He wore the simple sailor costume which greatly enhanced his grace and beauty.
“Here comes our bashful lover, our modest wooer,” said Trimalcyon, seeing him.
As a reply, the young sailor, appreciative of this pleasantry, threw off his mantle, embroidered in jet-black silk, gave a kiss to Swan-skin, caressed Orangine’s chin, and, taking up a silver goblet from the table, extended it to Trimalcyon as he exclaimed:
“To the health of Reine des Anbiez, the future favourite of my harem!”
Pog threw a piercing glance on Erebus, and said, in a measured, hollow voice:
“These words come from his lips, his heart will give the lie to his language.”
“You are mistaken, Captain Pog; only land your demons on the beach of La Ciotat, and you will see if the brightness of the flames which will broil the French in their hole will prevent my following Hadji to the castle of that old Provençal.”
“And once in that castle, what will you do, my boy?” said Trimalcyon, with a mocking air. “Will you ask if the beautiful girl has not a skein of silk to wind, or if she will permit you to hold her mirror while she combs her hair?”
“Be quiet, Full-Bottle, I will employ my time well. I will sing for her the song of the emir, a song worthy of Beni-Amer, which that fox, Hadji, made her listen to so well.”
“And if the old Provençal finds your voice disagreeable, he will give you a leather strap, as if you were a badly taught child, my boy,” said Trimalcyon.
“I will reply to the old gentleman by seizing his daughter in my arms, and singing to him those verses of Hadji:
“And if the good man insists, you will give him, for your last word, your kangiar to end the conversation?” “That comes of course, Empty-Cup. Who carries off the daughter, kills the father,” added Erebus, with an ironical smile.
Trimalcyon wagged his head, and said to Pog, who seemed more and more absorbed in his gloomy thoughts: “The young peacock is laughing at us, he is jesting, he will do some shepherd-swain nonsense with that girl.” “Has the French spy returned from the islands?” asked Pog of Erebus.
“Not yet, Captain Pog,” replied the young sailor; “he departed with his stick and his wallet, disguised as a beggar. He will be here, without doubt, in an hour. I waited for him in vain. Seeing that he did not arrive, I came in my long-boat; the barge which landed him on the shore will bring him back here. But shall we attack La Ciotat or Marseilles, Captain Pog?”
“Marseilles, unless the report of the spy makes me change my opinion,” said Pog.
“And on our return, shall we not stop a moment at La Ciotat?” asked Erebus. “Hadji is expecting us.”
“And your beautiful maiden also, my boy. Ah! ah! you are more impatient to see her beautiful eyes than the gaping mouths of the cannon of the castle,” said Trimalcyon, “and you are right, I do not reproach you for it.”
“By the cross of Malta, which I abhor!” cried Erebus, with impatience, “I would rather never see that lovely girl in the cabin of my chebec than not to sound my war-cry at the attack of Marseilles. Captain Pog knows that in all our combats with the French or with the galleys of religion, my arm, although young, has dealt some heavy blows.”
“Be quiet! whether we attack Marseilles or not, you will be able to approach La Ciotat with your chebec and carry off your maiden. I will not allow you to lose this new chance of damning your soul, my dear child,” said Pog, with a sinister laugh.
“My soul? You have always told me, Captain Pog, that I had no soul,” replied the unhappy Erebus, with a bantering indifference.
“You do not see, my boy, that Captain Pog is jesting,” said Trimalcyon, “as far as the soul is concerned; but as for your beauty, by Sardanapalus! we will carry her off; the pains of Hadji and your mysterious gallantries shall not be lost, although, in my opinion, you were wrong to make yourself as romantic as an ancient Moor of Grenada, just to please this Omphale. A few more abductions, my dear child, and you will realise that it is far better to break a wild filly with violence than to tame her by dint of sweetness and petting. But your young palate requires milk and honey yet awhile. Later you will come to the spices.”
“You flatter me, Trimalcyon, by comparing me to a Moor of Grenada,” said Erebus, with bitterness. “They were noble and chivalrous, and not real robbers like us.” “Robbers? Do you hear him, Captain Pog? He is yet not more than half out of his shell, and he comes talking of robbers! And who in the devil told you we were robbers? That is the way they impose upon youth, the way they deceive it and corrupt it. Why, speak to him, I pray you, Captain Pog! Robbers! Give me something to drink, Swan-skin, to help me swallow that word! Zounds! Robbers!”
Erebus seemed very little impressed by the grotesque anger of Trimalcyon.
Captain Pog raised his head slowly and said to the young man, with bitter irony:
“Well, well, my dear child, you are right to blush for our profession. Upon my return to Tripoli, I will buy you a shop near the port,—it is the best mercantile quarter. There you can sell in peace and quietness white morocco-leather, Smyrna carpets and tapestry, Persian silks and ostrich feathers. That is an easy and honest calling, my dear child. You will be able to amass some money and afterward go to Malta, and establish yourself in the Jewish quarter. There you can lend your money at fifty per cent, to the chevaliers who are in debt. Thus you can avenge yourself on those who cut your father’s and mother’s throats, by pocketing their money. It is more lucrative and less dangerous than taking your revenge in blood.”
“Captain!” cried Erebus, his cheeks flaming with indignation.
“Captain Pog is right,” said Trimalcyon, “the vampire that sucks the blood of his sleeping prey with impunity is better than the bold falcon that attacks him in the sun.”
“Trimalcyon, take care!” cried the young man, in anger.
“And who knows,” continued Pog, “if chance may not cause the chevalier who massacred your poor mother and noble father to fall under your usurious hand?”
“And see the avenging hand of Providence!” cried Trimalcyon. “The orphan becomes the creditor of the assassin! Blood and murder! Death and agony! This son, the avenger, at last gluts his rage by making the murderer of his family put on the yellow robe of insolvent debtors!”
At this last sarcasm, the anger of Erebus exceeded all bounds, and he seized Trimalcyon by the throat and drew on him a knife that he had taken from the table. But for the iron grasp of Pog, which held the youth’s hand like a vice, the fat pirate would have been dangerously wounded, if not killed.
“By Eblis and his black wings! Captain, take care! If you are provoked at the blow I was about to give that hog, then I will address myself to you!” cried Erebus, trying to free himself from Pog’s hands.
Swan-skin and Orangine escaped, shrieking with terror.
“See what it is to spoil children,” said Pog, with a disdainful smile, as he released the hand of Erebus.
“And to allow them to play with knives,” replied Trimalcyon, picking up the knife that Erebus had let fall in the struggle.
A look from Pog warned him that he must not push the young man too far.
“Do you wish to kill the one who has brought you up, dear child?” said Pog, sarcastically. “Come, you have your dagger in your belt, strike.”
Erebus looked at him with a surly air, and said, with an angry sneer:
“It is in the name of gratitude, then, that you ask me to spare your life? Then why have you preached to me the forgetfulness of benefits and the remembrance of injuries?”
Notwithstanding his impudence, Trimalcyon looked at Pog in amazement, not knowing how his companion would reply to that question.
Pog gave Erebus a look of withering contempt, as he said to him:
“I wished to test you, when I spoke of gratitude. Yes, the truly brave man forgets all benefits, and only remembers injuries. I offered you the most outrageous insult, I told you that you did not have the courage to avenge the death of your parents. You ought to have struck me at once,—but you are a coward.”
Erebus quickly drew his dagger and raised it over the pirate before Trimalcyon could take a step.
Pog, calm and unmoved, opened his breast without a sign of emotion.
Twice Erebus raised his arm, twice he let it fall again. He could not make up his mind to strike a defenceless man. He bowed his head with a sorrowful air.
Pog sat down again and said to Erebus, in a severe and imperious voice:
“Child, do not quote maxims whose meaning perhaps you may comprehend, but which your weak heart will not let you put in practice. Listen to me, once for all. I received you without pity. I feel as much hatred and contempt for you as I do for all other men. I have trained you to pillage and murder, as I would have amused myself in training a young wolf for slaughter, that some day I might be able to hurl you against my enemies. I have killed all the chevaliers of Malta who have fallen into my hands, because I have a terrible vengeance to wreak on that order. I have taught you that your family was massacred by them, in the hope of exciting your rage, and turning it against those whom I execrate. You have already served my purpose; you have killed two caravanists with your own hand, in one combat. I know you had no pleasure in it, you thought you were avenging your father and mother. I deal with you as a man deals with his war-horse; as long as he serves him, he spurs him and urges him to the fray; when he becomes feeble, he sells him. Do not feel bound in any respect to me; kill me if you can. If you dare not strike before my face, act as a traitor,—you will succeed, perhaps.”
As Erebus heard these frightful words, he seemed to be in a dream.
If he had never been deceived as to the tenderness of Pog, he believed that the man had at least an interest in him, the interest that a poor, abandoned child always inspires in one who has the care of him. The brutal confession of Pog left him no longer in doubt. These detestable maxims he had just uttered were too much in accord with the rest of his life to allow the young man to question their reality.
The feelings of his own heart were inexplicable. He seemed to have fallen into some deep and bloody abyss. The thoughts which rushed upon him drove him to frenzy. His tender and generous instincts thrilled painfully, as if an iron hand had torn them from his heart.
After the first moment of dejection, the detestable influence of Pog regained the ascendency. Erebus wished to vie with this man in cynicism and barbarity. He lifted up his pale face, and said, as a sarcastic smile played upon his lips:
“You have enlightened me, Captain Pog; until now, the hatred of the soldiers of Christ had never entered into my heart; until now, I only wished their death because they had killed my father and mother; if I showed them no mercy, I fought them, sword to sword, galley to galley. But now, captain, armed or disarmed, young or old, fairly or basely, I will kill as many as I can kill,—do you know why, captain? Say, do you know why, captain?”
“He is out of his head!” whispered Trimalcyon.
“No, he says what he feels,” replied Pog. “Ah, well, then, my child, tell me why?” added he.
“Because in making me an orphan, they put me in your power, and you have made me what I am.”
There was in the expression of the features of Erebus something which revealed a hatred so implacable, that Trimalcyon whispered to Pog:
“There is blood in his look!”
Erebus, although exasperated beyond measure by the contemptuous hatred of Pog, did not dare avenge himself, because he was dominated by an involuntary sentiment of gratitude toward the man who had reared him, and with an air of desperation he went out of the chamber.
“He is going to kill himself!” cried Trimalcyon.
Pog shrugged his shoulders.
Some moments after, while the two companions sat in gloomy silence, they heard the sound of oars striking the water.
“He is going back to his chebec,” said Trimalcyon.
Without replying, Pog went out of the chamber and walked to the prow.
It was late. The wind had grown somewhat calm; the galley-slaves were sleeping on their benches.
Nothing was heard but the regular step of the spahis who walked their rounds on the vessel.
Pog, leaning over the guards, looked at the sea in silence.
Trimalcyon, in spite of his depravity, had been moved by this scene. Never had the cruel monomania of Pog shown itself in such a horrible light. He felt a certain embarrassment in engaging in conversation with his silent friend. At last, approaching him with several “Hem—Hems,” and numerous hesitations, he said: “The weather is very fine this evening, Captain Pog.”
“Your remark is full of sense, Trimalcyon.”
“Come to the point now, and shame to the devil! I do not know what to say to you, Pog, but you are a terrible man; you will make that poor starling insane. How in the devil can you find pleasure in tormenting the young fellow so? Some fine day he will leave you.”
“If you were not a man incapable of understanding me, Trimalcyon, I would tell you that what I feel for this unfortunate youth is strange,” said Pog. “Yes, it is strange,” continued he, talking to himself. “Sometimes I feel furious anger rising in me against Erebus, a resentment as implacable as if he were my most deadly enemy. Again I have the indifference of a piece of ice. Other times I feel for him a compassion, I would say affection if that sentiment could enter my soul. Then, the sound of his voice—yes, especially the sound of his voice—and his look awaken in me memories of a time which is no more.”
As he uttered these last words, Pog spoke indistinctly. Trimalcyon was touched by the accent of his usually morose companion. The voice of Pog, ordinarily hard and sarcastic, softened almost to a lamentation.
Trimalcyon, amazed, approached Pog to speak to him; he recoiled in fright as he saw him suddenly raise his two fists toward Heaven in a threatening manner, and heard him utter such a painful, despairing cry that there seemed nothing human in it.
“Captain Pog, what is the matter with you? What is the matter with you?” cried Trimalcyon.
“What is the matter with me!” cried Pog, in a delirium, “what is the matter with me! Then you do not know that this man who stands here before you, who roars with pain, who pushes cruelty to madness, who dreams only of blood and massacre; that this man was once blessed with all, because he was good, kind, and generous. You do not know, oh, you do not know the evil that must have been done to this man to excite in him the rage which now possesses him!”
Trimalcyon was more and more amazed at this language, which contrasted so singularly with the habitual character of Pog.
He tried to enlighten himself by carefully examining the countenance of his old comrade.
After a long silence he heard the dry, strident laugh of the pirate ring through the galley. “Eh, eh! comrade,” said Pog, in the tone of irony natural to him, “it is quite right to say that at night mad dogs bark at the moon! Have you understood one word of all the nonsense I have just uttered to you? I would have been a good actor, on my faith I would; do you not think so, comrade?”
“I have not understood much, to tell the truth, Captain Pog, except that you have not been always what you are now. We are alike in that. I was a servant in a college before being a pirate.”
Pog, without making a reply, made a gesture of his hand commanding silence. Then, listening with attention on the side next to the sea, he said: “It seems to me I hear a boat.”
“Without doubt,” said Trimalcyon.
One of the watchmen on the rambade uttered three distinct cries, the first separated from the two last by quite a long interval; the last two, however, were close together.
The patron of the boat replied to this cry in the opposite manner; that is to say, he uttered at first two short, quick cries, followed by a prolonged cry.
“Those are persons from the chebec, and the spy, no doubt,” said Trimalcyon.
In fact the long-boat was already at the first seat of the rowers. The spy climbed to the deck of the galley.
“What news from Hyères?” said Pog to him.
“Bad for Marseilles, captain; the galleys of the Marquis de Brézé, coming from Naples, anchored there yesterday.”
“Who told you that?” asked Pog.
“Two bargemasters. I entered a hostelry to beg an alms, and these bargemasters were talking about it. Some mule-drivers, coming from the west, heard the same thing at St. Tropez.”
“And what rumour on the coast?”
“They are alarmed at La Ciotat.”
Pog waved his hand, and the spy retired.
“What is to be done, Captain Pog?” cried Trimalcyon. “There are only blows to be gained at Marseilles; the squadron of the Marquis de Brézé protects the port. To attack an enemy unseasonably is to do him good instead of harm; we can do nothing at Marseilles.”
“Nothing,” said Captain Pog.
“Then La Ciotat invites us; the swine, those citizens, are alarmed, it is true, but, Sardanapalus! what does that matter? The little birds tremble when they see the hawk ready to pounce upon them; but do their terrors make his claws any the less sharp, or his beak less cutting? What do you say to it, Captain Pog?”
“To La Ciotat, to-morrow at sunset, if the wind ceases. We will surprise these people in the midst of a feast; we will change their cries of joy into cries of death!” said Pog, in a hollow voice.
“Sardanapalus! these citizens, they say, have hens on golden eggs hidden in their houses. They say that the convent of the Minimes brothers is filled with costly wines, without counting the money of the farm-rent that the farmers bring to these rich do-nothings at Christmas. We will find their cash-box well furnished.”
“To La Ciotat,” said Pog; “The wind may change in our favour. I am going to return on board the Red Galleon; at the first signal, follow my manoeuvre.”
“So be it, Captain Pog,” replied Trimalcyon.
While the pirates, ambushed in that solitary bay, are preparing to surprise and attack the inhabitants of La Ciotat, we will return to Cape l’Aigle, where we left the watchman occupied in drawing up the defence of the coast.
Although the fear of the Barbary pirates had kept the city and the coast in alarm for several days, the people began to feel safe from attack.
The north wind had lasted so long and had blown with such violence that they did not suppose the pirate vessels dared put to sea in such weather, and it seemed still less probable that they would anchor in a harbour on their seashore, which was exactly what Pog and Trimalcyon had done.
The security felt by the inhabitants was fatal to them.
Forty hours at least were required for the galley of the commander to sail from Cape Corsica to La Ciotat. The tempest had ceased only the evening before, and Pierre des Anbiez had been compelled to wait until Christmas morning to put to sea.
On the contrary, the galleys of the pirates were able to reach La Ciotat in three hours; the island of Port-Cros, where they had taken refuge, was only about six leagues distant.
But, as we have said, fear was no longer felt along the coast; besides, they reckoned upon the well-known vigilance of the watchman, Master Peyrou.
He would give the alarm in case of danger; two signals, corresponding with the sentry-box on Cape l’Aigle, had been established, one at a point opposite the bay, the other on the terrace of Maison-Forte.
At the slightest alarm all the men of La Ciotat, capable of bearing arms, were to assemble in the town hall, there to take orders from the consul, and hasten to the point which might be attacked.
A chain had been extended across the entrance of the port, and several large fishing-boats, armed with swivel-guns, were anchored a short distance from this chain. Finally, two coxswains of a long-boat, occupied a whole morning in exploring the environage, had upon their return increased the general feeling of security by announcing that not a sail was to be seen for a distance of three or four leagues.
It was about two hours after midday. A sharp wind from the east had taken the place of the north wind of the preceding days. The sky was clear, the sun bright for a winter day, and the sea beautiful, although there was a gentle swell.
A child carrying a basket on his head began to climb, singing all the while, the steep rocks which led to the house of the watchman.
Suddenly, hearing the moaning of a dog, the child stopped, looked around him with curiosity, saw nothing, and went on his way.
The cry was repeated, and this time it seemed nearer and more pitiful.
Raimond V. had been hunting all day on that side, and thinking that one of the baron’s dogs had fallen into some quagmire, the child set his basket down on the ground, climbed up a large piece of a huge rock which projected some distance over the road, and listened with attention.
The cries of the dog grew fainter, yet sounded more plaintive than before.
The child hesitated no longer. As much to do something which would please his master as to merit a small recompense, he began diligently to search for the poor animal, and soon disappeared among the tall rocks.
The dog seemed sometimes nearer, and sometimes more distant; at last the cries suddenly ceased.
The child had left the path. While he was listening, calling, crying, and whistling, Hadji, the Bohemian, appeared behind a rock.
Thanks to his skill as a juggler, he had imitated the cries of the dog, so as to distract the child from his duty and take him away from his basket. For three days he had been wandering in the midst of this solitude. Not daring to appear again at Maison-Forte, he was expecting every day the arrival of the pirates, who had been instructed by his second message.
Knowing that every morning provisions were carried to Peyrou, Hadji, who had been watching some hours for the purveyor, employed, as we have said, this stratagem to make him abandon his basket.
The Bohemian opened the bottle-case carefully provided by the majordomo Laramée, took out a large bottle covered with straw, and poured in it a small quantity of a white powder,—a powerful soporific, whose effects had already been felt by the worthy Luquin Trinquetaille.
The Bohemian had lived for two days on the small amount of food he had carried away from Maison-Forte; but, fearing to excite suspicion, he had the courage not to touch the appetising viands intended for the watchman. He restored the bottle to its place and disappeared.
The child, after having searched for the stray dog in vain, returned, took up his basket, and finally arrived at the summit of the promontory.
Master Peyrou passed for such a formidable, mysterious being, that his young purveyor did not dare say a word about the cries of the dog; he deposited the basket on the edge of the last stone of the steps, and saying, in a trembling voice, “The good God keep you, Master Peyrou,” descended as fast as his legs could carry him, holding his cap in both hands.
The watchman smiled at the child’s fear, rose from his seat, went for the basket, and set it down near him. The provisions inside smacked of the Christmas festivity.
First, there was a very fine roast turkey, a necessary dish at the solemn feast of Christmas; then a cold fish pie, some honey cakes and oil, and a basket of grapes and dried fruit done up in the style of a Christmas present; finally, two loaves of white bread with a golden brown crust, and a large bottle, containing at least two pints of the finest Burgundy wine from the cellar of Raimond V., completed his repast.
The good watchman, lonely philosopher as he was, did not appear insensible to these good things. He entered his house, took his little table, set it before his door, and there placed his preparations for his Christmas feast. Yet he was saddened by melancholy thoughts.
By the unusual clouds of smoke rising above the town of La Ciotat, it could be seen that the inhabitants, rich or poor, were making joyous preparations to unite family and friends at their tables. The watchman sighed as he thought of the exile which he had imposed upon himself. Already old, without relatives and family ties, he was liable to die on this rock, in the midst of this imposing solitude.
Another cause brought sadness to the heart of Peyrou. He had vainly hoped to signal the arrival of the commander’s galley. He knew with what joy Raimond V. would have embraced his two brothers, especially at this season, and he also knew that the gloomy sadness of Pierre des Anbiez found some relief, some consolation in the midst of sweet family happiness and festivity.
And in fact, there was still another reason, not less important, which made the watchman desire most earnestly the return of the commander.
He had been for more than twenty years the guardian of a terrible secret, and of the papers which were connected with it. His retired life and his fidelity, which had endured every test, were sufficient warrants for the security of this secret. But the watchman desired to ask the commander to deliver him from this grave responsibility, and to entrust it henceforth to Raimond V.
In fact, Peyrou realised that he might at any time die a violent death; his scene with the Bohemian proved to what dangers he was exposed in this remote and isolated spot.
All these reasons made him look anxiously for the coming of the black galley, and for the last time, before sitting down to the table, he examined the horizon attentively.
The sun was just beginning to set, and although the watchman descried nothing in the distance, he did not lose all hope of seeing the galley before nightfall, and to be able to signal the galley more readily, he resolved to dine outside.
The sight of a good dinner drove some of the wrinkles from his brow. He began by holding the flagon of Burgundy wine to his lips. After having swallowed several draughts, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, as he quoted the Provençal proverb, “A Tousan tou vin es san,—On All Saints’ Day all wine is good for the health.”
“Raimond V. has not forgotten how to judge,” added he, smiling. Then he carved the turkey.
“Well, well, for an old man, old wine. I feel my heart already rejoice, and my hopes of seeing the commander’s galley are a good deal brighter.”
At this moment, Peyrou heard a rustling in the air; one of the branches of the old pine cracked, and Brilliant alighted with a heavy wing on the stone roof of the sentry-box; then from the roof she descended to the ground.
“Ah, ah! Brilliant,” said the watchman, “you come to get your part of the Christmas present, do you? Take this!” and he handed her a piece of the turkey, which the eagle refused.
“Ah! cruel wretch, you would not disdain that morsel if it was bloody. Do you want some of this pie? No? Ah! you will not find every day such a treat as the pigeon of that accursed Bohemian. Never shall I forget the service you rendered me, my courageous bird, although your taste for blood went for much in your fine action. But, no matter, Brilliant, no matter; it smells of ingratitude to be looking for the motive of a deed by which we have profited. I ought to have thought of you and given you a fine quarter of mutton for your Christmas feast. But to-morrow I will not forget For you, as for a great many men, the treat makes the festivity, and it is not the holy day or saint they glorify.”
Master Peyrou finished his dinner, sometimes chatting with Brilliant, and sometimes embracing the baron’s bottle.
Twilight was slowly descending upon the town.
The watchman, wrapping himself in his cloak, lit his pipe, and sat down to contemplate the approach of the beautiful winter night, in a sort of meditative beatitude.
Although the night was falling, he again examined the horizon with his telescope, and discovered nothing. Turning his head mechanically on the side of Maison-Forte, with the thought that all hope of seeing the commander arrive was not yet lost, he saw, to his great astonishment, a company of soldiers, commanded by two men on horseback, rapidly marching up the beach toward the house of Raimond V.
He seized his telescope, and, in spite of the gathering darkness, recognised the recorder Isnard, mounted on his white mule. The recorder was accompanied by a cavalier, whose hausse-col, or metal collar, jacket of buff-skin, and white scarf marked him as a captain of infantry.
“What does that mean?” cried the watchman, recalling with alarm the animosity of Master Isnard. “Are they going to arrest the Baron des Anbiez by virtue of an order from the Marshal of Vitry? Ah! I have too much reason to fear it, and what I fear more is the resistance of the baron. My God! how is all this going to end? What a sad Christmas if things are as I fear!”
Greatly disturbed, the watchman stood with his eyes fixed on the shore, although night was now too far advanced to permit him to distinguish any object.
Soon the moon rose bright and clear, flooding the rocks, the bay, the shore, and the castle of Maison-Forte with her brilliant light.
In the distance the city, immersed in fog, showed many a luminous point through the cloudy, vapourous mass, and its sharp-pointed roofs and belfries cut a black silhouette on the pale azure of the sky.
The sea, perfectly calm, was like a peaceful lake, and its soft murmurs were scarcely audible. The waves seemed to sleep. A line of darker blue marked the curve of the horizon.
The watchman looked anxiously at the windows of Maison-Forte, which were all brilliantly illuminated.
By degrees, his eyelids grew heavy.
Attributing the sensation of heaviness in his head to the wine, which he had partaken of in moderation, he began to walk about briskly, but, notwithstanding his persistent efforts, he felt a sort of lassitude stealing through all his limbs. His sight began to grow dim; he was obliged to return and sit down on his bench.
For some minutes he struggled with all his might against this numbness which was gradually taking possession of all his faculties.
Finally, although his reason commenced to share this state of general stupor, he had the presence of mind to go in his cabin and plunge his head in a basin of ice-cold water.
This immersion seemed for some moments to restore to him the use of his senses.
“Miserable creature I am! What have I done!” cried he. “I have made myself drunk—”
He took a few more steps, but was obliged to sit down again.
The soporific, thwarted in its effect for a moment, redoubled its power over him. Leaning back against the wall of his cabin, he retained perception enough to be the witness of a spectacle which overwhelmed him with rage and despair.
Two galleys and a chebec appeared at the eastern point of the bay,—a point which he alone was able to discover from the height of Cape l’Aigle. These vessels were slowly doubling the promontory with the utmost precaution. With one last effort he straightened himself up to his full height, and cried, in a feeble voice, “Pirates!” He stumbled as he tried to walk to the pile where were collected all sorts of combustible material ready to be kindled at a moment’s notice. The moment he reached it he fell, deprived of consciousness.
The Bohemian, who had been watching his every movement, then appeared just where the foot-path entered the esplanade, and advanced with the greatest circumspection. Hiding himself behind the cabin, he listened, and heard only the laboured breathing of the watchman. Certain of the effect of his soporific, he approached Peyrou, stooped down, and touched his hands and his forehead and found that they were cold.
“The dose is strong,” said he, “perhaps too strong. So much the worse, I did not wish to kill him.”
Then advancing to the edge of the precipice, he saw distinctly the three pirate vessels in the distance. Moving slowly and cautiously, for fear of being discovered, they made use of oars to reach the entrance of the port, where the Bohemian was to join them.
The practised eye of Hadji recognised in front of the two galleys certain luminous points or flames, which were nothing else than torches designed to burn the city and the fishing-boats.
“By Eblis! they are going to smoke these citizens like foxes in their burrows. It is time, perhaps, for this old man to go to sleep for ever; but we must visit his cabin. I will have time to descend. I will be on the beach soon enough to seize a boat and join Captain Pog, who expects me before he begins the attack. Let us enter; they say the old man hides a treasure here.”
Hadji took a brand from the fireplace and lit a lamp.
The first object which met his eye was a trunk or box of sculptured ebony placed near the watchman’s bed.
“That is a costly piece of furniture for such a recluse.”
Not finding a key, he took a hatchet, broke open the lock, and opened the two leaves of the door; the shelves were empty.
“It is not natural to lock up nothing with so much precaution; time presses, but this key will open everything.” He took up the hatchet again, and in a moment the ebony case was in pieces.
A double bottom fell apart.
The Bohemian uttered a cry of joy as he perceived the little embossed silver casket of which we have spoken, and on which was marked a Maltese cross. This casket, which was quite heavy, was fastened no doubt by a secret spring, as neither key nor lock could be discovered.
“I have my fine part of the booty, now let us run to help Captain Pog in taking his. Ah, ah!” added he, with a diabolical laugh, as he beheld the bay and the city wrapped in profound stillness, “soon Eblis will shake his wings of fire over that scene. The sky will be in flames, and the waters will run with blood!” Then, as a last precaution, he emptied a tunnel of water on the signal pile, and descended in hot haste to join the pirate vessels.
While so many misfortunes were threatening the city, the inhabitants were quietly keeping Christmas.
Notwithstanding the uneasiness the opinion of the watchman had given, notwithstanding the alarm caused by terror of the pirates, in every house, poor or rich, preparations were being made for the patriarchal feast.
We have spoken of the magnificent cradle which had long been in course of preparation through the untiring industry of Dame Dulceline.
It was at last finished and placed in the hall of the dais, or hall of honour in Maison-Forte.
Midnight had just sounded. The woman in charge was impatiently awaiting the return of Raimond V., his daughter, Honorât de Berrol, and other relations and guests whom the baron had invited to the ceremony.
All the family and guests had gone to La Ciotat, to be present at the midnight mass.
Abbé Mascarolus had said mass in the chapel of the castle for those who had remained at home.
We will conduct the reader to the hall of the dais, which occupied two-thirds of the long gallery which communicated with the two wings of the castle.
It was never opened except on solemn occasions.
A splendid red damask silk covered its walls. To supply the place of flowers, quite rare in that season, masses of green branches, cut from trees and arranged in boxes, hid almost entirely the ten large arched windows of this immense hall.
At one end of the hall rose a granite chimneypiece, ten feet high and heavily sculptured.
Notwithstanding the season was cold, no fire burned in this vast fireplace, but an immense pile, composed of branches of vine, beech, olive, and fir-apples, only waited the formality of custom to throw waves of light and heat into the grand and stately apartment.
Two pine-trees with long green branches ornamented with ribbons, oranges, and bunches of grapes, were set up in boxes on each side of the chimney, and formed above the mantelpiece a veritable thicket of verdure.
Six copper chandeliers with lighted yellow wax candles only partially dissipated the darkness of the immense room.
At the other end, opposite the chimney, rose the dais, resembling somewhat the canopy of a bed, with curtains, hangings, and cushions of red damask, as were, too, the mantle and gloves, a part of the equipment of office.
The red draperies covered, with their long folds, five wooden steps, which were hidden under a rich Turkey carpet.
Ordinarily the armorial chair of Raimond V. was placed on this elevation, and here enthroned, the old gentleman, as lord of the manor, administered on rare occasions justice to high and low. On Christmas Day, however, the cradle of the infant Jesus occupied this place of honour.
A table of massive oak, covered over with a rich oriental drapery, furnished the middle of the gallery.
On this table could be seen an ebony box handsomely carved, with a coat of arms on its lid. This box contained the book of accounts, a sort of record in which were written the births and all other important family events.
Armchairs and benches of carved oak, with twisted feet, completed the furniture of this hall, to which its size and severe bareness gave an imposing character.
Dame Dulceline and Abbé Mascarolus had just finished placing the cradle under the dais. This marvel was a picture in relief about three feet square at the base and three feet high. The faithful representation of the stable where the Saviour was born would have been too severe a limitation to the poetical conceptions of the good abbé.
So, instead of a stable, the holy scene was pictured under a sort of arcade sustained by two half ruined supports. In the spaces between the stones, real little stones artistically cut, were hung long garlands of natural vines and leaves, most beautifully intertwined.
A cloud of white wax seemed to envelope the upper part of the arcade. Five or six cherubs about a thumb high, modelled in wax painted a natural colour, and wearing azure wings made of the feathers of humming-birds, were here and there set in the cloud, and held a streamer of white silk, in the middle of which glittered the words, embroidered in letters of gold: Gloria in Jezcelriir.
The supports of the arcade rested on a sort of carpet of fine moss, packed so closely as to resemble green velvet, and in front of this erection was placed the cradle of the Saviour of the world; a real, miniature cradle, covered over with the richest laces. In it reposed the infant Jesus.
Kneeling by the cradle, the Virgin Mary bent over the Babe her maternal brow, the white veil of the Queen of Angels falling over her feet and hiding half of her azure coloured silk robe.
The paschal lamb, his four feet bound with a rose coloured ribbon, was laid at the foot of the cradle; behind it the kneeling ox thrust his large head, and his eyes of enamel seemed to contemplate the divine Infant.
The ass, on a more distant plane, and half hidden by the posts of the arcade, behind which it stood, also showed his meek and gentle head.
The dog seemed to cringe near the cradle, while the shepherds, clothed in coarse cassocks, and the magi kings, dressed in rich robes of brocatelle, were offering their adoration.
A fourth row of little candles, made of rose-scented wax, burned around the cradle.
An immense amount of work, and really great resources of imagination, had been necessary to perfect such an exquisite picture. For instance, the ass, which was about six thumbs in height, was covered in mouse-skin which imitated his own to perfection. The black and white ox owed his hair to an India pig of the same colour, and his short and polished black horns to the rounded nippers of an enormous beetle.
The robes of the magi kings revealed a fairy-like skill and patience, and their long white hair was really veritable hair, which Dame Dulceline had cut from her own venerable head.
As to the figures of the cherubs, the infant Jesus, and other actors in this holy scene, they had been purchased in Marseilles from one of those master wax-chandlers, who always kept assorted materials necessary in the construction of these cradles.
Doubtless it was not high art, but there was, in this little monument of a laborious and innocent piety, something as simple and as pathetic as the divine scene which they tried to reproduce with such religious conscientiousness.
The good old priest and Dame Dulceline, after having lit the last candles which surrounded the cradle, stood a moment, lost in admiration of their work.
“Never, M. Abbé,” said Dame Dulceline, “have we had such a beautiful cradle at Maison-Forte.”
“That is true, Dame Dulceline; the representation of the animals approaches nature as closely as is permitted man to approach the marvels of creation.”
“Ah, M. Abbé, why did it have to be that the accursed Bohemian, who they say is an emissary of the pirates, should give us the secret of making glass eyes for these animals?”
“What does it matter, Dame Dulceline? Perhaps some day the miscreant will learn the eternal truth. The Lord employs every arm to build his temple.”
“Pray tell me, M. Abbé, why we must put the cradle under the dais in the hall of honour. Soon it will be forty years since I began making cradles for Maison-Forte des Anbiez. My mother made them for Raimond IV., father of Raimond V., for as many years. Ah, well! I have never asked before, nor have I even asked myself why this hall was always selected for the blessed exposition.”
“Ah, you see, Dame Dulceline, there is always, at the base of our ancient religious customs, something consoling for the humble, the weak, and the suffering, and also something imposing as a lesson for the happy and the rich and the powerful of this world. This cradle, for instance, is the symbol of the birth of the divine Saviour. He was the poor child of a poor artisan, and yet some day he was to be as far above the most powerful of men as the heavens are above the earth. So you see, Dame Dulceline, upon the anniversary day of the redemption, the poor and rustic cradle of the infant Saviour takes the place of honour in the ceremonial hall of the noble baron.”
“Ah, I understand, M. Abbé, they put the infant Jesus in the place of the noble baron, to show that the lords of this world should be first to bow before the Saviour!”
“Without doubt, Dame Dulceline, in thus doing homage to the Lord through the symbol of his power, the baron preaches by example the communion and equality of men before God.”
Dame Dulceline remained silent a moment, thinking of the abbé's words, then, satisfied with his explanation, she proposed another question to him, which in her mind was more difficult of solution.
“M. Abbé,” asked she, with an embarrassed air, “you say that at the base of all ancient customs there is always a lesson; can there be one, then, in the custom of Palm Sunday, when foundling children run about the streets of Marseilles with branches of laurel adorned with fruit? For instance, last year, on Palm Sunday,—I blush to think of it even now, M. Abbé,—I was walking on the fashionable promenade of Marseilles with Master Tale-bard-Talebardon, who was not then the declared enemy of monseigneur, and, lo! one of the unfortunate little foundlings stopped right before me and the consul, and said, with a sweet voice, as he kissed our hands, ‘Good morning, mother! good morning, father!’ By St Dulceline, my patron saint, M. Abbé, I turned purple with shame, and Master Talebard-Talebardon did, too. I beg your pardon, respectfully, for alluding to the coarse jokes of Master Laramée, who accompanied us, on the subject of this poor foundling’s insult! But this Master Laramée has neither modesty nor shame. I could not help repulsing with horror this nursling of public charity, and I pinched his arm sharply, and said to him: ‘Will you be silent, you ugly little bastard?’ He felt his fault, for he began to weep, and when I complained of his indecent impudence to a grave citizen, he replied to me: ‘My good lady, such is the custom here; on Palm Sunday foundlings have the privilege of running through the streets, and saying, ‘father and mother,’ to all whom they may meet.”
“That is really the custom, Dame Dulceline,” said the abbé.
“Well, it may be the custom, M. Abbé, but is that not a very impertinent and improper custom, to permit unfortunate little children without father or mother to walk up and say ‘mother’ to honest, discreet persons like myself, for example, who prefer the peace of celibacy to the disquietudes of family? As to the morality of this custom, I pray you explain it, M. Abbé. I look for it in vain with all my eyes. I can see nothing in it but what is outrageously indecent!”
“And you are mistaken, Dame Dulceline,” said Abbé Mascarolus; “this custom is worthy of respect, and you were wrong to treat that poor child so cruelly.”
“I was wrong? That little rascal comes and calls me mother, and I permit it? Why, then, thanks to this custom, there would—”
“Thanks to this custom,” interrupted the abbé, “thanks to the privilege that these little unfortunates have, of being able to say, one day in the year, ‘father and mother’ to those they meet,—those dear names that they never pronounce, which, perhaps, may have never passed their lips—alas! how many there are, and I have seen them, who say these words with tears in their eyes, as they remember that, when that day is past, they cannot repeat the blessed words! And sometimes it happens, Dame Dulceline, that strangers, moved to pity by such innocence and sorrow, or being touched by the caressing words, have adopted some of these unfortunates; others have given abundant alms, because this innocent appeal for charity is almost always heard. You see, Dame Dulceline, that this custom, too, has a useful end,—a pious signification.”
The old woman bowed her head in silence, and finally replied to the good chaplain:
“You are a clever man, M. Abbé; you are right. See what it is to have knowledge! Now I repent of having repulsed the child so cruelly. Next Palm Sunday I will not fail to carry several yards of good, warm cloth, and nice linen, and this time, I promise you, I will not act the cruel stepmother with the poor children who call me mother! But if that old sot, Laramée, makes any indecent joke about me, as sure as he has eyes I will prove to him that I have claws!”
“That would prove too much, Dame Dulceline. But, since monseigneur does not yet return, and since we are discussing the customs of our good old Provence, and their usefulness to poor people, come, now, what have you observed on the day of St Lazarus, concerning the dance of St Elmo?”
“What do you want me to tell you, M. Abbé? Now I distrust myself; before your explanation I railed against the custom of foundlings on Palm Sunday, now I respect it.”
“Say always, Dame Dulceline, that the sin of ignorance is excusable. But what is your opinion concerning the dance of St Elmo?”
“Bless me, M. Abbé, I understand nothing about it! I sometimes ask myself what is the good, the day of the feast of St. Elmo, of dressing up, at the expense of the city or community, all the poor young boys and girls as handsomely as possible. That is not all. Not content with that, these young people go from house to house, among the rich citizens and the lords, asking to borrow something. This one wants a gold necklace, that one a pair of diamond earrings, another a silver belt, another a hatband set with precious stones, or a sword-belt braided in gold. Ah, well! in my opinion,—but I may change it in an hour,—M. Abbé, it is wrong to lend all these costly articles to poor people and artisans who have not a cent.”
“Why so? Since the feast of St. Lazarus has been celebrated here, have you ever heard, Dame Dulceline, that any of those precious jewels have been lost or stolen?”
“Good God in Heaven! Never, M. Abbé, neither here, nor in Marseilles, nor in all Provence, I believe. Thank God, our youth is honest, after all! For instance, last year Mlle. Reine loaned her Venetian girdle, which Stephanette says cost more than two thousand crowns. Ah, well! Thereson, the daughter of the miller at Pointe-aux-Cailles, who wore this costly ornament during all the feast, came and brought it back before sunset, although she had permission to keep it till night. And for this same feast of St. Lazarus, monseigneur loaned to Pierron, the fisherman of Maison-Forte, his beautiful gold chain, and his medallion set with rubies, that Master Laramée cleans, as you told him to do, with teardrops of the vine.”
“That is true; and if one can mix with these teardrops of the vine a tear of a stag killed in venison season, Dame Dulceline, the rubies will shine like sparks of fire.”
“Ah, well, M. Abbé, Pierron, the fisherman, brought back faithfully that precious chain even before the appointed hour. I repeat, M. Abbé, our youth is an honest youth, but I do not see the use of risking the loss, not by theft, but by accident, of beautiful jewels, for the pleasure of seeing these young people dance the old Provençal dances in the streets and roads, to the sound of tambourines and cymbalettes and flutes, that play the national airs, ooubados and bedocheos, until you are deaf.”
“Ah, well, Dame Dulceline,” said Mascarolus, smiling sweetly, “you are going to learn that you were wrong not to see in this custom, too, a lesson and a use. When mademoiselle loaned to Thereson, the poor daughter of a miller, a costly ornament, she showed a blind confidence in the girl; now, Dame Dulceline, confidence begets honesty and prevents dishonesty. That is not all; in giving Thereson the pleasure of wearing this ornament for one day, our young mistress showed her at the same time the charm and the nothingness of it, and then, as this pleasure is not forbidden to the poor people, they do not look on it with jealousy. This custom, in fact, establishes delightful relations between rich and poor, which are based on probity, confidence, and community of interest What do you think now of the dance of St. Elmo, Dame Dulceline?”
“I think, M. Chaplain, that, although I have no jewels but a cross and a gold chain, I will lend them with a good heart to young Madelon, the best worker in my laundry, on the next feast of St. Lazarus, because every time I take this gold cross out of its box the poor girl devours it with her eyes, and I am sure that she will be wild with joy. But I am getting bewildered, M. Abbé; I brought some pure oil to fill the two Christmas lamps, which mademoiselle is to light, and I was about to forget them.”
“Speaking of oil, Dame Dulceline, do not forget to fill well with oil that jug in which I have steeped those two beautiful bunches of grapes. I wish to attempt the experiment cited by M. de Maucaunys.”
“What experiment, M. Abbé?”
“This erudite and veracious traveller pretends that by leaving bunches of grapes, gathered on the day which marks the middle of September, in a jug of pure oil for seven months, the oil will acquire such a peculiar property that whenever it burns in a lamp whose light is thrown on the wall or the floor, thousands of bunches of grapes will appear on this wall or floor, perfect in colour, but as deceptive as objects painted on glass.” Dame Dulceline was just about to testify her admiration for the good and credulous chaplain, when she heard in the court the sound of carriage and horses, which announced the return of Raimond V.
She disappeared precipitately. The door opened, and Raimond V. entered the gallery with several ladies and gentlemen, friends and their wives, who had also been present at the midnight mass in the parochial church of La Ciotat.
The baron and the other men were in holiday attire, and the women in that dress which going and coming on horseback rendered necessary, inasmuch as carriages were very rare.
Although the countenance of Raimond V. was always joyous and cordial when he welcomed his guests at Maison-Forte, an expression of sadness from time to time now came over his features, for he had relinquished all hope of seeing his brothers at this family festival.
The guests of the baron all admired the cradle Dame Dulceline had prepared with so much skill, and the chaplain received the praises of the company with as much modesty as gratitude.
Honorât de Berrol appeared more melancholy than ever.
Reine, on the contrary, realising the necessity for making him forget the refusal of her hand, which she had at last decided upon, by means of various evidences of kindness and friendship, treated the young man with cousinly esteem and affection.
Nevertheless, she was conscious of a painful embarrassment; she had not yet informed the baron of her determination not to marry Honorât de Berrol. She had only obtained her father’s consent to have the nuptials delayed until the return of the commander and Father Elzear, who, from what was implied in their last letters, might arrive at any moment.
Eulogies on the cradle seemed inexhaustible, when the baron, approaching the company of admiring guests, said: “My opinion is, ladies, that we had better begin the cachofué, for this hall is very damp and cold, and the fire is only waiting to blaze!”
The cachofué, or feu caché, was an old Provençal ceremony, which consisted of bringing in a Christmas log and lighting it every evening until the New Year. This log was lighted and extinguished, so that it would last the given time.
“Yes, yes, the cachofué, baron!” exclaimed the ladies, gaily. “You are to be the actor in the ceremony, so the time to begin depends on you.”
“Alas! my friends, I hoped indeed that this honoured ceremony of our fathers would have been more complete, and that my brother the commander would have brought with him my good brother Elzear. But that is not to be thought of for this night at least.”
“The Lord grant that the commander may arrive soon with his black galley,” said one of the ladies to the baron. “These wicked pirates, whom we all dread, would not dare make a descent if they knew he was in port.” “The pirates to the devil, good cousin!” cried the baron, gaily. “The watchman is spying them from the height of Cape l’Aigle; at his first signal all the coast will be in arms. The port of La Ciotat is armed; the citizens and fishermen are keeping Christmas with only one hand, they have the other on their muskets; my cannon and small guns are loaded, and ready to fire on the entrance to the port, if these sea-robbers dare show themselves. Manjour! my guests and cousins, if I had obeyed the Marshal of Vitry, at this hour my house would be disarmed and out of condition to defend the city.”
“And you did very bravely, baron,” said the lord of Signerol, “to act as you did. Now the example has been given and the marshal will meddle no longer with our affairs.”
“Manjour! I hope so indeed. If he does, we will meddle with his,” said the baron. “But where is my young comrade of the cachofué?” added he. “I am the eldest, but I must have the youngest to go for the Christmas log.”
“Here is the dear child, father,” said Reine, leading a beautiful boy of six years, with large blue eyes, rosy cheeks, and lovely curls, up to the baron. His mother, a cousin of the baron, looked at the boy with pride, not unmixed with fear, for she suspected that he might not be equal to the complicated rôle necessary to be played in this patriarchal ceremony.
“Are you sure you understand what is to be done, my little Cæsar?” asked the baron, bending over the little boy.
“Yes, yes, monseigneur. Last year, at grandfather’s house, I carried the Christmas log,” replied the child, with a capable and resolute air.
“The linnet will become a hawk, I promise you, my cousin,” said the baron to the mother, delighted with the child’s self-confidence.
Raimond V. then took the little fellow by the hand, and, followed by his guests, he descended to the door of Maison-Forte, which opened into the inner court, before beginning the ceremony of the cachofué.
All the inmates and dependents of the castle, labourers, farmers, fishermen, vine-dressers, servants, women, children, and old men, were assembled in the court.
Although the light of the moon was quite bright, a large number of torches, made of resinous wood fastened to poles, illuminated the court and the interior buildings of Maison-Forte.
In the middle of the court were collected the combustibles necessary to kindle an immense pile of wood, which was to be set on fire the same moment that the cachofué in the hall of the dais was lighted.
Raimond V. appeared before the assembly attended by four lackeys in livery, who walked before him, bearing candlesticks with white wax candles. He was followed by his family and his guests.
At the sight of the baron, cries of “Long live monseigneur!” resounded on all sides.
In front of the door on the ground lay a large olive-tree, the trunk and branches. It was the Christmas log.
Abbé Mascarolus, in cassock and surplice, commenced the ceremony by blessing the Christmas log, or the calignaou, as it was called in the Provençal language; then the child approached, followed by Laramée, who, in his costume of majordomo, bore on a silver tray a gold cup filled with wine.
The child took the cup in his little hands and poured, three times, a few drops of wine on the calignaou, or Christmas log, and recited, in a sweet and silvery voice, the old Provençal verse, always said upon this solemn occasion: