# THE MASTERPIECES OF
GEORGE SAND

## AMANDINE LUCILLE AURORE DUPIN,
BARONESS DUDEVANT

### VOLUME IX

### LES BEAUX
MESSIEURS DE BOIS-DORÉ

MARIO COMFORTS MADAME DE BREUVE.

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

## The Masterpieces of George Sand
Amandine Lucille Aurore Dupin, Baroness
Dudevant, NOW FOR THE FIRST
TIME COMPLETELY TRANSLATED
INTO ENGLISH LES
BEAUX MESSIEURS DE BOIS-DORÉ
BY G. BURNHAM IVES

### WITH TWELVE PHOTOGRAVURES AFTER PAINTINGS BY
H. ATALAYA.

### VOLUME I

#### PRINTED ONLY FOR SUBSCRIBERS BY
GEORGE BARRIE & SON
PHILADELPHIA

#### CONTENTS

CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER XXI
CHAPTER XXII
CHAPTER XXIII
CHAPTER XXIV
CHAPTER XXV
CHAPTER XXVI
CHAPTER XXVII
CHAPTER XXVIII
CHAPTER XXIX
CHAPTER XXX
CHAPTER XXXI
CHAPTER XXXII
CHAPTER XXXIII
CHAPTER XXXIV
CHAPTER XXXV
CHAPTER XXXVI
CHAPTER XXXVII
CHAPTER XXXVIII
CHAPTER XXXIX

#### LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
LES BEAUX MESSIEURS DE BOIS-DORÉ
VOLUME I

MARIO COMFORTS MADAME DE BEUVRE
MERCEDES ENCOUNTERS D'ALVIMAR
BOIS-DORÉ AND JOVELIN, HIS PROTÉGÉ
MERCEDES AND MARIO ENTERTAIN THE MARQUIS
MARIO ESTABLISHES HIS IDENTITY
THE DUEL BETWEEN THE MARQUIS AND D'ALVIMAR

#### LES BEAUX MESSIEURS DE BOIS-DORÉ

#### I

Among the numerous protégés of the favorite Concini, one of the least remarked, yet one of the most remarkable by reason of his wit, education, and the distinction of his manners, was Don Antonio d'Alvimar, a Spaniard of Italian origin, who styled himself Sciarra d'Alvimar. He was a very pretty cavalier, whose face denoted a man of no more than twenty years, although at that time he confessed to thirty. Rather short than tall, muscular without seeming to be so, skilful in all manly exercises, he was certain to interest the ladies by the gleam of his bright and penetrating eyes and by the charm of his conversation, which was as light and agreeable with the fair sex as it was solid and substantial with serious-minded men. He spoke the principal languages of Europe almost without accent, and was no less versed in the ancient languages.

Despite all these appearances of merit, Sciarra d'Alvimar formed no scheme for his own advancement amid the constant intriguing at the court of the Regent; at all events, any that he may have dreamed of came to nothing. He confessed afterward, in the strictest privacy, that he had aspired to make himself agreeable to no less a personage than Marie de Médicis herself, and to replace his own master and patron, Maréchal d'Ancre, in that queen's good graces.

But the balorda, as Leonora Galigai called her, paid no attention to the humble Spaniard, and saw in him only a paltry adventurer—a subaltern without future prospects. Did she even notice Monsieur d'Alvimar's real or feigned passion? That is something that history does not divulge and that D'Alvimar himself never knew.

It is not an unreasonable supposition that he would have been capable of pleasing the Regent by his wit and the charms of his person, had not her thoughts been occupied by Concini. The favorite was of even lower origin, and was not half so intelligent as he. But D'Alvimar had within himself an obstacle to his attainment of the exalted fortune enjoyed by the successful courtiers of the day—an obstacle which his ambition could not overcome.

He was a bigoted Catholic, and he had all the faults of the intolerant Catholics of the Spain of Philip II. Suspicious, restless, vindictive, implacable, he had abundance of faith nevertheless; but faith without love and without light, faith falsified by the passions and hatreds of a political system which identified itself with religion, "to the great displeasure of the merciful and indulgent God, whose kingdom is not so much of this world as of the other;" that is to say, if we apprehend aright the thought of the contemporary author to whom we look for information from time to time, the God whose conquests are supposed to extend through the moral world by charity, and not through the material world by the use of violence.

It is impossible to say that France would not have been subjected in some degree to the régime of the Inquisition, in the event that Monsieur d'Alvimar had obtained possession of the Regent's heart and mind; but such was not the case, and Concini, whose sole crime was that he was not noble enough by birth to be entitled to rob and pillage as freely as a genuine great nobleman of those days, remained until his tragic death the arbiter of the Regents uncertain and venal policy.

After the murder of the favorite, D'Alvimar, who had compromised himself seriously in his service in the affair of the Paris serjean,[1] was compelled to disappear to avoid being involved in the prosecution of Leonora.

He would have been very glad to insinuate himself into the service of the new favorite, the king's favorite, Monsieur de Luynes, but he could not bring it about; and, although he had no more scruples than "most courtiers of his time, he felt that he could not stoop to the shuffling of the royal party, whose policy was to yield many points to the Calvinists, whenever they saw reason to hope that they could purchase the submission of the princes who made use of the Reformed religion to forward their ambition."

When Queen Marie was in open disgrace, Sciarra d'Alvimar considered it to be for his interest to display his fidelity to her cause. He reflected that parties are never without resources, and that they all have their day. Moreover, the queen, even though she were to remain in exile, might still make the fortunes of her faithful adherents. Everything is relative, and D'Alvimar was so poor that the gifts of a royal personage, however nearly ruined she might be, offered an excellent chance for him.

He exerted himself, therefore, to assist in planning the escape from the château of Blois, even as he had been employed, several years before, in the third or fourth rôles in the various political dramas evolved sometimes by the diplomatic manœuvres of Philip III., sometimes by those of Marie de Médicis, their aim being to bring about the marriages.[2]

This Monsieur d'Alvimar was, generally speaking, sufficiently shrewd in the interests of others, discreet and ready for work; but he was often reproached with having a mania for giving his advice "where he should have been content to follow that of other people," and for exhibiting an ability of which he should have been content to leave the credit to his superiors, "being as yet only an unimportant personage."

Thus, despite his zeal, he did not succeed in drawing upon himself the queen mothers attention, and, at the time of Marie's retirement to Angers, he was lost to sight among the subaltern officers, tolerated rather than popular.

D'Alvimar was touched by these numerous rebuffs. Nothing seemed to profit him, neither his comely face nor his fine manners, nor his respectable birth, nor his learning, his penetration, his courage, his agreeable and instructive conversation: "people did not like him." He made a pleasant impression at first, but then—very quickly too—people were disgusted by a touch of bitterness which he soon displayed; or else they distrusted a flavor of ambition which he inopportunely allowed to appear. He was neither Spanish enough nor Italian enough, or, perhaps, he was too much of both: one day as talkative, persuasive and supple as a young Venetian; the next day as haughty, obstinate and gloomy as an old Castilian.

All his disappointments were intensified by a certain secret remorse which he did not reveal until his last hour, and which, as the narrative proceeds, will be forcibly dragged forth from the oblivion in which he wished to bury it.

Despite our careful investigations, we lose sight of him more than once during the years that elapsed between the death of Concini and the last year of Luynes's life; with the exception of a few words in our manuscript concerning his presence at Blois and at Angers, we find no fact worthy of mention in his obscure and unhappy life until the year 1621, when, while the king was carrying on the siege of Montauban with such ill success, young D'Alvimar was in Paris, still in the suite of the queen-mother, who had been reconciled with her son after the affair of the Ponts-de-Cé.

At that time D'Alvimar had renounced the hope of winning her favor, and perhaps he, too, in his rancorous heart called her balorda, although for the first time she had given proof of good sense by bestowing her confidence—and it was said her heart—upon Armand Duplessis. There was a rival whom D'Alvimar could hardly hope to outshine! Moreover, the queen, under Richelieu's guidance, adopted the policy of Henry IV. and Sully. She combated for the moment the Spanish influence in Germany, and D'Alvimar found himself almost in disgrace, when, to cap the climax of his misfortunes, he became involved in a most unpleasant affair.

He fell into a dispute with another Sciarra, a Sciarra Martinengo, whom Marie de Médicis employed much more freely, and who refused to acknowledge him as a kinsman. They fought: Sciarra Martinengo was severely wounded, and it came to Marie's ears that Monsieur Sciarra d'Alvimar had not scrupulously observed the laws of the duello as practised in France.

She summoned him to her presence and reprimanded him most brutally; whereupon D'Alvimar retorted with the bitterness that had been long heaping up within him. He succeeded in leaving Paris before measures were taken for his arrest, and, early in November, arrived at the château of Ars, in Berry, in the Duchy of Châteauroux.

It will be well enough to state the reasons which led him to seek that place of refuge in preference to any other.

About six weeks before his unfortunate duel, Monsieur Sciarra d'Alvimar had been brought into social relations with Monsieur Guillaume d'Ars, an amiable and wealthy young man, descended in a straight line from the gallant Louis d'Ars, who had effected the honorable retreat from Venouze, in 1504, and was killed at the battle of Pavia.

Guillaume d'Ars had been fascinated by D'Alvimar's wit and by the very great affability of which he was capable when the spirit moved him. He had not had time to become well enough acquainted with him to conceive the species of antipathy which the unfortunate young man almost inevitably inspired, after a few weeks, in those who were much in his company.

Moreover, Monsieur d'Ars was a youth with little experience of the world, and, as may well be believed, without great penetration. He had been reared in the provinces, and had just made his first appearance in Parisian society, when he met D'Alvimar, and became infatuated with him because of the superior skill which he displayed, on occasion, in horsemanship, hunting and tennis-playing. Generous and lavish, Guillaume placed his purse and his arm at the Spaniard's service, and warmly urged him to visit him at his château in Berry, whither he was recalled by business of some sort.

D'Alvimar profited discreetly by his new friend's generosity. Although he had many faults, he could not be accused of showing any lack of pride in the way of accepting offers of money, and yet God knows that he was not rich, and that the whole of his slender revenue was none too much to meet the demands of his wardrobe and his horses. He indulged in no follies, and, "by the most painstaking economy, succeeded in appearing as well clad and mounted as many others whose pockets were better lined than his."

But when he found that he was threatened with a criminal prosecution, he remembered the overtures and invitations of the young Berry squire, and adopted the wise plan of seeking refuge with him.

He judged from what Guillaume had told him of his district, that it was at that period the most tranquil province in France.

Monsieur le Prince de Condé was its governor, and, being thoroughly content with the fat sum by which he had been bought, he passed his time partly in his château of Montrond at Saint Amand, partly in his good city of Bourges, where he was heartily engaged in the king's service, and even more heartily in that of the Jesuits.

This so-called tranquillity of Berry would be considered in our day a state of civil war, for many things were taking place there which we shall narrate in their proper time and place; but it was a state of perfect peace and orderliness if we compare it with what was taking place elsewhere, and especially with what had taken place in the preceding century.

Thus Sciarra d'Alvimar was justified in hoping that he would not be molested in one of the old châteaux of lower Berry, where the Calvinists had attempted no sudden outbreaks for several years, and where the royalist nobles, former Leaguers, politiques and others, no longer had the opportunity or the pretext to revictual their men-at-arms at the expense of their neighbors, friends or foes.

D'Alvimar reached the château of Ars one morning in autumn, about eight o'clock, accompanied by a single servant, an old Spaniard, who claimed to be of noble birth, but whom want had reduced to the necessity of taking service, and who seemed in little danger of betraying his master's secrets, for he spoke very little—sometimes not three words a week.

Both were well mounted, and, although their horses were laden with heavy boxes, they had made the journey from Paris in less than seven days.

The first person whom they saw in the courtyard of the castle was its young lord, Guillaume, just mounting for something more than a morning's ride, for he was attended by several of his retainers, prepared to ride forth with him—that is to say, with their horses laden with luggage.

"Ah! you arrive in the nick of time!" he cried, hastening to embrace D'Alvimar; "I am just setting out to witness the fêtes to be given by Monsieur le Prince at Bourges, to celebrate the birth of his son, the Duc d'Enghien.[3] There will be whole days of dancing and play-acting, target-shooting, fireworks, and a thousand other amusing things. Now you have come, I will postpone my departure for a few hours so that you can go with me. Come into my house, and rest and eat. I will see to it that you are supplied with a fresh horse, for the one you are riding, well as he looks, can hardly be in condition to do eighteen more leagues to-day."

When D'Alvimar was alone with his host, he told him confidentially that he could not dream of attending any public festivities, and that what he desired of him was not to be taken to any such function, however diverting, but to be concealed in his château for a few weeks. Nothing more was needed in those days to assure oblivion touching an affair so frequent and so simple as death or wounds inflicted on an enemy, whether in single combat or otherwise. It was merely a matter of securing a protector at court, and D'Alvimar was relying upon the speedy arrival at Paris of the Duke of Lerma, whose kinsman he was or claimed to be. The duke was a personage of sufficient note to obtain his pardon, and even to place his fortunes upon a better footing than before.

Our Spaniard's version of his duel with Sciarra Martinengo—whether he attempted to explain his having attacked him in violation of the rules, or claimed to have been slandered in that respect, to Queen Marie as well as to Monsieur de Luynes—was a matter to which Guillaume d'Ars paid little heed. Like the loyal gentleman that he was, he had been fascinated by D'Alvimar, and had no distrust of him. Moreover, he was much more anxious to start than to remain behind, and it would have been impossible to surprise him when he was less inclined to discuss any question whatsoever.

So he dismissed the serious part of the affair very lightly, and was disturbed only by the possibility of being detained another day from the fêtes at the capital of Berry. Doubtless there was, behind his impatience, some amourette to be carried to a conclusion.

D'Alvimar, who saw his embarrassment, urged him to make no change in his plans, but to suggest some village or farm on his domain where he could safely remain.

"It is my desire to shelter and conceal you in my own château, and not in a village or a farm-house," Guillaume replied. "And yet I fear you will be sadly bored in such seclusion, and, upon reflection, I have thought of a better plan. Eat and drink; then I will myself escort you to the abode of a kinsman and friend of my own who lives not more than an hour's ride from here. There you will be as pleasantly entertained and in as perfect security as possible in our province of Lower Berry. In four or five days I will come and take you away again."

D'Alvimar would have preferred to remain alone, but, as Guillaume insisted, courtesy compelled him to assent. He refused to eat or drink, and, remounting at once, he followed Guillaume d'Ars, who took with him his retinue all equipped for travelling, as the road they were to take deviated very slightly from the Bourges road.

[1]Picard the shoemaker, a sergeant in the bourgeois train-bands, where he possessed great influence. Concini, having undertaken to disregard an order which Picard compelled him to obey, caused the sergeant to be cudgelled. The popular wrath was so fierce that Concini deemed his life in danger and left Paris. Two valets who had acted for him were hanged.

[2]Of Louis XIII. to Anne of Austria, and of Elisabeth, the young king's sister.

[3]Who became the great Condé.

#### II

They left the château by way of the warren, rode through a by-path to the Bourges highroad, from which they soon turned to the right, and then through other by-paths to the Château Meillant road, leaving on their right the baronial town of La Châtre, and finally, leaving the last-mentioned road, they descended across the fields to the château and village of Briantes, which was the goal of their journey.

As the country was really peaceful, the two gentlemen had ridden on ahead of their little escort, in order that they might converse without restraint; and this is how young D'Ars enlightened D'Alvimar:

"The friend upon whom I propose to quarter you," he said, "is the most extraordinary personage in Christendom. You must keep a close watch upon yourself in order to stifle a wild desire to laugh when you are with him; but you will be well rewarded for such tolerance as you may display of his mental peculiarities by the great kindness of heart he will manifest to everybody he meets. He is so kind-hearted that, if you should happen to forget his name and ask the first passer-by, noble or serf, where the kind gentleman lives, he will direct you, and never make a mistake as to the person you mean. But this requires an explanation, and, as your horse has no great desire to hurry, and as it is only nine o'clock at the latest, I propose to entertain you with your host's story. Listen, I begin! Story of the kind Monsieur de Bois-Doré!

"As you are a foreigner, and have been in France no more than ten years, you can hardly have met him, because he has been living on his estate about the same time. Otherwise, you would certainly have remarked, wherever you might have chanced to see him, the good, mad, gallant, noble old Marquis de Bois-Doré, to-day lord of Briantes, Guinard, Validé and other places; also, abbé fiduciaire of Varennes, etc., etc.

"Despite all these titles, Bois-Doré does not belong to the great nobility of the province, and we are related to him by marriage only. He is a simple gentleman whom the late King Henri IV. made a marquis solely through friendship, and who made a fortune, no one very well knows how, in the wars of the Béarnais. We are compelled to believe that he must have done more or less sacking and pillaging, as the custom was in those days, and as is the well recognized privilege of partisan warfare.

"I will not attempt to describe Bois-Doré's campaigns; it would take too long. Let me tell you his family history simply. His father, Monsieur de——"

"Stay," said Monsieur d'Alvimar; "so this Monsieur de Bois-Doré is a heretic, is he?"

"Ah! deuce take it," replied his guide, laughing, "I forgot that you are a zealot—a genuine Spaniard! We fellows hereabout do not care so much about these religious disputes. The province has suffered too much because of them, and we long for the time when France shall suffer no more. We hope that the king will soon bring all those fanatics of the South to terms at Montauban. We want them to have a sound thrashing, but not the cord and the stake to which our fathers would have treated them. Political parties are not what they used to be, and in our day people don't damn one another so much as they used. But I see that my remarks displease you, and I hasten to inform you that Monsieur de Bois-Doré is to-day as good a Catholic as many others who have never ceased to be Catholics. On the day when the Béarnais concluded that Paris was well worth a mass, Bois-Doré concluded that the king could not be in error, and he abjured the doctrine of Geneva, without publicity, but sincerely, I think."

"Return to the story of Monsieur de Bois-Doré's family," said D'Alvimar, who did not choose to let his companion see with what suspicious contempt he regarded new converts.

"As you please," replied the young man. "Our marquis's father was the sturdiest Leaguer in the neighborhood. He was the âme damnée of Monsieur Claude de la Châtre and the Barbançois; I need say no more. He had, in the château where he lived, a nice little assortment of instruments of torture for such Huguenots as he might capture, and did not hesitate to plant his own vassals on the wooden horse when they could not pay their dues.

"He was so feared and detested by everybody, that he was universally known as the cheti' monsieur, and with good reason.

"His son, now Marquis de Bois-Doré, whose baptismal name is Sylvain, suffered so heavily from his father's cruel disposition, that he began at an early age to take an entirely different view of life, and showed toward his father's prisoners and vassals a gentleness and condescension that were perhaps too great on the part of a man of war toward rebels and of a noble toward inferiors; witness the fact that these qualities, instead of making him popular, caused him to be despised by the majority, and that the peasants, who are ungrateful and suspicious as a class, said of him and his father:

"'One weighs more than he ought to; the other weighs nothing at all.'

"They considered the father a hard man, but of sound understanding, fearless, and quite capable, after squeezing and tormenting them, of protecting them against the exactions of the tax-gatherer and the pillaging of the brutal soldiery; whereas, in their opinion, young Monsieur Sylvain would allow them to be devoured and trampled upon for lack of heart and brain.

"Now I don't know what it was that passed through Monsieur Sylvain's brain one fine day, when he was sadly bored at the château; but the result was that he fled from Briantes, where his good father blushed for him, and considering him an imbecile, would never permit him to rise above the station of a page, and joined the moderate Catholics, who were then called the third party. As you know, that party many a time lent a hand to the Calvinists; so that, proceeding from one error to another, Monsieur Sylvain found himself one fine morning a full-fledged Huguenot, and a close friend and well-beloved servitor of the young king of Navarre. His father, having learned of it, cursed him, and, to be even with him, conceived the scheme of marrying in his old age and presenting him with a brother.

"That meant a reduction by one-half of Monsieur Sylvain's already slender inheritance; for, as a Huguenot, he was in danger of losing his right of primogeniture, and the cheti' monsieur was not very rich, his estates having been laid waste many times by the Calvinists.

"But observe the young man's natural goodness of heart! Far from being angry, or even complaining of his father's marriage and the birth of the child who bit his future crowns in two, he drew himself up proudly when he heard the news.

"'Look you!' he said to his companions. 'Monsieur my father has passed his sixtieth year, and here he is begetting a fine boy! I tell you that's good blood, which I trust that I inherit!'

"He carried his good-humor farther than that; for, seven years later, his father having left Berry to join Le Balafré against Monsieur d'Alençon's expedition, and our soft-hearted Sylvain having heard that his stepmother was dead, which left the child almost unprotected at the château of Briantes, he returned secretly to the province, to defend him at need, and, also, he said, for the pleasure of seeing him and embracing him.

"He passed the whole winter with the little fellow, playing with him and carrying him in his arms, as a nurse or governess would have done; the which made the neighbors laugh and think that he was far too simple-minded—innocent—to use the term they apply to a man deprived of his reason.

"When the stern father returned after the Peace of Monsieur, ill-pleased, as you can imagine, to see the rebels more generously rewarded than the friends of the true faith, he flew into a furious rage against the whole world, even against God Himself, who had allowed his young wife to die of the plague in his absence. Looking about for somebody to be revenged upon, he declared that his older son had returned solely for the purpose of destroying the son of his old age by witchcraft.

"It was a most villainous charge on the old corsair's part, for the child had never been in better health nor better cared for, and poor Sylvain was as incapable of an evil design as the child unborn."

Guillaume d'Ars had reached this point in his narrative, which had brought them in sight of Briantes, when a sort of bourgeois maiden, dressed in black, red and gray, with her dress turned up at the bottom and cut high at the neck, came toward them, and, approaching young D'Ars' stirrup, said, with repeated reverences:

"Alas! monsieur, I fear that you have come to ask my honored master, the Marquis de Bois-Doré, to entertain you at dinner. But you will not find him: he is at La Motte-Seuilly for the day, having given us our liberty until night."

This intelligence was exceedingly annoying to young D'Ars, but he was too well-bred to allow his annoyance to appear. He instantly determined what course to pursue, and said, courteously uncovering:

"Very well, Demoiselle Bellinde; we will go on to La Motte-Seuilly. A pleasant walk and bonjour!"

Then, to relieve his vexation, he said to Monsieur d'Alvimar, after pointing out their new direction:

"Is she not a most toothsome housekeeper, whose comely aspect gives one a captivating idea of our dear Bois-Doré's abode?"

Bellinde, who overhead this query, which was propounded aloud and in a jovial tone, bridled up, smiled, and, summoning a little groom by whom she was escorted as by a page, produced from her flowing sleeves two small white dogs, which she bade him deposit gently on the turf, as if to give them exercise, but in reality to have an excuse for facing the cavaliers, and affording them a longer view of her fine new serge gown and her plump figure.

She was a damsel of some thirty-five years, high-colored, with hair of a shade approaching red and by no means unpleasant to the eye; for she had a great quantity of it, and wore it in curls under her cap, to the great scandal of the ladies of the province, who reproached her for seeking to rise above her station. But she had a malicious expression, even when she strove to be agreeable.

"Why do you call her Bellinde?" queried D'Alvimar, "Is it a common name in the province?"

"Oh! by no means; her name is Guillette Carcot; Monsieur de Bois-Doré christened her according to his custom. It's a mania of his, which I will explain to you very soon. I must first tell you the rest of his story."

"It is needless," replied D'Alvimar, stopping his horse. "Despite your courtesy and the good grace with which you endure disappointment, I see plainly enough that I am a considerable burden to you. Let us go on to the château of Briantes, and do you leave me there with a letter to Monsieur de Bois-Doré, introducing me to him. As he is to return to-night, I will wait for him and rest a little meanwhile."

"No, no!" cried Guillaume, "I should prefer to abandon the pleasures of Bourges, and I should have done so already, were it not for the promise I have made to some of my friends to be there this evening. But I certainly will not leave you until I have myself commended you to the care of an agreeable and faithful friend. La Motte-Seuilly is not a league away, and there is no need to tire our horses. Let us take our time. I shall reach Bourges an hour or two later, but in these holiday times I am sure to find the gates open."

And he resumed Bois-Doré's history, to which D'Alvimar hardly listened. That gentleman was anxious concerning his own safety, and it did not seem to him that the country through which they were riding was very well adapted to his plan of lying hidden.

It was a flat, open country, where, in case of an unpleasant meeting, it was hardly possible to find the shelter of a wood, or even of a clump of trees. The tillage land is too rich there ever to have been wasted in tree-planting. It is a fine reddish soil, which stretches away in vast, broadly-undulating fields, melancholy to look upon, although bordered by lovely hills and strewn with picturesque little castles.

Briantes, however, to which our travellers had drawn very near, had impressed D'Alvimar much more favorably.

Within ten minutes' walk of the château, the land suddenly slopes downward, and leads gradually down into a narrow, well-wooded valley.

The château itself cannot be seen until one is on top of it, as they say in the province; and the expression is quite accurate, for the slated belfry of its highest tower rises very little above the plateau, and when, from the plain beyond, you see it gleaming in the rays of the setting sun, you would say that it was a tiny lantern hung on the brink of the ravine.

Almost the same may be said of the château of La Motte-Seuilly,[4] which lies below the plain of Chaumois, but in a less charming location than Briantes; a dull, flat country, instead of a lovely valley.

Before reaching the cross-road which leads to the castle, Guillaume had told his companion in a few words the remaining vicissitudes in the life of Monsieur Sylvain de Bois-Doré; how his father had attempted to confine him in his tower, to prevent his returning to the Huguenots; how the young man had escaped by scaling the walls, and had gone off to join his dear Henri de Navarre, with whom, after the death of King Henri III., he had fought nine years; how, finally, having contributed to the utmost of his ability to place him on the throne, he had returned to live on his estates, where his tyrant of a father had ceased to live and drive his neighbors mad.

"And what became of his young brother?" queried D'Alvimar, making an effort to become interested in the narrative.

"The young brother is no more," replied D'Ars. "Bois-Doré knew but little of him, for his father sent him when he was very young to serve under the Duc de Savoie, and while in his service he met his death in a——"

At this point Guillaume was interrupted once more by an incident which seemed to annoy D'Alvimar exceedingly, whether because he was beginning to be interested in his companion's information, or because, being a Spaniard, he had a marked repugnance for interrupters.

[4]Now Feuilly; formerly and successively Seuly, Sully and Seuilly.

#### III

It was a band of gypsies, who were lying flat in a ditch, and rose at the approach of the horsemen like a flock of sparrows, causing Monsieur d'Alvimar's horse to shy. But they were very well tamed sparrows, for, instead of flying away, they threw themselves almost under the legs of the horses, jumping, yelling and holding out their hands in a piteous and hypocritical way.

It did not occur to Guillaume to do anything else than laugh at their strange actions, and he bestowed alms on them very generously; but D'Alvimar was extraordinarily surly, and said again and again, threatening them with his whip:

"Away! away! away from me, canaille!"

He went so far as to attempt to strike a lad who was clinging to his boot, with the look, at once mocking and imploring, of children trained to the trade of begging on the highway. He avoided the whip, and Guillaume, who was riding behind, saw him pick up a stone, which he would have hurled at D'Alvimar, if another boy, somewhat older than he, had not caught his arm, scolding and threatening him.

But the incident did not end there: a small woman, of not unattractive appearance, albeit sadly faded and poorly dressed, seized the child, and, speaking to him as if she were his mother, pushed him toward Guillaume, then ran after D'Alvimar, holding out her hand, but at the same time gazing at him as if she wished never to forget his face.

D'Alvimar, with increasing irritation, urged his horse toward the woman, and would have ridden her down had she not quickly stepped aside; he even put his hand to the butt of one of the pistols in his holsters, as if he would readily have fired on one of those wretched beasts of idolaters.

Thereupon the gypsies exchanged glances, and drew together as if to consult.

"Avanti! avanti!" Guillaume shouted to D'Alvimar.

He loved to use Italian words, to show that he had been to the queen-mother's court; or perhaps he fancied that an i at the end of a word was sufficient to make it unintelligible to those gypsies.

"Why avanti?" said D'Alvimar, declining to urge his horse.

"Because you have irritated yonder blackbirds. See! they are crowding together like cranes in distress; and, faith! there are a score of them and only seven of us."

"How now, my dear Guillaume! Can it be that you have any fear of those feeble, cowardly animals?"

"I am not accustomed to fear," replied the young man, slightly piqued, "but it would be exceedingly distasteful to me to fire on the poor, ragged wretches; and I am surprised that they have roused your temper so, when it would have been a very simple matter to rid yourself of them with a little small change."

"I never give to such people," said Sciarra D'Alvimar, in a short dry tone, which surprised the good-humored Guillaume.

The latter felt that his companion had what we should call to-day an attack of the nerves, and he abstained from reproving him. But he insisted on quickening their pace, for the gypsies, running faster than the horses trotted, followed them, and even went before them, divided into two bands, one on each side of the road.

They had not a hostile air, however, and it was difficult to guess what their purpose was in escorting the horsemen thus.

They talked among themselves in an unintelligible jargon, and seemed, one and all, intent upon watching the woman at their head.

The child whom Monsieur d'Alvimar had tried to strike with his whip trotted along beside Monsieur d'Ars, as if he relied upon his protection, and seemed to take great interest in this extraordinary race. Guillaume noticed that the little fellow was less black and less dirty than the others, and that his refined and attractive features bore no racial resemblance to those of the gypsies.

If he had paid the same attention to the woman whom D'Alvimar had insulted and threatened, he would have noticed also that, while she did not resemble the child in the slightest degree, she resembled no more her other companions in misery. Her bearing was noble and less rough. She was clearly not of European race, although she wore the costume of a mountaineer of the Pyrenees.

MERCEDES ENCOUNTERS D'ALVIMAR.

She walked boldly by his side, no longer trying to beg from him, nor with any appearance of threatening him, but watching him constantly with the closest attention.

The most surprising fact was that, while she had understood perfectly the movement which Sciarra made to draw his pistol, and despite the natural cowardliness of beggars and mountebanks of that species, she walked boldly by his side, no longer trying to beg from him, nor with any appearance of threatening him, but watching him constantly with the closest attention.

Her conduct seemed downright insolent to D'Alvimar, and he was on the verge of listening to the promptings of his capricious and violent temper.

Guillaume saw that such was the case, and, being apprehensive of some unpleasant outbreak, and of being obliged to take sides with the overbearing gentleman against the inoffensive canaille, he urged his horse between Sciarra and the little woman, motioned to her to stop, and said to her, half-laughing, half-serious:

"Would you deign to tell us, queen of the genesta and the heather, whether it is to put shame upon us or to do us honor that you follow us in this way, and whether we should be pleased or displeased at the ceremony with which you treat us?"

The Egyptian—these nomadic hordes of unknown origin were called Egyptians or Bohemians indifferently in those days—shook her head and motioned to the boy who had taken the stone from the child's hand.

He walked toward them, and, pointing to the silent woman, said, with an impudent manner, but in a wheedling tone, speaking French with no marked accent:

"Mercedes doesn't understand your lordships' language. I always speak for those of our people who can't make themselves understood."

"Ah! yes," said Guillaume, "you are the orator of the tribe; what is your name, Master Impertinent?"

"La Flèche, at your service. I have the honor to have been born a Frenchman, in the town of which I bear the name."

"The honor is on France's side, assuredly! Now, then, Master La Flèche, tell your comrades to let us go our way in peace. I have given you enough for a man who is travelling, and to make us swallow your dust is not the way to thank me for it. Adieu, and leave us, or, if you have some further request to make, do it quickly, for we are in a hurry."

La Flèche rapidly translated Guillaume's words to her whom he called Mercedes, and who seemed to be treated with peculiar deference by himself as well as by all the others.

She replied with a few words in Spanish, whereupon La Flèche said to D'Ars:

"This worthy woman humbly requests your lordships' names, so that she may pray for you."

Guillaume laughed.

"That is an amusing request," he said. "Advise this worthy woman, friend La Flèche, to pray for us without knowing our names. The good Lord knows us well, and we can tell him nothing about ourselves that he does not know better than we do."

La Flèche saluted humbly with his dirty cap, and our travellers, spurring their steeds, soon left the gypsies behind.

"By the way," said D'Alvimar to Guillaume, as the bell-tower of La Motte-Seuilly appeared on the horizon, "you have not told me where you are going. Does that château belong to another of your friends who would, doubtless, think me an intruder?"

"Yonder château is the home of a young and lovely woman, who lives there with her father, and they will both receive you courteously. They will keep you until evening, not only in order not to be deprived of the company of Monsieur de Bois-Doré, whom they esteem very highly, but also to prove to you that we are not savages in our poor country province, and that we know how to practise hospitality in the old French way."

D'Alvimar replied that he had no manner of doubt of it, and succeeded in making some other courteous remarks to his companion, for no man was ever better taught; but his bitter thoughts soon turned to another subject.

"According to what you have told me of this Bois-Doré, my host that is to be," he said, "he is an old mannikin, I should judge, whose vassals enjoy themselves to their hearts' content?"

"No," replied Monsieur d'Ars. "Those gypsies interrupted me. I was about to tell you that, when he returned to the country, wealthy and bemarquised, people were surprised to find that he was as brave as a lion, despite his mild aspect, and that, while he had some laughable foibles, he also had some Christian virtues which are a very comfortable possession for a man."

"Do you reckon temperance and chastity among your Christian virtues?"

"Why not, I pray you?"

"Because that housekeeper with the glowing mane, whom we saw at the gate of his domain, seemed to me something lusty for so demure a man."

"Evil to him who evil thinks!" rejoined Guillaume, with a smile. "I would not take my oath that our marquis was altogether insensible to the cajoleries of Queen Catherine's maids of honor; but that was a long while ago! I am strongly of the opinion that you could tell Bellinde about it without offending her or causing her pain. But here we are. I need not tell you that such subjects are not in season here. Our fair widow, Madame de Beuvre, is no prude, but at her age and in her position——"

Our friends rode over the drawbridge, which, in view of the tranquil state of the province, was lowered all day; the portcullis was closed.

Thus they rode, without hindrance or ceremony, into the courtyard of the manor, where they dismounted.

"One moment!" said Sciarra d'Alvimar to Guillaume, as they were about to enter the house; "do not, I beg you, mention my name here, on account of the servants."

"Neither here nor elsewhere," Monsieur d'Ars replied. "You have almost no foreign accent; so there is no need to say that you are Spanish. For which of my friends in Paris do you wish me to pass you off?"

"I should be sadly embarrassed to play a rôle other than my own. I prefer to remain almost myself, and simply to assume one of my family names. I will be a Villareal, if you choose, and as an explanation of my flight from Paris——"

"You can talk confidentially with the marquis, and arrange matters as you choose. There is nothing for me to do but to tell him how dear a friend of mine you are; that you are running away from some persecution or other; and that I beg him to take as good care of you as he would of myself."

#### IV

The château of La Motte-Seuilly,—that name finally carried the day,—which is still standing and almost intact to-day, is a small manor-house consisting of a hexagonal entrance tower, purely feudal in style, of a main building, very plain, with windows far apart, and of two wings at right angles thereto, one of which is a donjon. In the left wing are the stables, with arched ceilings and heavy timbers, the kitchens and the servants' quarters; in the other, the chapel with its ogival windows, of the time of Louis XII., spans a short open gallery, supported by two heavy pillars surrounded by mouldings in relief, like huge tree-trunks in the embrace of creeping plants.

This gallery leads to the large tower or donjon, which, like the entrance tower, dates from the twelfth century. The rooms within are circular, decorated very simply but very prettily with columns set in claw-shaped pedestals. The winding staircase, which is in a small tower built against the larger one, leads to one of those old-fashioned charpentes, cunningly and boldly fashioned, which are to this day considered objects of art.

This one bore, at the centre of its radiating spokes, a chevalet or wooden horse, an instrument of torture, the use of which was regulated in cold blood by ordinance as late as 1670. This horrible machine dates from the construction of the building, for it is built into the charpente.

It was in this poor, cramped, dismal manor that the beautiful Charlotte d'Albret, wife of the ill-omened Cæsar Borgia, passed fifteen years and died, still quite young, after a life of sorrow and sanctity.

Everyone knows that the infamous cardinal, the pope's bastard, the incestuous, blood-stained debauchee, the lover of his sister Lucretia, and the murderer of his own brother and rival, divested himself of the dignities of the church one fine day, to seek fortune and a wife in France.

Louis XII. desired to break off his own marriage with Jeanne, daughter of Louis XI., in order to marry Anne de Bretagne. The pope's assent was required. He obtained it on condition that he should give the duchy of Valentinois and the hand of a princess to the bastard—the brigand cardinal.

Charlotte d'Albret, a lovely, pure and learned maiden, was sacrificed; a few months later she was abandoned and looked upon as a widow.

She purchased this dismal castle and took up her abode there to educate her daughter.[5] Her only external pleasure was an occasional journey to Bourges, to see her mysterious companion in misfortune, Jeanne de France, the cast-off queen, who had become the Duchesse de Berry and the foundress of the Annonciade.

But Jeanne died, and Charlotte, then twenty-four years old, put on mourning, which she never laid aside, and did not leave La Motte-Seuilly again until her own death, which occurred nine years later—in 1514.

Her body was taken to Bourges and buried beside Jeanne's, to be exhumed, insulted and burned by the Calvinists half a century later, together with that of the other poor saint. Her body rested in peace somewhat longer in the rustic chapel of La Motte-Seuilly, under a pretty monument which her daughter erected to her.

But it was written that no earthly trace of that melancholy destiny should be respected. In 1793 the peasants, venting upon that tomb the hatred they bore their lord, burned it to the ground, and its débris lie scattered over the pavement to-day. The statue of Charlotte is propped against the wall, broken in three pieces. The chapel, utterly neglected, is crumbling to decay. The victim's heart was in all probability sealed up in a gold or silver casket: what has become of it? Sold perhaps at a low price; perhaps simply hidden away or buried, in consequence of a sudden return of fear or devotion, that poor heart may be reposing in some village hovel, unknown to its new occupant, under the hearthstone, or under the briar hedge.

To-day the castle, restored in some degree, brightens up a little in the sunlight, which finds its way into the gravelled courtyard through a great breach in the wall. The water from the ancient moats, fed, I believe, by a spring near by, flows in a charming little stream through the newly laid out English garden.

The enormous yew, which dates from the time of Charlotte d'Albret, rests its venerable, drooping branches on blocks of stone, arranged with pious care to support its monumental decrepitude. A few flowers and a solitary swan cast a sort of melancholy smile about the sorrowful manor-house.

The outlook is still gloomy; the landscape most depressing; the tower of sinister aspect—and yet an artistic generation loves these dismal abodes, these old, desolate nests, solid structures of a stern and bitter past of which the common people know nothing, which they had forgotten as early as 1793, since they shattered poor Charlotte's tomb and left untouched the triumphant wooden horse of La Motte-Seuilly.

At the time of our narrative, the manor-house, closed on all sides, was at once more dismal and more comfortable than to-day. People lived in the cold obscurity of those little fortresses; therefore, they must have been able to make themselves comfortable in them.

The huge fireplaces, all sheathed in cast-iron at the back, filled the vast apartments with an intense heat. The former hangings on the walls were replaced by felt paper of extraordinary thickness and beauty; instead of our pretty Persian curtains, which quiver in the draughts from the windows, were heavy folds of damask, or, in more modest dwellings, of wadded silk, that lasted fifty years. On the sandstone floors of corridors and living-rooms were rugs of a new kind, made of wool, cotton, flax and hemp.

Very handsome marquetry floors were made in those days, and in the central provinces people ate from lovely Nevers porcelain, while the sideboards were resplendent with those curious goblets of colored glass, used only on grand occasions, and representing fanciful monuments, plants, vessels or animals.

Thus, despite the modest appearance of the exterior of the wing set aside for the apartments of the masters—for the nobles had already ceased to live near the roofs of their old feudal donjons—Monsieur d'Alvimar found an attractive interior, neat and not unrefined, which denoted genuine ease, at least, if not great wealth.

La Motte-Seuilly had passed, by the marriage of Louis Borgia, into the family of La Trémouille, to which Monsieur de Beuvre belonged through his mother.

He was a rough and gallant gentleman, who never hesitated to promulgate his opinions and beliefs. His only daughter, Lauriane, had married, at the age of twelve, her cousin Hélyon de Beuvre, aged sixteen.

The two children had been kept apart, with the greater ease in that the province was suddenly stirred by a commotion in which Messieurs de Beuvre felt that they were in duty bound to take part. They left La Motte on the very day of the marriage, to go to the succor of the Duchesse de Nevers, who had declared for the Prince de Condé, and who was besieged in her good city by Monsieur de Montigny—François de la Grange.

While making a bold attempt to force his way into Nevers, under the eyes of the Catholics, young Hélyon was killed. On his return from that campaign, therefore, Monsieur de Beuvre had the painful task of informing his darling daughter that she had passed without transition from the state of a virgin to that of a widow.

Lauriane[6] wept bitterly for her young cousin. But can a maiden weep incessantly at twelve years of age? And then her father gave her such a lovely doll!—a doll with a dress of cloth of silver, and red velvet slippers pinked like a crab's tail! And then, when she was fourteen, he gave her such a pretty little horse, from Monsieur le Prince's own stud! And then, too, Lauriane, who, at the time of her marriage, was only a pale, slender chit, became at fifteen a dainty blonde, so graceful and rosy and lovable, that there was no great danger that she would remain a widow.

But she was so happy with her father, and reigned so absolutely in the little château he had given her by way of dowry, that she felt in no manner of haste to enter the marriage state a second time. Was she not called madame? And is not the childish desire to be so called one of the most potent reasons which induce young girls to marry?—that and the gifts and the fêtes and the wedding trousseau?

"I have already had all the joys and all the sorrows of married life," Lauriane would say artlessly.

And yet, although he had a considerable fortune, managed by him with great prudence, to which his retired life enabled him to add materially, Monsieur de Beuvre did not find it a simple matter to arrange a second marriage for his daughter.

He had embraced the cause of the Reformed religion at the moment that that cause, drained of men and of money, had no other alternative in our provinces than to keep in the shadow and obtain toleration.

Everybody in his neighborhood was a Catholic, or pretended to be; for, in Berry, Calvinism had only a single moment of power and a single real stronghold. But

The year fifteen sixty-two

when

Bourges lacked priests and beggars too,

was already far away, and Sancerre, the troublesome mountain, had its walls razed to the ground.

The Berrichon character naturally inclines neither to persecution nor fanaticism; and, after a moment of surprise and agitation, when the passions of those outside their borders had intoxicated the common people and the bourgeoisie, they had fallen back under the influence of that fear of the great, which is the unchanging foundation of the politics of that province.

The great men, for their part, had sold their submission, in accordance with their invariable custom. Condé had become a zealous Catholic. Monsieur de Beuvre, who had first served the father, then lost his own son-in-law in the son's cause, was, naturally enough, altogether in disgrace, and appeared no more at Bourges. Jesuits had been sent to him by the prince, to urge him to make solemn abjuration.

De Beuvre was no fanatic in religious matters. He had yielded to political passions when he embraced the Lutheran faith, and he realized that he had made a mistake so far as his fortunes were concerned. He was too recent a convert to make it worth their while to purchase him. They contented themselves with attempting to intimidate him, and it had been hinted to him most adroitly that he could not find a husband for his daughter in the province if he persisted in his heresy. Having held his head proudly erect before their threats, he had felt somewhat shaken at the idea of Lauriane remaining a widow and her patrimony falling to another branch of the family.

But Lauriane had prevented him from giving way. Reared by him as a very lukewarm adherent of the Protestant religion, she was only partially instructed in its doctrines, and freely mingled the ceremonies and prayers of both forms of worship in her heart.

She did not go to the meeting-house over the long, wretched roads at Issoudun or Linières, and when she passed a Catholic church, she did not leap with indignation at the sound of the bell. But she sometimes displayed beneath her smiling, childlike sweetness the germs of an intense pride; and when she saw how her father suffered at the humiliating thought of public abjuration, she came to his assistance with surprising energy, saying to the Jesuits from Bourges:

"It is of no use for you to seek to convert me with the bait of a handsome Catholic husband, for I have sworn in my heart that I will rather belong to a detestable husband of my own communion."

[5]Louise Borgia, afterward married to Louis de Trémouille, and later to Philippe de Bourbon-Busset.

[6]Saint Laurian was one of the saints held in highest honor in Berry.

#### V

Only a few weeks had elapsed since the visit of the Jesuits to La Motte-Seuilly, when Monsieur Sciarra d'Alvimar appeared there, introduced by Guillaume d'Ars. They were received by the father and the daughter, Monsieur de Bois-Doré having gone out to shoot a hare with Monsieur de Beuvre's keeper.

This was a fresh disappointment to Guillaume, who found himself delayed again and again, and was beginning to despair of reaching Bourges that day.

Sciarra d'Alvimar conducted himself with much charm of manner, and, from the first words he uttered, De Beuvre, who was familiar with social usages, not because he had seen much of Paris, but because he had frequented the petty provincial courts, where there was as much state and ceremony as at the king's own court, saw that he had to do with a man accustomed to the best society.

As for D'Alvimar, who was deeply impressed by Lauriane's youth and grace, he took her for a younger daughter of Monsieur de Beuvre, and still awaited the appearance of the widow of whom D'Ars had spoken.

Not for some time did he realize that that lovely child was the mistress of the house.

In those days dinner was served at ten in the morning, and Guillaume, having gone out to the fields in quest of the marquis, returned to take leave.

"I have told the marquis," he said to Sciarra; "he is coming in; he has promised solemnly to be your host and your friend until my return. So I leave you in good company, and I shall do my best to make up for lost time."

They tried in vain to keep him to dinner. He departed, having kissed the fair Lauriane's hand, pressed his good neighbor Monsieur de Beuvre's, and embraced D'Alvimar, swearing that he would return to Briantes before the end of the week to take him to his château of Ars, and keep him there as long as possible.

"Now," said Monsieur de Beuvre to D'Alvimar, "give the châtelaine your hand and let us to the table. Do not be surprised if we do not wait for our friend Bois-Doré. He is accustomed to spend an hour over his toilet, even when he has hunted less than fifteen minutes; and not for anything in the world would he appear before a lady—even this lady, who is like his own child in his eyes, for he saw her at her birth—without having washed and perfumed, and changed his clothing from head to foot. That is his whim, and there is no great harm in it. We stand on no ceremony with him, and we should offend him by delaying our repast to await his coming."

"Should I not," said D'Alvimar, when he had been seated at the upper end of the table, "go and present my respects to Monsieur de Bois-Doré in his apartments, before taking my place at the table?"

"No," laughed Lauriane, "you would vex him terribly by surprising him at his toilet. Do not ask us why; you will understand for yourself as soon as you see him."

"Moreover," added Monsieur de Beuvre, "except by reason of your youth, you owe him no attentions, for in his capacity of fiduciary host he is called upon to make all the advances. And I will undertake the duty of presenting you to him, Monsieur d'Ars having requested me to do so."

In referring to D'Alvimar's youth, Monsieur de Beuvre fell into the error which his appearance caused at first sight.

Although he was at this time close upon forty, he seemed less than thirty, and it may be that Monsieur de Beuvre mentally compared his temporary guest's comely face with that of his dear Lauriane. It was his constant thought to find for her some husband, outside the province, who would not demand a solemn abjuration.

The worthy gentleman did not know that the Jesuits already reigned everywhere, and that Berry was one of the provinces which were least affected by their propaganda.

Nor did he know that D'Alvimar was in his heart a perfect knight of the blessed Dame Inquisition.

Guillaume, wishing to assure his friend a cordial welcome, was very careful not to describe him as too sensitive in his orthodoxy. Himself a Catholic, but extremely tolerant in his views and by no means a devout believer, like most of the young men of fashion, he had not, in introducing him to the master of the house, or in commending him to Monsieur de Bois-Doré, touched at all upon the religious questions to which those gentlemen attached little more weight in their ordinary relations than D'Ars himself. But he had informed Monsieur de Beuvre, briefly, that Monsieur de Villareal—the name they had agreed upon—was of good family—that fact was certain—and in a fair way to make his fortune, which Guillaume believed to be true, for Monsieur D'Alvimar concealed his poverty with all the pride of which a Spaniard is capable in that direction.

The first course was served with the characteristic moderation of Berrichon servants, and discussed with the premeditated moderation of well-bred people who do not choose to be considered gluttons.

This patient deglutition, the long pauses between every mouthful, the host's anecdotes between the courses, are still esteemed the elements of good breeding among the old men in Berry. The peasants of our day have carried the same theory still farther, and, when you break bread with them, you can be certain of remaining three full hours at the table, though there be nothing upon it but a bit of cheese and a bottle of sour wine.

D'Alvimar, whose active and restless mind could not fall asleep in the joys of eating, took advantage of Monsieur de Beuvre's stately mastication to talk with his daughter, who ate quickly and sparingly, paying more attention to her father and her guest than to herself.

He was surprised to find so much wit in a country girl who had never gone beyond the limits of her own domain, save for one or two trips to Bourges and Nevers.

Lauriane was not very well cultivated, and it may be that she could not have written a long letter without making mistakes in grammar; but she talked well, and, by dint of listening while her father and his neighbors discussed the affairs of the time, she was familiar with history, and accurate in her judgment thereof, from the reign of Louis XII. and the first religious wars.

However, as she gloried in her descent from Charlotte d'Albret, as that martyr's memory was in her eyes worthy of reverence and was revered by her, she had no occasion to let D'Alvimar see that she was a heretic; moreover, the laws of civility of that period ordained that people should never discuss their own religious beliefs without adequate cause, even when they were of the same communion; for the shades of belief were without number, and controversy was rampant everywhere.

In addition to her delicate tact and great good sense, there was a flavor of frankness and mischief in her wit, a purely Berrichon combination, the result of a blending of two contrary qualities being a decidedly original way of looking at things and of speaking. She was of the province where the truth is told with a smile on the lips, and where everyone knows that he is understood without having to lose his temper.

D'Alvimar, who was overbearing rather than affable, and more vindictive than sincere, felt somewhat abashed in presence of that young woman, nor had he any very clear conception of the cause of that feeling.

At times it seemed to him that she divined his character, his past life, or his recent adventure, and that her manner seemed to say to him:

"For all that, we are none the less hospitable folk, ready to entertain you."

At last the time arrived to serve the joint, and, amid a great banging of doors and clashing of plates, Monsieur de Bois-Doré appeared, preceded by a diminutive retainer richly costumed, whom under his breath he called his page, as if to justify this verse, which, however, had not yet appeared to bring ridicule upon his like:

Every marquis must have pages,

and in contravention of the royal ordinances, which allowed pages only to princes and to the very greatest noblemen.

Despite his habitual dejection and his present discomfort, D'Alvimar had difficulty in restraining his laughter at the appearance of his fiduciary host.

Monsieur Sylvain de Bois-Doré had been one of the handsome men of his time. Tall, well-made, black hair, white skin, magnificent eyes, fine features, physically strong and active, he had won the favor of many ladies, but had never inspired a violent or lasting passion. It was the fault of his own fickleness and of the sparing use he made of his own emotions.

Boundless charity, a loyalty that was most remarkable when we consider the time and his environment, princely lavishness when fortune chanced to smile upon him, a stoical philosophy in his hours of ill-luck, with all the amiable and free-and-easy qualities of the adventurous champions of the Béarnais, did not suffice to make an impassioned hero of the type that was popular in his youthful days.

It was an epoch of excitement and bloodshed, when love-making needed a little ferocity in order to become romantic attachment; and Bois-Doré, apart from actual battle, wherein he bore himself valiantly, was disgustingly kind and gentle. He had never murdered a husband or brother; he had poniarded no rival in the arms of an unfaithful mistress; Javotte or Nanette readily consoled him for the treachery of Diane or Blanche. And so, notwithstanding his taste for romances of pastoral life and of chivalry, he was considered to have a paltry mind and a lukewarm heart.

He was the more readily reconciled to being tricked and cozened by the ladies, in that he had never noticed it. He knew that he was handsome, generous and brave; his adventures were brief but numerous; his heart craved friendship rather than wild passion; and by his discretion and his gentle manners he had earned the privilege of remaining everybody's friend. He had been quite happy, therefore, without exerting himself to be adored, and, to speak frankly, he had loved all the ladies more or less without adoring any one of them.

He might have been accused of egotism, had it been possible to reconcile such an accusation with the other one freely brought against him, of being too kind and too humane. He was in some measure a caricature of the good Henri, whom many called an ingrate and a traitor, but whom one and all loved none the less after they had come in contact with him.

But time had moved on, and that was a fact which Monsieur de Bois-Doré had not deigned to perceive. His supple frame had hardened and stiffened, his shapely legs had withered, the hair had receded from his noble brow, his great eye was surrounded with wrinkles as the sun is with rays, and of all his vanished youth he had retained naught save the teeth, somewhat long, but still white and even, with which he ostentatiously cracked nuts at dessert in order to draw attention to them. Indeed it was a common remark among his neighbors that he was much annoyed if they forgot to place some nuts on the table before him.

When we say that Monsieur de Bois-Doré had not observed the inroads of time, it is simply another way of expressing his perfect satisfaction with himself; for it is certain that he saw that he was growing old, and that he fought against the effect of advancing years with valiant determination. I believe that the utmost energy of which he was capable was put forth in that struggle.

When he saw that his hair was turning white and falling out, he made the journey to Paris for the sole purpose of ordering a wig from the best artist in wigs. Wigmaking was becoming an art; but the investigators of details have informed us that at least sixty pistoles were required to obtain one with a white silk parting, and the hairs inserted one by one.

Monsieur de Bois-Doré was not deterred by that trifling sum, for he was a rich man, and could well afford to expend twelve to fifteen hundred francs of our money upon a semi-ceremonious costume, and five or six thousand upon a full dress-coat. He hastened to provide himself with a stock of wigs: first he fell in love with a flaxen mane, which was wonderfully becoming to him, according to the wigmaker. Bois-Doré, who had never before seen himself as a blond, was beginning to believe it, when he tried on one of a chestnut hue, which, still according to the dealer, was no less becoming than the other. The two were of the same price: but Bois-Doré tried on a third, which cost ten crowns more, and which caused the dealer's enthusiasm to overflow: that was really the only one, he said, which brought out Monsieur le marquis's fine points.

Bois-Doré thought of the time when the ladies used to say that it was very unusual to see hair as black as his with so white a skin.

"This wigmaker must be right," he thought.

But, standing before the mirror a few moments, he was surprised to see that that dark mane gave him a harsh, savage air.

"It is astonishing how it changes me," he said to himself. "However, this is my natural color. In my youth my appearance was as mild as it is now. My thick black hair never gave me this cutthroat look."

It did not occur to him that all things harmonize in the operations of nature, whether it is putting us together or taking us apart, and that with the gray hair his appearance was as it should be.

But the wigmaker told him so many times that he looked no more than thirty years old with that lovely wig, that he purchased it, and at once ordered another, for economy's sake, as he said, in order to save the first one.

However, he changed his mind the next day. He considered that he looked older than before with that youthful head, and all the friends whom he consulted shared that opinion.

The wigmaker explained to him that the hair, eyebrows and beard must be made to correspond, and he sold him the dye. But thereupon, Bois-Doré found that his face was so deathly pale amid those blotches of ink, that it was necessary to explain to him that he would require rouge.

"It would seem," he said, "that when you begin to resort to artificial methods, you can never stop?"

"That is the general rule," replied the rejuvenator; "choose whether you will be old or appear old?"

"But am I old, pray?"

"No, since you can still appear to be young by the use of my receipts."

From that day Bois-Doré wore a wig; eyebrows, moustaches and beard painted and waxed; chalk on his nose; rouge on his cheeks; fragrant powders in every fold of his wrinkles; and, lastly, perfumes and scent-bags all over his person; so that, when he left his room, you could smell him in the poultry-yard; and if he simply passed the kennel, all his coursing dogs sneezed and made wry faces for an hour.

When he had thoroughly succeeded in making an absurd old automaton out of the handsome old man he had been, he took measures to spoil his figure, which had the dignity befitting his years, by having his doublets and short-clothes lined with double rows of steel, and holding himself so erect that he went to bed every night with a lame back.

It would have killed him, had not the fashion changed, luckily for him.

The stiff, close-fitting doublets of Henry IV. gave way to the light surtouts of the young favorites of Louis XIII. The hoop-shaped short-clothes were succeeded by broad, full breeches which yielded to every movement of the body.

It cost Bois-Doré a pang to give way to these innovations, and to part with his rigid godronné ruffs just to be a little more comfortable in the light rotondes. He sorely regretted the stiff lace, but ribbons and fluffy laces seduced him by slow degrees, and he returned from a brief visit to Paris dressed in the style affected by young men of fashion, and imitating their heedless, exhausted airs, sprawling in easy chairs, striking weary attitudes, rising from his seat in waltz time; in a word, enacting, with his tall figure and strongly-marked features, the rôle of insipid little marquis, which Molière, thirty years later, found complete in its absurdity and ripe for his satire.

This method enabled Bois-Doré to conceal the real burden of his years beneath a disguise which transformed him into a sort of absurd ghost.

To D'Alvimar he seemed an appalling spectacle, at first sight. The Spaniard could not understand that profusion of ebon curls around the wrinkled face, those heavy, awe-inspiring eyebrows over the soft, mild eyes, that brilliant rouge, which seemed like a mask placed in jest upon a venerable and benevolent face.

As for the costume, its extreme elegance, the quantity of lace, embroidery, rosettes and plumes, made it ridiculous beyond words at midday, in the country; not to mention the fact that the pale, delicate hues which our marquis affected were horribly out of harmony with the lion-like aspect of his bristling moustache and his borrowed mane.

But the old gentleman's greeting neutralized most agreeably the repellent effect produced upon D'Alvimar by that burlesque figure.

Monsieur de Beuvre had risen to present Guillaume's friend to the marquis, and to remind him that he was placed in his care for several days.

"It is a pleasure and an honor which I should claim for myself," said Monsieur de Beuvre, "if I were in my own house; but I must not forget that I am under my daughter's roof. Moreover, this house is much less rich and splendid than yours, my dear Sylvain, and we do not wish to deprive Monsieur Villareal of the pleasures that await him there."

"I accept your hyperbolical statements," replied Bois-Doré, "if they will but dazzle Monsieur de Villareal so far as to induce him to remain a long while under my care."

Whereupon he extended his arms, swathed in lace to the elbow, and embraced the pretended Villareal, saying with a frank laugh that showed his fine white teeth:

"Were you the devil himself, monsieur, from the moment that you are entrusted to me, you become as a brother to me."

He was careful not to say "as a son." He would have been afraid of revealing the number of his years, which number he believed to be shrouded in mystery because he had forgotten it himself.

Villareal d'Alvimar could readily have dispensed with that embrace on the part of a Catholic of such recent date, especially as the perfumes with which the marquis was reeking took away the little appetite he had, and as, after embracing him, he pressed his hands vigorously between his dry fingers, armed with enormous rings. But D'Alvimar had to consider his own safety first of all, and he felt sure, from Monsieur Sylvain's cordial and hearty manner, that he had really been placed in loyal and trustworthy hands.

He adopted the plan, therefore, of expressing profound gratitude for the twofold hospitality of which he was the object, exhibiting himself in a most favorable light; and when they left the table, the two old noblemen were delighted with him.

He would have been glad to take a little rest, but the châtelain incited him to a game of draughts, then to one of billiards with Bois-Doré, who allowed himself to be beaten.

D'Alvimar loved all games, and was by no means averse to winning a few gold crowns.

The hours passed away in what might be called a resultless association, since these diversions led to no conversation sufficiently serious to place the three gentlemen in a position to know one another.

Madame de Beuvre, who had retired after dinner, reappeared about four o'clock, when she saw preparations being made in the courtyard for the departure of her guests.

She proposed a walk in the garden before separating.

#### VI

It was late in October. The days had grown short, but were still mild and bright, the St. Martin's summer having not yet come to an end. The trees were quite bare, their graceful tracery outlined against the bright red sun just sinking behind the black thickets along the horizon.

They walked over a bed of dry leaves along the paths lined with box-wood and trimmed yews, which imparted an orderly and dignified stiffness to the gardens of that period.

In the moats fine old carp followed the promenaders, looking for the bread crumbs which Lauriane was accustomed to bring them.

A little tame wolf also followed her like a dog, but was held in awe and tyrannized over by Monsieur de Beuvre's favorite spaniel, a playful young beast, who showed no aversion for his suspicious companion, but rolled him over and snapped at him with the superb indifference of a child of noble birth deigning to play with a serf.

D'Alvimar, on the point of offering his arm to the fair Lauriane, paused as he saw Monsieur de Bois-Doré approach her, apparently with the same purpose.

But the courtly marquis also stepped back.

"It is your right," he said; "a guest like yourself should take precedence of friends; but pray appreciate the sacrifice I make to you."

"I do appreciate it fully," replied D'Alvimar, as Lauriane placed her little hand lightly on his arm; "and of all your kindnesses to me, I value this most."

"I am rejoiced to see," replied Bois-Doré, walking at Madame de Beuvre's left hand, "that you understand French gallantry as did his late majesty, our Henri, of blessed memory."

"I trust that I have a better understanding of it than he, by your leave."

"Oh! that is much to claim!"

"We Spaniards understand it differently, at all events. We believe that a faithful attachment to a single woman is preferable to unmeaning gallantry toward all."

"Oho! in that case, my dear count—you are a count, are you not, or a duke?—I beg your pardon, but you are a Spanish grandee, I know that, I can see it.—So you believe in the perfect loyalty of romance? There is nothing nobler, my dear guest, nothing nobler, on my word!"

Monsieur de Beuvre called Bois-Doré away, to show him some trees that he had recently set out, and D'Alvimar took advantage of the interruption to ask Lauriane if Monsieur de Bois-Doré had intended to make sport of him.

"By no means," she replied; "you must know that our dear marquis's favorite food is D'Urfé's romance, and he almost knows it by heart."

"How does he reconcile this taste for a noble passion with the tastes of the old court?"

"That is a very simple matter. When our friend was young, he loved all the ladies, so they say. As he grew older, his heart grew cold; but he thinks that he conceals that fact, as he thinks that he conceals his wrinkles, by pretending to have been converted to the superior virtue of noble sentiments by the example of the heroes of Astrée. So that, to excuse himself for not paying court to any fair lady, he boasts that he is faithful to a single one, whom he never names, whom no one ever has seen or ever will see, for the excellent reason that she exists only in his imagination."

"Is it possible that at his age he still feels bound to pretend to be in love?"

"He must do so, since he wishes to pass for a young man. If he were willing to admit that all women had become equally indifferent to him, why should he take the trouble to smear his face and to wear false hair?"

"So in your opinion it is not possible to be young without being enamored of some woman?"

"Oh! I know nothing about it," replied Madame de Beuvre gayly; "I have had no experience and I know nothing of men's hearts. But I sometimes hear it said that such is the fact, and Monsieur de Bois-Doré seems to be convinced of it. What is your own opinion thereon, messire?"

"It seems to me," said D'Alvimar, who was curious to know the young woman's ideas, "that one can live a long while on a past love, awaiting a love to come."

She made no reply, but looked up at the sky with her lovely blue eyes.

"Of what are you thinking?" he asked her, with a familiarity that was perhaps a little too sympathetic. Lauriane seemed surprised at this impertinent question. She looked him straight in the face with an expression that seemed to say: "What business is that of yours?" But she replied with a smile, not seeking to defend herself with unnecessarily stern words:

"I was not thinking of anything."

"That is impossible," rejoined D'Alvimar; "one is always thinking of something or somebody."

"But we think vaguely, so vaguely that in a moment we have forgotten."

Lauriane did not speak truly. She had been thinking of Charlotte d'Albret, and we will translate all that had passed through her mind in that brief reverie.

That poor princess had appeared to her, as it were, to make the reply which D'Alvimar was seeking, and that reply was as follows:

"A maiden who has never loved sometimes accepts rashly the first love that presents itself, because she feels impatient to love, and sometimes she falls into the arms of a knave who tortures her, wrecks her life and deserts her."

D'Alvimar was far from suspecting the curious warning that that young heart had received; he fancied that she was indulging in a bit of coquetry, and the game attracted him, although his heart was as cold as marble. He persisted.

"I will warrant," he said, "that you have dreamed of a love more real than that which Monsieur de Bois-Doré parades before you; of such a love as you could inspire in a man of heart, even if you could not yourself feel it."

No sooner had he uttered these commonplace words of challenge, in a tone to which he was able to give a melting quality and which he deemed most persuasive, than Lauriane suddenly withdrew her arm from his, turned pale and stepped back.

"What is it, in heaven's name?" he exclaimed, trying to recover her arm.

"Nothing, nothing," she said, trying hard to smile. "I saw a snake among the rushes and it frightened me; I am going to call my father to kill it."

And she hastened toward Monsieur de Beuvre, leaving D'Alvimar beating the rushes on the sloping bank of the moat with his cane, in search of the accursed reptile.

But no reptile, beautiful or ugly, made its appearance, and when he looked after Madame de Beuvre, he saw her just going from the garden into the courtyard.

"There's a sensitive plant," he thought as he watched her! "whether she really was frightened by a snake, or whether my words caused this sudden disturbance. Ah! why have not queens and princesses, who hold exalted destinies in their hands, the amorous sincerity of these little country dames!"

While his vanity thus accounted for Lauriane's emotion, she had gone up to Charlotte d'Albret's chapel, not to pray—she did not often visit that Catholic oratory, ordinarily closed as the sanctuary of a venerable memory—but to make sure of a fact which had caused her a violent shock.

In that little chapel there was a portrait, blackened and discolored by the lapse of years, which was never shown to any one, but was preserved there, where it had been found, out of respect for those articles which had belonged to the saint of the family.

Lauriane had seen the portrait but twice in her life. Once by chance, when an old woman employed to clean the chapel had opened the sort of closet in which it was kept, in order to dust it.

Lauriane was a child at that time. The portrait had frightened her, although she could not tell why.

The second time, not long before, her father had told her the poor duchess's story, with certain details, furnished by tradition, and had said to her:

"And yet our saintly ancestress did not abhor that monster. Whether she had actually loved him for a moment before she knew of the crimes with which his hands were stained, or whether she made it her duty to pray for him, impelled solely by Christian charity, she had his portrait in her chapel."

Thereupon Lauriane, having learned whose terrifying features were represented in that old painting, had felt a desire to see it again. She had scrutinized it carefully, coolly, and had made a mental vow that she would never marry a man who bore the faintest resemblance to that terrible face.

Although she had examined the portrait without the slightest agitation, the spectre had haunted her eyes for some time, and, whenever they fell upon a repellent face, she involuntarily compared it with the abhorred type; but she had eventually forgotten the incident, for she was naturally cheerful and placid, and as stout-hearted as most of the young châtelaines of the period of commotion and danger which was hardly at an end.

And so, when she met D'Alvimar, it had not once occurred to her to compare his face with the picture; and even in the garden, as she chatted merrily with him, her arm in his, and looked him in the face, she had felt no apprehension. But why had she thought of Charlotte d'Albret while he was speaking to her? She had no idea; she paid no great heed to the coincidence at first.

But D'Alvimar had insisted upon knowing her thoughts; he had almost spoken to her of love. At all events he had said more to her on that subject in two words, although she had never seen him before, than any of the masculine friends, young or old, whom she met frequently, had ever dared to do.

Surprised by such excessive audacity, she had looked at him again, but this time by stealth. She had detected a treacherous smile on that charming face; and at the same time his profile, outlined against the ruddy background of the horizon, had extorted a cry of alarm from her.

That handsome youth, who seemed determined to provoke the first pulsations of her heart, resembled Cæsar Borgia!

Whether that was a mere fancy or a certainty, it was impossible for her to remain an instant longer on his arm.

She had invented a pretext for her alarm. She had fled, and she had gone to look at the portrait, in order to banish or confirm her suspicions.

#### VII

As the daylight was rapidly fading and it was already dark on the courtyard side of the château, she turned back and went for a light to her room, which was in the wing adjoining the little gallery under the chapel.

The closet containing the portrait was nothing more than a square cupboard of plain boards, fastened to the wall, like those in village churches in which are kept the banners used in processions. She hastily opened it, placed her candle so that its light fell upon the picture, and gazed at the infamous wretch's features.

It was a fine painting. Cæsar and Lucretia Borgia were contemporaries of Raphael and Michelangelo, and this portrait, somewhat dry in execution, was in Raphael's first manner. It belonged to the same school.

The face of the Duc de Valentinois showed no sign of the livid blotches and hideous pustules which some historians describe, nor the squinting eyes, "gleaming with an infernal brilliancy which even his comrades and chosen intimates could not endure." Whether because the artist had flattered him, or because he had painted him at a period of his life when vice and crime did not as yet "stand out" on his face, he had not made him ugly. He had painted the cardinal brigand in profile, and that one of his eyes which he had copied was looking straight ahead.

The face was pale, ghastly pale, and thin, the nose sharp and narrow, the mouth almost lipless, so pale and colorless were the lips, the chin angular, the outlines pure, the beard and moustache red and carefully combed, and the general effect distinguished. But seen thus in its most favorable aspect, that knavish face was perhaps more repulsive than if it had been eaten by leprosy. It was calm and thoughtful, and it bore no resemblance to the flat head of the viper.

No, no, It was much worse; it was a well-shaped man's face, with all the intellectual faculties admirably developed for evil. The long, half-shut eye seemed absorbed in blissful meditation of a crime, and the imperceptible smile on the transparent lips had the drowsy mildness of sated ferocity.

It was impossible to say definitely in what the horror of the expression consisted: it was everywhere. One felt chilled in body and mind as one questioned that cruel and insolent countenance.[7]

"I dreamed it!" said Lauriane, scrutinizing the features one by one. "That is not the Spaniard's brow, nor his eye, nor his mouth. It is of no use for me to look, I can find nothing of him here."

She closed her eyes to recall his features without looking at the portrait. She saw him full face: he was charming, with a proud and resigned expression of melancholy. She saw him in profile: he was playful, a little satirical perhaps, he smiled.—But as soon as she recalled that smile, she saw the profile of the infamous Cæsar, and it was impossible for her to separate the two impressions, as if they were glued together.

She closed the cupboard, and glanced at the pulpit of carved wood, the little altar, and the black velvet cushion whitened and worn threadbare by Charlotte's knees. She fell on her knees upon it and prayed, not pausing to think whether she was in a church or a meeting-house, whether she was Catholic or Protestant.

She prayed to the God of the weak and afflicted, the God of Charlotte d'Albret and Jeanne de France.

Then, feeling somewhat reassured, and seeing that her guests' horses were ready, she went down to the salon to receive their adieux.

She found her father greatly excited.

"Come here, my dearest daughter," he said, taking her hand to lead her to the chair which Bois-Doré and D'Alvimar hastened to bring forward for her; "you will restore harmony among us. When the ladies leave the men together, they become bad-tempered, they talk of politics or religion, and on those points no two men can ever agree. You are most welcome therefore, who are as mild and gentle as the doves; come and tell us about your doves, whom, I suppose, you have just been putting to bed."

Lauriane confessed that she had forgotten her pets. She felt that D'Alvimar's keen and piercing eye was fixed upon her. She made bold to look at him. It was certain that he bore no more resemblance to Borgia than good Monsieur Sylvain himself.

"So you have been quarrelling with our neighbor again?" she said to her father as she kissed him, while she held the old marquis's hand. "Well, what harm is done, since you confess that you need a little contradiction to assist your digestion?"

"Mordi! no," rejoined Monsieur de Beuvre, "if it were with him I would not confess, for I should simply have committed an everyday sin; but I have allowed myself to fall into a contradictory mood with Monsieur de Villareal, and that is contrary to all the laws of hospitality and propriety. Make peace between us, my dear daughter, and tell him, for you know me, that I am a pig-headed, quarrelsome old Huguenot, but honest as gold, and entirely at his service none the less."

Monsieur de Beuvre exaggerated. He was not a very bloodthirsty Huguenot, and religious ideas were sadly tangled in his brain. But he harbored some intense political hatreds and animosities, and he could not hear the names of certain of his adversaries without giving vent to his uncompromising frankness of speech.

Now, D'Alvimar had offended him by assuming the defence of the ex-Governor of Berry, Monsieur le Duc de la Châtre, to whom the conversation had drifted.

Lauriane, being informed of the subject of dispute, gently delivered her verdict.

"I absolve you both," she said; "you, monsieur my father, for the thought that the example of the late Monsieur de la Châtre is not worthy to be followed in any particular save physical bravery and wit;—you, Monsieur de Villareal, for having pleaded the cause of a man who is not here to defend himself."

"Well judged!" cried Bois-Doré; "now let us change the subject."

"Yes, to be sure, let us say no more of that tyrant!" rejoined the old Huguenot; "let us say no more of that fanatic!"

"It pleases you to call him a fanatic," retorted D'Alvimar, who was incapable of yielding an inch; "for my own part, and I knew him well at court, if I had ventured to reproach him at all, it would have been for not being zealous enough in his love for the true religion, and for looking upon it solely as an instrument with which to crush rebellion."

"True, true," said Bois-Doré, who abhorred disputes and thought of nothing but putting an end to one in progress, whereas De Beuvre moved uneasily in his chair, making it very plain that he had not done with it.

"After all," continued D'Alvimar, hoping to make his peace, "did he not faithfully and zealously serve King Henri, to whose memory you all seem to be devoted hereabout?"

"And with reason, monsieur!" cried De Beuvre; "with reason, mordi! Where will you find a wiser and more humane king? But for how long a time did your frantic Leaguer of a La Châtre fight against him? how many times did he betray him? how much money had to be paid him to induce him to remain quiet? You are a young man, and a society man; you saw only the courtier and the smooth talker; but we old provincials know our petty provincial tyrants, I tell you! I wish that Monsieur de Bois-Doré would tell you how that illustrious warrior effected the glorious conquest of Sancerre by falsehood and treachery!"

"Bless my soul!" said Bois-Doré, with some temper, "how do you expect me to remember such things?"

"Why should it not please you to remember them, I pray to know?" retorted De Beuvre, paying no heed to the marquis's annoyance; "you were not at the breast, I fancy?"

"But I was so young, that I remember nothing about it."

"Well, I remember," cried De Beuvre, vexed by his friend's defection. "Now, I am ten years younger than you, my friend, and I was not there; I was a page to young Condé, the grandfather of the present one, and a very different man, I promise you."

"Come, come," said Lauriane, venturing upon a most mischievous step in order to pacify her father and turn the quarrel aside from its main subject; "our dear marquis must needs confess that he was at the siege of Sancerre and bore himself valiantly there, for everybody knows it, and modesty alone leads him to refuse to remember it."

"You know very well that I was not there," said Bois-Doré, "since I was here with you."

"Oh! I am not speaking of the last siege, which lasted only twenty-four hours, last May, and which was simply the coup de grâce; I refer to the great, the famous siege of 1572."

Bois-Doré had a horror of dates. He coughed, moved about, and poked the fire, which did not need it; but Lauriane was determined to immolate him under bouquets of praise.

"I know that you were very young," she said, "but even then you fought like a lion."

"It is true that my friends performed wonders," replied Bois-Doré, "and that it was a very hot struggle; but I could not strike very hard, however eager I may have been, at that age."

"Mordi! you took two prisoners yourself!" cried De Beuvre, stamping on the floor. "Look you, it drives me frantic to see a stout-hearted old fighter like you deny his gallant exploits rather than admit his age!"

Bois-Doré was deeply wounded, and his face became sad; it was his only way of manifesting his displeasure to his friends.

Lauriane saw that she had gone too far; for she was sincerely attached to her old neighbor, and when he ceased to laugh at her teasing, she no longer cared to laugh herself.

"No, monsieur," she said to her father, "permit your daughter to tell you that you are only jesting. The marquis was much less than twenty, and his conduct was all the more glorious."

"What! he was not twenty years old?" cried De Beuvre; "can it be that I have become, all of a sudden, the older of the two?"

"One is never older than one appears," replied Lauriane, "and it is only necessary to look at the marquis——"

She paused, lacking the courage to tell a downright falsehood even to console him; but the intention was enough, for Bois-Doré was content with very little.

He thanked her with a glance, his brow cleared; De Beuvre began to laugh, D'Alvimar admired Lauriane's charming delicacy, and the storm was turned aside.

[7]I do not know what has become of the portrait here described. I saw one like it in the possession of the illustrious General Pepe. It is well known that there is a portrait by Raphael which is a masterpiece. In it Borgia is almost handsome; at all events there is so much distinction in his face and refinement in his person that one hesitates to detest him. But close scrutiny causes a sensation of genuine terror. The hand, straight, slender and white as a woman's, tranquilly grasps the hilt of a dagger hanging at his side. It holds it with remarkable grace; it is ready to strike. The impending movement is so admirably foreshadowed, that we can see in anticipation how the blow is to be dealt, downward, into his victim's heart. There is grandeur in that portrait, in the sense that the great artist has left his stamp upon it, but without attempting to disguise the moral wickedness of his model, which he makes to shine forth triumphantly through the appalling tranquillity of his features.

#### VIII

They conversed pleasantly for a few moments. Monsieur de Beuvre urged D'Alvimar not to take fright at his outbreaks, and to come again on the second day thereafter with Bois-Doré, who was accustomed to dine at La Motte every Sunday. Thereupon a servant announced that la carroche of monsieur le marquis was ready.—Everyone knows that, previous to the time of Louis XIV., who ordered otherwise, carrosse was of both genders, and more frequently feminine, after the Italian carrozza.

Now, Monsieur de Bois-Doré's carroche or carrosse was an enormous, lumbering chariot, which four fine strong Percheron horses drew with admirable courage; they were somewhat too fat, perhaps, for one and all, men and beasts alike, were well-fed under worthy Monsieur Sylvain's roof.

This venerable equipage, constructed to defy the difficulties of roads carriageable or not, was stout enough to stand any test, and, if it left something to be desired in the way of ease, one was assured at all events of not breaking many bones in case of an upset, because the interior was so bountifully stuffed. There were six inches of wool and tow under the damask lining, so that one had a sense of security, if not all possible comfort.

For the rest, it was a handsome chariot, all covered with leather, embellished with gilt nails which formed a decorative border for the panels. For convenience in entering and alighting, there was a small ladder, which was placed inside when not in use.

In the four corners of this citadel on wheels, there was a very arsenal of swords and pistols, not forgetting the powder and ball; so that, at need, they could sustain a siege therein.

Two servants on horseback, carrying torches, headed the procession; two other torch-bearers rode behind the carriage with D'Alvimar's servant, who led his master's horse.

The marquis's young page sat on the box beside the coachman.

The party clattered noisily under the portcullis of La Motte-Seuilly; and the rattling of the chains of the drawbridge as it rose behind the procession, amid the joyous barking of the watch dogs as they were set loose in the courtyard, combined to make an uproar which could be heard as far as the hamlet of Champillé, a good fourth of a league away.

D'Alvimar felt called upon to say a few words to Bois-Doré in praise of his fine carriage, an article of comfort and luxury still rare in the country districts, and considered a marvel of magnificence, particularly in Berry.

"I did not expect," he said, "to find the luxury of the great cities in the heart of Berry, and I see, monsieur le marquis, that you lead the life of a man of quality."

Nothing could have been more flattering to the marquis than this last expression. Being a simple gentleman, he was not and could not be, despite his title, a man of quality. His marquisate was a little farm in the Beauvoisis which he did not even own. On a certain day of fatigue and peril, Henri IV., arriving with him and a very small escort at that farm, where the chances of partisan warfare had compelled them to halt, and which they found entirely abandoned,—Henri IV., we say, was in great danger of not breakfasting at all, when Monsieur Sylvain, who was a most resourceful man in adventures of this sort, discovered in a thicket a number of fowls which had been left behind and had become wild. The Béarnais had taken part in the hunt with great zest, and Sylvain had undertaken to cook the game to a turn.

This unlooked-for repast had put the King of Navarre in excellent humor, and he had conferred the farm upon his loyal retainer, erecting it into a marquisate by his good pleasure, to reward him, he said, for having rescued a king from death by starvation.

His possession was limited to this sojourn of a few hours on the little fief he had won without striking a blow. It had been retaken on the following day by the contrary party; and, after the peace, its lawful owners had re-entered into possession.

It mattered little to Bois-Doré, who cared nothing for that hovel but much for his title, and to whom the King of France afterward laughingly fulfilled the promise he had made as King of Navarre. The dignity was not conferred upon the Berrichon squire by any parchment; but, under the protection of the omnipotent monarch, the title was tolerated, and the obscure country gentleman admitted to the king's select circle as Marquis de Bois-Doré.

As no one made any objection, the king's jest and his sufferance created a precedent at least, if not a right, and to no purpose did people make merry at the expense of Monsieur Sylvain Bouron du Noyer—such was his real name,—he esteemed himself a man of quality despite the scoffers. After all he had a better claim to the title and bore it more honorably than many other partisans.

D'Alvimar was not aware of any of these circumstances. He had paid little attention to what Guillaume d'Ars had told him hurriedly. It did not occur to him to scoff at his host's nobility, and our marquis, being accustomed to be teased upon that point, was infinitely grateful to him for his courtesy.

However he felt bound to assume the airs of a man in robust health, in order to neutralize that troublesome date of the siege of Sancerre.

"I keep this carriage," he said, "for no other purpose than that I may be able to offer it to the ladies in my neighborhood when occasion offers; for, so far as I am concerned, I much prefer the saddle. One travels faster and with less hindrance."

"So you treated me like a lady," rejoined D'Alvimar, "by sending for this carriage during the day. I am overwhelmed, and if I had thought that you did not fear the cool evening air, I should have begged you to make no change in your habits."

"But I thought that, after the long journey you have taken, you had ridden enough for to-day; and as to the cold, to tell you the truth, I am a terribly lazy mortal, and indulge myself in many little comforts which are not at all necessary to my health."

Bois-Doré attempted to reconcile the slothful nonchalance of young courtiers with the sturdy vigor of young country gentlemen, and he was sometimes sorely embarrassed over it. He was, in truth, still hale and hearty, a good horseman and in good health, despite occasional twinges of rheumatism which he never mentioned, and a slight deafness which he did not admit, attributing the mistakes made by his ear to his absent-mindedness.

"I must needs apologize to you for the discourtesy of my friend De Beuvre," he said. "Nothing can be in worse taste than these religious discussions, which are no longer in fashion. But you will pardon an old man's obstinacy. In reality De Beuvre worries no more than I do about these subtleties. It is infatuation for the past which causes now and then an attack of inveighing against the dead, and thereby making himself a good deal of a bore to the living. I do not see why old age is so pedantic over its reminiscences, as if, at any age, one had not seen enough things and enough people to be as much of a philosopher as is necessary! Ah! commend me to the good people of Paris, my dear guest, for ability to talk with refinement and moderation on every subject of controversy! Commend me to the Hôtel de Rambouillet for example! Of course you have frequented the blue salon of Arthenice?"[8]

D'Alvimar was able to reply that he was received by the marchioness, without departing from the truth. His wit and his learning had thrown open to him the doors of the fashionable Parnassus; but he had acquired no footing there, his intolerance having made itself manifest too soon in that sanctuary of French urbanity.

Moreover he had little taste for the literary sheepfold. The ambition of the age was consuming him, and the pastoral, which is the ideal of repose and unostentatious leisure, was not at all in his line. So that he was overcome with fatigue and drowsiness when Bois-Doré, overjoyed to have somebody to talk with, began to recite whole pages from Astrée.

"What can be more beautiful," he cried, "than this letter from the shepherdess to her lover:

"'I am suspicious, I am jealous, I am hard to win and easy to lose, and more easy to offend and most exceeding hard to appease. My desires must be decrees of fate, my opinions arguments, and my commands inviolable laws.'

"What style! and what beautiful character painting! And does not the sequel contain all the wisdom, all the philosophy and morality that a man can need? Listen to this, Sylvie's reply to Galatée:

"'You must not doubt that this shepherd is in love, being so honorable a man!'

"Do you understand, monsieur, the deep meaning of that sentiment? However, Sylvie herself explains it:

"'The lover desires nothing so much as to be loved; to be loved one must make oneself lovable; and that which makes one lovable is the same which makes one an honorable man?'"

"What? what does that mean?" cried D'Alvimar, awakened with a start by the remarks of the learned shepherdess, which Bois-Doré roared into his ear to drown the clattering of the carrosse over the hard pavement of the old Roman road from La Châtre to Château-Meillant.

"Yes, monsieur, yes, I would maintain it against all the world!" rejoined Bois-Doré, not observing his guest's start; "and I tire myself out repeating it to that old dotard, that old heretic in matters of sentiment!"

"Who?" queried D'Alvimar in dismay.

"I am speaking of my neighbor De Beuvre, a most excellent man, I promise you, but infatuated with the idea that virtue is found only in theological works, which he does not read, inasmuch as he could not understand them; whereas I maintain that it is found in poetic works, in agreeable and becoming thoughts, which every man, however simple he may be, may turn to his advantage. For example, when young Lycidas yields to the mad love of Olympe——"

At this juncture D'Alvimar resolutely went to sleep again, and Bois-Doré was still declaiming when the chariot and the escort woke the echoes on the drawbridge of Briantes, with an uproar equal to that they had made on leaving La Motte.

It had grown quite dark; D'Alvimar could see naught of the château but the interior, which seemed to him very small, and which was so, in fact, compared with the enormous dwellings common at that period.

To-day the apartments in the château would seem very large, but in those days they seemed very diminutive.

The portion occupied by the marquis, which had been ruined by the bands of partisans in 1594, was of recent construction. It was a square pavilion, flanked by a very old tower and by another even more ancient building, the whole forming a single mass of composite architecture, graceful in its narrow proportions, and of attractive and picturesque aspect.

"Do not be dismayed at the poor appearance of my cottage," said the marquis, leading the way into the hall, while the page and Bellinde lighted them; "it is just a hunting-box and bachelor's den. If I should ever take it into my head to marry, I should have to build; but I have not thought of it thus far, and I trust that, being yourself a bachelor, you will not find this hovel too inconvenient."

[8]Arthenice, an anagram of Catherine Marquise de Rambouillet; it is said to have been invented by Malherbe.

#### IX

In truth the bachelor's den was arranged, carpeted and decorated with a magnificence of which the low carved door and the narrow vestibule, from which the spiral staircase rose abruptly, gave no indication.

On the flagged hall were excellent Berry mats, on the wood floors richer carpets from the looms of Aubusson, and in the salon and the master's bedroom Persian rugs of very great value.

The window-panes were large and of plain glass; that is to say, they were diamond-shaped, about two inches square and unstained, with medallions, bearing a coat-of-arms in colors, in relief. The hangings represented slender, fascinating ladies and dainty little gentlemen, whom it was very easy to identify as shepherds and shepherdesses by their satchels and crooks.

The names of the principal characters of Astrée were embroidered in the grass under their feet, and their eloquent speeches were issuing from their mouths, meeting the no less eloquent replies of their neighbors.

On a panel in the salon de compagnie the ill-fated Celadon was represented, plunging with graceful contortions into the blue waters of the Lignon, which rippled in circles in anticipation of his fall. Behind him the incomparable Astrée, giving free vent to her tears, ran up too late to stop him, although his foot was almost in the shepherdess's hand. Above this pathetic group a tree, more like a sheep than the sheep themselves in those fantastic fields, reared to the ceiling its fleecy, curly branches.

But, in order not to rend the heart by this lamentable spectacle of the demise of Celadon, the artist had represented him, on the same panel, on the other side of the Lignon, tossed up by the water, and lying betwixt life and death among the bushes, but rescued by "three lovely nymphs, whose unbound hair fell in waves over their shoulders, covered with a garland of pearls of divers shapes. The sleeves of their gowns were turned back to the elbow, whence a shirred undersleeve of thin lawn extended to the wrist, where two large bracelets of pearls secured it. Each one had at her side the quiver filled with arrows, and carried in her hand an ivory bow. Their dresses were turned up so that their gilded buskins could be seen halfway to the knee."

Beside these lovely creatures stood little Meril guarding their chariot, shaped like a shell, with a parasol above, and drawn by two horses which might readily have been mistaken for sheep, their eyes were so mild and their heads so round.

The next panel represented the shepherd, saved and supported by the obliging nymphs, and busily discharging through his mouth all the water of the Lignon which he had swallowed; which occupation did not prevent his saying, in words written all along the gushing stream: "If I survive, how can Astrée's cruelty fail to kill me?"

During this soliloquy Sylvie said to Galatée: "There is in his manners and his speech something more noble than the title of shepherd denotes."

And, above the group, Cupid discharged an arrow larger than himself into Galatée's heart, although he aimed at her shoulder, through the fault of a tree which prevented him from taking the proper position. But the arrows of love are so adroit!

What shall I say of the third panel, which pictured the terrible combat between the blond Filandre and the redoubtable Moor, who held his opponent spitted through the body, while the valiant shepherd, in nowise disconcerted, skilfully buried the iron-shod point of his crook between the monster's eyes?

And of the fourth panel, whereon the fair Mélandre, in the armor of Chevalier Triste, was led into the presence of the cruel Lypandas?

But who does not know the marvels of that fair land of tapestry, as one of our poets calls it, a fantastic, smiling land, wherein our youthful imaginations saw and dreamed of so many wondrous things?

Monsieur de Bois-Doré's hangings were put together with marvellous skill, in the sense that several adventures were successfully combined in a single one, by the agency of distant groups scattered over the landscape, and the honest nobleman had the pleasure of viewing all the scenes of his favorite poem while making the circuit of his apartment. But there were the most absurd drawings and the most impossible combinations of colors that one can imagine, and there could have been no better exemplification of the wretched taste, false and insipid, which in those days was found side by side with Rubens's magnificent work and the bold and lifelike drawings of Callot.

Every epoch runs thus to extremes; that is why we need never despair of the one in which we live.

We must recognize the fact, however, that certain periods of the history of art are more favored than others, and that there are some periods whereof the taste is so pure and so fruitful, that the sentiment of the beautiful finds its way into all the details of everyday life and into all the strata of society.

When the Renaissance is at its height everything assumes a character of refined originality, and one feels, even in the most trivial details, that the excitements of social life have marvellously quickened the flight of the imagination. The imaginative instinct descends from the region of lofty intellects to the humble artisan; from the palace to the hovel, nothing can accustom the eye and the mind to the sight of the ugly and the trivial.

It had already ceased to be so under Louis XIII., and the provincials in the neighborhood preferred Monsieur de Bois-Doré's modern tapestries and furniture to the valuable specimens of the style of the last century, which the reiters had pillaged or broken in his father's château fifty years before.

As for the marquis, who considered himself artistic, he did not regret those antiquities, and whenever he could pick up some landscape-dauber on the highway, he would bid him sketch before his eyes what he artlessly called his ideas, in the way of furniture and decorations, and would then have them manufactured at great expense, for he shrank from no outlay to gratify his mania for tawdry and eccentric splendor.

Thus the château was filled to overflowing with buffets with secret compartments and curious cabinets,—those wonderful cabinets, like great boxes with drawers, where the pressure of a spring causes an enchanted palace in miniature to appear, supported by twisted pillars, incrusted with enormous false precious stones, and occupied by diminutive figures in lapis-lazuli, ivory or jasper.

Other cabinets, sheathed in transparent shell over a red ground, with gleaming copper ornaments in relief, or all inlaid with carved ivory, contained some marvellous toy, of which the ingenious and mystery-laden mechanism served to conceal billets-doux, portraits, locks of hair, rings, flowers and other love-relics dear to the beaux of the period.

Bois-Doré hinted that those specimens of the cabinet-maker's art were stuffed with treasures of that sort; some evil-minded scoffers declared that they were empty.

Despite all these vagaries of his magnificence, Bois-Doré had transformed his little manor-house into a luxurious nest, warm and cheery, which had cost him more than it was worth, but which it would be most delightful to find intact in one of the little provincial châteaux, which to-day are neglected, dilapidated, falling in ruins, or changed into farmhouses.

It would have taken three days to inspect all the curious trifles which are described to-day by the new name of bibelots, but which would be more appropriately called bribelots.[9] Our inquisitive and investigating generation is entitled, however, to give whatever name it chooses to a variety of exploration which is peculiar to it, and we gladly accept the verb bibeloter, although it is only used by the initiated.

However, we will not bibeloter—catalogue—here the interesting collection of curios at Briantes; it would take too long; we will say simply that Monsieur d'Alvimar might well have fancied himself in the shop of a second-hand dealer, so striking was the contrast between the profusion of gewgaws heaped upon sideboards and mantels, or piled in pyramids on the tables, and the chilling bareness of the Spanish palaces in which he had passed his youth.

Amid all that glass and porcelain, flagons, candlesticks, chandeliers, punch-bowls, urns, to say nothing of the ewers, cups and small dishes of gold, silver, amber or agate; the chairs of all shapes and sizes, nailed, fringed and covered with Chinese silk; the benches and cupboards of carved oak, with great clasps of openwork iron over a background of scarlet cloth; the curtains of satin worked with gold flowers, large and small, and embellished with gold-fringed lambrequins, etc., etc., there were certainly some beautiful objects of art and charming products of industry, mingled with much worthless trash and much inappropriate elegance. In a word the general effect was brilliant and agreeable, although there was altogether too much of it, and one hardly dared move for fear of breaking something.

When D'Alvimar had expressed his surprise at finding that palace of the fairy Babiole in the modest valleys of Berry, and Bois-Doré had obligingly exhibited the principal treasures of his salon, Bellinde the housekeeper, who went in and out issuing orders in a clear and resonant voice, announced to her master in an undertone that the supper was ready, while the page threw the doors wide open, shouting the usual formula, and the clock of the château struck seven with a burst of music in the Flemish style.

D'Alvimar, who had never been able to accustom himself to the abundance of dishes in France, was surprised to find the table covered, not only with gold plate and candlesticks adorned with glass flowers of all colors, but with a quantity of food sufficient to have satisfied a dozen persons with hearty appetites.

"Oh! this is not a supper," said Bois-Doré, whom he gently chid for treating him like a gourmand; "this is simply a little lunch by candlelight. Make an effort, and if my chief cook has not got tipsy in my absence, you will see that the rascal knows how to awaken the sluggish appetite."

D'Alvimar made no further remonstrance, and found that his appetite did in fact come to him in spite of himself.

Never had he tasted such exquisite cheer at the table of the great noblemen of his own nation, nor anything more exquisite in the most splendid mansions in Paris. There were none but the daintiest little dishes, deliciously seasoned, and most scientifically compounded after the fashion of the time: bisque of crab, fat quail stuffed, pastry light as air, perfumed creams of several flavors in marchpane shells, biscuits with saffron and with clove, fine native wines, among which the old wine of Issoudun could hold its own with the best vintages of Bourgogne; and at dessert the headiest wines of Greece and Spain.

They passed two hours tasting a little of everything, Bois-Doré talking of the cellar and cuisine like a consummate master, and Bellinde directing the servants with unequalled knowledge and skill.

The young page played the theorbo very pleasantly during the first two courses; but simultaneously with the third a new personage appeared and caused D'Alvimar some uneasiness, although he could not tell why.

[9]A coined word, derived from bribes, scraps or refuse.

#### X

He was a man of some forty years, whom the marquis greeted by the name of Master Jovelin, and who, without speaking, seated himself on a leather-covered gilt chair in a corner of the room, in such way as not to interfere with the going to and fro of the servants. He carried a little red serge bag which he placed on his knees, and he glanced at the table companions with a pleasant, smiling expression.

His face was handsome, although the features were without distinction. His nose and mouth were large, he had a retreating chin and a low forehead.

Despite these defects, it was impossible for an honest man to look upon him without interest; and if one paid the slightest heed to his beautiful black hair, which was sadly neglected, but of fine texture and naturally curly, his magnificent white teeth which his melancholy but cordial smile revealed, and his black eyes, so keen and intelligent, so kind and sympathetic, that his yellow face was lighted up by them, one felt as it were compelled to love him, ay, and to respect him.

He was dressed like a petty bourgeois, but very neatly, in a suit of bluish-gray, with woollen stockings; the coat long and tightly buttoned, a wide collar turned down and cut square across the chest, open sleeves in the Flemish style, and a broad-brimmed felt hat without feathers.

Monsieur de Bois-Doré, having asked politely as to his health and ordered a servant to give him a glass of Cyprus, which he declined with a wave of his hand, said no more to him, but bestowed his attention on his guest exclusively.

Such was the etiquette of that time, a man of quality being prohibited from showing much consideration for an inferior, under pain of seeming to insult his equals.

But D'Alvimar noticed that their eyes met frequently and that, after every remark made by the marquis, they exchanged a smile of intelligence, as if he desired to share all his thoughts with the new-comer, perhaps to obtain his approbation, perhaps to divert his mind from some secret trouble.

Surely, in all this there was no cause for alarm on D'Alvimar's part. But it may be that he was not on very good terms with his conscience; for that handsome and honest face, far from being attractive to him, caused him a great mental perturbation and sudden distrust.

The marquis, however, did not say a word or ask a question referring to the reasons of the Spaniard's flight to Berry. He talked entirely of himself, and therein gave proof of great tact, for D'Alvimar had as yet shown no inclination to be confidential, and his host found a way to keep up the conversation without questioning him upon any subject whatsoever.

"You find me in comfortable, well-furnished quarters and well-served," he said; "that is quite true. It is several years"—he did not say how many—"since I withdrew from society to rest a while and recover from the fatigues of war, awaiting events. I confess that, since the death of our great King Henri, I care not at all for the court or the city. I am not given to complaining, and I take the times as they come; but I have had three great sorrows in my life: the first was when I lost my mother, the second when I lost my younger brother, the third when I lost my great and good king. And there is this peculiarity in my story, that all three of those persons who were so dear to me died a violent death. My king was assassinated, my mother fell from her horse, and my brother—But this is too sad a subject, and I do not choose to tell you unpleasant tales to prepare you for your first night under my roof. I will simply tell you what it was that made me slothful and inclined to domesticity. When I saw my King Henri breathe his last, I reasoned thus with myself: 'You have lost all those you loved, you have nobody left but yourself to lose; now then, if you do not wish your turn to come soon, you will do well to turn your back on these regions of commotion and intriguing, and go and nurse your poor, afflicted and weary person in your native province.' You were right therefore to esteem me as fortunate as a man can be, since I was wise enough to adopt the course best suited to me, and to save myself from all annoyance; but you would have made a mistake to think that I lack nothing; for, while I desire nothing, I cannot say that I regret nobody. But I have regaled you enough with my sorrows and I am not one of those who feed upon them, refusing to be comforted or diverted. While we taste this jelly, do you care to listen to a more skilful musician than our little page?—Do you listen to him, too, my young friend," he added, addressing the page; "it will do you no harm."

As he spoke to D'Alvimar, he had bestowed upon him he called Master Jovelin one of those affectionate glances which resembled prayers rather than commands.

The man in the gray suit unbuttoned the flowing sleeve which covered another tighter sleeve of a dull red color, and threw it over his shoulder; then he took from his bag one of those little bag-pipes with a short, carved bass, which were then called sourdelines, and were employed in chamber music.

This instrument, the tone of which was as sweet and veiled as the bag-pipes of our own minstrels of to-day are noisy and shrill, was much in vogue, and before Master Jovelin had concluded his prelude, he had taken possession not only of the attention but of the very soul of his hearers; for he performed marvellously on the sourdeline, and made it sing like a human voice.

D'Alvimar was a connoisseur, and beautiful music possessed the power of making his natural melancholy less bitter than usual. He abandoned himself the more readily to this sort of relief, because his mind was set at rest when he discovered that this silent and watchful individual, whom he had taken at first for an insinuating spy, was an accomplished and harmless musician.

As for the marquis, he loved the art and the artist, and he always listened to his master sourdelinier with religious emotion.

D'Alvimar expressed his admiration in well-chosen terms. Whereupon, the supper being at an end, he asked leave to retire.

The marquis rose at once, motioned to Master Jovelin to await his return and to the page to take a light, and himself escorted his guest to the room that had been prepared for him; after which he returned to the table, removed his hat, which, in those days, was a sign that ceremony was dispensed with, contrary to the usage introduced at a later date, ordered a sort of punch called clairette, compounded of white wine, honey, musk, saffron and cloves, and invited Master Jovelin to sit opposite him in the place D'Alvimar had just vacated.

"Now, Messire Clindor," said the marquis, smiling good-humoredly at the page, whom, in accordance with his usual custom, he had burdened with a name taken from Astrée, "you may go to sup with Bellinde. Leave us, and tell her to take care of you.—Stay," he added, as the page was about to leave the room, "I have been intending all day to reprove you for your manner of walking. I have noticed, my young friend, that you have adopted some habits which you may think are military, but which are simply vulgar. Do not forget, therefore, that, although you are not noble, you are in a way to become so, and that a well-mannered little bourgeois in the service of a man of quality is on the road to the acquisition of a little fief of which he may assume the name. But what will it avail you that I assist you to rub the dirt off your birth, if you persist in befouling your manners? Try to be a gentleman, monsieur, not a peasant. Now then, adopt an easy carriage, try to put your whole foot on the floor when you walk, and not begin your step with the heel and end on the great toe; a trick which makes your gait and the clatter of your shoes resemble the amble of a millers horse. Go now in peace, eat well and sleep well, or else beware of the stirrup-leathers!"

Little Clindor, whose real name was Jean Fachot—his father was an apothecary at Saint-Amand,—received the sermon of his lord and master with great respect, saluted and left the room on tiptoe, like a ballet-dancer, to make it perfectly evident that he could not touch his heels first, since he did not touch them at all.

The old servant, who always remained to the last, having gone likewise to his supper, the marquis said to his sourdelinier:

"Come, my dear friend, just take off that great hat, and eat, without fear of the servants, a good slice of this paté and another of this ham, as you do every evening when we are alone."

Master Jovelin uttered some inarticulate sounds by way of thanks, and began to eat, while the marquis slowly sipped his clairette, less from desire than from courtesy, to bear him company; for it is well to say that, although the old man had many absurd foibles, he had not a single vice.

Then, while the poor mute ate, the good châtelain carried on the conversation all by himself, which was a very great pleasure to the musician, for no other person would take the trouble to speak to a man who could not answer. People had become accustomed to treat him as a deaf-mute; that is to say, knowing that he could not repeat what he heard, they indulged without hesitation in lying or slander in his hearing. The marquis alone talked directly to him, with much deference for his noble character, his great learning and his misfortunes, of which the following is a brief narrative:

Lucilio Giovellino, a native of Florence, was a friend and disciple of the unfortunate and illustrious Giordano Bruno. Trained in the sublime ideas and vast learning of his master, he had, in addition, great aptitude for the fine arts, poetry and languages. Lovable, eloquent and persuasive, he had propagated with success the bold doctrine of the plurality of worlds.

On the day when Giordano died at the stake with the calm dignity of a martyr, Giovellino was banished from Italy forever.

This happened at Rome two years before the period of our narrative.

Under the hand of the tormenters, Giovellino had not chosen to adhere to all of Giordano's doctrines. Although he was deeply attached to his master, he had declined to accept certain of his errors, and as they were able to convict him of only the half of his heresy, they had inflicted only the half of his punishment: they had cut out his tongue.

Ruined, banished, exhausted by the torture, Giovellino had come to France, where he played his sweet-toned bag-pipe from door to door, for a crust of bread; and, Providence having guided him to the marquis's door, he was taken in, nursed, cured, entertained by him, and—which was worth far more to the poor fellow—appreciated and loved. He had told him of his misfortunes in writing.

Bois-Doré was neither a scholar nor a philosopher; he had become interested in him at first as a man who was persecuted, as he himself had been for a long time, by Catholic intolerance. He would not, however, have become attached to a savage, violent sectary, of the type of a goodly number of Huguenots, who were no less addicted to persecution in those days than their adversaries. He had a vague knowledge of the blasphemies imputed to Giordano Bruno; he bade Giovellino explain his doctrines to him. The mute wrote rapidly, and with that refined lucidity of expression which great minds were beginning not to disdain, wishing to instruct everybody, even the common herd, in those great questions which Galileo was already investigating in the domain of pure science.

The marquis enjoyed this conversation in writing, in which the essential points were summarized soberly, and without the inevitable digressions of speech. Gradually he conceived an enthusiastic, passionate interest in these new definitions which afforded him repose and relieved him from tedious disputes. He desired to read an exposition of Giordano's ideas, also of those of his predecessor Vanini. Lucilio was able to express them so that he could understand them, pointing out the weak or false passages, in order to lead him to the only conclusions which human knowledge asserts with certainty to-day: a creation as infinite as the Creator, an infinity of stars peopling infinite space, not to serve as luminaries and objects of interest to our little planet, but as sources and sustenance of universal life.

This was very easy to understand, and man had understood it ever since the first ray of genius had made itself manifest in mankind. But the doctrines of the Church in the Middle Ages had reduced God and Heaven to the proportions of our little world, and the marquis thought that he was dreaming when he learned that the existence of the real universe was not—as he had always imagined, so he said—a poet's fancy.

He did not rest until he had procured a telescope, and he expected, the dear man, to see the inhabitants of the moon distinctly, his ideas were raised so high. He had to abandon that hope; but he passed all his evenings reading Giovellino's explanation of the movements of the stars, and of the wonderful celestial mechanism, which Galileo was destined to be condemned to abjure as heretical, a few years later, under torture, on his knees, with a torch in his hand.

#### XI

"Well," cried the marquis, while his friend ate, hastening as a matter of course, although his amiable and obliging host urged him to take his time, "what have you done to-day, my redoubtable scholar? Yes, I understand, pages of fine writing. Do not lose a line, I pray you! Those are words of refined gold which will go down to posterity; for these days of gloom will go hence into the dungeons of the past! Meanwhile, always conceal your sheets carefully in the secret drawer of the cupboard I have had placed in your chamber, when you do not write in mine."

The mute made a sign that he had been writing in the marquis's study, and that his sheets were in a certain ebony casket where the marquis kept them. He made himself understood by gestures with great ease.

"That is still better," continued Bois-Doré; "they are even safer there, as no woman enters the room. It is not that I distrust Bellinde, but she seems to me altogether too devoutly inclined since the arrival of this new rector whom Monseigneur de Bourges has sent us, and who is not to be compared, I fear, with our old friend the former curé, whom we owed to the last archbishop, Jean de Beaune.

"Ah! if only we had retained that excellent prelate, with his flowing beard, his gigantic stature, his fat paunch, his Gargantuan appetite, his handsome face, his great mind and his vast learning! one of the shrewdest and best men in the kingdom, although, to look at him, one would have taken him for a bon vivant and nothing more!

"If you had come in his time, my dear friend, you would not have had to keep out of sight in this little hunting-box; you would not have been obliged to translate your name into French, to lock up your learning, to pass for a poor bagpiper, and to give people hereabout to understand that you were mutilated by the Huguenots; our excellent primate would have taken you under his protection, and you would have printed your noble thoughts at Bourges, to the great honor of your name and of our province; whereas we now have for archbishops none but Condé's too zealous servants.

"Yes, yes, I learned some fine things to-day, at De Beuvre's, concerning that prince, a renegade to the faith of his fathers and the friendships of his youth! He inundates us with Jesuits, and, if poor Henri IV. should return to life, he would see some diverting masquerading! Monsieur de Sully is falling deeper and deeper into disgrace. Condé is purchasing from him by threats all his estates in Berry. Fancy! he has forced him to give up the grand-bailiwick and the command of the great tower! He is king of our province now, and people say that he dreams of becoming King of France. So, you see, affairs are going badly out-of-doors, and there is no safety except in our little fortresses, and that only on condition that we are prudent and wait patiently for the end of it all."

BOIS-DORÉ AND JOVELIN, HIS PROTÉGÉ.

Giovellino took the hand that the marquis held out to him over the table, and kissed it with the eloquent warmth which took the place of speech with him.

Giovellino took the hand that the marquis held out to him over the table, and kissed it with the eloquent warmth which took the place of speech with him. At the same time, he made him understand, by pantomime and by his expression, that he was happy with him, that he did not regret glory and the tumult of the world, and that he was altogether disposed to be prudent, lest he should compromise his protector.

"As to the young gentleman whom I brought home with me and have done my best to entertain," continued Bois-Doré, "you must know that I know nothing about him except that he is a friend of Messire Guillaume d'Ars, that he is threatened with some danger, and that he is to be concealed and defended at need. But do you not think it odd that this stranger did not once take me aside to confide his story to me, or that he did not do it when we were naturally left together on our return hither?"

Lucilio, who always had a pencil and paper beside him on the table, wrote to Bois-Doré:

"Spanish pride."

"Yes," rejoined the marquis, reading, so to speak, before he had written, so accustomed had he become, in two years, to divine his words from the first letters; "'Castilian pride,' that is what I said to myself. I have known a goodly number of these hidalgos, and I know that they do not consider it discourteous to show lack of confidence. So I must needs exercise hospitality here in the old-fashioned way, respect my guest's secrets and treat him courteously, as an old friend whom one believes to be the most honorable man on earth. But that does not compel me to accord him the confidence that he denies me, and that is why, as you saw, I left you in a corner, like a poor, paid musician, when he was here. And hereupon, my dear friend, I ask you to forgive me, once for all, for any apparent lack of affection or courtesy to which I am forced by regard for your safety, just as I clothe you in these common, ill-fitting clothes."

Poor Giovellino, who had never been so well dressed and so tenderly cared for in his whole life, interrupted the marquis by pressing his hands, and Bois-Doré was deeply moved to see tears of gratitude fall upon his friend's long, black moustache.

"Nay," he said, "you overpay me by loving me so dearly! I must reward you now by speaking to you of the sweet Lauriane. But must I repeat what she said to me about you? You will not be too puffed-up by it? No?—Well then, here goes. In the first place:

"'How is your druid?'

"I replied that the said druid was hers much more than mine, and that she ought to remember that Climante, in Astrée, was only a false druid, as deep in love as every other lover in that beautiful story.

"'Nay, nay,' she replied, 'you are deceiving me; if your Climante were as much in love with me as you represent him, he would have come with you to-day, whereas two whole weeks have passed since we saw him. Will you tell me that he starts when he hears my name, as in Astrée, and that he utters sighs which seem to rend his stomach in twain? I do not believe a word of it, and look upon him as an inconstant Hylas rather!'

"You see that the charming Lauriane continues to make sport of Astrée, of you and of me. However, when I took leave of her at nightfall, she said to me:

"'I insist upon your bringing the druid and his bag-pipe to us the day after to-morrow, or I will give you a cool reception, I promise you.'"

The poor druid listened with a smile to Bois-Doré's story; he knew how to jest on occasion, that is to say to take others' jesting in good part. Lauriane was to him nothing more than a lovely child, whose father he might have been; but he was still young enough to remember that he had loved, and in the depths of his heart his sense of isolation was exceedingly bitter to him.

As he thought of the past he stifled a sigh of regret, and began instinctively to play an Italian air which the marquis loved above all others.

He played it with so much grace and passion that Bois-Doré said to him, resorting to his favorite oath, borrowed from Monsieur d'Urfé:

"Numes célestes! you need no tongue to talk of love, my dear friend, and if the object of your passion were here, she must be deaf to avoid understanding that your heart is pouring itself forth to hers. But come, will you not let me read those pages of sublime learning?"

Lucilio signified that his head was a little tired, and Bois-Doré at once sent him off to bed, after embracing him fraternally.

Giovellino, in truth, often felt that he was more of an artist and a creature of sentiment, than a scholar and philosopher. His nature was at once enthusiastic and meditative.

Meanwhile Monsieur de Bois-Doré had retired to his "night apartment," situated above the salon. He had spoken truly when he said to Lucilio that no woman ever entered that sanctuary of repose or the cabinets connected therewith; Bellinde herself was forbidden to cross the threshold under the severest penalties.

Only old Mathias—dubbed Adamas, for the same reason that Guillette Carcat was obliged to call herself Bellinde, and Jean Fachot, Clindor—was privileged to assist in the mysteries of the marquis's toilet, so perfectly sincere was he in the belief that the secret of his rouge and his dyes could be revealed only by the arsenal of boxes, phials and jars spread out upon his tables.

As usual, therefore, he found Adamas alone, preparing the curl-papers, powders and perfumed unguents which were to preserve the marquis's beauty even in his slumber.

#### XII

Adamas was a pure-blooded Gascon: stout of heart, keen of wit, untiring of tongue. Bois-Doré artlessly called him his old servant, although he himself was at least ten years his senior.

This Adamas, who had accompanied him in his last campaigns, was his âme damnée, and filled his nostrils with the incense of perpetual admiration, the more injurious to his mental equilibrium in that it was the result of a sincere infatuation. It was he who persuaded him that he was still young, that he could not grow old, and that, when he went forth from his hands, glistening and high-colored like a page from a missal, he was certain to supplant all the coxcombs and deceive all the fair.

No man is great in the eyes of his valet de chambre, witness Sancho Panza who told his master such sound truths. But Bois-Doré, who was simply an excellent man, enjoyed the privilege of being a demi-god in the eyes of his servant; and, while some heroes have been the laughing-stock of their retainers, this laughable old man was taken quite seriously by the majority of his.

So things go in this world. Everyone must have noticed, as I have, that they sometimes go entirely contrary to logic and common-sense.

The old nobleman's extraordinary kindliness was responsible for this state of affairs. Great characters make people too exacting. At the slightest weakness on their part, people are astonished; at the slightest impatience they are scandalized. He who has no character at all never irritates anybody and reaps the advantages of his never-failing good nature.

"Monsieur le marquis," said Adamas, kneeling on the floor to remove his old idol's boots, "I must tell you a very strange occurrence that happened to-day on your domain."

"Speak, my friend, speak, since you desire to speak," replied Bois-Doré, who allowed his dresser to chatter familiarly with him, and furthermore, when he was half asleep, loved to be soothed by some bit of harmless gossip.

"You must know, then, my dear and well-beloved master," said Adamas, with his Gascon accent, which we will not attempt to reproduce, "that, about five o'clock this evening, a very extraordinary woman came here, one of those poor creatures of whom we saw so many on the shores of the Mediterranean and the Southern provinces; you know, monsieur, not very dark women, with heavy lips, fine eyes, and black hair—like yours!"

As he made this comparison, in perfect good faith, Adamas respectfully placed his master's wig on an ivory block.

"Do you mean those Egyptian women, who play all kinds of tricks?" said Bois-Doré, paying no heed to the subject of the comparison.

"No, monsieur, no! This one is a Spaniard, who swears by Mahomet, I am sure, when she is all alone."

"Then you mean that she is a Moor?"

"That's it exactly, monsieur le marquis; she's a Moor, and she doesn't know a word of French."

"But you know a little Spanish?"

"A little, monsieur. I remember so well what I used to know of it, that I talked with that woman almost as readily as I am speaking to you."

"Well, is that the whole story?"

"Oh! no; but give me time! It seems that this Moorish woman was one of the great band of a hundred and fifty thousand, who perished, almost all of them, some half score years ago, some by hunger and murder on the galleys that were taking them to Africa, others by want and disease on the shores of Languedoc and Provence."

"Poor creatures!" said Bois-Doré. "That was the most detestable deed that ever was done!"

"Is it true, monsieur, that Spain drove out a million of these Moors, and that barely a hundred thousand arrived in Tunis?"

"I couldn't tell you the number; but I can tell you that it was downright butchery, and that beasts of burden were never treated like those wretched human beings. You know that our Henri would fain have made Calvinists of them, which would have saved them by making them French."

"I remember very well, monsieur, that the Catholics of the South wouldn't listen to such a thing, and said that they would murder them all rather than go to mass with those devils. The Calvinists were not any more reasonable, and the result was that our good king left the poor wretches at peace in the Pyrenees, waiting for an opportunity to do something for them. But after his death the queen regent wanted to rid Spain of them, so they drove them into the sea, with or without ships. Some, however, consented to be baptized and became Christians, to escape that cruel fate, and the woman in question followed that wise course, although I suspect her of not being perfectly sincere."

"What difference does that make to you, Adamas? Do you think that the great Maker of the sun, the moon and the Milky Way——"

"I beg your pardon, monsieur?" said Adamas, who had not a very clear understanding of his master's recently acquired knowledge, and indeed was somewhat disturbed about it; "I don't recognize milky voice[10] as a French expression."

"I will tell you about that another time," said the marquis yawning, for he was drowsing in front of the fire that crackled on the hearth. "Finish your story."

"Well, monsieur," Adamas continued, "this Moorish woman remained till last year in the Pyrenees mountains, where she watched the flocks for poor farmers; so that she continued to speak her Catalan patois, which people understand well enough on the other side of the mountains."

"And that explains to me how, with your Gascon patois, which is not very different from the mountain patois, you were able to talk Spanish with this woman."

"That is as monsieur pleases; all the same, I said many Spanish words which she understood perfectly.—And then I must tell you that she had a little child with her, who isn't her own child, but of whom she is as fond as a goat of her kid, and the pretty little lad, whose mind is bigger than his body, speaks French as well as you and I. Now, monsieur, this Moorish woman, whose name in French is Mercedes——"

"Mercedes is a Spanish name!" said the marquis, climbing into his great bed with Adamas's aid.

"I meant to say that it was a Christian name," continued the servant. "Six months ago, Mercedes took it into her head to go and find Monsieur de Rosny, whom she had heard spoken of as the late king's right arm, and who, she had been told, although he was in disgrace, was still powerful because of his wealth and his virtue. So she started for Poitou, where she was told Monsieur de Sully lived. Aren't you surprised, monsieur, at the resolution of such a poor, ignorant woman, to travel across half of France, on foot, with only a little child who is hardly ten years old, with the idea of calling on such an exalted personage?"

"But you don't tell me what this woman's reason was for acting thus?"

"That is the wonderful part of the story, monsieur! What can it be, do you think?"

"I could never guess! tell me at once, for it is late."

"I would tell you if I knew; but I know no more about it than you do, and, try as hard as I would, I could not induce her to tell."

"Good-night, then."

"Wait till I cover the fire, monsieur."

And, as he covered the fire, Adamas continued, raising his voice:

"That woman is altogether mysterious, monsieur le marquis, and I would like to have you see her!"

"Now?" said the marquis, rousing himself with a start. "You are joking; it is time to go to sleep."

"To be sure; but to-morrow morning?"

"Is she in the house, pray?"

"Why, yes, monsieur! She asked for a corner to pass the night under shelter. I gave her some supper, for I know monsieur does not wish us to refuse bread to the unfortunate, and I sent her to lie on the straw after talking with her."

"And you did wrong, monsieur; a woman is always a woman. And—I hope that there are no other beggars there? I do not want any indecency on my premises."

"Nor do I, monsieur! I put her and her child, all alone, in the small cellar, where they are quite comfortable, I assure you; they do not seem accustomed to such good quarters, poor things! And yet this Mercedes is as neat and clean as one can be in such poverty. Moreover, she is not at all ugly."

"I trust, Adamas, that you will not impose upon her destitute condition. Hospitality is a sacred thing!"

"Monsieur is making fun of a poor old man! It is all very well for monsieur le marquis to have virtuous principles! For my part, I assure you that I have little need of them, being no longer tempted by the devil. Besides, the woman seems very honest, and she does not take a step without her child clinging to her dress. She must have run other risks than that of pleasing me too much, for she has been travelling with gypsies who passed through this region to-day. There was a large party of them, partly Egyptians, partly picked up here and there, as their custom is. She says that the vagabonds were not unkind to her, so true it is that beggars stand by one another. As she did not know the roads, she followed them, because they said they were going to Poitou; but she left them to-night, saying that she had no further need of them, and that she had business in this province. Now, monsieur, that is another thing that seems very strange to me, for she would not tell me why she acted so. What do you think of it, monsieur?"

Bois-Doré did not reply. He was sleeping soundly, despite the noise that Adamas made, to some extent wilfully, to force him to listen to his story.

When the old retainer saw that the marquis had really set out for the land of dreams, he tucked in the sheets carefully, placed his beautiful pistols in the morocco bag hanging at the head of his bed; on a table at his right, his rapier unsheathed and his hunting knife, his folio edition of Astrée, a superb volume with engravings, a large goblet of hippocras, a bell with its hammer, and a handkerchief of fine Holland linen saturated with musk. Then he lighted the night lamp, blew out the multicolored candles, and arranged at the foot of the bed the red velvet slippers and the dressing-gown of flowered silk serge, light-green on dark-green.

Then, as he was about to leave the room, the faithful Adamas gazed at his master, his friend, his demigod.

The marquis, with all his cosmetics washed off, was a handsome old man, and the tranquillity of his conscience imparted a venerable air to his face as he lay asleep. While his wig reposed on the table, and his garments, stuffed to conceal the hollows that age had made in his shoulders and his legs, lay scattered about on chairs, the angular outlines of his great body, shrunken to half its size, could be traced under a lodier or coverlet of white satin, with coats-of-arms in silver purl in relief at the four corners.

The headboard of the bed, a single panel ten feet high, as well as the fringed tester connected therewith in the shape of a canopy, was also of white satin stitched on thick wadding, and with large silver figures in relief. The inside of the bed-curtains was of similar material; the outer surface was of pink damask.

In that comfortable and sumptuous bed, that strongly-marked, venerable face, martial still with all its gentleness, with its moustache bristling with curl-papers, and its night-cap of wadded silk in the shape of half a mortar, embellished with rich lace that stood erect like a crown, presented a most singular combination of absurdity and austerity in the bluish light of the night lamp.

"Monsieur is sleeping quietly," said Adamas to himself; "but he forgot to say his prayers, and it is my fault. I will do it for him."

He knelt and prayed very fervently; after which he withdrew to his own room, which was separated only by a partition from his master's.

The arsenal that Adamas had arranged around the marquis's bed was only a matter of habit or luxury.

Everything was perfectly quiet around the little château; within the château everybody was sleeping soundly.

[10]Bois-Doré said voie lactée; Adamas understood him to say voix lactée.

#### XIII

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Therein he was not entirely in error.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This expression had attracted the Spaniard's attention.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The rector invited D'Alvimar to breakfast with him.

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

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

[11]This ornament, common in the time of Henri IV., may have come to France with Marie de Médicis, as an allusion to the arms of her family, which are, as everyone knows, seven little balls, literally pellets, in memory of the profession of the founder of the family.

[12]Salt-smuggling nobleman.

[13]This is one of the few spots where we can still find the wild balsam with yellow flowers.

#### XIV

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Indeed! You possess a valuable secret!"

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

"What! marry a bourgeoise?"

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

"I know of none such."

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

"She has a competence at the most."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#### XV

This is what had happened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The child was saved.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mario," the child replied without hesitation.

"Mario? That is an Italian name!"

"I don't know."

"From what country are you?"

"I am French, I think."

"Where were you born?"

"I don't remember."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He joined in the conversation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What are you doing?" said Bois-Doré.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#### XVI

The Moorish woman began thus:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"'You have a Moorish woman among you.'

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

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

"Go on," said the marquis.

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

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

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

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

Then she resumed her narrative in these words:

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

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

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

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

"The shock that she had received hastened her labor.

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

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

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

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

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

The Moor shook her head, saying:

"I haven't it."

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

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

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

"Why?" said Adamas.

"I do not know," replied Mario.

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

The Moor resumed her narrative thus:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mercedes expressed her thanks with a sigh.

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

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

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

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

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

[14]Aurora.

[15]Jesus.

[16]The Gospel.

[17]The Holy Spirit.

#### XVII

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

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

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

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

"But I would say:

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

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

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

"Then my mother said to me:

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

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

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

"That is why she said to me every day:

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

"We finally left them yesterday, because——"

"Because?" repeated the marquis.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"About what, my old servant? marriage?"

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

"Go to fetch it at once."

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

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

"From the garret, monsieur."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#### XVIII

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

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

MERCEDES AND MARIO ENTERTAIN THE MARQUIS.

Mercedes sang better and better as they encouraged her, and Mario played her accompaniments very well.

Mercedes sang better and better as they encouraged her, and Mario played her accompaniments very well.

He was so fascinating with his long guitar, his wise expression, his lips half-parted and his beautiful hair falling in waves over his shoulders, that one could never weary of looking at him. His costume, which consisted of a coarse white shirt, and brown woollen knee-breeches, with a red girdle and gray stockings with strips of red cloth wound around the legs, heightened the grace of his movements and the elegance of his shapely figure.

He received with joyous bewilderment the toys which were brought from the garret, and the marquis was gratified to see that, after an admiring scrutiny of all those marvellous things, he arranged them in a corner with a sort of respect.

The fact was that they did not appeal to him very strongly, and that, when his surprise had passed, his thoughts returned to Fleurial, who was alive, playful and affectionate, and would have followed him in his wandering life, whereas the possession of horses, cannon and citadels was only the dream of an instant in that life of want and constant motion.

The rest of the day passed with no new outbreak on the part of Monsieur d'Alvimar.

He saw Monsieur Poulain again and told him that he had decided to lay siege to the fair Lauriane.

At supper he did his best to avoid having in the person of the marquis an enemy or an obstacle in his intercourse with her, and he succeeded in creating a favorable impression. He did not encounter the Moor or the child, nor did he hear them mentioned, and he retired early to muse upon his projects.

The marquis's whole retinue was overjoyed to keep Mario a few days; so Adamas announced. He had covers laid for the child and his mother at the second table, at which he himself ate, in the capacity of valet de chambre, with Master Jovelin, whom Bois-Doré purposely treated as an inferior, and with Bellinde the housekeeper and Clindor the page.

The coachman and other servants ate at different hours and in a different place. Theirs was the third table.

There was a fourth for the farm hands, wayfarers, poor travellers and mendicant monks; so that, from dawn until dark, that is to say, until eight or nine o'clock at night, eating was in progress at the château of Briantes, and some chimney was always pouring forth a rich, greasy smoke, which attracted swarms of urchins and beggars from a long way off. They always received a bountiful supply of broken food at the main gate, and laid the fifth table on the turf along the avenue, or on the banks of the ditches.

Despite this generous hospitality and this numerous retinue, which did not correspond with the narrow proportions of the château itself, the marquis's income met all demands, and he always had money to spare for his innocent whims.

He lost very little by peculation, although he kept no accounts; as Adamas and Bellinde detested each other, they watched each other closely, and although Bellinde was not the woman to abstain altogether from plunder, the fear of arousing suspicion made her prudent and necessarily moderate in the matter of profit. Being handsomely paid, and always magnificently dressed at the expense of the châtelain, who did not choose to see rags or dirt about him, she certainly had no excuse for malversation; but she complained none the less, being one of those who cherish a stolen sou and disdain an honestly acquired louis.

As for Adamas, if he was not the soul of probity in all his relations—for he had fought in the civil wars and had acquired the manners of the partisan troops,—he was so devoted to his master, that if, in the eminent post of confidential servant which he had attained, he had dared to pillage other people and hold them to ransom, it would have been solely to enrich the manor of Briantes.

Clindor made common cause with him against Bellinde, who hated him and treated him like a dog dressed in boy's clothes.

He was an honest little fellow, half clever, half stupid, uncertain as yet whether he should pose as a man of the third estate, a title which was assuming more real importance every day, or should assume the airs of a future gentleman, a species of vanity which was to keep the third estate for a long time to come in an equivocal attitude and cause it to play the rôle of dupe between factions, despite its intellectual superiority.

The secret of the Moorish woman's nationality was not divulged. In order not to expose her to the suspicious intolerance of Bellinde, who made a great show of piety, Adamas represented her as a Spaniard pure and simple.

Not a word of her story or of Mario's transpired.

"Monsieur le marquis," said Adamas to his master as he undressed him, "we are children and know nothing at all of the artifices of the toilet. This Moor, with whom I have been talking upon serious subjects, has taught me more in an hour than all your Parisian artists know. She has the most valuable secrets about all sorts of things, and knows how to extract miraculous juices from plants."

"Very good, very good, Adamas! Talk about something else. Recite some verses to me as you shave me; for I feel depressed, and I might truly say with Monsieur d'Urfé, speaking of Astrée, that the effervescence of my ennui disturbs the repose of my stomach and the breath of my life."

"Numes célestes! monsieur," cried the faithful Adamas, who loved to use his master's favorite expressions; "so you are still thinking of your brother?"

"Alas! his memory came back to me yesterday, I don't know why. There are such days in every man's life, you know, when a slumbering sorrow wakes. It is like the wounds one brings back from the war. Let me tell you something of which that orphan's pretty ways made me think just now. It is that I am growing old, my poor Adamas!"

"Monsieur is jesting!"

"No, we are growing old, my friend, and my name will die with me. I have a few distant cousins, to be sure, for whom I care but little, and who will perpetuate my father's name, if they can; but I shall be the first and last of the Bois-Dorés, and my marquisate will descend to no one, being entirely honorary and determinable at the king's pleasure."

"I have often thought about it, and I regret that monsieur has always been too active to consent to put an end to his bachelor life and marry some beautiful nymph of this neighborhood."

"To be sure, I have done wrong not to think of it. I have roamed too much from fair to fair, and although I never met Monsieur d'Urfé, I would stake my life that, having heard of me somewhere, he intended to describe me under the features of Hylas the shepherd."

"And suppose it were so? That shepherd is a very amiable man, exceedingly clever, and the most entertaining, in my opinion, of all the heroes of the book."

"True; but he is young, and I tell you again that I am beginning not to be young any more and to regret very bitterly my having no family. Do you know that I have had the idea of adopting a child, or have been conscious of a longing to do so, at least a score of times?"

"I know it, monsieur; whenever you see a pretty, attractive little baby, that idea comes back to you. Well, what prevents you?"

"The difficulty of finding one with an attractive face and a good disposition, who has no parents likely to take him away from me when I have brought him up; for to dote on a child just to have him taken from you at the age of twenty or twenty-five——"

"But the interval, monsieur."

"Oh! time flies so fast! one is not conscious of its flight! You know that I once thought of taking some young poor relation into my house; but my family are all old Leaguers, and their children are ugly, or obstreperous, or dirty."

"It is certain, monsieur, that the younger branch of the Bourons is not attractive. You appropriated the stature, all the charm and all the gallantry of the family, and no one but yourself can give you an heir worthy of you."

"Myself!" said Bois-Doré, slightly dazed by this declaration.

"Yes, monsieur, I am speaking seriously. Since you are tired of your liberty; since I hear you say, for the tenth time, that you mean to settle down——"

"Why, Adamas, you speak of me as if I were an old rake! It seems to me that, since our Henri's sad death, I have lived as becomes a man overwhelmed by grief, and a resident nobleman in duty bound to set a good example."

"Certainly, certainly, monsieur, you can say all that you please to me on that subject It is my duty not to contradict you. You are not obliged to tell me of your delightful adventures in the châteaux or groves of the neighborhood, eh, monsieur? That is nobody's business but yours. A faithful servant ought not to spy upon his master, and I do not think that I have ever asked monsieur any indiscreet questions."

"I do justice to your delicacy, my dear Adamas," replied Bois-Doré, at once embarrassed, disturbed and flattered by the chimerical suppositions of his idolatrous valet. "Let us talk of something else," he added, afraid to dwell upon so delicate a subject, and trying to believe that Adamas knew of adventures of his of which he had no knowledge himself.

The marquis did not boast openly. He was too well bred to tell of the love-affairs he had had and to invent others that he had never had. But he was delighted that he should still be accredited with them, and provided that no particular woman was compromised, he did not contradict those who said that he was favored of all women. His friends connived at his modest conceit, and it was the great delight of the younger men, of Guillaume d'Ars in particular, to tease him on that point, knowing how agreeable such teasing was to him.

But Adamas was not so ceremonious. He was not very much of a Gascon on his own account; having blended his personality with the radiations from his master's, he was a Gascon for him and in his place.

So he continued the discussion with much self-possession, declaring that monsieur was quite right to think of marrying. It was a subject which was often renewed between them, and of which neither of them wearied, although it had never had any other result in thirty years than this reflection from Bois-Doré:

"To be sure! to be sure! but I am so peaceful and so happy thus! There is no hurry, we will talk about it again."

This time, however, he seemed to listen to Adamas's boasting on his account with more attention than usual.

"If I thought that there was no danger of my marrying a barren woman," he said to his confidant, "I would marry, on my word! Perhaps I should do well to marry a widow with children?"

"Fie! monsieur," cried Adamas, "do not think of such a thing. Take some young and lovely demoiselle, who will give you children after your own image."

"Adamas!" said the marquis, after a moment's hesitation, "I have some doubt whether heaven will send me that blessing. But you suggest an attractive thought, which is to marry a woman so young that I can imagine that she is my daughter and love her as if I were her father. What do you say to that?"

"I say, that if she is young, very young, monsieur can at need imagine that he has adopted a child. And if that is monsieur's idea, there is no need to go very far; the little lady of La Motte-Seuilly is exactly suited to monsieur's wants. She is beautiful, she is good, she is virtuous, she is merry; those qualities are what we need to brighten up our manor-house, and I am very sure that her father has thought of it more than once."

"Do you think so, Adamas?"

"To be sure! and so has she! Do you suppose that, when they come here, she draws no comparison between her old château and yours, which is a fairy palace? Do you suppose, that, for all she is so young and innocent, she has never discovered what sort of man you are compared with all the other suitors whom she has ever seen?"

Bois-Doré fell asleep thinking of the absence of suitors about the fair Lauriane, of the enmity that the neighbors bore the rough and outspoken De Beuvre, and of the annoyance which De Beuvre felt on account of that state of things, temporary doubtless, but of which he exaggerated the possible duration.

The marquis persuaded himself that his proposal would be hailed as one of fortune's greatest boons.

The religious question would adjust itself as between them. In any event, if Lauriane should reproach him for having abjured Calvinism, he saw no objection to embracing it a second time.

His self-conceit did not permit him to consider the possibility of an objection based upon his age. Adamas had the gift of dispelling that unpleasant memory every night by his flatteries.

Honest Sylvain therefore fell asleep on that evening more absurd than ever; but whoever could have read in his heart the purely paternal feeling that guided his course, the boundless philosophical tolerance with which he looked forward to the possibility of being made a cuckold, and the projects of indulgence, of submission and absolute devotion which he formed with regard to his youthful helpmeet, would certainly have forgiven him, even while laughing at him.

When Adamas went into his own room, it seemed to him that he heard the rustling of a dress in the secret stairway. He rushed into the passage as quickly as possible, but failed to catch Bellinde, who had time to disappear, after overhearing, as she had often done before, all the conversation between the two old fellows.

Adamas knew her to be quite capable of playing the spy. But he concluded that he was mistaken, and barricaded all the doors when there was nothing to be heard save the loud snoring of the marquis and the muffled yelping of little Fleurial, who lay at the foot of the bed dreaming of a certain black cat, which was to him what Bellinde was to Adamas.

#### XIX

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

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

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

"For all that, the best fellow in the world."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At last light was thrown upon the discussion.

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

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

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

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

He began awkwardly enough with extravagant compliments.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But his dangerous magnetism lost all its virtue.

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

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

Lauriane flatly refused, saying that she desired more music.

Lucilio at once began to inflate his bagpipe.

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

Lauriane did not understand his threat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#### XX

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#### XXI

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He began in a voice like a cracked trumpet:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lauriane tossed him a larger coin, the marquis a gold crown, Lucilio some copper, and D'Alvimar a pebble, saying:

"I see that you all give money to the conjurer, but in my opinion he deserves only to be stoned."

"Beware," said Lauriane, smiling, "he will predict only unpleasant things for you; everyone knows that, in the matter of horoscopes, you only get what you pay for."

"Do not think that; destiny is my master," said La Flèche, putting the money into a box, and suddenly affecting to speak simply and with a fatalistic air.

He turned his indescribable hat, which seemed to threaten heaven like an insolent castle tower, pulled it over his eyes like an extinguisher, made several wry faces, pronounced divers unmeaning words supposed to be cabalistic formulas, and, having turned his back in order to wipe off the coarse paint unseen, showed his face made pale by prophetic inspiration.

Then he traced upon the gravel the great asphère of ignorant necromancers, with all the symbols of street-corner astrology; he placed a stone in the centre and threw the box at it, which broke and distributed the contents over the symbols drawn in the different compartments.

Thereupon D'Alvimar stooped to pick up his pebble.

"No, no!" cried the gypsy, darting into the circle with the agility of a monkey, and placing his foot on D'Alvimar's token, without effacing any of the signs that surrounded it; "no, messire, you cannot interfere with destiny. It is above you as it is above me!"

"Certainly not," said Lauriane, putting her little cane between D'Alvimar and La Flèche. "The magician is master in his magic circle, and by disarranging your destiny, you may disarrange ours too."

D'Alvimar submitted; but his face betrayed an extraordinary agitation which he instantly suppressed.

#### XXII

La Flèche began with the token nearest the central stone, which he called Sinai.

It was Lucilio's; the gypsy pretended to measure angles and make computations, then said in rhyming prose:

"Homme sans langue et de grand cœur,
Savoir de misere est vainqueur."[18]

"You see," whispered Bois-Doré to D'Alvimar, "the rascal has divined our musician's melancholy plight."

"That was not very difficult," rejoined D'Alvimar contemptuously. "For a quarter of an hour past the mute has been talking to you by signs."

"So you have no faith at all in divination?" replied Bois-Doré, while La Flèche continued his calculations with a preoccupied air, but with his ears open to all that was going on about him.

"Why, do you believe in it yourself, messire, I would ask?" said D'Alvimar, pretending to be surprised at the seriousness with which the marquis asked the question.

"I? Why—yes, more or less, like everybody else!"

"No one believes in this nonsense nowadays!"

"Oh! yes; I believe in it quite seriously," said Lauriane. "I beg you, sorcerer, if my destiny is unfavorable, either to leave me a little hope, or to find in your learning some means of averting it."

"Illustrious queen of hearts," replied La Flèche, "I obey your commands. You are threatened by a great danger; but if, during three days from the present moment,

'Vous ne donnez point votre cœur,
Du diable il sera le vainqueur."[19]

"Can you invent no other rhymes?" exclaimed D'Alvimar. "Your vocabulary is not rich!"

"Everyone is not rich who wishes to be, messire," rejoined the gypsy; "and yet there are those who wish it very earnestly, so earnestly that they do everything to obtain wealth, even at the risk of the axe and the halter!"

"Do you read such things in this gentleman's destiny?" said Lauriane, who had been deeply impressed by the conjurer's warning to herself, and now strove to turn the whole affair into a jest.

"Perhaps!" said Monsieur d'Alvimar carelessly; "one never knows what may happen."

"But one can find out!" cried La Flèche. "Come who wants to know?"

"No one," said the marquis, "no one, if there is anything unpleasant in store for any of us."

"Well, neighbor, you have faith, on my word!" said De Beuvre, who did not exactly believe in anything. "You are an excellent customer for any mountebank who chooses to fill your ears with idle tales!"

"As you please," rejoined Bois-Doré, "but I cannot help it. I have seen such surprising things! A score of times things that have been predicted have happened to me."

"How can you believe that an ignorant idiot like this fellow can look into the future, of which God alone knows the secrets?" said D'Alvimar.

"I do not believe in the knowledge of the operator himself," replied Bois-Doré, "except in so far as, by long practice, he knows how to compute numbers, and those numbers are to him like letters in a book whereof the peculiar quality of numbers composes words and phrases."

De Beuvre laughed at the marquis, and called upon the gypsy to tell all he knew.

D'Alvimar would have been glad of a different result of the discussion, for his incredulity was only feigned; he believed that the devil had a hand in all evil, and he determined inwardly to commend La Flèche to the attention of Monsieur Poulain, to be locked up and burned at the first opportunity. But he was none the less consumed, in spite of himself, with anxiety to open the book of his destiny, and he was strongly impelled, moreover, to assume the rôle of a man free from superstitions, before Madame de Beuvre.

La Flèche, being called upon to speak, since he had studied his chart sufficiently, indulged in some serious reflections. He was afraid of the Spaniard. He knew that he ran no risk with people who believed in nothing, for they are not the sort who denounce or accuse sorcerers; and he was too sharp not to understand that, when he tried to withdraw his token, D'Alvimar's object was to escape the revelations which he pretended to despise.

He adopted the course to which he was accustomed to resort when he had to do with people who were inclined to become over-excited—he began to make meaningless remarks to everybody.

He hoped that D'Alvimar would retire, and that he could make some pleasant prediction for the others, for which they would pay handsomely; for in the three days that he had been wandering about the neighborhood, prowling everywhere, listening at doors, or pretending not to understand French to induce people to talk in his presence, he had learned many things; and he knew one fact about D'Alvimar which that gentleman would have been very glad to bury in profound oblivion.

But D'Alvimar, tranquillized by the trivial nature of the predictions, did not retire; La Flèche had ceased to entertain any of the party, and was on the point of making a fiasco, after great preparations to reap a fine harvest.

They were about to dismiss him. He drew himself up.

"Illustrious noble lords," he said, "I am not a sorcerer, I swear it by the image of my patron saint which I wear upon my breast; I protest against any compact with the devil. I practise only white magic, permitted by the ecclesiastical authorities; but——"

"Well, if you are not pledged to the devil, go to the devil!" laughed Monsieur de Beuvre; "you bore us!"

"Very good," said La Flèche insolently; "you want black magic, and you shall have it, at your own risk and peril! but I will have nothing to do with it, I wash my hands of it!"

He turned at once to a basket which he had brought with him, and in which they supposed that he kept some juggling apparatus or some strange beast, and took from it a little girl of eight or ten years, who seemed to be no more than four or five, she was so small and slender; and, with all the rest, dark-skinned, with a tangled mass of hair; a veritable imp, dressed all in red, who began, while he held her in his arms, by striking him again and again, pulling his hair, and tearing his face with her nails.

They thought at first that this frantic resistance was part of the performance, until they saw the blood flowing in a stream down the gypsy's nose.

He paid little heed to it, but said, as he wiped his face with his sleeve:

"That is nothing; the princess was asleep in her basket, and she is always cross when she wakes."

Then he added in Spanish, speaking to the child in an undertone.

"Never fear! you shall dance for this to-night!"

The child, whom he had deposited on the stone of Sinai, cowered like a monkey and glared about her with the eyes of a wild cat.

In her emaciated ugliness there were such strongly marked indications of suffering and of fierce temper, of unhappiness and of hatred, that she was almost beautiful, and indubitably terrifying.

It made Lauriane's heart ache to see the extreme emaciation of the wretched creature, who was almost naked under the gaudy, but filthy rags she wore. She shuddered as she thought of the probable fate of that child, driven to frenzy doubtless by the tyranny and the blows of a vile mountebank; and she walked away a few steps, leaning on the arm of her good Celadon, Bois-Doré, who, although he did not say so, felt almost as distressed as she.

But De Beuvre was of tougher fibre, and he urged La Flèche to make the evil spirit speak.

"Come, my lovely Pilar," said La Flèche, accompanying each word with a gesture big with threats, which were readily intelligible to his victim; "come, queen of the elves and hobgoblins, you must speak. Pick up that coin which is nearest you."

Pilar sat motionless for a long time, pretending to be asleep; she was shivering with fever.

"Come, come, gallows-bird, tow for the stake!" continued La Flèche, "pick up that gold piece, and I will tell you where Mario, your beloved Mario, is."

"What's that!" said the marquis, turning back; "what does he say about Mario?"

"Who is Mario?" asked Lauriane.

"Silence!" cried De Beuvre; "the devil speaks, and you are interested, neighbor!"

The child spoke thus in French, in a shrill voice and with a strongly marked accent:

"Celui de qui depend ce gage,
S'il veut ecouter le presage
Et se bien garer de l'amour—[20]

"I have said enough, I won't say any more," she added in Spanish.

She had forgotten her lesson. Neither prayers nor threats availed to refresh her memory; but she did not admit that she had been coached; she was already a sorceress and proud of her profession. She knew the magic chart much better than La Flèche, and she loved to prophesy. By trying to teach her poetry, which she called another kind of magic, La Flèche had irritated her, and the feeling that she should not succeed had wounded her self-esteem.

She shook her head, bristling with hair as black as ink, stamped her foot and gave way to a paroxysm of pythoness-like rage.

"Good! good!" cried La Flèche, determined to make use of her, in one way or another. "Now it is coming! the devil is entering her body, she will speak in a moment!"

"Yes," said the child in Spanish, darting madly into the circle, "and I know it all better than you, better than all the others. Come! come! come! I know; question me!"

"Let us speak French," said La Flèche. "What will happen to the noble lord whose token I hold?"

It was the marquis's.

"Joy and consolation!" said the child.

"Very good! but in what form?"

"Vengeance!"

"I, vengeance?" said Bois-Doré. "That is not my disposition."

"No, surely not," said Lauriane, glancing involuntarily at D'Alvimar. "The devil must have mistaken the token."

"No! I am not mistaken," replied the elf.

"Really?" said La Flèche. "If you are quite sure, speak, she-devil! So you think that this noble lord here present has some insult to avenge?"

"In blood!" replied Pilar, with the energy of a tragic actress.

"Alas!" said the marquis to Lauriane under his breath, "that is only too true, I doubt not! My poor brother, you know!" And he added, aloud: "I wish to question this little soothsayer myself."

"Do so, monseigneur," said La Flèche. "Listen, black fly! and speak truly to a gentleman who is of much more consequence than you!"

Thereupon, the marquis, turning to Pilar, questioned her gently:

"Tell me, my poor little girl, what I have lost?"

"A son!" she replied.

"Don't laugh, neighbor," said the marquis to De Beuvre, "she tells the truth. He was like a son to me!"

And to Pilar:

"When did I lose him?"

"Eleven years and five months since."

"And how many days?"

"Less five days."

"She is mistaken there," said the marquis to Lucilio; "for I heard from him after the time she mentions; but let us see if she can read the rest."

Again he turned to the child.

"How did I lose him?" he asked.

"By a violent death!" she replied; "but you will have consolation."

"When?"

"Within three months, three weeks or three days."

"What sort of consolation?"

"Three sorts: vengeance, wisdom, a family."

"A family? Am I to be married, pray?"

"No; you will be a father!"

"Really?" cried the marquis, undisturbed by Monsieur de Beuvre's hearty laughter. "When shall I be a father?"

"Within three months, three weeks or three days. I have told everything about you, and I want to rest."

The sitting was suspended with a deluge of jests showered by Monsieur de Beuvre on the marquis.

In order that the predicted advent of an heir should take place within three months, three weeks or three days, three women must have "received the order."

The poor marquis was so well aware of the contrary that all his faith in magic was destroyed.

He submitted to be made fun of, protesting his innocence, but not over desirous that they should believe it to be so absolute as it really was.

The child asked leave to prepare her conjurations for the last token.

It was D'Alvimar's pebble.

But in order that the reader may understand what follows, it is necessary that he should know what Pilar and her master, La Flèche, had agreed upon.

What La Flèche knew and wished to impart to Bois-Doré, he expected to have the child divulge when D'Alvimar was not present. The child, from caprice and vanity, refused to adhere to the agreement made between them. She insisted upon reciting her whole lesson, even though she had to suffer for it, and though La Flèche might lose his life or his liberty.

It may be that these perils, in which, as she well knew, she could involve him, sharpened her instincts of hate.

So she spoke as she chose, despite the warning gestures and grimaces of her master, who could say nothing to her in Spanish which D'Alvimar would not understand.

She picked up the stone, examined the signs that surrounded it, pretended to make a computation, and said in Spanish, threateningly and with appalling vehemence:

"Woe and disgrace to him whose token fell on the red star!"

"Bravo!" said D'Alvimar, with a nervous, forced laugh; "go on, filthy creature! Go on, go on, progeny of dogs, offscouring of the earth, tell us the decrees of heaven!"

Pilar, angered by these insults, became so wild that she terrified all who saw her, even La Flèche himself.

"Blood and murder!" she shrieked, jumping up and down with convulsive gestures; "murder and damnation! blood, blood, blood!"

"All this for me?" said D'Alvimar, unable to conceal his terror at that moment.

"For you! for you!" cried the frenzied creature, "and death and hell! soon, instantly, within three months, three weeks or three days! damned! damned! hell!"

"Enough! enough!" said Bois-Doré, who understood but little Spanish, but who saw that D'Alvimar was pale and on the verge of swooning; "this child is possessed of a bad devil, and it may be that it is sinful to listen to her."

"Yes, monsieur," rejoined D'Alvimar, "doubtless she is possessed of the devil, and her threats are vain and beneath contempt, for hell is powerless against the will of God; but if I were châtelain and dispenser of justice here, I would throw this brigand and this vile worm into prison, and I would hand them over to——"

"La la!" said Monsieur de Beuvre, "there is no reason for being so angry. I don't know what was said to you, but I am surprised that you ended by sneering at it. However, I agree that this mad young monkey's gusts of temper are a disgusting comedy, and I see that my daughter is disturbed by them. Come, knave," he said to La Flèche, "we have had enough. Keep the tokens, if all consent, and go and get yourself hanged elsewhere."

La Flèche had not awaited this permission to decamp. He was in great haste to elude the Spaniard's benevolent designs in respect to him.

Little Pilar was not at all disturbed. On the contrary, she picked up the gold and silver pieces which had served as tokens, and when she came to D'Alvimar's stone she threw it disdainfully at his feet. He was so angered that he would perhaps have treated her as he did the young wolf, had he still the weapon of which he had made such prompt and deadly use.

But when he involuntarily felt for it, he found nothing, and Lauriane, who was watching him, congratulated herself upon having disarmed him. He met her eyes and made haste to smile; then he tried to change the conversation, and Bois-Doré asked Lucilio for an air on the bagpipe to dispel the unpleasant effect of this episode, while La Flèche, carrying his great basket on his head and his instruments of magic under his arm, and dragging along with the other hand the little sybil, still quivering from head to foot, hastily passed the drawbridge and portcullis.

"Now will you give me something to eat?" she said, when they were in the open country.

"No, you did your work too badly."

"I am hungry."

"So much the better!"

"I am hungry, I can't walk any more."

"Into your cage you go, then!"

And he put her in the basket, despite her resistance, and ran away with her at full speed.

The unfortunate creature's shrieks died away without echo in the vast plain.

"Mario! Mario!" she wailed in a voice broken by sobs; "I want to see Mario. Villain! assassin! You promised that I should see Mario, who used to give me things to eat and play with me, and his mother, who kept me from being beaten! Mercedes! Mario! come to help me! Kill him! he is hurting me, he is shaking me, he is killing me, he is starving me to death! Damnation on him! death and blood and murder! The lash, the stake, the wheel, hell itself for the wicked!"

[18]

Man without tongue and of great heart,
Learning has triumphed over misery.

[19]

You do not give your heart away,
It will triumph over the devil.

[20]

He from whom this token comes.
If he but heed to the presage
And hold aloof from love—

#### XXIII

While the gypsy fled toward the north, the marquis, with D'Alvimar and Lucilio, rode in the opposite direction toward Briantes. He was most anxious to tell his faithful Adamas of what he regarded as a happy issue of his enterprise; and, although he thought that he owed it to his love to indulge in a few stifled sighs of anxiety or impatience, he was by no means ill-pleased, taking everything into consideration, to have seven years before him in which to adopt a new matrimonial resolution.

D'Alvimar was in a very bad humor, not only because of the predictions which had stirred his bile and disturbed his brain, but also because of the tranquil manner in which Madame de Beuvre had taken leave of him, while she had given both her little hands to the marquis, as she gayly promised him a visit on the second day following.

"Can it be possible," he thought, "that she has accepted that old man's gold pieces, and that I am supplanted by a rival of seventy?"

He was exceedingly desirous to question his host, to poke fun at him, to quarrel with him. But it was impossible to enter into conversation with Bois-Doré on that subject. The marquis bore himself with an air of discreet and modest triumph, which caused him to outdo himself in courteous attentions to his guest.

D'Alvimar was able to avenge himself for his discomfiture in no other way than by doing his best to splash Master Jovelin, who rode behind the marquis.

When they reached the château, as the supper hour had not arrived, he walked to the rectory to consult with Monsieur Poulain.

"Well, monsieur," said the trusty Adamas, as he removed his master's boots—in his capacity of homme de chambre he almost never left the château of Briantes—"well, monsieur, must we think about preparing the betrothal banquet?"

"To be sure, my friend. We must think about it at once."

"Really, monsieur? Well, I was sure of it, and I am so pleased that I don't know where I am. Just fancy, monsieur, that that red hackney whom you call Bellinde, and who would be better named Tisiphone——"

"Fie! fie, Adamas! You know that I do not like to hear one of the sex spoken of in a slighting manner. What new trouble is there between you?"

"Pardon me, my noble master, but the trouble is that that ill-tempered creature listens at doors, and that she knows of the step monsieur has taken to-day. Only a little while ago she was laughing about it like a cackling hen with that stupid housekeeper of the rector."

"How do you know that, Adamas?"

"I know it by magic, monsieur; but, at all events, I know it!"

"By magic? Since when have you been dabbling in the occult sciences?"

"I will tell you, monsieur. I have nothing to hide from you, but will you not deign to tell me first how you made your sentiments known to the peerless lady of your thoughts, and how she replied; for I am sure that nothing so eloquent was ever said under the heavens since the world was made, and I would like to be able to write as fast as Master Jovelin, so that I could put it on paper as monsieur repeats it to me."

"No, Adamas, no word of it shall ever issue from my mouth, sealed as it is by the oath of a loyal knight. I swore that I would not divulge the secret of my felicity. All that I can say to you, my friend, is to rejoice now with your master, and to hope with him in the future!"

"Then it is all arranged, is it, monsieur, and——"

Adamas was interrupted by a soft scratching, as of a cat, at the door.

"Ah!" he said, after he had looked out, "it is the child; he wants to bid you good-night.—Go away, my young friend, monseigneur will see you later; he is busy now."

"Yes, yes, Adamas, let him come again! I have something to say about children. Some very strange ideas on the subject of paternity came into my head yesterday. This freak is worthy of the lowest bourgeois! No! no! I am no longer the old bachelor who wanted to marry in hot haste, to have done with it. I am a young man, Adamas, yes, a young lover, a dandy, on my word, affectionately sentenced to prove his constancy by the test of time, to sigh and write poetry; in a word, to await, in the torments and ecstasies of hope, the good pleasure of my sovereign."

"If I understand rightly," said Adamas, "this jealous divinity mistrusts my master's fickle humor, and demands that he renounce all love-making!"

"Yes, yes, that is it, Adamas; that must be it! A little distrust! That is a fitting punishment for my wild youth; but I shall be so well able to prove my sincerity—Go to the door; he is still knocking!"

"What!" said Adamas seriously to Mario, opening the door slightly, "is it you again, my little imp? Did I not tell you to wait?"

"I have waited," Mario replied, in his soft voice—soft and caressing even in his mischief; "you told me to go away and come back. I went to the end of the next room, and now I have come back."

"The little rascal!" said the marquis; "let him come in.—Bonjour, my young friend; just come to kiss me, then play quietly with Fleurial. I have some important business to discuss with good Monsieur Adamas. Come, Adamas, the day after to-morrow I am to entertain my incomparable neighbor. We must be preparing for it; a little informal dinner, fourteen courses at the most."

"You shall have them, monsieur. Do you wish me to call the master-cook?"

"No, I do not like to order my repasts, and, however clean and neat the kitchen people may be, they always smell of the kitchen. Help me to plan——"

"What knife is that?" said Mario, very earnestly, as the marquis, always good-humored and momentarily preoccupied, held him between his legs and allowed him to ransack his pockets.

"Nothing, nothing," said the marquis, trying to recover the pledge that Lauriane had given him. "Give it back to me, my boy; children must not touch such things. They bite, you see! Give it to me!"

"Yes, yes, here it is!" said Mario; "but I saw what was written on it, and I know whose it is."

"You don't know what you are saying!"

"Yes, I do; I say that it belongs to the Spanish gentleman you call Villareal. Did he give it to you?"

"Come, come, what is this you are muttering? You are dreaming!"

"No, kind monsieur! I saw the device on the blade. It is in Spanish, and I know it very well; my mother Mercedes has one just like it, with the same device."

"What does the device mean?"

"I serve God.—S. A."

"What does S. A. mean?"

"They must be the initials of the man who owns the dagger. That is where they are usually put, in open work, near the hilt."

"I know that; but why do you say that this dagger belongs to the Spanish gentleman named Villareal?"

The child made no reply and seemed embarrassed. He was no longer under the Moorish woman's watchful and suspicious eye. He had said more than he ought, and he remembered her injunctions too late.

"Mon Dieu! monsieur," said Adamas, "children talk sometimes for the sake of talking without knowing what they say. Let us go back to the important subject. Your keeper, Père Andoche, brought in to-day a string of birds so fat that——"

"Yes, yes, you are right, my friend; let us arrange about the dinner. But, I don't know—I wonder how she had that Spanish dagger in the pocket of her skirt?"

"Who, monsieur?"

"Why, she, parbleu! Of whom else can I speak henceforth?"

"To be sure; I beg pardon, monsieur! Let us talk about the dagger. I supposed that it was a gift from Monsieur de Villareal, or that he had lent it to you. For it is the truth that it comes from him. Those letters S. A. are on his other weapons, which are very handsome, and which I noticed this morning while his servant was polishing them."

The marquis relapsed into meditation.

How did Lauriane obtain Villareal's dagger? She must have received it from him, since she had disposed of it as her own property.

In vain did he search the genealogical tree of the De Beuvres, he found there no name to which the initials S. A. could refer.

"Can it be," he said to himself, "that she made the same agreement with him that she afterward made with me?"

He consoled himself, however, by the thought that she apparently cared but little for the former compact, since she had sacrificed it to him; but there was none the less something incomprehensible in the episode, and the honest marquis was not yet foolish enough not to fear that he was the victim of some practical joke.

And then, what the child had said complicated the confusion in his mind, and he could not imagine what intrigue of destiny or mystification encompassed that dagger.

He was inclined to go to have an explanation at once with his guest; but he remembered that Lauriane had urged him to conceal her pledge and to let no one see it.

Adamas saw the anxiety on his master's brow and was touched by it.

"What is it, monsieur," he said, "what can your poor old Adamas do to relieve your perplexity?"

"I do not know, my friend. I would like to be able to divine how it happens that the Moor has a weapon like this, bearing the same device and the same initials."

Then, lowering his voice so that Mario could not hear:

"You told me, and it has seemed to me that that young woman was very honest. But can she have stolen this dagger from our guest? That is something that I cannot endure, that there should be thieving in my house."

Adamas instantly espoused his master's suspicions, especially as Mario, feeling that he had spoken heedlessly, was gliding out of the room on tiptoe, to avoid further questions. Adamas detained him.

"You have been telling us fairy tales, my pretty boy," said he, "and for that you deserve to lose my lord and master's favor. It is not true that your Mercedes has what you say she has, or——"

The marquis interrupted him, not wishing that the charge should be made before the child.

"Has your mother had the dagger a long time, my boy?" he said.

The child had passed some time with the gypsies, so he knew what stealing was. He was blest, moreover, with extraordinary shrewdness. He understood the suspicion he had brought on his adopted mother, and he preferred to disobey her rather than not justify her.

"Yes," he replied, "a very long time."

And, as he had assumed an exceedingly proud and self-assured air, the marquis and Adamas felt that they had in their hands a means of making him speak.

"Then it was Monsieur de Villareal who gave it to her?" said Adamas.

"Oh! no, he left it behind——"

"Where?" queried the marquis. "Come, you must tell us, or I shall have no more confidence in you, boy. Where did he leave it?"

"In my father's heart!" replied Mario, in whose eyes there shone an extraordinary light. He longed to pour out his heart; the mystery weighed heavily upon him; he had said the first word and he could not keep silent.

"Adamas," said the marquis, moved by a sudden, indefinable emotion, "close the doors, and do you, my child, come here and speak out. You are with friends, have no fear, we will defend you, we will see that you have justice. Tell me all that you know about your family?"

"If you love me," said the child, "you must punish Monsieur de Villareal, because he murdered my father."

"Murdered him?"

"Yes, Mercedes saw him!"

"When was that?"

"The day I was born, the day my mother died."

"Why did he murder him?"

"To get a lot of money and jewels that my father had."

"Robber and assassin!" said the marquis, looking at Adamas; "a man of quality! a friend of Guillaume d'Ars! Is it conceivable?"

"Monsieur," said Adamas, "children often invent stories, and I believe that this boy is making sport of us."

The blood rose in Mario's cheeks.

"I never tell a lie!" he said with touching vehemence. "Monsieur Anjorrant always said: 'That child is not at all untruthful.' My Mercedes always told me that I must never lie, but keep silent when I didn't wish to reply. Since you make me speak, I say what is true."

"He is right," exclaimed the marquis, "and I see that he has noble blood in his heart, the beautiful boy!—Say on, I believe you. Tell me what your father's name was."

"Ah! that I do not know."

"On your honor, my boy?"

"It is the truth," replied the child; "my mother's name was Marie, that is all I know, and that is why Monsieur Anjorrant gave me the name of Mario when he baptized me."

"But I remember that Mercedes said that the lady gave the curé a wedding ring," said Adamas; "she also spoke of a seal."

"Yes," said Mario, "the seal belonged to my father, there was a coat of arms on it: but it was stolen from us not long ago. As for the ring, neither Monsieur Anjorrant, nor my Mercedes, who is very clever, nor I, nor anybody has ever been able to open it. But there's something inside. My mother, who died without saying a word except her name, Marie, motioned to the curé to open her ring. She had not the strength to do it; but he could not."

"Go and get it," said the marquis, "perhaps we can do it."

"Oh! no," replied Mario in dismay; "my Mercedes won't like it, and, if she knows that I have spoken, she will be very sorry."

"But, after all, why does she conceal all this from us, who may be able to help her to find your family?"

"Because she thinks that you will listen to the Spaniard, and that he will kill her if he learns that she has recognized him."

"But does he not recognize her?"

"He never saw her, for she was hiding."

"Has she ever seen him since that terrible business?"

"No, never."

"And, after ten years, she feels sure that she can identify him! It is very doubtful."

"She says that she is sure of it, that he has grown hardly any older, that he is dressed in black as he was then; and she is very sure that his old servant is the same man who was with him then. Oh! she looked closely at them. When we met them three days ago, near another château not far from here——"

"Ah! yes," said the marquis, "tell us how she met him."

"He was with a kind, handsome young lord, whom I have since heard spoken of as Guillaume. Monsieur Guillaume had given a lot of money to the gypsies we were with. And suddenly, when the Spaniard looked very stern and was going to strike me, Mercedes said:

"'It is he! look! it is he! and the other, the old valet is the other!'

"And she ran after them to see them better, until Monsieur Guillaume told us that we annoyed him. Then Mercedes made some one ask him his name and his friend's name, so that we could pray for them, she said. But Monsieur Guillaume laughed at us, and the gypsies went off in another direction. My Mercedes let them go without us, and said to me:

"'We have your father's murderers, I promise you. We must find out their names.'

"Then we turned back and went to the château of La Motte to beg; and as they didn't pay much attention to us, Mercedes told me to listen to what the servants and the peasants said; and in that way we found out that the Spaniard was going to stay with the marquis, because the marquis had sent for his chariot and ordered his guest chamber to be prepared for a stranger. And then we talked with a shepherdess in a field near there. She told us:

"'The marquis is the kindest of men. You can go to pass the night at his château; he will treat you well. That's his château yonder.'

"So then we came here at once, and yesterday morning we saw the murderer again, the two murderers! And when I saw the letters on the pistols and the great sword that the servant had, and I said to Mercedes:

"'Show me the wicked knife that killed my poor papa; I think those are the same letters that are on it.'"

"And are you sure of it?" said the marquis.

"I am very sure; and you will see for yourself if Mercedes will show them to you."

"Where is she now?"

"With Monsieur Jovelin, whom she is very fond of because he jumped into the water for me."

"Jovelin absolutely must extort her secret from her," said the marquis to Adamas; "go, bring him here, that I may speak with him."

#### XXIV

Adamas went out and soon returned to say that Jovelin would come at once. He had found him engaged in a very animated conversation with the Moor, she speaking Arabic, he writing down all that she said, and making many gestures which she seemed to understand.

"He motioned to me that he must not be interrupted," said Adamas; "I think, monsieur, that he is inducing her to tell the truth by gentleness and persuasion; let us not disturb him. He writes quickly, but she does not read very well, even in her own language, and it is wonderful to see how he makes himself understood with his hands. Be patient, monsieur; we shall soon find out something."

They waited a quarter of an hour, which to the marquis seemed a century.

Time was flying; the first bell had rung for supper. It would be necessary to sit at the table with Villareal, without having obtained any definite information.

The marquis was in a state of intense excitement. He kept rising and sitting down again, muttering to himself unintelligible words which sorely puzzled Adamas.

Mario, thinking that he was angry with him, stood apart in a corner, thoughtful and abashed. Fleurial, seeing his master's perplexity, gazed steadfastly at him, followed his every step and whined from time to time, wagging his tail, as if to say: "What is the matter, pray?"

At last Adamas ventured to put the question in words.

"Monsieur," he cried, "you have something in your mind which you are concealing from your servant, and in that way you make your trouble still more painful to him. Speak, monsieur, speak to old Adamas as you would to your night-cap; he will no more repeat what you say than your night-cap would, and it will relieve you so much."

"Adamas," replied Bois-Doré, "I greatly fear that I am mad; for there is something about this child and the story he tells us that excites me more than is natural. You must know that I had my fortune told by a gypsy to-day, and that she used some very obscure words, which may however be fully explained by the interest I feel for this poor little fellow. I was told, among other strange things, that I should be a father within three months, three weeks or three days. Now, as I swear to you, Adamas, that I can look forward to no direct paternity within so short a period, it is evident that I am to become a father by adoption. But another part of that prediction perplexes me even more: my brother's death was referred to as having taken place at exactly the same date that the Moor assigns for the death of this child's father. How can that be explained? The witch spoke in veiled, symbolical words, but she fixed that date clearly, computing the years, months and days that have passed since. And I made the same computation as I was riding home and I found that it carried me back to the very day of our King Henri's death. Come here, Mario; didn't you say that was the day?"

"But, monsieur," observed Adamas, "didn't you say yourself yesterday that Monsieur Florimond's last letter was dated at Genoa on the sixteenth of June?"

"True, my friend; but one may make a mistake in a date and put one month instead of another; that has happened to everybody."

"But, monsieur, isn't the city of Genoa, in Italy, very far from the place where this child puts his father's death?"

"Undoubtedly, my friend. I twist the probabilities in order to confirm the fortune-teller's words, and that is a whim for which I give you leave to rebuke me. But open the cupboard in which my brother's cherished records are kept, including that last letter which I have read so many times without fathoming its meaning."

"Mon Dieu! monsieur," said Adamas, opening the drawer and handing his master the letter, "you divined and understood clearly enough at the time everything that happened and was likely to happen. You heard from Monsieur Florimond very seldom, because of the weighty secret employments he had in the Italian courts, to which his master the Duc de Savoie sent him. He wrote of his journeys without telling you of their object, because he was forbidden to do that by the political party with which he acted, which was not always yours. This last letter tells you of other journeys to be undertaken after that from which he had just returned, and this is what he says to you in his very words: 'If you do not hear of me before autumn, do not be alarmed. My health is good and my personal affairs are not in bad condition.'—The date is evidently accurate, for he begins by saying: 'Monsieur and dear brother, doubtless you received my letter of January last; in the past five months——'"

"I know all that, Adamas, I know it by heart; and, nevertheless, when I went to Italy in 1611, to make personal inquiries for that poor brother of mine, from whom I had never heard again, I was told that he had never returned from a mission to Rome, on which he had set out fifteen months before. And, when I went to Rome, he had not been seen there for more than two years. I travelled all over Italy until late in 1612, without finding any trace of him, so that I finally concluded that he must have undertaken some long voyage, to the East or West Indies, on his own account, and that I should see him again some day; but at last I made up my mind that he had certainly been murdered by the brigands who infest Italy, or had perished in a storm at sea. He had not acquired great wealth in the Savoyard's service, although he never complained; and I think that he seldom had companions in his journeys. In the end I lost all hope of finding him, but not of learning his fate and avenging him if he was slain by treachery."

While the marquis and Adamas were talking thus, Mario, whose presence they had forgotten, had glided behind the marquis's chair.

He listened, and he looked closely at the letter Bois-Doré held in his hands. He could read very well, as we have said, even manuscript; but he was in dire perplexity, fearing lest he should make a mistake and should be accused again of speaking at random.

At last he felt almost perfectly sure of his facts, not only because of the handwriting, but because of the expressions used in the letter and of the peculiar coincidences.

"What!" he cried.

And he ran from the room, his heart swelling with determination and joy, scarcely heeded by the marquis, who was absorbed by his reflections.

Mario knew Master Jovelin's room, and he found his mother there, just about to withdraw without exhibiting the articles of which she was so jealous and distrustful a guardian.

Lucilio had been as profoundly impressed as the marquis by the coincidence of the date fixed in the child's mind by Abbé Anjorrant with that mentioned by the little gypsy as the date of Florimond's death. He had not the slightest belief in magic; but, as he was also struck by La Flèche's mention of the name of Mario, he feared that the marquis was the dupe of some juggling scheme.

He began to suspect the Moorish woman herself, and his first act, on returning to the château, was to send for her and question her in writing, with much conciseness and severity. He insisted that she should produce the ring and the letter from Monsieur Anjorrant of which she had spoken; and, although she felt profound respect and sympathy for him, as his persistence led her to fear the indirect intervention of D'Alvimar in this examination she was undergoing, she had taken refuge in agonized silence.

As soon as Mario appeared, her wounded heart gave vent in the complaint which it dared not address directly to Lucilio.

"Come, my poor child," she said, "we must go away from here, for we are accused of seeking to deceive and of having told a story that is not true. Come, let us go at once, so that they may know that we seek aid only from God and ourselves."

But Mario held her back.

"We have had enough of distrust," he said to her; "we must do what they ask, mother. Give me the letter and the ring! They are mine; I want them this moment!"

Lucilio was impressed by the child's vehemence, and the Moor, utterly dumbfounded, said nothing for several moments.

Never before had Mario spoken so to her; never had she detected in him the slightest tendency to independence; and now, in the most peremptory way, he ordered her to do his bidding.

She was afraid; she thought that some miracle had happened; all her strength of will vanished before the idea that fate had intervened. She took from her belt the sheepskin bag in which she had sewn the precious objects.

"That is not all, mother," said Mario; "I must have the knife too."

"You will not dare to touch it, boy! it is the knife that killed——"

"I know it; I have seen it before now. It is necessary that I should touch it, and I will touch it. Give it to me!"

Mercedes handed him the knife, and said, clasping her hands:

"If it is the evil spirit that guides my son's hand and tongue, we are lost, Mario!"

He did not listen to her, but, placing the little bag on Lucilio's table, hastily ripped it open with the dagger. He took from it the ring, which he placed on his thumb, and Abbé Anjorrant's letter to Monsieur Sully, of which he burst the seal and silk thread, to Mercedes's dire consternation.

MARIO ESTABLISHES HIS IDENTITY.

He darted into the hall, ran back to the marquis's chamber, snatched unceremoniously from his hands the letter over which he was still meditating, compared the handwritings,...

That done, he opened the letter, took out a stained and spotted paper, kissed it and examined it carefully; then, shouting: "Come, mother! Come, Monsieur Jovelin!" he darted into the hall, ran back to the marquis's chamber, snatched unceremoniously from his hands the letter over which he was still meditating, compared the handwritings, and, thrusting everything that he held, letters, ring and dagger, into Adamas's hand, leaped on the marquis's knees, threw his arms about his neck, and hugged him so tight that the worthy man was almost suffocated for a moment.

"Come, come!" said Bois-Doré at last, somewhat annoyed by this familiarity, which he did not expect, and which had seriously deranged his wig, "this is not the time for play of this sort, my young friend, and you are taking liberties which—Whom is this you have brought here and why?"

The marquis paused when he saw Mario burst into tears.

The child had acted in obedience to an inspiration, he had had faith; but, as the minds of the others did not move so fast or so straight as his, doubt, fear and shame returned to him. He had disobeyed Mercedes, who was weeping and trembling.

Lucilio watched him so closely that he felt intimidated; the marquis repelled his passionate embrace, and Adamas was dazed, and did not seem to recognize unhesitatingly the similarity of the handwritings.

"Come, do not weep, my child," said the perturbed marquis, taking from Adamas's hands his brother's letter and the worn and crumpled paper that Mario had brought. "What is the matter, Adamas, and why are you trembling so? What is that paper, all covered with black spots? Vrai Dieu! those are blood-stains! Bring the candle nearer, Adamas, and let me look! Why, my friends! O Lord God in Heaven! Jovelin! Adamas! Look at this! I am not dreaming, am I? It is the handwriting of my darling brother! every letter is his! And this blood——Ah! my friends! that is a very cruel thing to see. But—where did you get this, Mario?"

"Read, read, monsieur," cried Adamas, "make sure that you are right."

"I cannot," said the marquis, turning deathly pale; "my heart fails me! Whence comes this paper?"

"It was found on my father," said Mario, recovering his courage; "look, see if it is not a letter for you that he intended to send you. Monsieur Anjorrant made me read it many times; but your name was not on it, and we never knew to whom to send it."

"Your father!" repeated the marquis, as if waking from a dream; "your father!"

"Pray read it, monsieur!" cried Adamas; "make sure."

"No! not yet," said the marquis. "If I am dreaming, I do not desire to be awakened. Let me fancy that this lovely child—Come here, boy, to my arms.—And do you, Adamas, read it if you can! I could never do it!"

"I will read it," said Mario; "follow with your eyes." And he read as follows:

> "Monsieur and dear brother:

> "Pay no heed to the letter you will receive after this, which I wrote at Genoa, under date of the sixteenth of next month, in anticipation of a long and dangerous journey, during which, as I feared that you would be anxious on my account, I desired to allay your anxiety by a post-dated letter, and thereby prevent your making inquiries for me in that country, where I desired that my absence should not be noticed.

> "As I have arrived here, thank God! more quickly and with less trouble than I dared hope, and am now out of difficulty and danger, I propose to tell you of my adventures, which I am at last able to do without concealment or reserve, leaving the details, however, for the approaching, eagerly anticipated moment when I shall be with you, accompanied by my beloved and honored wife, and, God willing, by the child of whom she will make me the father in a few days!

> "It will suffice for you to know to-day, that, having been married secretly last year, in Spain, to a beautiful lady of noble birth, against the will of her parents, I was obliged to leave her on my master's service, and to return to her, with the same secrecy, to rescue her from the tyranny of her parents and take her to France, where we have at last arrived to-day, under favor of our precautions and disguises.

> "We expect to stop at Pau, whence I shall forward this letter to you, to be followed by another which will announce, if it be God's pleasure, my wife's safe delivery, and in which I shall have the leisure that I have not at this moment, to tell you——"

At this point the letter had been interrupted by some unexpected occurrence. It had been folded and carried about in the traveller's pocket, to be finished and sealed at Pau, in all probability, and there entrusted to the carriers who, at that time, conducted the mail service, with more or less despatch, between places of importance.

#### XXV

Bois-Doré wept copiously as he listened to this letter, which, being read by Mario, penetrated the more deeply into his heart.

"Alas!" he said, "I often accused him of neglect, and he thought of me on the very first day of his happiness and safety! He intended doubtless to bring his wife and child to me, and place them in my care, and I should not have passed my life alone, without a family! But rest in peace in God's bosom, my poor boy! your son shall be my son, and in my grief at having so cruelly lost you, I have at all events the consolation of embracing your living image! for it is his very manner and his charm, my dear Jovelin, and my heart was stirred at the first glance I cast upon the child. And now, Mario, let us embrace as uncle and nephew, which we are, or rather as father and son, which we are to be from this moment."

The marquis worried little about his wig this time, but embraced his adopted son with an affectionate warmth which changed to heartfelt joy the painful memories evoked by the letter.

Meanwhile Mercedes, heartbroken by Lucilio's suspicions, had resolved to make known the truth in all its details.

"Give them the ring," she said to Mario; "perhaps they will be able to open it, and you will learn your mother's name."

The marquis took the heavy gold ring and turned it in every direction; but, versed as he was in mechanical secrets, he could not succeed in opening it.

Neither Jovelin nor Adamas was more adroit, and they were obliged to abandon the project temporarily.

"Never mind!" said the marquis to Mario, "let us not worry about it. You are my brother's son, I can entertain no doubt of that. Judging from his letter, you descend from a family of higher rank than ours; but we have no need to know your Spanish ancestors to cherish you and rejoice in you!"

Meanwhile Mercedes continued to weep.

"What is the matter with that poor creature?" the marquis asked Adamas.

"I do not understand what she says to Master Jovelin, monsieur," was the reply; "but I see plainly enough that she is afraid that she will not be allowed to remain with her child."

"Who will prevent her, I wonder? Am I likely to do it, who owe her so much gratitude and am indebted to her for so much joy? Come hither, my excellent girl, and ask me whatever you will. If you want a house, lands, flocks and servants, aye, and a good husband to your taste, you shall have them all, or may I lose my name!"

The Moor, to whom Mario translated these words, replied that she desired nothing except to work for her living, but somewhere where she could see her dear Mario every day.

"Granted!" said the marquis, offering her both hands, which she covered with kisses; "you shall remain in my house, and, if you are willing to see my son every hour in the day, you will confer a great favor on me; for, since you love him so dearly, no other woman than you shall take care of him. And now, my friends, congratulate me on the great consolation which has come to me, and which, as you know, Jovelin, confirms in every point the gypsy's prediction."

Thereupon he embraced Lucilio, and also, for the first time in his life, the faithful Adamas, who wrote that glorious fact in letters of gold on his tablets.

Then the marquis took Mario in his arms, placed him on the table in the middle of the room, and, walking a few steps away, began to gaze at him as if he had not seen him at all as yet. He was his own, his heir, his son, the greatest joy of his whole life.

He examined him from head to foot, smiling, with a blending of affection, pride and childish delight, as if he were a superb picture or piece of furniture; and as he already had the feelings of a father and did not wish to make that noble child absurdly vain, he forced back his exclamations and contented himself by rolling his great black eyes, showing his great white teeth, and moving his head with a self-satisfied air to the right and left, as if to say to Adamas and Lucilio; "Just look! what a fine fellow, what a figure, what eyes, what a bearing, what pretty ways, what a son!"

His two friends shared his delight, and Mario endured their scrutinizing with a confident and affectionate air, which seemed to say to them: "You can look at me, you will find no evil in me." But he seemed to say more particularly to the old marquis: "You can love me with all your strength, I will pay you back."

And when the scrutiny was at an end, they embraced again, as if they would fain exchange in a kiss all the kisses of which the childhood of the one and the others old age had been deprived.

"You see, my dear friend," the marquis in his joy said to Lucilio, "that we must not make sport of soothsayers, when they predict our future by the stars. You shake your dear old head? Yet you surely believe that our planet——"

The worthy marquis would doubtless have attempted to elucidate some theory of his own invention, wherein astronomy, to which he was devoted, was in some measure confirmed by astrology, to which he was even more devoted, had not Lucilio interrupted him by handing him a note in which he urged a consultation as to the means of unmasking his brother's murderer.

"You are quite right," said Bois-Doré; "and yet, on this day of incomparable bliss, it hurts me to think of inflicting punishment. But I must do it, and, if you please, we will discuss the matter together.—Go, Adamas, and say to this Monsieur D'Alvimar that I beg him to excuse a slight delay in serving supper; and above all, let us not divulge a syllable of the great discovery we have made.—Go, my friend.—What are you doing there?" he added, as he saw Adamas looking into the great mirror, framed in gilt network, and making strange faces at himself.

"Nothing, monsieur," replied Adamas; "I am just studying my smile."

"For what purpose, I pray to know?"

"Is it not fitting, monsieur, that I should make up a treacherous expression to speak to that traitor?"

"No, my friend; for, before we adjudge him a traitor, we must examine into the affair more carefully, and that is what we are about to do."

At that moment Clindor knocked at the door. He announced that Monsieur de Villareal was indisposed and desired to keep his chamber.

"That is so much the better," said the marquis; "I will go to pay him a visit. After which we will have a preliminary hearing in his case among ourselves."

"You must not go alone, monsieur," said Adamas. "How can we be sure that this indisposition is not feigned, and that the knave has not laid some trap for you, being warned by his conscience?"

"You are talking nonsense, my dear Adamas. Even if he killed my brother, he certainly never knew his name, since he remains under my roof without uneasiness."

"But look at this dagger, my dear master! You have not yet looked at this proof."

"Alas!" said Bois-Doré, "do you think that I can examine it dispassionately?"

Lucilio advised the marquis to see his guest before pursuing his investigations, so that he might be sure of being calm enough to conceal his suspicions.

Adamas allowed the marquis to go; but he glided close on his heels to the door of the Spaniard's apartment.

D'Alvimar was really ill. He was subject to nervous sick-headaches of great violence, which were often brought on by paroxysms of anger, and he had had more than one of the latter in the course of the day.

He thanked the marquis for his solicitude and begged him not to put himself out on his account. He needed nothing more than careful diet, silence and rest until the following day.

Bois-Doré withdrew, telling Bellinde, without obtruding, to see to it that his guest lacked nothing; and he took advantage of this visit to examine the features of old Sancho, to whom he had previously paid no attention.

The former swineherd, tall, lean and sallow, but wiry and muscular, was sitting in a deep window-recess, reading by the last rays of daylight a religious book from which he never parted, and which he did not understand. To spell out with his lips the words in that book and to tell his beads mechanically, such was his principal occupation, and, apparently, his only pleasure!

Bois-Doré glanced furtively from the master lying stretched out on the bed, with an air of utter prostration, to the calm, stern, devout servant, whose monkish profile was outlined against the window.

"These are not highwaymen," he thought. "What the devil! this fair, slender young man, with an eye as soft as a girl's—To be sure, this morning when he was angry with the gypsies, and yesterday when he inveighed against the Moors, his expression was less benignant than usual. But this old esquire with the Capuchin's beard, who is so profoundly engrossed in his religious book—To be sure, there is nothing so like an honest man as a knave who knows his business! No, my penetration is insufficient in this matter, and we must weigh all the facts."

He returned to the pavilion, the whole of which was given over to his suite of apartments, each floor consisting of one large and one small room: on the ground floor, the dining-room with a serving-room; on the first floor, the salon and boudoir; on the second, the châtelain's bedroom and another boudoir; on the third, the large, so-called Salle des Verdures[21] which Adamas sometimes honored with the title of Salle de Justice; on the fourth, an unfinished, vacant room.

In the later building attached to the side of this pavilion, were the apartments of Adamas, Clindor and Jovelin, connecting with those in the grand'maison, as the marquis's little pavilion was ingenuously and in all seriousness called in the village.

He found his friends assembled in the Salle des Verdures, and not until then did he remember that in the general excitement the Moorish woman had been admitted to his chamber. He was grateful to Adamas for having transferred the session to some place other than his sanctuary. He saw that Jovelin was writing busily, and, not wishing to disturb him, he sat down and perused the letter written by Abbé Anjorrant to Monsieur de Sully, with the view of putting him on the track of Mario's family.

That letter was written very soon after Florimond's death, before Monsieur Anjorrant knew of the death of Henri IV. and Sully's fall from power; it had not reached its destination. This was a copy, which the abbé had retained and bequeathed to Mario with Florimond's unfinished letter. The abbé's letter—it was more properly a memorial—contained most precise details of the murder of the pretended peddler, as the abbé had received them from Mercedes, and as they had been confirmed by various incidents.

In it all there was nothing to fasten the guilt upon d'Alvimar and his valet. The assassins had not been discovered. Both, it is true, were minutely described in the Moorish woman's statement contained in the memorial; but, although she declared now that she recognized them, she might very well be mistaken, and her accusation was not sufficient to condemn them.

The Catalan dagger, the instrument of murder, being placed beside the one given by Lauriane to the marquis, was more convincing evidence. The two weapons were, if not identical, so nearly alike that at the first glance one had difficulty in distinguishing them. The initials and the device were made with the same instrument, and the blades were of the same make.

But Florimond might have been killed with a weapon stolen from Monsieur de Villareal, or lost by him.

Nor was there any proof that the one given by Lauriane to the marquis came from the Spaniard.

And, lastly, the initials seen by Mario, Mercedes and Adamas on his other weapons could not be his, for he had been introduced by Guillaume under the name of Antonio de Villareal.

[21]The name Verdures d'Auvergne was given to the tapestry hangings representing trees, foliage and birds, without figures, and with no definite landscape. They were made, I believe, at Clermont.

#### XXVI

The fair-minded Bois-Doré was making these observations aloud to Adamas, when the mute handed him the sheet upon which he had just been writing.

It was a brief narrative of what had taken place at La Motte-Seuilly in the morning, between Lauriane, the Spaniard and himself: how Villareal had hurled the knife again and again to frighten him and interrupt his music, how he had plunged it into the entrails of the wolf, and lastly how he had given it to Madame de Beuvre as a token of submission and penitence before Jovelin's eyes.

"Oho! this is becoming serious!" said the marquis, lost in thought, "and I see that this Villareal is a very bad man. However, it may be that none of these weapons were in his possession ten years ago, and that he has received them since by gift or by inheritance. In that case he must have been the assassin's kinsman or friend; there are villains and cowards in the best families. Like yourself, Master Jovelin, I have a bad opinion of our guest; but I am certain that, like me, you still hesitate to condemn him on this evidence."

Lucilio nodded assent and advised the marquis to try to make him confess the truth by surprise or by stratagem.

"We will deliberate with care thereupon," replied Bois-Doré, "and you will assist us, my dear friend. For the moment, we must go to supper, and since we have no guests, we will give ourselves the pleasure of eating with our little marquis that is to be, who no more belongs in the servants' quarters than you do yourself."

"Still, monsieur, if you take my advice," said Adamas, "you will leave things as they are for to-day. Bellinde is a wicked creature and a plague, and to my mind she is on much too friendly terms with the rectory, which is a sink of slanderous remarks against all of us."

"Hoity-toity! Adamas, what in God's name is the trouble between you and the rectory?"

"The trouble is, monsieur, that I have been consulting a magician too. You had hardly gone away this morning, when a certain La Flèche, the same gypsy, doubtless, whom you saw later in the day at La Motte, came prowling around the château and offered to tell my fortune. I refused; I am too much afraid of prophecies, and I hold that any harm that is destined to happen to us happens twice over when we know it beforehand. I contented myself by asking him who had stolen the key of the wine closet, and he answered without hesitation:

"'The one you suspect!'

"'Tell me her name,' I replied, knowing well enough that it was Bellinde, but wishing to test the clever rascal's skill.

"'The stars forbid me,' he said; 'but I can tell what the person is doing at this moment. She is at the rector's, where she is chattering about you, saying that you put it into the head of the lord of this château to marry young Madame——"

"Hush, hush, Adamas!" cried the marquis modesty; "you should not repeat such nonsense."

"No, monsieur, no! I will say nothing; but, as I was determined to know whether the sorcerer told the truth, I went out as if for a walk, as soon as he had gone; and as I passed the rectory I saw Bellinde at a window with the housekeeper, and both of them began to laugh and to mock at me behind my back."

Jovelin asked if the gypsy had entered the château.

"He would have liked to right well," said Adamas, "but Mercedes, who watched him from the kitchen without letting him see her, begged me not to admit him, saying that he was likely to steal; so I did not let him into the courtyard. He gazed at the door with much emotion, and, when I asked him what he saw there, he answered:

"'I see great events about to take place in this house; so great and so surprising that it is my duty to warn your master. Let me speak to him.'

"'You cannot,' said, 'he is not within.'

"'I know where he is,' said he; 'he is at La Motte-Seuilly, where I will try to see him; but if I am not able to speak with him there without witnesses, I will come back here, and I assure you that if you refuse me admission again, you will live to regret it, for many destinies are in my hands.'"

"All this is very remarkable," said the marquis, artlessly. "It is a fact that he predicted all that has happened, and I regret now that I did not question him further. If he returns, Adamas, you must bring him to me. Did not you say, my dear Mario, that he was an intelligent fellow?"

"He is very amusing," replied Mario, "but my Mercedes doesn't like him. She thinks it was he who stole my father's seal. I don't think so, because he helped us to look for it and to ask the other gypsies about it. He seemed to be very fond of us, and he did all we asked him to."

"And what was there on the seal, my dear boy?"

"A crest. Wait! Monsieur l'Abbé Anjorrant looked at it with a glass and it looked big, for it was so small—so small that you couldn't make it out; and he said to me:

"'Remember this: Argent with a tree sinople.'"

"That is right," said the marquis; "that is my father's crest! It would be mine if King Henri had not composed another for me to suit himself."

"Both are carved on the courtyard door," wrote Lucilio. "Ask the child if he did not see them when he came here."

"How could he have seen them?" said Adamas, who read Lucilio's words simultaneously with his master. "The masons who were repairing the arch had their scaffolding in front of them."

"Could the gypsy see the escutcheons this morning," said Lucilio with his pencil, "when he looked at the gate?"

"Yes," replied Adamas, "the stagings had been taken down, and the masons were at work elsewhere. The escutcheons were made over—But now I think of it, Master Jovelin, this La Flèche must know something of our dear child's story, as they had travelled together?"

"I don't think so," said Mario. "We never mentioned it to anyone."

"But you and Mercedes talked about it?" wrote Lucilio. "Does La Flèche understand Arabic?"

"No, he understands Spanish; but I always talked Arabic with Mercedes."

"Were there no other Moors in that band of gypsies?"

"There was little Pilar, who understands Arabic because she is the child of a Moor and a gitana."

"In that case," wrote Lucilio to the marquis, "abandon your belief in the supernatural. La Flèche attempted to make money out of what he had learned. He knew Mario's story down to a certain point; he learned yours in the neighborhood, and the fact of your brother's having disappeared ten years ago. He had stolen the seal. He recognized the coat-of-arms on the door. He remembered the dates. He divined or imagined the whole truth. He hurried to La Motte to make his prediction, which he taught the little gitana by heart. To-night or to-morrow he will bring you the seal, expecting to solve for you the mystery which you have already solved, and to receive a handsome reward. He is a thief and a schemer; nothing more."

It cost the marquis a pang to assent to this reasonable and probable explanation. However, he did so.

Adamas still held out.

"How can you explain what he told me about Bellinde and the rectory?" he asked Lucilio.

Lucilio replied that that was very easy. Bellinde had listened at the door of the marquis's apartment the night before; La Flèche had listened in the morning at the door or under the windows of the rectory.

"You state the case very sensibly," cried the marquis, "and I see plainly enough that there is no other magic in all this than the magic of Divine Providence, which has brought truth and joy into my house with this child. Let us go to supper! our minds will be clearer afterward."

The marquis supped hastily and without enjoyment. He felt that he was being spied upon by Bellinde, who was no longer able to listen in the secret passages; for Adamas, while the masons were on the spot, had had that passage closed; but the prying and malevolent creature had observed the long interviews of the marquis and Jovelin with Mercedes and the child, behind closed doors, and, above all, the self-important and triumphant airs of Adamas, whose every glance seemed to say to her: "You shall know nothing!"

She was not intelligent enough to divine anything. She imagined that the marquis, following up the project of marriage, was arranging an entertainment for the young widow, with the assistance of the "Egyptians."

There was nothing in that which she could use against Adamas, her personal enemy; but she was consumed with a jealousy of him and of the Moorish woman which sought only an opportunity for revenge.

When Bois-Doré was alone with Jovelin, they concerted and agreed upon a plan of action for the following day with respect to D'Alvimar.

They reread Monsieur Anjorrant's letter carefully and analyzed it. Then, honest Sylvain, who was not fond of giving his mind to serious and depressing subjects, sent for his heir and passed the evening chatting and playing with him. Therein he showed a marked resemblance to his dear master, Henri IV., although he did not think of imitating him. He adored the charms of childhood, and, except for the stiffness of his old bones, would gladly have played horse for him around the room.

"Now," he said to Adamas, when he saw Mario's silky eyelashes drooping with sleep, "we must give him to the Moor, so that she may take care of him one night more. But to-morrow, when we have settled this Villareal business, there will be no further occasion to conceal the truth, and I propose that my heir shall have his bed in the boudoir adjoining my own bedroom.—See, my child," he said to Mario, "look at this little nest, all silk and gold, which has long been waiting for a noble fellow like you! Do you like the pink silk hangings, and this low furniture inlaid with mother-of-pearl? Doesn't it seem as if it were made for a young man of your height? We shall have to arrange a bed for him that will be a genuine chef-d'œuvre, Adamas. What say you to twisted columns of ivory, with a great bunch of red plumes at each corner?"

"As soon as our minds are at rest, monsieur," said Adamas, "I will turn my attention to the question, in order to gratify you, for nothing is too fine for your heir. We will consider the matter of clothes too, which must be suited to his rank."

"I will think about it, I will think about it, Adamas!" cried the marquis, "and I propose that his wardrobe shall be just like mine. You will send for the best tailors, linen-drapers, shoemakers, hatters and plumemakers in the province, and for a whole month, if necessary, they shall work day and night, under my eye, preparing my nephew's outfit."

"And my Mercedes," said Mario, leaping for joy, "will you give her beautiful dresses too, like Bellinde's?"

"Mercedes shall have beautiful dresses, dresses of gold and silver, if such is her whim. And that reminds me—Look you, my dear Jovelin, this woman is lovely, so it seems to me, and still young. Would you not think it well to allow her to resume the Moorish costume, which is very pretty, except the veil, which is altogether too Mohammedan? As the excellent creature is a sincere Christian now, and we live in a neighborhood where the common people never saw a Moor, that costume will offend nobody and will gratify our eyes. What is your wisdom's opinion?"

Lucilio's wisdom had much ado to reconcile the warm affection which the marquis really deserved with the feelings naturally aroused by his childishness. But, hopeless of correcting so old a child, reason advised him to make the best of him and to love him as he was.

The philosopher would have preferred that Mario should not be overwhelmed with splendor and finery at the outset of his new career, but rather that he should be told something of the new duties he had to fulfil. He found some consolation in the fact that the child was less intoxicated by the possession of all those things, than overjoyed and touched by the affection and endearments of which he found himself the object.

On the following day D'Alvimar, who had passed a sleepless night, requested through Bellinde, who obligingly acted as his nurse, permission to keep his room until afternoon.

The marquis paid him another brief visit, and was struck by the alteration of his features. He had had ghastly visions, under the spell of the sinister prophecies that had been hurled at him.

Daylight had finally revived hope in his heart, and he slept part of the day.

#### XXVII

The marquis took advantage of this respite to recur to the subject of dress.

He went up with Mario and Adamas to the vacant room on the fourth floor, that is to say, immediately over the Salle des Verdures.

That unfinished apartment was strewn with innumerable chests and cupboards; and Mario, as soon as the padlocks were removed, and the lids raised and doors thrown open, fancied that he was in fairyland. There was a bewildering mass of magnificent stuffs, dazzling gold lace, ribbons, laces, feathers and jewels, rich hangings, cordovan leather, furniture in parts, all new and ready to be put together, reliquaries heavy with precious stones, beautiful paintings on glass which needed only to be assembled, lovely enamelled mosaics, arranged in piles and numbered, whole pieces of fine linen, enormous guipure curtains, with gold and silver stripes; in a word, a hoard of plunder, which smelt of the partisan warrior a league away, and which the marquis considered to have been legally acquired at the sword's point.

This receptacle of rich spoil was known in the household as the store-room, the garret. It was supposed to contain spare articles of furniture, together with what was broken or discarded.

Adamas alone was aware of the contents of those wonderful chests, and under his breath he called that room the treasure or the abbey. There were no fashionable gewgaws, as in the marquis's apartments, but artistic objects and fabrics of great value and great beauty, some of great antiquity, and the more valuable on that account: stuffs manufactured by processes no longer known, weapons of all sizes and of all nations, many excellent pictures, valuable manuscripts, etc.

All this rarely saw the light, the marquis fearing lest he might arouse the cupidity of some of his neighbors, and producing his treasures only one at a time and in the guise of a recent purchase.

However, it was very rarely the case that the pillaging heroes of those days were compelled to make restitution; but it might well happen that some powerful individual, acting on his own account, but claiming to act in the name of the Church or the State, would calmly appropriate an article in dispute.

It was thus that Catherine de Médicis, to reward Jean de Hangest—called Capitaine d'Yvoi—for treacherously surrendering Bourges to her, seized the superb chalice, decorated with precious stones, which he had taken from the treasure-chest of Sainte-Chapelle in that city, and had put aside as his share of the plunder.

From all these marvels the marquis selected what was required for Mario's outfit, calling upon him to make known his taste with regard to the colors.

One would but imperfectly understand the manners of that period, who should assume that it was necessary, as it is to-day, to go to Paris to learn the fashions and to find skilled workmen in the art of dress and decoration. It was not until the reign of Louis XIV. that the civilization of luxury and fashion made of Paris the school of good taste and the arbiter of refinement. Richelieu began this work of centralization by destroying the power of the nobles. Before his time, the princes held court in the great provincial centres, and the artisans of the smallest places supplied the needs of the nobility with traditional skill. A rich châtelain had artisans among his vassals; and, even in bourgeois houses, furniture, clothes, boots and shoes were made at home.

Bois-Doré therefore had only to select the materials and order the articles that Adamas was to have made under his own eyes.

In the matter of dress Adamas was beyond praise. He could safely be trusted, and, at need, he could put his own hand to the work with success.

The ivory columns and cornices destined for the child's bed were found after some searching.

"I knew that there was something here like that," said the marquis smiling. "They are of beautiful workmanship; they came from a state canopy taken from the chapel of the Abbey of Fontgombaud, of which I was abbot, that is to say, lord by right of conquest, for a whole fortnight. When I took possession of it, I remember saying to myself: 'If the new Abbot of Fontgombaud could become a father soon, this would be a fitting canopy for his first-born son!'—But, alas! my friend, I did not inherit all the monkish virtues, and in order to have a son, I was obliged to find one by a miracle long after I came to maturity. Never mind! he will be none the less dear, and he will none the less sleep his angel's sleep under the canopy of the Virgin of Fontgombaud."

The marquis was interrupted in his reminiscences by the arrival of La Flèche, who asked to speak with him.

The chests and the door of the treasury were carefully locked, and the vagabond was received in the barnyard.

It was beautiful weather, and Jovelin was of opinion that a trickster of that sort should not be admitted to the house.

What he had foreseen actually happened. La Flèche brought with him the seal, which he claimed to have found in little Pilar's possession; he also assumed to reveal the mystery of Mario's birth and of the murder of Florimond by Monsieur de Villareal.

The marquis allowed him to say all that he had to say, then dismissed him, with a crown, for the trouble he had taken to bring back the seal; but he pretended not to understand the story he had told, to place no faith in it, and to be much shocked that he should dare to accuse Monsieur de Villareal, against whom he had no other proof than the Moorish woman's excitement and her exclamation when she thought that she recognized him on the moor of Champillé.

Herein the marquis, advised by Lucilio, acted wisely. If he had seemed to credit the accusation, La Flèche would have been quite capable of giving the Spaniard warning, in order to have two strings to his bow.

La Flèche, bitterly disappointed by his fiasco, sheepishly withdrew, and was walking along the outer wall of Galatée's garden, when he heard a soft voice calling his name.

It was Mario, whom the marquis had not chosen to admit to the interview, desiring that all relations between his heir and gypsydom should be severed irrevocably. But as he had not explained his wishes in that respect, the child did not know that he was acting in opposition to them when he glided through the labyrinth and watched for the gypsy to pass, through a little loophole looking toward the village.

"Who calls me?" he said, looking about him.

"I," said Mario. "I want you to tell me about Pilar."

"What will you give for that?"

"I can't give you anything. I haven't anything!"

"Idiot! steal something!"

"No, never! Will you answer me?"

"In a minute; answer me first. What do you do in this château?"

"Play music."

"What else?—Aha! you don't choose to speak? All right. Adieu!"

"And you won't tell me where Pilar is?"

"She is dead," replied the gypsy brutally, and he walked away whistling.

Mario tried in vain to recall him. When he could no longer hear him, he began to run about and play in the labyrinth, trying to convince himself that La Flèche had made sport of him. But the idea of his little companion's death caused a terrible shock to his vivid imagination.

"She used to say that La Flèche beat her," he thought; "but I didn't believe her. He never beat her before us. But perhaps she didn't lie; perhaps he beat her until he killed her."

And, as he reflected thus, the child shed a few tears. Pilar was not a very amiable creature; but there was something of the Bois-Doré in dear Mario; he was particularly sensitive to pity, and the Abbé Anjorrant had brought him up to abhor violence and cruelty. But he concealed his tears, fearing to pain his uncle, whom he already loved passionately.

D'Alvimar left his room at last.

The rest that he had taken, a lovely sunset and the joyous song of the thrushes dispelled the black presentiments by which he had been besieged for several days.

Having dressed and perfumed himself, he sought the marquis and thanked him for the interest he had shown and the care that had been taken of him. Bois-Doré could not make up his mind to accuse even inwardly a man, still so young, of a bearing so distinguished, and a countenance whose habitual melancholy seemed to him genuinely touching; but when they were seated at the supper table, Lucilio being there, as usual, to furnish music, Bois-Doré remembered their agreement, and collected what he called his siege-guns, to make a violent assault upon his guest's conscience.

He had seen too much fighting and had had too many perilous adventures not to be able to arrange his bearing and his features, without having, like Adamas, to make preparatory studies before a mirror. Although his life had long been so placid that he had not been obliged to depart from his natural mildness of manner, he was too much the man of his time not to be able to make his glance say, twenty times a day if need be:

"Vive le roi! Vive la Ligue!"

The sweet notes of the bagpipe relieved him from the necessity of carrying on a commonplace conversation which would have seemed to him very tedious.

The music which helped to produce the tranquillity that he needed, now caused a feverish excitement in D'Alvimar.

He really hated Lucilio. He knew his baptismal name, which the marquis had let fall in his presence, and Monsieur Poulain, who was thoroughly posted in contemporary heresy, had divined from that circumstance that Jovelin was a free translation of Giovellino. The fact of his mutilation confirmed him in that suspicion, and he was already deliberating upon the means of making perfectly sure, and of stirring up some new persecution against him.

D'Alvimar would readily have assisted him, if he had not been forced to keep out of sight for some time, and the poor philosopher was the more antipathetic to him because he could take no steps against him at present. His beautiful music, by which he had been charmed at the first hearing, seemed to him now intolerable bravado, and the ill-humor which took possession of him did not dispose him to undergo patiently the examination that was being prepared for him.

After the supper the marquis proposed a game of chess in the boudoir adjoining his salon.

"I agree," the Spaniard replied, "on condition that we have no music there. I cannot play with that to distract my attention."

"Nor I, most certainly," said the marquis.—"Put your sweet voice away in its box, good Master Jovelin, and come to watch our peaceful battle. I know that you enjoy a well-fought game."

They went into the boudoir, and found there a magnificent chess-board of crystal with gold mountings, comfortable chairs, and many lighted candles.

D'Alvimar had not as yet seen that small room, one of the most sumptuous in the grand'maison; he cast a distraught glance at the trinkets with which it was filled, then sat down, and the game began.

#### XXVIII

The marquis, exceedingly calm and courteous, seemed to give his whole attention to his game. Lucilio, standing behind him, was able to watch the slightest movement, the slightest change of expression on the Spaniard's face, which was in a bright light.

D'Alvimar played promptly and with resolution. Bois-Doré, more moderate in his play, made long pauses, during which the Spaniard gazed with some impatience at the objects that surrounded him. His eyes naturally rested more than once on a sort of what-not that stood against the wall at his left, quite near him. Gradually the object that was most prominent among the bibelots with which the little piece of furniture was covered, attracted and monopolized his attention, and Lucilio noticed that he smiled satirically and angrily every time that his eyes fell upon that object.

It was a naked, gleaming dagger, lying on a black velvet cushion with gold fringe, and protected by a glass globe.

"What is it?" said the marquis at last. "You seem distraught. You are in check, messire, and I do not wish to beat you so easily. Something disturbs or annoys you. Are we too near that piece of furniture, would you like to move the table away from it?"

"No," replied D'Alvimar, "I am very comfortable; but I confess that there is something in that pretty stand which distracts my mind. Will you answer a single question, if it be not impertinent?"

"You could ask no question which would be, messire. Speak, I beg you."

"Very well, I ask you, my dear marquis, how it happens that you have here reposing triumphantly on a cushion, under glass, your humble servant's travelling weapon?"

"Oh! you are mistaken, my guest! I did not obtain that knife from you."

"I know that I did not give it to you; but I know that it was given to you by the one to whom I gave it, of which fact, perhaps, you may not be ignorant. I understand that any gift from a fair hand is precious to you; but it seems to me very hard upon those less fortunate to exhibit thus the trophy of your victory before the eyes of a discarded rival."

"Your words are enigmas to me."

"What! surely my sight is not failing me! Will you allow me to raise the glass and obtain a closer view?"

"Look and touch, messire; after which I will tell you, if you desire, why this relic of love and sorrow is kept here among other souvenirs of the past."

D'Alvimar took up the knife, examined it closely, handled it, and said, suddenly replacing it on the cushion:

"I was mistaken, and I beg your pardon. It is not the weapon that I thought."

Lucilio, who was watching him attentively, fancied that he saw his mobile, delicate nostrils dilate with fear or surprise. But that slight facial contraction was noticeable in him on the slightest pretext, sometimes even without any pretext at all.

He resumed his game.

But Bois-Doré stopped him.

"Excuse me," he said; "but as you recognize that object it is my duty to question you; you may be able perhaps to throw some light upon a mysterious occurrence by which my life has been disturbed and made wretched for many years. Be kind enough to tell me, Monsieur de Villareal, if you know the device and initials engraved on this blade. Do you wish to look at it again?"

"It is useless, monsieur le marquis, I do not recognize the weapon; it never belonged to me."

"Do you feel any repugnance to making sure of that fact?"

"Repugnance? Why that question, messire?"

"I will explain. You may, perhaps, have recognized the weapon as having belonged to someone whose compatriot you blush to be, but whose name you would tell me none the less if I should appeal to your sense of honor."

"If you treat this as a serious matter," replied D'Alvimar, "although it is my turn not to understand you, I will examine it again."

He took up the dagger, scrutinized it very calmly, and said:

"This is of Spanish workmanship, a weapon in very common use among us. There is no man of noble birth—I may say no free man—who does not carry a similar one in his belt or his sleeve. The device is one of the most common and most widely used: I serve God, or I serve my master, or I serve honor. We find something of that sort on the majority of our arms, whether rapiers, pistols or cutlasses."

"Very good; but these two letters S. A., which seem to be a private cipher?"

"You can find them on my own weapons, as well as this device; they are the private marks of the Salamanca factory."

Bois-Doré felt his suspicions fade away in face of such a natural explanation.

Lucilio's suspicions, on the contrary, increased in force. He considered that D'Alvimar was altogether too eager to anticipate the explanation he might be asked to give concerning his own motto and his own initials, which they were supposed not to know.

He touched the marquis's knee while pretending to pat Fleurial, and thus warned him not to abandon his investigation.

D'Alvimar seemed desirous to forward it himself, for he asked with an air of wounded pride the reason of this interrogatory.

"You might also ask me," Bois-Doré replied, "for what reason an object which is horrible for me to look upon lies there before my eyes every hour. Let me tell you, monsieur, that that accursed weapon is the one that killed my brother, and I have made it a point of not putting it out of sight solely that I might constantly be reminded that I have to discover his murderer and avenge his death."

D'Alvimar's face expressed deep emotion, but it might well be sympathetic and magnanimous emotion.

"You do well to call it a relic of sorrow," he said, pushing the dagger away. "Was it your brother to whom you referred yesterday morning, when you consulted those gypsies as to the time and manner of some person's death?"

"Yes; I asked for something which I knew perfectly well, wishing to test their knowledge, and, upon my word, that little demon of a girl answered me so accurately that I had good reason to be astonished. Did you not notice, messire, that she gave me figures which fixed the date of the occurrence as the tenth day of May in the year 1610?"

"I did not follow the calculation. Was that actually the day when your brother was killed?"

"That was the day. I see that you are much surprised!"

"Surprised, I? Why should I be? I fancy that soothsayers reveal only so much of the past as they know. But tell me, I beg you, how that sad affair came to pass. Have you never known the authors of the crime?"

"You are right in saying the authors, for there were two of them—two men whom I would like right well to find. But you cannot help me, I see, since that accusing weapon bears no private mark."

"So there were no witnesses of the deed?"

"Pardon me, there were."

"Who could give you no information as to the perpetrators?"

"They could describe them, but not tell their names. If this painful story interests you, I can tell it to you in all its details."

"Most certainly I am interested in your sorrows, and I am pleased to listen."

"Very well," said the marquis, pushing the chessboard away and drawing his chair nearer to the table, "I will tell you all that I learned from an investigation communicated to me by the curé of Urdoz."

"Urdoz? Where is Urdoz? I do not remember."

"It is a place that you must have passed through, if you have ever been to Pau."

"No, I came into France by way of Toulouse."

"In that case you don't know it. I will describe it to you directly. First let me tell you that my brother, being a simple gentleman and only moderately rich, but of an honorable name, noble in feature, of an amiable disposition, and a fine fellow if ever there was one, while sojourning in some Spanish city, which I cannot name, won the heart of a lady or maiden of quality, whom he married secretly against the will of her family."

"Her name was——?"

"I do not know. All this was an affair of the heart, as to which I never received his full confidence, and which I could not afterwards unravel. I found out simply that he eloped with his wife, and that they made their way into France by way of the Urdoz road, disguised as poor people. The lady was near her time. They were travelling in a small vehicle of shabby aspect, a sort of peddler's cart, drawn by a single horse, purchased on the road, whose gait hardly kept time with their impatience. However, they reached without hindrance the last Spanish settlement, and, after passing the night in a wretched tavern, my brother was imprudent enough to try to exchange Spanish for French gold, and to ask a soi-disant nobleman who was in the house, attended by an old servant, and who offered to assist him, if he could procure French money for a thousand pistoles.

"The individual in question was able to offer him only a trifling sum, and when my brother mounted his wagon again with his cloaked and veiled companion, the people at the inn noticed that the two strangers, as they bade him farewell, gazed earnestly at the two boxes which he himself loaded, one containing his money, the other his wife's jewels, and that they started off at once on his track, although they had previously announced their purpose to go in the opposite direction. The villains were described in such a way as to leave no manner of doubt as to their identity when a description of my brother's murderers was furnished."

"Ah!" said D'Alvimar, "so you had a description of them?"

"Exact. One had a handsome face and was so young that he seemed little more than a boy. He was of medium height but well proportioned. His hand was as white and slender as a woman's, he had an incipient beard, very black, silky hair, a noble bearing, a rich travelling costume, but little else, for his valise weighed nothing; a good Andalusian horse, and yonder infernal knife, which he used for eating and killing. The other——"

"No matter, messire. Your brother——?"

"I must describe the other miscreant, as he was described to me. He was a man in middle life, who had something of the monk and something of the hired bravo in his appearance. A long nose overhanging a gray moustache, a shifty eye, a callous hand, and of a taciturn humor; a genuine Spanish brute——"

"I beg pardon, messire?"

"A brute of the sort that we find in all countries where men are taught that they can save their souls from hell by reciting paternosters. The brigands followed my poor brother as two fierce, cowardly wolves follow the victim they dare not attack, and pounced upon him—What is it, messire? Are you too warm in this small room?"

"Perhaps so, messire," replied D'Alvimar excitedly. "I feel difficulty in breathing the air of a house where the name of Spaniard seems to be held in such contempt as by yourself."

"Not at all, monsieur. Let me reassure you on that point. I do not hold your nation responsible for the degradation of a few. There are infamous villains everywhere. If I speak bitterly of those who robbed me of a brother, you must pardon me."

D'Alvimar apologized in his turn for his sensitiveness, and begged the marquis to continue his narrative.

"It was about a league from the hamlet of Urdoz that my brother and his wife found themselves entirely alone on a rocky road skirting a very deep precipice. The road was winding and the ascent so steep, that the horse balked for a moment, and my brother, fearing that he would back into the ravine, hastily alighted and lifted his wife out of the wagon. It was very warm, so he pointed out a grove of firs ahead of them where she could find shelter from the sun, and she walked thither slowly while he gave the horse an opportunity to breathe."

"Did the lady see her husband killed?"

"No! she had just turned a little shoulder of the mountain when the disaster occurred. It was God's will that the child she bore should be saved; for, if the assassins had seen her they would not have spared her."

"In that case who can say how your brother died?"

"Another woman whom chance had brought thither, who was hidden behind a rock, and who had no time to call for aid, the horrible crime was committed so quickly. My brother was trying to urge the horse forward when the assassins overtook him. The youngest dismounted, saying with hypocritical courtesy:

"'Why, your horse is foundered, my poor man! Don't you need help?'

"The old cutthroat who followed him also dismounted, and they both approached my brother as if they really intended to put their shoulders to the wheel; he had no suspicion of them, and at the same instant the witness whom heaven had placed there saw him totter and fall at full length between the wheels, without a cry to indicate that he had been struck. That dagger had been buried in his heart up to the hilt, by a hand too well skilled in its use."

"Then you do not know which of the two, whether the master or the servant, dealt the blow? You say that the master was very young; it is hardly conceivable that it was he."

"It matters little, messire. I deem them equally vile; for the gentleman behaved exactly as the servant did. He jumped into the wagon without taking time to remove the knife, he was in such frantic haste to steal the two boxes. He tossed them to his companion, who put them under his cloak, and they both fled, retracing their steps, spurred on, not by remorse and shame, human sentiments which they were incapable of feeling, but by fear of the scourge and the rack, which are the just reward and the end of such villainy!"

"You lie, monsieur!" cried D'Alvimar, springing to his feet, beside himself and deathly pale with rage. "The scourge and the rack—You lie in your throat! and you shall give me satisfaction!"

He fell back upon his chair, suffocated, strangled by the confession that wrath had extorted from him at last.

#### XXIX

The marquis was thunderstruck by this outbreak, for which he was entirely unprepared, the culprit had up to that moment put so bold a face on the matter, and made his frequent interruptions with so natural an air.

He recovered first, as may be imagined, and grasping D'Alvimar's convulsively twitching wrist with his long, sinewy hand:

"Miserable wretch!" he exclaimed with crushing contempt, "you should thank Heaven for making you my guest; for, were it not for the promise I have given to protect you, a promise which protects you from myself, I would beat out your brains against the wall of this room!"

Lucilio, fearing a struggle, had seized the knife which lay on the table. D'Alvimar saw his movement and was afraid. He threw off the marquis's hands and grasped the hilt of his sword.

"Let your mind be at rest, fear nothing in this house," said Bois-Doré, calmly. "We are not assassins!"

"Nor am I, monsieur," rejoined D'Alvimar, seemingly overcome by this dignified procedure, "and since you do not propose to disregard the laws of honor, I will attempt to justify myself."

"Justify yourself? Nonsense! you are convicted and doomed by your contradiction of me, and that is why I disdain to notice it!"

"Keep your disdain for those who endure insult in silence. If I had done so, you would not have suspected me! I repelled the insult! I repel it again!"

"Ah! you propose to deny the act now, do you?"

"No! I killed your brother—or somebody else. I do not know the name of the man I killed—or allowed to be killed! But what do you know of the reasons that impelled me to that murder? How do you know that I was not wreaking a just vengeance? How do you know that that woman—whose name you do not know—was not my sister, and that while avenging the honor of my family, I did not take back the gold and jewels stolen by a seducer?"

"Hold your peace, monsieur! do not insult my brother's memory."

"You have yourself admitted that he was not rich; where did he obtain a thousand pistoles with which to elope with a woman?"

Bois-Doré was shaken. His brother, because of the difference in their political opinions, would never consent to accept from him the smallest portion of a fortune which he rightly considered as derived from the despoiling of his own party. He was obliged to fall back on the allegation that his brother's wife was entitled to carry off what belonged to her. But D'Alvimar retorted that the family was entitled to consider that it belonged to it. Therefore he vehemently denied the charge of robbery.

"You are a traitor none the less," said the marquis, "for having stabbed a gentleman like a coward instead of demanding satisfaction from him."

"Charge it to your brother's disguise," retorted D'Alvimar, warmly. "Say to yourself that, seeing him in the garb of a serf, I may well have thought that I had the right to bid my servant kill him like a serf."

"Why did you not have him detained at that tavern, where you must have recognized your sister, instead of following and taking him in a trap?"

"Presumably," replied D'Alvimar, still proud and animated, "because I did not choose to create a scandal, and compromise my sister before the populace."

"And why, instead of hurrying after her to take her back to her family, did you leave her on that lonely road, where she died in agony an hour later, no one having come in search of her meanwhile?"

"How could I run after her, when I did not know that she was there, so near to me? Your witness could not hear all the questions I put to the seducer, I had no need to shout them at the top of my voice. How do you know that he did not tell me that my sister had remained at Urdoz, and that what the witness took for flight on my part was not simply eagerness to return to her?"

"And not finding her at Urdoz, you never learned of her deplorable death? You did not even try to find the place where she was buried?"

"How do you know, monsieur, that I am not more familiar than you with all the details of this painful story? Would you, in my place, being unable to remedy the evil that was done, have made an outcry in a country where no one could possibly divine your sister's name or the dishonor of your family?"

The marquis, crushed by the reasonableness of these explanations, made no reply.

He was so deeply absorbed in his reflections that he hardly heard the announcement of a visitor. Guillaume D'Ars was ushered into the adjoining salon.

Lucilio detected a gleam of joy in D'Alvimar's eyes, caused it may be by the pleasure of meeting a friend, or by the hope of finding a means of escape from a perilous situation.

D'Alvimar rushed from the boudoir, and the heavy folding door was closed for an instant between him and his host.

Lucilio, seeing that the marquis was buried in painful thoughts, touched him as if to question him.

"Ah! my friend!" cried Bois-Doré, "to think that I cannot make up my mind what to do, and that I am in all likelihood the dupe of the most infernal knave that ever lived! I have taken the wrong course. I have exposed the good Mooress, and perhaps my child as well, to the vengeance and the snares of a most dangerous foe; I have been clumsy; I have furnished him with his grounds of defence by admitting that I did not know the lady's name, and now, whether the murderer's excuse is false or true, I no longer have the right to take his life. O God, Lord God! is it possible that honest men are doomed to be gulled by knaves, and that, in all sorts of war, the wicked are the most adroit and the strongest!"

As he spoke, the marquis, wroth with himself, struck the table a violent blow with his fist; then he rose to go to receive Guillaume D'Ars, whose jovial and untroubled voice he could hear in the next room.

But the mute hastily seized his arm with an inarticulate exclamation. He had in his hand an object to which he called the other's attention with a murmur of surprise and delight.

It was the ring, which the marquis had placed on his little finger, the mysterious ring which he had been unable to open, and which, as a result of the blow he had dealt the table, had separated into two hoops, one within the other. There was nothing in the way of secret mechanism. The parts fitted very closely, and a violent blow was necessary to separate them—that was all.

To read the names engraved on the two circles was a matter of an instant. They were the names of Florimond and his wife. Instantly they realized that they held the key to the situation.

The marquis rapidly gave Lucilio his orders, and went, with a light heart and smiling face, to press Guillaume's hand.

D'Alvimar and D'Ars had had barely time to exchange a few words concerning the former's agreeable surprise and the latter's pleasant journey. Guillaume, however, had noticed some alteration in his friend's face, which the Spaniard attributed to his headache of the preceding day.

The marquis, after exchanging greetings with his young kinsman, was about to order supper for him.

"No, thanks!" said Guillaume; "I took a mouthful on the road, while my horses were resting, for I must start again at once. You see I am returning sooner than I intended. I was advised yesterday at Saint-Armand, whither I had gone with a party of the young men of the province, as an honorary escort to Monseigneur de Condé, that my steward was very ill in my house. Fearing that he was going to die, the honest fellow sent a messenger to me to urge me to return as soon as possible, so that he might inform me as to the condition of my most important affairs, of which I confess that I know nothing at all. I have come here, however, in the first place, to ascertain if it will be convenient for Monsieur D'Alvimar to accompany me to-night, or if he is so attached to your gardens of Astrée, that he desires to pass another night amid their fascinations."

"No!" replied D'Alvimar hastily; "I have imposed upon monsieur le marquis's civility long enough. I am not well, and I might become ill-humored. I prefer to go with you now, and I will go to order my horses to be prepared as quickly as possible."

"That is unnecessary," said the marquis; "I will ring; I shall have the pleasure of seeing you again soon, Monsieur de Villareal."

"I shall come to-morrow to learn your wishes, monsieur le marquis, and to give you whatever satisfaction you desire—touching the game we were playing just now."

"What game were you playing?" said Guillaume.

"A very scientific game of chess," replied the marquis.

Adamas answered the bell.

"Monsieur de Villareal's horses and luggage," said Bois-Doré.

While the order was being executed, the marquis, with a tranquillity which led D'Alvimar to hope that everything was adjusted between them, told Guillaume how they had employed their time at Briantes and La Motte-Seuilly during his absence. Then he questioned him about the splendid festivities at Bourges.

The young man asked nothing better than to talk about them: he described the excitement of the target-shooting, or rather, as they said in those days, "of the honorable sport of arquebus-shooting."

The targets had been set up in the Fichaux meadow's, and a great tent decorated with tapestry and green boughs for the ladies, young and old. The contestants were stationed on a stand, a hundred and fifty paces from the tent. Six hundred and fifty-three arquebusiers entered the competition. Triboudet of Sancerre alone had won the prize: but he w as obliged to divide it with Boiron of Bourges, because he had taken a false name in order to be nearer the head of the list; whereat the people of Sancerre had made a great outcry, for they were bent upon proving that their marksmen were the best in the kingdom, and they considered the division of the prize very unfair. The unjust decision had evidently been made to avoid displeasing the people of Bourges.

"After all," said Guillaume, telling his story with the fire of youth, "Triboudet either won or lost. If he won, he is entitled to all the honor and all the profit of the victory. I agree that he is blameworthy for having taken a false name. Very good; for that lapse let them punish him by a fine or a few days in prison, but let him none the less be declared the winner of the prize; for the honor due to skill is a sacred thing, and although we were not at all fond of the old Sancerre sorcerers, there was not a gentleman who did not protest against the trick played on Triboudet. But what can you expect? the large places always consume the small ones, and the fat pettifoggers of Bourges unceremoniously take precedence over all the bourgeoisie of the province. They would gladly take precedence over the nobility, if they were allowed! I am only surprised that Issoudun concurred. Argenton abstained from voting, saying that the prize was awarded beforehand and that no one except the champions of Bourges had any chance before the judges of Bourges."

"And do you not believe that the prince had a hand in this injustice?" asked the marquis.

"I would not dare swear that he did not! He is paying assiduous court to the people of his good city; witness the fact that he has incurred considerable expense, although he is not at all fond of spending his money for the entertainment of other people. He is supporting at this moment two troupes of players, one French, the other Italian, who perform in the tennis-courts, beautifully decorated for the purpose."

"What!" said Bois-Doré, "did you see Monsieur de Belleroze's tragic actors? They are as tiresome as forty days of rain!"

"No, no; this troupe is called Sieur de Lambour's French Comedians, and there are some very clever people in it. But time flies, and here comes the faithful Adamas to say that the horses are ready, does he not? So let us be off, my dear Villareal, and as you have promised the marquis to come to-morrow to thank him, I invite myself to come with you."

"I rely upon seeing you," rejoined Bois-Doré.

"And you can also rely upon my furnishing you with proofs of all that I have alleged," said D'Alvimar, bowing very low.

Bois-Doré replied only with a bow.

Guillaume, who was in great haste to start, did not notice that the marquis, despite his apparent courtesy, refrained from offering his hand to the Spaniard, who dared not ask leave to touch his.

#### XXX

No sooner were they in the saddle than the marquis, turning to Adamas, said with much excitement:

"Quickly, my gorget, my helmet, my weapons, my horse and two men!"

"Everything is ready, monsieur," Adamas replied. "Master Jovelin advised us to prepare everything, saying that if Monsieur d'Ars went away again to-night, you would escort him. But for what purpose?"

"You shall know when I return," said the marquis, going up to his chamber to don his armor. "Was care taken to saddle the horses in the small stable, so that only the men who are to accompany me will know of our departure?"

"Yes, monsieur, I myself looked to it."

"Are you going very far?" cried Mario, who had just supped with Mercedes and was returning to his bedroom.

"No, my son, I am not going far. I shall return in two short hours. You must sleep quietly. Come quickly and kiss me!"

"Oh! how handsome you are!" said Mario, artlessly. "Are you going to La Motte-Seuilly again?"

"No, no, I am going to dance at a ball," the marquis replied with a smile.

"Take me, so that I can see you dance," said the child.

"I cannot; but be patient, my little cupid, for after to-morrow I will not take a step without you."

When the old nobleman had donned his little cap of yellow leather striped with silver, with an inner lining of iron, and adorned with long plumes drooping over his shoulder; when he was arrayed in his short military cloak, his long sword, and his gorget of shining steel buckled beneath his lace ruff, Adamas could vow, without flattery, that he had an air of grandeur, especially as the excitement of the evening had caused his paint to disappear, so that he wore almost his natural face, by no means that of a popinjay.

"Now you are ready, monsieur," said Adamas. "But am I not to go with you?"

"No, my friend; you will close all the doors of my pavilion and pass the evening with my son. If he falls asleep, you will make up a camp-bed for him with cushions. I desire to find him here when I return; and now, hold a light for me, I want to talk with Master Jovelin in the salon."

He kissed Mario several times with deep emotion, and went down to the lower floor.

"What have you determined upon and where are you going?" Lucilio's expressive eyes inquired.

"I am going to Ars to finish the investigation. And after that, eh? After that, if there is occasion to do so, I shall concert measures with Guillaume to prevent the traitor's escape, and return and advise with you as to our next move. Au revoir for a time, my dear friend."

Lucilio sighed as he looked after the marquis. He seemed to him to be intent upon some more serious project than he had admitted in his programme.

While the marquis, without haste, was making his preparations for departure, Guillaume and D'Alvimar, the latter attended by Sancho, the other by his escort of four men-at-arms, were riding slowly toward the château of Ars, by the lower road; that is to say, the road that leaves the plateau of Le Chaumois on the right and passes quite near La Châtre.

As the moon had not risen, and Guillaume's horses were very tired, they could not travel very quickly.

D'Alvimar took advantage of this circumstance to ride a little in advance with his squire, as if involuntarily, because their horses were fresher. Then, slackening his pace, he said:

"Sancho, you did not leave anything belonging to me at Briantes?"

"I never forget anything, Antonio."

"Yes, you do; you forget daggers and leave them in the bodies of the people you kill."

"That reproach again?"

"I have my reasons for making it to-day. My horse no longer goes lame, but do you think he is in condition to take a long journey to-night?"

"Yes. What is there new?"

"Listen carefully and try to understand quickly. The peddler was a gentleman, the Marquis de Bois-Doré's brother. The knife that you used is in that old man's possession. He has sworn vengeance, and he accuses us on the testimony of some witness, I know not whom."

"The Moorish woman."

"Why the Moorish woman?"

"Because those accursed creatures always bring misfortune."

"If you have no other reason——"

"I have others; I will tell you what they are."

"Yes, later. We must consider now how we are to leave this neighborhood without any further explanation with that old idiot. I told him enough to induce him to be patient. He expects me to-morrow."

"For a duel?"

"No; he is too old!"

"But he is very cunning; are you anxious to rot in some dungeon in his château? No matter, I will go there with you, if you go."

"I shall not go. A certain prophecy makes me very prudent. When we are within a short distance of that little town of which you see the lights yonder, leave the escort, disappear, and return a quarter of an hour later and say that someone in the town handed you a letter for me. I will go to the château of Ars before reading it, but, as soon as I have read it, I will say to Monsieur d'Ars that I must go away at once. Do you understand?"

"I understand."

"Let us wait for Monsieur d'Ars then, and display no haste."

When honest Bois-Doré, armed to the teeth and firmly seated on the stately Rosidor, had passed the confines of the village of Briantes, he discovered Adamas, mounted on a little hackney of placid disposition, ambling at his side.

"What! is that you, master rebel?" he said, in a tone which did not succeed in being angry; "did I not forbid you to follow me and order you to keep watch over my heir?"

"Your heir is well guarded, monsieur; Master Jovelin gave me his word not to leave him, and, moreover, I do not see that he incurs any risk in your château, now that the enemy has left it and we are charging upon him."

"I know that we are the ones who are in danger now, Adamas, and that is why I did not want you here, for you are old and broken, and besides, you never were a great warrior."

"It is true, monsieur, that I am not overfond of receiving blows, but I like to deal them when I can. I am no longer a young man; but if I am not quick of foot, I have a sharp eye, and I propose to see that you don't fall into any ambush. That is why I have brought two more men with me, who will overtake us in three minutes. Besides, I should have gone mad to have to wait for you, knowing nothing and doing nothing. By the way, my dear master, where are we going and what are we going to do?"

"You will soon see, my friend, you will soon see! But let us make haste. We have no time to lose if we would overtake them half way to Ars."

They urged their horses to a gallop, and in less than a quarter of an hour came in sight of Guillaume and his escort, who were still riding very slowly.

The moon was rising and shone on the weapons of the horsemen.

They had reached a spot then and now called La Rochaille, a spot not far from numerous houses to-day, but in those days completely deserted and barren.

The road was on a slope, with a small ravine on one side, and on the other a hill-top strewn with great gray boulders, with an occasional stunted chestnut tree growing among them. The place bore a bad name; the peasants have always had superstitious ideas concerning the boulders, perhaps because they vaguely attribute their presence to the efforts of the demons of ancient Gaul, perhaps because they believe that they fell from heaven to destroy the worship of those wicked demons.

The marquis ordered his little troop to halt before it had been discovered by Guillaume and his men, and rode forward alone at full speed, intending to bar his young kinsman's passage.

When they heard the noise of the galloping hoofs, Guillaume and D'Alvimar turned, the former perfectly calm, supposing that it was some frightened traveller, the latter sorely perturbed, and still dwelling on the prediction which the events of that evening seemed to confirm and to hasten to its fulfilment.

When Bois-Doré passed on the left of the escort, Guillaume did not recognize him in his military costume; but D'Alvimar recognized him by the throbbing of his agitated heart; and old Sancho, warned by a similar sensation, rode nearer to him.

Their anxiety was dispelled when Bois-Doré rode on without speaking to them. They concluded then that it was not he. But when he drew rein and wheeled about with his horse's head almost touching theirs, they glanced at each other and instinctively drew close together.

"What does this mean, monsieur?" said Guillaume, taking one of his pistols from the holster at his saddlebow. "Who are you and what do you want?"

But before Bois-Doré had time to reply, a pistol was discharged between them, and the ball grazed the marquis's cap, as he, seeing Sancho's movement to murder him, hastily stooped, crying:

"It is I, Guillaume!"

"Ten thousand devils!" cried Guillaume in dismay; "who fired on the marquis? In heaven's name, marquis, are you hit?"

"Not a scratch," replied Bois-Doré; "but I must say that you have some vile hounds in your party, to fire on a single man before they know whether he is friend or foe!"

"You are right, and I will do justice on them instantly," rejoined the wrathful young man. "Miserable knaves, which of you fired on the best man in the realm?"

"Not I! nor I! nor I! nor I!" cried Monsieur d'Ars's four servants with one voice.

"No, no!" said the marquis, "none of these honest fellows would have done such a thing. I saw the man who fired the shot, and there he is!"

As he spoke, Bois-Doré, with a dexterity, agility and force worthy of his best days, struck Sancho across the face with his whip, and, as the assassin put his hands to his eyes, he seized him by the collar, and, dragging him from his saddle, threw him to the ground and lashed his horse, which galloped away and disappeared in the direction of Briantes.

At the same instant the marquis's four men, disregarding his orders to await a summons from him, rode up at full speed, with Adamas, in whom the report of the pistol and the sight of the flying horse had aroused the keenest anxiety.

"Ah! here you are," said the marquis. "Very good; pick up yonder unhorsed cavalier; he belongs to me, as I have the droit d'épave[22] on this road. He is my prisoner. Bind him; there is reason to distrust his hands."

[22]That is to say, the right of the lord of the manor to claim all property found on his domain, to which nobody can prove title.

#### XXXI

While the colossal charioteer, Aristandre, bound Sancho's hands—he was still dazed by his fall—and stripped him of his arms, D'Alvimar emerged at last from the stupor caused by this swiftly enacted scene.

For an instant he had thought of abandoning his ill-omened confederate to Bois-Doré's wrath; but when he saw him treated so roughly because he had once more risked his life for him, a remnant of pride and shame compelled him to remonstrate.

"I can understand, messire," he said, "that you are angered by the stupidity of that old man, who was asleep in his saddle, and being awakened by a sudden shock, thought that he was attacked by a band of robbers. He certainly deserves punishment, but not to be treated as a prisoner within your seignioral jurisdiction; for he belongs to me, and it is my prerogative and mine alone to punish him for the insult he offered you."

"Do you call that an insult, Monsieur de Villareal?" retorted the marquis in a tone of contempt. "But it is not with you that I have to deal, but with my friend and kinsman Guillaume d'Ars."

"I will permit no explanation," rejoined D'Alvimar with feigned passion, "until my servant is restored to me, and if you desire a duel——"

"Listen to me, Guillaume," said Bois-Doré.

"No, no one shall listen to you," shouted D'Alvimar, trying to release his horse, which Guillaume, having taken his stand between him and Bois-Doré, was holding in order to prevent a conflict. "Monsieur d'Ars, I am your friend and your guest, you invited me to visit you and made me welcome; you promised me loyal assistance on every occasion; you will not allow me to be outraged, even by a member of your family. Under such circumstances, I am the one to whom you owe support and fair play, even against your own brother."

"I am aware of it," replied Guillaume, "and it shall be so. But calm yourself first of all, and allow Monsieur de Bois-Doré to speak. I know him well enough to be sure of his courtesy to you and his generous treatment of your servant. Make due allowance for a moment of anger; it is the first time I have ever seen him so wrathful, and, although he has good reason, I am certain that I can pacify him. Come, come, be quiet, my dear fellow! You are in a passion too; but you are the younger, and my cousin is the insulted party. I will confess that, if he had received the slightest scratch, I would have killed your servant on the spot, though I had to give you satisfaction afterward."

"But what the devil, monsieur!" cried D'Alvimar, still hoping to avoid the impending explanation by a quarrel, and, if necessary, by a scuffle, "wherein was my servant at fault, I pray to know? What sort of a caprice was it that induced monsieur le marquis to ride by us without making himself known, and then to block our road, at the risk of being taken for a lunatic? Did not you yourself seize your pistol and shout qui vive?"

"To be sure; but I should not have fired without awaiting a reply, nor would you, I imagine, and you cannot excuse your servant's stupid or evil act. Come, be calm. If you wish me to succeed in arranging the affair to your honor and satisfaction, do not make it impossible by your violence."

While D'Alvimar continued to argue vehemently, and the marquis to listen with entire tranquillity, Adamas, anxious concerning the result of the affair, had spoken to Guillaume's men upon his own authority. He had told them all that he knew, and they had sworn that in case Monsieur d'Ars should feel compelled to order them to defend Monsieur D'Alvimar against the Bois-Doré party, they would only pretend to fight, and would leave the field clear for anybody whose right it was, to deal out justice to the assassins.

All the men in both parties were relations or friends to one another, and they were in no wise inclined to exchange blows for love of a foreigner, whether guilty or under suspicion only.

Thus the time that D'Alvimar strove to gain by his remonstrances turned against him; and when Guillaume, annoyed and disgusted by his obstinacy, turned his back on him to go to talk with the marquis a few steps away, D'Alvimar was at once surrounded by the servants of the latter, without the slightest opposition on the part of Guillaume's men.

Thereupon he became very seriously alarmed and glanced about him, estimating the slight chance that remained of successful flight, unless he were resigned to risk the loss of honor or of life in the attempt.

But hope revived when he heard Guillaume, to whom Bois-Doré had briefly recounted his grievances, refuse to believe that he was not misled by deceptive appearances.

"Monsieur de Villareal?" he said. "That is utterly impossible, and I should have had to see it with my own eyes to believe it. Now, as you did not see it, and as you must have been deceived by false reports, permit me to defend this gentleman's honor, and do not think, monsieur and dear cousin, that, deeply as I respect you, I will allow a friend who has placed himself under my protection to be insulted and outraged without proofs. Moreover, you have not that right, for every gentleman is subject to the king's justice alone. So calm your excited nerves, I implore you, and allow me to return home, where you know that I am very anxious to be."

"I am not excited," rejoined Bois-Doré, raising his voice and with an air of dignity that Guillaume had never seen him assume, "and I anticipated your reply, my good friend and cousin. It is such a reply as I should make in your place, and I find no fault with it. Having expected that you would act as you have done, I determined to make my conduct conform to the consideration which I owe you, and that is why you see me here, halfway between our respective abodes, on neutral, public ground. To be sure I have some rights over this road; but three steps away, among yonder old rocks, I am neither on your property nor mine. Know therefore that I have determined to fight a duel to the death with this traitor, who cannot refuse to fight with me, since I have designedly assaulted and insulted him in the person of his servant, and since I do at this moment insult and challenge him in his own person, branding him before God, before you and before the honest fellows who attend us, as a cowardly and despicable murderer! I do not think that you can justly take it ill of me that I do what I am doing; for I beg you to observe that, so long as you and he were in my house, I refrained from anything approaching insult or bad temper, wherein I kept my promise to be a loyal host to him; and I beg you to observe also that I took my measures to meet you in the open fields, in order to avoid doing violence under your roof, for I would not for anything in the world have imposed upon you the necessity of bearing aid to this vile creature. Lastly, my cousin, I beg you to consider this, which is the greatest sacrifice I can make to you: instead of having him beaten to death by my servants, as he deserves, I myself, a nobleman, deserving of my rank, stoop to measure swords with a cutthroat of the vilest sort. Were it not for the friendship with which you honor me, I would have thrown him into an underground dungeon; but, desirous to show my respect for you, even in the error into which you have fallen with regard to him, I renounce all my honorable privileges, to fight him, a vile, degraded creature, with the weapons of men of honor.—I have said what I have to say, and you can make no further objection. Be his second, unworthy as he is of your kindness; Adamas will be mine. I will content myself with the aid of that honest man, since in such an affair there can be no question of a combat between the seconds."

"Assuredly," cried Guillaume, deeply moved by the old man's greatness of heart, "conduct more loyal than yours cannot be imagined, my cousin, and, in view of the suspicions you entertain, you display such generosity as is rarely seen. But those suspicions being unfounded——"

"It is no longer a question of suspicions," replied the marquis, "since you do not choose to listen to them; I insult one of your friends, and I fancy that you would not consider as a friend a man capable of shrinking from a combat."

"Surely not!" cried Guillaume; "but I will not permit this duel, which does not befit your years, my cousin! I would prefer to fight in your stead. Come, will you accept my promise? I promise to avenge your brother's death with my own hand if you succeed in proving incontestably that Monsieur D'Alvimar was the dastardly and wicked author thereof. Wait until to-morrow, and I will constitute myself justiciary of my family, as my duty to you demands."

Guillaume's impulse was worthy of the marquis's noble heart; but, by letting slip an allusion to his years, Guillaume had mortified him exceedingly.

"My cousin," he said, recurring to that puerility of mind which contrasted so strongly with the nobility of his instincts, "you take me for an old Signor Pantaleone, with a rusty sword and a trembling hand. Before consigning me to crutches, remember, I beg, the consideration I have shown you, which does not deserve the affront you put upon me by offering to avenge my dearest brother's execrable murder in my stead. Come, it seems to me that we have had words enough, and my patience is exhausted. Your Monsieur de Villareal has more than I, for he listens to all this without finding a word to say."

Guillaume saw that matters had gone so far that any reconciliation was impossible; and, as he agreed with the marquis that D'Alvimar had suddenly become much too patient, he turned to him and said sharply:

"Come, my dear fellow, why do you not answer, I will not say this challenge, which has no just foundation, but a charge which you surely cannot deserve?"

D'Alvimar had reflected during the discussion. He affected a disdainful and satirical calmness.

"I accept the challenge, monsieur," he replied, "and I do not think that I deserve great credit for so doing, being, as you know, most expert in the use of all weapons. As for the accusation, it is so absurd and unjust that I am waiting for you yourself to explain it to me before disproving it; for I do not know as yet what the marquis has said to you about me, as he whispered it in your ear, and I desire him to repeat it aloud."

"I am quite willing, and it will not take long," retorted Bois-Doré. "I said that you were a brigand, an assassin and a thief. You desire more, but I can find nothing worse to say of you than the bare truth."

"You pay me strange compliments, monsieur le marquis!" said the Spaniard coolly. "You have already regaled me, under your own roof, with a lugubrious tale wherein you were pleased to represent me as the slayer of your brother. Whether I am or not, I do not know, as I told you; I simply know that I bade my servant kill a man dressed as a peddler, who was carrying away by force a lady whose defence I took upon myself, as I told you, and whose honor I avenged."

"Oho!" cried the marquis, "that is your text now, is it? The lady who was flying with my brother was abducted against her will, and you don't remember saying that she was your——"

"Lower, monsieur, I beg you. If Monsieur d'Ars will kindly listen to me a few steps away from here, I will tell him who that woman was, unless you prefer to vilify and besmirch her name before your servants."

"My servants are better men than you and yours, monsieur! No matter! I am exceedingly desirous that you should impart your secret to Monsieur d'Ars, but in my presence, as you have already given me one version of it."

The three walked away from the group, and the marquis spoke first.

"Come," he said, "explain yourself! You allege as your defence that that woman was your sister!"

"And do you, monsieur," retorted D'Alvimar, "propose to vent your factitious rage by giving me the lie again?"

"By no means, monsieur. I ask you to tell us your sister's name; for it seems that your own name is not Villareal."

"Why so, monsieur?"

"Because I know it now. Dare to contradict me before Monsieur d'Ars, whom you are also deceiving by an assumed name!"

"No, no!" said Guillaume; "monsieur is concealing his identity under one of his family names, and I know perfectly well the name he usually bears."

"In that case, cousin, let him say what it is, and I swear that, if it proves to be the same as my deceased sister-in-law's, I will retire with apologies to both of you."

"And I refuse to tell it," said D'Alvimar. "I supposed that between gentlemen a simple assertion should suffice; but you insult me without pause or prudence. A duel is what you seek, and your wish shall be gratified."

"No! a hundred times no!" cried Guillaume. "Let us have done with this; and as nothing more is necessary than to tell the marquis your name to induce him to withdraw in peace, I——"

"I beg you not to forget," interposed D'Alvimar, "that you expose me——"

"No! my cousin is too honorable a man to betray you to your enemies. Understand, marquis, and I place this information under the safeguard of your honor, that monsieur's name is Sciarra d'Alvimar."

"Oho!" rejoined the marquis with a sneer. "So monsieur's initials happen to be identical with those of the stamp of the Salamanca factory?"

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing! I am simply nailing another of monsieur's lies as I pass; but this one is so trifling compared with the others——"

"What others? Come, come, marquis, you are too persistent!"

"Hush, Guillaume!" said D'Alvimar, still affecting a disdainful attitude. "This must end in a sword thrust. We are simply wasting time."

"Ah! but I am not in so much haste now," rejoined the marquis. "I insist upon knowing the baptismal name and the family name of the sister of Monsieur de Villareal, de Sciarra and d'Alvimar. I know that the Spaniards have many names; but if he will tell me simply that lady's real name, her family name——"

"If you know it," retorted D'Alvimar, "your persistence in making me tell it is an additional insult."

"Oh! do not take it so, D'Alvimar," cried Guillaume testily. "Give her your own name, unless you propose that we shall pass the night here!"

"Nay, cousin," said the marquis; "I myself will supply this mysterious name. Monsieur de Villareal's alleged sister was called Julie de Sandoval."

"Well, why not, monsieur?" said D'Alvimar, seizing eagerly upon what he believed to be a monstrous blunder on the old man's part. "I did not wish to mention that name. It was not becoming in me to reveal it, and I thought that you did not know it. Since you yourself, by asserting that to be the fact, have been guilty of one of those falsehoods which you rebuke so sharply in others, let me tell you, monsieur, that Julie de Sandoval was my mother's daughter, by her first husband."

"In that case, monsieur," replied Bois-Doré uncovering, "I am ready to withdraw, and to apologize for my violence, if you will swear to me on your honor that you recognized your half-sister, Julie de Sandoval, under her veil, at the tavern of——"

"I swear it to satisfy you. Indeed, I saw her without her veil in that tavern."

"For the third time—pardon my persistence, I owe it to my brother's memory—for the third time, it was really your sister, Julie de Sandoval? The ring which she wore on her finger and is now on mine, and which bears that name in full, can have belonged to no other than her? You swear it?"

"I swear it! Are you satisfied?"

"Stay! there is a crest on the bezel of this ring; a shield azure with a head or. Are those the arms of the Sandovals of your family?"

"Yes, monsieur, the very same."

"Then, monsieur," said Bois-Doré, replacing his cap, "I declare once more that you have lied like the impudent dastard that you are; for I have been making sport of you: your alleged sister's ring bears the name of Maria de Merida, and the arms are simple with a cross argent. I can prove it."

#### XXXII

Guillaume was shaken; but D'Alvimar reflected rapidly.

The moon, even though it had been much brighter, would not have enabled one to see the tiny letters and microscopic crest engraved in a ring, and in those times people had not, as they have to-day, a light all ready in the pocket.

It was necessary therefore to postpone to some other time the examination of this evidence. The only course for the culprit to adopt was to seek, not to avoid, a duel. What he dreaded was that they would deny him that honorable chance of escape, and that he would be made a prisoner of the marquis or of the provincial authorities.

He hurriedly led Guillaume aside and said to him, with a forced laugh:

"I am fairly caught. I attempted to be good-natured, as you requested, in order to put an end to the discussion and to get rid of this old lunatic. I said everything that he tried to make me say, and now his caprice is taking another flight, in which I cannot follow it. It is all my fault; I ought to have told you, immediately on leaving his house, that he has been mad for two days; witness the fact that he asked for Madame de Beuvre's hand yesterday, as others can tell you, and that all this day he has been inventing the most extraordinary fables concerning his brother's death, taking sometimes me, sometimes his mute, sometimes his little dog for the murderer. I was unable to avoid coming to blows with him except by inventing tales which served as small change for his; but he did not calm down until you arrived."

"Why didn't you tell me all this?" exclaimed Guillaume.

"I did not wish to complain of the vexations I had endured in his company; you would have thought that I meant to reproach you for leaving me there. Now, there is only one way to have done with it. Let me fight With him."

"With an old man and a madman? I cannot permit it."

"Come, come, Guillaume," exclaimed Bois-Doré, impatiently, "are you ready now to let me avenge my wrongs, and must I do Monsieur d'Alvimar the honor of striking him, in order to rouse him?"

"We are at your service, monsieur," replied D'Alvimar, shrugging his shoulders. "Come, my dear fellow," he said in a low tone to Guillaume, "you see that it must be! Don't be afraid! I will soon bring this old automaton to reason, and I promise you to strike his sword out of his hand as many times as you please. I will undertake to tire him out so effectually that he will want to hurry home and go to bed, and to-morrow we will laugh over the adventure."

Guillaume was reassured by his merriment.

"I am glad to find you in the proper mood," he said in an undertone, "and I warn you that in putting forth your skill with yonder old man, you would not act a gallant part, and would cause me great pain. I believe that he is mad, but that is an additional reason for using your science with moderation and sending him home with no greater hurt than lame muscles."

Guillaume knew, however, that Bois-Doré was very strong in fencing, But his was an antiquated method which younger men disdained, and he knew, also, that while the marquis's wrist was still supple, he was not firm enough on his legs to hold out more than two or three minutes. Moreover, D'Alvimar was exceedingly expert; so he constantly exhorted him to magnanimity.

The champions having dismounted, the servants were left in the road to watch the horses and the prisoner, Sancho, whom Guillaume ordered them not to set free until the duel was at an end, in order that the difficulties of the situation might not be complicated by unexpected interference from any quarter.

Sancho was very desirous to be at liberty. He felt that he might be useful to his master, as he never recoiled from the most difficult undertaking; but he was too proud to complain and cry out. He remained silent and stoical under guard of Bois-Doré's servants.

While Guillaume, with the two adversaries, was seeking a suitable spot between the road and the boulders, Adamas and Aristandre were engaged in an animated whispered colloquy. Aristandre was desperate, Adamas was in a state of feverish excitement; but the idea that his master might fall a victim to his own generous behavior never entered his head. He was drunk, as it were, in his confidence in the marquis's strength and skill.

"Why do you tremble like a child?" he asked the coachman. "Don't you know that monsieur is capable of eating up thirty-six fellows like this coxcomb of a Spaniard? Nothing but treachery could overcome such a valiant man as he is; but the knave Sancho is carefully guarded, and Monsieur Guillaume and I will have an eye to everything. Am I not a second? Monsieur said so. You heard him. We are two honorable seconds, and we will not allow a thrust or a parry that isn't within the rules."

"But you know no more than I do about the rules of duels between gentlemen! Look you, I have a mind to climb up yonder without anyone seeing me, and, if the Spaniard has too much luck, roll one of those big stones down on him."

"As to that, if I could be sure that you wouldn't crush monsieur with him, I wouldn't advise you not to do it, any more than I would think it was a crime to put two bullets into his head myself, if I wasn't a second. But my master is calling me. Don't you be afraid, all will go well!"

Meanwhile the ground was chosen, a clear space of sufficient size, well lighted by the moon. The swords were measured, Guillaume performing the functions of second impartially for both champions, who had sworn to rely upon him; for Adamas's presence could be only a matter of form.

The duel began.

Thereupon, despite his confidence and his enthusiasm, Adamas felt a cold shudder run through every limb. He became dumb; with his mouth wide open, his eyes starting from his head, he was unconscious of the perspiration and the tears that rolled down his laughable yet touching face.

Guillaume too had done his utmost to persuade himself that the results of that strange combat could not be serious. But when the swords met, his confidence vanished, and he blamed himself for not having prevented, at any price, a meeting which, from the outset, threatened to have serious consequences.

D'Alvimar had promised to place his adversary at his mercy and to spare his life; but, in so far as the moonlight enabled him to distinguish his expression, it seemed to Guillaume that rage and hate were exhibited therein with increasing intensity, and his sharp, close sword-play gave no indication of prudence or of generous purpose. Luckily the marquis was still calm and held his ground with more endurance and elasticity than could have been expected.

Guillaume could say nothing, and contented himself with coughing two or three times, to warn D'Alvimar to show more moderation, without arousing the sensibility of the marquis, who might have lost his head altogether, if he had suspected that he was not taken seriously.

THE DUEL BETWEEN THE MARQUIS AND D'ALVIMAR.

His game was a difficult one to play. He wished to kill the marquis and to seem to kill him unintentionally.

But the contest was serious enough. D'Alvimar felt that he had an adversary inferior to himself in theory; but he was himself disturbed and preoccupied and inferior to himself in practice. His game was a difficult one to play. He wished to kill the marquis and to seem to kill him unintentionally.

So he tried to make him run himself through, by acting on the defensive; and the marquis seemed to detect his stratagem, for he acted cautiously.

The duel was prolonged for some time without result. Guillaume relied on the marquis's fatigue, thinking that D'Alvimar would not strike him down. D'Alvimar found that the marquis showed no signs of giving way; he tried to excite him by feints, hoping that a feeling of impatience would lead him to depart from the surprising prudence of his play.

Suddenly the moon was veiled by a dark cloud, and Guillaume tried to interpose to suspend the combat; he had not time: the two champions were rolling on the ground.

A third champion rushed toward them, at the risk of being spitted; it was Adamas, who, having lost his head and not knowing which had the advantage, plunged wildly into the fray. Guillaume threw him back with violence, and saw the marquis kneeling on D'Alvimar's body.

"Mercy, cousin!" he cried; "mercy for him who would have spared you!"

"It is too late, cousin," replied the marquis, rising. "Justice is done!"

D'Alvimar was nailed to the earth by the marquis's long rapier; he had ceased to live.

Adamas had swooned.

At the cry of mercy, Bois-Doré's servants had hurried to the spot. The marquis was leaning against a rock, breathless and exhausted. But he showed no weakness, and, the moon having emerged from the cloud, he stood erect again to look at the body, and stooped to touch it.

"He is quite dead!" said Guillaume in a reproachful tone. "You have killed a friend of mine, monsieur, and I am unable to congratulate you upon it; for your suspicions must be unjust."

"I will prove to you that they were not, Guillaume," replied Bois-Doré, with a dignity which shook his kinsman's confidence anew; "until then, suspend your displeasure against me and your regrets for this wicked man. When you know the truth, perhaps you will regret having compelled me to risk my life in order to take his."

"But what shall we do with this unfortunate body now?" said Guillaume, downcast and dismayed.

"I will not leave you in any difficulty on my account," said Bois-Doré. "My men will carry it to the Carmelite convent of La Châtre, where the monks will give it such burial as they choose. I have no idea of concealing from anyone what I have done, especially as I still have to punish the other assassin. But I cannot perform that distasteful task in cold blood, and I propose to turn him over to the provost's lieutenant, so that exemplary punishment may be dealt out to him. You will escort him thither, Adamas. Why, where is my trusty Adamas?"

"Alas, monsieur," replied Adamas in a cavernous voice, "here I am at your knees, and very ill over this affair. For a moment I thought that you were dead, and I believe that I was dead myself for a good quarter of an hour. Do not send me anywhere; I have no legs, and I feel as if I had a millwheel in my head."

"Well, my poor fellow, if you are not good for anything more we will send somebody else. I told you that you were too old to endure excitement!"

The marquis walked back toward the horses, while his servants and Guillaume's took up the dead body and covered it with a cloak. But when they looked for the prisoner, they looked in vain.

They had not taken the precaution to bind his legs. Taking advantage of a moment of excitement and confusion, when the servants, disturbed concerning the result of the duel, had left the horses in charge of two of their number, who had had much difficulty in holding them, he had taken flight, or rather had stolen away and hidden somewhere in the ravine.

"Never fear, monsieur le marquis," said Aristandre. "A man with his hands bound can neither run very fast nor conceal himself very skilfully; I promise you that I will catch him; I will undertake to do it. Ride home and rest; you have well earned it!"

"No," said the marquis; "I must see that murderer again. Do two of you search for him, while I and the other two ride with Monsieur d'Ars to the Carmelite convent."

D'Alvimar's body was laid across his horse, and Guillaume's servants assisted Bois-Doré's to transport it.

Bois-Doré rode on ahead with Guillaume, to have the gates of the town opened, if necessary, for it was nearly ten o'clock.

On the road, Bois-Doré furnished his young kinsman with such precise details concerning his brother's death, the recovery of his nephew, the episode of the Catalan knife, the admission extorted from the culprit by his indignation, and finally the testimony of the ring, that Guillaume could not persist in upholding his friend's honor. He admitted that he really knew very little of him, having become intimate with him on slight acquaintance, and that at Bourges there had come to his ears some reports, far from honorable if they were true, concerning the duel which had forced the Spaniard to disappear. Monsieur Sciarra Martinengo was said to have been struck by him, contrary to all the laws of honor, at a moment when he had asked for a suspension of the combat, his sword being broken.

Guillaume had refused to credit that charge; but Bois-Doré's revelations made him look upon it as more serious, and he promised to go to Briantes the next morning to inspect the evidence, and make the acquaintance of the beautiful Mario.

#### XXXIII

In proportion as conviction entered his mind, Guillaume became expansive and friendly with the marquis, no less from a sense of natural equity than from an inborn tendency to be governed absolutely by his latest impression.

"By my soul!" he said, when they were near the town, "you have acted like a gallant man, and the blow that you dealt him, which nailed him to the turf, was one of the most beautiful sword thrusts that I have ever heard of. I have never seen its like, and when you have proved to me that poor Sciarra was such a vile wretch as you say, I shall not be sorry to have seen this one. If I had been less pained, I would have congratulated you upon it. But whatever regret or satisfaction I may feel because of this death I declare that you are a superb swordsman, and I would that I were your equal at that sport!"

Our two cavaliers were already on the Pont des Scabinats—now des Cabignats,—riding toward the gate in the fortifications, when Adamas, who had recovered his courage and had duly reflected, overtook them and begged them to listen to him.

"Do you not think, messires," he said, "that the bringing-in of this body will cause a great commotion in the town?"

"Even so," said the marquis, "do you suppose that I wish to conceal the fact that I have avenged my honor and my brother's death?"

"True, monsieur, you may well boast of it as a noble deed, but not until the body has been consigned to the earth; for in these small places a great noise is often made over a small matter, and the spectacle of a gentleman carried across his horse in this way will make these bourgeois of La Châtre open their eyes. You have enemies, monsieur, and at the present moment Monseigneur de Condé is a very devout Catholic. If he should learn that this Spaniard was covered with strings of beads and blessed relics, that he had confessed to Monsieur Poulain, whose housekeeper is lauding him to the skies in the village of Briantes as a perfect Christian——"

"Well, well, what are you coming at with your old woman's gossip, my dear Adamas?" said the marquis, impatiently.

Guillaume interposed.

"Cousin," he said, "Adamas is right. The laws against the duello are respected by nobody; but evil-minded persons can invoke them at any moment. This D'Alvimar had some powerful friends in Paris; and unfriendly reports may, at one time or another, cause this to be used against you and me, especially against you, who are not esteemed a very ardent Catholic. Take my advice therefore, and let us not go into the town but decide upon some other means of ridding ourselves of this dead man. You are sure of your people and I can answer for mine. Let us have no confidants among the churchmen and bourgeois of a small town, all of whom, in this province, are very bitter against men who have opposed the League and served under the late king."

"There is much truth in what you say," replied Bois-Doré; "but it is most distasteful to me to tie a stone around a dead man's neck and toss him into the river like a dog."

"Why, monsieur," said Adamas, "that man was worth less than any dog!"

"That is true, my friend; I thought so myself an hour ago; but I have no hatred for a corpse."

"Very good, monsieur," said Adamas, "I have an idea which will make everything all right; if we retrace our steps, we shall find within a hundred yards, near the Chambon meadow, the gardener's cottage."

"What gardener? Marie la Caille-Bottée?"

"She is very devoted to monsieur, and they say that she was not always pock-marked."

"Tush, tush! Adamas, this is no time for jesting!"

"I am not jesting, monsieur, and I say that that old woman will keep our secret faithfully."

"And you propose to disturb her peace of mind by carrying a dead man to her? She will die of fright!"

"No, monsieur, for she is not alone in her little isolated cottage. I will take my oath that we shall find a good Carmelite there, who will give the Spanish gentleman Christian burial in a grave somewhere on the gardener's premises."

"You are too much of a Huguenot, Adamas," said Monsieur d'Ars. "The Carmelites are not such dissolute fellows as you imply."

"I say no evil of them, messire; I am speaking of a single one, whom I know, and who has nothing of the monk except the frock and the paternosters. It is Jean le Clope, who followed monsieur le marquis to the war, and for whom monsieur le marquis procured admission to the convent as a disabled veteran."

"On my word, this is excellent advice," said the marquis.

"Jean le Clope is a reliable man, and he has seen too many bloodless faces lying on the ground on battlefields to take fright at the task we propose to entrust to him."

"Let us make haste then," said Monsieur d'Ars, "for my steward is dying, as you know, and I would like to see him if it is not too late."

"Go, cousin," said the marquis. "Attend now to your own affairs; this concerns me and me alone henceforth!"

They shook hands. Guillaume joined his escort and rode away with them toward his château. The marquis and Adamas halted at La Caille-Bottée's cottage, where they did in fact find Jean le Clope, who warmly greeted his patron, calling him his captain.

As is well known, the convents were compelled to take charge of soldiers disabled in the service of the king or of the lord of the province. Most of the religious communities were bound by contract to receive and support these relics of the calamities of war, who were sometimes too fond of high living for pious recluses, sometimes much less corrupt than the monks themselves. However it may have been with the Carmelites of La Châtre, with whose history we are not here concerned, the secular brother Jean le Clope was but little hampered by the rules of the community, and, if he was not missing at meal hours, he was often missing at curfew.

While the marquis was explaining what he expected from his devotion and discretion, Adamas superintended the bringing of the body into the lonely house, and, a quarter of an hour later, Bois-Doré and his attendants rode homeward by way of La Rochaille.

They found Aristandre and his comrades profoundly disappointed at their inability to discover what had become of Sancho.

"Well, monsieur," said Adamas, "perhaps God wills it so! That villain will be very careful never to appear in a neighborhood where he knows that he is unmasked, and he would have been a source of fresh embarrassment to you."

"I confess that I have little taste for executions when my excitement has subsided," replied Bois-Doré, "and that I should have avoided witnessing that one. If I had turned him over to the provost, I should have been obliged to say what I had done with his master, and, as we must keep quiet on that point for the moment, it is all for the best. I consider my dear Florimond's death sufficiently avenged, although the Moor did not see which of the two, the master or the servant, dealt the blow that ended his poor life; but in affairs of this sort, Adamas, the most guilty, perhaps the real culprit, is he who directs it. The servant sometimes deems it his duty to obey a wicked order, and this fellow evidently did not act on his own account or profit by my brother's wealth, since he has remained a servant as before."

Adamas did not share the longing to be indulgent which the marquis experienced after his outburst of energy. He hated Sancho even more bitterly than D'Alvimar, because of his arrogant manner toward his equals, and because of his wariness, in which he had been unable to find any flaw. He considered him quite capable of having advised and executed the crime, but the thing that he dreaded more than all else was the possible persecution of the marquis; so he assisted him to deceive himself concerning the importance of the capture which he was compelled to renounce.

When they reached the gate of the manor of Briantes, they heard the irregular galloping of a riderless horse. It proved to be Sancho's, which had returned to its lost stable. He exchanged a plaintive, almost funereal neigh with D'Alvimar's steed, which a servant was leading by the rein.

"These poor creatures feel the disasters that befall their masters, so it is said," observed the marquis to Adamas: "they are intelligent beasts and live in a state of innocence. For that reason I shall not have these two killed; but as I do not choose to have anything on my estate that ever belonged to that D'Alvimar, and as the price of his property would soil our hands, I propose that they shall be taken ten or twelve leagues away to-morrow night and set at liberty. Whoever will may reap the benefit."

"And in that way," said Adamas, "no one will know where they come from. You can entrust Aristandre with that mission, monsieur. He will not yield to the temptation to sell them for his own benefit, and, if you take my advice, you will let him start at once, and not take them into the courtyard. It is useless to allow these horses to be seen in your stable to-morrow."

"Do what you choose, Adamas," replied the marquis. "I am reminded that that miserable wretch must have had money upon him, and that I should have remembered to take it and give it to the poor."

"Let the lay brother have the benefit of it, monsieur," said the shrewd Adamas; "the more he finds in the dead man's pockets, the better assured you will be of his silence."

It was eleven o'clock when the marquis returned to his salon. Jovelin rushed forward and threw his arms about him. His face sufficiently indicated the agonizing anxiety he had felt.

"My dear friend," said Bois-Doré, "I deceived you; but rejoice, that man is no more; and I return with a light heart. Doubtless my child is asleep at this moment; let us not wake him. I will tell you——"

"The child is not asleep," the mute replied with his pencil. "He divined my apprehensions: he is crying and praying and tossing about in his bed."

"Let us go and comfort the dear heart!" cried Bois-Doré; "but look at me first, my friend, and see if I have no stain on my clothes made by that treacherous blood. I do not wish that the child should know fear or hatred at an age too early for the calmness of conscious strength."

Lucilio relieved the marquis of his cloak, his helmet and his arms, and when they had ascended the stairs they found Mario, barefooted, at the door of his chamber.

"Ah!" cried the child, clinging passionately to his uncle's long legs, and speaking to him with the familiarity which he did not as yet know to be contrary to the customs of the nobility, "so you have come back at last? You are not hurt, my dear uncle? No one has hurt you, eh? I thought that that wicked man meant to kill you, and I wanted to run after you! I was very unhappy! Another time, when you go out to fight, you must take me, since I am your nephew."

"My nephew! my nephew! that is not enough," said the marquis taking him back to his bed. "I mean to be your father. Will that displease you, to be my son? And, by the way," he added, stooping to receive little Fleurial's caresses, who seemed to have realized and shared the distress of Jovelin and Mario, "here is a little friend of mine who no longer belongs to me. Here, Mario, you were so anxious to have him! I give him to you to console you for your unhappiness this evening."

"Yes," said Mario, putting Fleurial beside him on his pillow, "I consent, on condition that he is to belong to us both, and is to love us both alike. But tell me, father, has the wicked man gone away forever?"

"Yes, my son, forever."

"And the king will punish him for killing your brother?"

"Yes, my son, he will be punished."

"What will they do to him?" inquired Mario, thoughtfully.

"I will tell you later, my son. Think only how happy we are to be together."

"They will never take me away from you?"

"Never!"

"Master Jovelin," he said, addressing the mute, "is it not a melancholy thing to think of changing this child's sweet mode of speech, which strikes so melodiously upon the ear? Nay, we will allow him to use the familiar form of address to me in private, since in his mouth that familiarity is a sign of affection."

"Must I say vous to you?" queried Mario in amazement.

"Yes, my child, at least before other people. That is the custom."

"Ah! yes, that is how I spoke to Monsieur l'Abbé Anjorrant! But I love you more than I loved him."

"So you love me already, Mario? I am very glad! But how does it happen? You do not know me yet."

"No matter, I love you."

"And you do not know why?"

"Yes I do! I love you because I love you."

"My friend," said the marquis to Lucilio, "there is nothing so lovely and so lovable as childhood! It speaks as the angels must speak among themselves, and its reasons, which are no reasons, are worth more than all the wisdom of older heads. You must teach this cherub for me. You must fashion for him a noble brain like your own; for I am only an ignorant creature and I wish him to know much more than I do. The times are not so wholly given up to civil war as they were in my youth, and I think that gentlemen should turn their thoughts toward the enlightenment of the mind. But try to let him retain the pretty simple ways that he owes to his life among the shepherds. In truth he is my ideal of the lovely children who play among the flowers on the enchanted banks of the Lignon with its transparent waves."

The marquis, having received from the hands of Adamas a cordial to refresh him after the exertions of the evening, went to bed and slept soundly, the happiest of men.

At a time when, in default of regular legal processes, people were accustomed to take the law into their own hands, and when a suggestion of pardon would have been considered blameworthy and cowardly weakness, the marquis, although far more disposed than most of his contemporaries to display great gentleness in all his dealings, thought that he had performed the most sacred of duties, and therein he followed the ideas and usages in vogue when chivalry was in its prime.

Certainly in those days it would have been impossible to find one gentleman in a thousand who would not have deemed himself possessed of the right to put to death by torture, or at least to order hanged before his eyes, a guilty wretch like D'Alvimar, and who would not have censured or ridiculed the excessively romantic sense of honor which Bois-Doré had displayed in his duel.

Bois-Doré was well aware of it and was not disturbed by the knowledge. He had three reasons for being what he was: first of all his instinct, next the example of humanity set by Henri IV, who was one of the first men of his time to express disgust at the shedding of blood without peril to him who shed it. Henri III, when mortally wounded by Jacques Clement, was so upborne by rage and thirst for vengeance that he was able himself to strike his assassin, and to look on with joy when he was thrown from the window; when Henri IV was wounded in the face by Chastel, his first impulse was to say: "Let that man go!"—And thirdly, Bois-Doré's religious code was found in the acts and exploits of the heroes of Astrée.

In that ideal romance, it was without example that an honorable knight should avenge love, honor or friendship without exposing himself to the greatest dangers. We must not laugh too much at Astrée; indeed the popularity of the book is most interesting to observe. Amid the sanguinary villainies of civil discords, it is a cry of humanity, a song of innocence, a dream of virtue ascending heavenward.

#### XXXIV

The marquis's first thought on waking was for his heir, whom, to conform to the title which was finally adopted, we will call his son.

He recalled somewhat confusedly the events of that agitated night, but he recalled perfectly the great questions of dress that had been raised the day before in connection with his dear Mario. He called him in order to resume the interview they had begun in the treasure-room. But he received no reply and was beginning to be anxious, when the child, who had waked and risen before dawn, came in and threw his arms about his neck, all redolent with the fresh fragrance of the morning.

"Where have you been so early, my young friend?" inquired the old man.

"Father," replied Mario, gayly, "I have been to see Adamas, who has forbidden me to tell you a secret that we have between us. Don't ask me what it is; we are going to give you a surprise."

"Very good, my son; I will ask no questions. I like to be surprised. But aren't we going to breakfast together on this little table by my bed?"

"I haven't time, little father! I must go back to Adamas, who says that he begs you to go to sleep for another hour unless you want to spoil everything."

The marquis did his best to go to sleep again, but to no purpose. He was disturbed about many things. Madame de Beuvre was to come early on that day with her father; Guillaume, too, in case his steward should be better. Had suitable arrangements been made for the dinner? and could Mario properly be presented to a lady in the costume of a mountain shepherd? And, then, the poor child did not even know how to bow, to kiss a lady's hand, or say a word or two of flattery? Would not all his beauty, all his fascinating ways be ridiculed and treated with contempt by those who were not blinded by the voice of blood?

Moreover, no adequate preparations had been made for the hunting party. He had had too much excitement and anxiety to give any thought to that.

"If Adamas, who is never at a loss, were only here, he would console me," thought the marquis.

But so great was his consideration for his faithful servant that he would have pretended to sleep all day, if Adamas had demanded it.

He remained in bed until nine o'clock, but no one came to his relief; and, as hunger and uneasiness began to make a serious impression upon him, he determined to rise.

"What is Adamas thinking about?" he said to himself. "My guests will soon be here. Does he want them to surprise me in my dressing-gown and with this sallow face?"

At last Adamas entered the room.

"Oh! set your mind at rest, monsieur!" he exclaimed. "Do you think me capable of forgetting you? There is no hurry. You will have no company until two o'clock this afternoon; Madame de Beuvre has just sent word to me to that effect."

"To you, Adamas?"

"Yes, monsieur, to me, for I devised the scheme of sending a messenger to her to say that you had a great surprise in store for her, but that nothing was ready. I took all the blame on myself, and I humbly requested her not to arrive before the hour I have mentioned, adding that you desired to keep her here to-night, with monsieur her father, and not to offer her the diversion of hunting until to-morrow."

"What have you done, villain? She will think me insane or uncivil."

"No, monsieur, she took the thing very well, saying that everything that you did was certain to prove your wisdom or your gallantry."

"In that case, my friend, we must think seriously——"

"About nothing, monsieur, nothing at all, I beseech you. You did enough with your brain and your sword last night; for what purpose can God have placed poor Adamas on earth if not to spare you all anxiety about the details of simple matters?"

"Alas! my friend, it will not be easy—not possible even—in so short a time, to make my heir presentable?"

"Do you think so, monsieur?" said Adamas, with an indescribable smile of satisfaction. "I would like to see the thing that you desire that is not possible! Yes, indeed, I would! I would like to see it! But permit me to ask you, monsieur, how your heir is to be announced when he enters the salon?"

"That is a very grave question, my friend; I have already been thinking of the name and title the dear child should bear. Neither his father nor mine was a man of quality; but as I propose to provide for his succession to my title by the proper process and by obtaining the king's consent, if necessary, I think that I can bestow upon him, in anticipation, the title that my own son would have. Therefore, in my house he will be called monsieur le comte."

"There can be no doubt about the propriety of that, monsieur! But the name? Do you propose to call him plain Bouron, that poor child who deserves so well to bear a more illustrious name?"

"Understand, Adamas, that I do not blush for my father's name, and that that name, which was borne by my brother, will always be dear to me. But as I am much more attached to the name that my king gave me, I propose that Mario, also, shall bear it, and shall be Bouron de Bois-Doré, which, by the customary abbreviation, will become plain Bois-Doré."

"That is what I intended to suggest! Come, monsieur, dress yourself and eat your breakfast here in your bedroom with the child, for the hall below is in the hands of my decorators; then I will make your toilet. But you must wear to-day the clothes that I ask you to put on."

"Do what you please, Adamas, as you are responsible for everything!"

While eating and laughing and talking with his heir, honest Sylvain suddenly fell into profound melancholy. He succeeded in concealing it from the boy. But when Adamas, declaring that everything was going satisfactorily, came to make him up for the day, he opened his heart to him, while the child played about the château.

"My poor friend," he said, "I am amazed that the numes célestes, who have watched over me with such paternal care of late, have allowed me none the less to become involved in a terrible embarrassment."

"What embarrassment, monsieur?"

"Have you already forgotten, Adamas, that I offered my heart and my life to a beautiful enchantress on the morning of the very day when I found Mario? Now, as she did not reject, but simply postponed my offer, the result is that I run the risk—according to you!—of having other heirs than this child, to whom I would gladly devote my life and bequeath my property."

"The devil! monsieur, I did not think of that! But do not be disturbed! As it was I who put the fatal plan into your mind, it is for me to find you a way out of the dilemma. I will think about it, monsieur, I will think about it! Don't forget to beautify yourself and to make merry to-day."

"Indeed I will not. But what coat is that you are giving me, my friend!"

"Your coat à la paysanne, monsieur; it is one of the handsomest you have."

"In truth, I think it is the very handsomest; and it pains me to make myself so fine when my poor Mario——"

"Monsieur, monsieur, let me arrange everything; our Mario will be very presentable."

The marquis's "peasant" coat was white velvet and white satin, with a profusion of silver lace and magnificent ruffles. White was then the color of the peasants, who dressed in white linen or coarse fustian at all seasons; so that whenever a person was dressed all in white, that person was said to be dressed à la paysanne, and it was one of the most popular fashions.

The marquis was certainly very amusing in that dress; but everybody was so accustomed to see him disguised as a young man; he was tricked out from head to foot with such beautiful things and such curious baubles; his perfumes were so exquisite, and, in spite of everything, there was so much nobility in his elderly charms, and so much kindly amiability in his ways, that if people had found him suddenly transformed into the serious, methodical personage that his years would naturally import, they would have regretted the pleasure he gave the eyes and the satisfaction he was able to afford the mind.

About two o'clock a scullion, dressed in ancient feudal costume for the occasion, and stationed at the top of the entrance tower, blew a blast on an old horn to announce the approach of a cavalcade.

The marquis, accompanied by Lucilio, betook himself to that tower to receive the lady of his thoughts. He would have been glad to take his heir with him; but Mario was in Adamas's hands, and, moreover, it was part of a plan finally proposed by the latter, and adopted with some modifications by his master, that the child's appearance on the scene should be postponed until the conclusion of an explanation on a delicate subject with Madame de Beuvre.

#### XXXV

Lauriane arrived, riding a beautiful little white horse which her father had trained for her, and which she managed with remarkable grace.

Thanks to her mourning, which the fashion of that day permitted to be white, she, too, was dressed à la paysanne, with a habit of fine white broadcloth, a waist with stripes of silver lace, and a light lace handkerchief over the inevitable widow's cap.

"Well, well!" cried the downright De Beuvre, when he saw the marquis's costume, "so you have already assumed your lady's colors, my dear son-in-law?"

His daughter succeeded in making him hold his peace before the servants; but, when they were in the salon, despite the promise he had made her to refrain from all jesting on the subject, he could not contain himself, and asked with deep interest when the wedding was to be.

Instead of being annoyed or embarrassed, the marquis was exceedingly pleased at this opening, and requested a secret interview touching a matter of great gravity.

The valets were dismissed, the doors closed, and Bois-Doré, kneeling at dear little Lauriane's feet, addressed her in these terms:

"Queen of youth and beauty, you see at your feet a loyal servant whom a most momentous event has filled with pleasure and embarrassment, with joy and grief, with hope and fear. When, two days since, I offered my heart, my name and my fortune to the most amiable of nymphs, I deemed myself unfettered by any other duty or attachment. But——"

Here the marquis was interrupted.

"Gadzooks! monsieur my son-in-law," cried De Beuvre, affecting violent indignation and rolling his eyes fiercely, "you make sport of us, do you, and think that I am a man to allow you to retract your word after you have transfixed my poor child's heart with the deadly shaft of love?"

"Oh! hush, pray, my dear father!" said Lauriane, smilingly and sweetly; "you compromise me. Luckily I can be certain that the marquis will not believe me to be so capricious that, after I have asked him for seven years for reflection, I can be already so eager to summon him to keep his word."

"Allow me to speak," said the marquis, taking Lauriane's hand in his. "I know, my sovereign, that you have no love in your heart, and it is that which gives me the courage to crave your pardon. And do you, my dear neighbor, laugh with all your strength, for there is abundant occasion. And I will laugh with you to-day, although yesterday I shed many tears."

"Really, my good neighbor?" said honest De Beuvre, taking his other hand. "If you are speaking as seriously as you seem to be, I will laugh no more. Have you any trouble of which we can assist to relieve you?"

"Tell us, my dear Celadon," added Lauriane, affectionately, "tell us your sorrows!"

"My sorrows are dispelled, and, if you allow me to retain your friendship, I am the most fortunate of men. Listen, my friends," he said, rising with some effort. "The day before yesterday you heard a prophecy made by people who were not really sorcerers: 'Within three days, three weeks, or three months, you will be a father?'"

"Even so," said De Beuvre, recurring to his jesting humor; "do you believe that the prophecy will be fulfilled?"

"It is fulfilled, my good neighbor. I am a father, and it is no longer for myself that I ask, from you and the divine Lauriane, seven years of hope and sincere affection: but for my heir, my only son, for——"

At that moment the folding-doors were thrown open, and Adamas, arrayed in state, announced in a ringing voice and with an air of triumph:

"Monsieur le Comte Mario de Bois-Doré!"

Everybody was surprised; for the marquis did not expect his son to appear so soon, and he did not know what sort of costume they would succeed in arranging for him.

What was his joy when he saw that Mario also was dressed à la paysanne, that is to say in a costume exactly similar in material and cut to that which he himself wore; the satin doublet with innumerable little slashes on the arms; the colletin sans ailerons, or shoulder cape without flowing sleeves, of white velvet slashed with silver; the full trunk hose, four ells in width, gathered below the knee, fastened with pearl buttons, and open a little at the side to show the rose-shaped buckle of the garter; silk-stockings, and shoes à pont-levis, fastened with buckles in the shape of roses; the ruff à confusion, that is to say of several rows of unequal size, with tucks of varied patterns; the plumed hat, diamonds everywhere, a little baldric all studded with pearls, and a tiny rapier which was a veritable chef-d'œuvre!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Forgive him," said the marquis, "he is a child of nature."

"That is why he attracts me," Lauriane replied, "and I waive all ceremony."

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

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

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

"Oh! I know how," said Mario. "I have ridden Squilindre!"

"The big carriage horse? Tell me, my boy, did you find his trot comfortable?"

"Not very," said Mario, laughing.

And he began to play and chatter with Guillaume and his friends.

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

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

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

#### XXXVI

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I give it back to you, dear Celadon!" cried Lauriane.

But her father interposed. He chose to tease her also.

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

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

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

Lauriane read his perplexity on his face and generously came to his assistance.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Vive monsieur le marquis! Vive monsieur le comte!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"As I have told you, monsieur le marquis, with them, it is impossible."

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

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

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

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

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

This insidious and abrupt attack nearly unhorsed Bois-Doré.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Gone not to return?" inquired Lauriane.

"Not to return," replied Bois-Doré firmly.

"Well," said she, after a brief pause, "I am very glad of it."

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

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

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

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

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

"He did resemble it! You speak of your friend as if he were dead!"

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

Guillaume and Bois-Doré were left alone for an instant, behind the others.

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

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

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

"Yes, Aristandre has inquired. The lay brother did his duty."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lauriane was seated opposite the marquis, with Mario at her right.

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

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

#### XXXVII

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She was very lovely so, and was received with loud applause.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Around the crest was this motto: All men are thus before me.

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

The play was enthusiastically applauded.

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

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

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

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

A competition in arquebus shooting was organized by Guillaume d'Ars.

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

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

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

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

The marquis called it the Palace of Astrée.

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

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

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

The guests separated and quiet reigned once more at the château of Briantes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#### XXXVIII

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

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

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

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

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

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

But we must return to the lesson.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The study in which he took the most pleasure was that of music.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"So it was really true?"

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

A momentous question!

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

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

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

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

The young king was brave; he wept when he withdrew his forces.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Like me?" said the marquis, with a smile.

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

"But you are very stout, neighbor!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#### XXXIX

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What is the matter, pray, my Lauriane?" he asked, emboldened by this outburst.

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

"But your papa will return soon; he told you so when he went."

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

"Has he gone very far away?"

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

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

"We will go together to look for her; come!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On the following day, two or three more noses were missing, and the indignant Adamas caused a guard to be stationed day and night in the garden.

The vandalism ceased, and honest Lucilio, touched by Bois-Doré's distress, compounded an Italian paste by means of which, with much patience, he neatly replaced all the noses.

But who could be the perpetrator of the crime? Adamas suspected; but the marquis, refusing to believe that anyone in his household was capable of such infamous conduct, attributed it to some agent of Monsieur Poulain.

"That hypocrite," he said, "considering us all heathens and idolaters, probably imagined that we worshipped those statues! And yet, Adamas, they are all modest and decently dressed, as it is fitting that they should be in a place where our children go to and fro."

"I would say with you that it is some villain who very evidently entertains the detestable desire to cause monsieur le comte to be scolded. Now, everybody here would lay down his life for him, they all love him so, except one detestable creature——"

"No, no, Adamas!" rejoined the generous-hearted marquis. "It is impossible! It would be too hateful on the part of one of the fair sex."

They were beginning to forget this momentous affair when something even more unpleasant occurred.

[24]Michelet, unpublished letter.