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Title: Anthony Adverse (1933)
Author: Hervey Allen
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eBook No.: 0200541.txt
Language: English
Date first posted: August 2002
Date most recently updated: August 2002
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Due to the large foreign character content, the 8-bit ASCII character set
(which included accented characters) has been used. Anthony spends time
in many countries, hence the Italian, Spanish, German, French,
and even Cajun.
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Title: Anthony Adverse (1933)
Author: Hervey Allen
"There is something in us that can be without us, and will be after
us, though indeed it hath no history of what it was before us, and
cannot tell how it entered into us."
--SIR THOMAS BROWNE.
CONTENTS
VOLUME ONE
THE ROOTS OF THE TREE
BOOK I--IN WHICH THE SEED FALLS IN THE ENCHANTED FOREST
I. The Coach
II. The Little Madonna
III. At the "Golden Sheaf"
IV. The Enchanted Forest
V. A Pastoral Interlude
VI. The Muse of Tragedy
VII. The Fly Walks In
VIII. A Hole in the Wall
BOOK II--IN WHICH THE ROOTS OF THE TREE ARE EXPOSED
IX. The Convent of Jesus the Child
X. The Chick Emerges
XI. Between Two Worlds
XII. Casa da Bonnyfeather
XIII. The Evidence of Things Unseen
XIV. Reality Makes a Bid
XV. The Shadows of Faith
XVI. Pagan Mornings
XVII. Philosophical Afternoons
XVIII. Bodies in the Dark
XIX. The Numbers of the Virgin
BOOK III--IN WHICH THE ROOTS OF THE TREE ARE TORN LOOSE
XX. Apples and Ashes
XXI. Adventures of a Shepherdess
XXII. Icons and Iconoclasts
XXIII. Farewells and Epitaphs
VOLUME TWO
THE OTHER BRONZE BOY
BOOK IV--IN WHICH SEVERAL IMAGES TRAVEL TOGETHER
XXIV. The Table of the Sun
XXV. The Villa Brignole
XXVI. The Street of the Image Makers
XXVII. The Pillars of Hercules
XXVIII. The Seed of a Miracle
BOOK V--IN WHICH THE NECESSARY ALLOY IS ADDED
XXIX. The House of Silenus
XXX. The Miracle in the Chapel of St. Paul, Regla
XXXI. A Decent Mammalian Philosophy
XXXII. Honour Among Thieves
XXXIII. A Mantilla Intrudes
XXXIV. Through a Copy of Velasquez
XXXV. The Temporary Sequestration of the Ariostatica
BOOK VI--IN WHICH THE BRONZE GOES INTO THE FIRE
XXXVI. A Gradual Approach to Africa
XXXVII. The Crew Go Ashore
XXXVIII. A Whiff of Grapeshot
XXXIX. Viewed from Gallegos
XL. The Master of Gallegos
XLI. A Glimpse into the Furnace
XLII. The Vision of Light
XLIII. The Image Begins to Melt
XLIV. The Hard Metal Runs
XLV. The Bronze Is Sublimed
XLVI. The Unicorn Charges Home
VOLUME THREE
THE LONELY TWIN
BOOK VII--IN WHICH A WORLDLY BROTHER IS ACQUIRED
XLVII. Reverberations
XLVIII. Old Friends Grown Older
XLIX. What Banking Is About
L. Don Luis Reflects by Candlelight
LI. The Coach and the Berlin
LII. Over the Crest
LIII. The Force of Gravity
LIV. The Plains of France
LV. The Little Man at Great Headquarters
BOOK VIII--IN WHICH PROSPERITY ENFORCES LONELINESS
LVI. A Metallic Standard Is Resumed
LVII. Your Humble Obedient Servant
LVIII. Gloria Mundi
LIX. The Swan-song of Romance
LX. Panem et Circenses
LXI. Shoes and Stockings
LXII. The Prince of the Peace Beyond the Pyrenees
BOOK IX--IN WHICH THE TREE IS CUT DOWN
LXIII. By the River of Babylon
LXIV. The Snake Changes Its Skin
LXV. The People of the Bear
LXVI. The Pilgrimage of Grace
LXVII. The Prison of St. Lazarus
LXVIII. The Stone in the Heart of the Tree
Epilogue
VOLUME ONE
THE ROOTS OF THE TREE
BOOK ONE
In Which the Seed Falls in the Enchanted Forest
CHAPTER ONE
THE COACH
Between the villages of Aubière and Romagnat in the ancient
Province of Auvergne there is an old road that comes suddenly over
the top of a high hill. To stand south of this ridge looking up at
the highway flowing over the skyline is to receive one of those
irrefutable impressions from landscape which requires more than a
philosopher to explain. In this case it is undoubtedly, for some
reason, one of exalted expectation.
From the deep notch in the hillcrest where the road first appears,
to the bottom of the valley below it, the fields seem to sweep down
hastily for the express purpose of widening out and waiting by the
way. From the low hills for a considerable distance about, the
stone farm buildings all happen to face toward it, and although
most of them have stood thus for centuries their expressions of
curiosity remain unaltered.
Somewhat to the east the hill of Gergovia thrusts its head into the
sky, and continually stares toward the notch as if speculating
whether Celtic pedlars, Roman legionaries, Franks, crusaders, or
cavaliers will raise the dust there.
In fact in whatever direction a man may look in this particular
vicinity his eyes are led inevitably by the seductive tracery of
the skyline to the most interesting point in all that countryside,
the place where the road surmounts the hill. Almost anything might
appear there suddenly against the empty sky, fix itself upon the
memory, and then move on to an unknown destination.
Perhaps the high hill of Gergovia where heroic events have taken
place in the remote past now misses a certain epic grandeur in the
rhythms of mankind. For ages past tribes have ceased to migrate
and armies to march over the highway it looks down upon.
Cavalcades, or companies of pilgrims have rarely been seen upon it
for some centuries now. Individual wayfaring has long been the
rule. Even by the last quarter of the eighteenth century it had
long been apparent what the best way of travelling the roads of
this world is when one has a definite, personal object in view.
Such, indeed, was then the state of society that the approach of a
single individual, if he happened to belong to a certain class,
might cause as much consternation to a whole countryside as the
advance of a hostile army.
It was this condition of affairs, no doubt, that accounted for the
alarm upon the faces of several peasants as they stood waiting
uneasily in the late afternoon sunshine one spring day in the year
1775. They were gazing apprehensively at the deep notch in the
hill just above them where the road, which they had been mending,
surmounted the ridge. Indeed, a grinding sound of wheels from the
farther side of the crest had already reached the ears of the
keenest some moments before.
Presently there was the loud crack of a whip, the shouts of a
postilion, and the heads of two horses made their appearance prick-
eared against the sky. The off-leader, for there were evidently
more horses behind, was ridden by a squat-bodied little man with
abnormally short legs. A broad-brimmed felt hat with the flap
turned up in front served, even at considerable distance, to
accentuate under its dingy green cockade an unusual breadth of
countenance. The ridge at the apex is very steep. The first team
had already begun to descend before immediately behind it appeared
the second straining hard against the breast straps. Then the
coach, a "V"-shaped body with the powdered heads of two footmen in
cocked hats peering over its slightly curved roof, outlined itself
sharply in the bright notch of the road and seemed for an instant
to pause there.
As soon as it hove in full sight a babble of relieved exclamation
arose from the group of watching peasants. It was NOT the coach
of M. de Besance.
As to whose coach it might be, there was small time for speculation.
The problem rapidly began to solve itself. The coach was heavy and
the hill was steep. Suddenly, at a cry from the little postilion,
who began to use his whip like a demon, the horses stretched
themselves out. An immense cloud of dust arose and foamed about the
wheels.
The black body of the coach was now seen coming down the road like
a log over a waterfall. Oaths, cries, shouts from the white-faced
footmen, the squall and moan of brakes, and a frantic drumming of
hoofs accompanied its descent. Four horses and the carriage
flashed as one object through the spray of a little stream at the
foot of the hill. There was a nautical pitch as the vehicle
mounted violently upon a brief length of causeway that led to the
ford. But so great was the momentum which it had accumulated and
the terror of the horses that the postilion was unable to check
them even with the attempted assistance of the peasants.
A large hole full of water on one side of the little causeway now
became horribly apparent to him. With a quick jerk on the bridle
and a firm hand the clever little driver dragged his horses around
it. The front wheels missed it by a fraction. But there had not
been time to turn the trick entirely. For an instant the left hind
wheel hung spinning. Then to the accompaniment of a shrill
feminine scream from the interior of the coach it sank with a
sickening jar and gravelly crunch into the very centre of the pit.
Nevertheless, the rear of the carriage finally rose to the level of
the causeway as the horses once more struggled forward. A high
water mark showed itself upon the yellow stockings of the petrified
footmen. The coach lurched again violently, rocked, and stopped.
Scarcely had the coach body ceased to oscillate in its slings when
from the window projected a claret-coloured face surmounted by a
travel-stained wig much awry. A hand like a lion's paw flourished
a gold-headed cane furiously, and from the mouth of its entirely
masculine owner, which vent can only be described as grim,
proceeded in a series of staccato barks and lion-like roars a
masterpiece of Spanish profanity. It began with God the Father and
ranged through the remainder of the Trinity. It touched upon the
apostles, not omitting Judas; skipped sulphurously through a score
or two of saints, and ended with a few choked bellows caused by
twinges of violent pain, on Santiago of Compostela. During the
entire period of this soul-shaking address, and for several
speechless seconds after, a small, intensely black, forked beard
continued to flicker like an adder's tongue through the haze of
words surrounding it. Somewhat exhausted, its owner now paused.
Those who thought his vocabulary exhausted, however, were sadly
mistaken.
The gentleman looking out of the coach window owned estates both in
Spain and in Italy. From both he drew copious revenues not only of
rents but of idiom. He was of mixed Irish, Spanish, and Tuscan
ancestry, and his fluency was even thrice enhanced. He now gripped
his cane more firmly and lapsed into Italian.
"You mule's bastard," roared he, twisting his head around with an
obvious grin of pain to address the little man sitting astride the
lead horse, "Come here, I say. Come here till I break your back.
I'll . . ." The rest was cut short by a second grimace of agony
and a whistling sound from the cane.
The recipient of this alluring invitation climbed down from his
saddle rather slowly, but with no further signs of hesitation
walked imperturbably past his four quivering horses toward the door
of the coach. His legs, which already appeared small when astride
a horse, were now seen to be shorter than ever and crooked. Yet he
moved with a certain feline motion that was somehow memorable. As
he turned to face the door of the coach and removed his cocked hat,
two tufts of mouse-coloured hair just over his ears, and a long,
black whip thrust through his belt till it projected out of his
coat tails behind, completed for the peasants, who were now
crowding as close as they dared, the illusion that they were
looking, not at a man, but at an animal vaguely familiar.
The door of the coach was now pushed open by the gold-headed cane
revealing to those by the roadside a glimpse of the sumptuous
interior of a nobleman's private carriage. Its owner had been
riding with his back to the horses. As the door opened wider a
long, white object projecting across the aisle toward the rear
disclosed itself as a human leg disguised by a plethora of bandages
and resting upon a "T"-shaped stand contrived out of a couple of
varnished boards. On this couch the ill member with its swathed
foot seemed to repose like a mummy. On the rear seat could be
caught a glimpse of a brocaded skirt the folds of which remained
motionless.
The claret-coloured face now appeared again and the cane was once
more flourished as if about to descend upon the back of the
unfortunate postilion waiting hat in hand just beyond its reach.
But the gentleman had now reached the limit of his field of action.
He was the owner of the mummified limb on the "T"-shaped stand, a
fact of which he was just then agonizingly reminded, and a torrent
of several languages that seemed to start at his waist literally
leapt out of his mouth.
To the surprise of all but the footmen, who were thoroughly inured
to such scenes, the little man in the road ventured to reply. He
purred in a soft Spanish patois accompanied by gestures that
provided a perfect pantomime. Due to his eloquent motions towards
the peasants in the ditch and the hole in the road, it was not
necessary to understand his dialect in order to follow his
argument. With this the gentleman, who had meanwhile violently
jerked his wig back into place, seemed inclined to agree.
Seeing how things were going, a tall fellow somewhat more
intelligent than his companions now stepped forward.
"It is to be hoped that monsieur will overlook the existence of the
terrible hole which has caused him such discomfort . . ."
"Overlook its existence, you scoundrel, when it nearly bumped me
into purgatory!" roared the gentleman. "What do you mean?"
"Ah, if we had only known monsieur was coming this way so soon it
should have been filled in before this. It is very difficult now
to get these rascals to come to the corvée. We were informed you
would not arrive until day after tomorrow. I can tell you, sir,"
continued he, turning an eye on his miserable companions which they
did not seem to appreciate, "I can tell you they were just now in a
fine sweat when they heard monsieur's coach ascending the hill. If
it had been that of M. le Comte de Besance . . . oh, if it had been
M. le Comte himself!"
"M. de Besance? Ah, then we are already upon his estates!"
interrupted the gentleman in the coach. "Do you hear that, my
dear?" Seemingly placated, and as if the incident were drawing to
a close, he began to close the door. Noticing the crest on the
outside panel for the first time, the man by the road licked his
lips and hastened to correct himself.
"But yes, monseigneur," he gasped, "the Château de Besance is
scarcely half an hour's drive. One goes as far as the cross-roads
at Romagnat and then turns to the left by the little wood. And the
road from here on monseigneur will find in excellent shape. For a
week now we have laboured upon it even in wheat sowing time."
Mollified at finding himself so near the end of a long and painful
journey the gentleman's face relaxed somewhat from its unrelenting
scowl. A few pale blotches began to appear through its hitherto
uniform tint of scarlet. Encouraged by this the unfortunate
bailiff essayed further.
"By special order we have smoothed the road from Romagnat for the
illustrious guest expected at the château; but not until day after
tomorrow." Here he bowed. "Yet an hour later and this accurséd
hole would have been filled. A little more willingness on the part
of these"--a grim smile of understanding on the face of the
nobleman here transported the bailiff--"a little more skill on the
part of monseigneur's coachman . . ."
Scarcely had these words left the man's mouth, however, before a
hail of rocks and mud set him dodging and dancing. The small
postilion who had all this time been waiting in the road hat in
hand was galvanized into instant action. On all fours, he dashed
about snatching up every clod and stone that came ready to his
paws. The whip flickered tail-like over his back, his grey-green
eyes blazed brilliantly, and he spat and squalled out a stream of
curses that might have done credit to his master. One of the
peasants began to mutter something about the evil eye, and all
began to draw back from the coach.
"Are we all right?" shouted the master to his footmen.
"Yes, Your Excellency," they replied as if with one voice.
"Drive on then, Sancho, you devil's cat," roared the gentleman now
grinning with enjoyment at the grotesque scene before him and with
satisfaction at finding that neither his leg nor his coach was
irreparably damaged.
But at the word "cat" the little postilion fairly bounded into the
air. His hair seemed to stand on end. Those outside the coach
appeared to be fascinated. They continued to stand and stare until
with an impatient gesture the gentleman on the inside pulled a
tasselled cord. A small bell hung in a yoke on the roof tinkled
musically, and the horses long accustomed to the signal moved
forward.
Finding himself about to be left alone on the highroad in a
hopeless minority, the postilion with a final snarl turned, picked
up his hat, clapped it on his head, and in a series of panther-like
leaps, for his legs were far too short to run, gained the lead
horse already some yards ahead and vaulted into the saddle.
"A cat! A cat!" shrieked the peasants. The four horses broke into
a trot, and the coach and its passengers rocked and rolled along
the road that had been so carefully "smoothed" to the Château de
Besance.
But rumour preceded it in the person of a peasant runner who took a
short cut across the fields. The servants at the château were
warned of the unexpectedly sudden approach of visitors. Even
before the coach reached the cross-roads at Romagnat that entire
village was agog. For nothing except scandal spreads so fast as an
apt nickname. The two indeed are frequently related, and in this
case as long as he remained in that part of Auvergne Don Luis
Guzman Sotoymer y O'Connell, conde de Azuaga in Estremadura,
Marquis da Vincitata in Tuscany, and Envoy Extraordinary to the
Court of France from that grand duchy, was invariably associated
with his feline postilion, Sancho, and referred to over the entire
countryside as Monsieur le Marquis de Carabas and his cat.
Compared with the surface of the royal highway the recently
smoothed road upon the estates of M. de Besance was as a calm
harbour to the Bay of Biscay. Both Don Luis and his leg thus began
to experience considerable benefit from the comparative ease with
which the coach now rolled along. The end of a ten days' journey
from Versailles was almost in sight, and the marquis began to
contemplate the bandages in the vicinity of his big toe--from which
only a faint, blue light now seemed to emanate--if not with entire
satisfaction at least with considerable relief. As he did so his
eyes happened to stray past his carefully cherished foot into the
deep recess formed by the rear seat, thus serving to remind him of
what he was at times somewhat prone to forget.
The ample rear seat of the coach upholstered in a smooth velvet of
a light rose colour was deep enough to form, with its painted side
panels and the arched roof above it, what seemed from the front
seat, where the marquis was now leaning back, to be a deep alcove.
Sunk in the luxurious cushions of the seat, and reclining against
the back of the coach with her head directly under an oval window
was what appeared to be the body of a young girl scarcely eighteen
years of age. Her form was completely relaxed. Her long sensitive
hands, upon one finger of which was a wedding ring, lay with
startling and web-like whiteness against the rose of the cushions.
Two waxen arms disappeared at the elbows into the folds of a grey
silk travelling scarf wrapped about her shoulders like a Vigée-
Lebrun drapery. She sat with one leg crossed over the other so
that her skirt, stiffly brocaded in a heavy heliotrope and gold
pattern, fell in a sharp-edged fold that might have been moulded in
porcelain to one white-slippered foot.
Used as he was to an almost selfless yielding in his girl-wife
which constantly expressed itself in his presence in her relaxed
physical attitudes, there was, as he now looked at her across the
aisle of the coach, something in her posture which caused Don Luis
to glance hastily and uneasily at her face. Her small, rather neat
head lay drooped to one side. Since Bourges, which they had left
hastily after the death of her maid by plague, she had been unable
to accomplish an elaborate powdered coiffure. Consequently her own
hair of a pure saffron colour seldom seen in the south of Europe,
burst, rather than was combed back, into a high Grecian knot held
precariously by one gold-knobbed pin. Across her wide, clear
forehead, above carefully pencilled and minutely pointed arcs of
eyebrows, and blowing out from the temples before and around two
finely chiselled ears, sprang a delightful hedge of ringlets and
tiny silken wires. These in the rays of the western sun, which
darted now and again through the oval window behind, were touched
along with a thousand dust motes that danced in the semi-darkness
of the coach, into a sudden blaze and aura of golden glory. A
straight nose, and a rather small, pursed mouth, whose corners were
nevertheless drawn out enough to be turned down toward an obstinate
little chin, completed a countenance with a bisque complexion like
that of a miniature. It needed only that the eyes should be wide
open and staring directly at you out of the shadows to give the
impression that you were actually in the presence of some dream-
like and helpless doll. But her eyes were now closed, or almost
so. As her husband looked at them with their long, brown lashes
disclosing only a blue polished glimmer of the pupils beneath,
while the lids remained perfectly motionless, it calmly occurred to
him that she might have fainted.
Yet this realization even when it became a certainty did not
suggest to Don Luis any necessity for immediate action. Before
everything else the marquis was a connoisseur, an appreciator of
rare and accidental patterns of beauty in nature, and of their
successful imitation or creation in art. The picture before him
was a combination of both. The wide-flung frame of the upholstered
seat, the delicate rose-leaf tint of the background, the
perspective of the alcove, and the unusual arrangement of its
lights and shadows were, so it happened, in exact harmony with the
central and somewhat tragic figure of the portrait. There was even
a high light in precisely the proper place, for a large emerald
breast pin concentrated the stray beams of sunlight and deflected
them in a living grey-green shaft across the folds of the girl's
scarf.
Don Luis was delighted. For the time being he felt that his
condescension and his trouble in marrying this young woman had been
rewarded. And where had he seen that exact arrangement of
headdress and features, accidental to be sure, but quite purely
classic in effect? Ah, it was on a coin of Faustine; or was it
Theodora? Perhaps a combination of both. One's mind played tricks
like that. His artistic imagination no doubt! Yes, there was
something a little Byzantine here, and yet quite Grecian behind
with the knot, of course. Well, he would look again in that
cabinet in the Pitti next time he was in Florence. He knew the
exact spot where it stood. Just next to that vile medallion of
Guido. . . . But a slight trembling of his wife's eyelids reminded
him that some more direct attention to the subject of so admirable
a reverie was now in order.
"Maria," said he, leaning forward and feeling along her arms as if
she were a doll whose limbs might have been accidentally broken,
"listen, I am speaking to you."
Recalled thus from somewhere else by a command not to be
disregarded, she slowly opened her eyes, wide, and very blue, upon
him. Scarcely had full consciousness returned to her look before
she hastened to disengage her arms from his grasp and to whisper,
"Better now. It was that last jolt. I was sure we should all be
killed. I prayed to her all the way down the hill. I dreamed I
was with her now." A haze suffused itself over her eyes as if she
had been looking at the little hills of a child's paradise with the
morning mist still gathered upon them.
For a moment he remained silent. There was one crack, however, in
his otherwise turtle-like armour. Glancing toward a statuette of
the Madonna, which at his wife's entreaty had been set in a niche
in the side of the coach, he crossed himself fervently. The
upholstery had been cut away to allow the insertion of this figure
and its little shrine, and for some time he kept his eyes fixed in
its direction with an expression at once conventionally pious and
fearfully sincere. Only a boyhood in Spain could have achieved it.
But while it lasted and his lips moved, the girl remained still. A
look of mixed jealousy and chagrin as if she were loath to share
some personal possession with him hardened her eyes and brought her
chin a little further forward while his devotions went on. At
last, seeing that his gaze had shifted to the window again, she
ventured to ask, "What happened?"
"Nothing," said he. The coach rolled on a short distance.
Settling back he pulled up a square flap in the cushion and
produced from a locker in the seat a bottle and a small, silver
travelling mug. "Nothing, fortunately," he repeated, "but drink
this and you will soon feel better. Shall I tell you now? It was
a deep hole in the road. A few minutes later and it would have
been filled. No doubt it did jar you badly sitting directly over
the wheel, but the coach of monseigneur is undoubtedly a good one.
We shall not be delayed."
Without spilling any of the wine which he offered her, she managed
to sip it down and wipe the scarlet stain from her lips with a wisp
of a handkerchief. Seeing how steady were her hands, Don Luis
congratulated her and proceeded to follow up his panacea for all
earthly ills, as he put the bottle back in the seat, with a little
cheering chat.
"It is really too bad that both of the mishaps of the journey have
fallen upon you, my dear," said he, wiping his own lips. "I could
complain to M. de Besance about this last one and make it lively
for those lazy peasants. He is said to prefer the high justice to
the low, but it is not quite so easy in these disturbed times to
take the high hand as it used to be. Hanging or driving away a
tenant is not to be thought of nowadays, especially when one's luck
at cards has been of the sorriest. They say some of these fellows
in the country are getting impatient at sending all their rents to
Versailles. The fields here look in condition though," he
exclaimed, "fine, well-tilled acres!"
She nodded wearily.
"So they didn't expect us so soon," he chuckled, "otherwise that
hole would not have 'existed.' Well, Sancho paid them back in
their own loose dirt." He proceeded to relate the incident, at
which she succeeded in smiling faintly.
"No, we are decidedly before-hand with them. If you had not
insisted on delaying at Bourges to be sure that maid would die, we
might have been here two days sooner. That delay was a sheer waste
of time. Oh! it has been difficult with your hair, I am sure. But
do you know I admire you as you are. There is a certain classic
air about you. They told me you were quite the rage at the Petit
Trianon in a milkmaid's smock. It was really clever of you to
manage that. To be commanded to the dairy by the queen herself,
twice!"
A slight tinge of colour began to suffuse her cheeks.
"Still you should never have let them find out that you really did
know how to milk," he went on. "That was a faux pas, a decidedly
peculiar accomplishment for the wife of an envoy extraordinary. It
is not real simplicity they want. You should have merely pretended
to be learning rapidly. But to have finished milking before
Madame! It was fatal! I can tell you our stock dropped after
that. I felt like M. Law himself. If it had not been for my luck
in the oeil-de-Boeuf and that night at de Guémené's soirée we should
have been nowhere, nowhere at all. Even the mission might have
failed. But when I won M. d'Orléans' new coach from him at écarté,
and drove off in it with the lilies on the door! Ha! That was
something, even if one's wife did know how to milk." He looked at
her, stroking his beard with satisfaction.
The coach rolled on while the shadows deepened. In the depths of
the seat he could not see the tears in the eyes of his young wife.
The world outside glimmered before her.
A red ray of sunset dashed itself against the rose-coloured
cushions and glanced into the shimmering pools of her eyes.
Reflected there she saw the Palace of Love at the Petit Trianon;
the torchlight on the pool before it. A dust mote became a boat
gliding past in the red glow. Ghosts of music began to sound in
her ears. The trees whispered outside like the park forest.
Suddenly the vision became intensely clear. Up the little steps of
the temple sprang a young soldier in a white and gold uniform. He
was putting roses on the altar before the god of love. She leaned
forward now to see his face--and found herself gazing directly into
the eyes of her husband.
His lips parted slowly in a completely self-possessed smile. She
gasped slightly. The vision had been so clear! She was almost
afraid he must have seen it, too. But Don Luis was not given to
visions. The gouty leg had unaccountably stopped pulsing and its
owner now felt inclined to talk.
"M. le Comte de Besance did not come off so well in his bets with
me either." His smile widened. "Five hundred louis against my
living on his estates till my leg is cured! All of these fellows
are so sure of their provincial springs. No one can dispute with
them. It is like arguing with a country priest about a local
miracle. Por Dios, how he leered over that fine hand he held. I
almost believe he wanted to lose just to have me try his spa. Else
how could he have played so ill? So I shall take my time here. It
is due my good luck. And I like the air already. None the less
that there are no handsome Irish captains of the guard to breathe
it. Mark that! O'Connell was my great-grandfather's name. That
is all the Irish you will get. We shall say no more about that
fellow, but"--and he leaned forward clutching her knee--
"REMEMBER!"
Having delivered this ultimatum he sat back again for some time in
silence. At last one of the footmen absent-mindedly began to drum
upon the roof. "Leave off that," roared his master. Outside the
man snatched his hand back as if he had suddenly found it resting
on a hot stove. Don Luis continued.
"You can rest here and forget all about it. They say the Château
de Besance is a pleasant enough place. The last M. de Besance but
one spent some time in Italy and even journeyed to see the Grand
Turk. The rugs are said to be remarkable, and there are some good
Venetian pieces. Besides, the place is not too large to be
comfortable. I shall get you another maid, somehow, and you can
indulge your cursed English taste for driving about the country."
"Scotch, you mean," the girl said softly, "my father . . ."
"It is all the same," said he, a little impatient at the
interruption. "Doubtless there is a small carriage in the count's
stables. But no jaunting about in peasants' carts! That was bad
enough at Livorno when you were a girl. Remember!"
He had an unpleasant way of trilling the phrase in Italian, an
accent that might have accompanied a sneer. She always felt it and
winced. Yet seldom was he so talkative or so amiable as now.
Despite an occasional sardonic fall in his tones, without which he
could scarcely have expressed himself, for the first time in her
married life of about a year he was verging upon the affable.
Sensing the state of his feelings as well as their ephemeral
nature, she decided to pick flowers while the sun shone.
"At the château--could I have a dog?" she asked. Her quick reading
of the human barometer and her instant grasp of opportunity tickled
his shrewd fancy. In the mood he was in he consented with an ease
that astonished himself.
"At the château, yes. But it must not come into the coach. I will
not be having the cushions made for royalty itself ruined."
She laughed. The very thought of a companion who could give and
receive affection revived her. Leaning forward she looked out of
the window and let the breeze play on her forehead. They were just
approaching a village.
Presently the coach and four wheeled sharply around a well-curb at
the forks of the road. A weather-beaten cross stood above the town
fountain, and the usual crowd of women drawing water at that time
of day put their pitchers down or slipped the bucket yokes from
their shoulders at the sound of horses. Almost everyone in the
village who could find an excuse to be away, and there were few who
could not, stood waiting to stare curiously but silently at the
coach. The only sound was the clopping of hoofs and the occasional
snarl of the more vicious village curs carefully held back from
barking. Dogs which barked at guests on the estates of M. le Comte
de Besance invariably failed to return to their owners.
"To the château?" cried Sancho, drawing up and nourishing his whip.
One of the horses began to crane its neck and sniff toward the
fountain. The crowd gaped and began to murmur something among
themselves about a cat. "But, yes, certainly, a cat!" There
seemed a humorous difference of opinion. Sancho began to jabber.
The bell on the top of the coach tapped twice with unusual
emphasis, and he swung the horses to the left.
"That fool!" exclaimed the marquis, "he would stop at every village
well to start a brawl. An end must be put to that! If he fights
with everyone who howls 'cat' after him between here and the Alps,
I shall be needing a new coachman long before we get to Italy.
Besides, the man does look like a cat! You can see, my love, it
would never do to have a dog in the coach with Puss-in-Boots on the
box, never!" Don Luis actually leaned out of the window and
laughed at his own joke. In town he would never have thought of
doing so. It was the first time she had ever heard him laugh
heartily and something in the tone of it startled her.
They were ascending a long rise now between a pleasant park-like
wood on one side and a carefully pruned vineyard on the other. A
few bunches of grapes smaller than berries as yet showed here and
there. An all but imperceptible perfume was in the air. Maria
breathed deeply and lay back with her eyes closed. The scent was
delightfully familiar, suggestive even in its intangibility, and
she allowed herself, as she relaxed into the cushions, the
unexpected boon of indulging to the full an overpowering illusion
that she was returning home.
After all, perhaps the Château de Besance might have its
compensations. She would play that she was coming home anyway. It
would make the arrival at another strange place more bearable. The
faint tinge of colour brightened in her cheeks. Even the illusion
made her heart beat faster.
Her husband was looking out over the vineyards, wide and peculiarly
mellow in the last, long rays of full daylight. If only that
countenance with its pointed beard, the cheeks forever a dark wine
colour, the hard black eyes, and the mouth like a trap,--if only
HE were not here now to spoil her dream! A small breeze blowing
across the aisle of the coach fanned her cheeks and brought a more
pungent whiff as of the vineyards about Livorno. Shutting her eyes
tight she breathed more deeply, then she turned away from him and
opened them wide.
From the little niche in the side of the coach the madonna was
looking at her. The girl began to pray to her silently. The face
of the Virgin was very familiar. The little statuette was the one
memento which she had been allowed to keep that still reminded her
of home. Her lips moved imperceptibly, her nostrils widened to the
breeze, her eyes remained fixed upon the face of the statue. For a
few wretched and blessed moments she was back again in her own room
in her father's house.
Don Luis had no idea of what was going on in his wife's mind. He
saw that she was praying and that seemed natural enough. But he
did not care how, when, where, or to what a woman prayed. Just now
he was nowhere in particular himself. His leg had stopped hurting
and left him pleasantly vacant of mind; in an easy, almost
garrulous mood. He leaned out of the window still farther and
noticed they were nearly at the top of the hill. Hadn't the
bailiff in charge of the peasants said the château was just over
the top of the rise? The memory of that unfortunate fleeing in a
hail of mud again caused Don Luis to laugh aloud.
The little postilion turned about in his saddle and looked back at
his master. An amused grin spread from his whiskers along his
jaws. A knowing wink passed between the master and his man. Just
then the horses began to descend.
"What can you see ahead?" shouted the marquis.
But the reply of the postilion was lost in the sudden grinding of
brakes.
CHAPTER TWO
THE LITTLE MADONNA
The peasants working on the corvée of M. de Besance had just
completed filling the hole in the causeway and were gathering up
their tools to depart for a well-earned night's rest, when the
sound of galloping hoofs once more fell upon their ears.
There was a short cessation of the sound. Then without any further
warning a man mounted on a spirited bay horse darkened the notch at
the top of the hill. Picking his way rapidly down the steep slope,
he splashed at a sharp clip through the ford and cantered onto the
causeway. A certain military precision lurked in the folds of a
blue cloak that fell from his shoulders in trim, straight lines.
As he came opposite the group of peasants he reined up his horse
sharply, and at the first glance as if his judgment was seldom at a
loss, picked out the bailiff in charge of the work although the
man's clothes were still bespattered by the dirt with which his
friend the postilion had recently favoured him. The stranger
beckoned to him, but somewhat suspicious from his recent experience
the man hesitated to step forward as smartly as before. Nor did
two large pistols in the holsters of a military saddle, and the
brass clover of a rapier scabbard projecting below the newcomer's
riding cloak add to the bailiff's sense of self-possession.
"Come here," said the horseman, seeing how matters stood, in a
voice that was not to be denied. With some visible hesitation the
bailiff advanced.
"Have you seen a gentleman on a black gelding pass this way
recently?"
"No, sir, he has not come by this road," replied the man.
The stranger's horse refreshed from its recent plunge in the ford
danced about uneasily and pawed the dust. "Ha, Solange, you witch
you, ho, girl!" he cried, reining her about in a semi-circle with a
sure hand and bringing her back again as he called over one
shoulder, "How do you know that?"
"Because, monsieur," replied his informant, "we have been working
here all day and no one has passed southward except the coach of
monsieur . . . pardon, I mean monseigneur, the guest of M. le
Comte."
"Monseigneur!" said the stranger raising his eyebrows. "Why do you
say that?"
"The crest, sir, the lilies were on the door!"
"Are you sure of it?"
"Am I likely to forget it? Dieu! am I not covered from head to
foot by the filth which that devil, his cat of a postilion, threw
at me. Look!" and the bailiff turned to exhibit the state of his
back.
He was immediately struck by another missile, but this time of a
more welcome kind. As he stooped to pick up the coin, he saw the
limbs of the mare suddenly gathered under her as she felt the spur.
By the time he had picked up the money and bitten it, both horse
and rider were fifty yards away.
"Monsieur is in a hurry," he muttered, as he pocketed the piece and
prepared to go home.
It was easy enough to follow the coach. In the newly smoothed
highway the broad wheel tracks of the great vehicle were as plainly
to be seen as if it had just been driven over a field of virgin
snow. Yet the coach itself was nowhere visible. Behind the top of
a little rise above the village the stranger dismounted and made
sure of this before urging his mount onto the level open ground
below. He was about to gallop on when a low cloud of dust at the
top of a hill across the valley caught his eye.
The coach was just emerging from a patch of woodland and going over
the skyline. From where he stood he could even see someone lean
from the window to speak to the postilion while the latter turned
in his saddle to reply. Then the whole equipage disappeared over
the ridge.
Clapping spurs to his horse the stranger galloped down the road,
leaped over a low hedge, and taking an open short cut across some
meadows, found himself in a trice back on the road again. The
village, which he had thus avoided, lay between the highways at the
"V" of the cross-roads, and he was now passing rapidly uphill with
a wood on one hand and vineyards on the other. Just short of the
hillcrest he again dismounted suddenly and threw the reins over the
mare's neck. She stood patiently, precisely where she had been
left. Muffling his cloak well about him, he strode rapidly forward
a few yards, stooping low. He then left the road, and taking
shelter behind a convenient shrub, looked down into the valley
beyond.
Before him lay a low valley, a wide, cultivated landscape
stretching away in the softly brilliant afterglow of a French
sunset. In the foreground was the park of Besance. A statue
gleamed here and there amid the wide-armed trees like an ivory high
light. The road wound through the groves in a vague "S"-shaped
curve up to the château itself, an old building with candle snuffer
towers. But there was a new wing in front with high, arched
renaissance windows and a row of conical trees in tubs. It was one
of those minor Versailles which during the last two reigns had
sprung up all over Europe. As he watched, a fountain began to play
on the terrace and the downstairs windows gleamed with a saffron
light as someone flitted from room to room lighting chandeliers.
The coach now emerged from between a wall of hedges, made the half-
circle before the entrance, and drew up before the door. In the
lens-like air, as the footmen leaped to let down the steps, he
could even see their brass buttons. After some little delay the
coach moved out and trotted around to the rear.
A scene of considerable bustle was now revealed on the steps of the
château. Four lackeys bearing a man with a white object that stuck
out straight before him were swaying up the stairs, marshalled by a
bustling major-domo. A woman stood waiting for them at the top
while various bags and valises in charge of other servants
disappeared through the door. Even at that distance he could still
make out the peculiar heliotrope shade of her skirt, and that she
was carrying something in her hand. "By God!" said he in English,
and with an emotion so violent that it found vent in immediate
action. With a determined and almost desperate gesture he plucked
a handful of leaves off the bush which concealed him, and scattered
them angrily.
The four men bearing their human burden now began to shuffle on the
last ascent to the door. Evidently what they had in hand was no
light matter. At the very top someone stumbled. The whole group
began to sway perilously. Then, as the invalid's cane began to
play over their heads and along their backs viciously, they fairly
precipitated themselves into the gaping mouth of the door. Only
the woman now remained, apparently looking out over the landscape
where the shadows were beginning to gather. In the excitement
attending the entrance of the baggage and the gentleman it seemed
as if she stood there forgotten.
The watcher behind the bush had never hoped for such a stroke of
good fortune. She might have been looking directly at him. With a
deft bound he gained a large rock that stood squarely upon the
crest behind which he had been hiding. He held his cloak out wide,
and tossed it. Then he began to caper and wave his hat.
For a moment the little figure on the steps stood as if transfixed.
Then she too threw out her arms wildly and began to wave whatever
it was she was holding in her hands. For a few seconds these
mutual signals continued. Then the woman turned suddenly and
hurried into the house. To the man standing on the rock it seemed
as though she had taken the daylight with her.
He instantly recovered himself, however, and hurried downhill to
his horse. A glow far more lasting than his exercise on the rock
could have produced suffused him. He felt bursting with good
nature and kindliness. Plucking some small bunches of grass he
rubbed down the mare, and fondled her soft nose. The grass was
next applied to a pair of long, very fine military boots. A finely
worked handkerchief flicked the dust from a cocked hat whence, to
judge by the shading, a braid-edging and cockade had recently been
removed. The stranger as if from mere military habit then looked
at the priming of his pistols, tightened the girth, and patting his
horse affectionately but heartily on the flank, sprang into the
saddle and trotted off at a brisk pace toward the village.
In the great hall of the Château de Besance Don Luis sat under a
chandelier, propped up in a huge chair nursing his leg. The pain
of having been let down upon it did not subside for some time.
Immediately upon being brought in he had done full justice to the
occasion, and his shattered malacca cane that lay beside him on the
parqueterie was a mute witness that the man who stumbled would have
good reason to recollect his misfortune. No one, indeed, had
escaped wholly. Even Maria upon suddenly hastening in to help him
had been ordered to let his bandages alone. He told her to go
upstairs and dress for dinner, in a way which made even the
servants wince. Not that the marquis had been impolite. It was
merely his tone. There was a crushing viciousness in it which made
his young wife's solicitude wilt like a flower caught in the cloven
hoof of a bull. In her agitation she had all but fled the room,
leaving the little object which she had been carrying like a
favourite doll lying forgotten upon a near-by table.
The major-domo of M. de Besance was wondering how he could fill the
place of the caned lackey whose arm would be useless for a week.
Well, he would have to wait upon the table himself. Monsieur was
undoubtedly a hard case, and perhaps it would be better to take no
chances. M. de Besance had sent strict orders for the careful
entertainment of these guests. The accident was terrible! He must
make amends for it. He glanced at the face of the sufferer. A
restorative perhaps, something unusual. He bowed and retired, to
return presently with a small, squat, greenish-black bottle.
The marquis' expression changed. He watched the cork-drawing with
the eye of an expert and could find nothing at which to cavil. The
man's precise mixture of art and ritual was impeccable. A divine
odour as of a basket of fresh, ripe peaches left in the sun filled
the room. With good care and a steady hand the butler decanted the
upper inch of the liquid into a glass that had been carefully
wiped, and handed it to Don Luis. The latter inhaled the bouquet
and a look of understanding passed between the two men. It was an
occasion.
"Of the year of Malplaquet, Your Excellency," said the man bowing.
The marquis drank slowly. Old toper as he was he was scarcely
prepared for the surcharged flavour. It would have been cloying
had it not been accompanied by a fiery glow that might have made a
salamander start. The marquis just succeeded in not choking, and
finished the glass. His eyes shone. He was surprised that such a
beverage existed. It was worth having come from Paris just to
sniff the bouquet. A genial glow miraculously combined with a
delightful languor swam through his veins. His leg ceased to stab.
When the mist of pain and the dullness of fatigue cleared from his
eyes as though someone had washed a dusty window, he now saw that
he was seated in an apartment furnished with an exquisite but
somewhat outmoded taste.
"Monsieur need not move," said the butler. He lit a fire of
resinous wood which instantly began to crackle and throw lambent
shadows about the brass andirons and white marble mantelpiece where
two satyrs grinned at each other through a tracery of leaves and
grapes.
It was not the first nobleman the old servant had treated for the
gout with brandy. The great thing to do was to keep them still.
"Hot water and a valet will be here instantly, Your Excellency.
You shall be made comfortable." He covered the bottom of the glass
again. "Supper will also be served here, and I shall have an
apartment prepared for monsieur on the ground floor. The stairs
are unnecessary. I did not know of His Excellency's affliction or
the chamber on this floor should have been ready upon his arrival.
Another accident for monsieur is unthinkable! The new room will
take some few moments. After dinner it will be ready. Monsieur
can retire then, if he desires, without going upstairs."
The man waited without seeming to do so for a sign of approval.
Don Luis knew when he was being well served. A major-domo of the
old school was rare in this degenerate reign. He raised his hand
in a gesture of assent and let it fall back to the stem of his
glass. The man retired. His queue, the precisely horizontal bow,
and every line of his back were at once respectful and correct. As
he turned to close the door silently he saw the guest of his master
sitting dreamfully with his nose poised like a beak just over the
rim of the glass. In his eyes there was an expression of great
content.
Don Luis finished the rest of the peach brandy and sat gazing into
the fire. Below the waist he seemed to have vanished. One of
those rare moments of heightened consciousness and clear vision was
upon him. He felt himself to be all eyes. The combination of
spirits and fatigue had been precisely right. Without moving his
head he permitted his glance to wander about the room. It passed
with keen relish from one stately bit to another and finally came
to rest on the object which his wife had left on the table. It was
the little madonna which she had carried from the coach to take to
her room. In the state that he was in, his hands reached for it
somewhat mechanically. For the first time he began to examine it
closely, dreamfully.
It was very old, evidently the work of several distinct and widely
separated historical epochs. He turned the little shrine in which
the figure stood to and fro. The shrine itself was certainly
ancient Byzantine work. No Gothic artist could have conceived
those wide, flat arches at the top. What a vast dome had been
conveyed in-little by that curious, buttressed hood over the
Virgin's head! And that sky, and those stars! Don Luis grunted
and took out a small pocket glass. The secret of that heavenly
blue must have been lost.
The figure, though small, was posed with immense dignity against a
background of night. With some fusing of sepia, cobalt, and ebony
the artist had contrived to convey that living blue of heaven on a
summer evening which opens out through vast antres of atmosphere to
the milky shimmer of stars beyond. Spread out and over this, like
the far and near points in a crushed net, was a galaxy of golden
stars. These, as he moved them to a better perspective,
scintillated with the true zodiacal fire. In the top of the dome
he was delighted to recognize the arrangement of the constellation
Virgo, and to note, as he brought them closer again, a light dash
of silver in the rays of what would otherwise have been too yellow
a fire. The consummate brushwork of some painter upon ceramics had
wrought that. In some mysterious way the whole background had been
given a universal lustre which by reverberated reflections all but
cancelled out the shadow of the figure that stood before it. "It
was a cunning device," thought Don Luis. He looked more closely.
"By heaven, it was glaze!"
From this sea of stars the face of the Virgin swam up to him
somehow vaguely familiar. It was as if he had seen it in life.
Or, was it a kind of universal human memory?--something learned so
far back in childhood, perhaps from the face of his mother, or
before, that it had been consciously forgotten? The expression of
the features was so deeply brooding, and yet so universal, that it
had produced in him that distinct and unplaceable sensation of
having often seen them somewhere else. Those clear brows, those
wide-open eyes, the slightly distended nostrils and the archaic
smile; there was a hint of something sphinx-like, yes, distinctly
Egyptian about it. And yet the poise of the head was Greek. He
was at a loss at first to place it. Now he looked more closely at
the stiff, jewelled robe.
It was made of small pieces of coloured stones with the glint of a
jewel-chip here and there. It was set with seed pearls about the
hems, and ennobled with a gilt pattern of some papyrus-like plant.
Florentine mosaic work before the grand dukes, early Medici! He
could also see it was attached to the statue by minute, extended
silver wires; a new coat given to her by some pious owner long ago.
It rose out and away from her body, to fall lower down into a
stiff, jewelled skirt such as medieval royalties once wore. He
could even see behind the robe, for it stood out from her like a
herald's tabard. Beneath the bodice her breasts sloped down in
pointed ovals that suggested sleep, and dreaming there, in utter
peace, held in the crook of her arm was the infant. He thought of
Dionysius on the arm of Apollo at first. And yet, as he peered
again, almost fearfully now, since the thing had become so real,
there was something too intimate and tender about this child in its
mother's arms to be pagan. No, it was undoubtedly the Christ-child
on Mary's breast. It must have been modelled in Alexandria an age
ago, the statue itself. It would have taken a Christian born a
pagan to have done it, an Egyptian Greek, some artist who could
combine various old gods and humanity into something new; something
old but something new.
It had always been a theory of the marquis that it is in the
miniature masterpieces, those which can be put into a glass
cabinet, that the arts of civilization culminate. First come your
gigantic architecture and your monoliths; then something more
human, more livable, realism, perhaps, gradually becoming
beautifully conventional; then medallions, engravings, miniatures,
cameos, and statuettes. And here was a nice illustration of the
thing, he liked to think. He stroked his beard.
In Byzantium this single shrine would have been part of a triptych.
He could still see that the right side of it had once fitted on to
something else. He put it back on the table and slipped the glass
into his pocket. The gilded sun-burst, that almost imperial sun-
crown upon the head of the Virgin; that had Constantinople written
all over it. Some devout Arian had once owned it. He leaned back
and let his imagination supply the two missing panels:--God the
Father most elevated in the middle, on one side of Him the dove
descending out of the clouds from the Father's bosom, on the other
the little shrine he held in his hands. The triptych was perfect
again. How easily he had restored it! But was it necessary?
This shrine he actually held--why, it alone represented the entire
Trinity and humanity, too! The cosmos for that matter; there were
the stars. Had not the Holy Ghost descended upon the woman? The
Son of God and man was in her arms. And the Father?--why HE was
there by necessary implication, invisible as always, but the
creator of all. How huge, how universal was this little symbol he
could hold in one hand. For a moment he was humble before it. He
came as near to worship as he could. Then his natural pride
reasserted itself. His logical and theological mind laughed in his
skull to think that out of that Arian triptych only this remained.
How literal and how elaborate was heresy! The other panels had
been unnecessary. Only the Catholic symbol was required and
everything essential was there. Ah, a nice point! Something even
the Jansenists could scarcely refute. A fit subject for a
monograph.
And yet artistically WAS the statue perfect? Weren't those
fluted mother-of-pearl inlays about her feet a little tawdry; about
1700, no doubt. But no, narrow your eyes and you could see the
eternal stars mirrored in them. She was standing before the
universe at the pearly gates. Seventeen centuries had contrived to
make something perfect. Don Luis conferred upon them the greatest
compliment of his own. Drawing a small gold box from his waistcoat
he sprung back the lid, tapped his fingers lightly in a kind of
salutation, and took a large pinch of snuff.
The resulting sneeze so startled a valet who had just entered the
room that the marquis laughed. It would never do to have all these
servants afraid of him. Fear could make an antelope awkward. The
marquis bade the man good evening and began to ask questions about
the château. Presently the valet was at his ease and the work of
revamping Don Luis proceeded comfortably enough. A small silver
basin filled with hot water served to refresh him as, with the wig
and cravat removed, a warm sponge was passed over his shaven head
and neck. He soaked his hands in the water. A fresh, lace jabot
was then wound about his neck and the frill carefully made to stand
out from his shirt. A larger and more comfortable bag wig was
taken out of its box and slipped onto his head. It was scarcely
necessary to use the brush at all, and the bow on the queue was
kept clean of powder. To Don Luis that was the test. No whisking
off afterward! He preferred to beat servants rather than be beaten
by them, if it came to that. A small dash of verbena on his
handkerchief, and with the cushions carefully, even solicitously
rearranged on the leg stand by the butler himself, the marquis felt
at home, ready for dinner in fact.
The man threw a few more logs on the fire, drew up a table before
Don Luis, carefully avoiding his bandaged limb, and began to lay
covers for two. The napery was ivory-smooth, the candles were
carefully shaded, and the plate was not only good but positively
inviting. "If the chef can do the appointments justice," thought
Don Luis, "I am prepared to be convinced that M. de Besance was not
merely trying to cure his homesickness by a vicarious visit in my
person to his ancestral halls." He preferred to remain cynical,
however. Nevertheless the variety and nice arrangement of the wine
glasses tended to confirm the claims of his absent host. The
butler now lit a small lamp under a brazier and announced that
dinner was ready when madame should be announced. "Tell her," said
the marquis.
The logs crackled in the grate and in some distant part of the
house a clock began to chime. The room was a large one. The table
was set under the last chandelier next to the fireplace. The
candlelight from the sconces and chandeliers reflected themselves
and their crystals with long splashes of yellow light on the
polished floor. As Maria entered the apartment from the opposite
door, it seemed to her that the little table was at an immense
distance. The silver and glass twinkled upon it like stars caught
in a fleecy cloud, and over the edge of it, looking like the moon
itself, shone the scarlet face of her husband. To a light
splashing of silk she seemed to float to him over the lake of the
floor in her wide panniered skirts, moving her feet invisibly like
those of a swan. "Madame la Marquise." The man with the injured
arm should have been at the door to announce. With some well-
concealed embarrassment the butler also hastened forward to seat
her.
"Bravo, my dear," said her husband, "such a toilette in so short a
time is a marvel! You know the lamentable reason which keeps me
from rising to the occasion." To her relief she saw him smile.
She began to talk rather hastily.
"I have a maid, a woman from Fontanovo, that M. de Besance sent
here some days ago. You cannot imagine how pleasant it is to hear
Tuscan again. It is almost as welcome as English." She checked
herself and coloured deeply. The marquis overlooked the reference
to home.
"While we were in Paris I thought it best to use nothing but
French, but we can now speak Italian," said he, changing into that
tongue. "It is certainly charming of M. de Besance to have sent an
Italian maid, probably one of his household he picked up while in
Florence recently."
"She is returning to Italy and hopes to go back with us."
"Ah, that explains it then. But not altogether. Besance has been
the best of fellows. Paris would have been quite a different place
without him. That little journey of congratulation to the Duchess
of Parma--I was able to help him with that, and we were compatible.
It is not often one makes such a friend after forty. Do you
suppose he would really have turned his château over to us on a bet
at cards? No, he is genuinely anxious to see me cured, and his
enthusiasm about the waters at Royat was really catching. I hear
of many cures there, too. By the way," said he turning to the man,
"Henri? Jacques?"
"Pierre, Your Excellency."
"Pierre, then. How far is it to the baths?"
"About an hour's drive, monsieur, by way of Clermont. And there
is, if monsieur desires to stay overnight, an excellent inn."
The prospect seemed to cheer Don Luis greatly. Since some time
before his marriage his leg had kept him little better than an
invalid, and a round of high living at Paris and Versailles was not
calculated to help the gout. The very thought of getting rid of
his discomfort and being active again made him feel like rising
from his chair then and there. Indeed, for the first time in his
life the state of his health had for a year past caused him to give
it some thought.
Newly married to the daughter of a Scotch merchant of Leghorn who
had some vague Jacobean claim to nobility, the marquis had from the
first been swept off his feet by the strange beauty of the young
girl who now sat across the table from him. He had first seen her,
accidentally, while settling a matter of business at her father's
establishment. As he happened to be the owner of the buildings in
which her father's concern did business, it was not difficult for
him to find the way of gaining a swift consent to his suit. That
is not to say that the marquis' method of approach was crass; on
the contrary, it was adroit.
The good merchant was a widower up in years and anxious to see his
only child well and securely bestowed. To that end a very
considerable dowry was her portion. In fact, the old man was
prepared to embarrass himself, and did so. Although Don Luis was a
quarter of a century older than his bride, still in the eyes of the
world, and to her father, the match had seemed a fortunate one.
The marquis condescended, no doubt, but the dowry was worth
stooping for, and to do him justice, in his own way Don Luis loved
the girl. He held wide fiefs from both the Grand Duke of Tuscany
and the Crown of Spain, and was much employed in delicate
diplomatic affairs from time to time. To Maria's father in
particular the marquis had seemed like a god from the machine come
to snatch his daughter back to the high Olympus of court life to
which in some sort she belonged. From that realm an invincible
attachment to the unfortunate house of Stuart on the part of her
ancestors and her father's consequent necessitous lapse into trade
had effectually banished her.
The girl herself had been too young and inexperienced to realize
the full implications of what her father pressed upon her in the
most favourable light. Even her maid, a girl about her own age,
and her one human confidante, had abetted the scheme as a wise
young woman should. There had been no one else to turn to but the
little madonna. From her she received comfort but no advice. The
girl's heart had continued to shiver in a premonitory way at the
sight of her prospective husband. But obedience and love for her
father, who she knew parted with her only because he thought he was
setting her feet upon a fortunate path, sealed her lips. Yet
dutiful as she was, even after her marriage there was one thing for
which she could not bring herself to pray. It was for the
restoration of her husband's health. The thought of physical
contact, the mere touch of his hand, indeed, turned her to stone.
With Don Luis it was far, far otherwise. He had in one sense been
starved for some time, and his touch was therefore too hungry to
note anything but its own temperature. Yet he had deliberately
starved himself. For if he was in love with his wife, he was also
in love with himself, and that self was possessed of an enormous
sense of the ludicrous. In the rôle of husband and lover he saw
himself, not young and handsome--for he was too wise and too candid
to suppose the opposite of what his own mirror disclosed--but
forceful; not to be denied; a master of life upon important
occasions and possessed of some dignity withal. A man of the
world, he had no illusion about bed-time intimacies. There was
only one way to maintain a manly dignity there. Hence he did not
intend to approach his marriage bed for the first time on crutches,
with a bandaged foot and debilitated--lights or no lights. Besides
it MIGHT be painful. The thought of it made him grin and wince
at the same time. He was anxious for an heir, too. But so far he
had deferred to circumstances.
The meal continued. The potage paysan might have been a bit flat
but the rye bread in it had been toasted and imparted that nut-like
flavour in which the marquis delighted. A dish of trout in butter,
a mushroom patty, an endive salad with chives together with some
excellent wines from the count's cellar composed a light meal for
which Pierre apologized profusely. A fresh cheese cool from the
spring house, and a firm, white loaf caught in a silver clamp
provided with a small steel saw in the shape of a dragon's head
with teeth amused Maria.
By the time the marquis had sampled his host's liqueurs he was
prepared to remain all summer. No doubt the cure WOULD take that
long. He was tired after Paris anyway. He rattled on about his
recovery. "Have the coach ready at nine o'clock tomorrow. Tell
that man of mine," said he to Pierre, "and don't allow him anything
but table wine tonight. I shall go to the springs first thing in
the morning. My dear, I shall soon be well! I feel sure of it. A
man you have not yet met in fact!" He looked across the shaded
candles at his wife eagerly.
Her eyes opened wide and the colour left her cheeks. She felt like
one trying to thrust off a nightmare. Then the vision of the
figure waving to her from the rocks came to comfort her. Watching
her closely, her husband leaned back and laughed. Certain visions
also flashed across his mind. He had never seen her look so well.
It would all be well enough shortly. The child might come in the
spring, after they were in Florence. That would fill her life for
her, and bind her to him. He need not worry about cavaliers after
that. Not that the young Irishman at Versailles would ordinarily
have caused him a second thought. A beautiful, young wife would
have admirers, of course. But under the circumstances! No, it had
been just as well to leave a little sooner. He was a dashing
fellow and the uniform of the guard was a handsome one. It was
better not to put too much strain on a young girl's sense of duty.
He looked at her again. Her eyes had wandered past him and her
lips were moving. Following her glance he saw that her gaze was
fixed on the madonna still standing on a near-by table. She looked
up again a bit startled.
"You forgot her when you went upstairs, you know. I was examining
her while you were dressing. She is quite a precious work of art.
Where did you get her, by the way? Let me see her again."
She rose obediently and brought the figure in its little shrine to
him. He put down his glass and took the relic in his hands.
"Where did you say you got her?"
"From my maid at home. It had been in her family for a long time.
She was a Scotch girl."
"Scotch!" said he, "this at least did not come from Scotland."
"Her father was a Greek or of a Greek strain at least, a Greco-
Florentine. His name was Paleologus."
"What a strange combination," he smiled. "I remember her now, I
think. She wanted to come along with you."
"Yes, Faith Paleologus," she turned the syllables over in her mouth
as if they were somehow unpleasantly reminiscent.
"Did you ever notice this, Maria?" he asked, turning the statue
sideways. Taking a knife he pointed behind the mosaic work.
It had never occurred to her to look under the Virgin's robe. She
had always thought of it as part of her. Following the glittering
point of the knife she now saw the little silver wires holding the
stiff dress out from the statue like a herald's tabard before it.
Underneath was the figure of a naked woman with a child at her
breast! Small jewelled lights glinting through the tiny bits of
glass and chips of gems in her robe played upon the shadows and
curves of her exquisite body. But the knife was pointing coldly at
a fracture. At some remote time the statue had evidently been
broken off below the knees and mended again cunningly. To the mind
of the young girl, who was scarcely more than an idolater, the
whole thing came as a shock. With a gasp she reached down, took
the madonna from her husband's hands, and as if the knife
threatened it, caught it to her breast as though it were alive.
"Be careful," he said. But she crushed it the harder. A look of
extreme happiness glimmered on her face. Then suddenly becoming
aware of him again she stiffened.
"You are tired," said he, "take a good rest. I shall be leaving
early tomorrow for the springs. You will have the whole day at the
château to yourself. Why not arrange for a drive? That new maid
can go with you." Taking her free hand he kissed it and looked up
at her. The hand fell back into place. "Good night, Maria."
She recollected herself and swept him a curtsy. The shrine
remained cuddled in her arms like a doll. Like a doll she carried
it from the room and turning just at the door looked at him. With
a little movement almost fierce in its intensity she clasped her
precious-thing even closer and disappeared up the stairs. "What a
child she is," thought he, "what a child!" He looked around. The
bell-pull on the wall was too far to reach. He struck a goblet
with a knife. Pierre appeared.
"Bed," said the marquis, "and mind how you get me there!"
The man disappeared. He returned a few moments later with two
sturdy assistants carrying long poles. These were lashed securely
under Don Luis' chair. Placing themselves between the ends of the
staffs before and behind, the men lifted the burden easily and in
this improvised sedan he was carried out of the room. Pierre,
holding a lighted candelabrum above his head, led the way.
The marquis smiled grimly. He saw himself proceeding down the
marble hall like a Roman consul. No, it was like a bridegroom
carried to his chamber with the torch before him. The fancy
tickled him. There was something in the omen he liked. He seated
himself upon his bed with some difficulty and began with the
tenderest solicitude to unwrap the bandages from his foot. The
valet with equal care aided him to remove his clothes, then the
wig.
Presently a shaggy, powerful man with a closely shaved head, a
thick chest, one swollen foot and large stubby hands was seen
sitting on the edge of the bed. The candlelight glittered on his
scalp. He slipped a long flannel sack over his head. It fell in
folds about his waist. He tied on a night-cap and had a small
calf-bound volume brought him as he settled himself, not without
grievances, in the huge bed. The valet arranged the light. "At
what hour, monsieur?" "Eight," replied the marquis in a far-away
voice. The man bowed and retired. The marquis read on:
Now, my masters, you have heard a beginning of the horrific history
of Pantagruel. You shall have the rest, and then you shall see how
Panurge was married, and made a cuckold within a month of his
wedding. How Pantagruel found out the philosopher's stone, the
manner how he found it, and the way to use it. How he passed over
the Caspian mountains, and how he sailed through the Atlantick sea,
defeated the cannibals, and conquered the isle of Perles. How he
fought against the devil, ransacked the great black chamber and
threw Proserpine in the fire. How he visited the regions of the
moon, and a thousand other little merriments. All veritable.
These are brave things truly. Good night gentlemen. . . .
Upstairs the light from his wife's bedroom turned her window that
looked toward the village into a bright yellow square.
CHAPTER THREE
AT THE "GOLDEN SHEAF"
From the rock on the hill where the stranger had exchanged signals
with Maria to the village below it was nearly a mile. The mare at
that time of the evening expected oats not far ahead and needed no
urging. Indeed, as he rode into the little town of Romagnat her
rider was forced to pull her up at the cross-roads with a firm
rein. She stamped impatiently and pretended to shy at the grey
figure of an old woman drawing water in the twilight. He heard the
bucket splash in the well. It was supper time and the streets
appeared deserted. Except for a few lights here and there and an
occasional murmur of voices or cry of a child he might have been
alone. The bucket now reappeared on the well and the woman turned
toward him.
"Can you tell me, mother," said he, "where the inn is?"
"It is there, monsieur," she replied, pointing toward a dim light
at the end of the street leading back in the general direction of
the château, "at the lantern, where the door is opening now." Some
distance up the hill a glow of firelight flooded out and vanished.
"But the great hostel is at Clermont about a league from here,"
continued the old woman hoping for a reward.
"Thank you, I am only wanting supper." He automatically fumbled in
his pocket, but then thought better of it. The less cause for
being remembered the better. His disappointed informant
disappeared, and he turned toward the light.
It was a dim and smoky one hung under what at first appeared to be
a suspended mass of rubbish, but as he drew closer this resolved
itself into a sheaf of wheat tied over a sign. La Gerbe d'Or could
still be faintly traced in faded characters as the lantern swung
gently to and fro. He stood for a moment studying the building and
its surroundings carefully like an old campaigner, then he turned
through a low brick archway and rode into the courtyard of the inn.
The delighted whinny of the mare brought out an ostler.
"Send me your master, my lad, and be quick about it!" The man in
the door, munching a large sponge-like fragment of black bread,
took a look at the long, lithe figure on the horse and disappeared.
A few moments later he came back with a lantern and a round, shiny-
faced little man in a white apron.
"I want a room for the night and supper," said the horseman.
"Certainly, if monsieur will descend, the request is not VERY
unusual."
The face of the clown with the lantern began to prepare itself for
a laugh at the stranger's expense.
"Come here, my host," said the man on the horse who did not show
any intention as yet of descending. Somewhat abashed the fat man
came and stood by the saddle. The horseman now leaned over and
began to talk in low impressive tones. He was an adept at assuming
that confidential air which by taking one into a secret both
flatters and impresses. The boor with the lantern had not been
included and to the innkeeper he represented the gaping world.
"Look, my friend," said the gentleman dismounting and bringing an
ardent and commanding countenance close to that of the round-faced
man, "I am here on the king's business, and I do not want the world
to hear of it. Do you understand?" A small, yellow coin with the
countenance of the king upon it passed hostward between them. A
convulsive grasp of the fingers and a look of understanding were
simultaneous. "Yes, monsieur," whispered the fat man like a
conspirator.
"Well then," said the gentleman, "can you give me a room and serve
my supper in it quietly without having half the village in to gape
at me? And how about your wife's tongue?"
"I will serve you supper myself, monsieur, and my poor wife's
tongue has been silent these two years." The fat man choked. The
stranger laid his hand upon his host's shoulder. "She is in
heaven, my friend," said he, "never doubt!"
"Ah, monsieur, you are very kind, but I am sure of it. Come this
way and you shall have what you want. It shall be the private
chamber upstairs. Here, François, give me your lantern and get the
other from the settle." Unlocking a narrow door that opened into
the court the innkeeper led the way.
They ascended a circular stone stairway and came out into a small,
blunt hall. The host rattled his keys again and presently threw
open a door, standing aside for his guest to enter. The room ran
clear across the house. On one side was a window looking out upon
the court and on the other a long, leaded casement through which
penetrated a faint glow from the street. The fat man advanced and
opening the lantern took out the candle and kindled the fire. A
bright blaze sprang up from a pile of dry faggots revealing a low
apartment with ceiling beams, a high four-poster bed in the corner,
a table, two chests, and several chairs. On the rough mortar wall
was a black crucifix immediately over the bed, and on the chimney a
faded print of what had once been meant for a likeness of "Louis
the Well-Beloved"--some fifty years before. The host looked at his
guest inquiringly.
"Excellent," said the latter.
"It was our own room before my wife died," continued the fat man
lighting the sconces, "I sleep downstairs now to keep an eye on the
servants. I hope monsieur will find himself comfortable. Supper
will be served directly."
"The sooner the better," replied his guest. "Have that ostler
bring up my saddle and bags, and see that my horse gets a full
measure. No drenched chaff, mind you. A good rub-down, too. But
send the man up to me."
The fat man bustled out puffing with importance. It was some time
since he had had a guest who did not haggle over terms. Presently
the ostler was heard ascending the stairs. His ungainly form
filled the door of the room as he deposited the saddle and its
heavy bags on the floor with a bump.
"Look out for the pistols, François," said the gentleman.
The man stared blankly.
"In the holsters, you know, you had better unstrap them."
The man did so, bringing them gingerly to the table and laying them
down carefully. The weight of the weapons and the silver crown on
the flaps filled him with awe for their possessor. The gentleman,
very tall and straight, now stood before the fireplace and was
holding aside his cloak to warm himself thus revealing a long
rapier with a plain brass hilt. His eyes glittered with a hard
steel-blue under a mass of brown curls that had escaped from the
bow and queue in which he had in vain attempted to confine them. A
long, straight nose with thin, quivering nostrils over a firm bow
of a mouth and a stronger chin completed a countenance which with
extraordinary mobility could flash from an expression of grim
determination to one of extreme charm. He appeared to be about
thirty years old.
"Take good care of the mare, 'Solange.' She answers to that. Fill
her nose-bag full, she will not eat from a strange manger. Mind
she doesn't nip you, but rub her down, and make a good deep bed."
"Yes, monsieur," said the man, "Maître Henri has already told me."
"Do it, then!" snapped out the gentleman. He snapped him a coin
which fell onto the floor. The man groped for it and stood up to
find himself even nearer to the stranger whose nostrils expanded.
He fumbled for his cap which he had forgotten. He took it off.
"And, François."
"Yes, monsieur!"
"Do not come up here again, you bring the smell of the stable with
you."
"No, monsieur," said the man letting his hands fall humbly with a
ponderous despair as if he had been reminded of something fatal.
Suddenly a smile of vivid brightness irradiated the face of the
stranger. His white teeth seemed like a flash of sunshine in the
light of which the heart of the man before him became happily warm
as he stood clutching his cap in one hand and the piece of silver
in the other.
"François," said the gentleman continuing to smile, "would you like
to earn a piece like that again tomorrow?"
"But yes, monsieur," gasped the ostler.
"Then remember this, do not say a word to anyone about my being
here. Nothing, you understand?" The face suddenly became grim
again, "It might be dangerous!"
"Nothing, monsieur, nothing," but now the ostler was somehow again
looking at the face with a smile on it. His own expanded into a
loutish grin with snagged teeth left here and there in ponderous
gums. An idea slowly hatched itself. "Monsieur," said he bowing
like a mountain in pain, "has never arrived. I cannot remember
him--even in my prayers!"
"Precisely," said the gentleman. "Go now."
A peal of boyish laughter followed him down the stairs. "Whew!"
said the gentleman, and threw open the window that looked into the
street.
It was a clear starlit night. He could see for some little
distance over a tract of open country beside the hill from which he
had just ridden down. Far to the right the giant, sphinx-like
curve of a demi-mountain shouldered itself into the constellations.
In the valley shone the brilliant windows of the château. He drew
a chair up and watched. She was taking supper there now. A look
of longing came over his face. Then it suddenly turned white with
fury. "With him!"
He sat for a while with an exceedingly grim expression in a reverie
so absorbing that he temporarily lost all count of time.
Gradually, as if he were dwelling on something more pleasant in the
past or some bright hope of the future, a faint smile began to play
about his lips. Even with this, however, the look of determination
remained. Presently his host knocked and entered bearing a tray
piled high with supper. The gentleman was hungry and peculiarly
sensitive to odours, and the odour which now filled the room was
highly satisfactory to both his nose and his appetite.
"It is the best I could do for monsieur at short notice," said the
innkeeper.
He began to lay the table. A bowl of soup, a steaming ragout of
rabbit and carrots, white rolls, and a bottle of wine discovered
themselves.
"Excellent!" said the stranger, as he settled himself with evident
satisfaction to the repast. "Indeed, I was prepared for something
worse than this." He filled his glass and after a preliminary sip
tossed it off without further doubt. Nevertheless, the innkeeper
continued to stand before him clasping and unclasping his hands in
the folds of his white apron in considerable perturbation.
"Excellent," repeated the gentleman, polishing off the soup and
sampling the ragout. The man, however, continued as before.
"Well?" said the gentleman, raising his eyebrows interrogatively
but with a slight tinge of annoyance. "Oh, I see," and he reached
for his purse, stretching his long legs out under the table to do
so.
"No, no!" said the innkeeper deprecatingly. "Monsieur mistakes me.
I have no doubt of his ability to pay--when he departs. It is
this. It is the law that I must report the arrival and the names
of strangers who stop here together with a declaration of their
business to the mayor-postmaster. They must, in fact, show their
papers within twelve hours. Otherwise I shall be heavily fined."
Here his hands locked themselves underneath the apron. "The times
are troubled ones, you know, monsieur, the roads . . ."
"Do you take me for a brigand?" demanded the gentleman with the
stern look which he was able to assume instantly. "Besides, I have
not yet been here twelve hours."
"Forgive me, monsieur, but it is not so simple as that," said his
host. "My brother is the mayor-postmaster. He is even now
downstairs and knows that you have arrived. He has seen supper
brought to your room."
The stranger paused for a moment over his ragout while the flame of
the two candles on the table continued to mount steadily. There
was no expression whatever on his face now. His legs continued
stretched out under the table in a nonchalant manner. Suddenly he
drew them up under him determinedly, and leaning forward with a
quizzical grin as though he anticipated something amusing,
remarked, "Show him up."
"Monsieur will not come down? My brother, the postmaster . . ."
"Postmaster be damned!" snapped the gentleman. "Who do you think
_I_ am?"
With a deprecatory gesture, the innkeeper disappeared. There was
the sound of a short colloquy downstairs, a door opened, and two
pairs of heavy feet stumbled up the stairs. The gentleman
addressed himself unconcernedly to his ragout. The footfalls came
down the hall and ceased. The gentleman helped himself to a
particularly savoury morsel, swallowed it slowly, and looked up as
if his thoughts were elsewhere.
Standing in the door, with the broad, white expanse of the
innkeeper behind him, was an almost equally rotund personage with a
wide, stupidly cunning face. A huge cocked hat with a moth-eaten
cockade was pressed down importantly upon his brow to which it
managed to impart by wrinkling the rolls of fat a portentous and
official frown. There was in the man's manner a combination of
obsequiousness and truculence either of which was ready to triumph
over the other as events might decide. To the gentleman at the
table there was no doubt as to which attitude was going to win the
day, however. His spurred boot shot out swiftly from beneath the
cloth. Catching a chair deftly, he kicked it precisely into the
middle of the room.
"Sit down," said he.
The man advanced somewhat gingerly and sat, only to find himself
looking directly into the stranger's face. Seeing the latter
eyeing his hat with surprise and disapproval, after an evident
inward debate, he removed it and laid it on his fat knees.
"Monsieur, the innkeeper's brother, I believe," said the stranger
looking at him with the ghost of a twinkle. "No one could doubt
that at least."
"And the mayor-postmaster," began the little man puffing out his
cheeks.
"How am I to be sure of THAT?" asked the stranger leaning back
and looking at the man grimly. "Have you your documents with you?"
The pompous look upon the face of the astonished official collapsed
from his cheeks as if they had been a child's balloon pricked by a
pin. He squinted anxiously from his ferret eyes and began to feel
his pockets dubiously. "Not WITH me," he admitted, still
fumbling. Then his hands sank back onto his hat again. The
situation was unprecedented. Already he was almost convinced that
he was falsely impersonating himself.
"Extraordinary!" said the gentleman regarding him doubtfully.
"But, but, I AM the mayor, the postmaster. All the village knows
it! Is it not true, Henri?" he demanded appealing desperately to
his brother.
"Indeed, monsieur, it is," replied the innkeeper. "The curé lives
but a few doors above and can verify it. Surely . . ."
"Well, well," replied the stranger, "I am inclined to believe you."
He raised a hand to deprecate the need of the curé.
"See," cried the mayor-postmaster with a flash of inspiration on
his dull face, "here is my cockade!" He shifted his hat suddenly
and turned that dingy mark of office toward his doubter. "Monsieur
has been looking at the wrong side! He did not see the cockade
when I entered."
"Ah, that is different," smiled the gentleman. "Can you blame me--
when I was looking at the WRONG side?"
"Certainly not, monsieur," both voices replied together.
"In that case I shall be glad to show my own papers." He reached
in his pocket and drew out a long folded sheet. "You see,"
continued he frowning, "I always carry my identification about me.
And it would be well," he added, fixing the flustered man before
him with a cold stare while rapping the knuckles of his extended
hand with the edge of the document, "if you would do the same when
you demand the credentials of a military gentleman."
The shot went home. With a flushed face and far from steady hand
the fat man took the extended paper. He unfolded it nervously and
began to read. He was almost afraid to find whom he had offended.
It was a special leave of absence issued by the Minister of War and
dated from Versailles permitting M. Denis Moore, subject of His
Most Christian Majesty, captain-interpreter attached to the first
regiment of the royal horseguard, to travel upon private affairs in
all the kingdom of France during the space of four months. Upon
the expiration of leave he was to report back for duty at
Versailles. The script was in the beautiful, round hand of a clerk
of the war office, yet the eyes of the mayor moved over it slowly
while his lips spelled out the words. At the bottom of the
document, however, much to his relief, he came upon a block of good
solid print. There, along with such other exalted personages as
the intendants of provinces and the mayors of cities, he thought he
found himself included amongst "all loyal subjects of the king" as
bound to render aid, protection and assistance to the said Captain
Denis Moore in all his lawful designs whatsoever. Nor as an
officer of the royal household was the captain to be hindered,
taxed, prevented, or delayed in his going to and fro on pain of the
explicit displeasure of the king himself. "And of this ye shall
take good heed."
"It is the Minister of War," said the captain, pointing to a
signature whose many flourishes the poor man was in vain trying to
decipher. Face to face with the signature of so great a man as the
Minister of War the mayor-postmaster felt himself to be something
less than dust. He also felt himself in the distinguished presence
of an unusual man. Under the circumstances, it would be best to
waive the usual small fee for examination. No, he would say
nothing about it! He folded the paper carefully and handed it
back. "Monsieur the captain will excuse the interruption I hope,"
he said, preparing to leave the room with evident relief.
"Without doubt," said the captain, "but sit down. I have something
further to consult about with you. Come in," said he to the
innkeeper, "and kindly close the door. Can we be overheard?"
"By no one!"
"You will both understand," continued the captain, "that what I am
about to say to you is the king's business and goes no further than
this room." He glanced significantly at both of them. While their
voluble reassurances continued to flow, he again unfolded the
paper.
"You will note," said he, pointing to the line upon which the
phrase occurred, "that I am on 'private business.'" The mayor
nodded sagely. "Now follow me"--his finger ran on down the page--
"and that you are 'bound to render aid, assistance, and
protection.' It is that, monsieur the mayor, which I am now about
to ask of you. Draw your chairs up closer while I explain." It
was not long before the three heads were so close together over the
table that a fly could scarcely have crawled between them.
In a lower voice than he had been using, and with that confidential
air of being about to impart a matter of capital import, the
captain continued. "There arrived today at the Château de Besance
a certain gentleman, the Marquis da Vincitata. He is on his way
back to Genoa. He was sent last year on a special diplomatic
mission by the Grand Duke of Tuscany to the court of Versailles.
The matter was one of such extreme importance that you will
understand I cannot possibly discuss it with you at all."
The innkeeper was already too flattered at having been made a
confidant in affairs of state even to attempt to reply. His
brother, however, managed to gasp out a deprecatory noise at the
very idea of a complete revelation, waving his fat hand as if to
brush away so ridiculous a thought. Fearful that the swelling
pomposity of the mayor might become apoplectic, the captain paused
for a moment before he went on.
"The marquis has certain letters in his possession." He now
lowered his voice to a whisper. "I am following him. It is my
mission to obtain them, and it is in this that I shall require the
assistance of you both as loyal subjects, but especially of you,
monsieur the mayor."
"Certainly, in any way, but . . ."
"It will be quite simple. I have already taken the first steps to
ingratiate myself with the marquis' wife. She is young and pretty,
and he is old." A look of extreme knowingness and worldly wisdom
appeared on the faces of both worthies as they gazed with open-
mouthed admiration at the captain. Scarcely able to stifle his
laughter he condescended to enlighten them further. "From her I
have already learned that the marquis intends to linger here for
some time while taking the waters at Royat. It is my hope before
the gentleman is cured to persuade the lady . . ."
"To steal the papers," mumbled the mayor.
"Exactly," said the captain, actually patting him on the arm. "I
see you are able to think quickly." The combined smiles of the
delighted parties now seemed to illuminate the room.
"But to do that I must have a quiet place where I can stay,
reasonably close to the château, and one--mind you--where the news
of my being there will not leak out. One idle word carried to the
ear of the marquis and the game is up. Do you understand? One
word!--and can you help me?"
Confronted by his first problem in statecraft, the mayor sat
thinking ponderously. One could almost hear the wheels turn. The
innkeeper finally came to his assistance by whispering something in
his ear.
"Why, the very thing, why didn't _I_ think of it?" cried his
brother. "The farm of Jacques Honneton! He is my brother-in-law,
a widower, and his place is quite close to the château."
"Not too close?" inquired the captain.
"No, no, monsieur, about a mile or so. And you can be quite
comfortable there."
"I shall, of course, be glad to pay liberally," interrupted the
captain, "in a case of this kind the government . . . You can
see," said he turning to the innkeeper, "that under the
circumstances I cannot remain HERE."
"It will all be in the family anyway," said the innkeeper.
"And," said the captain taking the words out of his host's mouth
and bringing his fist down on the table, "it must stay there! Men
have been broken on the wheel for a slip of the tongue in a case
like this. I remember . . ."
"Never fear, my captain," cried the mayor already white to the
gills. "I will take it upon myself . . ."
"Then we understand each other thoroughly I take it, and I can
leave the arrangements at the farm with you." The captain inclined
his head slightly, indicating that the interview was at an end.
With the air of two conspirators upon whom the burden of portentous
things rested heavily, the innkeeper and his brother the mayor-
postmaster left the room. The latch clicked. Snatching the napkin
up hastily the captain crammed it in his mouth. For some seconds
what might have been mistaken for a choking noise escaped through
the folds.
Rising after a few minutes, he blew out the supper candles,
noticing with an amused smile that in the midst of the conspiracy
the innkeeper had forgotten to remove the tray. "How dramatic even
the simplest person can become," thought he. "The man has been
completely transported by his new rôle." The captain wondered
whether the dramatic sense was not on the whole a weakness in human
nature. It depended on who produced the play, he supposed. "Now
in the army your great generals . . ." He strolled over to the
window again.
The lights in the lower story of the château were being
extinguished. Finally only one remained. Suddenly a single
upstairs window shone out brilliantly. The captain grinned.
"Separate rooms, eh! No stairs for a one-legged man. Vive the
gout!" His theory about the two lighted windows at opposite ends
of the château pleased him immensely. "So the marquis imagined I
was calmly going to be left behind at Versailles mounting guard.
It will be much easier here with him away at the springs most of
the day." He looked at the lights in the upper window again. A
strong tremor shook him, "Maria," he cried between his teeth,
"Maria!" If he could see her tonight! No, that would be mere
folly. It might spoil all. If he could only send her a message,
though. God! She was going to bed alone down there less than a
mile away!
He leaned half-way out of the window and for some moments continued
to fill his lungs with the cool spring air that was at once
refreshing and provocative. A sensuous odour of vineyards in bloom
came to his nostrils as a love song might have drifted to his ears.
When he drew himself back into the room again the innkeeper was
removing the remains of supper.
"Pardon, monsieur," said he, "I knocked, you did not answer, and I
thought you had gone downstairs."
A sudden idea flashed across the captain's mind. This man must
know some people at the château. "Could you get a message to the
lady at the château, my friend?" he blurted out, "tonight!"
"Not tonight, mon capitaine, it is much too late, but early
tomorrow morning without doubt. The cook's sister . . ."
"I do not care how, that is for you to settle. Only of this be
sure. Employ no fools. I shall pay your messenger well and the
message must be delivered to the marquise, not to her husband. To
the marquise herself, quietly, mind you, and without fail. I shall
hold you responsible for this." He slipped a gold piece on the
tray. "You can arrange the messenger's wages yourself, you know."
"It shall be done as you say, monsieur," said the innkeeper with
eyes shining. "No one will ever be the wiser. We have our own
ways of getting news to and fro about the château even when M. le
Comte is home."
"Doubtless you have," replied the captain, looking keenly at the
wine bottle.
"From the château vineyards, monsieur, but not from the count's
cellars. Ma foi . . ."
"I said nothing," interrupted his guest. "But here is the
message." He took a scrap of paper from his dispatch box and sat
down. For a moment his crayon hung poised above it. On the whole
it would be better to write nothing. He began to sketch rapidly.
Presently he handed the folded paper to the landlord. "Tomorrow
before breakfast, to the lady, and to no one else!"
"Without fail, monsieur." The man took up the tray and went
downstairs wishing his guest a hearty good night. Arrived in the
kitchen he began to set the dishes aside to be washed next morning.
Finally nothing remained on the tray but the folded note and the
gold piece. He took them up and listened. Above his head the
beams creaked reassuringly. Nevertheless, it was with some
hesitation even when in his own room that he finally opened the
note and spread out the paper before a dim rush light.
Before him lay no writing but a vivid little street scene sketched
with an economy of line which it is safe to say was entirely wasted
upon the pair of small eyes now examining it. Their owner,
however, had no difficulty in recognizing instantly the peculiar
gabled front of his own inn. And if there had been any doubt of
it, the sheaf of wheat, the sign, and the lantern swinging beneath,
left nothing vague as to the place or the artist's intention.
There was the brick arch, too. But with the budding critical
spirit of a true connoisseur, Maître Henri noted with considerable
satisfaction that the arrangement of the chimney pots was decidedly
wrong. If this detail had not escaped him, it was with both
surprise and indignation that he next surveyed the strange equipage
which appeared to be passing before his door. It was a coach to
which, with an apt stroke or two, the artist had somehow managed to
give the outlines of a classical chariot. Its prancing steeds were
driven by a cat. Vulcan, or some other infernal lame god with a
crutch, lolled back in it. Behind him in the guise of a footman
stood Mercury with a small shameless Cupid on his shoulders. The
latter was shooting into the upstairs window of the inn. The arrow
pointed straight toward it with a message attached.
Certainly no such vehicle had ever troubled the streets of
Romagnat. Of that Maître Henri was sure. Nor did he entirely
relish the half-tipsy air which the artist had managed to convey to
the inn. His was a respectable place. Above all that shirt
flapping from the window was a libel. The wash was always hung in
the court! Bursting with indignation he hurried out to make sure,
crossed the narrow street, and turned to survey the front of his
establishment. The light in the captain's window was out, but
certainly there was a shirt flapping there over the sill as if hung
out to dry. "Mort Dieu! What was the place coming to?"
CHAPTER FOUR
THE ENCHANTED FOREST
The captain was awakened next morning by his friend the innkeeper.
Despite his chagrin at the shirt, which he noticed was still
fluttering at the window, the good man was once more obviously in
the rôle of conspirator. Nor did the fact that he came bearing a
tray with a bowl of coffee and rolls prevent him from walking as
though a burden of state still rested upon his shoulders. Between
his half-closed eyelids Denis Moore surveyed him as he arranged the
table, and permitted an inward smile to escape as an audible yawn.
Finding his guest awake, the innkeeper turned and bade him good
morning.
"The message was safely delivered, monsieur. The cook's sister has
returned, two hours ago."
"Any reply?" yawned the captain stretching himself, but with a
throb of pulses under the covers.
"No, monsieur, you said nothing about that. Did . . . ?"
"I did NOT expect one."
"Oh!" said the innkeeper.
"At least not till later, you know. And what do we hear from the
mayor-postmaster?"
"All has been arranged as I--as he said. There will be a room
prepared for you at the farm we spoke of. You can go this morning
if you like. François can drive you over in the cart with the
cover. If monsieur will not mind sitting in the back, on a truss
of straw, no one will see him there as he goes through the
village."
"And the mare?" inquired the captain.
"She can be taken over this evening after it is dark."
The captain was visibly pleased. "I am bound to say that you have
both done very well, you and your brother, the mayor-postmaster. I
shall see that your services are properly mentioned in my report,"
he added, sitting up officially, and drawing on his shirt. "All
that is needed now is a closed mouth. You can leave the rest to
me."
The innkeeper bowed and puffed out his cheeks. In his mind's eye
he beheld a document heavy with seals and loaded with encomiums
winging its official way to Paris. What an honour for the family
Gervais to be mentioned to the Minister of War! "Monsieur is
indeed very kind," he murmured. With some difficulty he returned
to his rôle in actual life. "Is there anything . . . is the
breakfast satisfactory?"
His guest surveyed it somewhat skeptically. "A flask of whisky,
perhaps." The host stared blankly. "Eau de vie, then." With
incredulity upon his face the man vanished to returned a few
minutes later with the desired liquid. "Bon Dieu!" said he as the
captain emptied a considerable portion of it into his cup and
tossed it off raw. "In the morning, monsieur!"
The captain laughed. "It is a family custom, my friend. Several
generations in France have not changed it. We still drink to the
King of France whenever we can in Irish whisky, as my grandfather,
the great O'Moore, once drank to King James." He looked at the
flask wistfully. "Lacking whisky, brandy is the next best thing."
"But in the morning, monsieur!"
"It is a fine loyal way to begin the day. Will you join me?"
Not daring to refuse, the innkeeper gulped down a fiery potion
poured out by his host, and retired gasping. "Exit," thought the
captain, "I shall now be left in peace at least for some time. But
what a slander on the O'Moore's. Brandy before breakfast! One
would think us to be Russians." Labouring under great excitement
as he was, he had craved the drink.
It might be hours before he heard from the château. Hours? Days!
Perhaps not at all! But he dismissed that from his mind.
Underneath he could hear the morning activities of the inn already
well under way. Judging by the clatter in the stable, François was
currying down the mare and being nipped at for his pains. He
looked out into the littered courtyard. It was a beautiful, clear
day and the smoke from Maître Henri's two chimneys rose straight
into the air. Then he crossed to the other window and standing
back some little way so as to remain unobserved from the street,
glanced toward the château. An exclamation of surprise escaped
him. On the road leading to the village a cloud of dust could be
seen coming his way rapidly. There was no time to lose.
He turned back into the room and from an inner flap of his
saddlebag extracted a square object carefully packed in a fragment
of blanket. Unwrapping this rapidly he took out a fair sized
mirror which it contained. Again hastening to the window he
propped the glass on the window-sill almost at right angles to the
street. Drawing up a chair some distance within the room, he
seated himself, adjusted the mirror once or twice and waited.
Like many old buildings the inn did not front squarely on the road.
Even the slight angle at which it was offset plus the overhang of
the casement enabled the scene outside to be thrown upon the glass
in a bright little miniature of that portion of the village street
which the captain was most anxious to see without being seen.
Despite his anxiety, the situation and his secret view amused him.
A few yards below him two women in white caps could be seen
gossiping and gesturing violently. Their shrill voices came in
through the window. He noticed the peculiar "well-what-could-one-
do-about-it" gesture of one of the women as she seemed to let the
bad luck she was relating pour back onto the spine of Providence.
A black goat switching a long lily stalk in its teeth wandered
across the street. "What kind of an omen is that?" thought the
captain, who was now amused to imagine himself a crystal gazer.
Undoubtedly a great deal of fate was concentrated in the mirror.
He could not help feeling that way about it. Suddenly the women
turned and both gazed in the same direction. There was the distant
crack of a whip and a rumble. He could hear feet running to the
door downstairs. A small blur appeared in the glass that grew
rapidly, almost terrifyingly swiftly into a coach and four. He
caught a glimpse of a squat, cat-faced postilion riding the right
lead horse, and the two tall footmen behind. In the distortion of
the glass there was something diabolical about them. Then horses,
coach and footmen seemed to vanish uphill across the mirror into
nothing. The next instant the cocked hats, white wigs and profiles
of the two footmen appeared close to and on an exact level with the
window. Their heads and a small part of the coach roof seemed to
glide along the sill miraculously. He caught the flash of a yellow
glove. There was a sharp crack, and the captain swore automatically.
The mirror, shivered into a hundred jagged fragments, had tinkled
musically to the floor.
He was on his knees now. He wondered if the missile had bounded
back into the street. Inadvertently he had miscalculated the
height of his room above the road. It had not been quite so easy
to reach it as he had expected. Then he gave a relieved
exclamation and rose with the desired object in his hands. In a
few seconds the piece of paper was disengaged from the small stone
about which it had been tightly wrapped, and opened out on the
table before him. He bent over it, for the writing though clear,
was exceedingly minute.
He will be gone all day. This afternoon early, the road to
Beaumont by the mill at the first bridge. Driving. The maid can
be trusted. Till then Dieu te garde--AND ALWAYS.
"And always"--his lips moved as if in prayer and sank to the paper
in Amen. All his frame flushed with happiness. He felt his throat
beating in the collar that was suddenly too tight for him. No, he
had never known how much he needed her. The tumult and the longing
of his body surprised his mind out of thought. There could be only
one meaning to the note. She had decided at last then. It had
been impossible finally to bid him good-bye. Those days at
Versailles had won against all her scruples at last. Or, could she
only be flattered that he had followed her? But this was not the
court! He ran to the window to reassure himself. No, no this was
Auvergne. Miles of pastoral landscape, vineyards, fields, forests,
and meadows rolled up and away to the heights of Gergovia. Sound,
odour, and sight swept up to him bringing a sudden access of peace,
conviction, and determination. The quest for which he had been
prepared to devote his summer was about to end. He turned and
threw himself upon the bed in an ecstasy that shook him. For a
moment he gave himself up to a sensation of unmitigated happiness.
He breathed deeply and lay still. When he arose some minutes later
he noticed that he was still only in his stockings. And he had
been walking about heedlessly amid the shattered fragments of the
mirror that lay scattered about the floor.
In the heightened emotional state in which he found himself, the
accident to the glass worried him more than he would have thought
possible. An unusual sensitivity in which he became painfully
aware of the strangeness of his surroundings flooded in upon him.
It was like homesickness; the only remedy was to be with her
wherever she was. Yet he found a positive fear of going out, of
meeting strange faces, possessed him. After the moment of ecstasy
he was now at the nadir of that state, and a conviction of
impending tragedy overpowered him. "How could such an affair turn
out well? Suppose, yes, suppose THAT . . . what would they do
then?" He reached out almost unconsciously and took a pull at the
brandy. A feeling of relief and of normal assurance gradually
returned. He felt better, confident. He walked about, pulled on
his boots, dressed with great care, slung his rapier carefully
under the arranged folds of his cloak, and tied back his hair,
missing his broken glass sorely. "Damn that piece of luck!" But
he would forget. He rapped on the floor and brought up the
landlord.
"Monsieur must be careful or he will give himself away. Lucky that
no one else heard him."
In the mood he was now in, it didn't matter. Yet he realized the
man was right.
"How soon can François be ready with the wagon? I must leave for
the farm as soon as possible."
"In a few minutes," replied the innkeeper. "Watch from the window.
When I come out into the court without my apron all will be clear
and you can come down. But do not delay, sir. People are about
now all the time." The man went downstairs while the captain
watched impatiently, François hitched a mule to the wagon.
Presently the fat host appeared in his vest. Snatching up his
holsters and saddle-bags the captain dashed downstairs and bundling
his stuff hurriedly into the cart leaped in behind. It was a high,
two-wheeled wagon with a kind of bulging tent over it which when
drawn behind effectually concealed its burden.
"Good-bye, Maître Henri, and thank you," said the passenger to the
innkeeper. "Give me your hand to clinch the bargain."
The fat man cried out at the grip he received from the gentleman
under the cover. But on withdrawing his hand he found that within
it which caused him to bid his guest, as he rattled out of the
court, an all but affectionate farewell.
A few minutes later and the captain was safely ensconced at the
farm of Jacques Honneton. By his manner and the elaborate
precautions in the reception of his guest, that well-to-do peasant
had evidently not failed to be filled up with the importance and
peculiar requirements of his charge. The mayor-postmaster must
have been more than usually impressive. Best of all, the window of
his room, Denis noticed, had a clear and uninterrupted view across
the park and of the entire front of the château. That fact, he
thought, might have strategic possibilities. He proceeded to make
himself comfortable and to inquire from his new host as to the road
to Beaumont.
"Là-bas, monsieur," said Honneton, pointing out a streak across the
landscape that about a mile away disappeared into a dense mass of
ancient greenery.
----------
At the château that morning Maria was strangely happy. It was the
first fully happy day she remembered since her marriage. Despite
the cold fear which had crept along her spine the night before at
supper as the marquis chatted so hopefully of his recovery--and all
that it implied--the sensation of coming home, which had begun with
her in the coach the afternoon before, had continued. Against the
sanguine prophecy of Don Luis as to his health, she had, although
she tried not to permit herself to do so, set off the glimpse of
the figure waving from the rock. Without realizing that she had
unconsciously leaped toward him as an alternative with all of her
being, she consciously thought of the near presence of Denis as a
protection. Someone to appeal to in case--in case one needed
someone to whom to appeal. Then the maid was a dear, a merry and
understanding person about thirty but seemingly much younger. They
had already confessed their ages, while the golden childish
ringlets over which the older woman leaned in unfeigned admiration
were being brushed just before bed the night before.
"Ah, madame was so young--and to be married to the old monsieur,
already a year!" It seemed impossible. The talk ran on in the
eager Tuscan that completed for Maria the illusion that she was
being put to bed again at Livorno by Faith Paleologus. Without
realizing it she began to talk of her maid, her father's house, of
Italy, of all the old life, a forbidden subject, or practically so,
for Don Luis would hear none of it.
"You are now in a new world, my dear, forget the old one," he would
say, and look dubiously on the frequent letters from home. Once a
month she could reply. And he must read and correct her letter
when it was finally done with many sighs and not a few blots.
Always it must be rewritten. "A marquise, you know, must at least
be correct in her correspondence." How she hated it--and him.
Now she could talk at her ease. A flood of delightful, childish
chatter was soon joined in by the maid as she brushed and brushed,
and watched the bright, beautiful face tilted back at her in child-
like confidence, and relief, and ease. They went to sleep
whispering. At midnight Lucia found she was relating the story of
her life to her mistress who was asleep. The last details of a
romantic affair with the butler of M. de Besance died away with a
sigh as the final candle in a corner sconce guttered and went out.
Then in the morning had come the wonderful picture from Denis. No,
he had not been wrong. Of course, she understood. Perhaps without
Lucia she could not have puzzled it out so quickly. And what else
could she do but reply? That tallest footman had carried some
notes for her before to Denis at Versailles. And Denis remembered!
After all she could write a good letter; say a great deal on such a
little space of paper. How surprised Don Luis would be if he read
that. But heaven forbid! She could trust Lucia, though. Yes, she
was sure of that. It had all taken only a few moments. And she
would see him this afternoon--at that mill in the forest that Lucia
knew about. What a jewel she was, and how much she knew about the
château and the country around after arriving only a few days ago.
To Lucia what seemed more natural than that madame should have a
cavalier. One could not expect an ogre to fill the heart of a
goddess. Besides she herself must get back to Italy and it would
be well to ingratiate herself with madame, to make herself
indispensable. With a certain amount of knowledge one need never
be discharged at all. She had learned that much at Paris. One did
not leave the hotel of M. de Besance with two fair-sized shoes full
of gold pieces merely for dusting off the chairs. But before all
she was a woman, an Italian, and the cry of youth to youth was as
natural to her and as little to be cavilled at as the sunlight
streaming through the window. So the drive that afternoon was
arranged, and the letter, carefully wrapped about the stone, which
so thoroughly shattered the captain's reflections, was dispatched.
Hence, at half past one of that beautiful spring afternoon the pony
and the little landaulet painted with wreaths of roses and blue
ribbons, that Mlle. de Besance now secretly pined for even in the
family great coach at Versailles, was waiting at the door. Since
madame herself was going to drive, the small bell on the bridle
must be silenced. It would never do to have the pony shying at it,
Lucia insisted. Maria pouted at this, but a knowing glance from
her companion reminded her that it would never do. "No, no, it
must be taken off." There was a slight delay while the offending
chime was removed and then they were off, taking the great circle
of the drive, the straight road through the hedges, and then a
swift turn to the right and on to the road for Beaumont.
The horse was a well-behaved but eager little beast. For some time
now he had been little used and he travelled the road briskly. The
red tassel on the whip began to bend back into the wind and the
wheels on level spaces grew dim. Maria laughed with sheer
exhilaration. The sunlight drenched the rows of vines, and as if
she had already extracted from it that quality that would soon be
pressed out as wine, her cheeks glowed and her eyes sparkled. From
the heights about looked down upon her old ruined towers, white
villages, and little chapels whence the distant bells rang out now
and again in what seemed like a chime to the trot and time of the
horse. Always over this country of Auvergne there was the sound of
bells. At that season the vines had already been tended weeks
before. In the vineyards they passed through they saw no one.
Suddenly as if a cloud had passed over their heads they were in the
forest. It was damp and cool. Great beeches covered with green
moss on the southern side threw level arms across the road. The
sound of the pony's hoofs was muffled in loam and leaves. The
wheels swished through them like the prow of a boat moving rapidly
through water. Their eyes grew wide in the watery, green light.
The silence seemed prophetic. Bright golden patches shimmered and
chequered the road ahead. Down the long, cool glades they saw the
pronged antlers of the deer disappearing amid the trees and
blending into the shadows of branches. It was an enchanted
country. Only the forlorn and distant sound of a hunter's horn
durst disturb it. No one else ever came there, no one but
themselves. Then as she threw her head back to drink in the wonder
of it, and to taste the essence of spring that seemed to flow from
the tips of the beech buds trembling in the heat on the highest
branches, her whole being for the first time partook of life to the
full. She was in that hour and in that green virgin place a woman,
full grown.
The old merchant's daughter was a girl, a memory moving
pathetically, only half-alive it seemed now, about a gloomy house
in Livorno. Her father's voice, that careful, wise and knowing
voice, was far, far off, talking to someone else that had once been
she, but was so no more. And the girl-wife? Ah, Madre mia!--what
had THAT man to do with HER?
The horse sped on as if he would take her away from Don Luis
forever, leaving the cold about her heart and the fear behind. A
robin flicked across the road in a patch of sunlight. Against the
tender green of the leaves his breast seemed to burn like scarlet.
As if he had flashed a message from the heart of that enchanted
forest, rushed upon her the remembrance, the knowledge, and the
full conviction that she was going to meet her lover.
There could be no holding back now. Had he not followed her all
the way from Paris? After the crushing of all hope by her
marriage, after a year of foreboding and life in death, to find
this full cup of life held out to her, waiting as it were just
around the next turn in the road, intoxicated her, thrilled her
through every fibre and flamed up with a sudden blaze and hope of
fulfilment in the very core of her being. "Yes, yes, yes--and
never again no," that was what the voices amid these trees, and
whispers in the night all the way from Paris--she knew it now--that
was what they had all been saying.
She flicked the horse with her whip, half amazed at her own
sureness and firmness of grasp. The little carriage darted along
under the tunnel of great branches even faster. Lucia with
surprise and fear in her eyes grasped the sides of the vehicle
tighter. The road began now in a series of long even curves to
descend. The speed increased. They could hear the pony breathing.
A sparkle of water glittered through the leaves ahead, then some
weathered stonework. They wheeled out onto an open green over
which the road twisted to a high arched bridge, and drew up before
a long abandoned, stone building. The singing voice of a small,
rapid river talking to itself filled the air of the deserted valley
in which the ruin lay.
"It is the mill, madame," said Lucia. "That way," she pointed to a
squat doorway from which stairs overgrown with ferns descended to
some green region below. Maria looked. A huge root writhing like
a serpent had ages ago taken charge of and embraced that threshold
so that nothing could now make it let go short of steel and fire.
"Watch," said Maria, handing the reins to her companion who looked
down at her almost enviously. A wave of colour swept over the
young girl's face, tingeing for a moment her neck and shoulders.
Then she turned, and stepping over the threshold lightly,
disappeared into the green shadows of the door.
For a moment it seemed to Maria that she was descending into
darkness. The steps made a complete turn. She felt her way in the
uncertain shadows. The wall grew smooth. Then, almost as soon as
she became aware of the light ahead and below, her hand began to
brush over the cool and lacy texture of ferns that grew ever more
luxuriantly from the damp stone. When she emerged again into the
daylight the whole tunnel of the ancient stairs of the mill tower
was a vault of faintly vibrant green.
She now found herself almost on a level with the stream. Behind
her rose the mill a whole story to the level of the road to which
it served as an embankment. Before her stretched a short natural
terrace bounded on the side of the stream by the abandoned mill
race choked with water-lilies and on the other by a high bank
crowned with huge trees. The place was still dewy and smelt of
mallows. From the road its existence, to any casual traveller,
must remain unsuspected unless he came by the stairs or cut his way
through the great trees and undergrowth that now flourished on the
top of the ruined dam. The miller of times past, whoever he had
been, had chosen his site well.
It seemed to Maria stepping out upon the smooth, natural lawn of
this sequestered coign that by some magic she had suddenly
succeeded in leaving the world behind. Surely neither man nor
beast came here. Those delicate white flowers, tossing themselves
in hazy sprays above the grass, were meant for magic feet. The
sound of the river bubbled itself monotonously into her ears. She
stood, she did not know how long, listening to it. The sensation
of having reached a spot where time had ceased slowly grew upon
her. She remembered some dim, old Scotch story of a maid who had
strayed into a place like this and come back still young. But the
names of the gravestones of her generation had weathered away.
Then she saw him.
He had been waiting by the bank under an overhanging branch of a
pine, watching her. As long as he lived he would never forget her
standing there listening to the stream, gazing into another world.
There are certain expressions at times upon the faces of some women
that utterly confute the doctrine of original sin but confirm
predestination. Such glances of the soul are to be overtaken only
when it does not know it is being watched and reveals itself
unconsciously as one of the elect, sprung from love and naturally
and innocently bound for it again. Whatever else circumstances may
do to such a soul that has no part with evil, they can never alter
the essence of its being. It remains clear as a flame does even
when fed by and consuming the most dreadful refuse. Such a clear
glance from the depths of the young girl's being Denis Moore had
just had the good fortune of seeing. It was not lost upon him. He
had both sensitivity and experience enough to understand. When he
stepped out from behind the branch which had concealed him, he had
already abandoned utterly the very simple rôle of the hunter. It
would never be sufficient merely to bring that beautiful body to
the ground. Now he had seen who it was that lived within it. He
must live with her, alive,