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Captain Fracasse

by Théophile Gautier · English · Gutenberg #1235 · 924,289 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Captain Fracasse

Author: Théophile Gautier


        
Release date: February 19, 2006 [eBook #1235]
                Most recently updated: October 29, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/1235

Credits: Dianne Bean and David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CAPTAIN FRACASSE ***

Captain Fracasse

by Théophile Gautier


Contents

 CHAPTER I. CASTLE MISERY
 CHAPTER II THE CHARIOT OF THESPIS
 CHAPTER III THE BLUE SUN INN
 CHAPTER IV AN ADVENTURE WITH BRIGANDS
 CHAPTER V AT THE CHATEAU DE BRUYERES
 CHAPTER VI A SNOW-STORM AND ITS CONSEQUENCES
 CHAPTER VII CAPTAIN FRACASSE
 CHAPTER VIII THE DUKE OF VALLOMBREUSE
 CHAPTER IX A MELEE AND A DUEL
 CHAPTER X A MIDNIGHT ADVENTURE
 CHAPTER XI THE PONT-NEUF
 CHAPTER XII THE CROWNED RADISH
 CHAPTER XIII A DOUBLE ATTACK
 CHAPTER XIV LAMPOURDE’S DELICACY
 CHAPTER XV MALARTIC AT WORK
 CHAPTER XVI VALLOMBREUSE
 CHAPTER XVII THE AMETHYST RING
 CHAPTER XVIII A FAMILY PARTY
 CHAPTER XIX NETTLES AND COBWEBS
 CHAPTER XX CHIQUITA’S DECLARATION OF LOVE
 CHAPTER XXI HYMEN! OH HYMEN!
 CHAPTER XXII THE CASTLE OF HAPPINESS




CAPTAIN FRACASSE




CHAPTER I.
CASTLE MISERY


Upon the southern slope of one of those barren hills that rise abruptly
here and there in the desolate expanse of the Landes, in South-western
France, stood, in the reign of Louis XIII, a gentleman’s residence,
such as abound in Gascony, and which the country people dignify by the
name of château.

Two tall towers, with extinguisher tops, mounted guard at the angles of
the mansion, and gave it rather a feudal air. The deep grooves upon its
facade betrayed the former existence of a draw-bridge, rendered
unnecessary now by the filling up of the moat, while the towers were
draped for more than half their height with a most luxuriant growth of
ivy, whose deep, rich green contrasted happily with the ancient gray
walls.

A traveller, seeing from afar the steep pointed roof and lofty towers
standing out against the sky, above the furze and heather that crowned
the hill-top, would have pronounced it a rather imposing château—the
residence probably of some provincial magnate; but as he drew near
would have quickly found reason to change his opinion. The road which
led to it from the highway was entirely overgrown with moss and weeds,
save a narrow pathway in the centre, though two deep ruts, full of
water, and inhabited by a numerous family of frogs, bore mute witness
to the fact that carriages had once passed that way.

The roof, of dark red tiles, was disfigured by many large,
leprous-looking, yellow patches, while in some places the decayed
rafters had given way, leaving formidable gaps. The numerous
weather-cocks that surmounted the towers and chimneys were so rusted
that they could no longer budge an inch, and pointed persistently in
various directions. The high dormer windows were partially closed by
old wooden shutters, warped, split, and in every stage of dilapidation;
broken stones filled up the loop-holes and openings in the towers; of
the twelve large windows in the front of the house, eight were boarded
up; the remaining four had small diamond-shaped panes of thick,
greenish glass, fitting so loosely in their leaden frames that they
shook and rattled at every breath of wind; between these windows a
great deal of the stucco had fallen off, leaving the rough wall exposed
to view.

Above the grand old entrance door, whose massive stone frame and lintel
retained traces of rich ornamentation, almost obliterated by time and
neglect, was sculptured a coat of arms, now so defaced that the most
accomplished adept in heraldry would not be able to decipher it. Only
one leaf of the great double door was ever opened now, for not many
guests were received or entertained at the château in these days of its
decadence. Swallows had built their nests in every available nook about
it, and but for a slender thread of smoke rising spirally from a
chimney at the back of this dismal, half-ruined mansion, the traveller
would have surely believed it to be uninhabited. This was the only sign
of life visible about the whole place, like the little cloud upon the
mirror from the breath of a dying man, which alone gives evidence that
he still lives.

Upon pushing open the practicable leaf of the great worm-eaten door,
which yielded reluctantly, and creaked dolefully as it turned upon its
rusty hinges, the curious visitor entered a sort of portico, more
ancient than the rest of the building, with fine, large columns of
bluish granite, and a lofty vaulted roof. At the point of intersection
of the arches was a stone shield, bearing the same coat of arms that
was sculptured over the entrance without. This one was in somewhat
better preservation than the other, and seemed to bear something
resembling three golden storks (cigognes) on an azure field; though it
was so much in shadow, and so faded and dingy, that it was impossible
to make it out clearly. Fastened to the wall, at a convenient height
from the ground, were great iron extinguishers, blackened by the smoke
from torches in long by-gone years, and also iron rings, to which the
guests’ horses were made fast in the olden times, when the castle was
in its glory. The dust that lay thick upon them now showed that it was
long since they had been made use of.

From this portico—whence a door on either side opened into the main
building; one leading into a long suite of apartments on the ground
floor, and the other into what had probably been a guard-room—the
explorer passed into an interior court, dismal, damp, and bare. In the
corners nettles and various rank weeds were growing riotously amid the
great heaps of rubbish fallen from the crumbling cornice high above,
and grass had sprung up everywhere in the crevices of the stone
pavement. Opposite the entrance a flight of dilapidated, shaky steps,
with a heavy stone balustrade, led down into a neglected garden, which
was gradually becoming a perfect thicket. Excepting in one small bed,
where a few cabbages were growing, there was no attempt at cultivation,
and nature had reasserted her rights everywhere else in this abandoned
spot, taking, apparently, a fierce delight in effacing all traces of
man’s labour. The fruit trees threw out irregular branches without fear
of the pruning knife; the box, intended to form a narrow border to the
curiously shaped flower-beds and grass-plots, had grown up unchecked
into huge, bushy shrubs, while a great variety of sturdy weeds had
usurped the places formerly devoted to choice plants and beautiful,
fragrant flowers. Brambles, bristling with sharp thorns, which had
thrown their long, straggling arms across the paths, caught and tried
to hold back any bold adventurer who attempted to penetrate into the
mysterious depths of this desolate wilderness. Solitude is averse to
being surprised in dishabille, and surrounds herself with all sorts of
defensive obstacles.

However, the courageous explorer who persisted in following the
ancient, overgrown alley, and was not to be daunted by formidable
briers that tore his hands and clothing, nor low-hanging, closely
interlaced branches that struck him smart blows in the face as he
forced his way through them, would have reached at last a sort of rocky
niche, fancifully arranged as a grotto. Besides the masses of ivy, iris
and gladiolus, that had been carefully planted long ago in the
interstices of the rock, it was draped with a profusion of graceful
wild vines and feathery ferns, which half-veiled the marble statue,
representing some mythological divinity, that still stood in this
lonely retreat. It must have been intended for Flora or Pomona, but now
there were tufts of repulsive, venomous-looking mushrooms in the
pretty, graceful, little basket on her arm, instead of the sculptured
fruit or flowers that should have filled it. Although her nose was
broken, and her fair body disfigured by many dark stains, and overgrown
in part with clinging mosses, it could still plainly be seen that she
had once been very lovely. At her feet was a marble basin, shaped like
a shell, half full of discoloured, stagnant water; the lion’s head just
above it, now almost entirely concealed by a thick curtain of leaves,
no longer poured forth the sparkling stream that used to fall into it
with a musical murmur. This little grotto, with its fountain and
statue, bore witness to former wealth; and also to the aesthetic taste
of some long-dead owner of the domain. The marble goddess was in the
Florentine style of the Renaissance, and probably the work of one of
those Italian sculptors who followed in the train of del Rosso or
Primaticcio, when they came to France at the bidding of that generous
patron of the arts, Francis I; which time was also, apparently, the
epoch of the greatest prosperity of this noble family, now so utterly
fallen into decay.

Behind the grotto rose a high wall, built of stone, crumbling and
mouldy now, but still bearing some broken remains of trellis-work,
evidently intended to be covered with creepers that would entirely
conceal the wall itself with a rich tapestry of verdure. This was the
limit of the garden; beyond stretched the wide expanse of the sandy,
barren Landes, flecked here and there with patches of scanty heather,
and scattered groves of pine trees.

Turning back towards the château it became apparent that this side of
it was even more neglected and ruinous than the one we have already
described; the recent poverty-stricken owners having tried to keep up
appearances as far as possible, and concentrated their efforts upon the
front of their dilapidated abode. In the stable, where were stalls for
twenty horses, a miserable, old, white pony stood at an empty manger,
nibbling disconsolately at a scanty truss of hay, and frequently
turning his sunken, lack-lustre eyes expectantly towards the door. In
front of an extensive kennel, where the lord of the manor used to keep
a whole pack of hounds, a single dog, pathetically thin, lay sleeping
tranquilly and soundly, apparently so accustomed to the unbroken
solitude of the place that he had abandoned all habits of watchfulness.

Entering the château the visitor found himself in a broad and lofty
hall, containing a grand old staircase, with a richly carved, wooden
balustrade—a good deal broken and defaced now, like everything else in
this doleful Castle Misery. The walls had been elaborately frescoed,
representing colossal figures of Hercules supporting brackets upon
which rested the heavily ornamented cornice. Springing from it
fantastic vines climbed upward on the arched ceiling, and above them
the blue sky, faded and dingy, was grotesquely variegated with dark
spots, caused by the water filtering through from the dilapidated roof.
Between the oft-repeated figures of Hercules were frescoed niches,
wherein heads of Roman emperors and other illustrious historical
characters had been depicted in glowing tints; but all were so vague
and dim now that they were but the ghosts of pictures, which should be
described with the shadows of words—ordinary terms are too substantial
to apply to them. The very echoes in this deserted hall seemed startled
and amazed as they repeated and multiplied the unwonted sound of
footsteps.

A door near the head of the first flight of stairs opened into what had
evidently been the great banqueting hall in the old days when sumptuous
repasts and numerous guests were not uncommon things in the château. A
huge beam divided the lofty ceiling into two compartments, which were
crossed at regular intervals by smaller joists, richly carved, and
retaining some traces of gilding. The spaces between had been
originally of a deep blue tint, almost lost now under the thick coating
of dust and spiders’ webs that no housemaid’s mop ever invaded. Above
the grand old chimney-piece was a noble stag’s head, with huge,
spreading antlers, and on the walls hung rows of ancient family
portraits, so faded and mouldy now that most of the faces had a ghastly
hue, and at night, by the dim, flickering lamp-light, they looked like
a company of spectres. Nothing in the world is sadder than a collection
of old portraits hanging thus, neglected and forgotten, in deserted
halls—representations, half obliterated themselves, of forms and faces
long since returned to dust. Yet these painted phantoms were most
appropriate inhabitants of this desolate abode; real living people
would have seemed out of place in the death-stricken house.

In the middle of the room stood an immense dining-table of dark,
polished wood, much worm-eaten, and gradually falling into decay. Two
tall buffets, elaborately carved and ornamented, stood on opposite
sides of the room, with only a few odd pieces of Palissy ware,
representing lizards, crabs, and shell-fish, reposing on shiny green
leaves, and two or three delicate wine-glasses of quaint patterns
remaining upon the shelves where gold and silver plate used to glitter
in rich profusion, as was the mode in France. The handsome old chairs,
with their high, carved backs and faded velvet cushions, that had been
so firm and luxurious once, were tottering and insecure; but it
mattered little, since no one ever came to sit in them now round the
festive board, and they stood against the wall in prim order, under the
rows of family portraits.

A smaller room opened out of this one, hung round with faded,
moth-eaten tapestry. In one corner stood a large bed, with four tall,
twisted columns and long, ample curtains of rich brocade, which had
been delicate green and white, but now were of a dingy, yellowish hue,
and cut completely through from top to bottom in every fold. An ebony
table, with some pretty gilded ornaments still clinging to it, a mirror
dim with age, and two large arm-chairs, covered with worn and faded
embroidery, that had been wrought by the fair fingers of some noble
dame long since dead and forgotten, completed the furniture of this
dismal chamber.

In these two rooms were the latticed windows seen in the front of the
château, and over them still hung long sweeping curtains, so tattered
and moth-eaten that they were almost falling to pieces. Profound
silence reigned here, unbroken save by occasional scurrying and
squeaking of mice behind the wainscot, the gnawing of rats in the wall,
or the ticking of the death-watch.

From the tapestried chamber a door opened into a long suite of deserted
rooms, which were lofty and of noble proportions, but devoid of
furniture, and given up to dust, spiders, and rats. The apartments on
the floor above them were the home of great numbers of bats, owls, and
jackdaws, who found ready ingress through the large holes in the roof.
Every evening they flew forth in flocks, with much flapping of wings,
and weird, melancholy cries and shrieks, in search of the food not to
be found in the immediate vicinity of this forlorn mansion.

The apartments on the ground floor contained nothing but a few bundles
of straw, a heap of corn-cobs, and some antiquated gardening
implements. In one of them, however, was a rude bed, covered with a
single, coarse blanket; presumably that of the only domestic remaining
in the whole establishment.

It was from the kitchen chimney that the little spiral of smoke escaped
which was seen from without. A few sticks were burning in the wide,
old-fashioned fireplace, but the flames looked pale under the bright
light that streamed down upon them through the broad, straight flue.
The pot that hung from the clumsy iron crane was boiling sleepily, and
if the curious visitor could have peeped into it he would have seen
that the little cabbage bed in the garden had contributed of its
produce to the _pot-au-feu_. An old black cat was sitting as close to
the fire as he could without singeing his whiskers, and gravely
watching the simmering pot with longing eyes. His ears had been closely
cropped, and he had not a vestige of a tail, so that he looked like one
of those grotesque Japanese chimeras that everybody is familiar with.
Upon the table, near at hand, a white plate, a tin drinking cup, and a
china dish, bearing the family arms stamped in blue, were neatly
arranged, evidently in readiness for somebody’s supper. For a long time
the cat remained perfectly motionless, intently watching the pot which
had almost ceased to boil as the fire got low, and the silence
continued unbroken; but at last a slow, heavy step was heard
approaching from without, and presently the door opened to admit an old
man, who looked half peasant, half gentleman’s servant. The black cat
immediately quitted his place by the fire and went to meet him; rubbing
himself against the newcomer’s legs, arching his back and purring
loudly; testifying his joy in every way possible to him.

“Well, well, Beelzebub,” said the old man, bending down and stroking
him affectionately, “are you really so glad to see me? Yes, I know you
are, and it pleases me, old fellow, so it does. We are so lonely here,
my poor young master and I, that even the welcome of a dumb beast is
not to be despised. They do say that you have no soul, Beelzebub, but
you certainly do love us, and understand most times what we say to you
too.” These greetings exchanged, Beelzebub led the way back to the
fire, and then with beseeching eyes, looking alternately from the face
of his friend to the _pot-au-feu_, seemed mutely begging for his share
of its contents. Poor Beelzebub was growing so old that he could no
longer catch as many rats and mice as his appetite craved, and he was
evidently very hungry.

Pierre, that was the old servant’s name, threw more wood on the
smouldering fire, and then sat down on a settle in the chimney corner,
inviting his companion—who had to wait still for his supper as
patiently as he might—to take a seat beside him. The firelight shone
full upon the old man’s honest, weather-beaten face, the few scattered
locks of snow-white hair escaping from under his dark blue woollen cap,
his thick, black eyebrows and deep wrinkles. He had the usual
characteristics of the Basque race; a long face, hooked nose, and dark,
gipsy-like complexion. He wore a sort of livery, which was so old and
threadbare that it would be impossible to make out its original colour,
and his stiff, soldier-like carriage and movements proclaimed that he
had at some time in his life served in a military capacity. “The young
master is late to-night,” he muttered to himself, as the daylight
faded. “What possible pleasure can he find in these long, solitary
rambles over the dunes? It is true though that it is so dreary here, in
this lonely, dismal house, that any other place is preferable.”

At this moment a joyous barking was heard without, the old pony in the
stable stamped and whinnied, and the cat jumped down from his place
beside Pierre and trotted off towards the door with great alacrity. In
an instant the latch was lifted, and the old servant rose, taking off
his woollen cap respectfully, as his master came into the kitchen. He
was preceded by the poor old dog, trying to jump up on him, but falling
back every time without being able to reach his face, and Beelzebub
seemed to welcome them both—showing no evidence of the antipathy
usually existing between the feline and canine races; on the contrary,
receiving Miraut with marks of affection which were fully reciprocated.

The Baron de Sigognac, for it was indeed the lord of the manor who now
entered, was a young man of five or six and twenty; though at first
sight he seemed much older, because of the deep gravity, even sadness,
of his demeanour; the feeling of utter powerlessness which poverty
brings having effectually chased away all the natural piety and
light-heartedness of youth. Dark circles surrounded his sunken eyes,
his cheeks were hollow, his mustache drooped in a sorrowful curve over
his sad mouth. His long black hair was negligently pushed back from his
pale face, and showed a want of care remarkable in a young man who was
strikingly handsome, despite his doleful desponding expression. The
constant pressure of a crushing grief had drawn sorrowful lines in a
countenance that a little animation would have rendered charming. All
the elasticity and hopefulness natural to his age seemed to have been
lost in his useless struggles against an unhappy fate. Though his frame
was lithe, vigorous, and admirably proportioned, all his movements were
slow and apathetic, like those of an old man. His gestures were
entirely devoid of animation, his whole expression inert, and it was
evidently a matter of perfect indifference to him where he might chance
to find himself at home, in his dismal château, or abroad in the
desolate Landes.

He had on an old gray felt hat, much too large for him, with a dingy,
shabby feather, that drooped as if it felt heartily ashamed of itself,
and the miserable condition to which it was reduced. A broad collar of
guipure lace, ragged in many places, was turned down over a
just-au-corps, which had been cut for a taller and much stouter man
than the slender, young baron. The sleeves of his doublet were so long
that they fell over his hands, which were small and shapely, and there
were large iron spurs on the clumsy, old-fashioned riding-boots he
wore. These shabby, antiquated clothes had belonged to his father; they
were made according to the fashion that prevailed during the preceding
reign; and the poor young nobleman, whose appearance in them was both
ridiculous and touching, might have been taken for one of his own
ancestors. Although he tenderly cherished his father’s memory, and
tears often came into his eyes as he put on these garments that had
seemed actually a part of him, yet it was not from choice that young de
Sigognac availed himself of the paternal wardrobe. Unfortunately he had
no other clothes, save those of his boyhood, long ago outgrown, and so
he was thankful to have these, distasteful as they could not fail to be
to him. The peasants, who had been accustomed to hold them in respect
when worn by their old seignior, did not think it strange or absurd to
see them on his youthful successor; just as they did not seem to notice
or be aware of the half-ruined condition of the château. It had come so
gradually that they were thoroughly used to it, and took it as a matter
of course. The Baron de Sigognac, though poverty-stricken and forlorn,
was still in their eyes the noble lord of the manor; the decadence of
the family did not strike them at all as it would a stranger; and yet
it was a grotesquely melancholy sight to see the poor young nobleman
pass by, in his shabby old clothes, on his miserable old pony, and
followed by his forlorn old dog.

The baron sat down in silence at the table prepared for him, having
recognised Pierre’s respectful salute by a kindly gesture. The old
servant immediately busied himself in serving his master’s frugal
supper; first pouring the hot soup—which was of that kind, popular
among the poor peasantry of Gascony, called “garbure”—upon some bread
cut into small pieces in an earthen basin, which he set before the
baron; then, fetching from the cupboard a dish of bacon, cold, and
cooked in Gascon fashion, he placed that also upon the table, and had
nothing else to add to this meagre repast. The baron ate it slowly,
with an absent air, while Miraut and Beelzebub, one on each side of
him, received their full share from his kind hand.

The supper finished, he fell into a deep reverie. Miraut had laid his
head caressingly upon his master’s knee, and looked up into his face
with loving, intelligent eyes, somewhat dimmed by age, but still
seeming to understand his thoughts and sympathize with his sadness.
Beelzebub purred loudly meantime, and occasionally mewed plaintively to
attract his attention, while Pierre stood in a respectful attitude, cap
in hand, at a little distance, motionless as a statue, waiting
patiently until his master’s wandering thoughts should return. By this
time the darkness had fallen, and the flickering radiance from the few
sticks blazing in the great fireplace made strange effects of light and
shade in the spacious old kitchen. It was a sad picture; this last
scion of a noble race, formerly rich and powerful, left wandering like
an uneasy ghost in the castle of his ancestors, with but one faithful
old servant remaining to him of the numerous retinue of the olden
times; one poor old dog, half starved, and gray with age, where used to
be a pack of thirty hounds; one miserable, superannuated pony in the
stable where twenty horses had been wont to stand; and one old cat to
beg for caresses from his hand.

At last the baron roused himself, and signed to Pierre that he wished
to retire to his own chamber; whereupon the servant lighted a pine knot
at the fire, and preceded his master up the stairs, Miraut and
Beelzebub accompanying them. The smoky, flaring light of the torch made
the faded figures on the wall seem to waver and move as they passed
through the hall and up the broad staircase, and gave a strange, weird
expression to the family portraits that looked down upon this little
procession as it moved by below them. When they reached the tapestried
chamber Pierre lighted a little copper lamp, and then bade the baron
good-night, followed by Miraut as he retraced his steps to the kitchen;
but Beelzebub, being a privileged character, remained, and curled
himself up comfortably in one of the old arm-chairs, while his master
threw himself listlessly into the other, in utter despair at the
thought of his miserable loneliness, and aimless, hopeless life. If the
chamber seemed dreary and forlorn by day, it was far more so by night.
The faded figures in the tapestry had an uncanny look; especially one,
a hunter, who might have passed for an assassin, just taking aim at his
victim. The smile on his startlingly red lips, in reality only a
self-satisfied smirk, was fairly devilish in that light, and his
ghastly face horribly life-like. The lamp burned dimly in the damp
heavy air, the wind sighed and moaned along the corridors, and strange,
frightful sounds came from the deserted chambers close at hand. The
storm that had long been threatening had come at last, and large, heavy
rain-drops were driven violently against the window-panes by gusts of
wind that made them rattle loudly in their leaden frames. Sometimes it
seemed as if the whole sash would give way before the fiercer blasts,
as though a giant had set his knee against it, and was striving to
force an entrance. Now and again, when the wind lulled for a moment
while it gathered strength for a fresh assault, the horrid shriek of an
owl would be heard above the dashing of the rain that was falling in
torrents.

The master of this dismal mansion paid little attention to this
lugubrious symphony, but Beelzebub was very uneasy, starting up at
every sound, and peering into the shadowy corners of the room, as if he
could see there something invisible to human eyes. The baron took up a
little book that was lying upon the table, glanced at the familiar arms
stamped upon its tarnished cover, and opening it, began to read in a
listless, absent way. His eyes followed the smooth rhythm of Ronsard’s
ardent love-songs and stately sonnets, but his thoughts were wandering
far afield, and he soon threw the book from him with an impatient
gesture, and began slowly unfastening his garments, with the air of a
man who is not sleepy, but only goes to bed because he does not know
what else to do with himself, and has perhaps a faint hope of
forgetting his troubles in the embrace of Morpheus, most blessed of all
the gods. The sand runs so slowly in the hour-glass on a dark, stormy
night, in a half-ruined castle, ten leagues away from any living soul.

The poor young baron, only surviving representative of an ancient and
noble house, had much indeed to make him melancholy and despondent. His
ancestors had worked their own ruin, and that of their descendants, in
various ways. Some by gambling, some in the army, some by undue
prodigality in living—in order that they might shine at court—so that
each generation had left the estate more and more diminished. The
fiefs, the farms, the land surrounding the château itself, all had been
sold, one after the other, and the last baron, after desperate efforts
to retrieve the fallen fortunes of the family—efforts which came too
late, for it is useless to try to stop the leaks after the vessel has
gone down—had left his son nothing but this half-ruined château and the
few acres of barren land immediately around it. The unfortunate child
had been born and brought up in poverty. His mother had died young,
broken-hearted at the wretched prospects of her only son; so that he
could not even remember her sweet caresses and tender, loving care. His
father had been very stern with him; punishing him severely for the
most trivial offences; yet he would have been glad now even of his
sharp rebukes, so terribly lonely had he been for the last four years;
ever since his father was laid in the family vault. His youthful pride
would not allow him to associate with the noblesse of the province
without the accessories suitable to his rank, though he would have been
received with open arms by them, so his solitude was never invaded.
Those who knew his circumstances respected as well as pitied the poor,
proud young baron, while many of the former friends of the family
believed that it was extinct; which indeed it inevitably would be, with
this its only remaining scion, if things went on much longer as they
had been going for many years past.

The baron had not yet removed a single garment when his attention was
attracted by the strange uneasiness of Beelzebub, who finally jumped
down from his arm-chair, went straight to one of the windows, and
raising himself on his hind legs put his fore-paws on the casing and
stared out into the thick darkness, where it was impossible to
distinguish anything but the driving rain. A loud howl from Miraut at
the same moment proclaimed that he too was aroused, and that something
very unusual must be going on in the vicinity of the château,
ordinarily as quiet as the grave. Miraut kept up persistently a furious
barking, and the baron gave up all idea of going to bed. He hastily
readjusted his dress, so that he might be in readiness for whatever
should happen, and feeling a little excited at this novel commotion.

“What can be the matter with poor old Miraut? He usually sleeps from
sunset to sunrise without making a sound, save his snores. Can it be
that a wolf is prowling about the place?” said the young man to
himself, as he buckled the belt of his sword round his slender waist. A
formidable weapon it was, that sword, with long blade, and heavy iron
scabbard.

At that moment three loud knocks upon the great outer door resounded
through the house. Who could possibly have strayed here at this hour,
so far from the travelled roads, and in this tempest that was making
night horrible without? No such thing had occurred within the baron’s
recollection. What could it portend?




CHAPTER II.
THE CHARIOT OF THESPIS


The Baron de Sigognac went down the broad staircase without a moment’s
delay to answer this mysterious summons, protecting with his hand the
feeble flame of the small lamp he carried from the many draughts that
threatened to blow it out. The light, shining through his slender
fingers, gave them a rosy tinge, so that he merited the epithet applied
by Homer, the immortal bard, to the laughing, beautiful Aurora, even
though he advanced through the thick darkness with his usual melancholy
mien, and followed by a black cat, instead of preceding the glorious
god of day.

Setting down his lamp in a sheltered corner, he proceeded to take down
the massive bar that secured the door, cautiously opened the
practicable leaf, and found himself face to face with a man, upon whom
the light of the lamp shone sufficiently to show rather a grotesque
figure, standing uncovered in the pelting rain. His head was bald and
shining, with a few locks of gray hair clustering about the temples. A
jolly red nose, bulbous in form, a small pair of twinkling, roguish
eyes, looking out from under bushy, jet-black eyebrows, flabby cheeks,
over which was spread a network of purplish fibres, full, sensual lips,
and a scanty, straggling beard, that scarcely covered the short, round
chin, made up a physiognomy worthy to serve as the model for a Silenus;
for it was plainly that of a wine-bibber and _bon vivant_. Yet a
certain expression of good humour and kindness, almost of gentleness,
redeemed what would otherwise have been a repulsive face. The comical
little wrinkles gathering about the eyes, and the merry upward turn of
the comers of the mouth, showed a disposition to smile as he met the
inquiring gaze of the young baron, but he only bowed repeatedly and
profoundly, with exaggerated politeness and respect.

This extraordinary pantomime finished, with a grand flourish, the
burlesque personage, still standing uncovered in the pouring rain,
anticipated the question upon de Sigognac’s lips, and began at once the
following address, in an emphatic and declamatory tone:

“I pray you deign to excuse, noble seignior, my having come thus to
knock at the gates of your castle in person at this untimely hour,
without sending a page or a courier in advance, to announce my approach
in a suitable manner. Necessity knows no law, and forces the most
polished personages to be guilty of gross breaches of etiquette at
times.”

“What is it you want?” interrupted the baron, in rather a peremptory
tone, annoyed by the absurd address of this strange old creature, whose
sanity he began to doubt.

“Hospitality, most noble seignior; hospitality for myself and my
comrades—princes and princesses, heroes and beauties, men of letters
and great captains, pretty waiting-maids and honest valets, who travel
through the provinces from town to town in the chariot of Thespis,
drawn by oxen, as in the ancient times. This chariot is now hopelessly
stuck in the mud only a stone’s throw from your castle, my noble lord.”

“If I understand aright what you say,” answered the baron, “you are a
strolling band of players, and have lost your way. Though my house is
sadly dilapidated, and I cannot offer you more than mere shelter, you
are heartily welcome to that, and will be better off within here than
exposed to the fury of this wild storm.”

The pedant—for such seemed to be his character in the troupe—bowed his
acknowledgments.

During this colloquy, Pierre, awakened by Miraut’s loud barking, had
risen and joined his master at the door. As soon as he was informed of
what had occurred, he lighted a lantern, and with the baron set forth,
under the guidance of the droll old actor, to find and rescue the
chariot in distress. When they reached it Leander and Matamore were
tugging vainly at the wheels, while his majesty, the king, pricked up
the weary oxen with the point of his dagger. The actresses, wrapped in
their cloaks and seated in the rude chariot, were in despair, and much
frightened as well—wet and weary too, poor things. This most welcome
re-enforcement inspired all with fresh courage, and, guided by Pierre’s
suggestions, they soon succeeded in getting the unwieldy vehicle out of
the quagmire and into the road leading to the château, which was
speedily reached, and the huge equipage safely piloted through the
grand portico into the interior court. The oxen were at once taken from
before it and led into the stable, while the actresses followed de
Sigognac up to the ancient banqueting hall, which was the most
habitable room in the château. Pierre brought some wood, and soon had a
bright fire blazing cheerily in the great fireplace. It was needed,
although but the beginning of September and the weather still warm, to
dry the dripping garments of the company; and besides, the air was so
damp and chilly in this long disused apartment that the genial warmth
and glow of the fire were welcome to all.

Although the strolling comedians were accustomed to find themselves in
all sorts of odd, strange lodgings in the course of their wanderings,
they now looked with astonishment at their extraordinary surroundings;
being careful, however, like well-bred people, not to manifest too
plainly the surprise they could not help feeling.

“I regret very much that I cannot offer you a supper,” said their young
host, when all had assembled round the fire, “but my larder is so bare
that a mouse could not find enough for a meal in it. I live quite alone
in this house with my faithful old Pierre; never visited by anybody;
and you can plainly perceive, without my telling you, that plenty does
not abound here.”

“Never mind that, noble seignior,” answered Blazius, the pedant, “for
though on the stage we may sit down to mock repasts—pasteboard fowls
and wooden bottles—we are careful to provide ourselves with more
substantial and savoury viands in real life. As quartermaster of the
troupe I always have in reserve a Bayonne ham, a game pasty, or
something, of that sort, with at least a dozen bottles of good old
Bordeaux.”

“Bravo, sir pedant,” cried Leander, “do you go forthwith and fetch in
the provisions; and if his lordship will permit, and deign to join us,
we will have our little feast here. The ladies will set the table for
us meanwhile I am sure.”

The baron graciously nodded his assent, being in truth so amazed at the
whole proceeding that he could not easily have found words just then;
and he followed with wondering and admiring eyes the graceful movements
of Serafina and Isabelle, who, quitting their seats by the fire,
proceeded to arrange upon the worn but snow-white cloth that Pierre had
spread on the ancient dining-table, the plates and other necessary
articles that the old servant brought forth from the recesses of the
carved buffets. The pedant quickly came back, carrying a large basket
in each hand, and with a triumphant air placed a huge pasty of most
tempting appearance in the middle of the table. To this he added a
large smoked tongue, some slices of rosy Bayonne ham, and six bottles
of wine.

Beelzebub watched these interesting preparations from a distance with
eager eyes, but was too much afraid of all these strangers to approach
and claim a share of the good things on the table. The poor beast was
so accustomed to solitude and quiet, never seeing any one beyond his
beloved master and Pierre, that he was horribly frightened at the
sudden irruption of these noisy newcomers.

Finding the feeble light of the baron’s small lamp rather dim, Matamore
bad gone out to the chariot and brought back two showy candelabra,
which ordinarily did duty on the stage. They each held several candles,
which, in addition to the warm radiance from the blazing fire, made
quite a brilliant illumination in this room, so lately dark, cheerless,
and deserted. It had become warm and comfortable by this time; its
family portraits and tarnished splendour looked their best in the
bright, soft light, which had chased away the dark shadows and given a
new beauty to everything it fell upon; the whole place was
metamorphosed; a festive air prevailed, and the ancient banqueting hall
once more resounded with cheery voices and gay laughter.

The poor young baron, to whom all this had been intensely disagreeable
at first, became aware of a strange feeling of comfort and pleasure
stealing over him, to which, after a short struggle, he finally yielded
himself entirely. Isabelle, Serafina, even the pretty _soubrette_,
seemed to him, unaccustomed as he was to feminine beauty and grace,
like goddesses come down from Mount Olympus, rather than mere ordinary
mortals. They were all very pretty, and well fitted to turn heads far
more experienced than his. The whole thing was like a delightful dream
to him; he almost doubted the evidence of his own senses, and every few
minutes found himself dreading the awakening, and the vanishing of the
entrancing vision.

When all was ready de Sigognac led Isabelle and Serafina to the table,
placing one on each side of him, with the pretty _soubrette_ opposite.
Mme. Léonarde, the duenna of the troupe, sat beside the pedant,
Leander, Matamore, his majesty the tyrant, and Scapin finding places
for themselves. The youthful host was now able to study the faces of
his guests at his ease, as they sat round the table in the full light
of the candles burning upon it in the two theatrical candelabra. He
turned his attention to the ladies first, and it perhaps will not be
out of place to give a little sketch of them here, while the pedant
attacks the gigantic game pasty.

Serafina, the “leading lady” of the troupe, was a handsome young woman
of four or five and twenty, who had quite a grand air, and was as
dignified and graceful withal as any veritable noble dame who shone at
the court of his most gracious majesty, Louis XIII. She had an oval
face, slightly aquiline nose, large gray eyes, bright red lips—the
under one full and pouting, like a ripe cherry—-a very fair complexion,
with a beautiful colour in her cheeks when she was animated or excited,
and rich masses of dark brown hair most becomingly arranged. She wore a
round felt hat, with the wide rim turned up at one side, and trimmed
with long, floating plumes. A broad lace collar was turned down over
her dark green velvet dress, which was elaborately braided, and fitted
closely to a fine, well-developed figure. A long, black silk scarf was
worn negligently around her shapely shoulders and although both velvet
and silk were old and dingy, and the feathers in her hat wet and limp,
they were still very effective, and she looked like a young queen who
had strayed away from her realm; the freshness and radiant beauty of
her face more than made up for the shabbiness of her dress, and de
Sigognac was fairly dazzled by her many charms.

Isabelle was much more youthful than Serafina, as was requisite for her
role of ingenuous young girl, and far more simply dressed. She had a
sweet, almost childlike face, beautiful, silky, chestnut hair, with
golden lights in it, dark, sweeping lashes veiling her large, soft
eyes, a little rosebud of a mouth, and an air of modesty and purity
that was evidently natural to her—not assumed. A gray silk gown, simply
made, showed to advantage her slender, graceful form, which seemed far
too fragile to endure the hardships inseparable from the wandering life
she was leading. A high Elizabethan ruff made a most becoming frame for
her sweet, delicately tinted, young face, and her only ornament was a
string of pearl beads, clasped round her slender, white neck. Though
her beauty was less striking at first sight than Serafina’s, it was of
a higher order: not dazzling like hers, but surpassingly lovely in its
exquisite purity and freshness, and promising to eclipse the other’s
more showy charms, when the half-opened bud should have expanded into
the full-blown flower.

The _soubrette_ was like a beautiful Gipsy, with a clear, dark
complexion, rich, mantling colour in her velvety cheeks, intensely
black hair—long, thick, and wavy—great, flashing, brown eyes, and
rather a large mouth, with ripe, red lips, and dazzling white
teeth—one’s very beau-ideal of a bewitching, intriguing waiting-maid,
and one that might be a dangerous rival to any but a surpassingly
lovely and fascinating mistress. She was one of the beauties that women
are not apt to admire, but men rave about and run after the world over.
She wore a fantastic costume of blue and yellow, which was odd,
piquant, and becoming, and seemed fully conscious of her own charms.

Mme. Léonarde, the “noble mother” of the troupe dressed all in black,
like a Spanish duenna, was portly of figure, with a heavy, very pale
face, double chin, and intensely black eyes, that had a crafty,
slightly malicious expression. She had been upon the stage from her
early childhood, passing through all the different phases, and was an
actress of decided talent, often still winning enthusiastic applause at
the expense of younger and more attractive women, who were inclined to
think her something of an old sorceress.

So much for the feminine element. The principal roles were all
represented; and if occasionally a re-enforcement was required, they
could almost always pick up some provincial actress, or even an
amateur, at a pinch. The actors were five in number: The pedant,
already described, who rejoiced in the name of Blazitis; Leander;
Hérode, the tragic tyrant; Matamore, the bully; and Scapin, the
intriguing valet.

Leander, the romantic, irresistible, young lover—darling of the
ladies—was a tall, fine-looking fellow of about thirty, though
apparently much more youthful, thanks to the assiduous care he bestowed
on his handsome person. His slightly curly, black hair was worn long,
so that he might often have occasion to push it back from his forehead,
with a hand as white and delicate as a woman’s, upon one of whose taper
fingers sparkled an enormous diamond—a great deal too big to be real.
He was rather fancifully dressed, and always falling into such
graceful, languishing attitudes as he thought would be admired by the
fair sex, whose devoted slave he was. This Adonis never for one moment
laid aside his role. He punctuated his sentences with sighs, even when
speaking of the most indifferent matters, and assumed all sorts of
preposterous airs and graces, to the secret amusement of his
companions. But he had great success among the ladies, who all
flattered him and declared he was charming, until they had turned his
head completely; and it was his firm belief that he was irresistibly
fascinating.

The tyrant was the most good-natured, easy-going creature imaginable;
but, strangely enough, gifted by nature with all the external signs of
ferocity. With his tall, burly frame, very dark skin, immensely thick,
shaggy eyebrows, black as jet, crinkly, bushy hair of the same hue, and
long beard, that grew far up on his cheeks, he was a very formidable,
fierce-looking fellow; and when he spoke, his loud, deep voice made
everything ring again. He affected great dignity, and filled his role
to perfection.

Matamore was as different as possible, painfully thin—scarcely more
than mere skin and bones—a living skeleton with a large hooked nose,
set in a long, narrow face, a huge mustache turned up at the ends, and
flashing, black eyes. His excessively tall, lank figure was so
emaciated that it was like a caricature of a man. The swaggering air
suitable to his part had become habitual with him, and he walked always
with immense strides, head well thrown back, and hand on the pommel of
the huge sword he was never seen without.

As to Scapin, he looked more like a fox than anything else, and had a
most villainous countenance; yet he was a good enough fellow in
reality.

The painter has a great advantage over the writer, in that he can so
present the group on his canvas that one glance suffices to take in the
whole picture, with the lights and shadows, attitudes, costumes, and
details of every kind, which are sadly wanting in our description—too
long, though so imperfect—of the party gathered thus unexpectedly round
our young baron’s table. The beginning of the repast was very silent,
until the most urgent demands of hunger had been satisfied. Poor de
Sigognac, who had never perhaps at any one time had as much to eat as
he wanted since he was weaned, attacked the tempting viands with an
appetite and ardour quite new to him; and that too despite his great
desire to appear interesting and romantic in the eyes of the beautiful
young women between whom he was seated. The pedant, very much amused at
the boyish eagerness and enjoyment of his youthful host, quietly heaped
choice bits upon his plate, and watched their rapid disappearance with
beaming satisfaction. Beelzebub had at last plucked up courage and
crept softly under the table to his master, making his presence known
by a quick tapping with his fore-paws upon the baron’s knees; his
claims were at once recognised, and he feasted to his heart’s content
on the savoury morsels quietly thrown down to him. Poor old Miraut, who
had followed Pierre into the room, was not neglected either, and had
his full share of the good things that found their way to his master’s
plate.

By this time there was a good deal of laughing and talking round the
festive board. The baron, though very timid, and much embarrassed, had
ventured to enter into conversation with his fair neighbours. The
pedant and the tyrant were loudly discussing the respective merits of
tragedy and comedy. Leander, like Narcissus of old, was complacently
admiring his own charms as reflected in a little pocket mirror he
always had about him. Strange to say he was not a suitor of either
Serafina’s or Isabelle’s; fortunately for them he aimed higher, and was
always hoping that some grand lady, who saw him on the stage, would
fall violently in love with him, and shower all sorts of favours upon
him. He was in the habit of boasting that he had had many delightful
adventures of the kind, which Scapin persistently denied, declaring
that to his certain knowledge they had never taken place, save in the
aspiring lover’s own vivid imagination. The exasperating valet,
malicious as a monkey, took the greatest delight in tormenting poor
Leander, and never lost an opportunity; so now, seeing him absorbed in
self-admiration, he immediately attacked him, and soon had made him
furious. The quarrel grew loud and violent, and Leander was heard
declaring that he could produce a large chest crammed full of love
letters, written to him by various high and titled ladies; whereupon
everybody laughed uproariously, while Serafina said to de Sigognac that
she for one did not admire their taste, and Isabelle silently looked
her disgust. The baron meantime was more and more charmed with this
sweet, dainty young girl, and though he was too shy to address any
high-flown compliments to her, according to the fashion of the day, his
eyes spoke eloquently for him. She was not at all displeased at his
ardent glances, and smiled radiantly and encouragingly upon him,
thereby unconsciously making poor Matamore, who was secretly enamoured
of her, desperately unhappy, though he well knew that his passion was
an utterly hopeless one. A more skilful and audacious lover would have
pushed his advantage, but our poor young hero had not learned courtly
manners nor assurance in his isolated château, and, though he lacked
neither wit nor learning, it must be confessed that at this moment he
did appear lamentably stupid.

All the bottles having been scrupulously emptied, the pedant turned the
last one of the half dozen upside down, so that every drop might run
out; which significant action was noted and understood by Matamore, who
lost no time in bringing in a fresh supply from the chariot. The baron
began to feel the wine a little in his head, being entirely
unaccustomed to it, yet he could not resist drinking once again to the
health of the ladies. The pedant and the tyrant drank like old topers,
who can absorb any amount of liquor—be it wine, or something
stronger—without becoming actually intoxicated. Matamore was very
abstemious, both in eating and drinking, and could have lived like the
impoverished Spanish hidalgo, who dines on three olives and sups on an
air upon his mandoline. There was a reason for his extreme frugality;
he feared that if he ate and drank like other people he might lose his
phenomenal thinness, which was of inestimable value to him in a
professional point of view. If he should be so unfortunate as to gain
flesh, his attractions would diminish in an inverse ratio, so he
starved himself almost to death, and was constantly seen anxiously
examining the buckle of his belt, to make sure that he had not
increased in girth since his last meal. Voluntary Tantalus, he scarcely
allowed himself enough to keep life in his attenuated frame, and if he
had but fasted as carefully from motives of piety he would have been a
full-fledged saint.

The portly duenna disposed of solids and fluids perseveringly, and in
formidable quantities, seeming to have an unlimited capacity; but
Isabelle and Serafina had finished their supper long ago, and were
yawning wearily behind their pretty, outspread hands, having no fans
within reach, to conceal these pronounced symptoms of sleepiness.

The baron, becoming aware of this state of things, said to them,
“Mesdemoiselles, I perceive that you are very weary, and I wish with
all my heart that I could offer you each a luxurious bed-chamber; but
my house, like my family, has fallen into decay, and I can only give to
you and Madame my own room. Fortunately the bed is very large, and you
must make yourselves as comfortable as you can—for a single night you
will not mind. As to the gentlemen, I must ask them to remain here with
me, and try to sleep in the arm-chairs before the fire. I pray you,
ladies, do not allow yourselves to be startled by the waving of the
tapestry-which is only due to the strong draughts about the room on a
stormy night like this—the moaning of the wind in the chimney, or the
wild scurrying and squeaking of the mice behind the wainscot. I can
guarantee that no ghosts will disturb you here, though this place does
look dreary and dismal enough to be haunted.”

“I am not a bit of a coward,” answered Serafina laughingly, “and will
do my best to reassure this timid little Isabelle. As to our
duenna,—she is something of a sorceress herself, and if the devil in
person should make his appearance he would meet his match in her.”

The baron then took a light in his hand and showed the three ladies the
way into the bed-chamber, which certainly did strike them rather
unpleasantly at first sight, and looked very eerie in the dim,
flickering light of the one small lamp.

“What a capital scene it would make for the fifth act of a tragedy,”
said Serafina, as she looked curiously about her, while poor little
Isabelle shivered with cold and terror. They all crept into bed without
undressing, Isabelle begging to lie between Serafina and Mme. Léonarde,
for she felt nervous and frightened. The other two fell asleep at once,
but the timid young girl lay long awake, gazing with wide-open,
straining eyes at the door that led into the shut-up apartments beyond,
as if she dreaded its opening to admit some unknown horror. But it
remained fast shut, and though all sorts of mysterious noises made her
poor little heart flutter painfully, her eyelids closed at last, and
she forgot her weariness and her fears in profound slumber.

In the other room the pedant slept soundly, with his head on the table,
and the tyrant opposite to him snored like a giant. Matamore had rolled
himself up in a cloak and made himself as comfortable as possible under
the circumstances in a large arm-chair, with his long, thin legs
extended at full length, and his feet on the fender. Leander slept
sitting bolt upright, so as not to disarrange his carefully brushed
hair, and de Sigognac, who had taken possession of a vacant arm-chair,
was too much agitated and excited by the events of the evening to be
able to close his eyes. The coming of two beautiful, young women thus
suddenly into his life—which had been hitherto so isolated, sad and
dreary, entirely devoid of all the usual pursuits and pleasures of
youth—could not fail to rouse him from his habitual apathy, and set his
pulses beating after a new fashion. Incredible as it may seem yet it
was quite true that our young hero had never had a single love affair.
He was too proud, as we have already said, to take his rightful place
among his equals, without any of the appurtenances suitable to his
rank, and also too proud to associate familiarly with the surrounding
peasantry, who accorded him as much respect in his poverty as they had
ever shown to his ancestors in their prosperity. He had no near
relatives to come to his assistance, and so lived on, neglected and
forgotten, in his crumbling château, with nothing to look forward to or
hope for. In the course of his solitary wanderings he had several times
chanced to encounter the young and beautiful Yolande de Foix, following
the hounds on her snow-white palfrey, in company with her father and a
number of the young noblemen of the neighbourhood. This dazzling vision
of beauty often haunted his dreams, but what possible relations could
there ever be hoped for between the rich, courted heiress, whose
suitors were legion, and his own poverty-stricken self? Far from
seeking to attract her attention, he always got out of her sight as
quickly as possible, lest his ill-fitting, shabby garments and
miserable old pony should excite a laugh at his expense; for he was
very sensitive, this poor young nobleman, and could not have borne the
least approach to ridicule from the fair object of his secret and
passionate admiration. He had tried his utmost to stifle the ardent
emotions that filled his heart whenever his thoughts strayed to the
beautiful Yolande, realizing how far above his reach she was, and he
believed that he had succeeded; though there were times even yet when
it all rushed back upon him with overwhelming force, like a huge tidal
wave that sweeps everything before it.

The night passed quietly at the château, without other incident than
the fright of poor Isabelle, when Beelzebub, who had climbed up on the
bed, as was his frequent custom, established himself comfortably upon
her bosom; finding it a deliciously soft, warm resting-place, and
obstinately resisting her frantic efforts to drive him away.

As to de Sigognac, he did not once close his eyes. A vague project was
gradually shaping itself in his mind, keeping him wakeful and
perplexed. The advent of these strolling comedians appeared to him like
a stroke of fate, an ambassador of fortune, to invite him to go out
into the great world, away from this old feudal ruin, where his youth
was passing in misery and inaction—to quit this dreary shade, and
emerge into the light and life of the outer world.

At last the gray light of the dawn came creeping in through the lattice
windows, speedily followed by the first bright rays from the rising
sun. The storm was over, and the glorious god of day rose triumphant in
a perfectly clear sky. It was a strange group that he peeped in upon,
where the old family portraits seemed looking down with haughty
contempt upon the slumbering invaders of their dignified solitude. The
_soubrette_ was the first to awake, starting up as a warm sunbeam shone
caressingly full upon her face. She sprang to her feet, shook out her
skirts, as a bird does its plumage, passed the palms of her hands
lightly over her glossy bands of jet-black hair, and then seeing that
the baron was quietly observing her, with eyes that showed no trace of
drowsiness, she smiled radiantly upon him as she made a low and most
graceful curtsey.

“I am very sorry,” said de Sigognac, as he rose to acknowledge her
salute, “that the ruinous condition of this château, which verily seems
better fitted to receive phantoms than real living guests, would not
permit me to offer you more comfortable accommodations. If I had been
able to follow my inclinations, I should have lodged you in a luxurious
chamber, where you could have reposed between fine linen sheets, under
silken curtains, instead of resting uneasily in that worm-eaten old
chair.”

“Do not be sorry about anything, my lord, I pray you,” answered the
_soubrette_ with another brilliant smile; “but for your kindness we
should have been in far worse plight; forced to pass the night in the
poor old chariot, stuck fast in the mud; exposed to the cutting wind
and pelting rain. We should assuredly have found ourselves in wretched
case this morning. Besides, this château which you speak of so
disparagingly is magnificence itself in comparison with the miserable
barns, open to the weather, in which we have sometimes been forced to
spend the night, trying to sleep as best we might on bundles of straw,
and making light of our misery to keep our courage up.”

While the baron and the actress were exchanging civilities the pedant’s
chair, unable to support his weight any longer, suddenly gave way under
him, and he fell to the floor with a tremendous crash, which startled
the whole company. In his fall he had mechanically seized hold of the
table-cloth, and so brought nearly all the things upon it clattering
down with him. He lay sprawling like a huge turtle in the midst of them
until the tyrant, after rubbing his eyes and stretching his burly
limbs, came to the rescue, and held out a helping hand, by aid of which
the old actor managed with some difficulty to scramble to his feet.

“Such an accident as that could never happen to Matamore,” said Hérode,
with his resounding laugh; “he might fall into a spider’s web without
breaking through it.”

“That’s true,” retorted the shadow of a man, in his turn stretching his
long attenuated limbs and yawning tremendously, “but then, you know,
not everybody has the advantage of being a second Polyphemus, a
mountain of flesh and bones, like you, or a big wine-barrel, like our
friend Blazius there.”

All this commotion had aroused Isabelle, Serafina and the duenna, who
presently made their appearance. The two younger women, though a little
pale and weary, yet looked very charming in the bright morning light.
In de Sigognac’s eyes they appeared radiant, in spite of the shabbiness
of their finery, which was far more apparent now than on the preceding
evening. But what signify faded ribbons and dingy gowns when the
wearers are fresh, young and beautiful? Besides, the baron’s eyes were
so accustomed to dinginess that they were not capable of detecting such
slight defects in the toilets of his fair guests, and he gazed with
delight upon these bewitching creatures, enraptured with their grace
and beauty. As to the duenna, she was both old and ugly, and had long
ago accepted the inevitable with commendable resignation.

As the ladies entered by one door, Pierre came in by the other,
bringing more wood for the fire, and then proceeding to make the
disordered room as tidy as he could. All the company now gathered round
the cheerful blaze that was roaring up the chimney and sending out a
warm glow that was an irresistible attraction in the chill of the early
morning. Isabelle knelt down and stretched out the rosy palms of her
pretty little hands as near to the flames as she dared, while Serafina
stood behind and laid her hands caressingly on her shoulders, like an
elder sister taking tender care of a younger one. Matamore stood on one
leg like a huge heron, leaning against the corner of the carved
chimney-piece, and seemed inclined to fall asleep again, while the
pedant was vainly searching for a swallow of wine among the empty
bottles.

The baron meantime had held a hurried private consultation with Pierre
as to the possibility of procuring a few eggs, or a fowl or two, at the
nearest hamlet, so that he might give the travellers something to eat
before their departure, and he bade the old servant be quick about it,
for the chariot was to make an early start, as they had a long day’s
journey before them.

“I cannot let you go away fasting, though you will have rather a scanty
breakfast I fear,” he said to his guests, “but it is better to have a
poor one than none at all; and there is not an inn within six leagues
of this where you could be sure of getting anything to eat. I will not
make further apologies, for the condition of everything in this house
shows you plainly enough that I am not rich; but as my poverty is
mainly owing to the great expenditures made by my honoured ancestors in
many wars for the defence of king and country, I do not need to be
ashamed of it.”

“No indeed, my lord,” answered Hérode in his deep, bass voice, “and
many there be in these degenerate days who hold their heads very high
because of their riches, who would not like to have to confess how they
came in possession of them.”

“What astonishes me,” interrupted Blazius, “is that such an
accomplished young gentleman as your lordship seems to be should be
willing to remain here in this isolated spot, where Fortune cannot
reach you even if she would. You ought to go to Paris, the great
capital of the world, the rendezvous of brave and learned men, the El
Dorado, the promised land, the Paradise of all true Frenchmen. There
you would be sure to make your way, either in attaching yourself to the
household of some great nobleman, a friend of your family, or in
performing some brilliant deed of valour, the opportunity for which
will not be long to find.”

These words, although rather high-flown, were not devoid of sense, and
de Sigognac could not help secretly admitting that there was some truth
in them. He had often, during his long rambles over the desolate
Landes, thought wishfully of undertaking what the pedant had just
proposed; but he had not money enough for the journey even, and he did
not know where to look for more. Though brave and high-spirited, he was
very sensitive, and feared a smile of derision more than a
sword-thrust. He was not familiar with the prevailing fashions in
dress, but he felt that his antiquated costume was ridiculous as well
as shabby, and sure to be laughed at anywhere but among his own simple
peasantry. Like most of those who are disheartened and crushed by
extreme poverty, he only looked at the dark side of things, and made no
allowance for any possible advantages. Perhaps he might have been
delicately as well as generously assisted by some of his father’s old
friends if he would only have let them know of his situation, but his
pride held him back, and he would have died of starvation rather than
ask for aid in any form.

“I used to think sometimes of going to Paris,” he answered slowly,
after some hesitation, “but I have no friends or even acquaintances
there; and the descendants of those who perhaps knew my ancestors when
they were rich and powerful, and in favour at court, could scarcely be
expected to welcome a poverty-stricken Baron de Sigognac, who came
swooping down from his ruined tower to try and snatch a share of any
prey that chanced to lie within reach of his talons. And besides—I do
not know why I should be ashamed to acknowledge it—I have not any of
the appurtenances suitable to my rank, and could not present myself
upon a footing worthy of my name. I doubt if I have even money enough
for the expenses of the journey alone, and that in the humblest
fashion.”

“But it is not necessary,” Blazius hastened to reply, “that you should
make a state entry into the capital, like a Roman emperor, in a gilded
chariot drawn by four white horses abreast. If our humble equipage does
not appear too unworthy to your lordship, come with us to Paris; we are
on our way there now. Many a man shines there to-day in brave apparel,
and enjoys high favour at court, who travelled thither on foot,
carrying his little bundle over his shoulder, swung on the point of his
rapier, and his shoes in his hand, for fear of wearing them out on the
way.”

A slight flush, partly of shame, partly of pleasure, rose to de
Sigognac’s cheek at this speech. If on the one side his pride revolted
at the idea of being under an obligation to such a person as the
pedant, on the other he was touched and gratified by this kind
proposition so frankly made, and which, moreover, accorded so well with
his own secret desires. He feared also that if he refused the actor’s
kindly-meant offer he would wound his feelings, and perhaps miss an
opportunity that would never be afforded to him again. It is true that
the idea of a descendant of the noble old house of Sigognac travelling
in the chariot of a band of strolling players, and making common cause
with them, was rather shocking at first sight, but surely it would be
better than to go on any longer leading his miserable, hopeless life in
this dismal, deserted place. He wavered between those two decisive
little monosyllables, yes and no, and could by no means reach a
satisfactory conclusion, when Isabelle, who had been watching the
colloquy with breathless interest, advanced smilingly to where he was
standing somewhat apart with Blazius, and addressed the following words
to him, which speedily put an end to all his uncertainty:

“Our poet, having fallen heir to a fortune, has lately left us, and his
lordship would perhaps be good enough to take his place. I found
accidentally, in opening a volume of Ronsard’s poems that lay upon the
table in his room, a piece of paper with a sonnet written upon it,
which must be of his composition, and proves him not unaccustomed to
writing in verse. He could rearrange our parts for us, make the
necessary alterations and additions in the new plays we undertake, and
even perhaps write a piece for us now and then. I have now a very
pretty little Italian comedy by me, which, with some slight
modifications, would suit us nicely, and has a really charming part for
me.”

With her last words, accompanied though they were with a smile, she
gave the baron such a sweet, wistful look that he could no longer
resist; but the appearance of Pierre at this moment with a large
omelette created a diversion, and interrupted this interesting
conversation. They all immediately gathered round the table, and
attacked the really good breakfast, which the old servant had somehow
managed to put before them, with great zest. As to de Sigognac, he kept
them company merely out of politeness, and trifled with what was on his
plate while the others were eating, having partaken too heartily of the
supper the night before to be hungry now, and, besides, being so much
preoccupied with weightier matters that he was not able to pay much
attention to this.

After the meat was finished, and while the chariot was being made ready
for a start, Isabelle and Serafina expressed a desire to go into the
garden, which they looked down upon from the court.

“I am afraid,” said de Sigognac, as he aided them to descend the
unsteady, slippery stone steps, “that the briers will make sad work
with your dresses, for thorns abound in my neglected garden, though
roses do not.”

The young baron said this in the sad, ironical tone he usually adopted
when alluding to his poverty; but a moment after they suddenly came
upon two exquisite little wild roses, blooming directly in their path.
With an exclamation of surprise de Sigognac gathered them, and as he
offered one to each lady, said, with a smile, “I did not know there was
anything of this sort here, having never found aught but rank weeds and
brambles before; it is your gracious presence that has brought forth
these two blossoms in the midst of ruin and desolation.”

Isabelle put her little rose carefully in the bosom of her dress,
giving him her thanks mutely by an eloquent glance, which spoke more
perhaps than she knew, and brought a flush of pleasure to his cheeks.
They walked on to the statue in its rocky niche at the end of the
garden, de Sigognac carefully bending back the branches that obstructed
the way. The young girl looked round with a sort of tender interest at
this overgrown, neglected spot, so thoroughly in keeping with the
ruined château that frowned down upon them, and thought pityingly of
the long, dreary hours that the poor baron must have spent here in
solitude and despair. Serafina’s face only expressed a cold disdain,
but slightly masked by politeness. To her mind the ruinous condition of
things was anything but interesting, and though she dearly loved a
title she had still greater respect for wealth and magnificence.

“My domain ends here,” said the baron, as they reached the grotto of
the statue, “though formerly all the surrounding country, as far as the
eye can reach from the top of that high tower yonder, belonged to my
ancestors. But barely enough remains now to afford me a shelter until
the day comes when the last of the de Sigognacs shall be laid to rest
amid his forefathers in the family vault, thenceforward their sole
possession.”

“Do you know you are very much out of spirits this morning?” said
Isabelle in reply, touched by the expression of this sad thought that
had occurred to her also, and assuming a bright, playful air, in the
hope that it might help to chase away the heavy shadow that lay upon
her young host’s brow. “Fortune is blind, they say, but nevertheless
she does sometimes shower her good gifts upon the worthy and the brave;
the only thing is that they must put themselves in her way. Come,
decide to go with us, and perhaps in a few years the Château de
Sigognac, restored to its ancient splendour, may loom up as proudly as
of old; think of that, my lord, and take courage to quit it for a time.
And besides,” she added in a lower tone that only de Sigognac could
hear, “I cannot bear to go away and leave you here alone in this dreary
place.”

The soft light that shone in Isabelle’s beautiful eyes as she murmured
these persuasive words was irresistible to the man who already loved
her madly; and the idea of following his divinity in a humble disguise,
as many a noble knight had done of old, reconciled him to what would
otherwise have seemed too incongruous and humiliating. It could not be
considered derogatory to any gentleman to accompany his lady-love, be
she what she might, actress or princess, and to attach himself, for
love of her bright eyes, to even a band of strolling players. The
mischievous little boy of the bow had compelled even gods and heroes to
submit to all sorts of odd tests and means. Jupiter himself took the
form of a bull to carry off Europa, and swam across the sea with her
upon his back to the island of Crete. Hercules, dressed as a woman, sat
spinning meekly at Omphale’s feet. Even Aristotle went upon all fours
that his mistress might ride on his back. What wonder then that our
youthful baron thought that nothing could be too difficult or repulsive
in the service of the lovely being at his side! So he decided at once
not to let her leave him behind, and begging the comedians to wait a
few moments while he made his hurried preparations, drew Pierre aside
and told him in few words of his new project. The faithful old servant,
although nearly heart-broken at the thought of parting with his beloved
master, fully realized how greatly it would be to his advantage to quit
the dreary life that was blighting his youth, and go out into the
world; and while he felt keenly the incongruity of such fellow
travellers for a de Sigognac, yet wisely thought that it was better for
him to go thus than not at all. He quickly filled an old valise with
the few articles of clothing that formed the baron’s scanty wardrobe,
and put into a leathern purse the little money he still possessed;
secretly adding thereto his own small hoard, which he could safely do
without fear of detection, as he had the care of the family finances,
as well as everything else about the establishment. The old white pony
was brought out and saddled, for de Sigognac did not wish to get into
the chariot until they had gone some distance from home, not caring to
make his departure public. He would seem thus to be only accompanying
his guests a little way upon their journey, and Pierre was to follow on
foot to lead the horse back home.

The oxen, great slow-moving, majestic creatures, were already harnessed
to the heavy chariot, while their driver, a tall, sturdy peasant lad,
standing in front of them leaning upon his goad, had unconsciously
assumed an attitude so graceful that he closely resembled the
sculptured figures in ancient Greek bas-reliefs. Isabelle and Serafina
had seated themselves in the front of the chariot, so that they could
enjoy the fresh, cool air, and see the country as they passed along;
while the others bestowed themselves inside, where they might indulge
in a morning nap. At last all were ready; the driver gave the word of
command, and the oxen stepped slowly forward, setting in motion the
great unwieldy, lumbering vehicle, which creaked and groaned in
lamentable fashion, making the vaulted portico ring again as it passed
through it and out of the château.

In the midst of all this unwonted commotion, Beelzebub and Miraut moved
restlessly about the court, evidently very much perplexed as to what
could be the meaning of it. The old dog ran back and forth from his
master, who always had a caress for him, to Pierre, looking up into
their faces with questioning, anxious eyes, and Beelzebub finally went
and held a consultation with his good friend, the old white pony, now
standing with saddle and bridle on, quietly awaiting his master’s
pleasure. He bent down his head so that his lips almost touched
Beelzebub, and really appeared to be whispering something to him; which
the cat in his turn imparted to Miraut, in that mysterious language of
animals which Democritus, claimed that he understood, but which we are
not able to translate. Whatever it might have been that Bayard, the old
pony, communicated to Beelzebub, one thing is certain, that when at
last the baron vaulted into his saddle and sallied forth from his
ancient castle, he was accompanied by both cat and dog. Now, though it
was no uncommon thing for Miraut to follow him abroad, Beelzebub had
never been known to attempt such a feat before.

As he rode slowly out through the grand old portico de Sigognac felt
his heart heavy within him, and when, after going a few paces from the
château, he turned round for one last look at its crumbling walls, he
felt an acute grief at bidding them farewell which was an astonishment
to himself. As his eyes sought and dwelt upon the roof of the little
chapel where his father and mother lay sleeping side by side, he almost
reproached himself for wishing to go and leave them, and it required a
mighty effort to turn away and ride after the chariot, which was some
distance in advance of him. He had soon overtaken and passed it, when a
gentle gust of wind brought to him the penetrating, faintly aromatic
scent of his native heather, still wet from last night’s rain, and also
the silvery sound of a distant convent bell that was associated with
his earliest recollections. They both seemed to be reproaching him for
his desertion of his home, and he involuntarily checked the old pony,
and made as if he would turn back. Miraut and Beelzebub, seeming to
understand the movement, looked up at him eagerly, but as he was in the
very act of turning the horse’s head he met Isabelle’s soft eyes fixed
on him with such an entreating, wistful look that he flushed and
trembled under it, and entirely forgetting his ancient château, the
perfume of the heather, and the quick strokes of the distant bell, that
still continued ringing, he put spurs to his horse and dashed on in
advance again. The struggle was over—Isabelle had conquered.

When the highway was reached, de Sigognac again fell behind the
chariot—which moved more quickly over the smooth, hard road—so that
Pierre might be able to catch up to him, and rode slowly forward, lost
in thought; he roused himself, however, in time to take one last look
at the towers of Sigognac, which were still visible over the tops of
the pine trees. Bayard came to a full stop as he gazed, and Miraut took
advantage of the pause to endeavour to climb up and lick his master’s
face once more; but he was so old and stiff that de Sigognac had to
lift him up in front of him; holding him there he tenderly caressed the
faithful companion of many sad, lonely years, even bending down and
kissing him between the eyes. Meantime the more agile Beelzebub had
scrambled up on the other side, springing from the ground to the
baron’s foot, and then climbing up by his leg; he purred loudly as his
master affectionately stroked his head, looking up in his face as if he
understood perfectly that this was a leave-taking. We trust that the
kind reader will not laugh at our poor young hero, when we say that he
was so deeply touched by these evidences of affection from his humble
followers that two great tears rolled down his pale cheeks and fell
upon the heads of his dumb favourites, before he put them gently from
him and resumed his journey.

Miraut and Beelzebub stood where he had put them down, looking after
their beloved master until a turn in the road hid him from their sight,
and then quietly returned to the château together. The rain of the
previous night had left no traces in the sandy expanse of the Landes,
save that it had freshened up the heather with its tiny purple bells,
and the furze bushes with their bright yellow blossoms. The very pine
trees themselves looked less dark and mournful than usual, and their
penetrating, resinous odour filled the fresh morning air. Here and
there a little column of smoke rising from amid a grove of chestnut
trees betrayed the homestead of some farmer, and scattered over the
gently rolling plain, that extended as far as the eye could reach,
great flocks of sheep could be discerned, carefully guarded by shepherd
and dog; the former mounted on stilts, and looking very odd to those
unaccustomed to the shepherds of the Landes. On the southern horizon
the snow-clad tops of the more lofty peaks of the Pyrenees rose boldly
into the clear sky, with light wreaths of mist still clinging round
them here and there.

Oxen travel slowly, especially over roads where at times the wheels
sink deep into the sand, and the sun was high above the horizon before
they had gone two leagues on their way. The baron, loath to fatigue his
old servant and poor Bayard, determined to bid adieu to them without
further delay; so he sprang lightly to the ground, put the bridle into
Pierre’s trembling hand, and affectionately stroked the old pony’s
neck, as he never failed to do when he dismounted. It was a painful
moment. The faithful servant had taken care of his young master from
his infancy, and he turned very pale as he said in faltering tones,
“God bless and keep your lordship. How I wish that I could go with
you.”

“And so do I, my good Pierre, but that is impossible. You must stay and
take care of the château for me; I could not bear to think of it
entirely abandoned, or in any other hands than yours, my faithful
friend! And besides, what would become of Bayard and Miraut and
Beelzebub, if you too deserted them?”

“You are right, master,” answered Pierre, his eyes filling with tears
as he bade him farewell before he turned and led Bayard slowly back by
the road they had come. The old pony whinnied loudly as he left his
master, and long after he was out of sight could be heard at short
intervals calling out his adieux.

The poor young baron, left quite alone, stood for a moment with
downcast eyes, feeling very desolate and sad; then roused himself with
an effort, and hastened after the chariot. As he walked along beside it
with a sorrowful, preoccupied air, Isabelle complained of being tired
of her somewhat cramped position, and said that she would like to get
down and walk a little way for a change; her real motive being a kind
wish to endeavour to cheer up poor de Sigognac and make him forget his
sad thoughts. The shadow that had overspread his countenance passed
away entirely as he assisted Isabelle to alight, and then offering his
arm led her on in advance of the lumbering chariot. They had walked
some distance, and she was just reciting some verses, from one of her
parts, which she wished to have altered a little, when the sound of a
horn close at hand startled them, and from a by-path emerged a gay
party returning from the chase. The beautiful Yolande de Foix came
first, radiant as Diana, with a brilliant colour in her cheeks and eyes
that shone like stars. Several long rents in the velvet skirt of her
riding habit showed that she had been following the hounds through the
thickets of furze that abound in the Landes, yet she did not look in
the least fatigued, and as she came forward made her spirited horse
fret and prance under quick, light strokes of her riding-whip—in whose
handle shone a magnificent amethyst set in massive gold, and engraved
with the de Foix arms. Three or four young noblemen, splendidly dressed
and mounted, were with her, and as she swept proudly past our hero and
his fair companion-upon whom she cast a glance of haughty disdain—she
said in clear ringing tones, “Do look at the Baron de Sigognac, dancing
attendance upon a _Bohémienne_.” And the little company passed on with
a shout of laughter.

The poor baron was furious, and instinctively grasped the handle of his
sword with a quick, angry movement; but as quickly released it—for he
was on foot and those who had insulted him were on horseback, so that
he could not hope to overtake them; and besides, he could not challenge
a lady. But the angry flush soon faded from his cheek, and the
remembrance of his displeasure from his mind, under the gentle
influence of Isabelle, who put forth all her powers of fascination to
make her companion forget the affront he had received because of her.

The day passed without any other incident worthy of being recorded, and
our travellers arrived in good season at the inn where they were to sup
and sleep.




CHAPTER III.
THE BLUE SUN INN


It was in front of the largest house in a wretched little hamlet that
the weary oxen drawing the chariot of Thespis stopped of their own
accord. The wooden sign that creaked distractingly as it swung to and
fro at every breath of wind bore a large, blue sun, darting its rays,
after the most approved fashion, to the utmost dimensions of the board
on which it was painted. Rather an original idea, one would say, to
have a blue orb of day instead of a golden one—such as adorned so many
other inns on the great post-road—but originality had had nothing
whatever to do with it. The wandering painter who produced this
remarkable work of art happened to have no vestige of any colour but
blue left upon his palette, and he discoursed so eloquently of the
superiority of this tint to all others that he succeeded in persuading
the worthy innkeeper to have an azure sun depicted on his swinging
sign. And not this one alone had yielded to his specious arguments, for
he had painted blue lions, blue cocks, blue horses, on various signs in
the country round, in a manner that would have delighted the
Chinese—who esteem an artist in proportion to the unnaturalness of his
designs and colouring.

The few scrawny, unwholesome-looking children feebly playing in the
muddy, filthy, little street, and the prematurely old, ghastly women
standing at the open doors of the miserable thatched huts of which the
hamlet was composed, were but too evidently the wretched victims of a
severe type of malarial fever that prevails in the Landes. They were
truly piteous objects, and our travellers were glad to take refuge in
the inn—though it was anything but inviting—and so get out of sight of
them.

The landlord, a villainous looking fellow, with an ugly crimson scar
across his forehead, who rejoiced in the extraordinary name of
Chirriguirri, received them with many low obeisances, and led the way
into his house, talking volubly of the excellent accommodations to be
found therein.

The Baron de Sigognac hesitated ere he crossed the threshold, though
the comedians had all drawn back respectfully to allow him to precede
them. His pride revolted at going into such a place in such company,
but one glance from Isabelle put everything else out of his head, and
he entered the dirty little inn at her side with an air of joyful
alacrity. In the happy kingdom of France the fortunate man who escorted
a pretty woman, no matter where, needed not to fear ridicule or
contumely, and was sure to be envied.

The large low room into which Maître Chirriguirri ushered the party,
with much ceremony and many bows, was scarcely so magnificent as he had
given them reason to expect, but our strolling players had long ago
learned to take whatever came in their way without grumbling, and they
seated themselves quietly on the rude wooden settles ranged round a
rough, stone platform in the centre of the apartment, upon which a few
sticks of wood were blazing the smoke escaping through an opening in
the roof above. From an iron bar which crossed this opening a strong
chain was suspended, and fastened to it was the crane, so that it hung
at the proper height over the fire—for this was the kitchen as well as
the reception room. The low ceiling was blackened with the smoke that
filled the upper part of the room and escaped slowly through the hole
over the fire, unless a puff of wind drove it back again. A row of
bright copper _casseroles_ hanging against the wall—like the burnished
shields along the sides of the ancient triremes, if this comparison be
not too noble for such a lowly subject—gleamed vaguely in the flashing
of the red fire-light, and a large, half-empty wine-skin lying on the
floor in one corner looked like a beheaded body carelessly flung down
there. Certainly not a cheerful looking place, but, the fire being
newly replenished burned brightly, and our weary travellers were glad
to bask in its genial warmth.

At the end of one of the wooden benches a little girl was sitting,
apparently sound asleep. She was a poor, thin, little creature, with a
mass of long, tangled, black hair, which hung down over her face and
almost concealed it, as she sat with her head drooping forward on her
breast. Her scanty clothing was tattered and dirty, her feet and poor,
thin, little legs brown and bare, and covered with scratches—some still
bleeding which bore witness to much running through the thorny furze
thickets.

Isabelle, who chanced to sit down near her, cast many pitying glances
upon this forlorn little figure, but took care not to disturb the quiet
sleep she seemed to be enjoying in her uncomfortable resting-place.
After a little, when she had turned to speak to Serafina, who sat
beside her, the child woke with a start, and pushing back the mass of
dishevelled hair revealed a sad little face, so thin that the cheek
bones were painfully prominent, and pale to ghastliness. A pair of
magnificent, dark brown eyes, with heavy sweeping lashes, looked
preternaturally large in her woe-begone little countenance, and at this
moment were filled with wondering admiration, mingled with fierce
covetousness, as she stared at Serafina’s mock jewels—and more
especially at Isabelle’s row of pearl beads. She seemed fairly dazzled
by these latter, and gazed at them fixedly in a sort of ecstasy—having
evidently never seen anything like them before, and probably thinking
they must be of immense value. Occasionally her eyes wandered to the
dresses of the two ladies, and at last, unable to restrain her ardent
curiosity any longer, she put out her little brown hand and softly felt
of Isabelle’s gown, apparently finding exquisite delight in the mere
contact of her finger-tips with the smooth, glossy surface of the silk.
Though her touch was so light Isabelle immediately turned towards the
child and smiled upon her encouragingly, but the poor little vagabond,
finding herself detected, in an instant had assumed a stupid, almost
idiotic look—with an instinctive amount of histrionic art that would
have done honour to a finished actress. Then dropping her eyelids and
leaning her shoulders against the hard back of the wooden settle she
seemed to fall into a deep sleep, with her head bent down upon her
breast in the old attitude.

Meanwhile Maître Chirriguirri had been talking long and loudly about
the choice delicacies he could have set before his guests if they had
only come a day or two earlier, and enumerating all sorts of fine
dishes—which doubtless had existed only in his own very vivid
imagination—though he told a high-sounding story about the noblemen and
grandees who had supped at his house and devoured all these dainties
only yesterday. When at length the flow of his eloquence was checked by
a display of ferocity on the part of the tyrant, and he was finally
brought to the point, he acknowledged that he could only give them some
of the soup called garbure—with which we have already made acquaintance
at the Château de Sigognac, some salt codfish, and a dish of bacon;
with plenty of wine, which according to his account was fit for the
gods. Our weary travellers were so hungry by this time that they were
glad of even this frugal fare, and when Mionnette, a gaunt,
morose-looking creature, the only servant that the inn could boast,
announced that their supper was ready in an adjoining room, they did
not wait to be summoned a second time.

They were still at table when a great barking of dogs was heard
without, together with the noise of horses’ feet, and in a moment three
loud, impatient knocks upon the outer door resounded through the house.
Mionnette rushed to open it, whereupon a gentleman entered, followed by
a number of dogs, who nearly knocked the tall maid-servant over in
their eagerness to get in, and rushed into the dining-room where our
friends were assembled, barking, jumping over each other, and licking
off the plates that had been used and removed to a low side table,
before their master could stop them. A few sharp cuts with the whip he
held in his hand distributed promiscuously among them, without
distinction between the innocent and the guilty ones, quieted this
uproar as if by magic, and the aggressive hounds, taking refuge under
the benches ranged along the walls, curled themselves round on the
floor and went comfortably to sleep, or lay panting, with their red
tongues hanging out of their mouths and heads reposing on their
fore-paws—not daring to stir.

The obstreperous dogs thus disposed of, the cavalier advanced into the
room, with the calm assurance of a man who feels perfectly at his ease;
his spurs ringing against the stone floor at every step. The landlord
followed him obsequiously, cap in hand, cringing and bowing in most
humble fashion—having entirely laid aside his boasting air and
evidently feeling very ill at ease—this being a personage of whom he
stood in awe. As the gentleman approached the table he politely saluted
the company, before turning to give his orders to Maître Chirriguirri,
who stood silently awaiting them.

The newcomer was a handsome man of about thirty, with curly light hair,
and a fair complexion, somewhat reddened by exposure to the sun. His
eyes were blue, and rather prominent, his nose slightly retroussi; his
small blond mustache was carefully turned up at the ends, and scarcely
shaded a well-formed but sensual mouth, below which was a small,
pointed beard—called a royal in those days, an imperial in these. As he
took off his broad felt hat, richly ornamented with long sweeping
plumes, and threw it carelessly down on one of the benches, it was seen
that his smooth, broad forehead was snowy white, and the contrast with
his sunburnt cheeks was not by any means displeasing. Indeed it was a
very handsome, attractive face, in which an expression of frank gaiety
and good humour tempered the air of pride that pervaded it.

The dress of this gay cavalier was extremely rich and elegant; almost
too much so for the country. But when we say that the marquis—for such
was his title—had been following the hounds in company with the
beautiful Yolande de Foix, we feel that his costume, of blue velvet
elaborately decorated with silver braid, is fully accounted for. He was
one of the gallants that shone at court in Paris—where he was in the
habit of spending a large portion of every year—and he prided himself
on being one of the best dressed noblemen in France.

His order to the obsequious landlord was in few words. “I want some
broth for my dogs, some oats for my horses, a piece of bread and a
slice of ham for myself, and something or other for my grooms”—and then
he advanced smilingly to the table and sat down in a vacant place
beside the pretty _soubrette_, who, charmed with such a gay, handsome
seignior, had been pleased to bestow a languishing glance and a
brilliant smile upon him.

Maître Chirriguirri hastened to fetch what he had demanded, while the
_soubrette_, with the grace of a Hebe, filled his glass to the brim
with wine; which he accepted with a smile, and drank off at a single
draught. For a few minutes he was fully occupied in satisfying his
hunger—which was veritably that of a hunter—and then looking about him
at the party assembled round the table, remarked the Baron de Sigognac,
with whom he had a slight acquaintance, seated beside the fair
Isabelle—in whose company indeed he had seen him already once before
that day. The two young people were talking together in low tones, and
quite absorbed in each other; but the language of their eyes was
unmistakable, and the marquis smiled to himself as he took note of what
he supposed to be a very promising intrigue—wherein he did the youthful
pair great injustice. As a thorough man of the world he was not at all
surprised at finding de Sigognac with this band of vagabond players,
from such a motive, and the half-pitying contempt he had formerly felt
for the shabby, retiring young baron was straightway changed to a
certain admiration and respect by this evidence of his gallantry. When
he caught his eye he made a little gesture of recognition and
approval—to show that he understood and appreciated his position—but
paid no further attention to him, evidently meaning to respect his
incognito, and devoted himself to the _soubrette_. She received his
high-flown compliments with peals of laughter, and paid him back in his
own coin with considerable wit and much merriment, to the great delight
of the marquis—who was always delighted to meet with any adventure of
this sort.

Wishing to pursue this one, which opened so well, he declared loudly
that he was passionately fond of the theatre, and complained
pathetically of being deprived altogether of this, his favourite
amusement, in the country; then addressing himself to the tyrant he
asked whether the troupe had any pressing engagements that would
prevent their turning aside a little from the usual route to visit the
Château de Bruyères and give one of their best plays there—it would be
an easy matter to rig up a theatre for them in the great hall or the
orangery.

The tyrant hastened to reply that nothing could be easier, and that the
troupe, one of the best that had ever travelled through the provinces,
was entirely at his lordship’s disposition—“from the king to the
_soubrette_”—he added, with a broad grin.

“That is capital,” said the marquis, “and as to money matters, you can
arrange them to suit yourself. I should not think of bargaining with
the votaries of Thalia—a muse so highly favoured by Apollo, and as
eagerly sought after, and enthusiastically applauded, at the court of
his most gracious majesty as in town and country everywhere.”

After arranging the necessary preliminaries, the marquis, who had
meantime surreptitiously squeezed the _soubrette’s_ hand under the
table, rose, called his dogs together, put on his hat, waved his hand
to the company in token of adieu, and took his departure amid much
barking and commotion—going directly home, in order to set on foot his
preparations to receive the comedians on the morrow at his château.

As it was growing late, and they were to make an early start the next
morning, our tired travellers lost no time in going to rest; the women
in a sort of loft, where they had to make themselves as comfortable as
they could with the bundles of straw that were to serve them for beds,
whilst the men slept on the benches in the room where they had supped.




CHAPTER IV.
AN ADVENTURE WITH BRIGANDS


Let us return now to the little girl we left feigning to sleep soundly
upon a settle in the kitchen. There was certainly something suspicious
about the fierce way in which she eyed Isabelle’s pearl necklace, and
her little bit of clever acting afterwards. As soon as the door had
closed upon the comedians she slowly opened her large, dark eyes,
looked sharply round the great, dim kitchen, and when she found that
nobody was watching her, slipped quietly down from the bench, threw
back her hair with a quick movement of the head peculiar to her, crept
softly to the door, which she cautiously unlatched, and escaped into
the open air without making any more sound than a shadow, then walked
slowly and listlessly away until she had turned a corner and was out of
sight of the house, when she set off running as fleetly as a deer
pursued by the hounds—jumping over the frequent obstacles in her path
with wonderful agility, never stumbling, and flying along, with her
black hair streaming out behind her, like some wild creature of the
desolate pine barrens through which she was skilfully threading her
way.

She reached at last a little knoll, crowned by a group of pine trees
crowded closely together, and dashing up the steep bank with
undiminished speed came to a sudden stop in the very middle of the
grove. Here she stood still for a moment, peering anxiously about her,
and then, putting two fingers in her mouth, gave three shrill whistles,
such as no traveller in those desolate regions can hear without a
shudder. In an instant what seemed to be a heap of pine twigs stirred,
and a man emerging from beneath them rose slowly to his feet at a
little distance from the child.

“Is it you, Chiquita?” he asked. “What news do you bring? You are late.
I had given over expecting you to-night, and gone to sleep.”

The speaker was a dark, fierce-looking fellow of about five and twenty,
with a spare, wiry frame, brilliant black eyes, and very white
teeth—which were long and pointed like the fangs of a young wolf. He
looked as if he might be a brigand, poacher, smuggler, thief, or
assassin—all of which he had been indeed by turns. He was dressed like
a Spanish peasant, and in the red woollen girdle wound several times
around his waist was stuck a formidable knife, called in Spain a
_navaja_. The desperadoes who make use of these terrible weapons
usually display as many red stripes, cut in the steel, upon their long
pointed blades as they have committed murders, and are esteemed by
their companions in proportion to the number indicated by this horrible
record. We do not know exactly how many of these scarlet grooves
adorned Agostino’s _navaja_, but judging by the savage expression of
his countenance, and the fierce glitter of his eye, we may safely
suppose them to have been creditably numerous.

“Well, Chiquita,” said he, laying his hand caressingly on the child’s
head, “and what did you see at Maître Chirriguirri’s inn?”

“A great chariot full of people came there this afternoon,” she
answered. “I saw them carry five large chests into the barn, and they
must have been very heavy, for it took two men to lift them.”

“Hum!” said Agostino, “sometimes travellers put stones into their boxes
to make them seem very weighty and valuable, and deceive the
inn-keepers.”

“But,” interrupted the child eagerly, “the three young ladies had
trimmings of gold on their clothes; and one of them, the prettiest, had
round her neck a row of round, shining, white things, and oh! they were
so beautiful!” and she clasped her hands in an ecstasy of admiration,
her voice trembling with excitement.

“Those must be pearls,” muttered Agostino to himself, “and they will be
worth having—provided they are real—but then they do make such perfect
imitations now-a-days, and even rich people are mean enough to wear
them.”

“My dear Agostino, my good Agostino,” continued Chiquita, in her most
coaxing tones, and without paying any attention to his mutterings,
“will you give me the beautiful, shining things if you kill that lady?”

“They would go so well with your rags and tatters!” he answered
mockingly.

“But I have so often kept watch for you while you slept, and I have run
so far to tell you when any one was coming, no matter how cold it was,
nor how my poor, bare feet ached—and I have never once kept you waiting
for your food, when I used to carry it to you in your hiding places,
even when I was bad with the fever, or my teeth chattering with the
chill, and I so weak that I could hardly drag myself along. Oh
Agostino! do remember what I have done for you, and let me have the
beautiful, shining things.”

“Yes, you have been both brave and faithful, Chiquita, I admit; but we
have not got the wonderful necklace yet, you know. Now, tell me, how
many men were there in the party.”

“Oh! a great many. A big, tall man with a long beard; an old, fat
man—one that looked like a fox—two thin men, and one that looked like a
gentleman, though his clothes were very old and shabby.”

“Six men,” said Agostino, who had counted them on his fingers as she
enumerated them, and his face fell. “Alas! I am the only one left of
our brave band now; when the others were with me we would not have
minded double the number. Have they arms, Chiquita?”

“The gentleman has a sword, and so has the tall, thin man—a very long
one.”

“No pistols or guns?”

“I didn’t see any,” answered Chiquita, “but they might have left them
in the chariot, you know; only Maître Chirriguirri or Mionnette would
have been sure to send you word if they had, and they said nothing to
me about them.”

“Well, we will risk it then, and see what we can do,” said Agostino
resolutely. “Five large, heavy chests, gold ornaments, a pearl
necklace! they certainly are worth trying for.”

The brigand and his little companion then went to a secret place in the
thick pine grove, and set to work industriously, removing a few large
stones, a quantity of branches, and finally the five or six boards they
had concealed, disclosing a large hole that looked like a grave. It was
not very deep, and Agostino, jumping down into it, stooped and lifted
out what seemed to be a dead body—dressed in its usual every-day
clothes—which he flung down upon the ground beside the hole. Chiquita,
who did not appear to be in the least agitated or alarmed by these
mysterious proceedings, seized the figure by the feet, with the utmost
_sang-froid_, and dragged it out of Agostino’s way, with a much greater
degree of strength than could have been expected from such a slight,
delicate little creature. Agostino continued his work of exhumation
until five other bodies lay beside the first one—all neatly arranged in
a row by the little girl, who seemed to actually enjoy her lugubrious
task. It made a strange picture in the weird light of the nearly full
moon, half veiled by driving clouds—the open grave, the bodies lying
side by side under the dark pine trees, and the figures of Agostino and
Chiquita bending over them. But the tragic aspect of the affair soon
changed to a comic one; for when Agostino placed the first of the
bodies in an upright position it became apparent that it was only a
sort of a scarecrow—a rude figure intended to frighten timid
traveller—which being skilfully disposed at the edge of the grove,
partly hidden among the trees, looked at a little distance exactly like
a brigand—gun and all. Indeed it really was dressed in the garments of
one of his old comrades, who had paid the penalty of his crimes on the
gallows. He apostrophized the figure as he arranged it to his liking,
calling it by name, relating some of the brave deeds of its prototype,
and bewailing the sad fate that had left him to ply his nefarious trade
single-handed, with a rude eloquence that was not wanting in pathos.
Returning to where the others lay, he lifted up one which he reminded
Chiquita, represented her father—whose valour and skill he eulogized
warmly—whilst the child devoutly made the sign of the cross as she
muttered a prayer. This one being put in position, he carried the
remaining figures, one by one, to the places marked for them, keeping
up a running commentary upon the ci-devant brigands whose
representatives they were, and calling them each repeatedly by name, as
if there were a certain sad satisfaction in addressing them in the old,
familiar way.

When this queer task was completed, the bandit and his faithful little
companion, taking advantage of a flood of moonlight as the clouds
drifted away before the wind, went and stood on the road—not very far
from their retreat—by which our travellers were to pass, to judge of
the effect of their group of brigands. It was really very formidable,
and had often been of great service to the bold originator of the plan;
for on seeing so numerous a band apparently advancing upon them, most
travellers took to their heels, leaving the coveted spoils behind them
for Agostino to gather up at his leisure.

As they slowly returned to the pine grove he said to the child, who was
clinging to his arm affectionately as she walked beside him, “The first
stage of their journey to-morrow is a long one, and these people will
be sure to start in good season, so that they will reach this spot just
at the right time for us—in the uncertain light of the dawn. In the
darkness of night our brigands yonder could not be seen, and in broad
daylight the ruse would be apparent; so we are in luck, Chiquita! But
now for a nap—we have plenty of time for it, and the creaking of the
wheels will be sure to wake us.” Accordingly Agostino threw himself
down upon a little heap of pine branches and heather, Chiquita crept
close to him, so that the large cloak with which he had covered himself
might protect her also from the chilly night air, and both were soon
sound asleep.

It was so early when our travellers were roused from their slumbers and
told that it was time for them to resume their journey, by the
treacherous landlord of the Blue Sun Inn, that it seemed to them like
the middle of the night; to they arranged themselves as comfortably as
they could in the great, roomy chariot, and despite the loud creaking
and groaning that accompanied its every movement as it went slowly
lumbering along, and the shrill cries of the driver to his oxen, they
were all soon asleep again, excepting de Sigognac, who walked beside
the chariot, lost in thoughts of Isabelle’s beauty, grace and modesty,
and adorable goodness, which seemed better suited to a young lady of
noble birth than a wandering actress. He tormented himself with trying
to devise some means to induce her to reciprocate the ardent love that
filled his heart for her, not for an instant suspecting that it was
already a _fait accompli_, and that the sweet, pure maiden had given
him, unasked, her gentle, faithful heart. The bashful young baron
imagined all sorts of romantic and perilous incidents in which he might
constitute himself her knight and protector, and show such brave and
tender devotion to her as he had read of in the old books of chivalry;
and which might lead up to the avowal he was burning to make, yet dared
not. It never occurred to him that the look in his dark eyes whenever
they rested on her face, the tone of his voice when he addressed her,
the deep sighs he vainly sought to stifle, and the tender, eager care
with which he strove to anticipate her every wish had spoken for him,
as plainly as any words could do; and that, though he had not dared to
breathe one syllable of his passionate love to Isabelle, she knew it,
rejoiced in it, and was proud of it, and that it filled her with a
delicious, rapturous joy, such as she had never felt before, or even
dreamed of.

The morning began to break—the narrow band of pale light on the
horizon, which was growing rapidly brighter and assuming a rosy tinge,
was reflected here and there in the little pools of water that shone
like bits of a broken mirror scattered over the ground—distant sounds
were heard, and columns of smoke rising into the still morning air
proved that even in this desolate, God-forsaken part of the Landes
there were human habitations to be found. Stalking along with giant
strides on the highest part of some rising ground not very far off was
a grotesque figure, clearly defined against the bright eastern sky,
which would have been a puzzle to a stranger, but was a familiar sight
to de Sigognac—a shepherd mounted on his high stilts, such as are to be
met with everywhere throughout the Landes.

But the young baron was too much absorbed in his own engrossing
thoughts to take any note of his surroundings as he kept pace with the
slow-moving chariot, until his eye was caught and his attention fixed
by a strange little point of light, glittering among the sombre pines
that formed the dense grove where we left Agostino and Chiquita
sleeping. He wondered what it could be—certainly not a glow-worm, the
season for them was past long ago—and he watched it as he advanced
towards it with a vague feeling of uneasiness. Approaching nearer he
caught a glimpse of the singular group of figures lurking among the
trees, and at first feared an ambuscade; but finding that they
continued perfectly motionless he concluded that he must have been
mistaken, and that they were only old stumps after all; so he forbore
to arouse the comedians, as he had for a moment thought of doing.

A few steps farther and suddenly a loud report was heard from the
grove, a bullet sped through the air, and struck the oxen’s
yoke—happily without doing any damage, further than causing the usually
quiet, steady-going beasts to swerve violently to one side—when
fortunately a considerable heap of sand prevented the chariot’s being
overturned into the ditch beside the road. The sharp report and violent
shock startled the sleeping travellers in the chariot, and the younger
women shrieked wildly in their terror, whilst the duenna, who had met
with such adventures before, slipped the few gold pieces she had in her
purse into her shoe. Beside the chariot, from which the actors were
struggling to extricate themselves, stood Agostino—his cloak wrapped
around his left arm and the formidable _navaja_ in his right hand-and
cried in a voice of thunder, “Your money or your lives! Resistance is
useless! At the first sign of it my band will fire upon you.”

Whilst the bandit was shouting out these terrible words, de Sigognac
had quietly drawn his sword, and as he finished attacked him furiously.
Agostino skilfully parried his thrusts, with the cloak on his left arm,
which so disposed made an excellent shield, and watched his opportunity
to give a murderous stab with his _navaja_, which indeed he almost
succeeded in doing; a quick spring to one side alone saved the baron
from a wound which must have been fatal, as the brigand threw the knife
at him with tremendous force, and it flew through the air and fell
ringing upon the ground at a marvellous distance, instead of piercing
de Sigognac’s heart. His antagonist turned pale, for he was quite
defenceless, having depended entirely upon his trusty _navaja_, which
had never failed him before, and he very well knew that his vaunted
band could not come to his rescue. However, he shouted to them to fire,
counting upon the sudden terror that command would inspire to deliver
him from his dilemma; and, indeed, the comedians, expecting a
broadside, did take refuge behind the chariot, whilst even our brave
hero involuntarily bent his head a little, to avoid the shower of
bullets.

Meantime Chiquita, who had breathlessly watched all that passed from
her hiding place among some furze bushes close at hand, when she saw
her friend in peril, crept softly forth, glided along on the ground
like a snake until she reached the knife, lying unnoticed where it had
fallen, and, seizing it, in one instant had restored it to Agostino,
She looked like a little fury as she did so, and if her strength had
been equal to her ferocity she would have been a formidable foe.

Agostino again aimed his _navaja_ at the baron, who was at that moment
off his guard, and would not perhaps have escaped the deadly weapon a
second time if it had been hurled at him from that skilful hand, but
that a grasp of iron fastened upon the desperado’s wrist, just in time
to defeat his purpose. He strove in vain to extricate his right arm
from the powerful grip that held it like a vice—struggling violently,
and writhing with the pain it caused him—but he dared not turn upon
this new assailant, who was behind him, because de Sigognac would have
surely scored his back for him; and he was forced to continue parrying
his thrusts with his left arm, still protected by the ample cloak
firmly wound around it. He soon discovered that he could not possibly
free his right hand, and the agony became so great that his fingers
could no longer keep their grasp of the knife, which fell a second time
to the ground.

It was the tyrant who had come to de Sigognac’s rescue, and now
suddenly roared out in his stentorian voice, “What the deuce is nipping
me? Is it a viper? I felt two sharp fangs meet in the calf of my leg.”

It was Chiquita, who was biting his leg like a dog, in the vain hope of
making him turn round and loose his hold upon Agostino; but the tyrant
shook her off with a quick movement, that sent her rolling in the dust
at some distance, without relinquishing his captive, whilst Matamore
dashed forward and picked up the _navaja_, which he shut together and
put into his pocket.

Whilst this scene was enacting the sun had risen, and poured a flood of
radiance upon the earth in which the sham brigands lost much of their
life-like effect. “Ha, ha!” laughed the peasant, “it would appear that
those gentlemen’s guns take a long time to go off; they must be wet
with dew. But whatever may be the matter with them they are miserable
cowards, to stand still there at a safe distance and leave their chief
to do all the fighting by himself.”

“There is a good reason for that,” answered Matamore, as he climbed up
the steep bank to them, “these are nothing but scarecrows.” And with
six vigorous kicks he sent the six absurd figures rolling in every
direction, making the most comical gestures as they fell.

“You may safely alight now, ladies,” said the baron, reassuringly, to
the trembling actresses, “there’s nothing more to fear; it was only a
sham battle after all.”

In despair at his overwhelming defeat, Agostino hung his head
mournfully, and stood like a statue of grief, dreading lest worse still
should befall him, if the comedians, who were in too great force for
him to attempt to struggle any longer against them, decided to take him
on to the next town and deliver him over to the jailor to be locked up,
as indeed he richly deserved. His faithful little friend, Chiquita,
stood motionless at his side, as downcast as himself. But the farce of
the false brigands so tickled the fancy of the players that it seemed
as if they never would have done laughing over it, and they were
evidently inclined to deal leniently with the ingenious rascal who had
devised it. The tyrant, who had loosened, but not quitted, his hold
upon the bandit, assumed his most tragic air and voice, and said to
him, “You have frightened these ladies almost to death, you scoundrel,
and you richly deserve to be strung up for it; but if, as I believe,
they will consent to pardon you—for they are very kind and good—-I will
not take you to the lock-up. I confess that I do not care to furnish a
subject for the gallows. Besides, your stratagem is really very
ingenious and amusing—a capital farce to play at the expense of
cowardly travellers—who have doubtless paid you well for the
entertainment, eh? As an actor, I appreciate the joke, and your
ingenuity inclines me to be indulgent. You are not simply and brutally
a robber, and it would certainly be a pity to cut short such a fine
career.”

“Alas!” answered Agostino mournfully, “no other career is open to me,
and I am more to be pitied than you suppose. I am the only one left of
a band formerly as complete as yours; the executioner has deprived me
of my brave comrades one by one, and now I am obliged to carry on my
operations entirely alone—dressing up my scarecrows, as your friend
calls them, and assuming different voices to make believe that I am
supported by a numerous company. Ah! mine is a sad fate; and then my
road is such a poor one—so few travellers come this way—and I have not
the means to purchase a better one. Every good road is owned by a band
of brigands, you know. I wish that I could get some honest work to do,
but that is hopeless; who would employ such a looking fellow as I am?
all in rags and tatters, worse than the poorest beggar. I must surely
have been born under an unlucky star. And now this attempt has failed,
from which I hoped to get enough to keep us for two months, and buy a
decent cloak for poor Chiquita besides; she needs it badly enough, poor
thing! Yesterday I had nothing to eat, and I had to tighten my belt to
sustain my empty stomach. Your unexpected resistance has taken the very
bread out of my mouth; and since you would not let me rob you, at least
be generous and give me something.”

“To be sure,” said the tyrant, who was greatly amused; “as we have
prevented your successfully plying your trade we certainly do owe you
an indemnity. Here, take these two _pistoles_ to drink our healths
with.”

Isabelle meantime sought in the chariot for a piece of new woollen
stuff she happened to have with her, which was soft and warm, and gave
it to Chiquita, who exclaimed, “Oh! but it is the necklace of shining
white things that I want.”

Kind Isabelle immediately unclasped it, and then fastened it round the
slender neck of the child, who was so overwhelmed with delight that she
could not speak. She silently rolled the smooth, white beads between
her little brown fingers in a sort of mute ecstasy for a few moments,
then suddenly raising her head and tossing back her thick black hair,
she fixed her sparkling eyes on Isabelle, and said in a low, earnest
voice, “Oh! you are very, very good, and I will never, never kill you.”
Then she ran swiftly back to the pine grove, clambered up the steep
bank, and sat down to admire and enjoy her treasure. As to Agostino,
after making his best bow, and thanking the tyrant for his really
princely munificence, he picked up his prostrate comrades, and carried
them back to be buried again until their services should be needed on
some, he hoped, more auspicious occasion.

The driver, who had deserted his oxen and run to hide himself among the
furze bushes at the beginning of the affray, returned to his post when
he saw that all danger was over, and the chariot once more started upon
its way—the worthy duenna having taken her doubloons out of her shoes
and restored them to her purse, which was then deposited in the depths
of a mysterious pocket.

“You behaved like a real hero of romance,” Isabelle said in an
undertone to de Sigognac, “and I feel that under your protection we can
travel securely; how bravely you attacked that bandit single-handedly
when you had every reason to believe that he was supported by an armed
band.”

“You overestimate my little exploit,” the baron replied modestly,
“there was no danger worth mentioning,” then sinking his voice to a
whisper, “but to protect you I would meet and conquer giants, put to
flight a whole host of Saracens, attack and destroy dragons and horrid
monsters; I would force my way through enchanted forests filled with
snares and perils, such as we read of, and even descend into hell
itself, like Æneas of old. In your dear service the most difficult
feats would be easy; your beautiful eyes inspire me with indomitable
courage, and your sweet presence, or even the bare thought of you,
seems to endue me with a super-human strength.”

This was, perhaps, rather exaggerated, but perfectly sincere, and
Isabelle did not doubt for a moment that de Sigognac would be able to
accomplish fabulous deeds of prowess in her honour and for her sake;
and she was not so very far wrong, for he was becoming hourly more
passionately enamoured of her, and ardent young lovers are capable of
prodigies of valour, inspired by the fair objects of their adoration.

Serafina, who had overheard some of the baron’s impassioned words,
could not repress a scornful smile; so many women are apt to find the
fervid protestations of lovers, when addressed to others than
themselves, supremely ridiculous, yet they joyfully receive the very
same protestations, without detecting anything in the least absurd in
them when whispered into their own ears. For a moment she was tempted
to try the power of her many charms, which she believed to be
irresistible, with the young baron, and win him away from Isabelle; but
this idea was speedily rejected, for Serafina held beauty to be a
precious gem that should be richly set in gold—the gem was hers, but
the golden setting was lamentably wanting, and poor de Sigognac could
not possibly furnish it. So the accomplished coquette decided not to
interfere with this newly-born love affair, which was “all very well
for a simple-minded young girl like Isabelle,” she said to herself,
with a disdainful smile and toss of the head.

Profound silence had fallen upon the party after the late excitement,
and some of them were even growing sleepy again, when several hours
later the driver suddenly called out, “There is the Château de
Bruyères.”




CHAPTER V.
AT THE CHÂTEAU DE BRUYÈRES


The extensive domain of the Marquis de Bruyères was situated just upon
the edge of the Landes, and consisted mostly of productive,
highly-cultivated land—the barren sand reaching only to the boundary
wall of the great park that surrounded the château. An air of
prosperity pervaded the entire estate, in pleasing contrast with the
desolate region of country close at hand. Outside the park wall was a
broad, deep ditch, filled with clear water and spanned by a handsome
stone bridge, wide enough for two carriages abreast, which led to the
grand entrance gates. These were of wrought iron, and quite a marvel of
delicate workmanship and beauty. There was a good deal of gilding about
them, and the lofty apex bore a marquis’s crown above a shield
supported by two naked savages, upon which the de Bruyères arms were
richly emblazoned—it was an entrance worthy of a royal demesne. When
our party paused before it, in the course of the morning, a servant in
a rich, showy livery was slowly opening the folding leaves of the
magnificent gates, so as to admit them into the park. The very oxen
hesitated ere they took their slow way through it, as if dazzled by so
much splendour, and ashamed of their own homeliness—the honest brutes
little suspecting that the wealthy nobleman’s pomp and glitter are
derived from the industry of the lowly tillers of the soil. It
certainly would seem as if only fine carriages and prancing horses
should be permitted to pass through such a portal as this, but the
chariot of Thespis, no matter how humble, is privileged, and not only
enters, but is welcome everywhere.

A broad avenue led from the bridge to the château, passing by carefully
clipped shrubbery, whence marble statues peeped out here and there, and
a beautiful garden, with flower-beds ingeniously laid out in
geometrical patterns, and brilliant with well contrasted colours. The
narrow walks among them were bordered with box, and strewn with fine
sand of various tints, and several little fountains threw up their
sparkling jets among the flowers. In the centre of the garden was a
magnificent fountain, with a large, oblong, marble basin, and a Triton,
on a high pedestal, pouring water from a shell. A row of yews,
skilfully trimmed into pyramids, balls, and various fanciful shapes,
and placed at regular distances on each side of the grand avenue,
extended from the entrance gates to the château, their sombre hue
contrasting well with the brighter green of the foliage behind them.
Everything was in the most perfect order; not a leaf out of place, nor
a particle of dust to be seen anywhere, as if the gardeners had just
freshly washed and trimmed every tree, shrub, and plant under their
care.

All this magnificence astonished and delighted the poor comedians, who
rarely gained admission to such an abode as this. Serafina, affecting
indifference, but noting everything carefully from under her lowered
eye-lashes, promised herself to supplant the _soubrette_ in the
marquis’s favour, feeling that this great seignior was her own
legitimate prey, and ought to have devoted himself to her in the first
place, instead of weakly yielding to the vulgar blandishments of the
pretty waiting-maid, as he should no longer be permitted to do—if she
had any power.

Meanwhile the _soubrette_, feeling sure of her conquest, had given
herself up to castle-building with all the fervour of her ardent
southern nature. Isabelle, who was not preoccupied by any ambitious
projects, turned her head now and then to glance and smile tenderly at
de Sigognac, who was sitting in the chariot behind her and who she knew
must be feeling acutely the painful contrast between this splendid
estate and his own desolate, half-ruined château. Her loving heart
ached for him, and her eyes spoke sweetest sympathy to the poor young
nobleman, reduced so low a fortune, yet so worthy of a better fate.

The tyrant was deep in thought, trying to decide how, much he might
venture to demand for the services of his troupe, and mentally
increasing the amount at every step, as new glories disclosed
themselves to his wondering eyes. The pedant was looking forward
impatiently to the copious draughts of generous wine he felt sure of
enjoying in the splendid château that was now in full view, and
Leander, striving to smooth his slightly dishevelled locks with a
dainty little tortoise-shell pocket-comb, was wondering, with a
fluttering heart, whether a fair _marquise_ dwelt within those walls,
and would gaze down upon him from one of those windows as he
alighted—indulging in high hopes of the impression he should make upon
her susceptible heart.

The Château de Bruyères, which had been entirely rebuilt in the
preceding reign, was a noble structure, of immense size, three stories
in height, and enclosing a large interior court. It was built of red
brick, with elaborate, white stone facings. There were many pretty
balconies with sculptured stone railings, and large, clear panes of
glass—an unusual luxury at that epoch—in the numerous lofty windows,
through which the rich hangings within were visible; and a projecting
porch, reached by an imposing flight of broad stone steps, in the
centre of the facade, marked the main entrance. The high, steep roof
was of slate, in several shades, wrought into a quaint, pretty pattern,
and the groups of tall chimneys were symmetrically disposed and
handsomely ornamented. There was a look of gaiety and luxury about this
really beautiful château which gave the idea of great prosperity, but
not the slightest approach to vulgar pretension. There was nothing
meretricious or glaring; everything was substantial and in perfect
taste, and an indescribably majestic, dignified air, if we may be
allowed the expression, pervaded the whole establishment, which spoke
of ancient wealth and nobility under all this modern splendour.

Behind the château, its gardens and terraces, was a veritable forest of
lofty, venerable trees, forming the magnificent park, which was of
great extent, and for centuries had been the pride of the Bruyères.

Although our high-minded young hero had never been envious of any one
in his life, he could not altogether suppress the melancholy sigh with
which he remembered that in former years the de Sigognacs had stood
higher than the de Bruyères in the province, and had taken precedence
of them at court; nor could he help contrasting in his own mind this
fresh, new château, replete with every beauty and luxury that a
cultivated taste could devise and plentiful wealth procure, with his
own desolate, dilapidated mansion—the home of owls and rats—which was
gradually but surely crumbling into dust, and a keen pang shot through
his heart at the thought. He recalled the dreary, solitary, hopeless
life he had led there, and said to himself that the Marquis de Bruyères
ought to be a very happy man, with so much to make his existence
delightful. The stopping of the chariot at the foot of the broad stone
steps in the front of the château aroused him from his reverie; he
dismissed as quickly as he could the sad thoughts that had engrossed
him, endeavoured to dismiss also the dark shadow from his brow, and
jumping lightly to the ground turned and held out his hand to help
Isabelle to descend, before any one else could offer her that little
service.

The Marquis de Bruyères, who had seen the chariot advancing slowly up
the avenue, stood in the porch to receive them. He was superbly
dressed, and looked very handsome, as both Serafina and the _soubrette_
secretly remarked. He descended two or three steps as the chariot
stopped, and welcomed his guests with a friendly wave of the hand—doing
them as much honour as if they had been of his own rank—which act of
courtesy, let us hasten to explain, was because of the Baron de
Sigognac’s presence among them; but for that they would not have been
brought to the main entrance at all.

At this moment the wily _soubrette_, seeing her opportunity for a bold
stroke, prepared to alight; and as de Sigognac was fully occupied with
Isabelle, and nobody else thought of paying any attention to her—for
she always jumped to the ground as lightly as a bird, disdaining
assistance—she hesitated for a moment, with an adorable little air of
timidity, and then raised an appealing glance to the marquis. He could
not resist it, and, rushing down the steps to her aid, held out both
hands to her. With wonderful art the clever little actress managed to
slip and lose her balance, so as to fall into his extended arms,
clasping him around the neck as she did so.

“Pardon me, my lord,” said she, breathlessly, to the marquis, feigning
a confusion she was far from really feeling, “I thought I was going to
fall, and grasped your collar, just as a drowning man clutches at the
nearest object. A fall is a bad omen, you know, as well as a serious
matter, for a poor actress.”

“Permit me to look upon this little accident as a favour,” the marquis
replied, giving her a most significant glance, and lightly pressing her
yielding form in his arms before he released her.

Serafina had watched this little by-play out of the corner of her eye,
though her face was apparently turned away from them, and she bit her
lip till it bled, with vexation; so after all the _soubrette_ had
succeeded, by an abominably bold action, in compelling the marquis to
neglect her betters and give his warmest welcome to a low _intrigante_,
said the “leading lady” to herself, swelling with righteous
indignation, and abusing the offender roundly in her thoughts—wishing
that she could do it aloud, and expose her outrageous, unmannerly
artifice.

“Jean,” said the marquis to a servant in livery who stood near, “have
this chariot taken into the court, and see that the decorations,
scenery, etc., are carefully put in some convenient place; have the
luggage of these ladies and gentlemen carried to the rooms that I
ordered to be made ready for them, and take care that they have
everything they want;” then in a lower tone, but very emphatically, “I
desire that they should be treated with the utmost courtesy and
respect.”

These orders being given, the marquis gravely ascended the steps,
followed by the comedians, and having consigned them to his major-domo
to show them to their respective rooms and make them comfortable, he
gracefully bowed and left them; darting an admiring glance at the
_soubrette_ as he did so, which she acknowledged by a radiant smile,
that Serafina, raging inwardly, pronounced “abominably bold.”

The chariot meantime had made its way into a back court, accompanied by
the tyrant, the pedant and Scapin, who superintended the unloading of
the various articles that would be needed—a strange medley, which the
supercilious servants of the château, in their rich liveries, handled
with a very lofty air of contempt and condescension, feeling it quite
beneath their dignity to wait upon a band of strolling players. But
they dared not rebel, for the marquis had ordered it, and he was a
severe master, as well as a very generous one.

The major-domo, however, conducted his charges to their appointed
chambers with as profound an air of respect as if they had been real
princes and princesses; for the marquis himself had visited the left
wing of the château, where they were to be lodged, had specified the
room for each guest, and ordered that they should want for nothing—a
very unusual proceeding on his part, as he was in the habit of leaving
all such minor details to his trusty major-domo. A beautiful chamber,
hung with tapestry which represented the loves of Cupid and Psyche, was
given to the _soubrette_, the pretty, dainty, blue one to Isabelle, and
the luxurious red one to Serafina, whilst the more sober brown one was
assigned to the duenna. The Baron de Sigognac was installed in a
magnificent apartment, whose panelled walls were covered with richly
embossed Spanish leather. It was close to Isabelle’s room—a delicate
attention on the part of the marquis. This superb chamber was always
reserved for his most honoured guests, and in giving it to our young
hero he desired to testify that he recognised and appreciated his rank,
though he religiously respected his incognito.

When de Sigognac was left alone, and at liberty to think over quietly
the odd situation in which he found himself, he looked at his
magnificent surroundings with surprise as well as admiration—for he had
never in his life seen, or even imagined, such splendour and luxury.
The rich glowing colours of the chimerical flowers and foliage embossed
on a golden ground of the Spanish leather on the walls, the
corresponding tints in the frescoed ceiling and the heavy, silken
hangings at the windows and doors and round the bed, the elaborately
carved and gilded furniture, the luxurious easy-chairs and sofas, the
large mirrors with bevelled edges, and the dainty dressing-table,
lavishly furnished with all the accessories of the toilet, with its
oval glass draped with lace which was tied back with knots of gay
ribbon, certainly did make up a charming whole, and the wood fire
burning brightly in the open fireplace gave a cheerful, cosy air to it
all.

Our poor young baron blushed painfully as he caught sight of his own
figure in one of the long mirrors—his shabby, ill-fitting clothes
looked so sadly out of place amidst all this magnificence—and for the
first time in his life he felt ashamed of his poverty. Highly
unphilosophical this, but surely excusable in so young a man as our
hero. With a natural desire to improve his forlorn appearance if he
could, he unpacked the scanty supply of clothing that his faithful
Pierre had put up for him—hoping that he might come across something a
little less thread-bare than the suit he actually had on his back—but
the inspection was not satisfactory, and he groaned as he discarded one
faded, shabby garment after another. The linen was not any better—worn
so that it was thin everywhere, with numerous darns and patches, and
many holes, he could not find a single shirt that was whole and in good
condition. He was so absorbed in this melancholy inspection that he did
not hear a low knock at the door, nor notice that it was slowly pushed
open, having been already ajar, to admit the stout person of Blazius,
who approached him with many bows and flourishes, though entirely
unobserved. When the pedant reached his side de Sigognac was just
holding up before him a shirt that had as many openings as the rose
window of a cathedral, and slowly shaking his head as he gazed at it,
with an expression of utter discouragement.

“Body of Bacchus!” exclaimed the pedant—his voice, so close at hand,
startling the astonished baron, who had believed himself alone, and
safe from intrusion—“that shirt has verily a valiant and triumphant
air. It looks as if it had been worn by Mars himself in battle, so
riddled has it been by lances, spears, darts, arrows, and I know not
what besides. Don’t be ashamed of it, Baron!—these holes are honourable
to you. Many a shirt of fine linen, ruffled and embroidered, according
to the latest fashion, disguises the graceless person of some rascally
parvenu—and usurer as well perhaps—who usurps the place of his betters.
Several of the great heroes, of immortal fame, had not a shirt to their
backs—Ulysses, for example, that wise and valiant man, who presented
himself before the beautiful Princess Nausicaa, with no other covering
than a bunch of sea-weed—as we are told, in the Odyssey, by the grand
old bard, Homer.”

“Unfortunately,” de Sigognac replied, “there is no point of
resemblance, my dear Blazius, between me and the brave King of Ithaca,
save the lack of linen. _I_ have done no deeds of valour to shed a
lustre over MY poverty. I have had no chance to make myself famous, and
I fear that the poets will never celebrate my praises in glowing
hexameters. But, jesting aside, I must confess that I do feel greatly
annoyed at being forced to appear in this guise here. The Marquis de
Bruyères recognised me, though he made no sign, and he may betray my
secret.”

“It _is_ a pity,” said the pedant in reply, “but there’s a remedy for
every ill under the sun, save death, according to the old saying, and
if you will permit me, I think that I can help you out of this awkward
dilemma. We, poor players, shadows of real men and women, phantoms of
personages of every degree, from the highest to the lowest, have the
means necessary for assuming almost any character, you know. As
‘_costumier_’ of the troupe I am accustomed to make all sorts of
transformations, and can turn a miserable vagabond into an Alexander,
or a vulgar wench into a princess. Now, if you are not too proud, I
will exercise my poor skill in your lordship’s service. Since you have
been willing to join our company for this journey, do not disdain to
make use of our resources, such as they are, and put aside these
ill-fitting garments, which disguise your natural advantages, and make
you feel ill at ease. Most fortunately I happen to have in reserve a
handsome suit of black velvet, which has not the least of a theatrical
air about it, and has never been used; any gentleman could wear it, and
unless I am much mistaken it will fit you capitally. I have also the
fine linen shirt, silk stockings, shoes—with broad buckles, and cloak
to go with it—there is nothing wanting, not even the sword.”

“Oh! as to that,” cried de Sigognac, with a gesture expressive of all
that pride of birth which no misfortunes could crush, “I have my
father’s sword.”

“True,” answered Blazius, “and guard it sacredly, my lord! for a sword
is a faithful friend—defender of its master’s life and honour. _It_
does not abandon him in times of peril and disaster, like the false
friends who cling only to prosperity. Our stage swords have neither
edge nor point, for they are only intended for show; the wounds they
make disappear suddenly when the curtain falls, without the aid of the
surgeon with his instruments and lint. That trusty sword of yours you
can depend upon in any emergency, and I have already seen it doing good
service in our behalf. But permit me to go and fetch the things I spoke
of; I am impatient to see the butterfly emerge from the chrysalis.”

Having thus spoken, in the theatrical way that had become habitual with
him, the worthy pedant quitted the room, and soon reappeared, carrying
a large package, which he deposited on the table in the centre of the
chamber.

“If your lordship will accept an old actor as _valet-de-chambre_,” he
said, rubbing his hands joyfully together, “I will beautify you in no
time. All the ladies will be sure to fall in love with you, for—with no
disrespect to the larder at the Château de Sigognac be it said—you have
fasted so much in your lonely life there that it has made you most
interestingly slender and pale—just what the dear creatures delight in.
They would not listen to a word from a stout lover, even if the
diamonds and pearls of the fairy tale dropped from his lips whenever he
spoke. That is the sole reason for my want of success with the fair
sex, and I long ago deserted the shrine of Venus for the worship of
Bacchus. A big paunch is not amiss among the devotees of that merry
god, for it bears witness to plentiful libations.”

Thus running on gaily, the worthy pedant strove to amuse the melancholy
young nobleman, while he deftly performed his duties as valet; and they
were very quickly completed, for the requirements of the stage
necessitate great dexterity on the part of the actors to make the
metamorphoses frequently needed with sufficient promptness and
rapidity. Charmed with the result of his efforts he led de Sigognac up
to one of the large mirrors, wherein, upon raising his eyes, he saw a
figure which, at the first glance, he thought must be that of some
person who had entered the room without his knowledge, and turned to
ask who the intruder was—but there was no stranger there, and he
discovered that it was his own reflection—so changed that he was mute
with astonishment. A young, handsome, richly-dressed de Sigognac stood
before him, and a radiant smile parted his lips and lighted up his face
as he gazed at his own image, which perfected the really marvellous
transformation. Blazius, standing near, contemplated his work with
undisguised pride and satisfaction, changing his position several times
so as to get different views, as a sculptor might who had just put the
finishing touches to his statue altogether to his liking.

“When you have made your way at court, my lord, and regained the
position held by your ancestors, as I hope and expect that you will do,
I shall pray you to give me a refuge for my old age in your household,
and make me intendant of your lordship’s wardrobe,” said he, with a
profound bow to the baron.

“I will not forget your request, my good Blazius, even though I fear
that I shall never be able to comply with it,” de Sigognac answered
with a melancholy smile. “You, my kind friend, are the first human
being that has ever asked a favour of me.”

“After our dinner, which we are to have very shortly, we are to consult
with his lordship, the marquis, as to what play shall be given this
evening, and learn from him where we are to rig our theatre. You will
pass for the poet of the troupe; it is by no means an unheard-of thing
for men of learning and position to join a band of players thus—either
for the fun of the thing, and in hope of adventures, or for the love of
a young and beautiful actress. I could tell you of several notable
instances; and it is thought to be rather to a man’s credit than
otherwise in fashionable circles. Isabelle is a very good pretext for
you; she is young, beautiful, clever, modest, and virtuous. In fact
many an actress who takes like her the role of the ingenuous young girl
is in reality all that she personates, though a frivolous and
frequently licentious public will not credit it for a moment.”

Herewith the pedant discreetly retired, having accomplished, to his
great satisfaction, what he had really feared to propose to the young
baron, for whom he had conceived a very warm affection.

Meanwhile the elegant Leander, indulging in delightful dreams of the
possible fair _châtelaine_ who was to fall a victim to his charms, was
making his careful toilet—arraying himself in his most resplendent
finery, scrupulously kept for grand occasions—convinced that great good
fortune awaited him, and determined to carry the noble lady’s heart by
storm.

As to the actresses, to whom the gallant marquis, with princely
munificence, had sent several pieces of rich stuffs and silks, it is
needless to say that they spared no pains to make themselves as
charming as possible, and obeyed the summons to dinner radiant with
smiles and in high good humour—excepting indeed the fair Serafina, who
was inwardly consumed with envy and spite, but careful to conceal it
from all beholders.

The marquis, who was of an ardent, impatient nature, made his
appearance in the dining-room before they had quite finished the
sumptuous repast which had been served to them; he would not allow them
to rise, but seated himself at the table with them, and when the last
course had been removed, asked the tyrant to be good enough to give him
a list of the plays they were in the habit of acting, so that he might
select one for the evening’s entertainment. But so many were enumerated
that his lordship found it not easy to make a choice, and expressed his
desire to have the tyrant’s ideas upon the subject.

“There is one piece we often play,” Hérode said, “which never fails to
please, and is so full of good-natured fun and nonsense that it keeps
the audience in a roar of laughter from the beginning to the end.”

“Let us have that one, by all means,” the marquis exclaimed; “and pray
what is the name of this delightful play?”

“The Rodomontades of Captain Matamore.”

“A capital title, upon my word! and has the _soubrette_ a good part in
it?” asked his lordship, with a languishing glance at her.

“The most racy, mischievous role imaginable,” said Hérode warmly, “and
she plays it to perfection—it is her chef d’oeuvre. She is always
applauded to the echo in it.”

At this high praise from the manager, Zerbine—for such was the
_soubrette’s_ name—tried her best to get up a becoming blush, but in
vain. Modesty she had none, and the tint she would fain have called
into requisition at that moment was not contained in any of her
numerous rouge-pots. So she cast down her eyes, thereby displaying to
advantage the length and thickness of her jet-black lashes, and raised
her hand with a deprecating gesture, which called attention to its
pretty, taper fingers and rosy nails. The marquis watched he
admiringly, and she certainly was very charming in her way. He did not
vouchsafe even a glance to the other two young actresses—refraining
from testifying any marked admiration for Isabelle because of the prior
claim of the Baron de Sigognac—though he was secretly very much
delighted with her sweet, refined style of beauty, and the quiet
dignity and grace of her deportment. Serafina, who was naturally
indignant that the marquis had not even asked if there was a part for
her in the piece to be performed, accused him in her heart of being no
gentleman, and of having very low, vulgar tastes, but she was the only
one of the party that felt any dissatisfaction.

Before the marquis left them he said to Hérode, “I have given orders to
have the orangery cleared so that our theatre can be arranged there;
they are carrying planks, trestles, benches, hangings, and all other
needful articles in there now. Will you kindly superintend the workmen,
who are new to this sort of business? They will obey your orders as
they would my own.”

Accordingly the tyrant, Blazius and Scapin repaired to the orangery,
which was at a little distance from the château and admirably
calculated for the purpose it was now to serve, and where they found
everything necessary to convert it into a temporary theatre.

Whilst this work is going forward we will make our amiable, indulgent
readers acquainted with the fair mistress of the château—having
heretofore forgotten to mention that the Marquis de Bruyères was a
married man; he thought of it so seldom himself that we may surely be
pardoned for this omission. As can be readily imagined, from our last
remark, love had not been the moving cause in this union. Adjoining
estates, which, united in one, formed a noble domain, and equality of
rank had been the chief considerations. After a very brief honeymoon,
during which they had become painfully aware of a total want of
congeniality, the marquis and _marquise_—like well-bred people, making
no outcry about their matrimonial failure—had tacitly agreed to live
amicably under the same roof, but entirely independent of each other—he
to go his way and she hers, with perfect freedom. They always treated
each other in public, and indeed whenever they chanced to meet, with
the greatest courtesy, and might easily have been mistaken by a casual
observer for an unusually happy and united pair. Mme. la Marquise
occupied a sumptuous suite of apartments in the château, which her
husband never thought of entering without first sending to ascertain
whether it would be convenient for madame to receive him, like a formal
visitor. But we will avail ourselves of the time-honoured privilege of
authors, and make our way into the noble _châtelaine’s_ bed-chamber,
without any form or ceremony—feeling sure of not disturbing its fair
occupant, since the writer of a romance wears upon his finger the
wonder-working ring of Gyges, which renders him invisible.

It was a large, lofty room, hung with superb tapestry representing the
adventures of Apollo, and exhibiting every luxury that wealth could
procure. Here also a bright wood fire was, burning cheerily, and the
Marquise de Bruyères sat before her dressing table, with two maids in
attendance upon her, absorbed in the all-important business of putting
the finishing touches to her extremely becoming as well as effective
toilet. Mme. la Marquise was a handsome brunette, whose embonpoint,
which had succeeded to the slender outline of early youth, had added to
her beauty; her magnificent black hair, which was one of her ladyship’s
greatest charms, was dressed in the most elaborate fashion—an intricate
mass of glossy braids, puffs and curls, forming a lofty structure, and
ornamented with a large bow of crimson ribbon, while one long curl fell
upon her fair neck, making it look all the whiter by contrast. Her
dress of crimson silk, cut very low, displayed to advantage—the plump,
dimpled shoulders, and her snowy bosom, and from a band of black velvet
round her throat was suspended a heart-shaped locket, set with superb
rubies and brilliants. A white satin petticoat covered with priceless
old lace, over which the crimson silk gown, open in front, was looped
high upon the hips, and then swept back in a long, ample, richly
trimmed train, completed the elegant toilet of Mme. la Marquise.

Jeanne, the favourite maid and confidante, held open the box of tiny
black, “_mouches_”—without which no fashionable lady of that epoch
considered herself fully equipped—while the _marquise_ placed one, with
most happy effect, near the corner of her rather pretty mouth, and then
hesitated some time before she could decide where to put the other,
which she held ready on the tip of her forefinger. The two maids stood
motionless, breathlessly watching their mistress, as if fully impressed
with the importance of this grave question, until at last the little
black star found a resting-place just above the edge of the crimson
silk bodice, to the left—indicating, in the accepted hieroglyphics of
that age of gallantry, that he who aspired to the lips of the fair
wearer must first win her heart.

After a last lingering look in the mirror Mme. la Marquise rose and
walked slowly towards the fire, but suddenly, remembering that there
was yet one adornment wanting, turned back, and took from a beautiful
casket standing open on the toilet-table, a large, thick watch—called
in those days a Nuremberg egg—which was curiously enamelled in a
variety of bright colours, and set with brilliants. It hung from a
short, broad chain of rich workmanship, which she hooked into her
girdle, near another chain of the same description, from which depended
a small hand-mirror in a pretty gold frame.

“Madame is looking her loveliest to-day,” said Jeanne in flattering
tones; “her hair is dressed to perfection, and her gown fits like a
glove.”

“Do you really think so?” asked her mistress languidly, and with
affected indifference. “It seems to me, on the contrary, that I am
positively hideous. My eyes are sunken, and this colour makes me look
immensely stout. I have half a mind to exchange this dress for a black
one now. What do you think, Jeanne? Black makes people look slender,
they say.”

“If madame insists upon it I can quickly make the exchange; but it
would be a sad pity not to wear such an elegant and becoming costume as
madame has on now.”

“Well, let it be then; but it will be all your fault, Jeanne, if I fail
to receive as much admiration as usual this evening. Do you know
whether the marquis has invited many people to come and see this play?”

“Yes, madame, several messengers have been sent off on horseback in
different directions, and there will be sure to be a large
gathering—they will come from all the châteaux within driving
distance—for such an occasion as this is rare, here in the depths of
the country.”

“You are right,” said Mme. la Marquise, with a deep sigh, which was
almost a groan; “we are buried alive in this dreary place. And what
about these players?—have you seen them, Jeanne?—are there any handsome
young actors among them?”

“I have only had a glimpse of them, madame, and such people are so
painted and fixed up, they say, that it is hard to tell what they
really do look like; but there was one slender young man, with long,
black curls and a very good figure, who had quite a grand air.”

“That must be the lover, Jeanne, for it is always the best looking
young actor in the troupe who takes that part. It would be ridiculous,
you know, to have a stout old codger, or a very ugly man, or even an
awkward one, making declarations of love, and going down on their
knees, and all that sort of thing—it would not do at all, Jeanne!”

“No, madame, it would not be very nice,” said the maid with a merry
laugh, adding shrewdly, “and although it seems to make very little
difference what husbands may be like, lovers should always be
everything that is charming.”

“I confess that I have a weakness for those stage gallants,” Mme. la
Marquise said with a little sigh, “they are so handsome, and so
devoted—they always use such beautiful language, and make such graceful
gestures—they are really irresistible. I cannot help feeling vexed when
their impassioned appeals are received coldly, and they are driven to
despair, as so often happens in plays; I would like to call them to me
and try to console them, the bewitching creatures!”

“That is because madame has such a kind heart that she can’t bear to
see any one suffer without trying to help and comfort them,” said the
specious Jeanne. “Now I am of quite a different mind—nothing I would
like better than to flout a sentimental suitor; fine words would not
gain any favour with me—I should distrust them.”

“Oh! you don’t understand the matter, Jeanne! You have not read as many
romances, or seen as many plays as I have. Did you say that young actor
was very handsome?”

“Mme. la Marquise can judge for herself,” answered the maid, who had
gone to the window, “for he is just crossing the court this blessed
minute, on his way to the orangery, where they are rigging up their
theatre.”

Mme. la Marquise hastened to the window, and there was Leander in full
view, walking along slowly, apparently lost in thought, and wearing a
tender, sad expression, which he considered especially effective and
interesting—as we have said, he never for a moment forgot his role. As
he drew near he looked up, as by a sudden inspiration, to the very
window where the _marquise_ stood watching him, and instantly taking
off his hat with a grand flourish, so that its long feather swept the
ground, made a very low obeisance, such as courtiers make to a queen;
then drew himself up proudly to his full height, and darting an ardent
glance of admiration and homage at the beautiful unknown, put on his
broad felt hat again and went composedly on his way. It was admirably
well done; a genuine cavalier, familiar with all the gallant usages in
vogue at court, could not have acquitted himself better. Flattered by
this mark of respect for her rank and admiration of her beauty, so
gracefully tendered, Mme. la Marquise could not help acknowledging it
by a slight bend of the head, and a little half suppressed smile. These
favourable signs did not escape Leander, who, with his usual
self-conceit, took a most exaggerated view of their import. He did not
for a moment doubt that the fair mistress of the château—for he took it
for granted it was she—had fallen violently in love with him, then and
there; he felt sure that he had read it in her eyes and her smile. His
heart beat tumultuously; he trembled with excitement; at last it had
come! the dream of his life was to be accomplished; he, the poor,
strolling player, had won the heart of a great lady; his fortune was
made! He got through the rehearsal to which he had been summoned as
best he might, and the instant it was over hastened back to his own
room, to indite an impassioned appeal to his new divinity, and devise
some means to insure its reaching her that same evening.

As everything was in readiness the play was to begin as soon as the
invited guests had all assembled. The orangery had been transformed
into a charming little theatre, and was brilliantly lighted by many
clusters of wax candles. Behind the spectators the orange trees had
been arranged in rows, rising one above the other, and filled the air
with their delicious fragrance. In the front row of seats, which was
composed of luxurious arm-chairs, were to be seen the beautiful Yolande
de Foix, the Duchesse de Montalban, the Baronne d’Hagémeau, the
Marquise de Bruyres, and many other titled dames, resplendent in
gorgeous array, and vying with each other in magnificence and beauty.
Rich velvets, brilliant satins, cloth of silver and gold, misty laces,
gay ribbons, white feathers, tiaras of diamonds, strings of pearls,
superb jewels, glittering in delicate shell-like ears, on white necks
and rounded arms, were in profusion, and the scene would have graced
the court itself. If the surpassingly lovely Yolande de Foix had not
been present, several radiant mortal goddesses in the exceptionally
brilliant assemblage might have made it difficult for a Paris to decide
between their rival claims to the golden apple; but her beauty eclipsed
them all, though it was rather that of the haughty Diana than the
smiling Venus. Men raved about her, declared her irresistible,
worshipped at her shrine, but never dared aspire to her love; one
scornful glance from her cold blue eyes effectually extinguished any
nascent hope, and the cruel beauty punished presumption as
relentlessly, and won and flung away hearts with as much nonchalance,
as ever did her immortal prototype, the fair goddess of the chase.

How was this exquisite creature dressed? It would require more
_sang-froid_ than we are possessed of to venture upon a description of
her perfect toilet; her raiment floated about her graceful form like a
luminous cloud, in which one could think only of herself; we believe,
however, that there were clusters of pearls nestling amid the bright
curls that made an aureola—a veritable golden glory—about her beautiful
head.

Behind these fair ladies sat or stood the nobles and gentlemen who had
the honour of being their fathers, husbands, and brothers. Some were
leaning forward to whisper soft nothings and dainty compliments into
willing ears, others lounging and fanning themselves lazily with their
broad felt hats, and others still standing in the background looking
admiringly at the pretty group before them. The hum of conversation
filled the air, and a slight impatience was just beginning to manifest
itself among the waiting audience, when the traditional three knocks
were heard, and all suddenly subsided into silence.

The curtain rose slowly and revealed a very pretty scene representing a
public square where several streets met, surrounded by picturesque
houses with small latticed windows, overhanging gables, high peaked
roofs, and smoke curling upwards from the slender chimneys against the
blue sky.

One of these houses had a practicable door and window, whilst two of
those in the side scenes enjoyed equal advantages, and one of them was
furnished with a balcony. A few trees were scattered about in front of
the houses, and, though the painting was not of the highest order of
scenic art, the general effect was very good, and won a round of
applause from the aristocratic audience. The piece opens with a quarrel
between the testy old _bourgeois_, Pandolphe, and his daughter,
Isabelle, who, being in love with a handsome young suitor, obstinately
refuses to obey her father’s commands and marry a certain Captain
Matamore, with whom he is perfectly infatuated. She is ably supported
in her resistance by her pretty maid, Zerbine, who is well paid by
Leander, the favoured lover, to espouse his cause. To all the curses
and abuse that Pandolphe showers upon her, she answers gaily with the
most exasperating and amusing impertinences, advising him to marry this
fine captain himself if he is so fond of him; as for her part she will
never suffer her dear, beautiful mistress to become the wife of that
horrid old codger, that abominable bully, that detestable scarecrow!
Whereupon Pandolphe, furiously angry, orders her into the house, so
that he may speak to his daughter alone; and when she refuses to obey,
and defies him to make her, he takes her by the shoulders and attempts
to force her to go, but she, bending forward with admirable elasticity,
from the waist only, at each vigorous effort of his, stands her ground
and does not budge one inch from her place, breaking into peals of
laughter at every fresh attempt, and accompanying it all with an
irresistibly saucy, comical by-play, that wins her round after round of
enthusiastic applause—whilst the Marquis de Bruyères, enchanted with
her spirited acting, congratulates himself anew upon the happy chance
that threw this charming creature in his way.

Another character now enters upon the scene, looking cautiously about
him at every step, as if he feared an unpleasant surprise. This is
Leander, the horror of fathers, husbands, and guardians, the delight of
wives, daughters, and wards—in one word, the lover—the very beau-ideal
of a lover; young, handsome, ardent, ready for anything, winning over
strict old duennas, bribing pert waiting-maids, climbing up
rope-ladders, overcoming every obstacle to reach the fair mistress of
his affections, and kneeling at her feet to pour out burning
protestations of love and devotion, that no mortal woman could ever
resist. Suddenly perceiving that Pandolphe is here, where he only
expected to find Isabelle, Leander stops and throws himself into an
attitude, which he has frequently practised before the mirror, and
which, he flatters himself, shows his handsome person to great
advantage; standing with his weight thrown upon the left leg, the right
one advanced and slightly bent at the knee; one hand on the hilt of his
sword, the other stroking his chin, so as to make the big diamond on
his finger flash in the light, and a slight smile playing about his
lips. He really did look very handsome as he stood there, and was
greatly admired by all the ladies—even the haughty Yolande herself not
disdaining to smile upon him approvingly. Profiting by the opportunity
that this pause gave him, Leander fixed his eyes upon the Marquise de
Bruyères, with such a look of passionate entreaty and admiration that
she blushed crimson in spite of herself under his ardent gaze; then he
turned reluctantly towards Isabelle, with an absent, indifferent air,
which he intended should indicate to the fair object of his aspirations
the difference between real and simulated passion.

When Pandolphe becomes aware of the presence of Leander he is more
furious than ever, and hustles his daughter and her maid into the house
as quickly as possible, not, however, without Zerbine’s finding means
to take from Leander a note for Isabelle, which she slips into the
pocket of her coquettish little apron. The young man, left alone with
the irate father, assures him in the most respectful manner that his
intentions are honourable; that he asks the hand of his fair daughter
in marriage; that he is of gentle birth, has an ample fortune, and is
in high favour at court; that nothing could ever induce him to give up
Isabelle; he is ready to risk everything to win her, for he loves her
better than his life—delicious words, which the young girl listens to
with rapture from her balcony, whence she makes little signs of
approval and encouragement to her lover, quite unknown to the stern
father, whose back is turned to her, and who believes her safely locked
up in the house. Despite the mellifluous eloquence of the ardent young
suitor Pandolphe remains obstinate and unmoved, and swears, by all the
gods that either he will have Captain Matamore for his son-in-law, or
his refractory daughter shall be shut up in a convent and forced to
become a nun. Off he bustles in hot haste to find a notary and have the
contract of marriage drawn without further delay.

As soon as he is out of sight Leander tries to persuade Isabelle—who is
still in her balcony, her father having carried off the key of the
street door in his pocket—to consent to fly from such persecution, and
accompany him to the cell of a certain holy hermit whom he knows, and
who is always willing and ready to marry runaway couples like
themselves, whose loves are thwarted by tyrannical parents. But the
young girl answers modestly, yet firmly, that, although she wishes
nothing so earnestly as to be permitted to bestow her hand upon her
faithful Leander, who already has her heart, she cannot disobey her
father, for that she, like all dutiful daughters, is in duty bound to
respect and submit to the commands of the author of her being; but she
promises never to marry the detested Captain Matamore—she will go into
the convent rather than listen to him for a moment. Unable to shake her
decision Leander then retires to devise plans, with the aid of his
clever valet, to overcome the formidable obstacles in his way—more than
ever determined not to give up the fair Isabelle, and promising her to
return in the evening and report progress.

Isabelle retires from her balcony and closes her window, and a moment
after Captain Matamore strides fiercely upon the stage—his appearance
is greeted with peals of laughter—his tall, attenuated figure is
encased in an absurd costume, in which the bright red and yellow
stripes of his tunic meet in points in front and behind, whilst they
run spirally round his long, thin arms and legs, producing the most
preposterously comical effect imaginable; a stiffly-starched ruff,
immensely broad, encircles his neck, upon which his head seems to be
set, like that of John the Baptist on the charger; a large felt hat,
turned up at one side, and ornamented with a huge tuft of red and
yellow feathers, is stuck jauntily on his head, and a short cloak of
the same colour, fastened round his neck and thrown back from his
shoulders, floats behind him. He wears an enormous sword, whose heavily
weighted hilt keeps the point always raised and standing out
prominently behind him, whilst from it dangles a clever imitation of a
spider’s web—a convincing proof of how much he is in the habit of
making use of this formidable weapon. Closely followed by his valet,
Scapin, who is in imminent danger of having an eye put out by the end
of his master’s big sword, he marches several times around the stage,
taking preternaturally long strides, rolling his eyes about fiercely,
twisting the long ends of his huge mustache, and indulging in a variety
of ridiculous gestures indicative of exaggerated rage and fury, which
are irresistibly funny—all the more so because there is nothing
whatever to provoke this display of ferocity. Finally he stops in front
of the footlights, strikes an attitude, and delivers himself thus: “For
to-day, Scapin, I am willing to let my man-killer here have a little
rest, so that there may be an opportunity to get all its recent victims
decently buried, in the cemeteries I contribute so largely towards
filling. When a man has performed such feats of courage and carnage as
I have—killing my hundreds single-handed, while my dastardly comrades
trembled with fear, or turned and fled from the foe—to say nothing of
my daily affairs of honour, now that the wars are over—he may assuredly
indulge himself occasionally in milder amusements. Besides, the whole
civilized world, having now been subjugated by my good sword, no longer
offers any resistance to my indomitable arm, and Atropos, the eldest of
the dread Parcae sisters, has sent word to me that the fatal scissors,
with which she cuts the threads of human lives, have become so dulled
by the great amount of work my trusty blade has given her to do with
them, that she has been obliged to send them to Vulcan to be sharpened,
and she begs for a short respite. So you see, Scapin, I must put force
upon myself and restrain my natural ardour—refrain for a time from
wars, massacres, sacking of cities, stand-up fights with giants,
killing of monsters and dragons, like Theseus and Hercules of glorious
memory, and all the other little pastimes which usually occupy my good
sword and me. I will take my ease now for a brief period, and Death may
enjoy a short rest too. But to whom did my worthy prototype, Mars, the
great god of war, devote _his_ leisure hours? in whose sweet society
did _he_ find delight? Ask Venus, the immortal goddess of love and
beauty, who had the good taste to prefer a warlike man to all others,
and lent a willing ear to the suit of my valiant predecessor. So I,
following his illustrious example, condescend to turn my attention for
the moment to the tender sex, and pay my court to the fair Isabelle,
the young and beautiful object of my ardent love. Being aware that
Cupid, with all his assurance, would not dare to aim one of his
golden-tipped arrows at such an all-conquering hero as my unworthy
self, I have given him a little encouragement; and, in order that the
shaft may penetrate to the generous lion’s heart that beats in this
broad breast, I have laid aside the world-famed coat of mail—made of
the rings given to me by goddesses, empresses, queens, infantas,
princesses, and great ladies of every degree, my illustrious admirers
the world over—which is proof against all weapons, and has so often
saved my life in my maddest deeds of daring.”

“All of which signifies,” interrupts the valet, who had listened to
this high-blown tirade with ill-concealed impatience, “as far as my
feeble intellect can comprehend such magnificent eloquence, that your
most redoubtable lordship has fallen in love with some young girl
hereabouts, like any ordinary mortal.”

“Really, Scapin,” says Matamore, with good-humoured condescension, “you
have hit the nail upon the head—you are not so stupid after all, for a
valet. Yes, I have fallen in love, but do not imagine for a moment that
my courage will suffer diminution on that account. It was all very well
for Samson to allow his hair to be cut off, and for Alcides to handle
the distaff at the bidding of his mistress; but Delilah would not have
dared to touch one hair of my head, and Omphale should have pulled off
my boots for me—at the least sign of revolt I would have given her
worse to do: cleaning the skin of the Nemaean lion, for instance, when
I brought it home all fresh and bleeding, just as I had torn it from
the quivering carcass. The thought that has lately occurred to me, that
I have subjugated only half of the human race, is humiliating. Women,
by reason of their weakness, escape me; I cannot treat them as I do my
masculine opponents—cut their throats, run them through the body, or
hew off their arms and legs; I must lay siege to their hearts, and
conquer them in that way. It is true that I have stormed and taken a
greater number of such fair citadels than there are drops of water in
the ocean, or stars in the sky—why, I sleep on a mattress stuffed with
thousands of beautiful curls and tresses of every shade, light and
dark, golden and jet-black, which are among my most treasured trophies.
Juno herself has made overtures to me, but I turned a deaf ear to her
blandishments, finding her charms rather too ripe for my taste; I
prefer the first flush of youthful beauty; it is a pure and innocent
maiden that I would honour with my notice now, but she repulses me—that
I should live to say it!—she dares to repulse me. I cannot permit such
an impertinence on her part, and the fair Isabelle must humbly sue to
me for pardon, and herself bringing the golden keys of the citadel of
her heart, upon a salver of silver, offer them to me upon her bended
knees, with streaming eyes and dishevelled tresses, begging for grace
and favour in my sight. Go now, and summon the fortress to
surrender—this house contains the rebellious fair.”

But doors and windows remain inexorably closed, and no notice is taken
of the valet’s thundering knocks and mocking summons to surrender;
secure in the strength of their bolts and bars, the garrison, which
consists of Isabelle and her maid, vouchsafes no reply. Matamore,
becoming more enraged at each vain attempt to gain a response from his
fair enemy, stamps about the stage, roaring out his defiance,
threatening to sack and burn the place, pouring out volleys of
remarkable oaths, and lashing himself into such a fury that he actually
foams at the mouth. When his valet at length, after many vain efforts,
is able to gain a hearing, and tells him of his formidable rival,
Leander, and how he has already won the lady’s heart, all his rage is
turned against that fortunate suitor, of whom he vows that he will make
mince-meat as soon as he can lay hands on him. At this very moment
Leander himself returns, and Scapin points him out to his master as he
approaches, adding that he will keep a sharp look-out for the police
while Matamore is giving him his quietus. But the cowardly braggadocio
would fain withdraw, now that the enemy is actually in sight, and is
only restrained from flight by his servant, who pushes him forward
directly in Leander’s path.

Seeing that escape is impossible, Matamore settles his hat firmly on
his head, twists the long ends of his mustache, puts his hand on the
hilt of his big sword, and advances threateningly towards Leander—but
it is pure bravado, for his teeth are chattering with fear, and his
long, thin legs waver and tremble under him visibly, like reeds shaken
by the wind. Only one hope remains to him—that of intimidating Leander
by loud threats and ferocious gestures, if, by a happy chance, he be a
fellow of his own kidney. So in a terrible voice he addresses him thus:
“Sir, do you know that I am the great Captain Matamore of the
celebrated house of Cuerno de Cornazan, and allied to the no less
illustrious family of Escobombardon de la Papirontonda? I am a
descendant, on my mother’s side, of the famous Antacus, the ancient
hero and giant.”

“Well, you may be a descendant of the man in the moon for all that I
care,” answers Leander, with a disdainful shrug of the shoulders; “what
the devil have I to do with such absurd stuff and nonsense?”

“Blood and bones! thunder and Mars! You see, sir, you shall see, and
that very quickly, what you have to do with it, unless you take
yourself off in the twinkling of an eye. I will give you one minute’s
grace, for your extreme youth touches me, so take to your heels and fly
while there is yet time. Observe me well! I am the terror of the whole
world—my path is marked with graves—my own shadow scarcely dares to
follow me into the perils I delight in. If I enter a besieged city, it
is by the breach—when I quit it I pass under a triumphal arch; if I
cross a river, it is one of blood, and the bridge is made of the bodies
of my adversaries. I can toss a knight and his horse, both, weighted
with armour, high into the air. I can snap elephants’ bones, as you
would pipe-stems. When great Mars himself chances to meet me on the
battle-field he turns and flees, dreading the weight of my arm. My
prowess is so well known, and the terror I inspire so great, that no
one dares to meet me face to face, and I never see anything but the
backs of my retreating foes.”

“Is it so? well, you shall meet _me_ face to face. Take _that_, and see
how you like it!” says Leander laughing merrily, and giving him a
sounding slap on one cheek which almost knocks the poor devil over, and
is instantly followed by an equally hearty one on the other, to restore
his equilibrium.

During this scene Isabelle and Zerbine come out upon the balcony. The
mischievous _soubrette_ goes into convulsions of laughter, whilst her
mistress nods encouragingly to Leander. Meantime Pandolphe, accompanied
by the notary, turns the corner of one of the streets and enters the
square just in time to see Leander’s extraordinary exploit, whereat he
is horrified and amazed. The valiant captain bellows like a bull,
shrieks out the most frightful threats and curses, vowing all sorts of
vengeance, and making prodigious efforts to draw his big sword, so that
he may forthwith set about cutting up his unmannerly assailant into
mince-meat. He tugs and strains until he is red in the face, but his
“man-killer” cannot be induced to quit the scabbard and Leander,
growing impatient, follows up his first attack with a vigorous, well
directed kick, which sends the unlucky bully flying to the other side
of the stage, where he falls all in a heap and rolls in the dust. The
handsome, young gallant then bows gracefully to Isabelle and retires
from the scene.

Captain Matamore meanwhile lies sprawling on the ground, making
ludicrous and ineffectual efforts to regain his feet. Pandolphe and
Scapin go to his assistance, and when they have hauled him up, and he
has made sure that Leander is no longer present, he roars out in a
voice of thunder: “Scapin, quick, hoop me with iron bands or I shall
burst! I am in such a rage! I shall explode like a bomb! and you,
treacherous blade, do _you_ play me false at such a moment? Is it thus
you reward me for having always tried to slake your insatiable thirst
with the blood of the bravest and noblest? I don’t know why I have not
already broken you into a thousand pieces, as you so richly
deserve—false, ungrateful weapon that you are! But stay—was it to teach
me that it is unworthy of the true warrior to desert his post?—or
forget his sterner duties in the soft delights of love?—was it for that
you refused to leap from your scabbard as of old? It is true, alas!
that thus far this week I have not defeated a single army—I have killed
neither ogre nor dragon—I have not furnished his usual rations to
Death—and in consequence my trusty blade has rusted in the
scabbard—that I should live to say it! rusted!—and I have been forced
to submit to insults, and even blows, before the very eyes of my
mistress. What a lesson! Henceforth I shall make it a rule to kill at
least three men every morning before I break my fast, so as to be sure
that my good sword plays freely—keep me in mind, Scapin, do you hear?”

“Perhaps Leander will return before long,” says the valet; “suppose we
all help you to draw your ‘_trusty blade_,’ so that you may be ready
for him.”

Matamore, accordingly, plants himself firmly, holding the scabbard in
both hands, Scapin seizes the handle of the sword, Pandolphe clasps him
firmly round the waist, the notary tries to do as much by Pandolphe’s
stout person, and they all pull and pull. For some time the rusty old
sword resists all their efforts, but at last yields suddenly, and the
three fall in a confused heap on the ground, with legs and arms waving
wildly in the air, while Matamore tumbles the other way, still clinging
to the now empty scabbard. Picking himself up as quickly as possible he
seizes his big sword, which has dropped from the valet’s hand, and
waving it triumphantly says with stern emphasis, “Now Leander’s fate is
sealed! There is but one way for him to escape certain death. He must
emigrate to some distant planet. If he be sufficiently fool-hardy to
remain on this globe I will find him, no matter in what distant land he
strives to hide himself, and transfix him with this good sword—unless
indeed he be first turned to stone by the terrible Medusa-like power of
my eye.”

In spite of all that he has witnessed, the obstinate old father still
feels unbounded faith in Matamore’s valour, and persists in his
lamentable intention to bestow the hand of his fair daughter upon this
magnificent hero. Poor Isabelle bursts into tears, and declares that
she prefers the convent to such a fate. Zerbine loudly swears that this
marriage shall never take place, and tries to console her weeping
mistress. Matamore attributes this rather discouraging demonstration on
the part of Isabelle to an excess of maidenly modesty, not doubting her
_penchant_ for himself, though he acknowledges that he has not yet
properly paid his court, nor shown himself in all his glory to her—this
last from prudential motives, fearing lest she might be dangerously
dazzled and overwhelmed if he should burst upon her too suddenly in the
full splendour of his heroic character, remembering, and taking warning
by, the sad and terrible fate that befell Semele, when Jupiter,
reluctantly yielding to her wishes, appeared before her with all the
insignia of his majesty.

Isabelle and her maid withdrew from the balcony, without taking any
further notice of the valiant Matamore; but he, undaunted, wishing to
play the lover after the most approved fashion, plants himself
resolutely under her window and sends Scapin to fetch a guitar; upon
which he thrums awkwardly for a while, and then accompanies it with his
voice, in an attempt at a Spanish love song, which sounds much like the
nocturnal caterwauling of a disconsolate tabby than anything else we
can compare it to. A dash of cold water, mischievously thrown down on
him by Zerbine under pretext of watering the plants in the balcony,
does not extinguish his musical ardour. “A gentle shower from the sweet
eyes of my Isabelle, moved to tears by this plaintive melody,” says he,
“for it is universally conceded that I excel in music as in arms, and
wield the lyre as skilfully as the sword.”

Unfortunately for him, Leander suddenly reappears, and highly indignant
that this miserable rascal should presume to serenade _his_ mistress,
snatches the guitar from his hands and begins whacking him over the
head with it, so furiously that it is quickly broken through, and
slipping over the unhappy serenader’s head remains fixed round his
neck, so that he is completely at the mercy of his assailant. Holding
fast to the handle of the guitar, Leander hauls him about the stage,
banging him against the side-scenes, dragging him forward to the
footlights—making the most absurd scene imaginable—and finally, letting
go of him suddenly, sends him sprawling on the ground. Fancy the
ridiculous appearance of the unfortunate bully, who looked as if he had
put his head through a frying-pan!

But his miseries are not yet at an end. Leander’s valet had been
arranging a clever little plot to prevent the fulfilment of the
proposed marriage between Isabelle and Captain Matamore. At his
instigation, a certain Doralice, very pretty and coquettish, makes her
appearance, accompanied by a fierce-looking brother—represented by
Hérode—carrying two immensely long rapiers under his arm, and evidently
“spoiling for a fight.” The young lady complains that she has been
shamefully jilted by Captain Matamore, who has deserted her for
Isabelle, the daughter of a certain Pandolphe, and demands instant
reparation for this outrage, adding that her brother is ready to exact
it at the point of the sword, or avenge the insult by taking the life
of the heartless villain who has trifled with her youthful affections.

“Make haste to give this rascal his quietus,” says Pandolphe to his
future son-in-law; “it will be only child’s play for you, who have
fearlessly encountered, single-handed, a whole army of Saracens.”

Very reluctantly, and after many most absurd grimaces, Matamore crosses
swords with Doralice’s ferocious brother, but he trembles so that the
latter, with one quick movement, sends his weapon flying out of his
hand, and chastises him with the flat of his sword until he roars for
mercy.

To cap the climax, Mme. Léonarde comes upon the scene, mopping her
streaming eyes with an enormous pocket-handkerchief, sighing and
sobbing, and bewailing herself. She goes straight to Pandolphe and
shows him a written promise of marriage, over Matamore’s signature,
cleverly counterfeited; whereupon the poor wretch, convicted of such
abominable and complicated perfidy, is assailed with a new shower of
blows and curses, and finally condemned, by the unanimous vote of all
present, to marry old Mme. Léonarde—who has made herself as hideous as
possible—as a fitting punishment for all his deviltries, rodomontades,
and cowardice. Pandolphe, thoroughly disgusted with Matamore at last,
makes no further objections to Leander’s suit, and the curtain falls as
he gives his consent to the marriage of the two young lovers.

This _bouffonnade_, being played with great spirit, was
enthusiastically applauded. The gentlemen were charmed with the
mischievous, coquettish _soubrette_, who was fairly radiant with beauty
that evening; the ladies were greatly pleased with Isabelle’s
refinement and modesty; whilst Matamore received the well merited
encomiums of all. It would have been impossible to find, even in the
great Parisian theatres, an actor better fitted for the part he had
played so admirably. Leander was much admired by all the younger
ladies, but the gentlemen agreed, without a dissenting voice, that he
was a horridly conceited coxcomb. Wherever he appeared indeed this was
the universal verdict, with which he was perfectly content—caring far
more for his handsome person, and the effect it produced upon the fair
sex, than for his art; though, to do him justice, he was a very good
actor. Serafina’s beauty did not fail to find admirers, and more than
one young gentleman swore by his mustache that she was an adorable
creature—quite regardless of the displeasure of the fair ladies within
hearing.

During the play, de Sigognac, hidden in the _coulisses_, had enjoyed
intensely Isabelle’s charming rendering of her part, though he was more
than a little jealous of the favour she apparently bestowed upon
Leander—and especially at the tender tone of her voice whenever she
spoke to him—not being yet accustomed to the feigned love-making on the
stage, which often covers profound antipathies and real enmity. When
the play was over, he complimented the young actress with a
constrained, embarrassed air, which she could not help remarking, and
perfectly understood.

“You play that part admirably, Isabelle! so well that one might almost
think there was some truth in it.”

“Is it not my duty to do so?” she asked smilingly, secretly pleased at
his displeasure; “did not the manager engage me for that?”

“Doubtless,” de Sigognac replied, “but you seemed to be _really_ in
love with that conceited fellow, who never thinks of anything but his
own good looks, and how to display them to the best advantage.”

“But the role required it. You surely would not have had me play it as
if he disgusted me! besides, did I not preserve throughout the quiet
demeanour of a well-bred, respectable girl? If I failed in that you
must tell me how and where, so that I may endeavour to correct it in
future.”

“Oh no! you appeared from the beginning to the end like a modest,
retiring, young lady—no, there is no fault to be found with you in that
respect; your acting was inimitable—so graceful, lady-like, and
easy—but withal so true to nature that it was almost too real.”

“My dear baron, they are putting out the lights; everybody has gone but
ourselves, and we shall be left in the dark if we don’t make haste. Be
good enough to throw this cloak around my shoulders and accompany me to
the château.”

De Sigognac acquitted himself of this novel duty with less awkwardness
than might have been expected, though his hands trembled a little, and
he felt an almost irresistible desire to take her into his arms as he
wrapped the mantle round her slender form; but he restrained himself,
and respectfully offering his arm led her out of the orangery, which by
this time was entirely deserted. It was, as we have said, at a little
distance from the château, and on the level of the park, lower than the
mansion, which stood on a high terrace, with a handsome stone
balustrade at the edge, supporting at regular intervals large vases
filled with blooming plants, in the pretty Italian fashion. A broad,
easy flight of stone steps led up to the terrace, affording in their
ascent a most imposing view of the château, which loomed up grandly
against the evening sky. Many of the windows on this side were lighted,
whilst the others glistened brightly as the silvery moon-beams struck
upon them—as did also the dewdrops on the shrubbery and the
grass-plots—as if a shower of diamonds had fallen on this favoured
spot. Looking towards the park, the long vistas cut through the wood,
losing themselves in the hazy blue of the distance, called to mind
Breughel’s famous picture of Paradise, or else disclosed the far-away
gleam of a marble statue, or the spray of a misty fountain sparkling in
the moonlight.

Isabelle and de Sigognac slowly ascended the broad steps, pausing
frequently to turn and look back at this enchanting scene, and charmed
with the beauty of the night walked for a little while to and fro upon
the terrace before retiring to their rooms. As they were in full sight
of the windows, and it was not yet very late, the modest young girl
felt that there could be no impropriety in this little indulgence; and
besides, the baron’s extreme timidity was very reassuring to her, and
she knew that he would not presume upon the favour accorded to him. He
had not made a formal avowal of his love to her, but she was as well
aware of it as if he had, and also of his profound respect for her,
which sentiment is indeed always an accompaniment of a worthy passion.
She knew herself beloved—the knowledge was very sweet to her—and she
felt herself safe from all fear of offence in the company of this
honourable gentleman and true lover. With the delicious embarrassment
of nascent, unavowed love, this young couple wandering by moonlight in
a lonely garden, side by side, arm in arm, only exchanged the most
insignificant, commonplace remarks; but if no undercurrent was betrayed
by actual words, the trembling, voices, long pauses, stifled sighs, and
low, confidential tones told of strong emotions beneath this quiet
surface.

The chamber assigned to the beautiful Yolande de Foix, near that of
Mme. la Marquise, was on this side of the château, overlooking the
park, and after she had dismissed her maid, she went to the window to
look out once more upon the exceeding beauty of the night, and caught
sight of de Sigognac and Isabelle, pacing slowly back and forth on the
terrace below, without any other company than their own shadows.
Assuredly the disdainful Yolande, haughty as a goddess, could never
have felt anything but scorn for our poor young baron, past whom she
had sometimes flashed in a whirlwind of light and noise in the chase,
and whom she had so recently cruelly insulted; but still it displeased
her to see him devoting himself thus to a beautiful young girl, to whom
he was undoubtedly making love at that very moment. She had regarded
him as her own humble vassal—for she had not failed to read the
passionate admiration in his eyes whenever they met her own—and could
not brook his shaking off his allegiance thus; her slaves ought to live
and die in her service, even though their fidelity were never rewarded
by a single smile. She watched them, with a frowning brow, until they
disappeared, and then sought her couch in anything but a tranquil mood,
haunted by the lover-like pair that had so roused her wrath, and still
kept her long awake.

De Sigognac escorted Isabelle to the door of her chamber, where he bade
her good-night, and as he turned away towards his own, saw, at the end
of the corridor, a mysterious looking individual closely wrapped in a
large cloak, with one end thrown over the shoulder in Spanish fashion,
and so drawn up round his face that only the eyes were visible; a
slouch hat concealed his forehead, so that he was completely disguised,
yet he drew back hurriedly into a dark corner when de Sigognac turned
towards him, as if to avoid his notice. The baron knew that the
comedians had all gone to their rooms already, and besides, it could
not be one of them, for the tyrant was much larger and taller, the
pedant a great deal stouter, Leander more slender, Matamore much
thinner, and Scapin of quite a different make. Not wishing to appear
curious, or to annoy the unknown in any way, de Sigognac hastened to
enter his own room—not however without having observed that the door of
the tapestry-hung chamber stood ajar. When he had closed his, he heard
stealthy footsteps approaching, and presently a bolt shot home softly,
then profound silence.

About an hour later, Leander opened his door as quietly as possible,
looked carefully to see if the corridor was empty, and then, stepping
as lightly and cautiously as a gipsy performing the famous egg-dance,
traversed its whole length, reached the staircase, which he descended
as noiselessly as the phantoms in a haunted castle, and passed out into
the moonlight; he crept along in the shadow of the wall and of some
thick shrubbery, went down the steps into the park, and made his way to
a sort of bower, where stood a charming statue of the mischievous
little god of love, with his finger on his lip—an appropriate presiding
genius of a secret rendezvous, as this evidently must be. Here he
stopped and waited, anxiously watching the path by which he had come,
and listening intently to catch the first sound of approaching
footsteps.

We have already related how Leander, encouraged by the smile with which
Mme. la Marquise acknowledged his salutation, and convinced that she
was smitten with his beauty and grace, had made bold to address a
letter to her, which he bribed Jeanne to place secretly upon her
mistress’s toilet-table, where she would be sure to see it. This letter
we copy here at length, so as to give an idea of the style of
composition employed by Leander in addressing the great ladies of whose
favours he boasted so loudly.

“Madame, or rather fair goddess of beauty, do not blame anything but
your own incomparable charms for this intrusion upon you. I am forced
by their radiance to emerge from the deep shadow in which I should
remain shrouded, and approach their dazzling brilliancy—just as the
dolphins are attracted from the depths of ocean, by the brightness of
the fisherman’s lanterns, though they are, alas! to find destruction
there, and perish by the sharp harpoons hurled pitilessly at them with
unerring aim. I know but too well that the waves will be reddened by my
blood; but as I cannot live without your favour, I do not fear to meet
death thus. It may be strangely audacious, on my part to pretend to the
privileges of gods and demi-gods—to die by your fa

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