Reine, hiding her emotion, joined her father. Raimond V. kissed his
daughter’s brow tenderly, then, taking her arm, descended the last
steps of the staircase which led from the tower. He wore an old green
military coat, braided with gold, somewhat tarnished, scarlet breeches,
great boots of sheepskin covered with mud, and long spurs of rusty iron.
He held his gray cap in his hand, and although the weather was quite
cold, the wrinkled and sunburnt brow of Raimond V. was covered with
sweat.
By the light of a torch, a valet, holding by the bridle the treacherous
and obstreperous Mistraon, whose flanks were foaming with perspiration,
could be seen in the court of the castle.
A great black hunting dog with long hair, and a little yellow and white
spaniel, were lying at the feet of the stallion from Camargne.
The dog was panting; his ears lying on his head, his mouth open and
filled with foam, his eyes half closed, and the feverish palpitation of
his sides, all announced that he had just run a rapid race. The sight of
Mistraon added to Reine’s annoyance by recalling the scene on the rocks.
But the baron, preoccupied by the success of the chase, had not the
penetration to discover the agitation of his daughter.
He detached a leather strap which held a large hare to the bow of his
saddle, and proudly presented the game to Reine, as he said:
“Would you believe it, Eclair,” and at the name the dog lifted his
fine intelligent head, “caught this hare in thirteen minutes on the
marshes of Savenol. It was old Genêt,” and at this name the little
spaniel lifted his head, “that put him on the track. Mistraon is so
fleet that I did not lose sight of Eclair from the time I began to climb
the hill of black stones. I made, I am sure, more than a league and a
half.”
“Oh, father, why will you ride this horse, after the frightful
experience you have had with him?”
“Manjour!” cried the old gentleman, with an air of mock gravity,
“never shall it be said that Raimond V. succumbed to one of the
indomitable sons of Camargne.”
“But, father--”
“But, my daughter, I yield no more on land than on sea, and I say
that, because I have just been visiting the seines that those rascals
in La Ciotat wish to prevent my laying beyond the rocks of Castrembaou.
Just now, too, I met the consul Talebard-Talebardon on his nag, and
he talked about it And he had the effrontery to threaten me with the
tribunal of overseers, of which the watchman is the assignee! Manjour,
I laughed so much, that this demon, Mistraon, took advantage of my
distraction and flew like an arrow.”
“More dangers, father; this horse will be the death of you!”
“Be easy, my child, although I have not such a vigorous fist as the
half savage young Muscovite who so adroitly arrested Mistraon on the
border of a precipice, the bridle and the spur and the whip know how to
reason with a vicious horse and his pranks. But permit me, my beautiful
lady of the castle, to offer you the foot of the animal that I have
captured.”
And the baron drew a knife from his pocket, cut off the right foot of
the hare, and gallantly presented it to his daughter, who accepted, not
without some repugnance, this trophy of the chase.
Mistraon was led back to the stable, but Eclair and Genêt, favourites
of the baron, followed him side by side, as, leaning on the arm of his
daughter, he made what he called his evening inspection, while waiting
for the hour of supper.
The women and young girls were spinning at the wheel, the men mending
their nets and cleaning implements of husbandry. Master Laramée,
the old sergeant of the company raised by the baron during the civil
troubles, and majordomo and commander of the castle garrison, exacted
that all of the baron’s tenants, who, in turn, performed the service
of sentinel on the terrace which bordered the sea, should be armed in
military style.
Others were engaged in decorating long lances, destined for jousts on
the water, or to be used in jumping the cross-bar, the usual Christmas
amusements, in the colours of the baron, red and yellow. Some, more
seriously occupied, prepared the seed for late sowing; some were
weaving, with great care, baskets out of rushes, to hold presents of
fruit, made at Christmas.
These occupations were enlivened by songs peculiar to the country,
sometimes accompanied by some marvellous legend, or terrible recital of
the cruelties of pirates.
In an upper hall filled with fruit, children and old men were busy in
examining long garlands of grapes, which hung from the rafters of the
ceiling, or packing in baskets sweet-smelling figs, dried upon layers of
straw.
Farther on was the laundry, where the washerwomen, under the supervision
of a gentlewoman, Dulceline, the housekeeper, were occupied in perfuming
the linen of the castle, by putting between its folds, whiter than snow,
the leaves of aromatic herbs.
Often the sharp voice of Dulceline rose above the songs of the
washerwomen, as she reprimanded some idlers.
By the side of the laundry was the pharmacy of the castle, where the
peasants of the neighbourhood found all their remedies. This pharmacy
belonged to the department of the baron’s chaplain, Abbé Mascarolus,
an old and excellent priest of angelic piety and rare simplicity.
The chaplain had an extensive acquaintance with medical men and their
attainments, and firmly believed in the strange pharmacy of that time.
In spite of the continual apprehension of a visit from the pirates, all
the inhabitants of Maison-Forte shared the traditional gaiety, so
to speak, which the approach of Christmas, the most joyous and most
important festival of the year, always brought to Provence.
Every evening before supper, the baron made, in company with his
daughter, what he called his inspection; that is, he went through
the whole theatre of the various occupations with which we have been
entertaining the reader, chatting familiarly with everybody, listening
to requests and complaints, often impatient and sometimes flying into
a passion and scolding, but always full of justice and kindness, and
so cordial in his good-humour that his bursts of irritation were soon
forgotten.
Raimond V. kept a large part of his domain in good condition. He sat up
a long time at night to talk with his principal shepherds, labourers,
farmers, and vinedressers, convinced of the wisdom of the two Provençal
proverbs, worthy of the watchman on the cape of l’Aigle: _Luci doou
mestre engraisso lou chivaou_,--the eye of the master fattens the horse.
_Bouen pastre, bouen ave_,--good shepherd, good flock.
The old gentleman usually completed his circuit by a visit to the
pharmacy, where he found Abbé Mascarolus, who gave him a sort of
hygienic statement of the health of the inhabitants of the domain Des
Anbiez.
To-day, he passed by the laundry, going directly to the pharmacy,
accompanied by Reine. Preparations for the Christmas holidays were going
on all through the castle, but the most important solemnity of all was
reserved for the care of the venerable Dulceline, who had entreated the
abbé to enlighten her with his counsels.
This was the cradle or crib, a sort of picture placed every Christmas
day in the most beautiful room of the habitation,--castle, cottage, or
mansion.
This picture represented the birth of the infant Jesus; there were the
stable, the ox, the ass, St Joseph, and the Virgin holding on her knees
the Saviour of the world.
Every family, poor or rich, deemed it absolutely requisite to have a
cradle as elegant as could be afforded, ornamented with garlands and
tinsel, and illuminated with a circle of candles.
As Raimond V. passed the laundry, he was surprised not to see Dulceline,
and asked where she was.
“Monseigneur,” said a young girl with black eyes and cheeks the
colour of a pomegranate, “Mile. Dulceline is in the chamber of the
philters, with the abbé and Thereson; she is at work on the cradle, and
forbids us to enter.”
“The devil!” said the baron, “the supper-bell has rung, and the
abbé must say grace for us.”
He advanced to the door; it was fastened on the inside; he knocked.
“Come, come, abbé, supper is ready, and I am as hungry as the
devil.”
“One moment, monseigneur,” said Dulceline, “we cannot open,--it is
a secret.”
“What, abbé, you have secrets with Dulceline?” said the old
gentleman, laughing.
“Ah, monseigneur, God save us! Thereson is with us,” screamed the
old lady, offended at the baron’s pleasantry. As she opened the door,
she presented a pale, wrinkled face, framed in a ruff and cap, worthy of
the pencil of Holbein.
The abbé, fifty years old, was dressed in a black robe and cap, which
fit his head closely and displayed his gentle face to advantage.
Thereson, as soon as the baron entered, hid the cradle under a cloth.
The baron approached, and was about to lift it, when Dulceline cried, in
a beseeching tone:
“Oh, monseigneur! permit us the pleasure of surprising you; rest
assured this will be the most beautiful cradle that has ever adorned the
great hall of Maison-Forte, and it ought to be, by Our Lady, since the
commander and Father Elzear are coming such a distance to assist at the
Christmas festivity.”
“Manjour! I shall be unhappy indeed if they do not come,” said the
baron: “two years have passed since my brothers have spent a night
or a day in our father’s house, and by St. Bernard, my patron, who
assists me, the Lord will grant us a reunion this time!”
“God will hear you, monseigneur, and I join my prayers to yours,”
said the abbé. Then he added: “Monseigneur, did you have a successful
hunt?”
“Very good, abbé, see for yourself!” and the baron took the
hare’s foot that Reine held in her hand, and showed it to the abbé.
“If mademoiselle does not desire to keep this foot,” said the abbé,
“I will ask her for it, for my pharmacy, and will monseigneur tell me
if it is the right or the left foot of the animal?”
“And what are you going to do with it, abbé?”
“Monseigneur,” said the good Mascarolus, pointing to an open volume
on the table, “I have just received this book from Paris. It is the
journal of M. de Maucaunys, a very illustrious and learned man, and
I read here, page 317: ‘Recipe for the gout. Lay against the thigh,
between the trousers and the shirt, on the side affected, two paws of
a hare killed between Lady Day of September and Christmas, but with the
important restriction, that the hind left paw must be used if it is the
right arm which is ailing, and the right fore paw if it is the leg or
the left thigh which is ailing: on the instant the application is made,
the pain will cease.’”
“Stuff!” cried the baron, laughing with all his might. “This is a
wonderful discovery; now the poachers will claim to be apothecaries, and
they will catch hares only to cure the gout.”
The good abbé, quite embarrassed by the sarcasms of the baron,
continued to read to keep himself in countenance, and added: “I see,
baron, on page 177, wood-lice, given to dropsical nightingales, will
cure them entirely.”
Here the laughter of the good gentleman was more uproarious. Reine,
notwithstanding her preoccupation, could not repress a smile, and
finally laughed with her father.
The Abbé Mascarolus smiled softly, and bore these innocent railleries
with Christian resignation, and no longer tried to defend an empiricism
which, no doubt, may find analogies in medical books of the present day.
Raimond V. took leave of the pharmacy to find pleasure elsewhere, when
Laramée, majordomo and master of ceremonies, came to announce that
supper had been waiting a long time.
Laramée, the advance guard of the baron’s escort through the gorges
of Ollioules, had the physiognomy of a real pandour; his complexion
reddened by wine-drinking, his rough voice, his white and closely cut
hair, his long gray moustache, and his continual swearing, were by no
means to the taste of Dulceline.
She received the entrance of the majordomo into the sanctuary of the
abbé with a sort of muttered remonstrance, which at last changed
to sharp and loud complaint, when she saw that Laramée had the
indiscretion to approach the veil which covered the mysterious cradle
and try to lift it.
“Well, well, Laramée,” said the baron, “Manjour, do you claim
more privileges than your master, and insist upon seeing the wonders
that Dulceline is hiding from our eyes? Come, come, take this lamp and
light onr way.”
Then, turning to Mascarolus, Raimond V. said humorously: “Since,
according to your fine book, wood-lice will cure dropsy in nightingales,
you ought to try your remedy on this old scoundrel, who surely is
threatened with dropsy, for he is a veritable old bottle, swollen with
wine, ready to burst; as for the rest, like the nightingale, he will
sing at night,--and the devil knows what songs!”
“Yes, monseigneur, and with a voice loud enough to wake the whole
castle, and make the owls fly from the top of the old tower,” added
Dulceline.
“And just as true as I drank two glasses of Sauvechrétien wine this
morning, screech owls know the owls, Dulceline, my dear,” said the
majordomo with a jocose manner as he passed, lamp in hand, before the
superintendent of the laundry.
“Monseigneur,” cried she, “do you hear the insolence of Master
Laramée?”
“And you shall be avenged, my dear, for I will make him drink a pint
of water to your health. Come, come, go on, majordomo, the soup will get
cold.”
The baron, Reine, and the abbé left the pharmacy and descended the
stairs, and crossed the long and dark gallery which united the two wings
of Maison-Forte; they entered a large dining-room, brilliantly lighted
by a good fire of beech, olive roots, and fir-apples, which shed through
the whole room the odour of balsam.
The immense chimney, with a large stone mantel, and andirons of massive
iron, smoked a little, but by way of compensation, the windows latticed
with lead, and the heavy doors of oak were not hermetically sealed, and
the smoke found a way of escape through the numerous openings.
The north wind, entering these cracks, made a shrill whistle, which was
victoriously combatted by the merry crackling of the beech and olive
logs which burned in the fireplace.
The walls, simply plastered with lime, as well as the ceiling with its
great projecting girders of black oak, had no other ornament than the
skins of foxes and badgers and wolves, nailed at symmetrical distances
by the careful hand of the majordomo.
In the spaces between the skins hung fishing-lines, weapons of the
chase, whips, and spurs; and as curiosities, a Moorish bridle with its
two-edged bit and top-not of crimson silk.
On an oak dresser, with a beautifully bowed front, stood an ancient
and massive silver plate, whose richness contrasted singularly with the
almost savage rusticity of the hall.
Great bottles of white glass were filled with the generous wines of
Provence and Languedoc; smaller flagons contained Spanish wines, easily
and promptly brought from Barcelona by coasting ships.
A few rustic valets, attired in cassocks of brown serge, served the
table under the orders of the major-domo, the liveries with the colours
of the baron never leaving the wardrobe except on feast-days.
The oblong table placed near the fireside rested on a thick carpet of
Spanish broom or esparto. The rest of the hall was paved with flags of
sandstone.
At the head of the table was the armorial chair of Raimond V.; at
his right, the cover for his daughter, at his left, the cover for the
stranger,--a custom of touching hospitality.
Below this place was the cover for the chaplain.
The table was delicately and abundantly served.
Around an enormous tureen of soup, made of the excellent sea eels of La
Ciotat, and fragments of swordfish and sea dates, were fowls from the
Pyrenees, which surrounded a perfectly roasted goose; on the other side,
a saddle of lamb three months old, and the half of a kid one month old,
justified by their appetising odour the culinary proverb: _Cabri d’un
mes, agneou de tres_,--kid of one month, lamb of three; shell-fish of
all kinds, such as oysters and mussels, having above all the flavour
of the rock, as the Provençals say, filled the spaces left between
substantial viands.
Side-dishes strongly salted and spiced, such as shrimps, lobsters,
artichokes, celery, and tender fennel, formed a formidable reserve
which Raimond V. called to his aid, when his appetite showed signs of
exhaustion.
This profusion, which at first glance seemed so prodigal, was easily
explained by the abundant resources of the country, the customary
hospitality of the time, and the great number of persons a lord was
expected to entertain.
Grace being said by the worthy Abbé Mascarolus, the baron, his
daughter, and the chaplain sat down to the table, and Laramée took his
usual post behind the chair of his master.