IN WHICH IT APPEARS THAT ALL JEWS ARE NOT FROM
JERUSALEM, NOR ALL TURKS FROM TUNIS.
"Hola! hey! my rabbits!" called Maître Jacques, as he entered the
open.
At the voice of their leader the obedient "rabbits" issued from the
underbrush and from the tufts of gorse and brambles beneath which they
had ensconced themselves at the first alarm, and came running into the
open, where they eyed the two prisoners, as well as the darkness would
allow, with much curiosity. Then, as if this examination did not
suffice, one of them went down into the burrow, lighted two bits of
pine, and jumping back put the improvised torches under the nose of
Petit-Pierre and that of her companion.
Maître Jacques had resumed his usual seat on the trunk of a tree, and
was peaceably conversing with Aubin Courte-Joie, to whom he related
the incidents of the capture he had made, with the same circumstantial
particularity with which a villager tells his wife of a purchase he
has just concluded at a market.
Michel, who was naturally somewhat overcome by the affair and by his
wound, was sitting, or rather lying, on the grass. Petit-Pierre,
standing beside him, was gazing, with an attention not exempt from
disgust, at the faces of the bandits; which was easy to do, because,
having satisfied their curiosity, they had gone back to their usual
pursuits,--that is to say, to their psalm-singing, their games, their
sleep, and the polishing of their weapons. And yet, while playing,
drinking, singing, and cleansing their guns, carbines, and pistols,
they never lost sight for an instant of the two prisoners who, by way
of precaution, were placed in the very centre of the open.
It was then that Petit-Pierre, withdrawing her eyes from the bandits,
noticed for the first time that her companion was wounded.
"Oh, good God!" she exclaimed, seeing the blood which had run down
Michel's arm to his hand; "you are shot?"
"Yes; I think so, Ma--mon--"
"Oh! for heaven's sake, say Petit-Pierre, and more than ever. Do you
suffer much pain?"
"No; I thought I received a blow from a stick on the shoulder, but now
the whole arm is getting numb."
"Try to move it."
"Well, in any case, there is nothing broken. See!"
And he moved his arm with comparative ease.
"Good! This will certainly win you the heart you love, and if your
noble conduct is not enough, I promise to intervene in your behalf;
and I have good reason to think my intervention will be effectual."
"How kind you are, Ma--Petit-Pierre! And whatever you order me to do,
I'll do it after such a promise; even if I have to attack a battery of
a hundred guns single-handed, I'll go, head down, to the redoubt. Ah,
if you would only speak to the Marquis de Souday for me, I should be
the happiest of men!"
"Don't gesticulate in that way; you will prevent the blood from
stanching. So it seems it is the marquis you are particularly afraid
of. Well, I'll speak to him, your terrible marquis, on the word of--of
Petit-Pierre. But now, as they have left us alone to ourselves, let us
talk about our present affairs. Where are we?--and who are these
persons?"
"To me," said Michel, "they look like Chouans."
"Do Chouans stop inoffensive travellers? Impossible!"
"They do, though."
"I am shocked."
"Well, if they have not done it before, they have done it now,
apparently."
"What will they do with us?"
"That we shall soon know; for see, they are beginning to bestir
themselves,--about us, no doubt!"
"Goodness!" exclaimed Petit-Pierre; "how odd it will be if we are in
danger from my own partisans! But hush!"
Maître Jacques, after conferring for some time with Aubin Courte-Joie,
gave the order to bring the prisoners before him.
Petit-Pierre advanced confidently toward the tree, on which the master
of the burrow held his assizes; but Michel who, on account of his
wound and his bound hands, found some difficulty in getting on his
legs, took more time in obeying the order. Seeing this, Aubin
Courte-Joie made a sign to Trigaud-Vermin, who, seizing the young man
by the waist, lifted him with the ease another man would have had in
lifting a child three years old, and placed him before Maître Jacques,
taking care to put him in precisely the same attitude from which he
had taken him,--a man[oe]uvre Trigaud-Vermin accomplished by swinging
forward Michel's lower limbs and poking him in the back before he let
him fall at full length on the ground.
"Stupid brute!" muttered Michel, who had lost under the effect of pain
some of his natural timidity.
"You are not civil," said Maître Jacques; "no, I repeat to you,
Monsieur le Baron Michel de la Logerie, you are not civil, and the
kindness of that poor fellow deserved a better return. But come, let's
attend to our little business!" Casting a more observing look at the
young man, he added, "I am not mistaken; you are M. le Baron Michel de
la Logerie, are you not?"
"Yes," replied Michel, laconically.
"Very good. What were you doing on the road to Légé, in the middle of
the forest of Touvois at this time of night?"
"I might answer that I am not obliged to give an account of my actions
to you, and that the highways are open to everybody."
"But you won't answer me in that way, Monsieur le baron."
"Why not?"
"Because, with due respect to you, it would be folly, and I believe
you have too much sense to commit it."
"Very good; I won't discuss the point. I was going to my farm of
Banl[oe]uvre, which, as you know, is at the farther end of the forest
of Touvois, in which we now are."
"Well done; that's right, Monsieur le baron. Do me the honor to answer
always in that way and we shall agree. Now, how is it that the Baron
de la Logerie, who has so many good horses in his stables, so many
fine carriages in his coach-house, should be travelling on foot with
his friend, like a simple peasant,--like us, in short?"
"We had a horse, but he got away in an accident we met with, and we
could not catch him."
"Well done again. Now, Monsieur le baron, I hope you will be kind
enough to give us some news."
"I?"
"Yes. What is going on over there, Monsieur le baron?"
"How can things over our way interest you?" asked Michel, who not
being quite sure to which party the man he was addressing belonged,
hesitated as to the color he ought to give to his replies.
"Go on, Monsieur le baron," resumed Maître Jacques; "never mind
whether what you have to say is useful to me or not. Come, bethink
yourself. Whom did you meet on the way?"
Michel looked at Petit-Pierre with embarrassment. Maître Jacques
intercepted the look, and calling up Trigaud-Vermin, he ordered him to
stand between the two prisoners, like the Wall in "Midsummer-Night's
Dream."
"Well," continued Michel, "we met what everybody meets at all hours
and on every road for the last three days in and about Machecoul,--we
met soldiers."
"Did they speak to you?"
"No."
"No? Do you mean to say they let you pass without a word?"
"We avoided them."
"Bah!" said Maître Jacques, in a doubtful tone.
"Travelling on our own business it did not suit us to be mixed up in
affairs that were none of ours."
"Who is this young man who is with you?"
Petit-Pierre hastened to answer before Michel had time to do so.
"I am Monsieur le baron's servant," she said.
"Then, my young friend," said Maître Jacques, replying to Petit-Pierre,
"allow me to tell you that you are a very bad servant. In fact, peasant
as I am, I am grieved to hear a servant answering for his master,
especially when no one spoke to him." Turning to Michel, he continued,
"So this lad is your servant, is he? Well, he is a pretty boy."
And the lord of the burrow looked at Petit-Pierre with scrutinizing
attention, while one of his men threw the light of a torch full on her
face to facilitate the examination.
"Let us come to the point," said Michel; "what do you want? If it is
my purse I sha'n't prevent you from having it. Take it; but let us go
about our business."
"Oh, fie!" returned Maître Jacques; "if I were a gentleman, like you,
Monsieur Michel, I would ask satisfaction for such an insult. Do you
take us for highwaymen? That's not flattering. I would willingly tell
you my business, only, I fear I should make myself disagreeable.
Besides, you say you have nothing to do with politics. Your father,
nevertheless, whom I knew something of in the olden time, did meddle
with politics, and didn't lose his fortune that way either. I must
admit, therefore, that I expected to find you a zealous adherent of
his Majesty Louis-Philippe."
"Then you'd have been very much mistaken, my good sir," broke in
Petit-Pierre, disrespectfully; "Monsieur le baron is, on the contrary,
a zealous partisan of his Majesty Henri V."
"Indeed, my little friend!" cried Maître Jacques. Then, turning to
Michel, "Come, Monsieur le baron," he continued, "be frank; is what
your companion--I mean your servant--says the truth?"
"The exact truth," answered Michel.
"Ah, but this is good news! I, who thought I had to do with those
horrid curs!--good God! how ashamed I am of the way I have treated
you, and what excuses I ought to offer! Pray, receive them, Monsieur
le baron; and take your share, my excellent young friend,--master and
servant, please to accept them together. I'm not too proud to beg your
pardon."
"Well, then," said Michel, whose displeasure was not lessened by
Maître Jacques's sarcastic politeness, "you have a very easy way of
testifying your regret, and that is by letting us go our way."
"Oh, no!" cried Maître Jacques.
"Why not?"
"No, no, no! I cannot consent to let you leave us in that way.
Besides, two such partisans of legitimacy as you and I, Monsieur le
Baron Michel, have a great deal to say to each other about the grand
uprising that is now taking place. Don't you think so, Monsieur le
baron?"
"It may be so; but the interests of that cause require that I and my
servant should immediately reach the safety of my farm at
Banl[oe]uvre."
"Monsieur le baron, there is no spot in all this region as safe as the
one where you now are in the midst of us. I cannot allow you to leave
us without giving you some proof of the really touching interest I
feel for you."
"Hum!" muttered Petit-Pierre, under her breath; "things are going very
wrong."
"Go on," said Michel.
"You are devoted to Henri V.?"
"Yes."
"Very devoted?"
"Yes."
"Supremely devoted?"
"I have told you so."
"Yes, you have told me so, and I don't doubt your word. Well, I'll
provide you with a way to manifest that devotion in a dazzling
manner."
"Do so."
"You see my men," continued Maître Jacques, pointing to his
troop,--"some forty scamps who look more like Callot's bandits than
the honest peasants that they are. They don't ask anything better than
to be killed for our young king and his heroic mother; only, they lack
everything needful to attain that end,--shoes to march in, arms to
fight with, garments to wear, money to lessen the hardships of the
bivouac. You do not, I presume. Monsieur le baron, desire that these
faithful servants, accomplishing what you yourself regard as a sacred
duty, should be exposed to cold, hunger, and other privations in all
weathers?"
"But," said Michel, "how the devil am I to clothe and arm your men?
Have I a base of supplies at command?"
"Ah, Monsieur le baron," resumed Maître Jacques, "don't think I know
so little of good manners as to dream of burdening you with the
annoyance of such details. No, indeed! But I've a faithful follower
here" (and he pointed to Aubin Courte-Joie) "who will spare you all
trouble. Give him the money, and he will lay it out to the best
advantage, all the while saving your purse."
"If that's all," said Michel, with the readiness of youth and the
enthusiasm of his dawning opinions, "I'm very willing. How much do you
want?"
"Come, that's good!" exclaimed Maître Jacques, not a little amazed at
this readiness. "Well, do you think it would be pushing things too far
to ask you for five hundred francs for each man? I should like them to
have, besides the uniform,--green, you know, like the chasseurs of
Monsieur de Charette,--a knapsack comfortably supplied. Five hundred
francs, that's about half the price Philippe charges France for every
man she gives him; and each of my men is worth any two of his. You
see, therefore, that I am reasonable."
"Say at once the sum you want, and let us make an end of this business
at once."
"Well, I have forty men, including those now absent on leave, but who
are bound to join the standard at the first call. That makes just
twenty thousand francs,--a mere nothing for a rich man like you,
Monsieur le baron."
"So be it. You shall have your twenty thousand francs in two days,"
said Michel, endeavoring to rise; "I give you my word."
"Oh, no, no; I wish to spare you all trouble, Monsieur le baron. You
have a friend in this region, a notary, who will advance to you that
sum if you write him a pressing little note, a polite little note,
which one of my men shall take at once."
"Very well; give me something to write with, and unbind my hands."
"My friend Courte-Joie here has pens, ink, and paper."
Maître Courte-Joie had already begun to pull an inkstand from his
pocket. But Petit-Pierre stepped forward.
"One moment, Monsieur Michel," she said, in a resolute tone. "And you,
Maître Courte-Joie, as I hear you called, put up your implements. This
shall not be done."
"Upon my word!" ejaculated Maître Jacques; "and pray, why not,
servant,--as you call yourself?"
"Because such proceedings, monsieur, are those of bandits in Calabria
and Estramadura, and cannot be tolerated among men who claim to be
soldiers of King Henri V. Your demand is an actual extortion, which I
will not permit."
"You, my young friend?"
"Yes, I."
"If I considered you as being really what you pretend to be, I should
treat you as an impertinent lackey; but it strikes me that you have a
right to the respect we owe to a woman, and I shall not compromise my
reputation for gallantry by handling you roughly. I therefore confine
myself, for the present, to telling you to mind your own business and
not meddle with what doesn't concern you."
"On the contrary, monsieur, this concerns me very closely," returned
Petit-Pierre, with dignity. "It is of the utmost consequence to me
that no one shall make use of the name of Henri V. to cover acts of
brigandage."
"You take an extraordinary interest in the affairs of his Majesty, my
young friend. Will you be good enough to tell me why?"
"Send away your men, and I will tell you, monsieur."
"Off with you to a little distance, my lads!" he said. "It isn't
necessary," he continued, as the men obeyed him, "as I have no secrets
from those worthy fellows; but I'm willing to humor you, as you see.
Come, now we are alone, speak out."
"Monsieur," said Petit-Pierre, going a step nearer to Maître Jacques,
"I order you to set that young man at liberty. I require you to give
us an escort instantly to the place where we are going, and I also
wish you to send in search of the friends we are expecting."
"You require?--you order? Ah, _ça!_ my little turtle-dove, you talk
like the king upon his throne. If I refuse, what then?"
"If you refuse I will have you shot within twenty-four hours."
"Upon my word! one would think you were the regent herself."
"I am the regent herself, monsieur."
Maître Jacques burst into a roar of convulsive laughter. His men,
hearing his shouts, came up to have their share in the hilarity.
"Ouf!" he cried, seeing them about him; "here's fun! You were amazed
enough just now, my lads, weren't you?--to hear a Baron de la Logerie,
son of that Michel you wot of, declare that Henri V. had no better
friend than he. That was queer enough; but this--oh! this is queerer
still, and even more incredible. Here's something that goes beyond the
most galloping imagination. Look at this little peasant. You may have
taken him for anything you like; but I've supposed him to be nothing
else than the mistress of Monsieur le baron. Well, well, my rabbits,
we are all mistaken,--you're mistaken; I'm mistaken! This young man
whom you see before you is neither more nor less than the mother of
our king!"
A growl of ironical incredulity ran through the crowd.
"I swear to you," cried Michel, "it is true."
"Fine testimony, faith!" retorted Maître Jacques.
"I assure you--began Petit-Pierre.
"No, no," interrupted Maître Jacques; "I assure you that if within ten
minutes--which I grant to your squire for reflection, my wandering
dame--he doesn't do as agreed upon, I'll send him to keep company with
the acorns over his head. He may choose, but choose quick,--the money
or the rope. If I don't have the one, he'll have the other, that's
all!"
"But this is infamous!" cried Petit-Pierre, beside herself.
"Seize her!" said Maître Jacques.
Four men advanced to execute the order.
"Let no one dare to lay a hand on me!" said Petit-Pierre. Then, as
Trigaud-Vermin, callous to the majesty of her voice and gesture, still
advanced, "What!" she cried, recoiling from the touch of that brutal
hand, and snatching from her head both hat and wig, "Is there no man
among those bandits who is soldier enough to recognize me? What! Will
God abandon me now to the mercy of such brigands?"
"No!" said a voice behind Maître Jacques; "and I tell this man his
conduct is unworthy of one who wears a cockade that is white because
it is spotless."
Maître Jacques turned like lightning and aimed a pistol at the
new-comer. All the brigands seized their weapons, and it was literally
under an arch of iron that Bertha--for it was she--advanced into the
circle that surrounded the prisoners.
"The she-wolf!" muttered some of Maître Jacques's men, who knew
Mademoiselle de Souday.
"What are you here for?" cried the master of the band. "Don't you know
that I refuse to recognize the authority your father arrogates to
himself over my troop, and that I positively decline to be a part of
his division?"
"Silence, fool!" said Bertha. Then, going straight to Petit-Pierre,
and kneeling on one knee before her, "I ask pardon," she said, "for
these men who have insulted and threatened you,--you who have so many
claims to their respect."
"Ah, faith," cried Petit-Pierre, gayly, "you have come just in time!
The situation was getting critical; and here's a poor lad who will owe
you his life, for these worthy people were actually talking of hanging
him and of sending me to keep him company."
"Good heavens, yes!" said Michel, whom Aubin Courte-Joie, seeing how
matters stood, had hastened to unbind.
"And the worst of it was," said Petit-Pierre, laughing and nodding at
Michel, "that the young man deserved to live for the favor of a good
royalist like yourself."
Bertha smiled and dropped her eyes.
"So," continued Petit-Pierre, "it is you who will have to pay my debts
toward him; and I hope you will not object to my keeping a promise I
have made him to speak to your father in his behalf."
Bertha bent low to take the hand of Petit-Pierre and kiss it,--a
movement which concealed the rush of color to her cheeks.
Maître Jacques, mortified and ashamed of his mistake, now approached
and stammered a few excuses. In spite of her repulsion for the man's
brutality, Petit-Pierre knew it would be impolitic to do more than
show a certain amount of resentment.
"Your intentions may have been excellent, monsieur," she said, "but
your methods are deplorable, and tend to nothing less than making
highwaymen of our supporters, like the Company of Jehu in the old war;
and I hope you will abstain from such proceedings in future."
Then, turning away, as if such persons no longer existed for her, she
said to Bertha, "Now tell me how you happened to come here just at the
right moment."
"Your horse smelt his stable-mates," replied the young girl; "we
caught him, and then turned aside, for we heard the chasseurs coming
up. Seeing the two bundles of thorns tied to the poor beast, we
thought that you wanted to be rid of the animal in order to mask your
escape, and we all dispersed in different directions to find you,
giving ourselves rendezvous at Banl[oe]uvre. I came through the
forest; the lights attracted my attention, then the voices. I left my
horse at some distance, for fear he might betray me; you know the
rest, Madame."
"Very good," said Petit-Pierre; "and now if monsieur will be good
enough to give us a guide to Banl[oe]uvre, Bertha, let us start; for,
to tell you the truth, I am half-dead with fatigue."
"I will guide you myself, Madame," said Maître Jacques, respectfully.
Petit-Pierre bowed her head in assent; and Maître Jacques busied
himself eagerly in his arrangements. Ten men marched in advance to see
that the road was clear, while he himself with ten others escorted
Petit-Pierre, who was mounted on Bertha's horse.
Two hours later, as Petit-Pierre, Bertha, and Michel were finishing
their supper, the Marquis de Souday and Mary arrived, the former
testifying the utmost joy at finding the person whom he called his
"young friend" in safety. We must admit that the old gentleman's joy,
sincere and genuine as it was, was expressed in the stiff, ceremonious
sentences of the old school.
In the course of the evening Petit-Pierre had a long conference with
the marquis in a corner of the large hall, which Bertha and Michel
watched with deep interest; which was still further deepened when, on
the sudden entrance of Jean Oullier, the marquis rose, came up to the
young people, and taking Bertha's hand in his, said to Michel:
"Monsieur Petit-Pierre informs me that you aspire to the hand of my
daughter Bertha. I may have had other ideas for her establishment, but
in consequence of these gracious commands I can only assure you,
monsieur, that after the campaign is over my daughter shall be your
wife."
A thunderbolt falling at Michel's feet would not have stunned him
more. While the marquis ceremoniously prepared to place Bertha's hand
in his he turned to Mary, as if to implore her intervention; but her
low voice murmured in his ears the terrible words, "I do not love
you."
Overwhelmed with grief, bewildered and surprised, Michel mechanically
took the hand the marquis presented to him.