About the end of the month of June, 1633, three distinguished
travellers, arriving at Marseilles, established themselves in the best
inn of the city. Their dress and accent were foreign. It was soon
known that they were Muscovites, and although their attendants were
not numerous, they lived in magnificent style. The eldest of the three
travellers had called upon the Marshal of Vitry, Governor of Provence,
then residing in Marseilles, and the marshal had returned his visit, a
circumstance which greatly enhanced the dignity of the foreigners.
They employed their time in visiting the public build-ings, the port,
and the docks. The preceptor of the youngest of these travellers, with
the permission of the Marshal of Vitry, made careful inquiry of the
consuls concerning the productions and commerce of Provence, the
condition of the merchant service, its equipment and destination,
evidently anxious, for the benefit of his pupil, to make a comparison
between the growing navy of the North and the navy of one of the most
important provinces of France.
One day these Muscovites directed their journey toward Toulon.
The eldest of the three foreigners appeared to be fifty years old. His
countenance presented a singular union of pride and severity. He was
attired in black velvet; a long red beard covered his breast, and
his hair, of the same colour, mingled with a few silver locks, showed
beneath a Tartar cap trimmed with costly fur. His sea-green eyes, his
sallow complexion, his hooked nose, his heavy eyebrows, and his thin
lips gave him a hard and ironical expression.
He walked at some distance from his companions, and seldom spoke, and
when he did it was only to hurl at them some bitter sarcasm.
The age and appearance of the two other Muscovites presented a striking
contrast.
One, who seemed to be the preceptor of the younger, was about forty-five
years old. He was short and fat, almost to obesity, although he seemed
to have a vigorous constitution.
He wore a long robe of coarsely woven brown silk, after the manner of
the Orientals, and an Asiatic cap; a Persian dagger of rare workmanship
ornamented his girdle of orange-coloured silk. His fat, ruddy
face, covered with a thick brown beard, and his thick lips breathed
sensuality; his small, gray eyes sparkled with malice. Sometimes, in
a shrill voice, he gave vent to some jest of audacious cynicism,
frequently in Latin, and always borrowed from Petronius or Martial;
so that the other two travellers, with allusion to the taste of their
companion for the works of Petronius, had given him the name of one of
the heroes of this writer, and called him Trimalcyon.
The pupil of this singular preceptor seemed at the most to be only
twenty years of age. His person was of the ordinary size, but most
elegant; his dress, like that of the Muscovites of the age, was a happy
union of the fashions of the North and the East, arranged with perfect
taste. His long brown hair fell in natural curls from a black cap, flat
and without brim, set on one side and ornamented with a gold and purple
band; the two ends of this band, finely embroidered and fringed, fell
over the collar of a black woollen jacket, embossed with designs in
purple and gold, and fastened to the hips by a cashmere shawl; a second
jacket with loose sleeves, made of rich black Venetian fabric, and lined
with scarlet taffeta, reached a little below the knees; large, loose
Moorish trousers, hanging over red morocco buskins, completed the
picturesque attire.
An observer would have been embarrassed in assigning a certain character
to the countenance of this young man. His features were of perfect
regularity; a young, silky beard shaded his chin and lips; his large
eyes shone like black diamonds, under his straight brown eyebrows; the
dazzling enamel of his teeth scarcely equalled the deep carmine of his
lips; his complexion was of a soft brown pallor, and his slender figure
seemed to combine strength and elegance.
But this physiognomy, as charming as it was expressive and variable,
reflected in turn the different impressions which the two companions of
this young man made on his mind.
If Trimalcyon uttered some gross and licentious jest, the young man,
whom we will call Erebus, applauded it with a mocking, sneering smile,
or, perhaps, replied in words which surpassed the cynicism of his
preceptor.
If the nobleman, Pog, a silent and morose man, made a remark of unusual
bitterness, suddenly the nostrils of Erebus would dilate, his upper
lip curl disdainfully, and his whole face express the most contemptuous
sarcasm.
On the contrary, if Erebus did not come under these two fatal
influences, or an absurd boasting did not make him appear the advocate
of vice, his face would become sweet and serene,--an attractive dignity
beamed from his beautiful features; for cynicism and irony only passed
over his soul,--noble and pure instincts soon resumed their sway, as
a pure fountain regains its clearness when the disturbing element no
longer troubles its crystal waters. Such were these three distinguished
persons.
They were walking, as we have said, from Marseilles to Toulon.
Erebus, silent and thoughtful, walked a few steps in front of his
companions. The road plunged into the defiles of Ollioules, and hid
itself in the midst of these solitary rocks.
Erebus had just reached a small open space, where he could overlook a
great part of the route, which at this point was very steep and formed
a sort of elbow around the eminence upon which the young man stood.
Interrupted in his reverie by the sound of singing in the distance,
Erebus stopped to listen.
The voice came nearer and nearer.
It was a woman’s voice, with a resonance of wonderful power and
beauty.
The air and the words she sang expressed an unaffected melancholy. Soon,
at a sudden turn of the road, Erebus could see, without being seen, a
company of travellers; they quietly accommodated themselves to the step
of their saddle-horses, that climbed the steep road with difficulty.
If the coast of Provence was often desolated by pirates, the interior
of the country was as little safe, for the narrow passes of Ollioules,
solitudes almost impenetrable, had many times served as a refuge for
brigands. Erebus was not astonished to see the little caravan advance
with a sort of military circumspection.
The danger did not seem to be imminent, for the young girl continued to
sing, but the cavalier who led the march took the precaution to adjust
his musket on his left thigh, and at frequent intervals to test his
firearms, leaving behind him a little cloud of bluish smoke.
This man, a military figure in the full strength of manhood, wore an
old leather jerkin, a large gray cap, scarlet breeches, heavy boots, and
rode a small white horse; a hanger or hunting-knife was fastened to
his belt, and a tall black hound, with long hair and a leather collar
bristling with iron points, walked in front of his horse.
About thirty steps behind this forward sentinel came an old man and a
young girl.
The latter was mounted on an ambling nag, as black as jet, elegantly
caparisoned with a silk net and a blue velvet cloth; the silver mounting
of the bridle glittered in the rays of the setting sun; the reins,
scarcely held by the young girl, fell carelessly upon the neck of
the nag, whose gentle and regular step by no means interrupted the
harmonious measure of the beautiful traveller’s song.
She wore right royally the charming riding-habit so often reproduced by
painters in the reign of Louis XIII. On her head was a large black hat
with blue feathers, which fell backward on a wide collar of Flanders
lace; her close-fitting coat of pearl-gray taffeta, with large, square
basques, had a long skirt of the same material and colour, both skirt
and waist ornamented with delicate lace-work of sky-blue silk, whose
pale shade matched admirably the colour of the habit If one ever doubted
the fact that the Greek type had been preserved in all its purity
among a few of the families of Marseilles and lower Provence, since the
colonisation of the Phoenicians,--the rest of the population recalling
more the Arabian and Ligurian physiognomy,--the features of this young
girl would have presented a striking proof of the transmission of the
antique beauty in all its original perfection.
Nothing could be more agreeable, more delicate, or purer than the
exquisite lines of her lovely countenance; nothing more limpid than the
blue of her large eyes, fringed with long black lashes; nothing whiter
than the ivory of her queenly brow, around which played the light
chestnut curls that contrasted beautifully with the perfect arch of
eyebrows as black as jet, and soft as velvet; the proportions of her
well-rounded form resembled Hebe, or the Venus of Praxiteles, rather
than the Venus of Milo.
As she sang she yielded herself to the measured step of her steed, and
every movement of her charming and graceful body revealed new treasures
of beauty.
Her small, arched foot, encased in a boot of cordovan leather, laced
to the ankle, appeared from time to time beneath the ample folds of
her long skirt, while her hand, as small as that of a child, gloved in
embroidered chamois-skin, carelessly played with the switch by which she
urged the gait of her nag.
It would be difficult to picture the frankness which shone from the pure
brow of this young girl, the serenity of her large blue eyes, bright
with happiness and hope and youth, the unsophisticated sweetness of
her smile, and, above all, the look of solicitude and filial veneration
which she often directed toward the aged but robust father who
accompanied her.
The eager, hardy, and joyous air of this old gentleman contrasted not
a little with his white moustache, and the vinous colour of his cheeks
announced the fact that he was not indifferent to the seductions of the
generous wines of Provence.
A black cap with a red plume, a scarlet doublet trimmed with silver,
and mantle of the same, a shoulder-strap of richly embroidered silk,
supporting a long sword, and high boots of white sheepskin, with gilded
spurs, testified to the quality of Raimond V., Baron des Anbiez, chief
of one of the most ancient houses of Provence, and related or allied
to the most illustrious baronial houses of Castellane, Baux, Frans, and
Villeneuve.
The road which the little caravan followed was so narrow that it
permitted two horses to walk abreast with difficulty; a third person
rode a few steps behind the baron and his daughter. Two servants,
well-mounted and well-armed, closed the march.
This third person, a young man of about twenty-five years, tall and
well-made, with a handsome and amiable face, managed his horse with
grace and ease. He wore a green hunting-habit, trimmed with gold lace.
His face expressed an indescribable delight in the contemplation of
Mlle. Reine des Anbiez, who, without discontinuing her song, every now
and then turned to him with a charming glance, to which the Chevalier
Honorât de Berrol responded with all the ardour of an infatuated and
betrothed lover.
The baron listened to his daughter’s singing with joy and paternal
pride; his genial and venerable countenance beamed with happiness.
His contemplative felicity was, nevertheless, not a little disturbed
by the sudden jumps of his little horse, brought from the island of
Camargne,--a bay stallion with long mane and a long black tail, a wicked
eye and ferocious disposition, full of fire, and evidently possessed
with a desire to unhorse his master and regain his liberty in the
solitary swamps and wild heath where he was born.
Unfortunately for the designs of Mistraon,--named for the impetuous
northwest wind, on account of the rapidity of his gait and his bad
character,--the baron was an excellent horseman.
Although suffering from the consequences of a wound in the hip, received
in the civil war, Raimond V., seated on one of those ancient saddles
which in our day we call picket-saddles, answered these vicious caprices
of the untamable animal with sound blows of whip and spur. Mistraon,
with that patient and diabolical sagacity which horses carry to the
point of genius, after several vain attempts, stolidly waited a more
favourable occasion for dismounting his rider.
Reine des Anbiez continued to sing.
Like a child, she amused herself by waking the echoes in the gorges of
Ollioules, making by turn loud and soft modulations, which would have
put a nightingale to despair.
She had just made a most brilliant and musical arpeggio, when suddenly,
anticipating the echo, a male voice, sweet and melodious, repeated the
young girl’s song with incredible exactness.
For some moments these two charming voices, meeting by chance in a
marvellous union, were repeated by the many echoes of this profound
solitude.
Reine stopped singing, and blushed as she looked up at her father.
The baron, astonished, turned to Honorât de Berrol, and said, with
his habitual exclamation: “Manjour! chevalier, who in the devil is
imitating the voice of an angel?”
In the first moment of surprise the baron had unfortunately let the
reins fall on Mistraon’s neck.
For some time the deceitful animal kept his step with a gravity and
dignity worthy of a bishop’s mule, then in two vigorous bounds,
and before the baron had time to recover himself, he climbed up an
escarpment which shut in the road.
Unhappily, the horse had made such an effort in ascending this steep
acclivity, that he fell upon his head, the reins went over his ears, and
floated at random. All this happened in less time than is required to
write it.
The baron, an excellent master of horse, although not a little surprised
by the adventure of Mistraon, reseated himself in the saddle; his first
effort was to try to seize the reins,--he could not reach them. Then,
notwithstanding his courage, he shuddered with horror, as he saw himself
at the mercy of an unbridled horse that in his frenzy was trying to leap
the precipitous edge of a torrent bed.
This deep and wide gulf lay parallel with the road, and was separated
from it only by a space of fifty feet.
[Illustration: Seized the bloody bridle]
Seated in his saddle, and by reason of his wound unable to get out of it
before the horse could plunge into the abyss, the old man gave his last
thought to his God and his daughter,--made a vow of a weekly mass and an
annual pilgrimage to the Chapel of Notre Dame de la Garde, and prepared
to die.
From the height where he was standing, Erebus saw the danger of the
baron; he saw that he was separated from him by the deep bed of the
torrent, ten or twelve feet wide, toward which the horse was plunging.
With a movement more rapid than thought, and an almost desperate leap,
Erebus cleared the abyss, and rolled under the animal’s feet The baron
screamed with terror,--he believed his saviour would be carried over
into the golf, for, notwithstanding the pain and fright which this
violent jerk had given him, Mistraon was not able to arrest the
impetuosity of his spring, and dragged Erebus several steps.
The latter, endowed with extraordinary strength and admirable presence
of mind, had, as he fell, wound the reins around his wrists, while
the horse, overcome by the enormous weight which hung upon him, seated
himself on his haunches, having exhausted the impulse which instigated
such activity.
Scarcely ten steps separated the baron from the edge of the gulf, when
Erebus slowly raised himself, seized the bloody bridle-bit with one
hand, and with the other threw over the smoking neck of Mistraon the
reins which he offered to the old man.
All this transpired so rapidly that Reine des Anbiez and her betrothed,
climbing the escarpment, arrived near the baron without having suspected
the frightful danger he had just escaped.
Erebus, having replaced the reins in the old man’s hands, picked up
his cap, shook the dust from his clothes, and readjusted his hair, and,
save the unnatural flush upon his cheeks, nothing in his appearance
revealed the part he had taken in this event.
“My God, father, why did you climb this steep? What imprudence!”
cried Reine, excited but not frightened, as she bounded lightly from her
nag, without seeing the unknown person standing on the other side of the
baron’s horse.
Then, seeing the pallor and emotion of the old man as he made a painful
descent from his horse, the young girl perceived the danger which had
threatened the baron, and throwing herself into his arms, she exclamed:
“Father, father, what has happened to you?” “Reine, my darling
child,” said the lord of Anbiez with a broken voice, embracing
his daughter with effusion. “Ah, how frightful death would have
been,--never to see you again!”
Reine withdrew herself suddenly from her father’s arms, put her two
hands on the old man’s shoulders, and looked at him with a bewildered
air.
“But for him,” said the baron, cordially pressing in his own hands
the hand of Erebus, who had stepped forward, gazing with admiration on
the beauty of Reine, “but for this young man, but for his courageous
sacrifice, I should have been dashed to pieces in this gulf.”
In a few words the old man told his daughter and Honorât de Berrol how
the stranger had saved him from certain death.
Many times during this recital the blue eyes of Reine met the black eyes
of Erebus; if she slowly turned her glance away to fix it on her father
with adoration, it was not because the manner of this young man was bold
or presumptuous; on the contrary, a tear moistened his eyes, and his
charming face expressed the most profound emotion. He contemplated this
pathetic scene with a sublime pride. When the old man opened his arms
to him with paternal affection, he threw himself into them with
inexpressible delight, pressed him many times to his heart, as if he
had been attracted to the old gentleman by a secret sympathy, as if this
young heart, still noble and generous, had anticipated the throbs of
another noble and generous heart.
Suddenly Trimalcyon and Pog, who, twenty steps distant, had witnessed
this scene from the height of the rock where they were resting, cried
out to their young companion some words in a foreign language.
Erebus started, the baron, his daughter, and Honorât de Berrol turned
their heads quickly.
Trimalcyon looked at the baron’s daughter with a sort of vulgar and
sneering admiration.
The strange physiognomy of these two men surprised the baron, while his
daughter and Honorât regarded them with an instinctive terror.
A skilful painter would have found wealth of material in this scene.
Imagine a profound solitude in the midst of tremendous rocks of reddish
granite, whose summit only was lighted by the last rays of the sun. On
the first plane, almost on the edge of the torrent bed, the baron
with his left arm around Reine, grasping in his right hand the hand of
Erebus, and fixing an anxious, surprised look on Pog and Trimalcyon.
These two, on the second plane, the other side of the golf, standing
up side by side, with their arms crossed, outlining a characteristic
silhouette upon the azure sky, distinctly perceptible across the ragged
edges of the rocks.
Lastly, a few steps from the baron, stood Honorât de Berrol, holding
his horse and Reine’s nag, and farther still the two servants, one of
whom was occupied in readjusting the harness of Mistraon.
At the first words of the strangers, the beautiful features of Erebus
expressed a sort of distressed impatience; he seemed to be undergoing
an inward struggle; his face, which awhile ago was radiant with
noble passions, gradually grew sombre, as if he were submitting to a
mysterious and irresistible influence.
But when Trimalcyon, in a shrill and bantering voice, again uttered a
few words, as he designated Reine by an insolent glance, when the lord
Pog had added a biting sarcasm in the same language, unintelligible
to the other actors in this scene, the features of Erebus completely
changed their expression.
With an almost disdainful gesture, he roughly repulsed the hand of the
old man, and fixed an impudent stare on Mlle, des Anbiez. This time the
girl blushed and dropped her eyes.
This sudden metamorphosis in the manners of the stranger was so striking
that the baron recoiled a step. Nevertheless, after a silence of a few
seconds, he said to Erebus, in a voice deeply moved:
“How shall I acknowledge, sir, the service you have just rendered
me?”
“Oh, sir,” added Reine, overcoming the peculiar emotion which the
last look on the part of Erebus had inspired, “how shall we ever be
able to prove our gratitude to you?”
“By giving me a kiss, and this pin as a remembrance of you,” replied
the impudent young man.
He had scarcely uttered these words, when his mouth touched Reine’s
virginal lips, and his bold hand tore away the little pin enamelled with
silver, which was fastened in the young girl’s waist.
After this double larceny, Erebus, with wonderful agility, again cleared
the gulf behind him, and rejoined his companions, with whom he soon
disappeared behind a mass of rocks.
Reine’s fright and emotion were so violent that she turned deathly pale,
her knees gave way, and she fell fainting in the arms of her father.
The next day after this scene, the three Muscovites took leave of the
marshal, Duke of Vitry, departed from Marseilles with their attendants,
and proceeded on their way to Languedoc.