HOSPITALITY!
"Who, then, is Phelypeaux?" asked St. Georges as he sat himself down
in front of the great kitchen fire--the kitchen serving always in a
Burgundian inn as the general place of assembly and serving room. "Who
is Phelypeaux?"
"Monsieur does not, in truth, know?" she replied, with a glance at the
customers--one a mousquetaire, himself _en route_ to Bar to join his
regiment, and the other evidently a shopkeeper of the place. The
former had risen and saluted St. Georges as he entered, seeing by his
accoutrements and lace[1] that he was an officer, and now he joined in
the conversation deferentially.
[Footnote 1: The various _chevaux-legers_ had not as yet been put by
Louis into uniform, as was the case a few years before with most of
the French regiments.]
"In truth, monsieur, he is a rarity, an oddity. He is priest and
bishop both----"
"So," interrupted St. Georges, "he is the Bishop of Lodeve. I have
heard of him. He has a brother, I think, comrade, who follows our
profession."
"That is true, monsieur. One who will go far. 'Twas but last year the
king sent him ambassador to Cologne; now they say he goes to Turin."
"So, so. But this one here--this bishop? And if Bishop of Lodeve, what
does he do in Burgundy?"
"Villainies, _sceleratesses_," interrupted the hostess, turning away
from the fowl she was basting on the spit and emphasizing her remarks
with her great wooden spoon. "Oh! figure to yourself--he is a villain.
_Ma foi, oui!_ A bishop! Ha! A true one. Boasts he believes not in a
God, yet rules Languedoc with a rod of iron since Cardinal Bonzi fell
off his perch; entertains the wickedest _mondaines_ of Louis's court
as they pass through Lodeve; has boys to sing to him while he dines
and--and--But there," she concluded as she turned to the fowl again;
"he is a Phelypeaux. That tells all. They are sacred with the king."
"But why?" asked St. Georges, as he rose from his seat--"but why? What
does he here if he rules Languedoc, and why should Phelypeaux be a
charmed name? Tell me before I go."
He had made arrangements with the good woman to leave his child there
for the night, she swearing by many saints that it should sleep with
her own and be as carefully guarded and as precious as they were. So
he had confided it to her care, saying: "Remember, 'tis motherless,
and, besides, is all I have in the world, all I have left to me of my
dead wife. Remember that, I beseech you, as you are a mother
yourself"; and she, being a mother and a true one, promised. Therefore
it was now sleeping peacefully upstairs, its little arms around the
neck of one of her own children.
"Why, monsieur, why is he here and why does he bear a charmed name?"
repeated the other customer, the _bon bourgeois_, joining in the
conversation for the first time. "I will tell you. First, he comes
regularly to take his rights of seigniorage, his rents, his taxes, his
fourths of all the produce of his vineyards and arable lands on our
Cote d'Or. They are rich, these Phelypeaux; have been ever since the
days of Charles the Bold, and they are greedy and grasping. Also they
are great and powerful--they are of the Pontchartrain blood, and are
of the court. One was minister to the late king under the cardinal.
And for being bishop, _tiens!_ he was priest under Mazarin, who had
been a cavalryman, as monsieur is himself. It was Barberini who told
him the gown was better than the sword. And it was Mazarin who made
Phelypeaux bishop. To silence him, you understand, monsieur--to
silence him. He knew too much."
"What did he know?" asked the soldier, lifting his cup to his lips for
the last time, though with his eyes fixed on the _bourgeois_ as he
spoke.
"Ha! he knew much. The king's first love for La Beauvais--his first
love--then for Marie de Mancini and for La Mothe Houdancourt. Also he
knew Turenne and Conde--and also much more than the world knew or will
ever know."
"Turenne and Conde!" St. Georges echoed. "Two great captains. Two
great rivals and friends! So! Perhaps he will tell me something of
them to-night. They are names for a soldier to respect. _Bon soir, la
compagnie_," and he made toward the door.
They wished him good-night, the hostess telling him to have no fear,
the child should be well attended to, and the mousquetaire saluting
him; then the latter said: "Monsieur rides north again to-morrow, as I
heard him say. I too go forward to Bar. If monsieur permits, and since
the roads are bad and often infested with vile characters, I will ride
part way with him."
St. Georges looked at the young man; observed his stalwart frame--as
big as his own--his honest face and clear gray eyes, the former ruddy
with many a march and much exposure; then he said: "_Soit!_ We will
ride together; Bar is more than twenty leagues on the journey I have
to make. We must part before it is reached. Still, let us set out
together. At what hour do you leave?"
"As soon after daybreak as possible, monsieur, if that is convenient."
"It shall be. I will quit Phelypeaux at the dawn." Then St. Georges
added aside: "Comrade, I leave here in the inn the two things dearest
to me in the world--my child and horse. I confide them to you. Will
you accept the trust until the morning?"
"With the greatest will, monsieur. Trust me. Ere I sleep to-night I
will see that all is well with both. You may depend on me."
"So be it," replied St. Georges. "I do depend on you. Farewell till
dawn," and he strode across the great, gaunt _place_, on which the
snow still fell and lay.
"'Ring loud!' the old man said," he muttered to himself; "well, here's
for it," and he pulled a peal on the bell chain hanging by the side of
the door that might have waked the dead. Then, as he stood there
musing on why the king should have given him orders to put up at such
a place as Phelypeaux's instead of enjoying the solid, if rough,
comfort of a Burgundian inn, the wicket opened again and the old man's
sour face appeared once more at it.
"So!" he said, "you have come back. And I perceive you have left the
child behind you. 'Tis well. We have no room for children here. Come
in, come in," he added snappishly.
Obeying an invitation given in none too warm a tone, St. Georges
stepped through the wicket into the courtyard of the house--a place
filled with snow that had lain there and increased since the first
flake had fallen until now, and through which a thin path or track had
been trodden from the great doorway to a smaller one that admitted to
the house.
"You perceive," remarked Phelypeaux, "this is not a luxurious halting
for you, monsieur. Still, the _chevaux-legers_ are doubtless used to
an absence of luxury."
"The _chevaux-legers_ can make shift with anything," replied the
soldier. And shrugging his shoulders as he spoke, he said:
"_Monseigneur l'Eveque_, why do you imagine his Majesty has instructed
me to become your guest for a night?"
He spoke without any of that respect usually shown to exalted members
of the Church in the days of Louis XIV--a monarch who considered
himself a religious man, and demanded that the most scrupulous
reverence should be paid to all things ecclesiastical. But, in truth,
the Bishop of Lodeve was known to be a scandal to the sacred calling
he belonged to; and now that Georges St. Georges was aware that he was
face to face with the man himself, he refused to testify a respect for
him that he could not feel.
"Humph! 'Monseigneur l'Eveque!' Ha! So you know me?" St. Georges
nodded, whereon the other went on:
"Why the king has sent you to me? Eh? Perhaps because he thinks I am a
good host, and because he loves his troops to be well treated. So I am a
good host--only it is when I am in Languedoc. Here, _malheureusement_, I
must be perforce a bad one. I have no servants but those I have brought
with me, and one or two women who look after the chateau during my
absence."
He had by this time opened the door into the house and escorted his
visitor into a large, desolate-looking saloon, on the walls of which
the damp hung in huge beads and drops, and in which there was a
fireplace of vast dimensions that gave the appearance of never having
had a fire lighted in it for years. Yet before this fireplace there
stood two great armchairs, as though to suggest that here was a
comfortable, cosey spot in which to sit.
"We'll soon have a fire," said this strange creature, whereon he went
to a corner of the room in which hung some arras, and, thrusting it
aside, brought forth a handful of kindling wood, two or three green,
newly cut logs of different sizes, and some shavings, to which he
applied the tinder after he had thrown them all pell-mell into the
grate together. Then, when the smoke which arose from the damp green
wood had thoroughly permeated the whole of the room, he looked round
at St. Georges and said:
"You were gone some while to the 'Ours.' Did you sup there?"
"Nay," replied the other, glancing at him through the smoke and by aid
of the single candle by which the room was illuminated, for it was now
night. "Nay, monseigneur, I thought to sup with you."
"And so you shall," exclaimed Phelypeaux, with an assumed air of
hilarity--"and so you shall. Only--I cannot entertain you as in
Languedoc. Now, if we were there----"
"Well," said the soldier, "we are not. We are in Burgundy. The land of
good cheer. We must take what Burgundy offers."
"_Helas!_ it offers little. At least in this house. However, I will
see." Saying which he opened a door at the other end of the room, and
calling, "Pierre, Pierre!" loudly, he cried out, after a harsh voice
had answered him from some distant room: "Bring some supper for
Monsieur St. Georges and myself. For Monsieur St. Georges and myself.
You understand! For Monsieur St. Georges and myself."
"Why emphasize 'Monsieur St. Georges' so strongly, monseigneur?" the
other demanded. "The respected servitor can hardly care much whether
he bring supper for you and Monsieur St. Georges or for you and
Monsieur the dev---- I beg your pardon, monseigneur."
The Bishop of Lodeve laughed a kind of grim, uncanny laugh as St.
Georges said this, then he remarked:
"Surely you don't believe in--in--the gentleman you were about to
mention. Let me see, there is a musty proverb that he who sups with
that personage needs a long spoon. Well, I would not sup with him--if
he exists. Our supper will be none too profuse as it is," and again he
laughed.
So, indeed, it seemed, judging by what Pierre brought in later. The
soup, served in a handsome silver tureen, whose antique form and
chasings must have dated back to the days of Henri de Navarre at
latest, was so thin that it was nothing but boiling water with a
greasy flavour, and St. Georges twisted his long mustaches with dismay
as he gazed into the stuff before him. Moreover, the bread with which
he endeavoured to fortify this meagre commencement was half baked, so
that it was of the consistency of dough. Next, the meat which was
brought to table must have been unkilled at the time he rode into
Dijon, so tough and tasteless was it; and the wine was a disgrace to
France, let alone to Burgundy, where every peasant can obtain a drink
that is palatable if weak. And, to add to the other miseries of this
_regale_, the tablecloth and napkins were so damp that, affected by
the tureen and plates, which were hot if they possessed no other
virtues--such as eatable food upon them--they smoked so much that the
guest could scarcely see his host across the table.
"Not the fare of Languedoc," this worthy divine muttered, once or
twice, "not the fare of Languedoc. Ah, Monsieur St. Georges, you must
come and see me in my bishopric if you want to live well. I can give
you a good supper there."
"So I have heard, monseigneur. With many other things as well. Music,
I hear, accompanies your feasts; the voices of silver-tongued
lads----"
"Ha!" chuckled the other, "you have heard that. Well, why not? The
choir is lazy, and--since it costs me nothing--may as well sing at my
table. Now, since I cannot persuade you to eat more," St. Georges
having pushed his plate away from him with an action of disgust, "let
us have a little talk.--Pierre, go away; we wish to be alone.
Though--stay--first of all bring a bottle of the old clos from the
buffet--the old clos, you understand, the '79 bottling."
The cavalryman wondered if the "old clos" was likely to be any better
than the vinaigrous stuff he had just been treated to, and sat waiting
its arrival with curiosity, if not impatience. Meanwhile, he regarded
his host from under his eyelids as well as he could through the mist
made by the still steaming napkins, and also by the wet, hissing logs
which spluttered and reeked in the grate close by which the table had
been drawn up. The old man, he saw, was perfectly cognizant that he
was being observed; occasionally from under _his_ eyelids he would
shoot a glance in his turn at the great form of the [2]_chevau-leger_
near him, and would then smile in what he evidently intended to be an
engaging manner; while at other times he would swiftly remove his eyes
and gaze meditatively into the green wood that smouldered on the
andirons.
[Footnote 2: Cheval-leger is a modern rendering of the old term.]
Then Pierre came back with a bottle that appeared, outwardly at least,
to give promise of containing good liquor within it, since it was
covered with dust and cobwebs, and, uncorking it and placing two long,
thin, tapering glasses by its side, withdrew--yet not before
Phelypeaux, with that remarkable persistency in mentioning his guest's
name which the latter had previously remarked, had called out:
"Fill Monsieur St. Georges's glass, Pierre. Fill it, I say. Fill the
glass of Monsieur St. Georges.--Monsieur St. Georges," raising his
own, "I drink to you. To your good health and prosperous ride to
Paris. And afterward, Monsieur St. Georges--afterward."