased with the lad’s bravery and devotion, and wished to have
him brought to the palace.
[Illustration]
So Geoffrey became a page of King Louis, and was very, very happy. He
was happy, too, because he could now send back to those he loved at
home much more for their comfort than he could as a little serving boy
at the Guillaume-le-Conquérant inn. And then, sometimes, when one of
his messengers had an errand to Dives, the good king would let Geoffrey
go along, and he would then make a little visit to his family, and
would see his dear Count Boni and little Isabeau, who never ceased to
take the greatest pride and interest in him.
By and by, King Louis discovered how sweet a voice he possessed, and
that it had been well-trained for church music. This pleased the king
much, as he was very devout in his worship, and did a great deal
during his reign to improve the music in the cathedrals of France. So
Geoffrey was at once placed under masters, and he sang for a number
of years in the king’s own chapel, becoming one of the most famous
little choristers of the realm. Later on, as he grew to manhood, he
passed from being a page, to a squire; and after that, he was appointed
man-at-arms in the bodyguard of the king, who grew to love and trust
him greatly.
Some years later still, when King Louis again set forth for the East,
on the crusade from which he was never to return, Geoffrey was among
the most faithful of the followers who took ship with him. And when the
poor king lay dying, before the walls of the far-away city of Tunis, it
was Geoffrey whose tenderness and devotion helped to comfort the last
days of the stricken monarch.
When all was over, and the little band of crusaders once more returned
to their homes in France, none among them was more loved and respected
than the Viscount Geoffrey; for shortly before his death the good King
Louis had, with his own hand, bestowed knighthood upon the little
peasant boy, declaring that he had won the distinction, not only
because of his great bravery and his honorable life, but also because
of the exceeding sweetness and gentleness of his character.
FELIX
WHO SOUGHT HIS LOST SHEEP AT CHRISTMASTIDE
BY A WAY THAT LED TO HIS
HEART’S DESIRE AND MADE
HIM A FAMOUS CARVER
OF OLD PROVENCE
A very long while ago, perhaps as many as two hundred years, the little
Provençal village of Sur Varne was all bustle and stir, for it was the
week before Christmas; and in all the world, no one has known better
how to keep the joyous holiday than have the happy-hearted people of
Provence.
Everybody was busy, hurrying to and fro, gathering garlands of myrtle
and laurel, bringing home Yule logs with pretty old songs and
ceremonies, and in various ways making ready for the all-important
festival.
Not a house in Sur Varne but in some manner told the coming of the
blessed birthday, and especially were there great preparations in
the cottage of the shepherd, Père Michaud. This cottage, covered
with white stucco, and thatched with long marsh-grass, stood at the
edge of the village; olive and mulberry trees clustered about it,
and a wild jasmine vine clambered over the doorway, while on this
particular morning all around the low projecting eaves hung a row of
tiny wheat-sheaves, swinging in the crisp December air, and twinkling
in the sunlight like a golden fringe. For the Père Michaud had been
up betimes, making ready the Christmas feast for the birds, which no
Provençal peasant ever forgets at this gracious season; and the birds
knew it, for already dozens of saucy robins and linnets and fieldfares
were gathering in the Père’s mulberry-trees, their mouths fairly
watering with anticipation.
Within the cottage the good dame, the Misè Michaud, with wide sleeves
rolled up and kirtle tucked back, was hard at work making all manner of
holiday sweetmeats; while in the huge oven beside the blazing hearth
the great Christmas cakes were baking, the famous _pompou_ and almond
pâtés, dear to the hearts of the children of old Provence.
Now and then, as the cottage door swung open on the dame’s various
errands, one might hear a faint “Baa, baa!” from the sheepfold, where
little Félix Michaud was very busy also.
Through the crevices of its weather-beaten boards came the sound of
vigorous scrubbing of wool, and sometimes an impatient “Ninette!
Ninette!—thou silly sheep! Wilt thou never stand still?” Or else, in
a softer tone, an eager “Beppo, my little Beppo, dost thou know? Dost
thou know?” To all of which there would come no answer save the lamb’s
weak little “Baa, baa!”
For Ninette, Beppo’s mother, was a silly old sheep, and Beppo was a
very little lamb; and so they could not possibly be expected to know
what a great honor had suddenly befallen them. They did not dream that,
the night before, Père Michaud had told Félix that his Beppo (for Beppo
was Félix’s very own) had been chosen by the shepherds for the “offered
lamb” of the Christmas Eve procession when the holy midnight mass would
be celebrated in all its festival splendor in the great church of the
village.