XIII

The first to awake was Monsieur Sciarra d'Alvimar, who had also been the first to fall asleep, being thoroughly tired out.

He did not like to remain in bed, and the habit born of straitened circumstances, skilfully concealed, made the attentions of his valet useless to him. This was the more fortunate, inasmuch as the old Spaniard who was in attendance upon him would not readily have consented to perform other functions than those of an esquire.

And yet that man was as devoted to him as Adamas was to Bois-Doré; but there was as much difference in their relations as in their characters and their respective situations.

They talked but little to each other, perhaps because they were disinclined, perhaps because they understood each other on all subjects at a single word. Moreover, the valet considered himself, up to a certain point, his master's equal, for their families were equally ancient and equally pure—such at least was their claim—of all admixture with the Moorish or Jewish races, so solemnly ostracized, and so solemnly persecuted in Spain.

Sancho of Cordova—such was the old esquire's name,—had been present at young D'Alvimar's birth in the castle of the village where he himself was living, reduced by poverty to the trade of swineherd. The young châtelain, who was little richer than he, had taken him into his service on the very day when he had determined to go to seek his fortune in foreign lands.

It was said in that Castilian village that Sancho had loved Madame Isabella, D'Alvimar's mother, and even that she had not been indifferent to his passion. In this way they explained the attachment of that taciturn and morose man for a cold and haughty youth, who treated him, not as a valet properly so-called, but as an unintelligent inferior.

Thus Sancho, meditative or brutish, passed his life grooming horses and keeping his master's weapons sharp and bright. The rest of the time he played, slept or mused, avoiding familiarity with the other servants, whom he looked upon as his inferiors, and forming no intimacies, for he was suspicious of everybody, ate little, drank little, and never looked a person in the face.

D'Alvimar dressed himself therefore and went out to inspect his surroundings, although it was hardly daylight.

The manor house looked upon a small pond, from which a broad moat issued, to return to it at another point after making the circuit of the buildings, which consisted, as we have said, of a conglomerate mass of architecture of several periods.

1st. An entirely new white pavilion, small in size, covered with slates—a great luxury in a province where even tiles were rare—and crowned with a double mansard roof with carved spandrels adorned with balls.[11]

2d. Another pavilion, very old but completely restored, with a roof of oaken tiles, and resembling certain Swiss chalets in shape. This building, which contained the kitchens, offices and guest chambers, was arranged after the fashion of the wild old days of unrest. It had no outer door, and could be entered only through the other buildings; its windows looked on the courtyard, and its façade, turned toward the fields, had no other openings than two small square holes in the gable, like two suspicious little eyes in a silent face.

3d. A prism-shaped tower with an ogival door of delicate workmanship; the tower had a slated roof, also pentagonal, and surmounted by a belfry and a slender weather-vane. This tower contained the only staircase in the château, and connected the old and new buildings.

Other low structures attached to the main pile stood on the edge of the moat, and were occupied by the indoor servants.

The courtyard, with its well in the centre, was surrounded by the château, the pond, another building of a single story, with mansards and stone balls, used for stables, hunting equipments and visitors' servants; and lastly, by the entrance tower, which was smaller and less beautiful than that at La Motte-Seuilly, but was flanked by a wall pierced with loop-holes for falconets, covering the approaches to the bridge.

This trivial fortification was sufficient because of the two moats: the first around the courtyard, wide and deep, with running water; the second around the poultry-yard, marshy and stagnant, but protected by stout walls.

Between the two moats, at the right of the drawbridge, lay the garden; it was of considerable size and enclosed by high walls and well-kept ditches; on the left the mall, the kennels, the orchard, the farm and the meadow, with the seignioral dove-cote, heron yard and falconry; an immense enclosure reaching to the houses of the village, almost all of which belonged to the marquis.

The village was fortified, and in some places the solid foundation of its low walls was said to date from the time of Cæsar.

Comparing the small proportions of the manor-house with the extent of the domain, with the rich furniture heaped up in the apartments, and the master's luxurious habits, Monsieur d'Alvimar tried to divine the reason of the contrast; and as he was by no means charitably inclined, he concluded that the marquis concealed his wealth, not from avarice, but because the source of that wealth was not altogether pure.

Therein he was not entirely in error.

The marquis had this in common with a great number of gentlemen of his time, that he had lined his pockets somewhat unscrupulously during the civil commotions, at the expense of the rich abbeys, and by means of the exactions of the war time, rights of conquest, and the smuggling of salt.

Pillage was a sort of recognized right in those days; witness the petition of Monsieur d'Arquian, who appealed to the courts because his château was burned by Monsieur de la Châtre, "contrary to all the usages of war; for he would not have mentioned the destruction and sacking of his furniture."

As for the contraband trade in salt, it would have been difficult, at the beginning of the seventeenth century, to find a nobleman in our provinces who considered himself insulted by the epithet, gentilhomme faux saulnier.[12]

So that the wealth of which, by the way, Monsieur de Bois-Doré made an excellent use by his inexhaustible generosity and charity, was not a mystery in the region about La Châtre; but he wisely avoided drawing the attention of the provincial government upon himself, by an enormous house and a too splendid household.

He was well aware that the petty tyrants who were dividing among themselves the wealth of France would not have lacked so-called legal pretexts for making him disgorge.

D'Alvimar walked through the gardens, a laughable creation of his host, of which he was unquestionably more vain than of his most glorious feats of arms.

He had undertaken to produce, upon rather a limited space, the gardens of Isaure, as they are described in Astrée: "That enchanted spot was all fountains and flower-beds, avenues and noble trees."—The great forest which formed such a charming labyrinth was represented by a labyrinthine thicket wherein he had forgotten neither the square of hazel-trees, nor the fountain of the verity of love, nor the cavern of Damon and Fortune, nor the den of old Mandrague.

All these things seemed exceedingly childish to Monsieur d'Alvimar, but not so utterly ridiculous as they would seem to us to-day.

Monsieur de Bois-Doré's monomania was sufficiently prevalent in his day not to be considered eccentric. Henri IV. and his court devoured Astrée, and in the petty German courts even princes and princesses assumed the resounding names that the marquis imposed upon his servants and his animals. The extreme popularity of Monsieur d'Urfé's romance lasted two centuries; it touched and charmed Jean-Jacques Rousseau; nor must we forget that, on the eve of the Terror, the skilful engraver Moreau still introduced in his works ladies named Chloris, and gentlemen named Hylas and Cidamant. But these illustrious names were borne, in the engravings and in the romance, by imaginary marquises; while the new shepherds were called Colin or Colas. Only a short step had been taken toward the real; the shepherds and shepherdesses were not improved; from being heroic they had become obscene.

D'Alvimar, wishing to obtain an idea of the surrounding country, walked through the hamlet, which consisted of about a hundred hearth-stones and was literally situated in a hole. It is so with many of those old places. When they are not powerful enough to perch proudly and threateningly upon some precipitous height, they seem to cower designedly in the valleys, as if to avoid the eyes of marauding bands.

The locality is, however, one of the most charming in Lower Berry. The gravelled roads leading thither are hard and clean at all seasons. Two pretty little streams form a natural defence, which may have been turned to advantage long ago for Cæsar's camp.

One of these streams fed the moats of the château; the other flowed through two small ponds below the village.

The Indre, which is near at hand, receives these streams and hurries them along a narrow valley, cut by sunken roads, heavily shaded, and running through unenclosed, untilled land of wild aspect.

You must expect to find not grandeur but charm, in that little desert, where virgin fields, thickets, wild grasses, genesta, heather and chestnut trees encompass you on all sides.

On the bank of the Indre, which becomes a brook as you ascend toward the source, wild flowers grow in a profusion most delightful to see.[13] The placid, transparent stream has torn apart the fields that blocked its path, and formed islets of verdure whereon trees grow vigorously. Standing too close together to be imposing, they extend an arch of foliage over the water.

The ground is fertile around the village. Magnificent walnuts and a large number of tall fruit trees make it a very nest of verdure.

The greater part of the land belonged to Monsieur de Bois-Doré. He farmed out the best portions; the others were his hunting-grounds.

Monsieur d'Alvimar, having explored this little bailiwick, which by reason of its isolation and the absence of communications, led him to hope for a like absence of unpleasant meetings, returned to the village and deliberated whether he should pay a visit to the rector.

Monsieur de Beuvre had happened to say to Monsieur de Bois-Doré in his presence:

"How about your new priest? does he still preach sermons after the pattern of the League?"

This expression had attracted the Spaniard's attention.

"If this priest is zealous for the good cause," he thought, "he may be a useful friend to me; for that De Beuvre is a Huguenot, and Bois-Doré with his tolerance is little better. Who knows if I shall be able to live, on friendly terms with such people?"

He began by inspecting the church, and was scandalized by its dilapidated and bare condition, which bore witness to the neglect of the last incumbent, the indifference of the lord of the manor, and the lukewarmness of the parishioners.

Bois-Doré, whose abjuration, real or feigned, had caused a sensation, had not thought of signalizing his return to orthodoxy by gifts to the village church and alms to the chaplain. His vassals, who hated the Huguenots, had not hailed his final return, in 1610, with truly heartfelt rejoicing; but their suspicions had speedily given place to a deep attachment, since, in place of a steward who drained them dry, they had found a free-and-easy lord, lavish of benefactions.

Thus the good people of the village of Briantes were only moderately devout; and, the peasants having resisted the payment of tithes to some monastery or other, the archbishop had sent them a man exceedingly well adapted to lead those stray lambs back to virtuous principles, and to spy upon the châtelain's opinions.

The pious Sciarra knelt in the church and murmured some formula of prayer; but he did not feel inclined to pray with the heart, and he soon went out and bent his steps toward the rector's house.

He had not the trouble of going all the way thither; for he saw him in the village square talking with Bellinde, and had an opportunity to examine him.

He was a man still young, with a bilious, wheedling, treacherous face. Probably his interest in temporal affairs was as keen as D'Alvimar's; for he had no sooner spied that grave and fashionably dressed stranger coming from the church, than his only thought was to wonder who he could be.

He knew already that a new guest had arrived at the manor-house the night before, for he had little other occupation than to make inquiries about the marquis's doings; but how could a man, so devout as this early visit of D'Alvimar's to the church seemed to indicate, consort with so problematical a convert as Bois-Doré?

While he tried to obtain information on that subject from the housekeeper at the château, he noticed that he could not look up without finding the stranger's eyes fixed upon him.

He walked a few steps with Bellinde, in order to avoid his gaze, like one who did not wish to risk a salutation before he knew with whom he had to deal.

D'Alvimar, who understood or guessed his purpose, remained behind and waited for him in the little cemetery which surrounded the church, fully determined, after the examination he had made of his face, to address him and form an alliance with him.

He stood there, musing upon his destiny, a problem by which he was constantly beset, and which the sight of the scattered gravestones seemed to render more irritating to him than usual.

D'Alvimar believed in the church, but he did not believe in the true God. The church was to him above all else an institution of discipline and terror, the instrument of torture of which a ferocious and implacable God made use to establish his authority. If he had given his mind to it, he would readily have persuaded himself that the merciful Jesus was stained with heresy.

The idea of death was abhorrent to him. He dreaded hell, and—a natural result of evil beliefs—he could not make his life conform to his rigid principles.

He had no ardor except for discussion; when alone with himself, he found that his heart was dry, his mind overstrained and confused by worldly ambition. In vain did he reproach himself therefor. The thought of damnation could not be fruitful of good, and terror is not remorse.

"So I must die!" he said to himself, gazing at the turf-covered mounds, like furrows in a field, which covered the graves of those obscure villagers; "die, it may be, penniless and without power, like the wretched serfs who have not left even a name to be inscribed on these little crosses of rotten wood! Neither influence nor renown in this world! Wrath, disappointment, useless labors, useless efforts—crimes, perhaps!—and all to reach the threshold of eternity, having never been able to forward the glory of the church in this life, and having failed to earn my pardon in the other!"

By dint of thinking about destiny, he persuaded himself that it was the influence of the devil that had ruined his.

He thought for an instant of confessing to this priest, whose eyes had seemed to him to glow with intelligence; but he was afraid to confide to any person the secrets which were consuming his life and his repose.

Engrossed by these black thoughts, he saw Monsieur Poulain enter the cemetery at last, and, coming toward him, salute him deferentially.

The acquaintance was soon made. With the first words they exchanged, the two men felt that they were equally ambitious.

The rector invited D'Alvimar to breakfast with him.

"I can offer you only a very scanty repast," he said; "my cuisine does not resemble that at the château. I have neither vassals nor valets at my beck and call to serve as purveyors for my table. So that my frugal fare will enable you to retain sufficient appetite to do honor to the marquis's, whose bell will not ring for two or three hours to come."

There was, in this exordium, an undercurrent of jealous resentment against the château which did not escape the Spaniard. He made haste to accept the rector's invitation, feeling certain that he should learn from him all that he had reason to hope or fear from the marquis's hospitality.

XIV

The rector began by speaking well of the marquis. He was a very good man; his intentions were excellent; he gave freely to the poor, there was no denying that; unfortunately he lacked judgment, he distributed his benefactions helter-skelter, without consulting the natural intermediary between the château and the cottage, to wit the rector of the parish. He was a little mad, harmless in himself, dangerous by reason of his rank, his wealth, and the example of refined sensuality, of frivolity and indifference in religious matters, which he afforded those about him.

And then he had a very suspicious individual in his household: that bagpipe player, who was not so dumb perhaps as he pretended to be, some heretic or sham scholar, who dabbled in astronomy, perhaps in astrology!

Old Adamas was no better: he was a base flatterer and hypocrite; and that page, so absurdly tricked out as a petty gentleman, who, being a bourgeois, was not entitled to wear satin, and who came to mass on Sundays in some sort of damask doublet!

The servants as a whole were a worthless lot. They were civil, nothing more, to Monsieur Poulain; no marked attentions; he had not yet received a special pressing invitation to dinner. They had simply told him once for all, that a cover was always laid for him. That was too unceremonious treatment. It was surprising on the part of a man who had lived a long while at court. To be sure, at the court of the Béarnais, they did not pride themselves on being over-refined, and nobodies were petted and spoiled there most shamefully. In short, Bellinde alone of all the people at the château seemed to him a person of sense.

D'Alvimar considered Monsieur Poulain's judgment excellent; the bagpiper especially seemed to him more than ever deserving of suspicion.

However, he did not dwell long upon these trivial matters. As soon as he was assured that he would do well to repose no confidence in the old marquis, he advanced a step in his investigations, and wished to know what opinion he should hold of the leading men of the province.

Monsieur Poulain was well posted as to all the little secrets of the provincial government at Bourges. He understood politics as D'Alvimar did: to pry into everyone's private life as a step toward acquiring a predominant influence in public affairs.

That evil-minded priest saw that he could safely speak; he admitted that he was mortally bored in that little hamlet, but that he was patient, because, some day or other, Monsieur de Bois-Doré or his neighbor Monsieur de Beuvre might well afford him an opportunity for a little petty persecution, of which he desired to be the victim rather than the author.

"You understand me; it is much better to be on the defensive on solid ground, than on the offensive and in the breach. One is never safe in a breach; if these Berrichon heathen would only threaten me or even injure me a little, I would make noise enough about it to obtain my release from these paltry functions and this deserted province. Do not think me ambitious; I am ambitious only to serve the Church, and, in order to be of use, one must bow to the necessity of keeping oneself in view."

"This little priestling is shrewder than I am," said D'Alvimar to himself; "he knows enough to wait until he is in a favorable position to fire on the enemy; I have always been aggressive, that is what has ruined me. But it is not too late to profit by good advice; I will come often to this man in search of it."

In very truth, this priest, who seemed to be engrossed by church-porch gossip, but who really was not at all interested in it except in so far as he could make something out of it, was a shrewder man than D'Alvimar; so much so that in an hour he fathomed him completely, distrustful as he was, and learned, if not the secrets of his life, at all events those of his character, and his disappointments, his defeats, his desires and his needs.

When he had extorted his confession, seeming all the while to confess himself, he spoke thus to him, going straight to his goal:

"You have more chances of success than I, since wealth is the great element of power. A priest cannot make a fortune as a layman can. He must be content to progress slowly, by the power of his intellect and his zeal alone. He must not forget that wealth is not his goal, and he cannot desire it except as an instrument As for you, you are at liberty to acquire wealth at any time. You have simply to marry."

"I do not think it!" said D'Alvimar. "Women in these corrupt days are more likely to make their lovers' fortunes than their husbands'."

"So I have heard," rejoined Monsieur Poulain; "but I know the remedy."

"Indeed! You possess a valuable secret!"

"Very simple and very easy. You must not aim so high as you have done, perhaps. You must not marry a woman of the highest rank. You must look for a substantial dowry and a modest wife in the provinces. Do you understand me? You must spend your money at the court, and not take your wife there."

"What! marry a bourgeoise?"

"There are young ladies of noble birth who are richer and more modest than bourgeoises."

"I know of none such."

"There is one in this province, not very far away! The little widow of La Motte-Seuilly."

"She has a competence at the most."

"You judge by appearances. People hereabout are not accustomed to luxurious living. With the exception of this mad marquis, all the resident nobility live without display; but there is plenty of money here. Salt smuggling and the spoils of the convents have made the nobles rich. Whenever you choose, I will convince you that, with Madame de Beuvre's revenues, you will be able to live very handsomely in Paris. Moreover she is connected with the best families in France, and none of them would be sorry to have a Spaniard of the true faith become allied to them."

"But isn't she a Calvinist like her father?"

"You will convert her, unless her Calvinism is simply a pretext for allowing her to live at peace in her little château."

"You are far-sighted, monsieur le recteur! But suppose you declare war upon that family some fine day?"

"Provided that I do not cause it to be despoiled of its property, such a was might be of advantage to you under certain circumstances. Pray observe that I do not advise you to maltreat and desert your wife, but to insist upon being at liberty to absent yourself from her, to fulfil the duties of your position. If she becomes bitter or rebellious, you can checkmate her by her heresy. The freedom of conscience granted to those people is dependent upon conditions which they often fail to observe. So that we always have them in our power, witness the fact that this same little widow finds it impossible to marry again. The young men of the province, who are weary of the war between châteaux, are afraid of marrying a war. So you would have no rival at this moment, except possibly Monsieur Guillaume d'Ars, who is a moderate Catholic, and a constant visitor at La Motte; but they will find a way at Bourges to impose other bonds on him. He is a young popinjay, easily diverted. Furthermore, given a widow who must be weary of solitude, such a man as you are must be very awkward indeed to fail. I see, by your smile, that you are not doubtful of success."

"Well, I admit that you speak truly," replied D'Alvimar, to whom there suddenly came a vivid remembrance of the emotion which the young lady had not succeeded in concealing from him, and the source of which he might readily have misunderstood. "I think that, if I chose——"

"You must choose—Think about it," continued Monsieur Poulain, rising. "If you have decided, I will write confidentially to certain persons who can assist you materially."

He referred to the Jesuits, who had already shaken Monsieur de Beuvre's resolution by threatening to prevent his daughters marriage. That gentleman's own tranquillity could be assured, at the price of this marriage. D'Alvimar understood the hint, promised the rector to consider the matter seriously and give him an answer two days later, since, as it happened, he was to pass the following day at Madame de Beuvre's.

The bell on the château announced the marquis's dinner. Monsieur d'Alvimar took leave of the priest who had caused him to think more hopefully of his destiny, and retraced his steps to the manor.

He felt more at ease and more light-hearted than he had been for several days, because he felt that he was in communication with a keen mind, ready to support him at need. His courage returned. This flight into Berry, this disquieting residence with those who were hostile to his faith and opinions, and this species of isolation which, two hours earlier, had assumed the gloomiest colors in his mind, now smiled upon him as the forerunners of a fortunate event.

"Yes, yes, that man is right," he thought. "That marriage would be my salvation. I have only to make up my mind. Let me once turn that little provincial's head, and I shall be able to confess to her my disgrace at court. She will consider herself bound in honor to make up to me for it. And even if I must play the moderate for a few days—well, I will try it! Courage! my horizon is brightening, and perhaps the star of my fortune is about to come forth from the clouds at last."

He raised his hand as he spoke, and saw in front of him, on the bridge leading to the courtyard, the Moorish woman's child boldly riding one of the marquis's chariot horses.

Mercedes had asked leave of Adamas to pass the day at the château, and the goodman had granted it in his master's name, proposing to present her to him as soon as he should be visible.

As he was playing in the courtyard, the child had made a favorable impression on the coachman—cocher; in those days the common term was carrossier or carrosseur; in Berry carrosseux—and he had consented to put him upon Squilindre, while he himself, mounted on Pimante, his mate, held the rein and led the team to the brook for its daily leg-bath.

D'Alvimar was struck by the face of that child, who, on the preceding day, had darted among his horse's legs to beg, and had fled from his whip, and now, perched on the monumental Squilindre, looked down upon him with an air of kindly triumph.

It was impossible to imagine a more interesting and touching face than that little vagrant's. His beauty was of a quiet type, however; he was pale, sunburned, and seemed not strong. His features were not absolutely perfect, but there was in the expression of his soft black eyes and in the sweet, sly smile that played about his delicately-chiselled mouth, a something absolutely irresistible to all whose hearts were not closed to the divine charm of childhood.

Adamas had yielded instinctively to that gentle influence, and the rudest servants in the barnyard had yielded to it no less. Such rough natures were oftentimes so kindly! Was it not of such that Madame de Sévigné wrote that there were "peasants whose hearts were straighter than straight lines, loving virtue as naturally as horses trot?"

But D'Alvimar, not being fond of innocence, was not fond of children, and this one in particular caused in him a sense of discomfort which he could not understand.

He had a shuddering, dizzy sensation, as if the portcullis had fallen upon his head as he was returning to the château of Briantes, more tranquil and less dejected than when he went forth.

He had been subject for some years to these sudden attacks of vertigo, and he readily attributed to the faces that happened to be before him at such times a phenomenon the cause of which was really in himself. He believed in mysterious influences, and, to avert them, he denied and cursed inwardly with great warmth the persons who seemed possessed of that occult power.

"May that big horse break your neck!" he muttered, as he raised two fingers of his left hand, under his cloak, to exorcise the evil eye.

He repeated that cabalistic gesture when he saw the Moorish woman coming toward him across the courtyard.

She stopped for a moment, and, as on the preceding day, gazed at him with an earnestness which irritated him.

"What do you want with me?" he demanded abruptly, walking toward her.

She made no reply, but, courtesying to him, hurried to her child, alarmed to see him on horseback.

The marquis came forward with Lucilio Giovellino, to meet his guest.

"Pray, come and eat," he said to him; "you must be dying of hunger! Bellinde is in despair because she did not see you go out this morning, and consequently allowed you to take your walk without breaking your fast."

Monsieur d'Alvimar thought it best not to mention his visit to the vicarage and his breakfast there. He dilated upon the rural beauty of the neighborhood, and on the soft, bright autumn morning.

"Yes," said Bois-Doré, "we shall have several days of it, for the sun——"

He was interrupted by a piercing shriek outside the enclosure, and ran as fast as he could to the bridge, whither D'Alvimar had preceded him and Lucilio instinctively followed him.

They saw the Moorish woman on the edge of the moat, holding out her arms in an agony of fear toward her child, whom the huge horse was bearing down stream, and she was apparently on the point of throwing herself in from the elevated point where she stood.

XV

This is what had happened.

The little gypsy, proud and overjoyed to be riding such a big rocking-horse all by himself, had cajoled the coachman into allowing him to hold the halter. Honest Squilindre, feeling that he had been turned over to that tiny hand, and excited by the merry little heels drumming against his sides, had ventured too far to the right, missed the ford, and swum under the bridge. The coachman tried to go to his assistance, but Pimante, being more suspicious than his mate, refused to leave the solid ground; and the child, clinging to the mane, was delighted with the adventure.

His mothers shrieks calmed his excitement, however, and he shouted to her, in a tone which Lucilio alone understood:

"Don't be afraid, mother, I am holding on tight."

But they were fairly in the current of the little river which fed the moat. The bulky, phlegmatic Squilindre had already had enough of it, and his nostrils, tremendously dilated, betrayed his discomfort and his anxiety.

He had not the wit to turn back. He was heading straight for the pond, where the impossibility of passing the dam might well exhaust what little swimming strength he still retained.

However, the danger was not imminent as yet, and Lucilio strove by gestures to make the Moor understand that she must not jump into the water. She paid no heed, and was descending the grassy bank, when the marquis, realizing the danger that threatened those two poor creatures, attempted to unbutton his cloak.

He would have thrown himself into the stream; indeed, he was about to do it without consulting anybody, and before D'Alvimar had any suspicion of his purpose, when Lucilio, who did detect it, and who wore nothing to impede his freedom of movement, leaped from the bridge and swam vigorously toward the child.

"Ah! dear, brave Giovellino!" cried the marquis, forgetting in his emotion the French translation which disguised his friend's name.

D'Alvimar recorded that name in the archives of his memory, which was very reliable, and, while the marquis approached the bank to pacify and restrain the Moor, he remained on the bridge, awaiting with strange interest the conclusion of the adventure.

His interest was not of the sort that every kind heart would have felt at such a time, and yet the Spaniard was conscious of a keen anxiety.

He did not desire the death of the mute, which was in nowise likely to result; but he did desire the death of the child, which seemed more than possible. He did not pray to heaven to abandon that poor creature; he did not seek the explanation of his cruel instinct; he submitted to it, in spite of himself, as to a strange, unconquerable disease. He was more and more conscious that that child inspired him with superstitious terror.

"If this that I feel is a revelation of my destiny," he thought, "it is in the balance and is being decided at this moment. If the child dies, I am saved; if he is saved, I am lost."

The child was saved.

Lucilio overtook the horse, grasped his little rider by the collar of his jacket, and tossed him to the bank, into the arms of his mother, who had followed the changing scenes of this little drama, running by the stream and shrieking.

Then he calmly returned to the too simple-minded Squilindre, who was making a desperate assault on the dam at the pond, and, forcing him to turn back, delivered him safe and sound to the frantic coachman.

The whole house had been attracted by the Moorish woman's shrieks, and they were deeply moved to see her, weeping copiously the while, hug Lucilio's knees and speak earnestly to him in Arabic, greatly surprised that he did not say a word to her in reply, although he seemed to understand the language, and did in fact understand it perfectly.

The marquis embraced Lucilio, saying to him in an undertone:

"Ah! my poor friend! for a man who has suffered at the hands of the torturer, even to the very marrow of his bones, you are a sturdy swimmer! God, who knows that you live only to do good, has deigned to perform miracles in your person. Now go at once and change everything, and do you, Adamas, see that yonder little devil is thoroughly dried and warmed; he seems no more frightened than if he were just out of bed. I wish you to bring him to me with his mother, after my breakfast; so make them as clean as you can. Why, where has Monsieur de Villareal gone?"

The pretended Villareal had returned to the château, and was praying, alone in his room, to the revengeful God in whom he believed, not to punish him too severely for the eagerness with which he had, without just cause, longed for the little gypsy's death.

We give the child this title, following the example of the servants of the château, by whom he was surrounded at that moment; but when, after his repast, Monsieur de Bois-Doré betook himself to an ancient apartment of his castle, which Adamas dignified with the title of salle des audiences, and sometimes of salle de justice; when that old minister of the interior to the marquis introduced the Moorish woman and her child, the marquis's first words, after a moment of impressive silence, were these:

"The more I look at this little fellow, the more certain I feel that he is neither Egyptian nor Moor, but rather a Spaniard of good family, perhaps of French blood."

It was not necessary to be a magician to make that discovery; nevertheless it was listened to with great respect by Adamas, who, in his capacity of introducer, remained at the conference. Monsieur d'Alvimar and Lucilio had been invited by the marquis to be present.

"See," continued Bois-Doré, with ingenuous pride in his own penetration, putting aside the child's coarse white shirt, "his face is sun-burned, but no more than our peasants are in harvest-time; his neck is as white as snow, and he has feet and hands so small that serf or villein never could show the like. Come, my little imp, be not ashamed; and, as I am told that you understand French, answer our questions. What is your name?"

"Mario," the child replied without hesitation.

"Mario? That is an Italian name!"

"I don't know."

"From what country are you?"

"I am French, I think."

"Where were you born?"

"I don't remember."

"I should think not," laughed the marquis; "but ask your mother."

Mario turned to the Moor, and opened his mouth to speak to her. His face wore an expression of satisfaction and joy, because he had been welcomed so like a father by this fine gentleman who held him between his legs, and whose beautiful silk clothes and pretty little beribboned dog he stroked timidly with the tips of his little fingers.

But when he met his mother's eyes, he seemed to read therein a warning of great importance; for he gently extricated himself from Monsieur de Bois-Doré's grasp, and went to the Moor, lowering his eyes and not speaking.

The marquis asked him divers other questions to which he did not reply, although he seemed, by the sweet and melting glance he turned upon him, to apologize furtively for his discourtesy.

"It is my opinion, friend Adamas, that you exaggerated a trifle when you declared that this boy spoke our language fluently," said the marquis. "It is true that his pronunciation is very good, and that he says several words without much foreign accent; but I fancy that that is all he knows. As you know Spanish so well—for my part, I confess that I know very little of it—make him explain himself."

"Useless, monsieur le marquis," said Adamas, not at all disconcerted, "I give you my word that the little rascal speaks French like a clerk; but he is frightened in your presence, that's the whole story."

"No, indeed!" rejoined the marquis; "he's a little lion and afraid of nothing. He came out of the water laughing as heartily as when he went in, and he must see that we are kind-hearted people."

Mario seemed to understand perfectly; for his affectionate eye said yes, while the Moorish woman's intelligent and timid eyes, resting upon D'Alvimar, seemed to say no, so far as she was concerned.

"Come, come," continued worthy Monsieur Sylvain, taking Mario between his legs again, "I propose that we shall be good friends. I love children and this one attracts me. Tell me, Master Jovelin, isn't it true that that face was not made to deceive, and that that innocent glance goes straight to the heart? There is some mystery under all this, and I propose to solve it. Listen, Master Mario, if you answer me truthfully, I will give you—What would you like me to give you?"

The child, obeying the artless impulse of his age, pounced upon Fleurial, the beautiful little white dog which never left its master's chair when he was seated.

It seemed that Mario was determined to risk everything to possess the creature; but another glance from Mercedes warned him to restrain himself, and he replaced the little dog on the marquis's knees, to the great satisfaction of the latter, who had feared for a moment that he had gone too far.

The child sadly shook his head and made a sign that he wanted nothing.

Thus far D'Alvimar had said nothing; as he recited his prayer after the scene at the moat, he had reviewed rapidly, but with unerring accuracy, all the events of his life. Nothing had come to his memory which could have any connection, direct or indirect, with a woman and child in the situation of these two.

The emotion he had felt therefore must have been purely imaginary; he had regretted his failure to overcome it at once; he had recovered possession of his reason.

During dinner the marquis had not mentioned Adamas's story concerning Mercedes's mysterious journey. He himself had only listened to it with one ear, as he was falling asleep the night before. So that D'Alvimar eyed the two vagrants with calm contempt, and fancied that he had discovered at last the commonplace explanation of his repugnance for them.

He joined in the conversation.

"Monsieur le marquis," he said, "if you will permit me to retire, I am sure that with a little money you will make this varlet talk all you desire. It is possible that he is a Christian child stolen by this Moor, for I have no question as to her nationality. However, you are much mistaken, if you think that the color of the skin is a certain sign. Some of these wretched children are as white as yourself, and if you wish to make sure, you will do well to raise the hair that covers this brat's forehead; perhaps you will find there the brand of the red-hot iron."

"What!" said the marquis with a smile, "are they so afraid of the water of baptism that they efface the sign by fire?"

"The mark I refer to is the brand of slavery," replied D'Alvimar. "The Spanish law inflicts it upon them. They are branded on the forehead with an S. and a nail's head, which represents in figurative language the word slave."

"Yes," said the marquis, "I remember, it is a rebus! Well, for my part, I consider it very shocking, and if this poor child is branded with it and is a slave by your laws, I will purchase him and set him free on good French soil."

Mercedes had not understood a word of what was being said. But she watched with intense anxiety D'Alvimar approach Mario, as if to touch him; but not for anything in the world would D'Alvimar have sullied his gloved hand by contact with a Moor, and he waited for the marquis to lift the child's hair; but the marquis did nothing of the kind, from a feeling of generous compassion for the poor mother, whose humiliation and anxiety he thought that he could understand.

As for Mario, he understood what was taking place; but controlled and, as it were, fascinated by Mercedes's glance, he took refuge in stolid silence.

"You see," said D'Alvimar to the marquis, "he hangs his head and conceals his shame. Well, I know all I wish to know about them, and I leave you in this respectable society. There is no danger that they will unclench their teeth before a Spaniard, and they evidently know that I am one. There is an instinctive aversion between that degraded race and ours, so unerring that they scent our approach as wild game scents the approach of the hunter. I met this woman yesterday on the highroad, and I am sure that she put some spell on my horse, for he is lame this morning. If I were the master of this house, such vermin would not remain in it another instant!"

"You are my guest," rejoined Bois-Doré, blending with his courtesy an accent of dignity and resolution of which Monsieur d'Alvimar deemed him incapable, "and, in that capacity, you are entitled to entertain your opinions without being called upon to defend them, whether they are or are not identical with my own. If the sight of these unfortunate creatures is distasteful to you, as I do not wish it to be said that you were annoyed in any manner under my roof, I will arrange that they shall not offend your eyes; but you cannot demand that I shall brutally turn a woman and a child out-of-doors."

"Surely not, monsieur," said D'Alvimar, recovering his self-possession; "by so doing I should ill requite your courtesy, and I ask your pardon for my vehemence. You are aware of the horror with which my nation regards these infidels, and I know that I should have held it in check here."

"What do you mean?" demanded Bois-Doré, somewhat testily; "do you take us for Mussulmans?"

"God forbid, monsieur le marquis! I intended to refer to the tolerant spirit of the French in general; and as it is a law of civility that we must conform to the customs of the country in which we accept hospitality, I promise to keep watch upon myself, and to meet without repugnance whomever it may please you to receive."

"Very good!" replied the honest marquis, offering him his hand; "in a few moments, when I have finished here, is it your pleasure to go out and kill a hare or two?"

"You are too kind," said D'Alvimar, as he was leaving the room; "but do not disturb yourself on my account; with your permission I will go to write some letters, awaiting the supper hour."

The marquis, having risen to salute him, seated himself again with his careless grace, and said to Lucilio:

"Our guest is a very well-bred knight, but he is quick-tempered, and, all things considered, he has one great drawback, which is that he is too much of a Spaniard. Those sublime mortals despise everything that is not Spanish; but I believe that they have crushed out their own life by martyrizing and exterminating those wretched Moors. They will gnaw their hands over it some day. The Moors were untiring workers and scrupulously neat, in a land of sloth and vermin. They were gentle and humane before they were tormented so cruelly. Well, well, if we have here a poor remnant of that race which was so great in the past, let us not trample on it. Let us be merciful! God for us all!"

Lucilio had listened to the marquis with religious attention, but while he was saying the last words he was writing.

"What are you doing?" said Bois-Doré.

Lucilio handed him the paper, which seemed to the marquis an undecipherable scrawl.

"This," said the mute with his pencil, "is a translation in Arabic of the noble words you just said. See if the child knows how to read, and if he understands that language."

Mario glanced at the paper which was handed him, ran to the Moor and read it to her; she listened with great emotion, kissed the paper and fell on her knees at the marquis's feet.

Then she turned to Giovellino and said to him in Arabic:

"Man of courage and virtue, say to this good man what I am going to say to you. I did not wish you to speak my language before the Spaniard. I was not willing that the child should say a word before him. The Spaniard hates us, and, wherever he meets us, he does us harm. But the child is a Christian, he is not a slave. You can see on my brow the brand of the Inquisition; it is still there, although I was very small when they branded me."

As she spoke, she untied the kerchief of multicolored sackcloth which confined her long black hair, and pointed to her forehead on which there was no sign of the red-hot iron. But she rubbed it with her hand, and the ghastly rebus stood out in white on the red skin.

"But look at this youthful brow," she said, lifting Mario's abundant, silky locks. "If it had been branded like mine, it would not be possible to mistake the mark. This brow was baptized by a priest of your religion; the child has been reared in the faith and the language of his fathers."

While the Moor was speaking, Lucilio had written a translation of her words, and the marquis read as he wrote.

"Ask her for her story," he said to the mute; "make her understand that we are interested in her misfortunes and that we will take her under our protection."

It was not necessary for Lucilio to write Bois-Doré's interruptions. Mario, who spoke Arabic as readily as French and Catalan, translated it to his adoptive mother with remarkable fidelity.

We will continue the interview of those four persons, as if they had all spoken the same language, and as if Lucilio, quick as he was with his pencil, had not been incapable of speaking any language.

XVI

The Moorish woman began thus:

"Mario, my beloved, say to this kind-hearted nobleman that I speak Spanish very little, and French still less; I will tell my story to his scrivener, and he can read it.

"I am the daughter of a poor farmer of Catalonia. It was in Catalonia that the few Moors who were spared by the Inquisition lived at peace, hoping that they would be allowed to remain there and earn their living by toil, since we had taken no part in the recent wars which were so disastrous to our brothers in the other provinces of Spain.

"My father's name was Yesid in Arabic and Juan in Spanish; I was baptized by aspersion like the others, my Christian name was Mercedes, my Moorish name Ssobyha.[14]

"I am now thirty years old. I was thirteen when we began to receive secret warnings that we were to be stripped and driven from the country in our turn.

"Even before I was born the terrible King Philip II. had ordered that all Moors must learn the Castilian language within three years, and must no longer speak, read or write in Arabic, openly or secretly; that all contracts made in that language should be void; that all our books should be burned; that we should exchange our national costumes for the dress worn by Christians; that the Moorish women should go out without veils, with faces uncovered; that we should have no national festivals or songs or dances; that we should lay aside our family and individual names and take Christian names; that no Moor, male or female, should bathe in the future, and that the baths in the houses should be destroyed.

"Thus they insulted us even in the decency of our manners and the health of our bodies! My parents submitted. When they saw that it availed them nothing, and that they were persecuted solely because of their money, they thought only of collecting and concealing all that they could, intending to fly when they should again be in danger of death.

"By dint of hard work and patience they amassed a little hoard. It was to prevent the necessity of my begging, they said, as so many others had had to do who had allowed themselves to be taken by surprise. But it was written that I should ask alms like all the rest.

"We were still happy enough, notwithstanding the humiliation they heaped upon us. Our Spanish lords did not love us; but, as they realized that we alone in Spain were able and willing to till their lands, they asked their king to spare us.

"When I was seventeen years old, King Philip suddenly issued a new decree against all the Catalan Moors. We were banished from the kingdom with such goods and chattels as we could carry on our bodies. We must leave our houses within three days, under pain of death, and go, under escort, to the place of embarkation. Every Christian who harbored a Moor would be sent to the galleys for six years.

"We were ruined. However, my father and I concealed about our persons such gold as we could carry, and we left our home without a complaint. They promised to take us to Africa, the home of our ancestors. Thereupon we prayed to the God of our fathers to take us once more for his faithful children.

"They allowed us on the journey to resume our former costumes, which had been preserved in our families for a whole century, and to chant our prayers in our own language, which we had not forgotten; for, in spite of the decrees, we used no other among ourselves.

"We were packed on the state galleys like sheep, but were no sooner on board than they called upon us to pay for our passage. The majority had nothing. They insisted that the rich should pay for the poor.

"My father, seeing that they cast into the sea those who could find no one to help them, paid without regret for all those who were on our ship; but when they saw that he had nothing left, they tossed him into the sea with the rest!"

At this point the Moorish woman stopped. She did not weep, but her breast was heaving with sobs.

"Execrable hounds of Spaniards! Poor Moors!" muttered the marquis. "Alas!" he added, as if warned by a melancholy glance from Lucilio, "France has done no better; the Regent treated them just the same way!"

"Finding myself alone in the world," continued Mercedes, "without a sou, and deprived of all I loved, I tried to follow my poor father; they prevented me. I was pretty. The commander of the galley wanted me for a slave. But God unloosed the tempest, and they had to give all their thought to struggling against it. Several vessels sank, thousands of Moors perished with their persecutors. The galley upon which we were was hurled by the storm on the coast of France, and was dashed to pieces near a place of which I have never learned the name.

"I was washed upon the shore amid the dead and dying; that was my salvation. I dragged myself among the rocks, and there, drenched to the skin and utterly exhausted, having carefully concealed myself, for I had no strength to go farther, I slept for the first time for many days and nights.

"When I awoke the storm was at an end. It was quite warm. I was alone. The wretched ship lay off the shore, the dead bodies on the beach. I was hungry, but I had strength enough to walk.

"I left the shore as quickly as I could, fearing to encounter Spaniards there, and walked toward the mountains, begging bread, water and lodging. I was received very coldly; my costume made the peasants suspicious.

"At last I met several women of my own race, who were settled in a certain village, and who gave me other clothes. They advised me to conceal my birth and my religion, because the people thereabout did not like foreigners, and detested Moors above all others. Alas! it seems that they are detested everywhere, for I was told later that, instead of welcoming as brothers those who succeeded in reaching Africa, the men of Barbary massacred them or reduced them to a worse slavery than that of Spain.

"How could I follow the advice that was given me to conceal my origin? I did not know the Catalan language well enough for that. At first people gave me alms; but, when a Spaniard passed, he would say to the people of the neighborhood:

"'You have a Moorish woman among you.'

"And they would turn me away. I wandered from valley to valley.

"One day I found myself on a highroad—I learned afterward that it was the Pau road—and there it was that heaven caused me to fall in with a woman even more unhappy than myself. She was the mother of the child before you, who has become mine."

"Go on," said the marquis.

But Mercedes paused, seemed to reflect, and finally said to Lucilio:

"I cannot tell the story of the child's parents except to you alone—you, who saved his life, and who seem to me to be an angel on earth. If I may remain here a few days, and if I see no danger for Mario, I swear that I will tell the whole story; but I am afraid of the Spaniard, and I saw this old gentleman put his hand in his, after reproving him for his harshness toward us. I understood it all with my eyes; nobles are nobles, and we poor slaves cannot hope that the kindest-hearted of them all will take our part against their equals."

"Equality has nothing to do with it!" cried the marquis as soon as Lucilio had translated Mercedes's words for him in writing. "I swear, on my faith as a Christian and my honor as a gentleman, to protect the weak against the whole world."

The Moor replied that she would tell the truth, but that she should omit certain unimportant details.

Then she resumed her narrative in these words:

"I was on the Pau road, but at a very lonely spot in the heart of the mountains. There, as I was taking a little rest, having concealed myself for fear of the wicked men whom one is likely to meet in all countries, I saw a man pass with his wife.

"The woman was walking a little in advance; brigands ran up behind them, and killed and robbed the man so quickly that his wife did not see it, and, when she turned to speak to him, found him lying dead across the road.

"At that sight she fell in a swoon, and I saw that she was enceinte.

"I did not know how to take her up and comfort her. I was on my knees beside her, praying and weeping, when a man on horseback, dressed in black, and with a gray moustache, suddenly appeared and asked me why I was weeping so. I pointed to the woman lying on her husband's body. He spoke to her in several languages, for he was a great scholar; but he very soon saw that she was in no condition to reply.

"The shock that she had received hastened her labor.

"Some shepherds passed with their flocks. He called to them, and as they saw that that good man was a priest of their Christian religion, they obeyed his orders and carried the woman to their house, where she died an hour after bringing Mario into the world, and giving the priest the wedding-ring she wore on her finger, unable to say anything, but pointing to the child and to heaven!

"The priest stayed at the shepherd's house until the two unfortunate creatures were buried, and as he supposed that I had been the lady's slave, he entrusted the child to me and bade me accompany him. But I did not choose to deceive him, having seen that he was learned and humane. I told him my story and how I happened to be a witness of the peddler's murder."

"So he was a peddler?" said the marquis.

"Or a gentleman in disguise," Mercedes replied; "for his wife wore the clothing of a lady under her cloak, and when we undressed him to lay him out, we found a shirt of fine linen and silk short clothes under his coarser garments. His hands were white, and we also found upon him a seal on which there was a crest."

"Show me the seal!" cried Bois-Doré deeply moved.

The Moor shook her head, saying:

"I haven't it."

"This woman distrusts us," rejoined the marquis, addressing Lucilio, "and yet this story interests me more than she thinks! Who knows that—Come, my dear friend, try to make her tell us at least the precise date of this adventure she is describing."

Lucilio motioned to the marquis to question the child, who answered without hesitation:

"I was born an hour after my father's death and an hour before the death of good King Henri the Fourth of France. That is what Monsieur l'Abbé Anjorrant, who took care of me, told me, bidding me never forget it, and my mother Mercedes said I might tell you, on condition that the Spaniard shall not know it."

"Why?" said Adamas.

"I do not know," replied Mario.

"In that case beg your mother to go on with her story," said Monsieur de Bois-Doré, "and rely upon our keeping her secret, as we have promised to do."

The Moor resumed her narrative thus:

"The good priest, having procured a goat to nourish the child, took us away, saying:

"'We will talk about religion later. You are unfortunate, and it is my duty to have pity upon you.'

"He lived some distance away, in the heart of the mountain. He placed us in a little cabin built of blocks of marble and covered with great flat black stones, and there was nothing in the house but dried grass. That saint had nothing better to give us than a roof over our heads and the word of God. He lived in a house little more luxurious than the hut in which we were.

"But I had not been there a week before the child was neat and well cared for, and the house quite comfortable. The shepherds and peasants did not turn their backs upon me, their priest had so thoroughly imbued them with gentleness and pity. I soon taught them certain things about the care of their flocks and the cultivation of their fields which they did not know, but which are familiar to all Moorish husbandmen. They listened to me, and, finding that I could help them, they allowed me to lack nothing that I needed.

"I should have been very happy at falling in with that man of peace and that indulgent country, if I could have forgotten my poor father, the house in which I was born, my kinsmen and my friends, whom I was never to see again; but I came to love the poor orphan so dearly, that little by little I was consoled for everything.

"The priest educated him and taught him French and Spanish, while I taught him my language, so that I might have one person in the world with whom I could speak it; but, do not think that, in teaching him Arabian prayers, I turned him away from the religion the priest was teaching him. Do not think that I spurn your God. No, no! when I saw that sincere, compassionate, learned, virtuous man, who talked so eloquently of his prophet Issa[15] and of the beautiful precepts of the Engil,[16] which do not tell us to do what the Koran forbids, it seemed to me that the best religion must be the one that he practised; and as I had not received baptism, despite the immersion of the Spanish priests—for I sheltered myself with my hands so that no drop of Christian water should fall on my head,—I consented to be baptized anew by that holy man, and I swore to Allah that I would never again deny in my heart the worship of Issa and Paraclet."[17]

This artless declaration gave great satisfaction to the marquis, who, despite his recent philosophical notions, was, no more than Adamas, an upholder of the heathen idolatry attributed to the Moors of Spain.

"So," he said, patting Mario's brown cheeks, "we are not dealing with devils, but with human beings of our own species. Numes célestes! I am very glad to hear it, for this poor woman interests me and this orphan touches my heart. And so, my handsome friend Mario, you were brought up by an excellent and learned curé of the Pyrenees! and you are a little scholar yourself! I cannot speak Arabic to you; but if your mother will consent to give you to me, I promise to have you brought up as a gentleman."

Mario did not know what being a gentleman was. He was unquestionably very far advanced for his age, and for the period and the environment in which he had been reared; but, in every other direction than religion, morality and languages, he was a genuine little savage, having no conception of the society which the marquis invited him to enter.

He saw in the proposal nothing but ribbons, sweetmeats, pet dogs, and beautiful rooms filled with bibelots, which he took for toys. His eyes shone with ingenuous greed, and Bois-Doré, who was as ingenuous as he in his way, cried:

"Vive Dieu! Master Jovelin, this child was born to high station. Did you see how his eyes sparkled at the word gentleman? Come, Mario, ask Mercedes to remain with us."

"And me too!" said the child, naturally assuming that the offer was made first of all to his adopted mother.

"You and she," replied Bois-Doré; "I know that it would be very cruel to separate you."

Mario, overjoyed, hastened to say to the Moorish woman in Arabic, covering her with kisses:

"Mother, we are not to travel the highroads any more. This kind lord is going to keep us here in his fine house!"

Mercedes expressed her thanks with a sigh.

"The child is not mine," she said, "he is God's, who has placed him in my care. I must seek his family until I find it. If his family no longer exists, or does not want him, I will return here, and on my knees I will say to you: 'Take him and turn me away if you will. I prefer to weep alone outside the door of the house where he lives and is happy, than to make him beg his bread any more."

"This woman has a noble heart," said the marquis. "We will assist her with our money and our influence to find the persons she is seeking; but why does she not tell us what she knows of them? Perhaps we shall be able to assist her at once when we know the child's family name."

"I do not know his name," said the Moor.

"What hope had she then, when she left the mountains?"

"Tell them what they want to know," said Mercedes to Mario, "but nothing of that which they must not know yet."