XVII

Mario, enchanted to have an opportunity to tell his story, but without imprudence or affectation, with all the charm of his natural candor and of his limpid glance, began as follows:

"We were very happy there; there were grottoes, cascades, high peaks and tall trees; everything was much bigger than it is here, and the water made much more noise. My mother kept some very good cows, and she dyed and spun wool and made a very strong cloth. Look at my white cap and her red cape. She made the material for both of them. I worked too. I made baskets; oh! I can make very nice ones! If I come back here to be a gentleman, you shall see! I will make all the baskets for the house!

"I spent two hours every day learning to read and write French and Spanish with Monsieur le Curé Anjorrant. He never scolded me, he was always pleased with me. No one ever saw such a kind-hearted man! He loved me so much that my mother was jealous sometimes. She used to say to me:

"'Come, I will wager that you love the priest better than you do me!'

"But I would say:

"'No, indeed! I love you both the same. I love you as much as I can. I love you as big as the mountains, and more too; as big as the sky!'

"But when I was ten years old, everything changed. All of a sudden Monsieur Anjorrant was taken very sick, because he walked too much in the snow to save some little children who were lost and whom he found, for we used to have snow in winter, sometimes as high as the top of your house. And all of a sudden Monsieur Anjorrant died.

"My mother and I cried so much that I don't see how we have any eyes left to see with.

"Then my mother said to me:

"'We must do what our father, our friend who is dead, wanted us to do. He has left with us the papers and jewels which may serve to make your family acknowledge you. He has written to the French minister about you many times. He never had any answer. Perhaps they did not get his letters. We will go and see the king, or someone who can speak to him for us, and if you have a grandmother or aunts or cousins, they will see to it that you do not remain a slave, because you were born free, and freedom is the greatest thing in the world.'

"We started with very little money. Good Monsieur Anjorrant left nothing for anybody. As soon as he got a piece of money he would give it to somebody who needed it. We walked and walked; France is so big! For three months now we have been on the road. My mother, when she saw how far it was, was afraid we should never get there, and we begged bread and shelter at every door. People always gave us something, because my mother is so sweet, and they thought I was a pretty boy. But we did not know the roads, and we took many steps which delayed us instead of taking us forward.

"Then we met some very funny people, who called themselves Egyptians, and they told us we could go to Poitou with them if we knew how to do anything. My mother can sing very well in Arabic, and I can play the tympanon a little, and the guitar of the Pyrenees. I will play for you all you want. Those people thought that we knew enough. They were not unkind to us, and there was a little Moorish girl with them named Pilar, whom I was very fond of, and a bigger boy, La Flèche, who is a Frenchman and who amused me with his wry faces and his stories. But they were almost all thieves, and it pained my mother to see how gluttonous and lazy they were.

"That is why she said to me every day:

"'We must leave these people, they are good for nothing.'

"We finally left them yesterday, because——"

"Because?" repeated the marquis.

"That is something my mother Mercedes will tell you later, perhaps, when she has prayed to God to reveal the truth to her. That is what she told me, and it is all I know."

"Taking everything into consideration," said the marquis, rising, "I am deeply interested in these people, and I propose that they shall be well treated and cared for under my roof, until it shall please God to point out to me in what way I can assist them further. But did you not tell me, my faithful Adamas, that this Mercedes had a letter for Monsieur de Sully?"

"Yes, yes!" cried Mario. "That is the name on Monsieur Anjorrant's letter."

"Very well, that simplifies matters. I am very much attached to him, and I will undertake to send you to him without fatigue or discomfort. So make yourself at home here and ask for whatever you want.—Adamas, both the mother and the child are very neat and clean, and their mountain garb is not unbecoming. But have they every thing that they possess on their bodies?"

"Yes, monsieur, except the much shabbier clothes that they wore last night and this morning; they have two shirts each and other things in proportion. But the woman washes and combs the child and mends his clothes whenever she is not walking. See how nicely kept his hair is! She knows all sorts of Arabian secrets for maintaining cleanliness; she knows how to make powders and elixirs which I intend to learn from her."

"That is a very good idea; but remember to give her some linen and other materials, so that she may be well provided. As she is so clever with her fingers, she will make the most of them. I am going out for a walk; after which, if she has no objection to singing one of her national songs to the accompaniment of the little fellow's guitar, I shall be very glad to hear their outlandish music. Au revoir, Master Mario! As you have talked very civilly, I intend to give you something soon; be sure that I shall not forget it."

The lovely boy kissed the marquis's hand, not without a most expressive glance at Fleurial, the little dog, whom he would have preferred to all the treasures in the house.

To be sure Fleurial was a marvel; of the marquis's three canine pets, he was justly enough the favorite, and never left his master when he was in the house. He was as white as snow, woolly as a muff, and, in contrast to the ways of most spoiled curs, as gentle as a lamb.

When the marquis had taken his accustomed walk, spoken kindly to those of his vassals whom he met, and inquired for those who were ill, so that he could send them what they needed, he returned and sent for Adamas.

"What shall I give this pretty little Mario?" he said. "We must find some plaything suited to his years, and there are none such here. Alas! my friend, there are three of us in this house who are fast turning into old bachelors: Master Jovelin and you and I."

"I have been thinking about it, monsieur," said Adamas.

"About what, my old servant? marriage?"

"No, monsieur; as that isn't to your taste, it isn't to mine either; but I have thought of the plaything to give the child."

"Go to fetch it at once."

"Here it is, monsieur!" said Adamas, producing the object, which he had deposited in the window recess. "As I noticed that the child was dying with longing for Fleurial, and as you could not give him Fleurial, I remembered seeing in the garret a number of toys that had been lying there a long while, and, among others, this dog of tow, which is not very badly worm-eaten, and which resembles Fleurial, except that its coat is like a black sheep's and it hasn't much tail left."

"And except a thousand other differences, which result in its not looking in the least like him! But where did you say this toy came from, Adamas?"

"From the garret, monsieur."

"Very good; and you say that there are others there?"

"Yes, monsieur; a little horse with only three legs, a broken drum, some little toy weapons, the remains of a feudal donjon——"

Adamas paused abruptly as he noticed that the marquis was gazing with an absorbed expression at the stuffed dog, while a tear made a furrow through the paint on his cheek.

"I have done some stupid thing!" said the old servant to himself; "for God's sake, my dear good master, what makes you weep?"

"I do not know—a moment's weakness!" said the marquis, wiping his cheek with his perfumed handkerchief, upon which a considerable portion of the roses of his complexion remained; "I fancied that I recognized that plaything, and if I am right, Adamas, it is a relic that must not be given away! It was my poor brother's!"

"Really, monsieur? Ah! I am nothing but an old fool! I ought to have thought of that. I supposed that it was something that you used to play with when you were a little child."

"No! when I was a child, I had no playthings. It was a time of war and sorrow in this country; my father was a terrible man, and to amuse me showed me fetters and chains, peasants astride the wooden horse, and prisoners hanging on the elms in the park. Later, much later, he had a second wife and a second son."

"I know it, monsieur—young Monsieur Florimond, whom you loved so dearly! The flower of young gentlemen, most assuredly! And he disappeared in such a strange way!"

"I loved him more than I can say, Adamas! not so much for any relations we had together after he grew to manhood, for then we followed different banners, and met very seldom, just long enough to embrace and to tell each other that we were friends and brothers in spite of everything; but for his sweet, charming ways in his childhood, when, as I have told you, I had occasion to take care of him and watch over him during one of my father's absences which lasted about a year. His second wife was dead and the province very unsettled. I knew that the Calvinists detested my father, and I thought it my duty to protect that poor child, whom I did not know, and who grew to love me as if he realized our father's injustice to me. He was as gentle and beautiful as this little Mario. He had neither kindred nor friends about him, for in those days some died of the plague and others of fright. He would have died, too, for lack of care and cheer, had not I become so attached to him that I played with him for whole days at a time. It was I who brought him these toys, and I have good reason to remember them, now I think about it, for they came within an ace of costing me very dear."

"Tell me about it, monsieur; it will divert your thoughts."

"I will gladly do so, Adamas. It was in fifteen hundred—never mind the date!"

"Of course not, of course not, monsieur, the date is of no importance."

"My dear little Florimond was tired of having to stay in the house, but I dared not take him out-of-doors, because parties of troops of all factions were constantly passing, who killed everybody and recognized no friends. I happened to think of a diversion which had tempted me sorely in my own childhood. At the château of Sarzay I had seen many of those stuffed animals and other toys with which the young Barbançois used to play. The lords of Barbançois, who held that fief of Sarzay, from father to son, for many years, were among the fiercest enemies of the poor Calvinists, and at that time they were at Issoudun, hanging and burning as many as they could. In their absence the manor of Sarzay was not very carefully guarded. The country roundabout being absolutely devoted to the Catholics and to Monsieur de la Châtre, they had no suspicion of poor me, for I was too entirely alone and too poor to undertake anything.

"It occurred to me to go thither on some pretext, and to lay violent hands on the toys, unless some servant would sell them to me, for it was useless to try to find any elsewhere. They were luxuries, and were not sold in out of the way places.

"I presented myself, therefore, as coming from my father, and asked to be admitted to the château to speak to the young folks' nurse, for they were then old enough to ride, like myself, and were scouring the country. I went in, explained my errand, and was coldly received by the nurse. She knew that I had already fought with the Calvinists and that my father did not love me: but money softened her. She went to a room at the top of the house and brought down what the children, now full-grown, had injured least.

"So away I went with a horse, a dog, a citadel, six cannons, a chariot and many little iron dishes, the whole in a big basket covered with a cloth, which I had fastened upon my horse behind me. It came up to my shoulders, and, as I rode out of the courtyard, I heard the servants laughing at the window and saying to one another:

"'He's a great booby, and, if we never have to deal with any Reformers of a different stamp, we will soon settle their business.'

"Some were inclined to shoot at me, but I escaped with nothing worse than a fright. I dug my spurs into my horse, my baggage jingling behind like a Limousin tinker's bag of old iron.

"However, all went well, and I rode tranquilly along the crossroad, in order not to pass through La Châtre with that outfit; but I had to cross the Couarde, by the bridge on the Aigurande road, and there I found myself face to face with a party of ten or twelve reiters riding toward the town.

"They were simply marauders, but they had with them one of the vilest partisan troopers of the time, a certain knave whose father or uncle was in command of the great tower of Bourges, and was known as Captain Macabre.

"This fellow, who was about my own age but already old in villainy, acted as guide to such bands of pillagers, who were very willing to let him try his hand with them. I had fallen in with him several times, and he knew that, having fought for the Calvinists, I ought not to be roughly handled by the Germans. But when he saw the load I was carrying, he concluded that I was a valuable prize, and, assuming a mighty swagger, he ordered me to dismount and turn over horse and baggage to his men, who called themselves for the moment cavalry of the Duc d'Alençon.

"As they did not know a word of French, and young Macabre acted as their interpreter, it would have been utterly useless for me to try to parley with them. Knowing with whom I had to deal, and that, after I had submitted and dismounted, I should be soundly beaten and possibly shot, by way of pastime, as was the habit of the marauding bands, I risked all to win all.

"With my boot and stirrup together I kicked Macabre violently in the stomach—he had already dismounted to unhorse me—and stretched him flat on his back, swearing like forty devils."

"And you did well, monsieur!" cried Adamas, enthusiastically.

"The others," continued Bois-Doré, "were so far from expecting to see a stripling like me do such a thing under their noses, they being old troopers one and all, and armed to the teeth, that they began to laugh; whereof I took advantage to ride away like a shot; but, having recovered from their amazement, they sent after me a hailstorm of German plums, which they called in those days Monsieur's plums, because those Germans used the plans drawn by Monsieur, the king's brother, against the queen-mother's troops.

"Fate willed that I should not be hit, and, thanks to my excellent mare, who carried me swiftly through the tortuous sunken roads of the Couarde, I returned home safe and sound. Great was the joy of my little brother as he watched me unpack all those gewgaws.

"'My dear,' I said to him, as I gave him the citadel, 'it was very lucky for me that I was so well fortified, for, if it had not been for these stout walls which I had over my spine, I fancy that you would never have seen me again.'

"Indeed, Adamas, I believe that if you should take this stuffed dog to pieces, you would find some lead inside; and that, if the citadel did not protect me, the animals protected the citadel at all events."

"If that is the case, monsieur, I shall keep all the things most carefully, and place them as a trophy in some room in the château."

"No, Adamas, people would laugh at us. And here comes that beautiful boy; we must give him the dog and all the rest, for the things that come from an angel should go to another angel, and I see in this Mario's eyes the innocence and affection that were in my young brother's eyes.—Yes, it is certain," continued the marquis, glancing at Mario and Mercedes, as they entered the room, escorted by Clindor the page, "that if Florimond had had a son, he would have been exactly like this boy; and, if you wish me to tell you why I was attracted to him at first sight, it was because he recalled to my mind, not so much by his features as by his bearing, his soft voice and his gentle manners, my brother as he was at about that age."

"Monsieur your brother never married," said Adamas, whose mind was even more romantic than his master's; "but he may have had natural children, and who knows whether——"

"No, no, my friend, let us not dream! I had a vision while this Moorish woman was telling us the story of the murdered gentleman. Would you believe that I actually fancied that it might have been my brother?"

"Well, and why should it not have been, monsieur, since no one knows how he died?"

"It was not he," replied the marquis, "for this little Mario's father was killed before the death of our good King Henri, whereas my last letter from my brother was dated at Genoa on June 16th, that is to say about a month after that event. It is not possible to reconcile the two."

XVIII

While the marquis and Adamas exchanged these reflections, the Moorish woman had made her preparations for singing, and Lucilio had arrived to listen to her.

The marquis was so pleased with her manner that he begged Lucilio to write down the airs she sung. Lucilio was even more captivated by them, as being, he said, "very old and rare, of great beauty and perfect in their way."

XIX

They arrived at La Motte-Seuilly about nine o'clock the next morning. The reader has not forgotten that in those days dinner was served at ten in the morning, supper at six in the evening.

On this occasion our marquis, who was fully determined to open his matrimonial projects, had deemed it best to use some lighter and less cumbersome means of locomotion than his magnificent lumbering chariot.

He had mounted, not without a mighty effort, his pretty Andalusian steed, called Rosidor—another name from Astrée,—an excellent beast with an easy gait and placid disposition, a little mischievous, as it was fitting that he should be in order to give his rider a chance to shine—that is to say, ready at the slightest sign with leg or hand, to roll his eyes savagely, curvet, dilate his nostrils like a wicked devil, rear to a respectable height, and, in a word, assume the airs of a bad-tempered brute.

As he dismounted, the marquis ordered Clindor to lead his horse around the courtyard for a quarter of an hour, on the pretext that he was too warm to be taken to the stable at once, but in reality so that his hosts might know that he still rode that restive palfrey.

Before he entered Lauriane's presence, honest Sylvain went to the room set aside for him in his neighbor's house, to readjust his clothes, and perfume and beautify himself in the jauntiest and most refined manner.

On his side Monsieur Sciarra d'Alvimar, dressed in black velvet and satin, after the Spanish fashion, with hair cut short and a ruff of rich lace, had only to change his boots for silk hose and shoes bedecked with ribbons, to show himself at his best.

Although his sedate costume, then considered old-fashioned in France, was better suited to Bois-Doré's age than his own, it gave him an indefinable air of a diplomat and a priest at once, which emphasized the more strongly his extraordinarily well-preserved youth and the self-assured refinement of his person.

It seemed that old De Beuvre had anticipated a day of offers of marriage; for he had made himself less like a Huguenot, that is to say less austere in his dress than usual, and, deeming his daughter's dress too simple, he had urged her to don a handsomer one. So she made herself as fine as the widow's weeds, which she was in duty bound to wear until she married again, would permit. In those days custom was not to be trifled with.

She arrayed herself in white taffeta, with a raised skirt over an underskirt of grayish white, called rye bread color. She put on a lace neckband and wristbands, and as the widow's hood—Mary Stuart's little cap—relieved her from the necessity of conforming to the fashion of wearing the ugly powdered wigs which were then in vogue, she was able to show her lovely fair hair brushed back in a wavy mass which left her beautiful forehead bare and framed her finely-veined temples.

In order not to seem too provincial, she sprinkled her hair with Cyprus powder, which made her more than ever like a child. Although the two suitors had severally determined to be agreeable, they were somewhat embarrassed during the dinner, as if they had conceived some suspicion that they were rivals.

Indeed, Bellinde had repeated to Monsieur Poulain's housekeeper the conversation she had overheard. The housekeeper had told the rector, who had put D'Alvimar on his guard by a note thus conceived:

"You have, in the person of your host, a rival with whom you can amuse yourself; make the most of the opportunity."

D'Alvimar laughed in his sleeve at the idea of rivalry from such a quarter; his plan was to attack the young lady's heart at once. Little he cared for her father's approval. He thought that, if he were once in control of Lauriane's feelings, there would be no difficulty about the rest.

Bois-Doré reasoned differently. He could not doubt the esteem and attachment of both father and daughter for him. He did not hope to take her imagination by surprise and turn her head; he would have liked to be alone with them, to set forth in simple terms his advantages in the way of rank and wealth; after which he hoped, by humble attentions, to make his purpose manifest ingeniously and honorably. In short, he determined to act the part of a well-bred youth of good family, while his rival preferred to carry the place by storm like a hero of romance.

De Beuvre, who saw that D'Alvimar was becoming sentimental, vexed his old friend sorely by leading him away along the little stream, to ask him numerous questions touching his guest's rank and fortune; to which Bois-Doré could make no other reply than that Monsieur d'Ars had recommended him to him as a man of quality to whom he was much attached.

"Guillaume is young," said Monsieur de Beuvre; "but he realizes too well what he owes us to introduce to us a man unworthy of a cordial reception at our hands. Still, I am surprised that he told you nothing more; but Monsieur de Villareal must have confided to you his motive in coming hither. How does it happen that he did not accompany Guillaume to the fêtes at Bourges?"

Bois-Doré could not answer that question; but in his inmost heart De Beuvre was convinced that this mystery concealed no other design than that of paying court to his daughter.

"He must have seen her somewhere, when she did not notice him," he said to himself; "and although he seems a very earnest Catholic, he also seems very much in love with her."

He said to himself further that, in the then state of affairs, a Catholic Spanish son-in-law might restore the fortunes of his house and repair the wrong he had done his daughter by joining the ranks of the Reformers.

If for no other reason than to give the lie to the Jesuits, who had threatened him, he would have been glad to learn that the Spaniard was of sufficiently good family to pretend to the hand of Lauriane, even if he were only moderately wealthy.

Monsieur de Beuvre reasoned like a sceptic. He did not talk so loudly of Montaigne's Essays, as Bois-Doré did of Astrée, but he fed his mind upon them assiduously, and he read no other book.

Bois-Doré, being more straightforward in his politics than his neighbor, would not have reasoned as he did if he had been a father. He was no more attached than he to religion; but of the beliefs of the olden time, he had never laid aside the love of country, and the spirit of the League would never have induced him to trifle with it.

He did not suspect the thoughts of his friend, absorbed as he was by his own, and during a quarter of an hour, as if playing at cross purposes, they discussed, without understanding each other, the urgent need of a good marriage for Lauriane.

At last light was thrown upon the discussion.

"You!" cried De Beuvre in stupefaction, when the marquis had declared himself. "Bless my soul! who the devil could have expected that? I imagined that you were talking in veiled words about your Spaniard, and it seems that you mean yourself! Look you! neighbor, are you in your right mind, and don't you mistake yourself for your grandson?"

Bois-Doré gnawed his moustache; but, being accustomed to his friend's jesting, he soon recovered himself, and strove to persuade him that people were mistaken about his age, and that he was not so old as his own father was when he remarried, at the age of sixty, with most successful results.

While he was wasting time thus, D'Alvimar was striving to make the most of it.

He had succeeded in bringing Madame de Beuvre to a halt under the great yew, whose branches, drooping to the ground, formed a sort of apartment of dark verdure, where one was entirely isolated in the middle of the garden.

He began awkwardly enough with extravagant compliments.

Lauriane was not on her guard against the poison of praise; she knew little of the refined manners of young men of quality, and was not able to distinguish the false from the true; but, luckily for her, her heart had not yet felt the tedium of solitude, and she was much more of a child than she seemed to be. She considered D'Alvimar's hyperbolical language highly amusing, and laughed at his gallantry with a heartiness that disconcerted him.

He saw that his fine phrases had no luck, so strove to talk of love in a more natural vein. Perhaps he would have succeeded and would have sown confusion in that young heart; but Lucilio suddenly appeared, as if sent by Providence, to interrupt this dangerous interview with the sweet notes of his sourdeline.

He had been averse to coming with Bois-Doré, knowing that he would be made to dine in the servants' quarters and would not see Lauriane before noon.

Lauriane, as well as her father, was acquainted with the tragic story of Bruno's disciple, and, following Bois-Doré's example, they ostentatiously treated him at La Motte-Seuilly as a musician simply, fearing to compromise him, although they really entertained for him the high esteem that he deserved.

Lucilio was the only one who had not thought of making a toilet for the occasion. He had no hope of attracting attention; indeed, he had no desire to draw any eye upon himself, knowing that the mysterious intercourse of minds was the most to which he could aspire.

So he approached the yew without useless timidity or pretended caution; and, relying upon the beauty and sincerity of what he had to say in music, he began to play, to the great displeasure and vexation of D'Alvimar.

Lauriane, too, was annoyed for a moment by the interruption, but she reproached herself when she read on the bagpiper's beautiful face an ingenuous purpose to gratify her.

"I do not know why it is," she thought, "that there seems to be on that face a sort of radiance of genuine affection and of a healthy conscience, which I do not find on the other's face."

And she glanced once more at D'Alvimar, now thoroughly irritated, morose and overbearing, and felt something like a shiver of fear—perhaps of him, perhaps of herself.

Again, whether because she was very sensitive to music, or because her emotions were keyed up to a high pitch, she fancied that she could hear in her brain the words of the beautiful airs Lucilio was playing to her, and those imaginary words were:

"See the bright sun shining in the clear sky, and the swift streams receiving its rays on their changing surfaces!

"See the beautiful trees bent in black arches against the pale golden background of the meadows, and the meadows themselves, as cheery and bright as in the springtime, under the embroidery of the pink flowers of autumn; and the graceful swan, that seems to paddle rhythmically at your feet; and the migratory birds flying across yonder multicolored clouds.

"All these are the music that I sing to thee: youth, purity, faith, love and happiness.

"Listen not to the strange voice which thou dost not understand. It is soft but deceptive. It would extinguish the sun over your head; it would dry up the water under your feet; it would wither the flowers in the fields and shatter the wings of the birds among the clouds; it would cause cold, fear and death to descend upon thee, and would exhaust forever the source of the divine harmonies I sing to thee."

Lauriane no longer saw D'Alvimar. Lost in a delicious reverie, she did not see Lucilio. She was transported into the past, and, thinking of Charlotte d'Albret, she said to herself:

"No, no, I will never listen to the voice of the demon!—My friend," she said aloud, rising, when the musician stopped, "you have done me an immense amount of good, and I thank you. I have nothing to give you which can pay for the noble thoughts which you are able to suggest to us; that is why I beg you to accept these fragrant violets, which are the emblem of your modesty."

She had refused to give D'Alvimar the violets, and she ostentatiously gave them to the poor musician, before his face.

D'Alvimar smiled triumphantly, thinking that she meant to incite him by a challenge more stimulating than an avowal. But such was not Lauriane's thought, for, making a pretence of fastening the flowers in Lucilio's hat, she said to him under her breath:

"Master Giovellino, I ask you to be a father to me, and not to stir from my side until I tell you to."

Thanks to his keen Italian penetration, Lucilio grasped her meaning.

"Yes, yes, I understand, rely on me!" his expressive eyes replied.

And he seated himself on the huge roots of the yew, at a respectful distance, like a servant awaiting such orders as may be given him, but near enough to make it impossible for D'Alvimar to say a word which he did not hear.

D'Alvimar divined the whole plan. She was afraid of him; that was still better! He held the bagpiper in such utter contempt that he began anew to pay court to his hostess before him as if he were a log of wood.

But his dangerous magnetism lost all its virtue.

It seemed to Lauriane that the presence of a calm, virtuous man like Lucilio was an antidote. She would have blushed to display any vanity before him. She felt that his eyes were upon her, and that feeling was a protection. She saw that the Spaniard was piqued, and was gradually growing angry. She tried her strength by resisting him.

He wanted her to dismiss that interloper, and he told her so, designedly, in a tone loud enough to be overheard by him.

Lauriane flatly refused, saying that she desired more music.

Lucilio at once began to inflate his bagpipe.

D'Alvimar put his hand to his breast, drew a very sharp Spanish knife, and, having removed it from its sheath, began to play with it as if to keep himself in countenance; sometimes pretending to write with the point on the old yew, sometimes to hurl it at something as if to show his dexterity.

Lauriane did not understand his threat.

Lucilio was impassive, and yet he was too much of an Italian not to be familiar with the cold-blooded anger of a Spaniard, and with the possible destination of a stiletto apparently thrown at random.

Under any other circumstances he would have been anxious concerning his instrument, which D'Alvimar's eye seemed to be watching, as if for a chance to pierce it. But he was complying with Lauriane's wish; he was fighting in behalf of innocence, as Orpheus fought for love with his triumphant lyre; and he courageously attacked one of the Moorish airs which he had heard and written down the day before.

D'Alvimar felt that he was defied, and the fire of wrath that was smouldering within him began to burn him.

Being as dexterous as a Chinaman in throwing the knife, he determined to frighten the impertinent minstrel, and began to make the gleaming blade fly all around him, drawing nearer and nearer as he proceeded with his soft and plaintive song. Lauriane had walked away a few steps, and at that moment her back was turned to that horrible scene.

"I have defied tortures and death," said Giovellino to himself. "I will defy them again, and this Spaniard shall not have the pleasure of seeing me turn pale."

He turned his eyes in another direction and played as carefully and accurately as if he were at Bois-Doré's table.

Meanwhile D'Alvimar, moving hither and thither, amused himself by standing in front of him and aiming at him, as if he were tempted to take him for a target; and by virtue of one of those inexplicable fascinations which are as it were the punishment of cruel jests, he began really to feel that horrible temptation.

The cold perspiration stood out on his body and a film passed over his eyes.

Lucilio felt it rather than saw it; but he chose to risk everything rather than show a moment's fear in the face of the enemy of his native land, who likewise cast contempt upon his manly dignity.

XX

While this terrible game was in progress, a strange spectator was looking on within two steps of the heedless Lauriane; it was the young wolf brought up in the kennels, who had adopted the habits and manners of a dog, but not his instincts and nature. He fawned upon everybody but was attached to nobody.

Lying at Lucilio's feet, he had watched the Spaniard's cruel game with evident uneasiness, and, the dagger having fallen close beside him several times, he had risen and sought shelter behind the tree, thinking of nothing but his own safety.

However, as the game continued, the animal, who was just beginning to feel his teeth, showed them several times in silence, and, considering that he was attacked, felt for the first time in his life the instinct of hatred of man.

With his eye on fire, muscles tense, hair erect and quivering, he was concealed from D'Alvimar by the colossal trunk of the yew, where he watched for a favorable moment, and suddenly sprang out and tried to seize him by the throat.

He would have wounded him at least, if he had not strangled him, had he not been thrown back by a vigorous kick from Lucilio, which sent him rolling over and over along the ground.

The sudden interruption of the music, and the plaintive sound made by the bagpipe as the artist dropped it, caused Lauriane to turn hastily. Entirely ignorant of what was taking place, she ran up in time to see D'Alvimar, frantic with rage, disemboweling the beast with his knife.

He performed that act of reprisal with all the heat of revenge. It was easy to read on his pale face and in his bloodshot eye the profound and incomprehensible joy that he felt in having something to murder.

Thrice he buried the blade in the throbbing entrails, and at the sight of blood his lips contracted with an expression of voluptuous pleasure, while Lauriane, trembling from head to foot, pressed Lucilio's arms with both hands, saying in a low voice:

"Look! look! Cæsar Borgia! it is he in person!"

Lucilio, who had often seen at Rome the portrait painted by Raphael, was even better able to appreciate the resemblance, and nodded his head to indicate that he was deeply impressed by it.

"How now, monsieur?" said the young woman, deeply moved, to the triumphant Spaniard; "do you think that you are in the heart of the forest, and do you expect to make yourself agreeable to me by presenting me with the head or the claws of a creature that I have fed with my own hands, and that I was caressing before you a moment ago? For shame! you are not civil; and with that bloody knife in your hand, you look more like a butcher than a gentleman!"

Lauriane was angry; she had no other feeling now for the stranger than one of aversion.

He, as if emerging from a dream, apologized, saying that the wolf had tried to devour him; that such creatures were bad company in a house, and that he was very glad to have rescued madame from an accident which might as well have happened to her as to him.

"Do you mean that he attacked you?" she said, and glanced at Lucilio, who nodded assent.—"Did he bite you?" she added; "where is the wound?"

And as D'Alvimar had not even a scratch, she was indignant that he had manifested fear of a beast that was so young and so far from dangerous.

"The word fear is not very fair to me," he replied in a sort of frenzy; "I did not suppose that it could be thrown at one who still holds the instrument of death in his hands."

"How proud you are of having killed that young wolf! A child could have done it, and it would have been pardonable in a child, but not in a man, who could easily have got rid of him with a blow of a whip. I tell you, messire, you were terribly frightened, and fright is the disease of those who love to shed blood."

"I see," said the Spaniard, suddenly downcast, "that I am in disgrace with you, and I recognize in this, as in everything else, the effect of my ill luck. It is so persistent that there have been many times when I have thought of yielding to it as victor in a battle in which I find naught save discomfort and discomfiture."

There was much truth in what D'Alvimar had said; and as, after he had instinctively wiped his dagger, he seemed to hesitate to replace it in its sheath, Lauriane, impressed by the sinister gleam in his eye, concluded that he was a little mad, as the result of some great misfortune, and inclined to take his own life.

"If I am to forgive you," she said, "I demand that you hand me the weapon of which you have just made such an unworthy use. I do not like that treacherous blade, which French gentlemen no longer carry, except when hunting. The sword is enough for a true knight, and one should take time for reflection before unsheathing it in a lady's presence. I should always be afraid of a man who conceals about his person a weapon so easy to handle and so prompt to kill; and as this one does not seem to be of great value, I ask you to sacrifice it to me, by way of reparation for the pain you have caused me."

D'Alvimar thought that in thus disarming him she intended to caress him. Nevertheless, it cost him a pang to part with so trusty a weapon, and he hesitated.

"I see," said Lauriane, "that it is a gift from some fair dame whom you are not at liberty to disobey."

"If you have any such thought as that," he retorted, "I will very quickly disabuse you of it."

And, kneeling on one knee, he handed her the poniard.

"It is well," she said, withdrawing her hand, which he tried to kiss. "I forgive you, as a guest whom I do not desire to humiliate; but that is all, I assure you; and as for this wretched blade, if I keep it, I do so not for love of you, but to prevent the evil that it might do."

They were then at the foot of the donjon, where they met the marquis and Monsieur de Beuvre, engaged in earnest conversation.

Lauriane was about to tell them what had happened, but her father did not give her time.

"Look you, my dearest daughter," he said, taking her hand and putting it through the marquis's arm; "our friend wishes to tell you a secret, and while he is telling it, I will do my best to entertain Monsieur de Villareal. You see," he added, addressing Monsieur de Bois-Doré, "I entrust my lamb to you without fear of your sharp teeth, and I say nothing to her to lower you in her estimation! Speak to her therefore as you choose. If you are burned, I wash my hands of it, it will be of your own seeking."

"I see," said Madame de Beuvre to the marquis, "that you have some request to make."

And as she supposed that it referred, as usual, to some hunting party on his estates, she added that, whatever it might be, she granted it beforehand.

"Beware, my child!" laughed Monsieur de Beuvre; "you don't know what you are pledging yourself to!"

"You do not frighten me," she replied; "he can speak quickly."

"Indeed! you think so! but you are sadly mistaken," rejoined Monsieur de Beuvre. "I will wager that his compliments will last more than an hour. So go, both of you, to some room where you will not be disturbed, and when you have said all you have to say, you can join us again."

The marquis was not disconcerted by this jesting. He had not reached the resolution to prefer his request without stifling some vivid apprehensions touching the marriage state, into which he had delayed entering for about forty years.

If he had decided at last, it was because he wished to make someone else rich and happy, and, having once adopted that idea, he considered it his duty not to allow himself to be turned aside from it.

No sooner had they reached the salon, therefore, than he offered his heart, his name and his fortune, after the style in vogue in Astrée, with the unbridled passion which knows nothing milder than horrible torments, sighs that rend the heart, terrors that cause a thousand deaths, hopes that take away the reason, etc.; and all this with such chaste and cold propriety that the most timid virtue could not take alarm.

When Lauriane realized that he was talking about marriage, she was as surprised as her father.

She knew that the marquis was capable of anything, and instead of laughing at him she felt sorry for him. She had a warm friendship for him, and respect for his goodness of heart and loyalty. She felt that the poor old man would lay himself open to interminable taunts, if she should set the example, and that the friendly and kindly raillery of which he had hitherto been the object, would become stinging and cruel.

"No," thought the judicious child, "it shall not be so, I will not suffer my old friend to be the laughing-stock of his servants.—My dear marquis," she said, exerting herself to speak after his style, "I have often reflected upon the possibility and the suitability of the plan which you propose to me. I had divined your noble and virtuous flame, and, if I have not reciprocated it, it is only because I am still so young that mischievous Cupid has paid no attention to me as yet. Allow me therefore to frolic yet a little while in the enchanted isle of Ignorance of Love; I can be in no haste to come forth, since I am happy in your friendship. Of all the men whom I know, you are the best and most lovable, and, when my heart speaks, it may well be that it will speak to me of you. But that is written in the book of destinies, and you must e'en give me time to question mine. If, by some fatality, it should be my destiny to be ungrateful to you, I would confess it honestly and sorrowfully, for it would be my loss and my shame; but your heart is so great and so kind that you would still be my brother and my friend despite my folly."

"That would I, I swear it!" cried Bois-Doré with ingenuous warmth.

"Very well, my loyal friend," continued Lauriane, "let us wait awhile. I ask you for a seven years' trial as the ancient custom is among knights without reproach; and do me the favor to allow this agreement to remain a secret between us two. Seven years hence, if my heart has remained insensible to love, you will renounce me; and in like manner, if I share your passion, I will tell you so without mystery. I swear to you likewise, that if, before the expiration of our agreement, I am moved, despite myself, by another's attentions, I will humbly and frankly make confession to you thereof. Of that there seems but little likelihood; yet do I seek to provide for everything, so earnestly do I desire to preserve at least your friendship, if I lose your love."

"I submit to all your conditions," replied the marquis, "and I pledge to you, adorable Lauriane, the faith of a gentleman and the fidelity of a perfect lover."

"I rely thereupon," she said, offering him her hand; "I know that you are a man of heart and an incomparable lover. And now, let us return to my father, and let me tell him of that which is agreed between us, so that our secret may be shared by him alone."

"I agree," said the marquis; "but shall we not exchange pledges?"

"What shall they be? I am willing; but let it not be a ring. Remember that, being a widow, I can wear no other ring than the gift of a second husband."

"Permit me to send you to-morrow a present worthy of you."

"No, no! that would mean admitting others to our confidence. Give me any trinket that you have about you. See, that little box of ivory and enamel that you have in your hand!"

"'Tis well! but what will you give me? I see you have the right understanding of this exchange. It must be something that we have upon us when we exchange promises."

Lauriane looked in her pockets and found there only her gloves, her handkerchief, her purse and Monsieur Sciarra's dagger. The purse came to her from her another: she gave him the dagger.

"Hide it carefully," she said, "and, so long as I allow you to keep it, hope. In like manner, if I come and ask you for it——"

"I will pierce my bosom with it!" cried the old Celadon.

"No! that is something that you will not do," said Lauriane, with the utmost seriousness, "for I should die of grief; and, moreover, you would break the promise you have given me to remain my friend whatever happens."

"That is true," said Bois-Doré, kneeling to receive the pledge. "I swear to you that I will not die, even as I swear that I will neither love nor glance at any other fair, so long as you shall not have torn from my heart the hope of winning yours."

XXI

They returned to the garden, where Monsieur de Beuvre greeted them with a bantering air. The grave and tranquil demeanor of Lauriane, the radiant and tender expression which the marquis could not dissemble, surprised him so that he could not refrain from questioning them, covertly though transparently, in D'Alvimar's presence.

But Lauriane replied that she and the marquis were in perfect accord, and D'Alvimar, unwilling to believe his ears, took that assertion for a bit of coquetry aimed at him.

Thereupon Monsieur de Beuvre's anxiety became very keen, and, leading his daughter aside, he asked her if she were speaking seriously, and if she were insane enough or ambitious enough to accept a spark born in the reign of Henri II.

Lauriane told him how she had postponed her reply and any definitive agreement for seven years.

After laughing as if he would burst, De Beuvre, when Lauriane urged him to keep her secret, had some difficulty in understanding his daughter's kindly delicacy.

He would have enjoyed making merry over the marquis's discomfiture, and he considered that to have laughed in his face would have been an excellent way to teach him a lesson.

"No, father," replied Lauriane; "on the contrary, it would have grieved him terribly, and nothing more. He is too old to correct his foibles, and I cannot see what we should gain by insulting so excellent a man, when it is easy for us to lull him to sleep in his reveries. Believe me, if coquetry is ever innocent in a woman, it is innocent when practised upon old men; indeed, it is often an act of kindness to allow them to enjoy their fantasy. Be assured that, if I should ever tell him that I am in love with some other man, he would be well pleased; whereas, if I had told him that I could never love him, he would very probably be ill at this moment, not so much because of my cruelty as of the cruelty of his old age, which I should have placed squarely before him without consideration or compassion."

Lauriane had some influence over her father. She procured his promise that he would abstain from teasing the marquis about his love-affair with her, and D'Alvimar, with all his penetration, suspected nothing of what had taken place between them.

It was really a kind action that Lauriane had performed; and, as there is an open account between us and Providence, she was rewarded for it at once by that invisible assistance which is the recompense, often immediate, of every generous impulse of our hearts.

Lauriane was a good deal of a child, but there was the making of a strong woman in her; and, even if she was capable, like every daughter of Eve, of yielding momentarily to a dangerous fascination, she was also capable of recovering herself and of finding a firm support in her conscience.

She passed the rest of the day, therefore, untouched by D'Alvimar's gallant hints; and it seemed to her that, by giving her dagger to the marquis as the pledge of a generous affection, she had rid herself of something that had disturbed her and burned her hands. She took pains not to be left alone with the Spaniard, and not to encourage any of the efforts he made to lead the conversation back to the delicate commonplaces of love.

Moreover, all private conversation was interrupted and the attention of the whole party diverted by a strange incident.

A young gypsy appeared and requested permission to entertain the illustrious company by his accomplishments; I believe that the rascal said "his genius."

He had no sooner made his appearance than D'Alvimar recognized the young vagabond who had served as interpreter between Monsieur D'Ars and the Moorish woman on the moor of Champillé, and who had declared that he was French by birth and that his name was La Flèche.

He was a young man of some twenty years, with a handsome face, although it already showed the ravages of debauchery. His eye was keen and insolent; his lips flat and treacherous; his speech conceited, impudent and satirical; he was short of stature, but well-formed, as active with his body as a pantomimist, and with his hands as a thief; intelligent in everything that is serviceable in evil-doing; stupid in respect to any useful work or any sound reasoning.

Like all of his profession, he possessed a few rags in addition to what he wore, and these he used as a costume in which to perform his tricks.

He made his appearance dressed in a sort of Genoese cloak lined with red; on his head one of those hats bristling with cocks' feathers, hats without name or shape or excuse for being; pretentious yet despairing ruins, whose gorgeous improbability Callot has immortalized in his Italian grotesques.

Short, slashed boots, one much too large, the other much too small for his foot, disclosed stockings once red, now faded to the hue of wine lees. An enormous scapulary covered the miscreant's breast, a safeguard against the charge of paganism and sorcery that was constantly hanging over his head. Lustreless light hair, of absurd length, fell over his lean face, aflame with red ochre, and an incipient moustache joined two patches of downy white hair planted under his smooth and glistening chin.

He began in a voice like a cracked trumpet:

"I beg this illustrious company to deign to excuse the assurance with which I venture to throw myself at the feet of its indulgence. In truth, does it befit a varlet of my sort, with his bristling face, his scarred doublet and hat, which have long been candidates for the post of scarecrow, to appear before a lady whose eyes put the sunlight to shame, and to utter a multiplicity of foolish things? She will tell me perhaps, that I must take heart, that I am not a peasant pack-saddler, nor a miserable spy, nor a servant to be beaten from morning till night, for it is said of servants that they are like walnut-trees, the more they are beaten the more they bear. She will tell me too that I am neither a sharper, nor a pickpocket, nor a coxcomb, nor a bully, nor an arrogant cur, nor a puppy, nor a giant-killer, nor a barbarian, nor a snail; that I am not an evil-looking fellow, despite a slightly vulgar countenance; but in the face of such qualities as those of the lady I see before me—it doesn't cripple a goddess to look at her,—and before an assemblage of noble lords who resemble a party of monarchs more than a cartload of calves at market, the bravest man in the world loses his bearings and becomes simply a gutter of ignorance, a sewer of stupidities, and the cesspool of all sorts of impudence."

Master La Flèche might have chattered on for two hours in this strain, with intolerable volubility, had they not interrupted him to ask him what he could do.

"Everything!" cried the good-for-naught. "I can dance on my feet, on my hands, on my head and on my back; on a rope, on a broomstick, on the point of a steeple or on the point of a lance; on eggs, on bottles, on a galloping horse, on a hoop, on a cask, and on running water, but this last only on condition that some one of the company will deign to be my vis-à-vis on stagnant water. I can sing and rhyme in thirty-seven languages and a half, provided that some one of the company will deign to answer me, without an error, in thirty-seven languages and a half. I can eat rats, hemp, swords, fire——"

"Enough, enough," said De Beuvre impatiently; "we know your catalogue: it is the same with all such braggarts as you. You claim to know everything, and you know but one thing, which is how to tell fortunes."

"To be quite frank," retorted La Flèche, "that is what I excel in, and if your radiant highnesses will write your names, I will draw to see with whom I shall begin; for destiny is an ill-tempered fellow who knows no distinction of rank or sex."

"Go on and draw; here is my token," said Monsieur De Beuvre, tossing him a piece of money. "Your turn, my child."