The Project Gutenberg eBook of Les beaux messieurs de Bois-Doré Vol. 01 (of 2), by George Sand.

Adamas had passed the night selecting, planning, cutting and fitting; the morning in trying on. The skilful Moor and four other women had risen before daylight and sewed for their lives. Clindor had ridden ten leagues to procure the hat and the shoes. Adamas had arranged feathers and decorations and ornaments; and the costume, which was in most excellent taste, well cut and substantial enough to last several days without being made over, was a wonderful success.

Mario, beribboned and perfumed like the marquis, with his naturally curly hair, and over his left ear a rosette of white ribbons with a huge diamond in the centre and silver lace below, came forward with much grace. He was no more awkward than if he had been brought up as a gentleman. He wore his rapier gracefully, and his appealing beauty was heightened by all that white, which gave him the aspect of an innocent maiden.

Lauriane and her father were so thunderstruck by his face and his bearing, that they rose spontaneously as if to receive a king's son.

But there was more to come. Adamas, while coaching his young lord, had tried to teach him a complimentary speech, taken from Astrée, for Lauriane. To learn a few sentences by heart was a small matter to the intelligent Mario.

"Madame," he said, with a fascinating smile, "it is impossible to see you without loving you, but even more impossible to love you without loving you beyond words. Allow me to kiss your lovely hands thousands of times, which number will fall far below the number of deaths which your denial of this petition will inflict upon me."

Mario paused. He had learned very rapidly, without reflecting or understanding. The meaning of the words he was repeating suddenly struck him as very comical; for he was in no wise inclined to suffer so terribly if Lauriane refused to receive the thousands of kisses which he was not particularly desirous to give her. He was sorely tempted to laugh, and he glanced at the young lady, who had a similar desire, and who offered him both hands with a playful and sympathetic air.

He cast etiquette to the winds, and following the impulse of his natural trustfulness, threw his arms around her neck and kissed her on both cheeks, saying out of his own head:

"Bonjour, madame; I beg you to like me, for I think you are a lovely lady, and I love you dearly already."

"Hoity-toity!" exclaimed De Beuvre, "what does this mean, neighbor, this pretty boy? If he is yours, I congratulate you: but I would not have believed——"

Guillaume d'Ars was here announced, with Louis de Villemort and one of the young Chabannes, who had called upon him in the morning, and to whom he had told the tale of the miraculous recovery of Florimond's son.

"Is this he?" cried D'Ars, as he entered the room and gazed at Mario. "Yes, it is my little gypsy. But how pretty he is now, mon Dieu! and how happy you should be, my cousin! Tudieu, my gentleman," he said to the child, "what a fine sword you have there, and what a gallant costume! You wish to put your friends and neighbors to the blush! You outdo us entirely, that is clear, and we cut no figure at all beside you. Come, tell us your pet name, and let us become acquainted; for we are kinsmen, by your leave, and it may be that I can serve you in some thing, were it only to teach you to ride!"

"Come," said De Beuvre, leading Bois-Doré aside, "let me into the secret, for I am wholly in the dark. You are gulling us, my dear neighbor! you did not engender that noble boy! He is too young for that. Is he an adopted child?"

"He is my own nephew," Bois-Doré replied; "he is the son of my dear Florimond, whom you also loved, my neighbor!"

And he told Mario's story before them all, producing the evidence in support of its truth, but without mentioning the name of D'Alvimar or Villareal, and without hinting that he had discovered his brother's assassins.

XXXVI

In face of the letters, the ring and the seal, it was impossible to treat this romantic adventure as a fable.

Everybody showered attentions on pretty Mario, who, by his ingenuous nature, his affectionate manner and his fearless glance, won every heart spontaneously and irresistibly.

"So you are no longer betrothed to our old neighbor," said De Beuvre to his daughter, leading her apart, "but to his brat; for that seems to be the scheme he has in mind now."

"God grant it, father!" replied Lauriane, "and if he recurs to the subject, I beg you to do as I shall,—pretend to assent to that arrangement, which the dear man is quite capable of taking seriously."

"He took it seriously enough when he sued in his own behalf!" rejoined De Beuvre. "The difference in age between you and this little fellow is reckoned by years, whereas, between the marquis and you, it can properly be reckoned by fourths of a century. No matter! I see that the dear man has lost all idea of time with respect to other people as well as himself; but here he comes; I am going to stir him up a little."

Bois-Doré, being called upon by De Beuvre to explain, declared most solemnly that he had but one word, and that, having pledged his liberty and his faith to Lauriane, he considered himself her slave, unless she gave him back his promise.

"No, no, my child; this concerns the honor of the family, and your father is not in the habit of allowing himself to be hoodwinked! I see plainly enough that your whimsical and imaginative Celadon has conceived a paternal affection for this handsome nephew, and that he is quite content to be a father without having to take the trouble to be a husband. Moreover, I see that he has taken it into his head to bequeath his property to him, without regard to his future children; that is something which I will not permit, and which it is your duty to prevent by calling upon him to redeem his plighted word."

Monsieur de Beuvre spoke with such a serious face that the marquis was deceived for an instant.

"I can but believe," he thought, "that my good fortune rejuvenates me much, and that my neighbor, who used to gird at me so, does not deem me so venerable now. Where the devil did Adamas get the idea of suggesting that step to me?"

"My honored father," she said, "this does not concern you, since our dear marquis did not ask for my hand without my heart; so that, inasmuch as my heart has not spoken, the marquis is free."

"Ta! ta! ta!" cried De Beuvre, "your heart speaks very loud, my child, and it is easy to see, by your indulgence to the marquis, that it is of him that it speaks!"

"Can it be true?" said Bois-Doré, faltering in his resolution; "if I had that good fortune, nephew or no nephew, by my faith!——"

"No, marquis, no!" said Lauriane, determined to have done with her old Celadon's dreamy projects. "My heart has spoken, it is true, but only a moment ago, since I first saw your charming nephew. Destiny so willed, because of my very great affection for you, which made it impossible for me to have eyes except for someone of your family and someone who resembles you. Therefore I am the one to break the bond between us and declare myself unfaithful; but I do it without remorse, since he whom I prefer to you is as dear to you as to myself. Let us say no more about it then until Mario is old enough to entertain affection for me, if that blessed day is destined to arrive. Meanwhile, I will try to be patient, and we will remain friends."

Bois-Doré, enchanted by this conclusion, warmly kissed the amiable Lauriane's hand; but at that moment a terrific fusillade made the windows rattle and brought all the guests to their feet. They ran to the windows. It was Adamas, making a terrific uproar with all the falconets, arquebuses and pistols that his little arsenal contained.

At the same time they saw the marquis's vassals and all the people of the village thronging into the courtyard, shouting as if they would split their throats, in concert with all the retainers and servants of the château:

The good people were acting in implicit obedience to an order issued by Aristandre, having no idea what it was all about; but what they did know was that they were never summoned to the château without receiving a banquet or some form of bounty, and they came without urging.

The windows of the salon were thrown open that the guests might listen to the harangue, in the form of a proclamation, which Adamas declaimed to that numerous audience.

Standing on the well, which had been covered by his orders so that he might indulge without peril in animated pantomime, the radiant Adamas improvised the most dazzling bit of eloquence that his Gascon ingenuity had ever produced, that his ringing voice, with its soft southern inflection, had ever thrown to the echoes. His gesticulation was no less extraordinary than his diction.

It is to be regretted that history has not preserved the exact language of this masterpiece; it had the fate of all products of inspiration: it flew away with the breath that had given birth to it.

However, it produced a great effect. The result of poor Monsieur Florimond's tragic death caused many tears to flow; and, as Adamas wept easily and was ingenuously moved by his own eloquence, he was listened to with the closest attention, even from the windows of the salon.

The guests were amused by the pathetic outburst of joy with which he proclaimed the recovery of Mario, but the rustic auditory did not consider it overdone. The peasant understands gestures, not words, which he does not take the trouble to listen to; that would be labor, and labor of the mind seems to him contrary to nature. He listens with his eyes. So they were enchanted with the peroration, and good judges declared that Monsieur Adamas preached better than the rector of the parish.

The discourse at an end, the marquis went down with his heir and his guests, and Mario fascinated and won the hearts of the peasants by his affable manners and his sweet speech.

Being instructed by his father to bid the whole village to a grand festival on the following Sunday, he did it so naturally and in terms indicating such perfect equality, that Guillaume and his friends, and even the republican Monsieur de Beuvre, had to remember that the child himself was fresh from the sheepfold, to avoid being shocked.

The marquis, detecting their feeling, deliberated whether he should not recall Mario, who was going from group to group, allowing himself to be kissed, and returning the caresses with great heartiness.

But an old woman, the patriarch of the village, hobbled to him on her crutches, and said in a a quavering voice:

"Monseigneur, you are blessed by the good Lord for being gentle and kind to the poor and infirm. You have made us forget your father who was a harsh man—harsh to you as well as to others. Here is a child who will be like you and will keep us from forgetting you!"

The marquis pressed the old woman's hands and allowed Mario to do the same by everybody. He asked them to drink his son's health, and himself toasted the parish, while Adamas continued to wake the echoes with his artillery.

As the multitude departed, the marquis spied Monsieur Poulain, who was watching the proceedings from a small shed, where he had taken up his position as in a box at the play. He cut off his retreat by going to him and inviting him to supper, at the same time reproaching him for the infrequency of his visits.

The rector thanked him with equivocal courtesy, saying with feigned embarrassment that his principles did not permit him to break bread with pretenders.

In those days men were called reformers or pretended reformers, according to the supposed earnestness of their religious opinions. When a person said pretenders simply, he thereby proclaimed for himself an orthodoxy which refused to admit the bare idea of a possible reformation.

This contemptuous expression wounded the marquis, and, playing upon the word, he replied that he had no fiancés in his house.[23]

"I thought that Monsieur and Madame de Beuvre were affianced to the errors of Geneva," retorted the rector, with a sneering smile. "Have they procured a divorce from them, following the example of monsieur le marquis?"

"Monsieur le recteur," said Bois-Doré, "this is no time to talk theology, and I admit that I understand nothing about it. Once, twice, will you join us, with or without heretics?"

"Very well, monsieur," retorted Bois-Doré, with a display of temper which he could not control, "that is as you choose; but, on those days when you do not deem me worthy to receive you in my house, you will, perhaps, do well not to come to my house to tell me so; for, as you are unwilling to enter, I am wondering why you came here, unless it was to insult those who do me the honor of being my guests."

The rector was seeking what he called persecution; that is to say, he wished to irritate the marquis so as to put him in the wrong as between themselves.

"As monsieur le marquis admitted all the people of my family to a merry-making," he replied, "I supposed that I was bidden like the rest. Indeed, I had imagined that this charming child, whose recovery you are celebrating, would need my ministry to be received into the bosom of the Church—a ceremony whereby the rejoicings should have been inaugurated perhaps."

"My child has been brought up by a true Christian and a true priest, monsieur! He needs no reconciliation with God; and as to the Moorish woman, concerning whom you esteem yourself so fully informed, let me tell you that she is a better Christian than many people who pride themselves on their piety. Let your mind be at rest, therefore, and come to my house, I beg you, with an open countenance and no mental reservations, or do not come at all. That is my advice to you."

"I propose to deal frankly with you, monsieur le marquis," replied the rector, raising his voice. "Witness the fact that I ask you plainly where Monsieur de Villareal is, and how it happens that I do not see him among your guests."

Luckily Guillaume d'Ars, who approached him at that moment, heard the question and took it upon himself to answer it.

"You ask for Monsieur de Villareal," he said, bowing to Monsieur Poulain. "He left the château with me last evening."

"Pardon me," replied the rector, saluting Guillaume with more courtesy than he displayed toward Bois-Doré. "Then I can address a letter to him at your residence, monsieur le comte?"

"No, monsieur," replied Guillaume, annoyed by this persistence. "He is not at my house to-day."

"But if he has gone temporarily only, you expect him to return this evening, or to-morrow at latest, I presume?"

"I do not know what day he will return, monsieur; I am not accustomed to question my guests. But come, marquis; they are calling for you in the salon."

He led Bois-Doré away toward the De Beuvres, to cut short the interrogatories of the rector, who withdrew with a strange smile and threatening humility.

"You were speaking of Monsieur de Villareal," said De Beuvre to the marquis; "I heard you mention his name. How does it happen that we do not see him here? Is he ill?"

"He has gone," said Guillaume, who was much embarrassed and disturbed by all these questions before numerous witnesses.

"Did you not like him?" said the marquis, offering her his arm, while Guillaume walked by her side.

"You will think me very foolish," replied the young woman, "but I will make my confession none the less. I ask your pardon, Monsieur d'Ars, but your friend frightened me."

"Frightened you?—That is strange; other people have said the same thing to me about him! How was it that he frightened you, madame?"

"He bears a striking resemblance to a portrait at our house, which you probably have never seen—in our little chapel! Have you seen it?"

"Yes!" cried Guillaume, as if struck by a sudden thought; "I know what you mean. He did resemble it, on my word!"

Mario interrupted the conversation. Lauriane, who had already conceived a warm affection for him, chose to take his arm to return in doors.

"Ah! cousin," said the young man, "what an extremely unpleasant thing it is to have to conceal a man's death, as if one had reason to blush for some dastardly deed, when, on the contrary——"

"For my own part, I should prefer to have no concealment whatsoever," the marquis replied. "It was you who urged me to this deception; but if it is burdensome to you——"

"No, no! Your rector seems to have some suspicions. My D'Alvimar made a great show of piety. The cassock would be on his side, and it is too dangerous a game to play in this neighborhood. Let us continue to hold our peace until the story of your brother's cowardly murder has circulated thoroughly, and do you show the proofs of it to everybody, without naming the culprits. Then, when you do name them, everybody will be disposed to condemn them. But tell me, marquis, do you know whether the wretched man's body——"

"But there was something about this D'Alvimar that I cannot understand, cousin. A man so well-born, and whose manners were so refined!"

"The ambition of a courtier and Spanish poverty!" replied Bois-Doré. "And furthermore, cousin, there is a philosophical paradox that has often come to my mind: that we are all equal before God, and that he sets no more store by a nobleman's soul than by a serf's. On that point, it may be that the Calvinist doctrine is not far out of the way."

"By the way," rejoined Guillaume, "speaking of Calvinists, cousin, do you know that the king's affairs are going badly over yonder, and that he is having no success at all in taking Montauban? I learned at Bourges, from some very well-informed persons, that on the first pretext the siege would be raised, and that may change the whole political status once more. Perhaps you were a little too hasty about abjuring!"

"Abjuring! abjuring!" echoed Bois-Doré, shaking his head; "I never abjured anything. I reflect, I discuss matters with myself, and I take one side or the other, according to the arguments that come to my mind. In reality——"

"In reality, you are like me," laughed Guillaume; "you think of nothing except being an honest man."

The supper, although the party was small, was served with extraordinary magnificence. The hall was decorated with flowers and foliage entwined with gold and silver ribbons; the most beautiful pieces of silverware and porcelain were brought forth; the dishes and wines were most exquisite.

Five or six of the most intimate friends and neighbors had arrived at the last stroke of the bell; their coming was another surprise for the marquis. Adamas had sent messengers all over the neighborhood.

There was no music during the banquet; they preferred to talk, for they had so much to say to one another! Adamas contented himself with a flourish of trumpets in the courtyard to announce each course.

Lucilio was of the party; they had no reason to fear the evil intentions of any guest.

[23]The play upon words consisted in the fact that prétendus, the word used by Monsieur Poulain, also, means suitors. (Cf. the colloquial English phrase: his intended.)

XXXVII

Half an hour after they left the table, Adamas requested his master to ascend with his guests to the Salle des Verdures, where a fresh surprise was prepared.

It was an entertainment after the fashion then in vogue, carried out as well as it was possible to do it on such brief notice and in so confined a space.

The end of the room was fitted up as a stage, with rich carpets laid upon trestles, bearing hangings for a frame, and natural foliage for wings.

When they had taken their places, Lucilio played a beautiful piece by way of overture, and Clindor the page appeared on the scene, in the costume of a shepherd of romance. He sang divers pretty rustic couplets, of Master Jovelin's composition; then he set about watching his flocks, consisting of real lambs, well-washed and decked in ribbons, who behaved exceedingly well on the stage. Fleurial the shepherd dog, also played his part becomingly.

Soft, soporific music was played on the sourdeline to which the shepherd fell asleep.

Thereupon a venerable old man came forward and searched the sleeper's pockets and even the fleeces of the sheep with agonizing suspense. His beard was so luxuriant, his white hair and eyebrows so bushy, that nobody recognized him at first; but when he declaimed some lines of his own composition to set forth the cause of his sorrow, they laughed heartily as they recognized Adamas's Gascon accent.

That despairing old man was in pursuit of Destiny, which had stolen his young master, his lord's beloved child.

The shepherd, suddenly awakened, asked him what he wanted. There was an animated dialogue between them, wherein they repeated the same thing many times, which, according to Adamas, had the advantage of forcing the spectators to grasp what he called the knot of the play.

The shepherd assisted the old man in his search, and they were going forward to attack a small fort among the branches at the back of the stage, supposed to be in the distance, which was no other than that formerly brought by the marquis en croupe from the château of Sarzay, when a terrible giant, dressed in fantastic fashion, opposed their progress.

This giant, enacted by Aristandre, expressed himself at first in an unknown tongue. As he had declared that he was incapable of remembering three words, Lucilio, who had consented to assist Adamas in staging his work, had instructed the charioteer, in his rôle of giant, to use, at random, any meaningless, incoherent syllables; it was enough that he should have an awe-inspiring manner and an appalling voice.

Aristandre followed these instructions very well, but when Adamas insulted and irritated him in the most stinging way, calling him monster, ogre and wizard, the honest giant, not choosing to be outdone, emitted such horrifying oaths in good Berrichon that they had to make haste to kill him, to prevent him from shocking the audience.

This scene offended Fleurial, who was not brave, and who leaped over the candle footlights to take refuge between his master's legs.

When the monstrous coachman was laid low by Adamas's trusty blade, the little fort crumbled away as if by magic, and in its place a sibyl appeared.

It was the Moor, to whom they had given some beautiful Oriental fabrics in which she had arrayed herself with much taste and poetic beauty.

Poor woman! brought up in bondage and her spirit broken by persecution, and thereafter happy with a thatched roof and the humblest employment, under the protection of a poor priest, this was the first time in her life that she had ever been richly clad, greeted affectionately by wealthy people, and applauded for her grace and beauty without any insulting hidden motive.

At first she did not understand; she was afraid and would have fled. But Adamas opportunely made use of the five or six Spanish words he knew, to encourage her under his breath and make her understand that she gave pleasure to the audience.

Mercedes looked about for the one person who interested her most deeply, and saw close beside her, in the wings, Lucilio the manager, also applauding.

A flame darted from his black eyes; then, terrified by that gleam of happiness, which she did not fully appreciate, she lowered her long lashes until their velvety shadow fell upon her burning cheeks. She seemed even more beautiful—why, no one could say—and the applause burst forth anew.

When she had recovered her courage, she sang in Arabic; after which she replied to Adamas's questions in a way that seemed not to satisfy him.

After a discussion in pantomime, accompanied by music, she promised the child he sought, on condition that he should submit to the test of fighting a horrible monster made of gilt paper, who came upon the stage, bounding and vomiting flames.

The intrepid Adamas, determined to dare anything to bring back his master's child to the fold, rushed to meet the dragon, and was on the point of running him through with his invincible blade, when the creature was rent in twain like an old glove, and the comely Mario stepped forth, dressed as Cupid, that is to say, in pink and gold satin embroidered with flowers, with a wreath of roses and feathers on his head, bow in hand and quiver slung over his shoulder.

The transformation of a child into Cupid in a dragon's belly is not readily discovered in Adamas's manuscript stage-directions; but it seems that it was accepted as very pleasing, for that episode won the greatest success.

Mario recited some complimentary lines in praise of his uncle and his friends, and the sibyl predicted the loftiest destiny for him. She produced from the bushes divers marvellous things: a horn of plenty filled with flowers and bonbons, which the child tossed to the spectators; then the portrait of the marquis, which the child kissed with pious veneration; and, finally, two escutcheons of colored glass, one with the arms of the Bourons de Noyer, the other with those of Bois-Doré, united under a coronet from which ascended fireworks on a small scale, in the shape of a sun.

Let us say a word in passing concerning this coat-of-arms of the marquis. It was very interesting, because it was invented by Henry IV. himself.

In heraldic language, it was thus described: "Gules, a naked arm or, coming from a cloud, holding a sword uppointed, accompanied, in chief, by three hens diademed argent;" that is to say, a deep red shield, in the centre of which a right arm, coming forth from a cloud, held a sword with the point in the air, pointed toward three hens wearing silver crowns, placed above the said arm.

If we remember how our good Sylvain was created a marquis, we shall readily understand this emblem, which might have been considered derisory, except for the corrective afforded by the motto, which might be thus translated: "Before this arm there is no foe who does not display the heart of a chicken."

The marquis wept tears of joy to see the charming manners of his son and the zeal of old Adamas.

They ate sweetmeats, they fought for Mario's kisses, and they separated at eleven o'clock, which was very late, according to the provincial ideas in those days.

The next day there was a bird-hunt. Lauriane insisted that Mario should be of the party. She lent him her white horse, which was gentle and docile, while she courageously mounted Rosidor. The marquis did not lack spare mounts. The sport was mild, as befitted those who were the heroes of the day. Mario took so much pleasure in it that Lucilio feared that the sudden excitement would be too much for that youthful brain, and that it would make him ill or delirious. But the child proved that he had an excellent mental organization: he was intensely amused by all those novel experiences, and still he did not become over-excited; at the slightest appeal to his reason he recovered his composure and obeyed with angelic sweetness. His nerves were not overwrought, and he entered into happiness as into a paradise of love and liberty of which he felt that he was worthy.

The supper on this second day of rejoicing gathered other friends at Briantes; on the following day occurred the fête given to the vassals, a Pantagruelian banquet and dancing under the old walnut trees in the enclosure.

Mario suggested to the village urchins trials of skill in running and sling-throwing, and obtained permission to resume, for the purposes of that contest, his mountaineer's costume, in which he felt much more at ease.

He displayed an agility and skill which filled his competitors with admiration. No one could dream for an instant of disputing the prize with him; so he modestly withdrew from the competition, in order that the prize might be awarded equitably to some other.

The festivities were brought to a close by a ceremony at once artless and ostentatious, and at bottom really touching.

In the centre of the labyrinth in the garden rose a little thatch-covered structure in imitation of a cottage.

They carried thither the coarse patched clothes which Mario wore when he first entered the domain of his ancestors. They fashioned them into a sort of rustic trophy, with the poor guitar which had been his breadwinner on his journey, and hung the whole inside the cottage, with garlands of foliage and a card, whereon were written, under date of that memorable day, these simple words, selected and executed in his finest script by Lucilio: "Remember that thou wast poor once on a time."

At the same time Mario was presented with a great basket containing twelve new suits, which he had the pleasure of distributing to twelve poor little boys grouped on the tiny stoop of the cottage.

Lastly, the marquis ordered placed in the chapel of the parish church a small mausoleum in marble, dedicated to the memory of the kindly and saintly Abbé Anjorrant. Lucilio made the drawing and composed the inscription.

The marquis thereupon began to think seriously of his son's education. But if he had been left to himself, amid the preoccupations concerning dress which filled so much space in his life, his heir might very well have forgotten what Abbé Anjorrant had taught him, to acquire valuable notions concerning the art of the tailor, bootmaker, armorer and decorator. Luckily, Lucilio was there, and he was able to steal a few hours every day from those trivial pursuits.

He too, the loving heart, grew to be ardently attached to his friend's child, not only because of the friend, but also because of the child himself, who, by virtue of his affectionate docility and the keenness of his intellect, made the task of tutor, ordinarily so unpleasant and wearing, most pleasurable.

And yet Lucilio's task was not an easy one. He felt that he had charge of a soul, and of an infinitely pure and precious soul. He strove, first of all, to protect that youthful conscience with a fortress of beliefs and convictions against all the tempests of the future. The times they lived in were so unsettled!

Certainly there was no lack of enlightenment or of most excellent progressive ideas. It was the age of novelties, people said: detestable novelties according to some, providential according to others. Discussion was rife everywhere and among all classes; and then, just as to-day and yesterday and always, vulgar minds believed that they had discovered infallible truths.

But the world of intellect had lost its unity. Calm and impartial minds sought justice, sometimes in one camp, sometimes in the other; and as in both camps intolerance, error and cruelty were of common occurrence, scepticism found its profit in folding its arms and asserting the incurable blindness and weakness of the human race.

It was a period just subsequent to the bloody conflicts between the Gomarists and Arminians. Arminius was no more; but Barneveldt had just mounted the scaffold. Hugo Grotius had been sentenced to imprisonment for life, and was meditating in prison his noble Theory of the Law of Nations. The Reformers were widely at variance on the question of predestination. Calvinism, with its appalling fatalistic doctrine, was doomed in the consciences of right-minded men. The French Lutherans, imitating Melancthon's return to the truth, and abandoning Luther's deplorable doctrines concerning free will, now upheld divine justice and human liberty.

But right-minded men are scarce at all periods. The Calvinist sect and its fervent ministers protested in a large part of France against what they called a return to the heresy of Rome.

The events that took place in our Southern provinces, the frenzied meetings determining upon a resistance that had become anti-French, the republican spirit, ill understood, seconding by obstinacy and ignorance the deplorable projects of the Austro-Spanish policy, which aimed at kindling civil war in France; the glorious but regrettable resistance at Montauban; so much blood shed, so much heroism expended to perpetuate the struggle which Rome and Austria found to their advantage, proved plainly enough that the light of intelligence was behind a cloud, and that no liberal mind could say to itself: "I will go into this church, I will go into this army, and there I shall find unadulterated the best social truths of my time."

It was not advisable therefore to pay too much heed to facts, and when one was well-informed and intelligent, to believe in any special truth above all those which were preached throughout the world, since the sword, the halter, the stake, murder, rape and pillage were the methods of conversion used by the opposing parties in dealing with one another.

Lucilio Giovellino reflected upon all these things and resolved to proceed according to the Gospel as expounded by his own heart; for he saw too clearly that that divine Book, in the hands of certain Catholics and certain Protestants, might become and was becoming every day a code of fatalism, a body of doctrine leading to brutalization and frenzy.

So he began to instruct Mario in philosophy, history, languages and the natural sciences all at the same time, trying to deduce from them all the logic and kindness of God. His method was clear and his explanations concise.

Poor Lucilio had once been eloquent and had detested written speech; and sometimes even now he suffered from being obliged to compress his thought in a few words; but misfortune is always of some profit to the elect. It happened that his disinclination to write long, and his impatience to disclose his thought, compelled him and accustomed him to summarize his ideas with marvellous clearness and force, and that the child was nourished upon facts, without useless details and fatiguing repetitions.

The lessons were surprisingly short, and carried with them to that young mind a certainty of insight which was exceedingly rare at that time, and for good reason.

Bois-Doré, for his part, albeit he directed his child's attention to trivial and foolish things, kept him pure and good, by virtue of that mysterious insufflation which takes place between one noble nature and another, without volition or knowledge.

All children are naturally disposed to resist too precise instruction; they follow more readily an instinct which leads them, having itself no knowledge where it is going.

When the marquis was disturbed in his puerile occupations, to render a service or give alms, he never displayed either vexation or weariness. He would rise, listen, ask questions, encourage and act.

Although naturally indolent and easy-going, he was never bored by any complaint, never lost patience with any poor old woman's loquacity. Thus, while apparently devoting his life to trifles, he passed very few moments in that placid, benevolent life without doing good or affording pleasure to somebody.

Thus his day, always begun with fine projects of work for his son—he gave the name of work to attention to the toilet and instruction in good manners,—was passed without deciding upon anything, without undertaking anything, and leaving everything to the wise decisions of Adamas and the captivating caprices of the child.

XXXVIII

Meanwhile, after the lapse of a few weeks, they had succeeded in equipping Mario as a gentleman of quality, thanks to Adamas's untiring zeal and the Moorish woman's clever wit, and the marquis had succeeded in giving him some notions of horsemanship and fencing.

Moreover the old man and the child held mutually agreeable sessions every morning for lessons in manners. The marquis would make his pupil go in and out of the room ten times, to teach him how to enter gracefully and courteously and how to retire modestly.

"You see, my dear count," he would say—that was the hour at which they were supposed to address each other with graceful formality,—"when a gentleman has crossed the threshold and advanced three steps into an apartment, judgment has already been passed upon him by such persons of merit or of quality as happen to be present. It is most essential therefore that all of his own merit and quality must appear in the carriage of his body and the expression of his face. Until this day, you have been received with caresses and affectionate familiarity, and have been relieved from the necessity of conforming to social conventionalities of which you could know nothing; but this indulgence will speedily cease, and if people see that you retain rustic manners under such garments as these, they will blame your own disposition or my indifference. So let us work, my dear count; let us work seriously: let us repeat that last courtesy, which lacks brilliancy, and try once more entering the room, which you did languidly and without dignity."

Mario was entertained by this sort of instruction, which gave him an opportunity to array himself in his finest clothes, look at himself in the mirrors and stalk proudly across the room. He was so clever and so graceful, that it cost him little trouble to learn that species of majestic ballet, in the most minute details of which he was carefully drilled, and his old father, who was much more of a child than he, knew how to make the lesson amusing. It was a complete course in pantomime, wherein the marquis, despite his years, was still an excellent performer.

"Look you, my son," he would say, arranging his hair and his clothes in a certain way, "this is the matamora style; look carefully at what I do, in order that you may avoid doing it, unless in sport, and always abstain from it in good society."

Thereupon he would represent a swaggering captain to the life, and Mario would laugh until he rolled on the floor. For his own amusement he would be permitted to enact the captain in his turn, and then it was the marquis's turn to laugh until he fell back upon his chair exhausted; the little fellow was such a clever, fascinating imp!

Next the marquis would portray a loutish, dull, obtrusive boor, or a sour, disagreeable pedant, or a sheepish simpleton; and as other actors were needed to make the scene impressive, he would send for some members of the household. They were fortunate when they could enlist Adamas and Mercedes, who entered into the spirit of the thing with much zest and cleverness. But Adamas was active and the Moor hardworking; they always asked leave to go back to their work for Mario.

Then they would fall back upon Clindor, who was most willing, but was built like a jumping-jack, and Bellinde, who was delighted to represent a lady of quality, but who played that part in the most absurd and laughable way. The marquis rallied her good-humoredly and called attention to her absurdities, to enforce his precepts upon Mario, who was much given to mockery and who made merry over the housekeeper's foibles in a way to mortify her exceedingly.

She would go away in a rage, and Mario, laughing uproariously, and forgetting that it was the hour for stately demeanor, would leap on the marquis's knees, and kiss and fondle him; nor would the old man have the courage to forbid him; for he too enjoyed it, nor was anything sweeter to him than to have his child play with him as with a playmate of his own age.

After dinner, they rode together. The marquis had procured for his heir several of the prettiest jennets in the world, and he was an excellent teacher. And so with fencing; but these exercises fatigued the old man exceedingly, and he substituted other teachers, limiting his efforts to directing them.

There was also a master in heraldry, who came twice each week. He bored Mario considerably; but he made up his mind, with a resolution very rare in a child, to object to nothing that his father imposed upon him so gently.

He consoled himself for his studies in heraldry with his beautiful little horses, his pretty little arquebuses, and Lucilio's lessons, which attracted and interested him deeply.

He entertained for the mute a profound instinctive respect, whether because his noble mind felt the superiority of so grand an intellect, or because Mercedes's fervent veneration for Lucilio exerted a magnetic influence upon him; for he remained in his heart the Moorish woman's son, and, feeling that there existed a gentle jealousy between the marquis and her on his account, he had the delicacy and the art to devote himself equally to both, without arousing the apprehension of those two childish hearts, at once generous and sensitive.

He had already served an apprenticeship in this matter of consideration for his adopted mother, when they were living with Abbé Anjorrant; it was not difficult for him to continue.

In that too, Lucilio was an admirable teacher. His delightful talent charmed the child and plunged him into blissful reveries. But this task, which would have absorbed all the rest, was thwarted to some extent by the marquis, who considered that a gentleman should not study an art to the point of becoming an artist, but should learn first what was called the profession of arms, then a little of everything; "the best possible subjects," he would say, "but not too much of anything; for a man who is very learned in one subject disdains all others, and ceases to be attractive."

Amid all these employments and amusements Mario grew to be the prettiest boy imaginable. His complexion, naturally white, assumed a soft tone like that of the inner petals of a flower, beneath the warm sun of autumn in our provinces. His little hands, once rough and covered with scratches, now gloved and cared for, became as soft as Lauriane's. His magnificent chestnut hair was the pride and admiration of the ex-wigmaker Adamas.

The marquis had wasted his efforts to teach him grace and charm of manner by rules; he had retained his natural charm, and, as for the graceful manners of a gentleman, he had acquired them instinctively on the first day, when he put on the satin doublet.

So that the lessons in dancing which he received served only to develop his physical organization, which was one of those which cannot be destroyed.

As soon as his wardrobe was supplied, the marquis took him to pay visits to all the neighbors within ten leagues.

The actual appearance of the child was a great event in the province, for the jealous folk and the gossips had sneered about him at first as a chimera and a shadow; but he assumed substance and reality every day.

When people saw him riding rapidly through the streets of La Châtre on his little horse, escorted by Clindor and Aristandre, they began to screw up their eyes and say to one another:

They asked what his name was and what his name was to be. Would the marquis, a man of quality, be content to have for his heir a petty country squire? But had he the right to bequeath his title and his three hens diademed argent to a Bouron? Would the present king permit it? Was it not contrary to the laws and customs of the nobility?

It was discussed for a fortnight, and then people ceased to discuss it; for one soon wearies of subjects that require deep thought, and when they saw the old marquis and the little count go out to dine with some neighbor, both dressed exactly alike, whether in white à la paysanne, or in sky blue trimmed with silver purl, or in apricot satin with white feathers, or in light green, or in peach pink, with ribbons interwoven with gold and silver, and both reposing gracefully on the crimson cushions of the stately chariot, drawn by their beautiful great horses as beplumed as themselves, and followed by an escort of servants whom one might have taken for noblemen, so well mounted and well armed they were, and resplendent with gold lace, there was not a noble, bourgeois or villein, in town or village, who did not jump to his feet, crying:

"Up! up! I hear the marquis's carriage coming! Come quickly and let us see the beaux messieurs de Bois-Doré ride by!"

While these things were taking place in the fortunate province of Berry, the effervescence in the South of France was increasing in intensity.

About the 15th of November, there came reliable intelligence that the king had been obliged to raise the siege of Montauban.

Luynes, who had declared that he would subdue the party by corrupting its leaders, had failed to seduce Rohan, the commanding-general in the province and defender of the city. It was proved, unfortunately, that that high-spirited nobleman was one of the rare exceptions, and that Luynes's system was successful with the majority of the rebellious nobles; but that system of purchase ruined France and debased the nobility.

Louis XIII. was conscious of it at times, and found his efforts neutralized by the incapacity and unworthiness of his favorite.

The army was inadequately supplied and poorly paid. The confusion was scandalous; the king paid the wages of thirty thousand combatants, and there was not an effective force of twelve thousand to take the field. The officers were disheartened. Mayenne had been killed. The Spanish Carmelite Domingo de Jesu-Maria, to whose sanctity and enthusiasm the German fanatics attributed the victory of Prague, had prophesied in vain under the walls of Montauban.

False miracles find fewer believers in France than elsewhere. The Calvinists raised their heads, and in the early days of December Monsieur de Bois-Doré received a visit from Monsieur de Beuvre, who was in a state of intense excitement and said to him in confidence:

"I have come to consult you concerning a most important matter, my dear neighbor. You know that, being closely allied to the Duc de Thouars, head of the house of La Trémouille, to which I have the honor to belong, I thought last spring of joining the people of La Rochelle. You prevented me, assuring me that the duke would melt away like snow before the king; and it happened as you predicted. But because my kinsman the duke committed an error, it does not follow that I was justified in doing the like, and I reproach myself for abandoning my cause, especially at the moment when it is recovering strength."

"Evidently your tongue betrays you, neighbor," replied Bois-Doré artlessly; "you mean that the cause is in great need of you; for, if you hurry to its assistance because it has the upper hand, I do not see wherein your merit lies."

"My dear marquis," replied De Beuvre, "you have always prided yourself on your chivalrous notions; but I am a plain man, and I speak of things as they are. You are rich, your fortune is made, your career is finished; you can afford to philosophize. I, although I am not poor, have lost much of my property through having played my hand badly in these last years. I feel active still, and inaction is tedious to me. And then I cannot endure the airs of superiority that the old Leaguers assume here in our province. The mischief-making of the Jesuits drives me frantic. Must I abjure, pray, if I wish to live in peace, like you?"

"I know that your abjuration did not make a great sensation," replied De Beuvre; "but, however that may be, it is too early for me to do it; I prefer to fight, and I have five or six years of activity and good health to do it."

"You think that I am growing stout, because you do not see yourself getting thin, neighbor! It is you who are becoming hollower, not I more corpulent."

"Very well! I understand your reasons for making this campaign. You think that it will be successful; but you are mistaken. The leaders and the troops, the bourgeois and the ministers, all fight gallantly on a certain day; but on the following day, they separate; they abhor one another, they insult one another and each goes his own way. The game has been lost ever since Saint Bartholomew, and the King of the Huguenots won it only by abandoning the cause. He chose to be a Frenchman first of all; and this that you propose will be of advantage neither to France nor to yourself."

De Beuvre could not endure contradiction. He persisted, and taunted the marquis with his lack of religious principle, albeit he himself was the most sceptical of men.

As he listened to him, Bois-Doré saw plainly that he was tempted by the excellent terms which the king was compelled to grant the Calvinist nobles, whenever the royal cause received a check. De Beuvre was not a man to sell himself, like so many others, but to fight stubbornly, and, if victorious, to take advantage without scruple of the opportunity to be most exacting in his demands.

"Since your mind is made up," said the marquis gently, "you ought to have told me so at once, instead of asking my advice. I have only one other consideration to urge upon you. You propose to equip yourself and take the best of your people with you for this campaign. Think of the annoyance that may be caused your daughter if the Jesuits should take it into their heads to call Monsieur de Condé's attention to your absence! And be sure that they will not fail to do it, that the château of La Motte-Seuilly will be occupied in the king's name by evil-minded men; that your daughter will be exposed to insult——"

"I do not fear that," said De Beuvre. "I shall be supposed to be at Orléans, where everyone knows that I have a law-suit. I will go thence, quietly, toward Guyenne, where I will assume some old nom de guerre, as the custom is, to protect my property and my family during my absence; I will be Captain Chandelle or Captain La Paille, or Captain—no matter what."

"All that is often done, I know," rejoined Bois-Doré, "but it doesn't always succeed; I promise to defend your château as effectively as I and my people can do it; but if I were not afraid of making an indelicate suggestion, I would offer to take your Lauriane into my family during your absence."

"Offer, offer, neighbor! I accept, nor do I see wherein the indelicacy consists. There is no impropriety in a woman's being in any place where her virtue or her good name are not in danger, and I am entirely unable to see that my daughter runs the risk of losing her heart or her reason, with you who might be her grandfather, your little one who is only a school-boy, your philosopher whose tongue cannot offend, and your page who looks like a monkey. So I will bring her to you to-morrow, and leave her with you until my return, well-assured that she will be happy and safe under your roof, and that you will be to her, as to me, the best of friends and neighbors."

"You can rely upon it," replied Bois-Doré. "I will go to fetch her myself. My chariot is large enough; she can put her most valuable property in it, without letting the neighbors know too soon that she is doing anything more than taking one of her ordinary excursions."

XXXIX

On the following morning Lauriane was installed at Briantes, in the Salle des Verdures, which the ingenious Adamas soon converted into a luxurious and comfortable apartment.

The Moor asked leave to wait upon the young lady, who inspired confidence and sympathy in her, and Lauriane, who on her side had much regard and liking for her, asked her to sleep in the closet adjoining her enormous room.

Lauriane parted from her father most courageously. The noble-hearted child, living herself on faith and enthusiasm, suspected no selfish calculation on his part. She would have found it difficult to understand what it meant to be guided in one's reasoning, doubts and decisions by personal interest. She knew that her father was as brave as a lion and that his quick temper and the pride of gentle birth made him frank and outspoken; that was enough for her to make a hero of him.

He was conscious of the innocence and the noble instincts of that young mind, and he would not have dared to lower himself in her esteem by allowing her to discover how much more truly than she supposed he was the honest man of his time; that is to say, the man who did as little harm as possible, while taking care to keep his neck out of the collar.

The day of ideal virtues had passed: the world had entered "the brambles of that shocking 17th century; an imposing desert, wherein moral and material subsistence becomes more and more inadequate, wherein nature at last ceases to support man; wherein the exhausted earth fails under him."[24] Men who had grown old in the struggles of the preceding century were not the men to rejuvenate the new century. But the children had courage; they always have when they are left to themselves!

Lauriane, moved to enthusiasm by the gallant conduct of the Rohans and La Forces at Montauban, urged her father to go, believing that his only thought was to uphold the honor of the cause, and that he, like herself, had naught in view but to preserve, at the price of fortune, of life, if need be, the dignity and liberty of conscience granted by Henri IV.

She did not shed a tear as she gave him the last kiss; she followed him with her eyes along the road, as long as she could see him; and, when he was out of sight, she returned to her room and fell to sobbing.

Mercedes, who was working in the closet, heard her and walked to the door, but dared not approach. She regretted that she did not know her language so that she could comfort her.

The maternal instinct was so strong within her that she could not see a young heart suffer without suffering herself, and without a feeling that she must go to its aid. She thought of going in search of Mario; it seemed to her that no sorrow could hold out against the aspect and the caresses of her beloved child.

Mario came softly in on tiptoe and stood close beside Lauriane without betraying his presence. Lauriane was already his darling sister. She was so kind to him, so playful, so anxious to amuse him when he passed the day with her!

Seeing her weep, he was frightened; he believed, with everybody else, that Monsieur de Beuvre was absent for a few days only.

He knelt on the edge of the cushion on which she had placed her feet, and gazed at her speechless. At last he ventured to take her hands.

She started, looked up, and saw before her that angelic face, smiling at her through tear-bedewed eyes. Touched by the child's sensibility, she pressed him to her heart with the utmost warmth and kissed his lovely hair.

"Why, my poor darling," she replied, "your Lauriane is grieved, as you would be if your dear father the marquis should go away."

"Alas! my Mario, who can say that he will return at all? When one is travelling, you know——"

"No, but—Nay, nay, I will not make you unhappy. I must go out and take the air. Will you come with me and find your dear father?"

"Yes," said Mario, "he is in the garden. Let us go. Would you like me to go and get my white goat to amuse you with her capers?"

She went out leaning on his arm, not like a lady leaning on the arm of a gallant, but like a mother, with her boy's arm passed through hers.

As they descended the stairs they found Mercedes, whose lovely eyes rested caressingly on them as they passed. Lauriane, who could make herself understood by signs, needed only to look at her to understand her. She divined her loving solicitude and held out her hand, which Mercedes would have kissed. But Lauriane would not permit it, and kissed her on both cheeks.

Never before had a Christian kissed the Moor, although she was herself a Christian. Bellinde would have considered that she disgraced herself by bestowing the slightest caress upon her, and, deeming her a heathen, she even objected to eating in her company.

The noble-hearted little dame's fascinating cordiality was therefore one of the greatest joys in that poor creature's life, and, from that moment, she almost divided her affection between her and Mario.

She had always refused to try to learn a word of French, even striving to forget the little Spanish that she knew, having an exaggerated fear of forgetting the language of her fathers, as she had sometimes found that it was forgotten by Moors isolated from their countrymen in foreign lands, to whom she had not been able to make herself intelligible. Hitherto it had been sufficient for her to be able to speak with the learned Abbé Anjorrant, with Mario, and of late with Lucilio. But the longing to talk with Lauriane and the kind-hearted marquis caused her to overcome her repugnance. Indeed, she felt that it was her duty to acquire the language of those affectionate people, who treated her as a member of their race and their family.

Lauriane undertook to act as her teacher, and in a short time they were able to understand each other.

Lauriane soon found herself very happy at Briantes, and, if it had not been for the absence of her father, from whom, however, she soon received good news, she would have been happier than she had ever been in her life.

At La Motte-Seuilly she was almost always alone, as the robust De Beuvre hunted in all weathers, loving to tire himself out; and, despite his affection for her, he neglected the innumerable little delicate attentions, the ingenious indulgences which the marquis placed at the service of women and children.

Brought up somewhat sternly, she had had to resign herself to be a little stern to herself, especially as the idea of a long widowhood had presented itself to her mind as a result of the environment and the circumstances in which her lot was cast. There had been moments when, although she was not as yet conscious of a desire to lean upon a heart not far removed in age from her own, she had felt that her own courage bruised her, like a suit of armor that was too heavy for her slender limbs. She had hardened herself by outbursts of piety and of resolution; she had already almost succeeded in forcing herself to laugh when she longed to weep; but nature resumed its rights.

When alone, she often wept in spite of herself, involuntarily yearning for companionship, affection, a mother, a sister, a brother, a smile, a pleasant word which would assist her to breathe and bloom in a softer air than that of the chilling gloom of her old manor-house, the depressing memory of the Borgias, and the political harangues of her satirical and discontented father.

Thus a rapid transformation took place in her at Briantes. She became what she longed to be, what she could not have ceased to be except for a painful straining of her will, and what nature willed that she should be once more: a child.

The marquis, having joyously cast aside the thought of making her his wife, resolutely treated her as his daughter, taking pleasure in the idea that she was so young that he could readily, without making himself out too old, look upon her as Mario's older sister.

Moreover it happened that his extraordinary coquetry was even better served by two children than by a single one. Those youthful companions, whose delicate colors he loved to wear, and whose innocent amusements he loved to partake, made him younger in his own opinion, to such a degree that he sometimes persuaded himself that he was a mere boy.

"There are people who grow old, you see," he would say to Adamas; "I am not one of that sort, for I enjoy myself only with innocent youth. I tell you, my friend, I have returned to my golden age, and my ideas are as pure and joyous as those of the little sweetheart and cherub yonder."

Thus Lauriane, Mario and the marquis became inseparable, and their days passed in a constant succession of amusements interspersed with earnest study and good deeds.

Lauriane had had no education at all. She knew nothing. She desired to attend the lessons Jovelin gave Mario in the large salon. She would listen, embroidering the marquis's crest upon a piece of tapestry; and when Mario had read or recited his lesson, he would place Lucilio's written demonstrations on her lap and read them over with her. Lauriane was amazed to find how readily she understood things that she had believed to be beyond a woman's intelligence.

She enjoyed the music lesson exceedingly, and sometimes played the theorbo prettily while the Moor sang her sweet laments.

The marquis would lie stretched out in his long chair throughout these little concerts, gazing at the characters on the Astrée tapestry, and would doze beatifically, fancying that he saw them move or heard them sing.

Lucilio too had his share in this family happiness, which caused him to forget to some extent the solitude of his heart and his ghastly future.

The stern yet simple-minded philosopher was not yet too old to love; but he thought that he ought not to aspire to it, and, after having felt its ardent flames more than once, he feared that he might fall into some mere sensual connection, in which his heart would not be included. He resigned himself therefore to live by devotion to others and to abandon all illusions finally and absolutely.

He who had endured imprisonment, exile and poverty, and had undergone martyrdom, appealed to himself to conquer the craving for happiness as he had conquered all the rest, and he always emerged tranquillized and triumphant from these meditations; but triumphant as one is after the torture: a blending of feverish excitement and prostration, on one side the heart, on the other the body; a life whose equilibrium is destroyed and in which the mind can no longer tell in what sort of a world it is.

And yet Lucilio exaggerated his misfortune to himself. He was beloved, not by a mind of rare intelligence—that is what he needed, at least he thought so, to reconcile himself to his tragic destiny—but by a heart.

Before his learning and his genius, Mercedes was like a rose before the sun. She drank in its rays without understanding them; but she was enamored of his gentleness, his courage and his virtue, and her loving heart was prostrate before him. She did not resist the sentiment, but cherished it as a religious duty; she said nothing, however, because she had more fear than hope.

We must not forget to mention in its place a little domestic revolution that occurred at the château of Briantes a few days after Monsieur de Beuvre's departure; for the importance of this seemingly trivial incident became grievously manifest later to the too happy inmates of the château.

Although the younger of the beaux messieurs de Bois-Doré was not always the more child-like, Mario sometimes displayed a mischievous tendency, especially when, as Adamas expressed it, "he and the little madame had had their heads together." He was too kind-hearted and affectionate ever to torment animals or human beings; he never had occasion to reproach himself for pulling Fleurial's ear or addressing an unpleasant word to Clindor; but inanimate things did not always inspire in him the respect that certain of them inspired in the marquis. Of this number were the little statues from the romance of Astrée, which embellished the gardens of Isaure and the famous labyrinth, and the den of old Mandrague, by which he had been much entertained at first, but which gradually began to pall upon him as playthings too utterly devoid of life.

One day, when he was trying a great wooden sabre which Aristandre had carved for him, he pretended to threaten with it one of the stucco personages representing the disguised Filandre, that is to say the pretended Filandre, because, as everyone knows, resembling his sister Callirée so closely that it was impossible to distinguish them, he donned female clothes in order to obtain admission to the private apartments of the nymph he loved.

The shepherd was represented in that female disguise, and the artist employed to mould the figures, trusting to the explicitly alleged resemblance of the brother and sister, had ventured to spare his imagination some labor by employing the same model for the two figures facing each other, with those of Amidor, Daphnis, etc., in the rond-point of verdure, called the grove of the errors of love.

So, to distinguish the brother from the sister, the marquis had written on the pedestal of the brother a fragment of the long monologue which begins thus: "O vainglorious Filandre, who can ever pardon thy fault, etc.?"

That crafty individual's face was so stupid, that Mario, while not precisely hating him, loved to laugh at him and threaten him. He had previously dealt him several harmless blows; but on this day, seeing that the challenge he hurled at him amused Lauriane, he aimed a sword-thrust at him with more force than he intended, and sent poor Filandre's nose flying to the ground.

The exploit was no sooner performed than the child regretted it. His father was as fond of Filandre as of the other shepherds.

Lauriane, after much searching, found the unfortunate nose in the grass, and Mario, climbing on the pedestal, stuck it on as well as he could with clay. But it was frosty weather and the next morning the nose was on the ground. They stuck it on again; but the disguised Filandre was such an idiot that he could not keep his nose, and at last the marquis passed by at a time when he was without it.

Mario confessed; kind-hearted Sylvain saw his remorse and did not scold him. But the next day not only was Filandre minus his nose, but his sister Callirée; and on the next day Filidas and the incomparable Diane herself were in the same plight.

This time Bois-Doré was seriously distressed and sorrowfully reproved his child, who began to weep bitterly, declaring with evident sincerity that he had never in his life broken off any other nose than the vainglorious Filandre's. Lauriane also asserted her young friend's innocence.

"I believe you, my children, I believe you," said the marquis, dismayed by Mario's tears. "But why this grief, my son, since you are not the culprit? Come, come, do not weep any more. I blamed you too hastily; do not punish me for it by your tears."

They embraced affectionately, but this massacre of noses was most surprising, and Lauriane observed to the marquis that some crafty and evil disposed person must have done it for the purpose of making Mario guilty in his eyes.

"That is certain," replied the marquis, thoughtfully. "It is one of the vilest deeds imaginable, and I would like right well to find the author of it and condemn him to lose his own nose! I would give him a good fright, on my word!"

However, they tried to look upon it as nothing more than a piece of childish folly, and suspicion fell upon the youngest person in the château next to Mario. But Clindor displayed such righteous indignation that the marquis had to apologize to him too.