The reason and good sense of this decision were wonderfully appreciated by the crowd; they applauded the judgment repeatedly, crying:
“Long live the overseers! Long live Raimond V.!”
The session being ended, the crowd dispersed. Raimond V. remained a few minutes in the hall, and said to the watchman of the cape of l’Aigle, as he grasped him by the hand:
“Righteously judged, my old Peyrou.”
“Monseigneur, poor people like us are neither lawyers nor scribes, but the Lord inspires the honest with a sense of justice.”
“Honest man,” said the baron, looking at him with keen interest, “will you dine with me at Maison-Forte?” “My sentry-box is waiting for me, monseigneur, and Luquin Trinquetaille is getting weary of it.”
“Come, come, then, I will see you at Maison-Forte with my brothers; they will arrive soon.”
“Have you any news from the commander?” asked Peyrou.
“I have some from Malta; it was good, and informs me again of his return here for Christmas, but his letter is sadder than ever.”
The watchman looked down and sighed.
“Ah, Peyrou,” said the baron, “how grievous is this melancholy, whose cause I do not know!”
“Very distressing,” replied the watchman, absorbed in his own thoughts.
“You, at least, know the cause of it,” said the baron, with a sort of bitterness, as if he had suffered from his brother’s reticence.
“Monseigneur!” said Peyrou.
“Cheer up! I do not ask you to unveil this sad secret to me, since it is not your own. Come, good-bye, my honest fellow. After all, I am very glad that our dispute was judged by you.”
“Monseigneur,” said Peyrou, who seemed to wish to escape from the recollections awakened by the baron’s questions about the commander, “it was rumoured that you would not come before the tribunal.”
“Yes, at first I resolved not to go there. Talebard-Talebardon could have come to an amicable settlement; in the first moment of anger I thought of sending all of you to the devil.
“Monseigneur, it was not the consul only who decided to bring the case before us.”
“I thought so, and for that reason I reconsidered it; instead of acting like a fool, I have acted with the wisdom of a graybeard. It was that scoundrel from the admiralty of Toulon that I whipped, was it not?”
“They say so, monseigneur.”
“You were right, Honorât,” said the baron, turning around to M. de Berrol. “Come, we shall see you soon, Peyrou.”
Upon going out of the large hall, the baron saw his carriage, which was drawn up in the town hall square, surrounded by the crowd.
They saluted him with acclamation and he was deeply moved by this reception.
Just as he was about to enter the carriage he saw Master Isnard, the recorder, standing within the embrasure of a door.
The man of law seemed quite melancholy over the result of the session. His perfidious designs had miscarried.
“Ho! Master Recorder,” cried the baron, half-way up his carriage steps, “do you return soon to Marseilles?” “I return there immediately,” answered he, peevishly. “Ah, well, just say to the Marshal of Vitry that, if I threatened you with my whip it was because you brought from him insulting orders to the Provençal nobility; you see that I am quite willing to appear before the popular tribunal whose decisions I respect. As to the difference of my conduct under the two circumstances, you, recorder, can explain it to the marshal. I shall always resist by force the iniquitous orders of tyrants, sent by a tyrant cardinal, but I shall always respect the rights and privileges of the ancient Provençal communities. The nobility is to the people what the blade is to the hilt. The communities are to us what we are to them; do you understand, you rascal? Tell that to your Vitry.” “Monseigneur, these words—” said the recorder, quickly.
But Raimond V., interrupting him, continued:
“Tell him, in short, that if I keep my house fortified, it is that I may be useful to the city, as I have been. When the shepherd has no dogs, the flock is soon devoured; and, Manjour, the wolves are not far off.”
As he uttered these words, Raimond V. entered his carriage and slowly departed, followed by the prolonged shouts and acclamations of the multitude.
The old gentleman, notwithstanding his candour and bluntness of speech, had, with great deftness and a shrewd policy, ranged the populace on his side in the event of a possible collision with the power of the marshal.
After the session, during which, in his function of syndic of the overseers of the port, he had declared the condemnation of Raimond V., the watchman of Cape l’Aigle returned to his sentry-box, temporarily entrusted to the care of the brave Luquin Trinquetaille.
Peyrou was sad; the last words of the Baron des Anbiez on the subject of the commander had awakened the most painful memories.
But as he ascended the steep fortifications of the promontory, his heart expanded. Too much accustomed to solitude to find enjoyment in the society of men, the watchman was happy only when he was on the summit of his rock, where he listened in sweet meditation to the distant roaring of the sea and the terrible bursts of the tempest.
Nothing is more absolute, nothing is more imperious, than the habit of isolation, especially among those who find inexhaustible resources in their own power of observation or in the varied extravagance of their own imagination.
It was with a profound feeling of satisfaction that the watchman set foot upon the esplanade of Cape l’Aigle.
He approached his sentry-box, and there found the worthy Luquin fast asleep.
Peyrou’s first act was to scan the horizon with an anxious look, then to examine it with the aid of his telescope. Happily, he saw nothing suspicious, and his countenance took on rather a cheerful than a severe expression, when, roughly shaking the captain of The Holy Terror to the Moors, he called to him, in a loud voice:
“Wake up, wake up! the pirates!”
Luquin made a bound and stood on his feet, rubbing his eyes.
“Ah, well, my boy,” said the watchman, “so your great activity has fallen asleep. To hear you talk, one would think a doree or a mullet could not have made a leap in the sea without you knowing it. Ah, young man, young man, the old Provençal proverb, Proun paillou, prou gran,—Much straw, little grain.”
Luquin looked at the watchman with a bewildered expression, and was hardly able to collect his faculties; finally, reeling like a drunken man, he said, stretching his arms: “It is true, Master Peyrou, I slept like a cabin-boy on the watch, but I did keep my eyes open with all my strength.”
“That is the reason, my boy, sleep got into them so easily. But I am here now, and you can go down into the city. There will be more than one bottle of wine emptied without your help at the tavern of the Golden Anchor.”,
Luquin had not entirely come to himself, and he stood staring at the watchman with a stupid air.
Peyrou, no doubt, trying to wake the captain entirely from his condition of torpor, added: “Come, come now, Stephanette, your betrothed, will be engaged to dance with Terzarol, the pilot, or with the patron Bernard, and you will not have her hand once the whole day long.”
These words produced a magic effect on the captain; he straightened himself on his long legs, shook himself, tried to keep his equilibrium, and, finally stamping on the ground several times, said to the watchman:
“Listen, Master Peyrou, if I were not sure of having swallowed only one glass of sauve-chrétien with that devil of a Bohemian, to make peace with him, because Stephanette wanted me to do it,—a base weakness for which I cannot forgive myself,—I should certainly think I was drunk,” said the captain.
“That is strange, you drank only one glass of sauve-chrétien with the Bohemian, and you are overcome by it?”
“Only one glass, and that only half full, because what you drink with a miscreant like him tastes very bitter.” “Is this Bohemian always at Maison-Forte, pray?” asked Peyrou, with a thoughtful and serious air.
“Always, Master Peyrou, for everybody there dotes on him, from monseigneur to Abbé Mascarolus. He is in high favour with the women, from Mlle. Reine to old Dulceline, without speaking of Stephanette, who gave him a flame-coloured ribbon—flame-coloured ribbons, indeed!” exclaimed Luquin, with indignation. “It is a ribbon woven by the rope-maker that this wretch needs! But what can you do? All the women have their heads turned. And why? Because this vagabond strums, good and bad together, in some sort of fashion, an old guitar, so hoarse that it sounds like the pulleys of my tartan, when they hoist the big sail.”
“Did not the Bohemian arrive at Maison-Forte the day Raimond V. had the recorder chased by a bull?” “Yes, Master Peyrou, it was on that fatal day that this stray dog set foot in Maison-Forte.”
“That is strange!” said the watchman, talking to himself. “Then I was mistaken.”
“Ah, Master Peyrou, I am often seized with a desire to conduct this vagabond out to the cove beach, and exchange pistol-shots with him until either he or I come to our death.”
“Come, come, Luquin, you are foolish, jealousy makes you wild, and you are wrong. Stephanette is a good and honest girl, I can tell you. As to this vagabond—”
Then interrupting himself, as if he wished to keep what he was about to say secret from Luquin, he added: “Come, come, my boy, do not lose your time with a poor old man, while your young and pretty betrothed is waiting for you. Do not neglect her; be with her often, and marry her as soon as possible. There is another Provençal proverb: A boueno taire bouen labourraire,—A good labourer for good soil.”
“Wait, Master Peyrou, you put balm in my blood,” said the captain. “You are almost as good as a sorcerer. Everybody respects you and loves you; you take Stephanette’s part, so she must deserve it.”
“By Our Lady, she deserves it without a doubt. Did she not come before your departure for Nice, and ask me if you could undertake the voyage with safety?”
“That is true, Master Peyrou, and thanks to you and your cabalistic papers that I put on my bullets, and to your oil of Syrakoe, not less magical, with which I rubbed my muskets and cannon, I gave a hot chase to a corsair that came near, indiscreetly near, the Terror to the Moors and the vessels she was escorting. Ah, you are a great man, Master Peyrou.”
“And those who heed my counsels are wise and sensible,” replied the watchman, smiling. “Now the wise never allow their betrothed to grow weary of waiting.”
After having thanked the watchman again, Luquin Trinquetaille decided to profit by the advice given with regard to Stephanette, and went in all haste to Maison-Forte.
Finding himself alone, Peyrou breathed a sigh of content, as if he felt again that he was master of his little kingdom.
Although he received those who came to consult him with kindly courtesy, he saw them depart with a secret pleasure.
He entered his little cell and sighed deeply after having contemplated for some time the costly piece of ebony furniture which always seemed to awaken painful memories in his mind; then, as night came on, he wrapped himself in his thick hood and coat.
Thus well protected from the north wind which was blowing, Peyrou lit his pipe, and surveyed with sadness the immense horizon which was spread out before him.
As we have said, the house of Maison-Forte could be distinctly seen from the western side of the summit of Cape l’Aigle.
It was about three o’clock, and the watchman thought he saw a ship in the distance. He took up his telescope, and for a long time followed the uncertain point with his eyes, until it became more and more distinct.
He soon recognised a heavy merchant vessel whose aspect presented nothing of menace.
Following the manoeuvres and progress of this vessel with the aid of his telescope, he unconsciously turned it upon the imposing mass of Maison-Forte, the home of Raimond V., and on one part of the beach which was absolutely bare, at the point where it touched the rocks upon which the castle stood. He soon distinguished Reine des Anbiez mounted on her nag and followed by Master Laramée. The young girl was going, doubtless, in advance of the baron into the road.
Several huge rocks intervened, cutting off the view from the beach, and Peyrou lost sight of Mlle. Anbiez.
Just at this moment the watchman was startled by a loud noise; he felt the air above him in commotion, and suddenly his eagle fell at his feet. She had come, no doubt, to demand her accustomed food, as her hoarse and impatient cries testified.
The watchman sat caressing the bird abstractedly, when a new incident awakened his interest.
His sight was so penetrating that, in watching the spot on the coast where Mlle, des Anbiez would be likely to appear, he distinguished a man who seemed to be cautiously hiding himself in the hollow of the rock.
Turning his telescope at once on this man, he recognised the Bohemian.
To his great astonishment, he saw him draw from a bag a white pigeon, and attach to its neck a small sack, into which he slipped a letter.
Evidently the Bohemian thought himself protected from all observation, as, owing to the form and elevation of the rock where he was squatting, it was impossible for him to be seen either from the coast or from Maison-Forte.
Only from the prodigious height of Cape l’Aigle, which commanded the entire shore of the bay, could Master Peyrou have discovered the Bohemian.
After having looked anxiously from one side to the other, as if he feared he might be seen in spite of his precautions, the vagabond again secured the little sack around the neck of the pigeon, and then let it fly.
Evidently the intelligent bird knew the direction it was to take.
Once set at liberty, it did not hesitate, but rose almost perpendicularly above the Bohemian, then flew rapidly toward the east. As quick as thought, Peyrou took his eagle and tried to make her perceive the pigeon, which already appeared no larger than a white speck in space.
For a few seconds the eagle did not seem to see the bird; then, suddenly uttering a hoarse cry, she violently spread her broad wings, and started in pursuit of the Bohemian’s emissary.
Either the unfortunate pigeon was warned by the instinct of danger which threatened it, or it heard the discordant cries of its enemy, for it redoubled its swiftness, and flew with the rapidity of an arrow.
Once it endeavoured to rise above the eagle, hoping perhaps to escape its pursuer by disappearing in the low, dark clouds which veiled the horizon; but the eagle, with one swoop of her powerful wings, mounted to such a height, that the pigeon, unable to cope with its adversary, rapidly fell within a few feet of the surface of the sea, grazing the top of the highest waves.
Brilliant still followed her victim in this new manoeuvre.
The watchman was divided between the desire to see the end of the struggle between the eagle and the pigeon, and the curiosity to watch the countenance of the Bohemian.
Thanks to his telescope, he saw the Bohemian in a state of extraordinary excitement as he followed with intense anxiety the diverse chances of destruction or safety left to his messenger.
Finally, the pigeon attempted one last effort; realising, no doubt, that its destination was too far to be reached, it tried to return and come back to the coast, and thus escape its terrible enemy.
Unfortunately, its strength failed; its flight became heavy, and, approaching too near the waves, it was swept by foam and water.
The eagle availed herself of the moment when the pigeon was painfully resuming its embarrassed flight to fall upon it with the rapidity of a thunderbolt. She seized the pigeon in her strong claws, rose swiftly in the direction of the promontory, and came with her prey to take refuge in her eyrie, on a rock not far from the watchman’s sentry-box.
Peyrou rose quickly to take the pigeon from her; he could not succeed. The natural ferocity of Brilliant was in the ascendency; she bristled her feathers, uttered sharp and fierce cries, and showed herself disposed to defend her prey with her life.
Peyrou feared to offend her, lest she might fly away and hide in some inaccessible rock; he allowed her to devour the pigeon in peace, having observed that the little sack tied around the neck of the bird consisted of two silver plates fastened by a small chain of the same material.
He did not, after that discovery, fear the destruction of the letter which he knew was enclosed therein.
While the eagle was devouring the Bohemian’s messenger in peace, Peyrou returned to the door of his cell, took up his telescope, and vainly examined the rocks on the coast, in order to discover the Bohemian; he had disappeared.
While he was occupied with this new investigation, the watchman saw on the shore the carriage of Raimond V. The baron had mounted Laramée’s horse, and was riding by the side of Reine, and doubtless accompanied her to Maison-Forte.
Thinking the eagle had finished her feast, the watchman directed his steps to her eyrie.
Brilliant was no longer there, but among the bones and feathers of the pigeon he saw the little sack, opened it, and found there a letter of a few lines written in Arabic.
Unfortunately, Peyrou was not acquainted with that language. Only, in his frequent campaigns against the Barbary pirates, he had noticed in the letters of marque of the corsairs the word Reis, which means captain, and which always followed the name of the commander of the vessels.
In the letter which he had just captured, he found the word Reis three times.
He thought the Bohemian was possibly the secret emissary of some Barbary pirate, whose ship, ambuscaded in one of the deserted bays along the coast, was waiting for some signal to land her soldiers. The Bohemian probably had left this ship in order to come to Maison-Forte, bringing his pigeons with him, and it is well known with what intelligence these birds return to the places they are accustomed to inhabit.
As he raised his head to obtain another view of the horizon, the watchman saw in the distance, on the azure line which separated the sky from the sea, certain triangular sails of unusual height, which seemed to him suspicious. He turned his telescope on them; a second examination confirmed him in the idea that the chebec in sight belonged to some pirate.
For some time he followed the manoeuvres of the vessel.
Instead of advancing to the coast, the chebec seemed to run along broadside, and to beat about, in spite of the increasing violence of the wind, as if it were waiting for a guide or signal.
The watchman was trying to connect in his thought the sending of the pigeon with the appearance of this vessel of bad omen, when a light noise made him raise his head.
The Bohemian stood before him.
The little satchel and the open letter were lying on the watchman’s knees. With a movement more rapid than thought, which escaped the observation of the Bohemian, he hid the whole in his girdle. At the same time he assured himself that his long Catalonian knife would come out of its scabbard easily, for the sinister countenance of the vagabond did not inspire confidence.
For some moments these two men looked at each other in silence, and measured each other with their eyes.
Although old, the watchman was still fresh and vigorous.
The Bohemian, more slender, was much younger, and seemed hardy and resolute.
Peyrou was much annoyed by this visit. He wished to watch the manoeuvres of the suspicious chebec; the presence of the Bohemian constrained him.
“What do you want?” said the watchman, rudely.
“Nothing; I came to see the sun go down in the sea.”
“It is a beautiful sight, but it can be seen elsewhere.”
As he said these words, the watchman entered his cell, took two pistols, placed one in his girdle, loaded the other, took it in his hand, and came out.
By that time the chebec could be distinguished by the naked eye.
The Bohemian, seeing Peyrou armed, could not repress a movement of surprise, almost of vexation, but he said to him, in a bantering tone, as he pointed to the pistol:
“You carry there a strange telescope, watchman!”
“The other is good to watch your enemy when he is far off; this one serves my purpose when he is near.”
“Of what enemy are you speaking, watchman?”
“Of you.”
“Of me?”
“Of you.”
After exchanging these words, the men were silent for some time.
“You are mistaken. I am the guest of Raimond V., Baron des Anbiez,” said the Bohemian, with emphasis.
“Is the venomous scorpion, too, the guest of the house he inhabits?” replied Peyrou, looking steadily in his eyes.
The eyes of the vagabond kindled, and, by a muscular contraction of his cheeks, Peyrou saw that he was gnashing his teeth; nevertheless, he replied to Peyrou, with affected calmness:
“I do not deserve your reproaches, watchman. Raimond V. took pily on a poor wanderer, and offered me the hospitality of his roof—”
“And to prove your gratitude to him, you wish to bring sorrow and ruin upon that roof.”
“I?”
“Yes, you,—you are in communication with that chebec down there, beating about the horizon.”
The Bohemian looked at the vessel with the most indifferent air in the world, and replied:
“On my life, I have never set foot on a ship; as to the communication which you suppose I have with that boat, that you call a chebec, I believe,—I doubt if my voice or my signal could reach it.”
The watchman threw a penetrating glance on the Bohemian, and said to him:
“You have never set foot on the deck of a ship?”
“Never, except on those boats on the Rhone, for I was born in Languedoc, on the highway; my father and mother belonged to a band of Bohemians which came from Spain, and the only recollection that I have of my childhood is the refrain so often sung in our wandering clan:
“‘Cuando me pario Mi madre la gitana.’
“That is all I know of my birth,—all the family papers I have, watchman.”
“The Bohemians of Spain speak Arabic also,” said Peyrou, observing the vagabond attentively.
“They say so. I know no other language than the one I speak,—very badly, as you see.”
“The sun is setting behind those great clouds down there; for one who is fond of that sight you seem to be quite indifferent to it,” answered the watchman, with an ironical air. “No doubt the chebec interests you more.”
“To-morrow evening I can see the sun set; to-day I would rather spend my time in guessing your riddles, watchman.”
During this conversation, the syndic of the overseers had not lost sight of the vessel, which continued to beat about, evidently waiting for a signal.
Although the appearance of this vessel was suspicious, Peyrou hesitated to give the alarm on the coast by kindling the fire. To set the whole seashore in excitement unnecessarily was a dangerous precedent, because some other time, in case of real danger, the signal might be taken for a false alarm.
While the watchman was absorbed in these reflections, the Bohemian looked around him uneasily; he was trying to discover some traces of the eagle, as from the rock where he had been squatting, he had seen Brilliant alight in this direction.
For a moment he thought of getting rid of Peyrou, but he soon renounced this idea. The watchman, strong and well-armed, was on his guard.
Peyrou, notwithstanding the anger that the presence of the vagabond inspired in him, feared to see him descend again to the castle of Maison-Forte, as Raimond V. did not suspect this wretch. Besides, seeing his wicked designs discovered, the villain might attempt some diabolical scheme before he left the country.
However, it was impossible to abandon his sentry-box under such serious circumstances, in order to warn the baron. Night was approaching, and the Bohemian was still there.
Happily, the moon was almost full; in spite of the densely piled clouds, her light was bright enough to reveal all the manoeuvres of the chebec.
The Bohemian, his arms crossed on his breast, surveyed Peyrou, with imperturbable coolness.
“You see the sun has set,” said this old seaman, “the night will be cold; you had better return to Maison-Forte.”
“I intend to spend the night here,” replied the vagabond.
The watchman, made furious by the remark, rose, and walking up to the Bohemian with a threatening air, said:
“And by Our Lady, I swear that you shall descend to the beach this instant!”
“And suppose I do not wish to go.”
“I will kill you.”
The Bohemian shrugged his shoulders.
“You will not kill me, watchman, and I will remain.”
Peyrou raised his pistol, and exclaimed: “Take care!”
“Would you kill a defenceless man, who has never done you any harm? I defy you,” said the vagabond, without moving from the spot.
The watchman dropped his arm; he revolted at the thought of murder. He replaced his pistol in his belt, and walked back and forth in violent agitation. He found himself in a singular position,—he could not rid himself of this persistent villain by fear or force; he must then resolve to pass the night on guard.
He resigned himself to this last alternative, hoping that next day some one might appear, and he would be able to rid himself of the Bohemian.
“Very well, let it be,” said he, with a forced smile. “Although I have not invited you to be my companion, we will pass the night by the side of each other.”
“And you will not repent it, watchman. I am not a sailor, but I have a telescope. If the chebec annoys you, I will assist you in watching it.”
After some moments of silence, the watchman seated himself on a piece of the rock.
The wind, increasing in violence, blew with irresistible force. Great clouds from time to time veiled the pale disc of the moon, and the door of the sentry-box, left open, was flapping with a loud noise.
“If you wish to be of some use,” said Peyrou, “take that end of the rope there on the ground, and fasten the door of my cell, because the wind will continue to rise.” The Bohemian looked at the watchman with an astonished air, and hesitated to obey for a moment.
“You wish to shut me up in there. You are cunning, watchman.”
Peyrou bit his lips, and replied:
“Fasten that door on the outside, I tell you, or I will take you for a bad fellow.”
The Bohemian, seeing nothing disagreeable in satisfying the watchman, picked up the rope, passed it through a ring screwed to the door, and tied it to a cramp-iron fixed in the wall.
The watchman, seated, was attentively watching the movements of his companion. When the knot was tied, Peyrou approached it, and said, after examining it a moment:
“As sure as God is in heaven, you are a sailor!”
“I, watchman?”
“And you have served on board those corsairs from Barbary.”
“Never! Never!”
“I tell you that one who has not sailed with the pirates of Algiers or Tunis cannot have the habit of making that triple knot that you have just made. Only pirates fasten tie anchor to the ring in that manner!”
The Bohemian now, in his turn, bit his lips until they bled, but, regaining his self-possession, he said:
“Come now, you have a sharp eye; you are both right and wrong, my lord watchman, this knot was taught me by one of our people, who joined us in Languedoc, after having been made a slave on a corsair from Algiers.”
Losing all patience, and furious at the villain’s impudence, the watchman cried:
“I tell you that you are lying. You came here to prepare some villainous scheme. Look at this!”
And the watchman held up the little satchel The Bohemian, struck with amazement, uttered a curse in Arabic in spite of himself.
If the watchman had felt the least doubt concerning the character of the Bohemian, this last exclamation, which had so often met his ears in his combats with the pirates, would have sufficed to prove the truth of his suspicions.
The eyes of the Bohemian flashed with rage.
“I see all,” said he, “the eagle came here to devour the pigeon! From the beach I saw her alight in these rocks. That satchel or your life!” cried the villain, drawing a dagger from his doublet, and rushing upon the watchman. The pistol on Peyrou’s breast recalled the fact to him that his enemy was more formidably armed than himself.
Stamping his foot with rage, the vagabond cried:
“Eblis (Eblis is the Arabic for devil) is with him!”
“I was sure of it, you are a pirate. That chebec is waiting for your instructions, or your signal to approach the coast or retire from it. Your rage is great to see all your wicked designs discovered, you villain!” said the watchman.
“Eblis touched me with his invisible wingt so that I was about to forget the only means of repairing everything,” suddenly cried the Bohemian.
With one joyous bound he disappeared from the astonished eyes of the watchman, and hastily descended the precipitous road which led to the shore.
At the rising of the sun the chebec was no longer in sight.
Peyrou waited with impatience the arrival of the young seaman who was accustomed to relieve his watch.
He was anxious to warn Raimond V. of the wicked designs he attributed to the Bohemian.
About two o’clock, Peyrou was astonished to see Mile, des Anbiez, accompanied by Stephanette.
Reine approached him with evident embarrassment.
Without sharing the superstitious ideas of the inhabitants of the gulf, in reference to the watchman on Cape l’Aigle, she felt irresistibly impelled to consult him upon a subject which she could not think of without sadness. The young girl had received new evidences of the remembrance cherished by Erebus, through the same unknown and mysterious way.
All her efforts, and all of Stephanette’s, had proved unavailing in discovering the source of these strange communications.
Through an unpardonable obstinacy, and a foolish love of the marvellous, Reine had concealed everything from her father and Honorât.
Honorât had left Maison-Forte, in a fit of jealousy as painful as it was unreasonable.
On the evening of the day the overseers of the port held their session, Reine, as she knelt before her praying-desk, had found a rosary of sandalwood of the most marvellous workmanship.
The clasp by which it was to be attached to her belt again bore the enamelled imprint of the little dove of which we have spoken,—the symbol of the remembrance and the love of the unknown.
Since the singing of the Bohemian, Reine’s imagination, excited beyond degree, had indulged in a thousand dreams concerning the adventurous life of the young emir, as the vagabond had named him.
Either by design or chance, the singer had left his guzla in Reine’s apartment, after the departure of Honorât de Berrol.
The young girl, curious to see the face of the unknown again, took the guitar and opened the medallion, and, to her great surprise, the portrait, insecurely fastened, came off in her hands.
Dame Dulceline entered. Reine blushed, closed the medallion and hid the portrait in her bosom, intending to restore it to its place. Evening came, and Stephanette, without informing her mistress, returned the guitar to the Bohemian. The lid of the medallion was fastened, and neither the singer nor the servant discovered the absence of the picture.
The next day Reine sent for the Bohemian in order to return the portrait to him. He had disappeared, the flight of the pigeon demanding his attention.
Reine had the courage to break the crystal vase, and to burn the miniature on vellum, but she had not the courage to destroy the portrait or the rosary that she found in her oratory.
In spite of her struggles, in spite of her prayers, in spite of her resolve to forget the events of the day in the rocks of Ollioules, the memory of the unknown took possession of her heart more and more.
The songs of the Bohemian on the young emir, whom he called Erebus, had profoundly moved her feelings.
Those contrasts of courage and kindness, of power and pity, recalled to her mind the singular combination of audacity and timidity which had impressed her in the scene which transpired in the gorges of Ollioules.
She counted on the restitution of the portrait as the first step to another conversation with the Singer about the emir.
Unfortunately, the Bohemian had disappeared.
To the great astonishment of the inmates of Maison-Forte, he did not return in the evening. Raimond V., who liked him, ordered his men who guarded the bridge to be prepared to lower it when the Bohemian appeared, notwithstanding the regulations of the castle.
Morning came, and still the vagabond was absent. They supposed that, after drinking, he had fallen asleep in some tavern of La Ciotat. They were still more astonished not to find the two pigeons in the cage where he kept them ordinarily closely confined.
Greatly disturbed by these strange happenings, which had been transpiring for some time, Reine, half through curiosity and half through conviction, finally yielded to the entreaties of Stephanette, who had the most wonderful ideas of the watchman’s abilities and knowledge, and decided to consult the old seaman on the mysteries of which Maison-Forte was the theatre.
So many extraordinary things had been told of Master Peyrou’s predictions, that Reine, although little given to superstition, felt the influence of the general opinion.
She was going to interrogate Peyrou, when, to her amazement, he accosted her with a question about the Bohemian.
“Mademoiselle, did the vagabond enter Maison-Forte last night?” said Peyrou, quickly.
“No; my father is much concerned about him. They think that he must have spent the night drinking in some tavern in La Ciotat.”
“That would be astonishing,” added Stephanette, “for the poor fellow seems to be of exemplary sobriety.”
“This poor fellow,” exclaimed the watchman, “is a spy of the pirates.”
“He!” exclaimed Reine.
“Yes, he, himself, mademoiselle; a chebec was cruising a part of the night in view from the gulf, waiting, no doubt, for a signal from this vagabond to disembark.”
In a few words the watchman acquainted Reine with the adventure of the pigeon, informing her on what indisputable grounds he suspected the Bohemian of having communication with the pirates; showed her the satchel and letter, and gave them to her, that the baron might have the writing translated by one of the brother monks in La Ciotat, who, having been a slave in Tunis for a long time, was familiar with Arabic.
When she learned the odious suspicions which attached to the Bohemian, without accounting to herself for her fear, Reine dared not confide the object of her visit to the watchman.
Stephanette looked at her mistress, utterly confounded, and cried:
“Our Lady! who would have believed that this unbeliever, who sang so well, could be such an abominable scoundrel? And to think I pitied him enough to give him a flame-coloured ribbon! Ah, my dear mistress, and the portrait of—”
Reine by an imperious sign forbade Stephanette to continue.
“Good-bye, good watchman,” said Mlle, des Anbiez, “I am going back to Maison-Forte at once, to warn my father to be on his guard.”
“Do not forget, Stephanette, to send Luquin Trinquetaille here. I must make arrangements with him to have one more young watchman,” said Peyrou. “I have not slept the whole night. This dangerous knave is perhaps wandering about these rocks, and may come and assassinate me at the setting of the moon. The pirates are somewhere in the gulf, hidden in some one of the coves where they often ambuscade, to wait for their prey; for, alas! our coasts are not protected.”
“Be easy, Master Peyrou, Luquin is coming with his two cousins; just tell him that you are watching for the Bohemian, and he will not delay to come as fast as his long legs can bring him. And to think I gave a ribbon to a pirate!” added Stephanette, clasping her hands. “Perhaps he is one of those brigands who ravaged all this coast last year.”
“Go, go, my girl, and hurry. I must confer with the captain about a little cruise he can undertake even to-day with his polacre. We must warn the consuls to arm some fishing-boats immediately, with sure and determined men. We must give the alarm all along the shore, arm the entrance into the gulf, which is defended only by the cannon of Maison-Forte, and be prepared for any surprise, for these brigands rush on the coast like a hurricane. So Luquin must come on the instant Do you hear, Stephanette? The safety of the city depends on it.”
“Be easy, Master Peyrou, although it breaks my heart to know that my poor Luquin is going to run such danger. I love him too much to advise him to be a coward.”
During this rapid conversation between the watchman and her servant, Reine, lost in deep reverie, had descended a few steps of the path which conducted to the platform upon which stood the sentry-box.
This path, which was very steep, wound around the outside of the promontory, and formed at this spot a sort of comice, whose projection reached considerably over the base of this immense wall of rocks, more than three hundred feet above the level of the sea.
A young girl less habituated to walks and to mountain climbing would have feared to venture on this narrow passage. From the side of the sea, its only parapet was a few asperities of rock, more or less pronounced. Reine, accustomed to brave these perils from her infancy, thought nothing of danger. The emotion that agitated her since her interview with the watchman absorbed her entirely.
Her gait, sometimes slow, sometimes hurried, seemed to share the nature of her tumultuous emotions.
Stephanette soon joined her. Surprised at the pallor of her mistress, she was about to ask the cause of it, when Reine said to her, in an altered voice, with a gesture which did not admit of a reply, “Walk in front of me, Stephanette, do not concern yourself whether I follow you or not.”
Stephanette preceded her mistress at once, directing her steps in all haste toward Maison-Forte.
The agitation of Reine des Anbiez was extreme. The relations which seemed to exist between the Bohemian and the unknown were too evident for her not to have the most painful suspicions of this young man whom the vagabond called the emir.
Many circumstances, which had not impressed her at the time, now made Reine believe that the Bohemian was an emissary of the unknown. No doubt it was the vagabond who had placed in her chamber the various objects which had caused her so much surprise. Adopting this hypothesis, there was, however, one objection which presented itself to her mind,—she had found the crystal vase and the miniature on vellum before the arrival of the vagabond.
Suddenly a ray of light entered her mind; she remembered that one day, in order to display his agility to Stephanette, the Bohemian had descended to the terrace by the balcony, upon which opened the window of her oratory, and that he had remounted by the same way. Another time he had slid down from the terrace on the rocks, which lined the shore, and had remounted from the rocks to the terrace, by the aid of the asperities of the wall and the plants which had taken root there.
Although he arrived for the first time at the castle with the recorder, might not this vagabond, before that day, have been hidden in the environage of La Ciotat? Could he not have entered Maison-Forte twice during the night, then, to avoid suspicion, returned in the recorder’s train, as if he had met it by chance?
These thoughts, reinforced by recent observations, soon assumed incontrovertible certainty in the mind of Reine. The stranger and his two companions were, without doubt, pirates, who, with false names and false credentials, had given out that they were Muscovites, and had thus imposed upon the credulity of the Marshal of Vitry.
The first idea of Reine, then,—an idea absolute and imperious,—was to forget for ever the man upon whom rested such terrible suspicion.
Religion, duty, and the will of her father were so many insurmountable and sacred obstacles which the young girl could not think of braving.
Up to that time, her youthful and lively imagination had found inexhaustible nourishment in the strange adventure of the rocks of Ollioules.
All the chaste dreams of her young girlhood were, so to speak, concentrated and realised in the person of Erebus, that unknown one, brave and timid at the same time, audacious and charming, who had saved the life of her father.
She could not help being touched by the delicate and mysterious persistence with which Erebus had always tried to recall himself to her memory. Doubtless she had never heard the voice of this stranger; doubtless she was ignorant of his mind and character, whether or not they responded to the graces of his person. But in these long reveries in which a young girl thinks of him who has fascinated her, does she not invest him with the most excellent qualities? does she not make him say all that she desires to hear?
Thus had Reine thought of Erebus. First she wished to banish him from her thought, but, unfortunately, to yield to a sentiment against which we have struggled is only to render it all the more powerful and irresistible.
Reine then loved Erebus, perhaps unconsciously, when the watchman’s fatal revelation showed the object of her love in such unattractive colours.
The grandeur of the sacrifice that she was required to make enlightened her as to the power of the affection with which she had, so to speak, played until the fatal moment arrived.
For the first time this sudden revelation taught her the depth of her love.
Impenetrable mysteries of the human heart! During the first phases of this mysterious love she had regarded her marriage with Honorât as possible.
From the moment in which she knew who the unknown one was, from that moment she felt that, notwithstanding the voice of duty ordered her to forget him, the memory of Erebus would henceforth dominate her whole existence, and she could never marry the chevalier.
She recognised the truth with terror, that, notwithstanding her efforts to master her feelings, her heart belonged to her no longer, and she was incapable of deceiving Honorât.
She wished to make a last sacrifice, to give up the rosary and portrait which she possessed, imposing this resolution upon herself as a sort of expiation of her reserve and reticence toward her father.
The young girl suffered much before she was able to fulfil this resolution.
In this mental struggle, Reine was walking on the edge of the comice formed by the rocks above the beach on which the waves of the sea were breaking.
She wore over her dress a sort of brown mantle with a hood turned up on the shoulders. This hood allowed her bare head to be seen, as well as her long brown curls that floated in the wind. Her countenance had an expression of sweet and resigned melancholy; sometimes, however, her blue eyes shone with a new brightness, and she lifted up her noble, beautiful head with an expression of wounded pride.
She loved passionately, but without hope, and she was going to throw to the winds the feeble tokens of this impossible love.
At her feet, far, far below her, broke the raging waves of the sea.
She drew the rosary from her bosom, looked at it a moment with bitterness, pressed it to her heart, then, extending her white and delicate hand above the abyss, she held it motionless a moment, and the rosary fell into the waves below.
She tried to follow it with her eyes, but the edge of the cornice was too sharp to allow her a view.
She sighed profoundly, took the portrait of the unknown, and contemplated it a long time in sad admiration. Nothing could be purer or more enchanting than the features of Erebus; his large brown eyes, soft and proud at the same time, reminded her of the look, full of purity and dignity, which he cast upon Raimond V. after having saved his life. The smile of this portrait, full of serenity, had nothing of that satirical smile and bold expression which had so startled her on the eventful day.
For a few moments she struggled with her resolution, then reason asserted her empire; blushing, she pressed her lips to the medallion, then on the brow of the portrait, and then—threw it suddenly into space.
This painful sacrifice accomplished, Reine felt less oppressed; she believed that she would have committed a wrong in preserving these memorials of a foolish love.
Then she felt free to abandon herself to the thoughts locked in the depths of her heart.
She walked a long time on the beach, absorbed in these thoughts.
On returning to Maison-Forte she learned that Raimond V. had not yet returned from the chase.
Night was fast falling, and Reine, followed by Stephanette, entered her apartment What was her amazement, her terror—
She found on the table the portrait and rosary that two hours before she had thrown into the depths of the sea.