"You are too particular, baron. If you knew me better, you would see that I could not desire entertainment more in accordance with my tastes. To the table, baron!" and the Marquis approached the fire.
Létorière had undergone a complete moral and physical transformation. He who had been applauded at the theatre for the superlative elegance of his dress, for the grace and charm of his person, now wore an old blue hunting-coat with a velvet collar faded to dusky red; great boots not less rough, not less muddy, not less heavily spurred than those of the German Nimrod. A knot of leather tied his unpowdered hair, disordered by his journey; his beard was half long, and the delicate whiteness of his hands was concealed by a tint of soot, which made them look as tanned as the baron's. In short, everything was changed in the Marquis, even to the enchanting tone of his voice, now harsh and a little hoarse.
None of these peculiarities escaped the baron.
"Do you know, Erhard," said he in a low tone to his huntsman, "do you know that this Frenchman immediately recognized old Moick as a blood-hound, and one of our best dogs?"
"Indeed, my lord!" said Erhard, with a doubting air.
"It is so, Erhard; I begin to think they do know something about the chase in France."
Then addressing his major-domo, while the Marquis was drying himself at the fire, the baron said:
"Remove your plates, Selbitz; Frenchmen are not used to our German manners."
Selbitz began to execute the order to his own discontent, as well as that of Erhard, when Létorière, fearing to make two enemies so near the governor by a misunderstood fastidiousness, cried:
"What! baron, you wish me, then, to take my horse and return to Vienna without any supper! and why the devil do you remove the plates of those brave men? Am I more of a gentleman than you, that I should be shocked at your domestic habits?"
"It is our old German custom, it is true," said the baron, "but I thought that in France . . ."
"Baron, we are now in Germany, at the house of one of the most worthy representatives of the old nobility of the Empire. The rule of this house ought to be inviolable; thus, then, my worthy huntsman," addressing himself to Erhard Trusches, "and you, my brave director of the family tuns, hogsheads and barrels, take your places again, with the consent of the baron, who, I hope, will not refuse me this grace."
At a sign from the baron, the two servants joyfully replaced their plates at the lower end of the table. The governor pointed to the Marquis's seat, and all prepared to attack the venison, and the immense dish of sauer-kraut and bacon which smoked on the table.
The baron plunged his knife into the venison to carve it, when Létorière, with a grave and solemn air, putting his hand on the governor's arm,—
"One moment, baron I devil take me if I ever dine without saying blessing and grace."
The baron frowned, and answered with impatience and embarrassment:
"Since my chaplain died I have almost forgotten the words; but I give the sense—Well, don't you know the blessing, Erhard?"
"No, my lord," said Erhard, in a peevish tone, "I say it once for the year, and yesterday was my day for saying it."
"And you, Selbitz?"
"I, my lord! my brother, the minister of Blumenthal, says it for me every day."
"Ah, baron, are you all Turks? So it will fall to me to say grace."
And the Marquis said in a loud voice, "Great St. Hubert, please to make the venison fat, the wine good, the appetite ravenous, and the thirst unquenchable." Then he emptied at one draught the tankard which held a pint of Rhine wine, wiped his mustaches with the back of his hand, and, putting the mug on the table, said Amen.
This pleasantry made the worthy governor almost burst with laughter; imitating the prowess of his guest, he drank at one breath his cup of wine, repeated Amen with the voice of a Stentor, and found his solicitor a jolly good fellow.
The two servants, quite as much tickled as their master by the strange blessing of the Marquis, nevertheless moderated the expression of their gayety.
"Selbitz," said the governor, soon animated by the good cheer and the sallies of Létorière, "go and refill our tankards, and don't forgot yours and Erhard's; it is a fête to-day at Henferester, in honor of my guest."
And the baron affectionately tendered his great hand to the Marquis, whose fingers he rudely squeezed, as much in genuine cordiality as to show his strength.
Létorière, who, under a delicate exterior, concealed great muscular strength, answered his pressure quite as roughly. The baron, who had not expected this proof of his vigor, said, laughing, with an astonished air:
"A rod of steel is often as strong as a great bar of iron, my guest."
"But unhappily, baron, a great glass will hold more than a little one," replied the Marquis.
The wine and the beer began to circulate; the baron saw, with a sort of national pride, Létorière, after having eaten five or six slices of venison, bravely attack the sauer-kraut and smoked bacon, of which he praised the appetizing savor, emptying his two tankards two or three times, meanwhile.
While satisfying his furious appetite, Létorière had not remained silent. His lively and natural wit, excited by the good cheer, charmed by a thousand pleasantries; in a word, Selbitz and Erhard saw, to their great astonishment, their master, ordinarily so grave and taciturn, laugh in this one evening more than he had laughed for many years.
The huntsman, recognizing in Létorière an accomplished hunter, listened religiously to his slightest words, when the baron ordered him to carry the dogs back to their kennel, and give them their supper. A second iron pot, destined for the hounds, was taken from the fire.
The major-domo, after removing the dishes, placed upon the table the tankard of kirchenwasser, an earthen jar full of tobacco, and gave the baron an old pipe.
The latter filled it, saying to Létorière, with whom he already felt entirely at ease, "Well! tobacco-smoke won't offend you, Marquis?"
For answer, the Marquis drew from his pocket an enormous pipe, which bore the marks of long and faithful service, and began to fill it with familiar ease.
"You smoke then, Marquis!" cried the delighted governor, clapping his hands with admiration.
"Do people live without smoking, baron? On returning from the chase, after a good meal, what greater pleasure is there than smoking a pipe with your feet on the andirons, drinking from time to time a swallow of kirchenwasser, this savage offspring of the Black Forest, which is, to my thinking, as much superior to French brandy as a heath-cock is to a barn-yard fowl?" And after this audacious flattery, the Marquis enveloped himself in a thick cloud of smoke.
The governor, animated by his frequent libations, and whose head was not, perhaps, quite so calm and so cool as that of his guest, regarded the Marquis with a sort of ecstasy; he could not understand how a body so frail in appearance, was so vigorous in reality; how a Frenchman could drink and smoke as much as, or more, than he, the widerkom vierge, the subduer of the most redoubtable drinkers of the Empire.
"To the health of your mistress, my guest!" said he gayly to the Marquis.
"My mistress! that's my gun," said Létorière, stretching himself out by the fire, and poking it with the toe of his great boot, the soles of which were an inch thick. "Devil take the women! they cannot bear the smell of tobacco, of brandy, or of the kennel, without putting a flask of perfume to their noses. Do you make much account of women, baron?"
"I love better to hear the clatter of spurs than the rustle of petticoats, my guest; but at my age that is wisdom," said the baron, more and more astonished to find the Marquis sharing his rustic tastes and his antipathies to the ridiculous affectations of the fair sex.
"At all ages it is wisdom, baron; and I would give all the love-sick guitars, all the melancholy lays of the troubadours, for the old trumpet of a forester."
"Do you know one thing, my guest?" said the baron, striking his mug against that of the Marquis.
"Say on, baron," replied the Marquis, filling his pipe anew.
"Well! before I saw you, knowing you were coming to interest me about your lawsuit, which unhappily . . .
"Devil take the lawsuit, baron!" cried Létorière; "the one who speaks of it this evening shall be condemned to drink a pint of water!"
"So be it, Marquis! Well, before I saw you it seemed to me that I should much rather go through a bramble bush than to receive you; frankly, I dreaded your arrival. . . . I believed you a dandy and a beau." . . .
"Thank you, baron! Well, for my part, I believed you to be an Alcindor, a Cytherean shepherd."
"Now, although I have known you but this evening," resumed the baron, "I will say to you frankly, that when you quit this poor castle of Henferester I shall have lost the best companion that a man could have for a long evening at the fire-side."
"And also to pass a hard day of hunting in the depths of the forest. Devil take the coxcomb who prefers balls and gallantry to the bottle, the pipe and hunting. If you wish to prove to me that your dogs are as good as they are handsome, baron, you will see that I am worthy to follow them."
"That's right, my guest! To-morrow morning, by daylight, we will be ready for the chase."
"Let it be as you say, baron; we will speak of the lawsuit day after to-morrow, not before—remember—the pint of water to him who speaks of it before."
"Bravo, my guest!" said the baron, "but it is late, and you are fatigued; old Selbitz will conduct you to your chamber,—that is to say, a kind of room furnished with a paltry bed, which is all I have to offer you. . . . My chamber is still worse."
"Ah, well, no ceremony, baron; rather than give you any trouble, I will take one of my boots for a bolster; you will give me an armful of straw, and I shall pass a comfortable night before this fire, which will burn until morning."
"I have thus passed many nights in the huts of charcoal burners," said the baron, with a sigh of regret, "when I was hunting in the Black Forest; but in fact, my friend, however bad your bed may be, you will find it more comfortable than this floor, beaten down like a threshing-ground."
"To-morrow morning, baron, I will myself sound the reveille" said the Marquis; "but before that, let me sound the good-night." And Létorière, taking from the wall the governor's trumpet, gave this last flourish with such perfection, with such a bold and free hunting air, that the baron enthusiastically cried:
"In the thirty years I've hunted, I never heard so fine a trumpeter."
"That is easily enough explained, baron; it is because you have never heard yourself sound it. Your trumpet is so true that you cannot help being master of this noble science. But until to-morrow,—baron, good-night, and above all, don't dream of water, or sour wine, or empty bottles."
"Good-night, Marquis!"
The baron called Selbitz, and ordered him to conduct his guest to the rat-chamber already described, in which a great fire had been lighted.
Létorière, fatigued with his journey, slept soundly enough, and the baron did the same, after having several times remarked to Selbitz and Erhard, in giving them their orders for the next day, that it was a pity that this young man was a Frenchman, for he was quite worthy of having been born in Germany.
The next day, on rising, the baron learned from Selbitz that the Marquis had set out at daylight with Erhard Trusches, for the woods, and had charged the major-domo to make his excuses to the governor.
"Who would have thought, considering the reputation of the Marquis, to find him such a hard huntsman and drinker, Selbitz? For, do you know, he was ahead of me at table, and we valiantly emptied our tankards," said the baron.
"Yes, my lord, and he went up to the rat-chamber with as firm a step as if he had drunk nothing but a little whey for supper."
"Well, well," said the baron, receiving from the hands of his major-domo what was necessary to dress himself for the chase, "well, Selbitz, we must allow that, after all, the Marquis is a brave and worthy gentleman, and besides, is gay enough to rejoice your heart! What good stories he told us. . . . I wish he was going to pass several days at the castle! for, on my faith, he's a most agreeable companion. Although there is more than twenty years difference in our ages, we seem to be old acquaintances; in short, if he were not an acquaintance of yesterday, I should say—and devil take me if I know why—I should say, Selbitz, that I feel a great friendship for him; faith, I like frank and open characters,—there's nothing equal to them!"
After hastily eating a slice of cold venison, a porringer of beer-soup, and drinking two pints of Rhine wine, the baron mounted his horse, and soon reached the rendezvous which he had appointed with Erhard Trusches, in one of the cross-ways of the forest.
He found there his huntsman, his servant, and the pack.
Erhard Trusches appeared sad and absorbed; the baron, surprised at not seeing Létorière at the rendezvous, questioned Erhard about him.
After a moment's silence, Erhard said, with a timid and uneasy air, "Is my lord well acquainted with his guest?"
"What do you mean, Erhard? Where is the Marquis? Did he not come with you this morning to the wood?"
"Yes, my lord, that is why I ask you if you are sure of him. See here, my lord, it will bring me mischief, joking last night at supper about the blessing."
"Ah! explain yourself!"
"I mean to say, my lord"—and Erhard went on with a low and trembling voice—"I very much fear that your guest is he who appears sometimes in the moonlight, in the solitary recesses of the forest, to offer to desperate huntsmen three balls, one of gold, one of silver, and one of lead, and the whole at the price of their souls!" added Erhard, with a gloomy and frightened air.
"So! you take my guest for the devil, then," cried the baron, shrugging his shoulders and laughing; "your morning cup has turned your brain, old Erhard!"
The huntsman shook his head, and replied: "My lord, explain to me how it is that he whom you call your guest, and who has never been in this forest before, knows it as well as I do."
"What do you mean to say?" said the baron, very much astonished.
"This morning at daylight, when I started with the Marquis, 'Master Erhard,' said he to me, 'if you will let me take a hound, we will share the search of the forest. I will go over the enclosures of the priory of the Hermit's Chapel, of the Thunder-struck Fir-tree, and of the Black Pool.'"
"He said that?" said the baron, stupefied.
"Just as I have told you, my lord, and he added: 'I have great hope of starting a full-grown buck, for, in the woods about the Hermit's Chapel, stags are plenty. You, Master Erhard, on your part, seek to start a wild boar. They are always to be found in the forests of Enrichs, the brambles are so thick. Then the baron can have his choice between the foot of the stag or the track of the wild boar.' 'But, sir,' I said, affrighted, 'you know our forests well, then? you have often hunted them?' 'I have never hunted here,' he answered, 'but I know it as well as you do. Go ahead! good luck, Master Erhard!'—and then he disappeared in the woods, taking with him poor Moick, our best boar-hound, whom lie will perhaps change into a lynx, or a beast with seven paws, by his diabolical witchcraft."
The baron was not at all superstitious, but he could not comprehend what Erhard said, and he knew him to be too respectful to joke with his master. Nevertheless, he could not but admit that the Marquis was endowed with such topographical knowledge as the huntsman described.
"And what have you done in the search?" he asked Erhard.
"He whom you call your guest has brought me ill-luck,—I have done nothing."
"Nothing? how does that happen? This is the first time in two years that you have not had game,—and on a day, too, when we are going to hunt with a stranger!"
"Where the evil spirit can, mere mortals can't, my lord," said Erhard, soberly. "He whom you call your guest has only to sound his trumpet, and all the animals of the forest will come to him, as the bird comes to the serpent."
"Go to the devil, you old fool!" cried the governor, angrily.
"I shall not have to go far for that, my lord," murmured he, in a low voice, pointing to Létorière, who was coming out of a coppice holding old Moick in leash.
"Long life to you, baron!" cried Létorière; "if you have a mind, you can chase a full-grown buck, and strike him at my trap near the chapel. By the size of his tracks, I would lay a wager that it is one of those great deer with a white forehead and legs; the King of France has a number like them in his forest of Chambord. I should recognize their feet among a thousand. They have a magnificent shape."
"You have good luck, Marquis," said the baron; "you are a sorcerer."
"I am not a sorcerer, but it is your good blood-hound that deserves credit. I owe my stag to him. As to you, my brave Erhard," added he, turning towards the huntsman, "if you had had him at the end of your leash you would have done what I have done. Come, baron, to horse! to horse! It is a good league from here to my trap, and the November days are short. Here's your dog, Erhard!" At the same time the Marquis slipped a piece of gold into the huntsman's hand.
But he, seizing a moment when the Marquis could not see him, threw away the piece as if it had been red-hot, and with the toe of his boot kicked it under the leaves.
"Money of hell!" said he, in a low voice; "if I had put it into my pocket, in a quarter of an hour, instead of a piece of gold, I should have found a red bat or a black frog." Then the huntsman took the leash of his hound with as much precaution as if the Marquis had had the plague, and looked at the dog with disturbed tenderness, believing him to be already bewitched.
After putting his thick boots over his buckskin splatterdashes, the Marquis mounted old Elphin, and the baron saw with a new pleasure that his guest was an excellent horseman.
"Baron," cried Létorière, arriving at an enclosure in the forest, "here is my trap; unleash, I am going to enter the hedge with three or four of your oldest dogs in order to attack—"
"One moment," said the baron, with a serious air; "you pass for a sorcerer in the eyes of Erhard Trusches; he will work badly if he takes you for the devil, for he will think more of his soul than the course of the stag."
"How? explain yourself, baron!"
"Come here, Erhard," said the governor.
The huntsman advanced, looking agitated and alarmed.
"Is it not true," continued the governor, "that you do not understand how my guest, who has never been in this forest, knows it so well. How he knows that the enclosure of the Hermit's Chapel is the best haunt of the stag, and that relays must be placed at the border of the Priory Plain?"
"'Tis true," said Erhard in a low voice; "could not have known it so long—"
"And devil take me if I understand it myself, Marquis," said the baron.
Shrugging his shoulders and smiling, the Marquis drew from his pocket a little book bound in leather, and advanced towards Erhard: "Look here, you old wild boar, here's my conjuring-book."
The huntsman recoiled from it with a look of fright.
The Marquis opened the book, and spread out on his saddle-bow a forest map especially prepared for imperial hunting, and on which all the enclosures, routes, paths, haunts and passes of the animals were minutely indicated and explained.
"The map of the imperial hunting-ground!" cried the baron; "I ought to have guessed it. There is the mystery all explained. But you must have great insight, a rare familiarity with the chase, to be able to make such use of it. Ah, Marquis, Marquis, you have not your equal in Europe. To start a stag the first time that one hunts in a forest,—that is the most skilful thing I ever saw I Do you understand now, you old fool?" said the baron to the huntsman; "you ought to go down on your knees to the Marquis, our master in everything."
"Yes, yes, my lord, I understand, and God be praised, for it would have been a great misfortune;" saying these words, Erhard took his ramrod and drew his charge.
"What are you doing, Erhard?" said the baron.
The huntsman showed the baron a black ball, on which was traced a cross, and said to him: "At the first enclosure I should nevertheless have sent this charmed ball into the breast of the Marquis, whom I took for the devil; old Ralph said there was nothing like it to lay such evil spirits."
"Wretch!" cried the baron.
"He is right," said Létorière, with the greatest sang-froid; "but you have forgotten, Erhard, that it is necessary to make the charm complete, to have three pieces of gold in your left pocket in order that the devil cannot enter into your purse;" and the Marquis threw three louis to Erhard, who, this time, did not bury them under the leaves.
The stag which was started was soon in full career.
It is unnecessary to describe the various incidents of this chase, during which Létorière showed consummate skill. The animal was taken, and the Marquis, arriving first at the death, bravely killed him with one blow of the knife.
The huntsmen arrived at the castle at nightfall. Selbitz had as usual made ready the bacon, the sauer-kraut, the venison, the great, the medium, and the little tankards well filled.
As on the previous night, the baron and the Marquis did honor to this repast; as before, they filled their pipes after supper, and established themselves at the corner of the fireplace, while the major-domo occupied himself with the cares of the household.
Although the baron felt subjugated by the jovial spirit and the open and resolute character of the Marquis, he was a little vexed at meeting in so young a man an unconquered rival either at the chase or table.
Létorière, too adroit not to divine this, contrived a brilliant triumph for him.
The governor, who was truly interested in his guest, wished to resume of his own accord the conversation about the lawsuit.
"To the devil with the lawsuit!" cried the Marquis. "That's my look-out . . . If I lose my cause I shall have gained a good companion. I would have twenty lawsuits in order to lose them in that way! But my tankard is empty. . . . Hallo, Selbitz, hallo, you old Satan! . . . The kirchenwasser evaporates before my thirst, as the dew before the sun."
"Poor fellow! he tries to shake it off," thought the governor. "I ought not to let him drink alone," and the baron had his mug refilled.
"Baron, a song!" cried Létorière, very gayly. "Do you know The Retreat? They say that the air and the words were composed by one of your old huntsmen."
"You sing it, Marquis—I will tell you if I know it."
And Létorière, having again emptied his mug, and preluded by a deep hem—hem—or two, struck up the following song with the voice of a Stentor:
"'Afar the trumpet peals!
The stag lies on his haunches!
Let the merry hallo sound,
'Tis a stag of ten branch—'"
"Come! join the chorus, baron. . . . Heavens! 'tis quite apropos to-day."
"With all my heart, Marquis! I don't know the air, but, by Jupiter, it is worthy of Mozart!" and the baron repeated the refrain with a voice so powerful, that it shook the windows.
"Listen to the minor strain, baron. . . . It is as melancholy as the last sounds of a distant trumpet in a clear night."
And the Marquis continued in a softer voice, and in a slower measure:
"'Now the star of evening
Peers above the hill;
The day hides in the forest,
All is still.
'Tis the hour of retreat,
Let the dogs be coupled quick;
Huntsmen mount and trumpets sound;
Forward your brave horses prick!
See the brown night
And the moonlight;
We will go back
Home without seeing
The huntsman in black.'"
The voice of the Marquis seemed to lose its strength as he sang these last words, in a rhythm melancholy and almost sorrowful; his countenance lost its joyous and careless expression, and a shade of sadness passed over his brow, which he soon supported with his hand.
Selbitz, who was just at that moment behind his master's chair, said to him, in a low voice, pointing to the Marquis:
"When the flower is too plentifully watered it bends on its stalk; when the business on hand is drinking, to-day is not always the son of yesterday. Come, come, my lord, you will always be the widerkom vierge! Here's this Frenchman supporting his forehead with his left hand; the intoxication of the forester-general of Hasbreck always begins in that way; but, to do the latter justice, that is always so from the first day."
The baron laughed with an air of proud satisfaction, and answered in a low voice:
"What do you mean, Selbitz? He is so young . . . but notwithstanding his youth, he is a hardy combatant. Yesterday he went ahead of me; to contend two days in succession is too much for him. But after myself, I do not know anybody who can equal him." . . .
"Use him up then, my lord . . . use him up, for the honor of old Germany," . . . said the traitorous major-domo.
"Well, Marquis," said the governor, in a loud voice, "is your song already finished? Shall we not drink to your glorious chase to-day?"
"Let's drink!" said the Marquis, holding out his tankard with an arm that seemed heavy. . . . Then, having drank, he repeated in a low and sad voice the last few lines of his song:
"'See the brown night
And the moonlight;
We will go back
Home without seeing
The huntsman in black.'"
"He is dull in his liquor," said the baron to his major-domo.
"He puts me in mind of Count Ralph, who, you know, monsieur, at about the tenth bottle almost always sings the psalm for the dead," answered Selbitz.
"Come, Marquis, to the first wild boar that we shall take!" said the baron, wishing to strike a last blow at the Marquis's reason.
"Let's drink!" said Létorière, who began from that time to show slight symptoms of intoxication, speaking by turns slowly and rapidly, sadly and joyfully. "The chase, baron—'tis good, the chase . . . wine also . . . it stupefies—it transports, gives no time for thought; and then it makes one gay, and at last . . . but, bah! hold on, baron, I must tell you something in confidence." . . .
"What, confidences so soon?" cried the major-domo. "That's like the minister at Blumenthal,—but his reverence does not begin before the eighth tankard. You remember, my lord, the good story he told us of the jolly miller's wife of Val-aux-Primevères?"
"Hold your tongue, and listen!" said the governor; who replied aloud, "speak, speak, Marquis! Come, let's drink to your confidences." . . .
"Well, then, baron, imagine that my lawsuit has turned my brain." . . .
"Truly, Marquis!" said he aloud. "I'm sure of it," he continued in a low voice . . . "this poor boy wishes to drown his thoughts." . . .
"True, as that my glass is empty. . . . I wouldn't tell you this, baron . . . but you are my friend . . . I ought to confide in you. . . . Know that I have made a visit to my judges." . . .
"Ah, bah!" said the baron, gratified with his guest's involuntary communicativeness, and very eager to draw from him the secret, perhaps, of his visits. "You have seen your judges, have you?"
"Yes, baron, the first one was named . . . Spectre." . . .
"You mean to say Sphex, Marquis?"
"Sphex, or Spectre . . . 'tis all the same to me . . . but a thousand guns! baron, I must laugh . . . although it may be at one of your confrères . . . 'tis not my fault . . . I have as great regard for a man learned in us . . . as for a broken glass or a foundered horse." . . .
"Well said, Marquis! you are not made anymore than myself to breathe the odor of worm-eaten books. . . . We love the air of the forests!"
"Figure to yourself then, baron . . . that this old Spectre—I like best to call him Spectre, because that tells his face as well as his name—had the insolence to ask me, at the end of a conversation of two minutes, if I spoke Latin!"
"You, Marquis, you speak Latin!" said the baron, sharing the indignation of his guest. "I wonder where he had put his spectacles? As if you looked like one who spoke Latin! Did any one ever see such an impudent old thing! What the devil did he take you for?"
"You understand that one cannot hear such things with coolness,—even from his judge. 'Ah well,' said I to him, 'do I look like a rat that gnaws old books? an ink-drinker? a vulgar pedant? To speak Latin! A thousand devils! If I had not come to ask your support in my lawsuit, . . . I would let you see how I treat those who tell me that I speak Latin!'"
"Well said, my guest! I would have given a hundred florins to be present at that scene," said the baron, shouting with laughter.
"Then the doctor declared to me distinctly, that he had nothing to say about my lawsuit, and I could consider my cause as lost, because I was known! S'death, baron, I was known!!! It was too much. He had already asked me if I spoke Latin; I could contain myself no longer, and so I challenged him at once. . ."
"Sphex! a challenge!" cried the governor, laughing until he lost his breath; . . . "the old ape must have looked funny! but what did he say?"
"He said nothing at all; he raised his hands towards Heaven, and disappeared, as if by enchantment, behind a pile of great books. . . . Then I left, not doubting that the doctor owed me a grudge, but devil take me if I know for what, for two gentlemen can cross swords, and still be friends notwithstanding."
"He has rare simplicity," said the governor, aside; "he little knows how he appears."
Létorière went on. . . . "Then I had to see the councillor Flachsinfingen. I reached his house and asked for him, and was introduced into the presence of an old sorceress, dressed in black, who might have passed for a female savant, so dry and thin was she. She had, into the bargain, a Bible in her hand. 'I have business with the councillor, and not with his wife,' said I to the lacquey. 'Me or the councillor, 'tis all the same,' said the old witch. 'Tell me, sir, what you have to say to my husband?' Then, baron, I, who know how to do such things, devised a way to send off the wife and bring forward the husband."
"Let's hear, Marquis," said the governor; adding, aside: "when he shall become quick and adroit in such matters, I will drink pure water . . . he is rough and knotty as an oak, but pliable as a willow. Ah, well! what was this scheme, Marquis?"
"'A thousand devils, madam!' said I to the lady, 'what I have to say to the councillor is not fit for your chaste ears.' 'Never mind; say on, sir!' Then, baron, I began to recount a tale of the barracks which would have made a Pandour blush."
At this new jest the baron had a new spasm of laughter, and exclaimed: "A barrack-story to the prudish and devout Flachsinfingen! I would have given—devil take me if I wouldn't—my old hound Moick, if I could have witnessed that scene; and what did she say?"
"She blushed red as a lobster, called me insolent, and made me a sign to go away."
"If that is the course you take to interest your judges in your cause, my guest, I wish you joy of it," said the governor.
"And what the devil should I find to say to a learned man or to a prude? One cannot make himself over again."
"Certainly not," murmured the baron; "the poor boy is like me; he would find it difficult to accustom himself to the jargon of a doctor and the babbling of an old woman."
"Then only you remained to be seen, baron. I have seen you; you are a brave man . . . and I am afraid to bother you with my affairs. . . . But this lawsuit . . . if you knew . . . if I lose it! I seem to be an easy-going fellow; but look at me; if this were . . . if I lose it" . . . said Létorière, with energy, "I will never survive. S'death! I should pray St. Cartridge and my rifle to have mercy on me!"
Having permitted this sinister secret to escape him, Létorière appeared to collect his ideas, passed his hand over his forehead, and looked around him with an air of astonishment.
"Ah, well, where am I? You there, baron? Come, come, your Rhine wine is excellent, but devilish strong. My lord, I've been asleep, I think" . . . and the Marquis, in spite of all his efforts, lowered his eyelids, which seemed to be heavy.
"You haven't slept, but you ought to, I think, and your cup is full."
"Then empty it for me, baron . . . for . . . the lawsuit . . . the stag . . . to-day . . . All! to the devil with the lawsuit—vive la chase! something to drink . . . to you, baron, . . ." and Létorière feigned to become drowsy, and let his head fall on his arms.
"He refuses to drink, and I am conqueror!" cried the governor. He called Selbitz and Erhard, as much to prove his triumph over the Frenchman, as to order them to help his guest to the rat-chamber.
Létorière, whose head was as calm as the baron's, received their offered aid, ascended the staircase mechanically, and fell heavily on his mean bed.
The baron felt strangely embarrassed. If he had been profoundly interested in Létorière, especially since the latter had made him believe that he could not survive the loss of his lawsuit; he had also formally promised his vote to the German princes, whose cause he truly believed to be just.
To reconcile his desire of obliging the Marquis with his word already given, the baron had recourse to a singular compromise: "Our votes are secret; from what I know of Sphex and Flachsinfingen, otherwise good partisans of the princes"—said he to himself—"both of them will undoubtedly vote against this poor Létorière, especially after the affront he has offered to the savant and the councillor's wife. Thus their hostility assures the triumph of the party opposed to the Marquis. Now, provided that the German princes gain, and thus justice be done, what matters it whether it is owing to a unanimous vote, or a majority of two voices against one? I desire only to be able, without being unjust, to send this poor Marquis away with soft words and a proof of my friendship; for I should never have the courage to say No to so brave a huntsman and so jovial a companion."
This resolution taken, the governor awaited with impatience the waking of his guest, and announced to him, that having reflected all night on his lawsuit, his opinion was modified, and that he would promise to vote for him.
Létorière, having thanked the baron a thousand times, returned to Vienna. Notwithstanding what he had told the governor, he had as yet seen neither the councillor Sphex, nor the wife of the councillor Flachsinfingen.
Doctor Aloysius Sphex lived in a very retired house, at the end of one of the faubourgs of Vienna. Heavy bars protected all the windows; thick plates of iron strengthened a low and narrow door, secured by a strong lock.
One had to pass boldly between two enormous mountain-dogs, chained behind the door, in order to reach a little interior court, where grass was growing, and which led to the kitchen. In this cold and gloomy place the doctor's old housekeeper was to be seen crouching near two expiring brands.
On the first floor the doctor had a large library, dusty and in disorder, encumbered with large folios, which seemed not to have been opened for a long time. A high window, with small panes of glass set in leaden sashes, and half hidden by a curtain of old tapestry, admitted a doubtful and dingy daylight. A vast chimney, with twisted stone columns and a sculptured mantle-piece, had been transformed into a part of the library; for the doctor never had a fire lighted, for fear of burning his books.
In order to guard himself against the sharp cold of the autumn, the councillor had conceived the idea of shutting himself up in an old sedan-chair, which had been placed in the middle of his study; closing its glasses, he found himself comfortably established to read and write.
Doctor Sphex, a little, thin, stooping old man, with thick eyebrows, piercing eyes, a caustic smile, projecting lower jaw, high-cheek bones and wrinkled skin, had a singularly sardonic and malignant countenance.
When his old inlaid clock struck two, the councillor came out of his sedan-chair, with almost automatic precision.
He wore an old rusty black coat, over which he drew a sort of gray overcoat, placed a hat with a broad brim on his red wig, and, in order to keep his head-dress in place, used a square handkerchief, folded triangularly, the two ends being tied under his chin.
Putting his spectacles into one of his pockets, and into the other a precious Elzevir, a little volume bound in black leather, Doctor Sphex took his cane and prepared to go out.
But, as if struck by a sudden thought, he turned back, recrossed the library and entered another room, closing the door behind him.
His eyes seemed to sparkle with joy. He took a key suspended from his watch-chain, opened a little chest, and drew from it with religious respect a flat and oblong cedar box. It contained a vellum manuscript in quarto. The forms of the written characters were those used in the tenth century; the titles and capital letters were gilt, and ornamented with vignettes.
After contemplating this manuscript with looks as eager, uneasy, and insatiable as those with which a miser gloats over his treasure, Doctor Sphex replaced the box, and carefully closed the chest which contained this precious specimen of caligraphy. Reassured of the safety of his dearest treasure, he went out to take his accustomed walk.
In passing by the housekeeper's room, he said to her, in an impatient tone:
"If the French Marquis comes to the charge again, whether I am at home or not, always tell him that I am absent."
"He has been again this morning, sir."
"That's good, that's good! What need have I to see this silly coxcomb, this spark, this beau, who, they say, Non pudet ad morem discincti vivere Nattœ."[2]
The old man directed his steps to a little valley situated behind the faubourgs, called the Vale of the Lindens.
Even as certain disdainfully exclusive amateurs acknowledge but one school of painting, and admire but one master of that school, so Doctor Sphex was infatuated with the Satires of Persius, and ranked him above all other ancient Latin poets.
Not only did he possess all the editions of this poet, from the most rare, the edition Princeps de Brescia (1470), to the most modern, that of Homs (1770), but he had, at a high price, secured the manuscript of which we have spoken, and which he considered an inestimable treasure.
The councillor had translated and commented upon Persius, and still studied him daily. By dint of penetrating into the mind of this author, he had come to assimilate him so constantly in his thoughts, that he applied, continually, to himself and others, quotations borrowed from that satirical stoic.
This admiration bordered on monomania. Even as by the aid of a microscope the observer discovers unknown worlds in a blade of grass or a drop of water, so the exalted imagination of the doctor found in the most simple words of his cherished author the most profound significances.
The councillor proceeded, then, with slow steps towards the place of his daily walk. Approaching the overthrown tree which generally served him as a seat, he heard some one speaking in a loud voice. . . .
Annoyed by finding his place occupied, he stopped behind a holly-bush.
But what was his surprise, when he heard a young and sweet voice reciting with admirable accentuation and elegant expression, these verses from the first Satire of Persius:
"O curas hominum! O quantum est in rebus inane!" etc.[3]
The councillor held his breath, listened, and when the voice ceased, he quickly advanced to see who was this stranger who appeared to enjoy so much his favorite author.
He saw a young man negligently dressed, with rolls of paper thrust into the pockets of his old black coat; beside him was a voluminous quarto. The exterior of Létorière, for it was he, gave an instant impression of a poor poet; a narrow cravat of coarse linen, an old felt hat, rusty with age, a pale and half-famished countenance; nothing was wanting to this new metamorphosis.
At sight of the old councillor, the Marquis respectfully arose.
"Ah, young man, is not our Persius the king of poets?" cried Sphex, eagerly, striking the palm of his hand on the Elzevir which he drew from his pocket, and approaching Létorière with a radiant air.
"Sir!" said the Marquis abashed, "I did not know" . . .
"I was there, I was there behind the holly-bush; I heard you begin the recital of the first satire of our poet, of our god! for, by Hercules, young man, I see that you appreciate him as I do! Never could a Tuscan pronounce with more purity than you, the inimitable poetry of our common hero; and truly, my old heart is rejoiced at this meeting, as happy as it is unexpected.
"'Hunc, Macrine, diem numera meliore lapillo!'"[4] cried the old man; and he cordially held out his hand to his new acquaintance, having borrowed this quotation from his favorite author.
"If it were not too presumptuous, sir," answered Létorière, with humility, "I should dare to answer you:"
"'Non equidem hoc dubites, amboram fœdere certo
Consentira dies, et ah uno sidere duci.'"[5]
"Bravo! my young friend, it would be impossible to answer with more spirit, or more to the point! You must know my Persius, my inimitable stoic, as well as I do; but what is given to you, and which, alas! I have not, is this beautiful and harmonious pronunciation, so musical that I am transported by it! So," added the councillor, hesitating, "if I dared, I would ask you, in the name of our common admiration, to repeat to me the first verses of the third satire."
"With pleasure, sir," said Létorière, smiling.
"'Hæc cedo, ut admoveam templis et farre litabo.'"[6]
"Better and better!" cried the savant, clapping his hands. "But apropos to this quotation, what signification do you give to far?" and the doctor fastened an anxious look on the young man, whose knowledge he wished to put to the proof by this question.
"According to my slender experience," unhesitatingly replied the Marquis, "far signifies the grain of which flour is made; and, contrary to the opinion of Casaubon and Scaliger, I believe that this word applies not only to bread, but to corn, to barley, in a word, to all sorts of grain; for you know, sir, that far was with salt, the most common of offerings; and it is that, I think, that Virgil means by these words, fruges salsae . . . salsa mola . . . it is then as a kind of humble offering to our common divinity, sir, that I will repeat the verses which please you." Then Létorière kindly recited the whole satire, giving to his harmonious voice an expression by turns so fine, so pointed, and so energetic, that doctor Sphex, delighted, cried out:
"Nothing has escaped him! not a shade! not an idea! he has not stopped on the surface of the words! he scrutinizes them, he examines them, he weighs them, he penetrates through the brilliant exterior, and brings to light the profound and hidden sense. . . . Young man! . . . young man!" . . . added Sphex, rising, . . . "my respects to you. To read thus is to translate! To translate thus is so to assimilate yourself with the mind of the original as to substitute the individuality of the author for your own! Now I declare to you, that a man so happy and so rarely endowed as to individualize himself with Persius, deserves, in my opinion, almost as much respect as Persius himself! Yes, I consider this phenomenon of assimilation as a kind of relation . . . of intellectual parentage! Now then, mark this, young man! . . . Were it not for the immense difference in age which separates us, I should say that we were brothers in intelligence, children of one father."
Dr. Sphex had spoken with so much vehemence and enthusiasm, that Létorière regarded him with profound astonishment, fearing that he had been deceived, and was talking to a monomaniac instead of the Aulic Councillor, for whom he was waiting.
The savant, differently interpreting his silence, continued: "You see I act like an old fool. . . . I treat you as a brother, and have not thought of asking to what learned Latin scholar I have the honor of speaking."
"My name is Létorière, sir," said the Marquis, saluting him.
"Létorière!" cried Sphex, turning away suddenly. "You may perhaps be a relative of the Marquis of that name?"
"I myself am the Marquis of Létorière, sir."
"You! you!! you!!!" cried the doctor, in three different tones. "Come now, that's impossible. The Marquis of Létorière is, they say, as ignorant as a carp, and as flighty as a butterfly; he is one of those beautiful triflers incapable of understanding a word of Latin, and who, as to Persius, know only stuffs of that name," added the councillor, well pleased with this detestable joke.
"I see, with pain, that I have been calumniated, sir," said the Marquis.
"Are you really, then, M. de Létorière?" said Sphex, stupefied.
"I have the honor to repeat it to you, sir," said the Marquis.
"But are you here about a lawsuit? Answer, sir, answer, and do not deceive me!"
"Sir!" said the Marquis, as if he were shocked with the indiscretion of the councillor.
"Pardon my vivacity, sir. . . . If I appear to be well acquainted with what concerns you, it is because"—and the doctor hesitated—"it is because I have some relatives in the Aulic Council, and I am informed of all which passes there."
"Ah, well! it is true, sir, I am here, unhappily, in regard to a lawsuit," said Létorière, sighing.
"But, my young friend, permit me to tell you that you appear very unmindful of your business! Here you are reciting verses to the zephyrs; . . . admirable verses, it is true, but, between ourselves, hardly the means of gaining your lawsuit. Believe me, young man, if justice is blind she is not deaf, and there are a thousand ways of interesting your judges."
"Alas! sir, I have seen my judges . . . and it is because I have seen them that I have but little hope. In my grief I ask of literature consolation and information; I especially ask it from my favorite poet. . . . I seek strength to wrestle against adverse fate in reading over these verses. Do you not think, sir, that this energetic, bold and sonorous poetry must reanimate enfeebled souls, as the warlike sound of a clarion reanimates discouraged soldiers?"
The savant was profoundly touched with the expression, at once simple and dignified, with which Létorière pronounced these last words.
"Pardon an old man," said he, "the interest which he feels in you. But do you not exaggerate the unkindly feelings of your judges? Have you done everything in your power to interest them in your cause before giving up all hope thus?"
"Those of my judges whom I have seen, sir, could have very little sympathy with me, and I ought not otherwise to expect to interest them in it."
"Why so, my young friend?"
"Our poet could, at a pinch, answer you, sir:"
"'Velle suum cuique est, nec voto vivitur uno.
* * * *
Hic satur irriguo mavult turgescere somno;
Hic campo indulget!'" . . .[7]
"I understand, I understand," said the councillor, laughing at the just and malignant application of these verses. "I know it is said in Vienna that the Councillor Flachsinfingen would have figured well enough among the convivial gourmands of the banquet of Trimalchyon, and that the brutal baron of Henferester would have been able to wrestle in the Roman circus among the wild beasts. In fine, you poor student! poor poet! poor nightingale of the sweet song I . . . what relations could you have with this dull paunch of a Flachsinfingen, who dreams only of his table? What could you have said to him if it were not—"
'Quæ tibi summa boni est? Uncta vixisse patella
Semper? . . .'[8]
"It is the same thing with this gladiator, this brute of Henferester . . . whose great heavy body I cannot see without recalling these words of our divine master:
"'Hic aliquis de gente hircosa centurionum
Dicat; quod satis est sapio mihi; non ego curo
Esse quod Arcesilas ærumnosique Solones.'"[9]
"Ah well! you will own up then, sir," said the Marquis, laughing, "that having nothing else to say to my judges, I can hardly hope to interest them. Alas! I am neither a huntsman nor a gourmand. . . . If I had been I might, perhaps, have awakened some sympathy in my judges!"
"But all the councillors are not gladiators, nor sheep led by their wives, my young friend." . . .
"'At me nocturnis juvat impallescere chartis.'"[10]
"Ah! sir, my greatest misfortune is not to have judges like you." . . .
"I have sometimes heard a certain Doctor Sphex spoken of," said the councillor, casting a piercing look on the Marquis, "an old man, who is not unlettered, who is a judge in the morning, and who devotes himself in the evening to his favorite studies. . . ."
"'Hic mane edictum, post prandia Callirhoën do!'"[11]
"I have presented myself several times at the door of the Councillor Sphex, sir," said Létorière, "and, if what you tell me is true, I doubly regret not having met him, for he is perhaps the only one of my judges whom I could hope to inspire with any sentiment of benevolence, or from whom I might be able to claim any interest in the name of our common tastes."
"By Hercules! young man, don't doubt it! . . . But all is not yet hopeless. . . . I am slightly acquainted with this original Sphex; if you will accompany me, I will do myself the pleasure to recommend you, and even to present you to him."
"Ah! sir, how shall I ever be able to recognize and deserve this precious favor?"
"Young man, people like you and the Councillor Sphex are rare; and you both ought to gain by the meeting which I propose. Give me your arm, and let us proceed."
The old man took a malicious pleasure in the surprise which he had planned for Létorière, who did not fail to enlarge on the strangeness and good luck of destiny, when, arriving at the door of the councillor, the latter discovered to him his identity.
To the great astonishment of old Catherine, the doctor ordered her to place two covers, for the Marquis could not refuse to partake of the councillor's repast, who, alluding to the frugality of his ménage, quoted:
"'. . . Positum est algente catino,
Durum olus, et populi cribro decussa farina,'"[12]
which announcement was realized in all points. An anchorite would hardly have been contented with the dishes served in the library by old Catherine.
The councillor, more and more enchanted with his guest, read to him his translations and his commentaries; and, unhoped-for favor! last evidence and proof of confidence! showed him the precious manuscript.
At sight of this Létorière manifested such a passionate and jealous admiration, that the doctor began to regard his guest with uneasiness, and almost regretted his imprudent confidence.
"Do you and your housekeeper live alone in this house?" asked the Marquis suddenly, with a gloomy air, passing between his hands the precious manuscript, as if he wished to appropriate it to himself.
"Can it be that he is so enthusiastic in his admiration of Persius that he means to assassinate me and steal my manuscript?" queried the councillor of himself.
But the Marquis, putting the manuscript back into his hands, exclaimed vehemently:
"For the love of Heaven, sir, hide it, hide it! . . . Pardon a madman!"
And he ran precipitately from the room, covering his eyes with his hands.
The councillor shut up his treasure, and found his guest seated, looking dejected, in the library.
"What's the matter, young man?" said the savant with interest.
"Alas! sir, pardon me! At the sight of that manuscript an infamous, a monstrous thought took possession of me . . . in spite of the holy law of hospitality."
"You would then rob me of my treasure?"
Létorière bowed his head in embarrassment.
"Never mind, my young friend. I understand you . . . I understand you only too well," said the councillor, heaving a sigh. "It is a great compliment you have just rendered to our author; and if you only knew the history of this manuscript," . . . after a moment's silence, he added, "you would see that I ought to excuse the terrible temptation which you have just been enabled to overcome."
Unfortunately, the confidence of the councillor stopped there.
The two friends passed the remainder of the day in a learned analysis of the judgments of Casaubon, of Koenig, and Ruperti, on their favorite poet. They discovered in him hidden beauties which had escaped all the editors.
Létorière, by a happy chance of memory, raised the admiration of Sphex almost to ecstasy, by calling his attention to the fact that this passage in the third satire, "The lessons of the portico in which is depicted the overthrow of the Medes," relates to Zeno, the chief of the Stoics. In one word, in this long and learned conversation, Létorière, admirably assisted by his memory, by the profound study which he had recently devoted to Persius, at Dominique's recommendation, and by the surprising flexibility of his intelligence, completely captivated Sphex.
Yet not one word of the lawsuit had been spoken on either side. The Marquis was silent from prudence, the councillor from embarrassment; for, however well-disposed he might be towards Létorière, he reflected regretfully that his voice alone could not win the cause for his young protégé.
"What a pity!" cried the councillor, "that you will leave Vienna so soon. We would have passed long and delightful days in ever-fresh admiration of our god, and we would have said, like him:
"'Unum opus et requiem pariter disponimus ambo,
Atque verecunda laxamus seria mensa.'"[13]
"I feel this privation as much as you do, sir. Unhappily we must sacrifice our pleasures to our duties." And Létorière arose.
Struck by the reserve of the Marquis on the subject of his lawsuit, the councillor said, casting on his guest a penetrating look:
"But this lawsuit, we forget that." . . .
"The idea of thinking, sir, of sad material interests, when we are speaking of the object of our worship to one who shares our admiration!"
"Hum! hum!" said the doctor, shaking his head; and smiling with a caustic air, he recited these verses:
"'Mens bona, fama, fides! hæc clare, et ut audiat hospes;
Illa sibi introrsum, et sub lingua immurmurat: Oh! si
Ebullit patrui præclarum funus!'"[14]
"Yes . . . yes . . . 'one says, aloud, I forget my lawsuit; . . . and, in a low tone, devote to the infernal gods the wicked councillor who will not give me a word of hope.' . . . Isn't that it?"
"What do you mean, sir?" said the Marquis, smiling, and answering by a quotation from the same book:
"'Messe tenus propria vive!'"[15]
"And you believe you have reaped indifference, young man?" said the savant, laughing at this apropos quotation. "Well, I will undeceive you. . . . It shall not be said that the voice of old Sphex will not, at least, protest against the judgment of an old tun-belly like Flachsinfingen, or an old he-goat of a centurion, a brutal gladiator like Henferester. In my opinion, your rights and those of the German princes are so perfectly balanced, that a breath only would turn the scale."
"'Scis etenim justum gemina suspendere lance
Ancipitis libræ,'"[16]
said the Marquis. "Not doubting the integrity of my judge, I have never doubted the success of my cause before him."
Enchanted with this new quotation, the councillor cried:
"And you have done well, young man; my voice will be solitary; but thus it will protest more forcibly against a judgment that I shall regard as unjust, if it goes against you, as I fear it will. Adieu, then. . . . Day after to-morrow we pronounce on your cause . . . and may the gods be favorable to you! As for me, by Castor! I know what I have to do"—and the doctor brought this conversation to a close by another quotation:
"'Ast vocat officium; trabe rupta, Bruttia saxa
Prendit amicus inops; remque omnem surdaque vota
Condidit Ionio! . . .'"[17]