The White House (Novels of Paul de Kock Volume XII)

Robineau did not sleep very long, for when a man’s mind is running on a château, lands, titles, a carriage and servants, it must necessarily cause him some excitement. There are insomnias more pleasant than those caused by ambition and a longing for grandeur; it is sweet in the silence of the night to think of the person we love, to be in thought, in memory, in hopes, with her from whom we are separated. At such times we yield without question to the fondest illusions, we fashion our own dreams, and we dread to sleep, because sleep does not always present to us the images that are most dear to our hearts. But Robineau, who had no such thoughts as these, weary of tossing and turning in his bed, and of looking for a château, first on the right ear and then on the left, rose early and began to dress, saying to himself:

"My cabriolet and my servant may be waiting for me already at the door; I have too much to do to waste my time in bed."

Having dressed, he left his room on tiptoe, because he was not at all desirous to be overheard by Fifine, who was also a very early riser; but he met no one in the hall, and arrived safely in the street, where he looked in vain for his cabriolet.

"The devil! not here yet!" he muttered, looking at his watch. "Ah! it’s only six o’clock; but no matter: if I choose to go to drive at six o’clock, I am at perfect liberty to do it."

He went back into the passage, uncertain whether he should sally forth on foot or wait for his carriage; but, hearing a noise on the stairs, and fearing that it might be Fifine, he decided to go out.

Robineau bent his steps toward his notary’s, but when he reached the house the concierge was just rising.

"I am going to the office!" he called out as he hurried across the courtyard.

"There’s nobody there," the concierge replied. And so it proved; Robineau found the office door locked and went back to the concierge.

"What does this mean? Haven’t the clerks arrived yet?"

"Why, it’s too early, monsieur; the clerks never come to the office at six in the morning."

"Is monsieur le notaire at home?"

"He certainly hasn’t gone out yet. I suppose he’s asleep with his wife."

"Asleep! nonsense! Why, it’s two hours since I woke up. I am going up to his apartment."

"But, monsieur, nobody goes up so early as this."

"When a man proposes to buy a château, he should be at liberty to call whenever he pleases."

The concierge, thinking that Robineau’s business must be of great importance, allowed him to go upstairs, and he jangled the bell at the door of the notary’s apartment.

In a few minutes a maid opened the door with a terrified air, saying:

"Mon Dieu! whatever has happened?"

"It’s I, my dear child," replied Robineau; "I want to speak with your master."

"What for, monsieur?" inquired the servant, still thinking that some event of great importance must have happened.

"What for? Parbleu! about the château, the estate I instructed him to find for me."

The maid became calmer and stared at Robineau as she replied:

"Monsieur is still asleep; he isn’t in the habit of attending to business so early."

"Go tell him, my dear, that it’s his client Jules-Raoul Robineau, who has just inherited twenty-five thousand francs a year from his uncle Gratien; that will wake him up at once."

"Oh! I don’t think so, monsieur. Besides, monsieur and madame haven’t been married very long, and I don’t know whether I can go into their room like this."

"Do you want me to go?"

"Oh, no! wait a moment, monsieur, while I go and see."

The servant decided to deliver the message entrusted to her, and Robineau meanwhile paced the floor of an enormous dining-room.

"When the notary knows that it’s I," he thought, "I am sure that he’ll get up immediately."

But the maid soon returned and said with a mocking air:

"Monsieur swore because I woke him, and sent me about my business; he says you must come again."

"Did you give him my name?"

"Yes, monsieur, but that didn’t do any good."

"Ah! that didn’t do any good? Very well, I will call again."

And Robineau went away in a very ill humor, saying to himself:

"If that man had paid over all my money, I would change notaries instantly. Let’s go to Alfred’s."

He arrived at the hôtel De Marcey before seven o’clock and found the servants walking about the courtyard. Alfred’s valet stopped Robineau, saying:

"My master is asleep, monsieur."

"Bah! that doesn’t matter; he won’t be sorry to see me, he expects me," was the reply; and Robineau went upstairs, walked through various rooms and arrived at last in Alfred’s bedroom, where he found his friend fast asleep. He shook him violently, crying:

"Well, my friend! aren’t we ever going to get up? Come, come, lazybones!"

Alfred opened his eyes, looked up at Robineau, and exclaimed:

"Hallo! is it you? What in the devil do you want of me?"

"I have come to talk business with you. If I am not mistaken, you told me yesterday that you had seen a very fine estate near Mantes, which——"

"Eh! the devil take you and your estates! I was having the most delicious dream; I was coasting with Madame de Gerville, and the sled broke; but instead of being hurt, we were hugging each other so tight, we fell so softly; and I felt the pressure of her body. I touched——"

"I beg your pardon for waking you, my friend," said Robineau, "but——"

"And I," said Alfred, "beg you to pardon me if I go to sleep again."

And he paid no further heed to Robineau, who cried:

"What, my friend! you are going to sleep again just on account of a dream of coasting and such nonsense?"

Seeing that it was useless to speak to him, Robineau decided to take his leave.

"Let’s go to Monsieur Edouard Beaumont’s," he said to himself. "A poet, an author ought to rise early; genius should be up with the lark. At all events, I’ll ask him to breakfast with me, and they say that authors are very susceptible to such invitations."

So he betook himself to Edouard’s lodgings, where he had never been. He knew the address, however, and succeeded in finding it. The young author did not live at a hotel, nor did he occupy a first floor apartment; but he had lodgings in a pleasant house in Rue d’Enghien. The concierge did not stop Robineau, but merely said to him:

"Go up to the fourth floor."

"The fourth floor—that’s rather high," said Robineau to himself. "To be sure, the staircase is very clean and very pleasant. But a poet—there’s no law compelling them to be rich. And yet I have heard Alfred say that Edouard was in comfortable circumstances, that he had about four thousand francs a year. That used to seem a fortune to me."

On reaching the fourth floor Robineau rang once, twice; no answer. Not discouraged, he rang a third time, and at last heard Edouard’s voice, calling:

"Who’s there?"

"It’s I—Jules—you know. I have come to ask you to breakfast. Let me in."

"Oh! I beg a thousand pardons, Monsieur Robineau, but I worked far into the night, and I should like to sleep a little longer. Au revoir."

He walked away from the door, and Robineau stood on the landing for some moments.

"What in the devil have all these people eaten," he said to himself, "that they’re so anxious to sleep? it’s a most extraordinary thing!"

He went downstairs and looked at his watch; it was about half-past seven, and it occurred to him that his cabriolet should be waiting for him. So he returned to Rue Saint-Honoré and uttered a cry of joy when he saw in the distance the carriage standing at his door. He quickened his pace and discovered Fifine and the other young milliners standing in the doorway of the shop. He marched proudly by them and jumped into the cabriolet amid shouts of laughter from the young ladies, saying to himself:

"They laugh at me! Very good! I will try to splash them."

He drove about for an hour through the streets of Paris, then returned to his notary’s office. That gentleman, who was already tired of seeing him four times a day, and who did not care to be roused from sleep by him often, concluded that he had better find an estate for him in short order, as the best way to be rid of him. And so, as soon as he saw him, he said:

"I have what you want."

"Is it possible? An estate?"

"Better than that—a small château."

"A château?—You are a delightful man!"

"With towers, too, and battlements."

"Battlements!—Allow me to embrace you!"

"And moats—they are dry, to be sure."

"I will have them filled with water."

"Plenty of rooms, many guest chambers, stable for twenty horses."

"I will stable asses there."

"A park, a forest, and enormous gardens where you can lose yourself!"

"Lose myself—that is delicious!"

"Outlying land where you can hunt."

"I will do nothing else."

"A little stream abundantly supplied with fish."

"And I am very fond of matelote!"

"And the château is all furnished—in rather old-fashioned style, to be sure; but you will find there all that you need for immediate occupancy, except linen."

"My dear notary, this is enchanting. Furnished in antique style! Why, it is all the more noble for that!"

"However, you will obtain with the deeds an exact inventory of everything that the château contains."

"This is all very fine; I am simply afraid that this charming property is too dear."

"Eighty thousand francs."

"Eighty thousand francs! that is a mere nothing. I will buy it."

"It is my duty to warn you that the property does not produce much revenue; the appurtenant estates are not well kept up."

"I don’t care for that."

"There will be some repairs to be made on the buildings."

"I will do whatever is necessary."

"And then, it’s some distance from here."

"What difference does that make to me? I shan’t go there on foot. But where is it?"

"In Auvergne, near Saint-Amand-Talende and Clermont—nearly ninety leagues from Paris."

Robineau reflected for some moments.

"In Auvergne!" he said; "ninety leagues from Paris! The devil! I shan’t be able to breakfast at the Café Anglais and return to my château at night."

"But consider too, monsieur, that an estate near Paris soon becomes ruinous by the number of visitors you receive; one person comes to pass a week with you, another a fortnight; you are never free; you need a large fortune to meet the expense that that occasions."

"That is true; and in Auvergne people won’t drive out to breakfast with me.—I am not familiar with Auvergne; is it a pleasant country?"

"Oh! it’s a most interesting, most picturesque region, monsieur. The little town of Saint-Amand and its neighborhood form one of the most remarkable districts of the Limagne d’Auvergne. You will see mountains in all directions and green fields. Nature abounds in accidents of rare beauty."

"There are accidents, you say?"

"I am speaking as an artist; I mean that you will be surprised, on emerging from a rugged mountain chain, to see before you vine-covered hillsides, and valleys where the most luscious fruits and the most nutritious vegetables grow in abundance."

"That’s what comes of not travelling! I imagined that there was nothing to see in Auvergne but mountain-rats."

"The little village of Talende is supplied with water by one of the most noteworthy and most abundant springs of living water known. Julius Cæsar called Talende the bed of the gods!"

"In that case the people ought to sleep very comfortably."

"Lastly, Auvergne has given birth to more than one famous man: at Aigueperse the Chancellor de l’Hôpital was born; Riom was the birthplace of Anne Dubourg, Issoire of Cardinal Duprat; and the little hamlet of Chanonat witnessed the birth of the amiable Delille, and has been celebrated in song by that poet."

"This is all very fine; but what is the name of the château? I care a great deal about the name."

"The estate is known as La Roche-Noire."

"La Roche-Noire! superb! And when it is mine, can I assume that name?"

"There is nothing to prevent."

"Monsieur de la Roche-Noire! Jules de la Roche-Noire!—Magnificent!—It is settled, monsieur le notaire; I will buy the château."

"You might go to see the place before coming to a decision, and——"

"No! no! It would surely be sold to someone else meanwhile, and the name of La Roche-Noire would escape me! It is decided, it’s a bargain, I will buy the château.—When can I have my papers? When will you have the deed ready? I am in a great hurry to take possession of my château!"

"I must write to my brother notary at Saint-Amand; and then the deeds—oh! it will be a matter of a week at most."

"A week! dear me! that’s a long while!—But no matter; do whatever is necessary, so that no one can dispute my title. By the way, if you are writing to Auvergne, I should be glad to have the people at my château know that I shall be there soon, and to have them prepare a little reception for me. There are servants at La Roche-Noire, no doubt?"

"A concierge and a gardener at most."

"Very good; there’ll be no harm in letting them know that their new master proposes to visit his château very soon; that will give them time to prepare a little complimentary greeting, eh, monsieur le notaire?"

"To be sure, if they wish to offer you one."

"A new lord! Why, I should say that that was the regular thing."

"At the Opéra-Comique, yes."

"And even more in Auvergne, for those people must still retain the patriarchal customs.—Well, I will leave you. Hasten my business, I beg you; remember that my life, my happiness, all my hopes are already centred on my château."

Robineau left the notary’s office, beside himself with joy; and inasmuch as joy, like grief, longs to find a vent, he returned to Alfred, who was no longer in bed, and to whom he shouted from the reception-room:

"It’s all settled! I am a landed proprietor, I own a château, the Château de la Roche-Noire, nothing less,—with towers, battlements, moats,—and cannon perhaps. Nothing is lacking! My dear De Marcey, I am the happiest of men!"

Alfred smiled at the intense excitement produced in the parvenu by the possession of a château; he bade him sit beside him, urged him to be calm, and asked him where his estate was situated.

"In Auvergne," replied Robineau; "a magnificent country! the land of mountains, of great men, of the most picturesque accidents—the bed of the gods according to Julius Cæsar; and that fellow should have known what he was talking about, for the Romans were great voluptuaries when they chose to take the trouble."

"In that case how does it happen that the natives of such a beautiful region come in crowds to Paris to mend kettles or carry water?"

"What does that prove? Haven’t men always loved to travel? The most ancient peoples, the Jews, Chaldæans, the Phœnicians, set us the example; and when a patriarch like Abraham journeys with his family, his household and his flocks, from the Euphrates to Palestine, and then to Egypt, it seems to me that an Auvergnat may well take the trouble to travel to Paris."

"That is true; however, I don’t know Auvergne, but I have heard that it is a very interesting country. Of course you will go down and inspect the château before purchasing?"

"No, I shall purchase it at once and inspect it afterward; I propose to make my entry as lord, as proprietor. The domain of La Roche-Noire! and only eighty thousand francs! You must agree, my dear De Marcey, that it’s a great find."

"More probably some old Gothic structure, in a ruinous, dilapidated condition, where you will have to lay out a lot of money just in repairs."

"I shall repair nothing; I love ruins myself! And a park! a forest! hunting and fishing!"

"Do you hunt as well as you ride?"

"Oh! you wicked joker! Look you, I am sure that you have formed a very false idea of my château."

"I assure you that I am very glad that you have one, because now you will at least let me sleep in peace."

"Oh! my friend! my dear friend! I have a delightful idea!"

"To buy another château?"

"No, one is enough; I am not ambitious, you see. But you have just said that you don’t know Auvergne; here’s a superb opportunity to become acquainted with it. I take you with me to see my property; I compel you to agree that I have made a fine purchase; and you give me some advice as to establishing my household, you teach me to hunt. We will give fêtes, which you will arrange and manage.—Well! what do you say to it? don’t you like the scheme?"

"Faith! I should like well enough to go to Auvergne; but I remember that I am to take a little trip this summer through Switzerland with Edouard; our plans are all laid."

"Instead of going to Switzerland, you may as well come to Auvergne, which is the Switzerland of France; you will see mountains and snow there as well as in Switzerland, and we will take Edouard with us."

"The deuce! do you propose to take everybody?"

"No, but I should like to take Edouard, because he’s a poet, and a poet is often useful, especially when a person means, as I do, to give banquets, entertain ladies and be gallant."

"Ah! I understand; you want Edouard to go, in order to write occasional verses?"

"He will do only what he pleases; but it seems to me that an author, a poet, should not be sorry to visit a picturesque region—a country where there are cliffs and precipices. He will procure material for ten plays! Snow, mountains, torrents—there’s nothing like them to inspire genius. I am sure that Edouard will write a poem about my château, or a tragedy which he will call La Roche-Noire.—Urge him to come, Alfred, I beseech you."

"I promise to suggest it to him, and if he agrees, it’s a bargain; we will go with you and install you in your château."

Robineau left Alfred, in order to attend to the preparations for his departure. Alfred, as he reflected on the proposal that had been made to him, concluded that the trip to Auvergne might furnish him with frequent opportunities for amusement; indeed the bare idea of seeing the Château de la Roche-Noire and Robineau playing the grand seigneur was most diverting; and as he and Edouard had formed the plan of going to Switzerland solely to obtain a brief respite from the fatiguing life and dissipations of Paris, he thought that his friend, like himself, would be inclined to accept Robineau’s invitation.

It rarely happened that Edouard and Alfred passed more than two days without meeting. Although they had not precisely the same tastes and the same temperament, they were fond of each other and suited each other. The sympathy that draws two persons together is not always born of similarity of temper and mental characteristics. We see gayety attached to melancholy; and the gravest and most sedate persons seek the company of the most inveterate jokers and find enjoyment with the greatest buffoons. The sluggish nature requires something to rouse it; the mind needs contrasts. How many people there are who are contented only with those with whom they are forever disputing! Two persons may be congenial without loving each other; to inspire the latter sentiment, there must be in the bottom of the heart, despite external differences, that secret sympathy which we feel but cannot define.

Alfred was more frivolous, more heedless, more hilarious perhaps, than Edouard; the latter, however, was hardly more virtuous than most young men of his age; but, as he was not rich, like young De Marcey, he did not carry his follies so far, and he was sensible enough to be determined not to run into debt. His habit of careful expenditure, of reflecting before agreeing to join a party of pleasure, had led his friend to dub him Monsieur le Prudent; but Edouard was no more prudent than Alfred when his heart was engaged. Both were pleasant fellows: Alfred because he said whatever came into his mind, and his natural merriment often suggested some most amusing conceits; Edouard because he said only what he felt, and his thoughts were generally judicious. However, Edouard laughed at the follies that Alfred uttered, and Alfred applauded his friend’s sage reflections.

On the evening of the day when Robineau roused them both from their slumbers, Edouard and Alfred were together, and the latter informed his friend of the proposal of the new purchaser of La Roche-Noire.

Edouard reflected for several minutes; whereupon Alfred lost patience and urged him to decide.

"Go to visit Monsieur Jules Robineau!" said Edouard at last; "why, don’t you know that your friend Robineau is an awful ass?"

"Certainly I know it; but what does it matter? Don’t we visit asinine people every day?"

"If he were only that, it would be nothing; but he is full of absurd pretensions."

"So much the better! that’s the most amusing part of it. Think of the airs he will put on in his château! and the commotion it will make in the neighborhood! and the amusing scenes that will result! You, being a dramatic author, will find innumerable tableaux of manners there, and comical incidents——"

"That is all very well; but we cannot go with the poor fellow for the sole purpose of amusing ourselves at his expense."

"What harm would there be in that? But don’t you see that, while amusing ourselves, we shall be rendering a genuine service to Robineau? He will need our advice in a thousand matters. He means to give fêtes, balls, and he is already thinking of asking you to write verses for marriages and baptisms."

"Indeed! much obliged!"

"However, if we should be bored at his château, we could go away. I don’t expect to pass my life at La Roche-Noire."

"How shall we make the journey?"

"Mon Dieu! just as you choose. By post, I presume; and divide the expense,—that goes without saying. I do not propose that Monsieur Robineau shall pay our travelling expenses; but we shall spend no more than we should in Switzerland.—Well! you are still reflecting. Does your prudence descry some obstacle? With your four thousand francs a year and your savings, you will end by being richer than I am!"

"I do not desire great wealth, I ask for nothing but happiness."

"You are not exacting! you want nothing but the best.—Well, what is your decision?"

"Whatever you wish; let us go to Auvergne, and visit Monsieur Robineau’s château."

"That is settled then. Poor Robineau! he will be in raptures when he knows that we are going with him. He is a good enough fellow at heart; I greatly fear that he will ruin himself with his château, and we will try to prevent him, unless he is really obstinate about it.—We will go and have a look at Auvergne and the little Auvergnates! I am not sure, but I have an idea that we shall find some pretty faces there."

"Ah! thinking of the women already!"

"You are an excellent one to preach! Why, my dear fellow, a country where there were no women, and consequently no hope of a love-affair, though it were as beautiful as Eden, as rich as Eldorado, and of as mild a climate as Araby the Blest, would be in my eyes a dreary solitude. That is why I have always pitied poor Crusoe, who, instead of a woman, had only his man Friday for company."

Robineau did not fail to come the next day to learn the decision of the two friends; and when he heard that they proposed to accompany him to his château, he was in raptures. He bought a post-chaise for the journey and wanted to buy horses as well. Alfred had much difficulty in making him understand that it would be much better to use post-horses as far as Clermont-Ferrand.

"Why not all the way to my château?" asked Robineau.

"Did you not tell me that your château was only a league or two from that town?"

"Yes."

"Very well! as we are going to Auvergne to see something of the country, I opine that we may very well do a couple of leagues on foot."

"But——"

"But, if you continue to oppose our wishes, we shall leave you to go alone."

Robineau yielded, although it would have seemed to him much more noble to drive in a post-chaise into the very courtyard of his château; but he reflected that he would easily find other horses at Clermont to carry him the rest of the way and to transport his baggage; for he had laid in an ample stock of clothes and toilet articles, desiring to introduce in Auvergne the latest Parisian styles.

By dint of pestering his notary, Robineau succeeded in having his purchase completed promptly; and at the end of six days he was ready to leave Paris, attended by his new servant, named François, who had driven his cabriolet, and whom he had promoted to be his valet, because he had instantly detected his master’s weakness; and never spoke to him except with downcast eyes and hat in hand.

Alfred did not consider it necessary to take any servant with him; but as the Baron de Marcey had not returned to Paris at the time of their departure, he left with Germain, his valet, a letter for his father, in which he said simply:

"I am going for a little journey with Edouard and Robineau; I am sorry not to have had an opportunity to embrace you before starting, but I will make up for it when we return. Keep well and enjoy yourself. I am going to try to get some diversion."

The careless fellow did not even mention the part of the country to which he was going; he thought that it made no difference to his father, and moreover he intended to write to him if he should stay with Robineau for any length of time.

On the day fixed for their departure, Robineau took his seat in the post-chaise before the horses were harnessed; he sent François thrice to meet Alfred and Edouard. At last his two companions arrived; the valises were stored away, the trunks strapped on behind, the horses saddled, and the postilion cracked his whip. They were off for Auvergne, and Robineau said to himself:

"Here I am en route for my château!"

The sun had just risen over the pretty town of Clermont-Ferrand, and the toiling portion of its people had already betaken themselves to their work. In front of the post-house servants were plucking chickens, farm-hands threshing grain, children leading horses to drink, some travellers drinking the stirrup-cup, dealers, who made regular visits to Clermont, clinking glasses with the inn-keeper, and postilions kissing the maid-servants, who struggled and submitted as the custom is in all lands.

About two hundred paces from the inn, a man was carelessly reclining on a stone bench, surveying with cold indifference the scene before him; and, as he turned his eyes this way and that, his mind seemed rather engrossed by memories of the past than awake to impressions of the present. This man, whose costume denoted poverty, aye, vagabondage, seemed to be from forty-five to fifty years old; but the disorder of his costume, a beard of more than a month’s growth, and unkempt black hair, some of which fell over his face, made it difficult to divine his age. However, despite his disordered hair, and beneath the dilapidated hat that covered his head, one could distinguish features that must once have been handsome: a well-shaped nose, a mouth of medium size, but almost entirely toothless, gracefully arched black eyebrows, and large brown eyes, the usual expression of which was ironical and harmonized with the mocking smile which, from time to time, played about his lips. His figure was tall and shapely. In short, although clad in a pair of shabby gray trousers, a red waistcoat covered with stains, and a full nut-colored redingote, patched in several places with a different material; with worn-out boots, full of holes, on his feet, and a blue kerchief twisted carelessly about his neck for a cravat, there was something in the man’s aspect which indicated that he was not of vulgar birth, and in his whole manner, a suggestion of ease, almost of pride, which formed a striking contrast to his costume.

After remaining for some minutes stretched out on the stone bench, the stranger rose, pushed his hair back under his hat, and, taking up a huge knotted stick which stood by his side, walked with a decided step toward the inn, which he entered with head erect, like a man travelling for pleasure. He turned into the common room, seated himself at an oilcloth-covered table, and knocked loudly thereon with his stick.

A maid answered his call. Although inn-keepers are accustomed to entertain all sorts and conditions of men, the traveller’s costume was not prepossessing, and as it is not customary to stand on ceremony with guests who appear to be unfortunate, the girl began by asking sharply why he made so much noise banging the table with his stick.

"Because I choose to, my dear," replied the newcomer in a loud voice, with a threatening glance at the servant. "You should come more quickly to wait on me, and then I should not need to knock so loud. You saw me come in, as you were in the doorway. Why didn’t you come at once to ask me what I wanted?"

The servant, not expecting to be taken to task thus by a man so shabbily dressed, was covered with confusion, and replied, twisting her apron:

"Why! because—because——"

"Parbleu! because I didn’t arrive in a carriage, and because I am not dressed with great care! But what does that matter! So long as I pay for what I order, there is nothing for you to say. Come, bring me some bread and cheese, and a jug of wine—quickly, for I am hungry."

The girl turned away, muttering:

"What a fuss he makes for bread and cheese!"

However, she made haste to serve the stranger, who breakfasted with a hearty appetite and demeaned himself before his bit of cheese as if he were feasting on truffled turkey. But the other travellers in the common room, who were breakfasting more sumptuously, did not venture to turn their eyes too often in the direction of the latest arrival, for there was something in his expression which seemed to indicate that he would not take malicious jests in too good part. There is a species of poverty which is able to impose respect, just as there is a sort of opulence which is never respectable.

Meanwhile the servant had told her master about their latest guest, and the host, who was a very inquisitive and very loquacious individual, and gave himself a great many airs, although he was not so tall as his wife, even with his nightcap, came trotting into the room with a smiling face. He spoke a word with several of the travellers, eying the stranger askance all the while; then, after walking around him three times, decided to accost him, and said, leaning against the table at which he was taking his repast:

"Well! you don’t find my light wine very bad, I fancy?"

The stranger, without looking at his host, replied after a moment, with the mocking smile familiar to him:

"Whether I find it good or bad, I must drink it, I suppose?"

"Oh! to be sure! Still, if you wanted something better, I might——"

"If I wanted other wine, I shouldn’t have waited for your permission to order it."

"True; but——"

"But I am not so particular now!"

"Not so particular now?—Ah! I understand: that means that you used to be—eh?"

The stranger looked up at the inn-keeper, and after gazing fixedly at him for several seconds, observed:

"There is something that you used to be, still are, and probably always will be!"

Thereupon the inn-keeper fastened his little red eyes on the strange guest’s, as if trying to understand him; but, after cudgelling his brains in vain, he said:

"I don’t catch your meaning at all. Are you a fortune teller?"

The stranger shrugged his shoulders and returned to his bread and cheese, making no further reply.

"Do you expect to stay for some time in our town?" continued the inn-keeper after a moment. "I have no idea; if it amuses me to stay here, I shall stay."

"To be sure!—Oh! you will see some pretty things here: a magnificent botanical garden, a fine college, and our bridge, formed by the calcareous deposits from the water of a spring!—I say nothing of our apricot pies; you don’t seem to care for sweetmeats. But you will be surprised, amazed, by the beauty of the neighborhood!"

"Nothing surprises or amazes me now."

"Oh! that makes a difference.—By the way, do you intend to sleep here?"

The stranger did not answer this question; he passed his hand across his brow and seemed to reflect; at last he asked the landlord:

"Are there none of the Granval family left in this town?"

"The Granval family!" rejoined the astonished host; "what! did you ever know them? They were very rich people, the Granvals! very highly esteemed and——"

"I know what they were; I ask you if there are any of the family still here?"

"No, not one. Monsieur Granval the elder died about five years ago, leaving a son and a daughter. The son enjoyed very poor health; it didn’t do him any good to take the waters at Mont d’Or—they didn’t make him any stouter. He took it into his head to marry, and that finished him; he died two years ago. As for the daughter, she married a merchant and went to Italy with him."

The stranger listened with his elbows on the table and his head resting on his hands. When the inn-keeper had ceased to speak, he uttered a fierce oath, then muttered:

"Some are dead, the others have left the country! How everything changes in a few years, how everybody disappears!"

"Did you have a commission for the Granval family?" inquired the landlord, seating himself opposite the traveller, who, without heeding the question, said a moment later:

"After all, even if I had found him, he would have been no better than the rest. Everyone for himself—that’s the natural order. So much the worse for those who make fools of themselves, who allow themselves to be fleeced! It is no more than right to laugh at them.—But I defy them now! I am above them, I despise them all! And I shall be able to do without them."

"You will do without them?" said the inn-keeper, thinking that his guest was addressing him. "Oh! that’s all right, if you can. But I didn’t quite understand who you said that——"

"How much do I owe you?" demanded the stranger, rising abruptly.

"How much do you owe? Oh! it won’t take long to reckon: bread, cheese, wine—that makes twelve sous in all."

The stranger took twelve sous from a pocket of his jacket, and tossed them on the table; then, producing a pipe and tobacco from a coat pocket, he filled his pipe and said to the inn-keeper:

"Where is there a light?"

"A light—to light your pipe?"

"Apparently."

"Parbleu! there’s fire in the kitchen; it’s never cold here.—But you haven’t told me whether——"

The stranger was not listening. He went into the kitchen, lighted his pipe and placed it in his mouth; then he walked slowly from the inn and resumed his seat on the stone bench, where he smoked as placidly as a Mussulman seated luxuriously on soft cushions.

"That’s a devil of a fellow!" said the inn-keeper as he watched him walk away. "He smokes—I should say that he’s an old soldier. What the devil did he want of the Granvals? He ended by saying that he despised them!—Never mind; I did well to sit down with him; if he comes back, I’ll make him talk some more."

The stranger, having passed the whole morning on the stone bench, did in fact return to the inn about two o’clock. He ordered bread and cheese once more, but drank only water. The inn-keeper hovered about him and asked him several questions, trying to enter into conversation; but the stranger seemed indisposed to talk. He ate his bread and cheese without answering the questions, paid for his meagre repast, filled his pipe, lighted it, and left the inn; but this time he went down the street instead of returning to the stone bench.

"He’s a wretched customer!" said the inn-keeper when he had gone.

"And for all that," said the servant, "he puts on as many airs as a marquis! He gives his orders and talks as if he owned the place! He’d do well to shave, instead of stuffing himself with cheese!"

"Is he still sitting on the stone bench opposite, Marie?"

"No, monsieur, he went down the street."

"Then we probably shan’t see him again."

"Good riddance!"

The inn-keeper was mistaken; about eight in the evening he saw the poorly dressed stranger reënter the common room, with his knotted stick.

"Hallo! here’s the cheese-man again!" muttered the servant. But her master motioned to her to hold her peace, for he feared to offend the traveller. The latter seated himself at a table, and ordered bread, cheese and a small glass of eau-de-vie. He was served promptly and ate his bread and cheese without speaking; but when he asked how much he owed, the landlord, who was burning to question him, stepped forward and said, courteously removing his cap:

"Do you not intend to sleep here?"

"Sleep here!" echoed the stranger; "no, that isn’t necessary; I can sleep quite as well in the fields, and it costs nothing; whereas, if I slept in your house, I should have to pay, should I not?"

"Why, that’s the custom; you understand of course that we can’t supply our——"

"Very good! very good! Have I asked you to give me anything for nothing?"

"No, monsieur, I didn’t say that; but——"

"But keep your tongue still then, and let me rest in peace."

The inn-keeper angrily replaced his cap, and the stranger took his leave, after paying his bill.

"I begin to believe that this eater of cheese is nothing but a vagrant," said the host, when he was certain that the stranger was at a safe distance. "A man who sleeps in the fields—that’s rather suspicious. I am sorry he didn’t take a room here, because then he would have had to tell me his name."

"Oh! he’s all right," said a little man who had entered the common room just as the traveller went out. "When he arrived in town he went at once to monsieur le maire, to show his papers."

"Ah! so you know that man, do you, Monsieur Benoît?" asked the inn-keeper, walking toward the newcomer.

Monsieur Benoît caressed his chin, shook his head to give himself importance, and replied:

"Yes, I have met him several times about the town; he has been here at least a week."

"What’s his name?"

"I don’t know that; but I think that he’s a man who has been rich, who has squandered everything and has nothing left."

"And what does he do now?"

"Why, you have seen: he walks about, rests and smokes; but he talks very little."

"Oh! I have no questions to ask him; he has paid for everything he has had here; but he’s very shabbily dressed.—I say, Monsieur Benoît, you must agree that that isn’t the costume of a man who owns consols."

"I didn’t say that he was rich now; I said that I believed that he had been rich, which is a very different matter."

They discussed the stranger for some time longer; but the arrival of new guests caused them to forget the man of meagre repasts.

The next morning, at daybreak, the stranger was stretched out on the stone bench once more, opposite the inn. He seemed less engrossed by his own thoughts and watched the travellers who arrived from time to time; more than once, indeed, he started up, as if he would accost one of them; but he soon fell back on the bench, and his features assumed an expression of distress.

About noon he entered the inn and ate as sparingly as on the previous day. Then he took his head in his hands, and remained at the table as if buried in thought. He had been a long while in that posture, even the host himself not daring to disturb him, when there was a great uproar in front of the inn. A post-chaise had arrived. Three young men and a servant alighted, and the servants of the inn, as well as the host, ran out to welcome Robineau and his two travelling companions; for they were the new arrivals.

"Ah! Bless my soul! but I am stiff!" said Robineau; "it’s quite right to talk about travelling fast by post. How we did go, messieurs! The towns and villages fled behind us!"

"It would be more accurate to say that we fled before them."

"It’s fine, it’s great fun to travel fast.—Oh! my legs!—Take good care of my trunks and parcels, François!"

"Well, monsieur l’aubergiste, give us something good to eat—the best you have. I am as hungry as a hawk! What do you say, Edouard?"

"So am I. The air in this part of the country seems most invigorating."

"And you, Robineau—aren’t you in appetite?"

Robineau pulled Alfred’s coat-tail and said in an undertone:

"Pray don’t call me Robineau again, my friend; you know very well that it is no longer my name. I am Jules de la Roche-Noire."

"The devil! as if I could remember that! Well, Monsieur Jules Robineau de la Roche-Noire, do you not feel disposed to adjourn to the table?"

"I shall have no appetite, my dear fellow, until I reach my château."

"This château of yours will end by making you ill, my poor boy."

The three young men having entered the common room, their loud conversation caused the stranger to raise his eyes, and he examined them without changing his position.

"Messieurs, messieurs, don’t sit down here, for heaven’s sake!" said Robineau, who had just discovered the stranger; "we can’t stay in this room—people like us! Don’t you see? Pretty company, isn’t it?"

"Faith!" said Alfred, taking a seat, "when I travel, I am philosophical; and so long as the dinner is good——"

But Robineau shouted, called, made an uproar, and the host appeared, cap in hand.

"Give us a private room," said Robineau; "it seems to me, monsieur l’aubergiste, that you should be more careful and not put us with—with everybody."

"Your table is being laid on the first floor, messieurs; and if you will walk upstairs——"

"Yes, to be sure."

"Will the gentlemen sleep here?"

"No! no, indeed! we sleep at my estate of La Roche-Noire."

At that name the stranger raised his head and looked closely at Robineau, who continued:

"You must know that château, monsieur l’aubergiste?"

"La Roche-Noire? no, monsieur. I know the village of La Roche-Blanche, which is about two leagues from here."

"I say, Robineau," laughed Alfred, "perhaps you are mistaken; maybe you’re lord of La Roche-Blanche."

"Not at all; I have my title deeds; I am perfectly sure that it’s Noire.—However, what estates are there at La Roche-Blanche?"

"Oh! most of the people live in caves, monsieur; in a sort of caverns, dug out of the cliffs."

"You see, messieurs, that there’s no resemblance—caverns! And I have a magnificent château!—You know the town of Saint-Amand, I trust?"

"Saint-Amand-Talende? Yes, messieurs; it’s but a few leagues from here."

"Well, my château is near there; it must be visible from a distance, because——"

"Oh! let us go to our dinner, for God’s sake!" cried Alfred. "Your château has given me indigestion already, before I have seen it."

"Yes, yes, let us not stay here."

As he spoke, Robineau cast a contemptuous glance at the stranger, who, instead of lowering his eyes, frowned and looked after the Seigneur de la Roche-Noire. That gentleman made haste to leave the room, saying to the inn-keeper:

"Why do you have people like that in your house?"

"Like what, monsieur?"

"Parbleu! like that beggar who is sitting in your common room, and who didn’t even rise when we came in."

"He is not a beggar, monsieur, he’s a traveller."

"Well, he’s a very neat, attractive person, your traveller! He has a most insolent air, too; and if I hadn’t been afraid of—of compromising myself, I would have taught him that that isn’t the way to look at a man like me."

"Oh! Robineau, don’t play the fire-eater, I beg," said Alfred, seating himself at the table; "since you have had a château, you want to intimidate and crush everybody. Do you think that wealth gives you the right to play the master everywhere?"

"There’s no question of that. I want to be treated politely, that’s all. It seems to me that that isn’t too much to ask."

"But were you very polite yourself, Monsieur Jules, to that poor fellow?" asked Edouard. "As soon as you saw him, you insisted on leaving the room. He probably noticed the scornful glances you cast at him. The unfortunate are more sensitive than other people, because they constantly dread humiliation."

"Bah! let us not talk about that man any more. In truth, I have too many things on my mind to pay attention to such creatures. Let us eat quickly, messieurs, so that we may arrive at my place the sooner."

"Choke yourself to death, if you choose; I propose to dine quietly. Remember that it’s only two o’clock! we have plenty of time!"

"But why go on foot? Let us keep the carriage, and we will hire other horses."

"Oh! we are tired of being in a carriage; it will be much pleasanter to walk these last two or three leagues and admire the landscape and the peasant women; for you must find out what sort of neighbors you have to deal with."

"Then we will leave the chaise and our luggage here, and I will send my people to fetch them to-morrow.—However, messieurs, I am going to send François ahead, to have our apartments made ready."

"Send François ahead, if you choose."

Robineau left the table and went in search of his valet; he led him aside and said to him:

"François, you are to go on to my château in advance of us."

"Yes, monsieur. Where is it, monsieur?"

"Take the Saint-Amand road and inquire. Parbleu! it must be well known."

"Oh, yes! I will find it, monsieur."

"You will tell the concierge that his new master will soon arrive, with two young gentlemen of his acquaintance."

"Yes, monsieur."

"You will tell him to make all preparations to receive us—in a fitting manner."

"Yes, monsieur; I will tell him to make the beds."

"You will give him to understand, as if it were your own idea, that I am not insensible to compliments, and that it would be well for him to make me a speech."

"Yes, monsieur, I will tell him that you told me you would not be insensible to a speech."

"No, you idiot! Don’t say that I told you that, but that you guessed it."

"Oh! I understand, monsieur."

"Then, François, you will go about the neighborhood, to all the peasants, and tell them also of my arrival; you will impress upon them that I am very rich, a very great man."

"Must I say that you are great?"

"I mean generous; that I intend to make rosières."

"Yes, monsieur, I will tell them that you intend to have rosières made for them."

"And that if they should bring me bouquets, if they should give me a little reception, with a discharge of firearms and shouts and dances, it could not fail to give me pleasure."

"Very well, monsieur; I will tell them that you want a reception that you don’t know anything about."

"Yes, that’s just it; in short, François, stir all the people up."

"Yes, monsieur, never fear; you shall be satisfied."

François started for La Roche-Noire, and Robineau, enchanted with his idea, went upstairs again to his two companions, rubbing his hands. He hurried them so that at last they left the table and went down to the courtyard. The stranger was filling his pipe.

"We are going," said Robineau; "we leave my travelling chaise here, with our trunks and luggage, monsieur l’aubergiste. François, my valet, will come to-morrow to get everything, with a horse to draw the carriage; these gentlemen wish to walk the rest of the way."

"Oh! you are going to see a beautiful country, messieurs."

"Yes, but it would be well for us to know in which direction we must go."

"There’s a pleasant crossroad through the mountains to Saint-Saturnin, which is only half a league from Saint-Amand; and then there’s the main road to Issoire and Saint-Flour."

"No; no main roads," said Edouard; "we want something varied, picturesque, even terrible!"

"One moment, messieurs; I don’t propose to walk on the brink of precipices, myself! Perhaps it would be wiser to take a guide through this region, with which we are entirely unacquainted."

The stranger, having overheard Robineau’s last words, suddenly approached the three young men, and said, without removing his hat:

"If you need a guide, messieurs, I can serve you; for I have done nothing but stroll about the neighborhood for a week, and I am beginning to know it well."

Alfred and Edouard hesitated; but Robineau, to whom the stranger’s face was most unpleasant, replied hastily:

"No, no, we don’t need anybody. I was joking; we are big enough to find our way ourselves."

"As you please," the stranger replied; and, putting his pipe in his mouth, he walked away from the inn. A few moments later, the three young men, having commended their effects to the inn-keeper’s care, left Clermont, and took the crossroad said to lead to Saint-Amand.

On leaving Clermont, the three travellers followed at first the road that had been pointed out to them as leading to the little town of Saint-Amand. But they had walked barely half a league into the mountains, when the desire to obtain a fine view, to climb a rock, or to take a more picturesque path, led them insensibly away from the road they should have followed. In vain did Robineau, who did not share the enthusiasm of his companions for the varied beauties of the landscape, sometimes wild and sometimes cultivated, stop again and again, and exclaim angrily:

"That isn’t the way, messieurs! You’re going astray; we shall lose our road and walk a hundred times farther than we need."

But Alfred and Edouard did not listen to him; they continued to go their own way, and, pausing a moment on the summit of some hill, they would cry:

"What a picturesque country! What a variety of scenery! On one side steep rocks, barren mountains, and a calcareous soil, of volcanic origin; at our feet green pastures, vineyards, fields, trees laden with fruit!"

"Let us go higher," Edouard said, "to the top of yonder hill; it seems to me that I see a field of grain."

"Oh! that would be curious, we must see that," Alfred replied, following Edouard; and they scaled the rocks, running and jumping, and laughing all the time; while Robineau, who had remained behind, made a horrible grimace, saying:

"It seems to me, messieurs, that my château isn’t perched up there. You will have time enough to make excursions in the neighborhood when we are settled in my château. It’s ridiculous to tire yourselves out climbing so high!"

The two friends continued their ascent; they reached the top, which seemed to be more than a league in circumference, and there in fact they found a large field of grain. Engrossed by the pleasure which that magnificent prospect afforded them, Alfred and Edouard stopped. They smiled at each other; they were happy! And when one is conscious of a sentiment of pleasure, one tries to make it last a long while, to detain it in one’s soul. It is rare that one is happy in the present! We almost always rejoice in dreams of the future.

Robineau seated himself with a distressed air on a block of stone, and watched his companions, who were more than a hundred feet above him. Alfred beckoned to him to join them.

"Come up here!" he shouted; "it’s superb! You can see the whole country!"

"Can you see my château?" shouted Robineau.

"Oh! we can see a dozen!"

These words induced the new landed proprietor to climb the hill. He reached the top drenched with perspiration, and mopped his brow as he looked about.

"Well! are you sorry that you came up?" said Alfred.

"Isn’t it worth while to tire oneself a bit for this, eh, Monsieur Jules?"

"It is very pretty, messieurs, I agree; you can see a long distance. But I have seen just as much in Messieurs Daguerre and Bouton’s Diorama."

"The Diorama is certainly a beautiful thing, my friend; it is impossible to carry illusion and perfection of detail any farther; but art should not interfere with our admiration of nature."

"You may say what you please, messieurs, but I prefer the Diorama; there at least I have an explanation of what I see; but here I have no idea what I am looking at.—There’s a village yonder, and I don’t know what village it is."

"Wait a moment! here comes a worthy peasant who will be our cicerone."

A villager approached, with a spade and pickaxe over his shoulder. He was about to descend the hill. Alfred called him and he came toward them touching his hat. The peasants are much more polite in Auvergne than in the suburbs of Paris.

"Will you be kind enough to tell us, my good man, the name of the little town we see yonder, between two streams?"

"That is Saint-Amand, messieurs. It’s a pretty little town. The little stream you see over here is the Veyre, which rises at Pagnia, a village over in this direction; it runs into the Mone, and they both run into the Allier. The Mone comes from Saint-Saturnin, half a league from Saint-Amand. See, where I’m pointing."

"What sort of a place is Saint-Saturnin?"

"Oh! it’s a big village; it used to be a town, and a fortified town too."

"Is there a château thereabout?" inquired Robineau.

"Oh, yes, monsieur; there’s a castle."

"Called La Roche-Noire?"

"No, monsieur, no; that one’s the Château of Saint-Saturnin."

"And La Roche-Noire, where is that?"

"You mean La Roche-Blanche, I suppose, don’t you?—That’s that little village over there."

"I am not talking about your Roche-Blanche!—What astonishing creatures these Auvergnats are! they absolutely insist that black and white (noir and blanc) are the same thing!"

"Dame! then I don’t know, monsieur."

"And in this direction, my good man?"

"That’s the village of Chanonat, monsieur."

"Chanonat!" cried Edouard; "where Delille was born?"

"Delille?" replied the peasant; "as to that, I can’t say, monsieur. What did this Delille do? Wasn’t he a vine-dresser? Didn’t he make wine?"

"No, my good man; he made something better than wine; he was a poet! But he loved the fields; and, like another Virgil, he sang the praises of agriculture in his noble verses!"

"I never knew him, monsieur."

Robineau turned away with a shrug, muttering:

"What fools these bright men are! The idea of talking about a poet to this countryman who doesn’t know about anything except his ducks and his wife and children! I shall never do anything so stupid as that!"

Then, turning to the peasant once more, he said:

"My dear friend, these gentlemen have asked you to name all these places—that’s all right, but they forget the most essential thing, which is to ask the shortest way to Saint-Amand, and consequently to my château, which is close by."

"Oh! messieurs, you want to go down the hill first, then bear to your left; you’ll see Le Crest, and it ain’t far from there to Saint-Amand.—Good-day, messieurs."

"Thanks, my good man."

The peasant went his way, and Robineau, after looking at his watch, cried:

"Come, come, messieurs, forward! Do you know what time it is? Half-past five—think of that!"

"Well! it’s light until almost nine now."

"Light! Oh! that depends on what sort of road you are on. At all events, we haven’t arrived yet."

"Adieu then, delightful spot!" said Edouard with a sigh; "how I should have liked to see the sunset from here!"

"That’s it! and we should sleep in the open air!"

"Upon my word, this place inspires me! I feel in the mood for writing; I could compose some verses on this view."

"You can write a poem some other time, my dear Edouard; you can come here again and gaze at the sun and moon and whatever you please; but for the moment, I entreat you, let us go in search of my château, which I am beginning to be very much worried about."

As he spoke, Robineau seized Edouard’s arm and led him away, calling Alfred, and trying to take his arm as well.

"Why in the devil do you cling to us like this?" demanded Alfred, pulling away from Robineau’s grasp.

"Because, my dear fellow, if we three hold on to one another, we are firmer on our feet and less in danger of slipping."

"Do you imagine that we are walking on ice?—Say rather that you’re afraid we shall escape from you again."

"Suppose that I were, messieurs? Isn’t it quite natural that I should be impatient to see my property?"

"What do a few hours sooner or later matter?"

"My dear Alfred, you talk like a man with a hundred thousand francs a year, who is accustomed to wealth, who is even surfeited with the pleasures it affords; but I am still a perfect novice as to that; I am in haste to be happy, and to me the loveliest situations, the most wonderful views will never possess the charm that I shall feel at the first sight of the domain I have purchased."

"I can understand that," said Edouard; "forward, messieurs."

For some time they went on without stopping; but soon a winding path appeared, between perpendicular rocks whereon they saw goats quickly leaping wide spaces, then standing motionless for several minutes on the very brink of a precipice. Edouard could not refrain from stopping once more to contemplate that picture.

"Oh! messieurs, you must agree that this is superb," he cried; "that there is something most majestic in this wild spot. One would think that we were a long, long distance from the world!"

"And so we are, for I don’t see a person or a house," said Robineau, looking gloomily about.

"There is something indescribably grand, something antique about this narrow path between these crags; it carries me back to other ages; it seems to me that I shall see Œdipus and Laius meet in this fatal road!"

"Ah! if we fall foul of the Greeks we shall never have done with them," said Robineau, stamping the ground impatiently.

"For my part, messieurs," said Alfred, "I think that it would be very pleasant to walk here with a pretty woman. We have not met a soul for quarter of an hour! It is delightful! When you come to an attractive spot, you could stop and exchange kisses and dilate on the beauties of nature, and you need not fear to be surprised, as you are likely to be in all the country districts about Paris, where those infernal peasants spring up from a potato field just when you least expect it.—Don’t you agree with me, Robineau? I say—suppose you had Fifine here?"

"If I had Fifine, I would make her walk at all events! and she wouldn’t stop every minute to look at a little pile of moss, or a stone that has broken off the cliff and threatens to fall on our heads!"

"So Fifine is not romantic, eh?—Still, my friend, ladies in general are very fond of making love in the open fields. The turf, the green leaves, a nice soft, dark spot—all these things inspire one and arouse one’s emotions; it’s astonishing how amorous the country makes me!"

"Oh! messieurs, how young you are, what children!"

"May we long be children! The sweetest sensations are always those that remind us of our youth!"

"Let us go on, messieurs, let us go on, I beg. I see nothing very pretty in this rocky road.—Well! Monsieur Edouard, what are you looking at in the air?"

"Why, don’t you see that goat standing on the very edge of the precipice? It seems to me that its feet hardly touch the ground; and it puts out its head and gazes undismayed into the vast space over which it is almost suspended!"

"Oh! this is too much, messieurs! As if you had never seen goats before! The idea of wasting your time watching them! Parbleu! they’re not made any differently here from those at the Jardin des Plantes; indeed, they’re not so handsome. If you should see a bear now, or a lion, why, you might very well stop to gaze at him!"

"Oh! I am very sure that you wouldn’t stop even for that!"