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Roland once more pushed on; but as he advanced, the fortress rose into the skies, until, after about an hour’s walking, he found himself with nothing before him save the blank horizon of the desert. Then despair seized him. He sank on his knees, crossed himself, and shed four tears, the first he had ever wept. They fell on the sand, and there formed four springs for a stream of cool and clear water. Roland received from this new vigour, and having rendered thanks to Providence, he was preparing to move forward, when he remarked with surprise a great stirring of the sand. Little clouds of dust began to rise in all directions, although there was not a breath stirring. Then the sand began to whirl round incessantly, marking a great circle at a short distance from our hero.
As it began to whirl, it heaped itself up, drawn towards the centre by some strange force of attraction. You would have said that some gigantic polypus was sucking up all the sand of the desert. After a few minutes there mounted, still eddying round, a huge column, which grew as Roland watched it, until the summit was lost to sight in the sky. A hot wind, like the harmattan of the Guinea coast, rose and drove the sand before it in clouds. The sun turned red as molten iron.
The pillar of sand at last lost its equilibrium, and fell with a horrible rushing sound. Roland closed his eyes, but he did not recoil. Hearing a great roar of laughter, he instinctively clutched his sword by the hilt. What he saw next induced him to draw it from its sheath.
The sand, in falling, had reared a mound, the base of which formed an enormous circle, in the centre of which Roland perceived, with surprise, a huge monster buried in sand to his waist. It was Eblis, the Devil of the East.
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His Majesty was a hundred feet in height, which is a respectable size, even for a demon of the highest rank. His black skin, striped with red, was covered with small scales, which made it glisten like armour. His hair was so long and curly, a snake might have lost its way in it. His flat nose was pierced with a ring of admirable workmanship, as you see done to the wild bulls of the Roman Campagna. His white teeth, set with precious stones, gave to his smile a very variegated appearance. His small eyes assumed, one after the other, all the prismatic colours, which made it impossible to sustain his gaze. His ears, which exactly resembled those of an elephant, flapped on his shoulders; but he had, to make up for it, a tail sixty feet long, terminating in a hooked claw, which could have wielded the Monument easily as a toothpick.
Eblis had no other covering than his wings, which were large, soft, and marvellously pliable, and in which he delighted to wrap himself. Conceive, further, that a phosphorescent gleam played incessantly over the monster’s skin, and you will easily understand why Roland unsheathed Durandal.
Eblis was writhing with laughter.
“I haven’t roared so through all eternity, upon my honour! Here, I say, my little man, do you know you have just done a master-stroke?”
This familiar tone displeased Roland.
“I have just met Mahomet,” continued Eblis, “and you have broken five of his front teeth. I have seen a good many prophets in my time, but I vow, on the faith of the accursed, I never saw one in such a rage. I have, in honour of the blow, given three days’ holiday in the infernal regions. There will be concerts, balls, hunts, and theatres. I have had written, by one of our best authors, a little comedy in the style of Apollodorus, in the last scene of which Mahomet receives a hundred strokes of the bastinado. I have given orders to an army of cooks; you can hear even here a rattle of stew-pans altogether refreshing. I will undertake to let you see we are not so backward in this respect as people pretend. You will meet with many old friends among the guests; we have quite a crowd of visitors just now. My wife, who is a lively one, will be delighted to make your acquaintance. Come, let me present you to her as the best of my friends.”
“Babbler!” exclaimed Roland, but little flattered at these marks of friendship. “What right have you to address me in this style?”
Eblis, who was not accustomed to be treated so cavalierly, was dumb with surprise for a moment.
“By my father’s horns!” said he, at last, “I must have misunderstood you. Give me your hand, Roland, to disabuse me of the error.”
He stretched out his tail to the knight, who, however, only drew back a few steps.
“What, puny wretch!” shrieked Eblis, turning as white with rage as it was possible for one so black to do. “I shall send you back to earth. Do you think I am of the same stuff as Mahomet?”
“But here Roland flung his second gauntlet in the demon’s face.
“That makes the pair!” said the nephew of Charlemagne, placing himself in an attitude of defence.
“Zacoum Zimzim Galarabak!” shouted Eblis, mad with fury. (You must know that is the most terrible oath that can be uttered in the Saracen tongue.) The earth shook and gaped at Roland’s feet. He felt himself launched into space. His armour suddenly became icy cold.
“If I get back without an attack of rheumatism I shall be lucky,” said the knight.
He heard around him the flapping of wings; it was a troop of afreets and djins.
“Reflect, Roland. There is yet time. Mahomet is prepared to forgive you.”
All the answer Roland vouchsafed was the intoning of the canticle—
“Sub tuum Fræsidium confugimus.”
“In a few moments your body will be dashed to pieces on earth. Remember the wondrous things the Prophet offered to share with you.”
“Sancta Dei genitrix; nostras deprecationes ne despicias,” continued Roland. And now it seemed to him that, instead of falling at hazard, he was being gently carried. The chorus of afreets and djins was left far behind, but he still heard the sound of pinions.
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“Set your mind at rest,” said a voice so exquisitely musical that Roland trembled to hear it. “I am the Archangel Michael. Our Blessed Lady has sent me to preserve you. She had been touched by your constancy and courage. Repose in safety on my wings, and we shall soon reach earth.”
And, in truth, in a few minutes’ time the Count of Mans, to his astonishment, found himself before Saragossa. He was at prayer in his tent when he heard the voice of Miton.
“My dear Roland, where are you?” cried the Count of Rennes, anxiously.
“Here I am,” said the knight, hurrying to his friend.
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“Charlemagne, who knows how punctual you are, seeing you were ten minutes behind your time to take on your guard, has sent to look for you in every direction. You are pale, my dear Count; what has happened to you?”
“I will tell you all about it,” said Roland, as he hastened to his post near the Emperor.
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CHARLEMAGNE had an excellent memory. He never omitted to ponder over the dangers to which Mitaine was exposed at every turn. He had the scene of the late ambush carefully searched by his spies in the first place, and afterwards by his soldiers. All, on their return, made the same report. They said the forest was inhabited, and there was a good deal of talk about a castle called “The Fortress of Fear,” which was to be found somewhere in the neighbourhood, although nobody they met with had seen it. None, however, doubted its existence. If a child disappeared, or any cattle were carried off, the trembling peasants said, “The Lord of Fear-fortress had taken them.” If a fire broke out anywhere, it was the Lord of Fear-fortress who must have lit it. The origin of all accidents, mishaps, catastrophes, or disasters was traced to the mysterious owner of this invisible castle.
“I should like to have the mystery cleared up,” said Charlemagne to himself. “I can hardly resign myself to the belief that it is Ganelon, my old brother-in-arms.”
He called his knights together.
“My faithful champions, I need four of you for a perilous adventure, I know not where I am sending you—I know not whether you will return. Who will risk death for my good favour?”
All the knights at once flung themselves at his feet, each entreating the Emperor to honour him with his choice.
“You place me in a difficult position,” said the Emperor, greatly moved; “I see that chance must point out the four champions. I can without fear trust to it, for you are all equally brave.”
The names of all the knights present were put into a helmet, and Mitaine played the part of Destiny to the best of her power, little thinking she was choosing her own champions and avengers. The first name she called out was that of Allegrignac of Cognac, Count of Salençon and Saintonge.
“The lot suits me admirably,” said the Emperor, giving a friendly wave of his hand to the knight. “You know the language of the country, and will be a safe guide for your companions.”
Mitaine next named the Baron of Mont-Rognon, Lord of Bourglastic, Tortebesse, and elsewhere.
“This is indeed a capital choice! There is no stouter arm in the Arvennes than yours; and if there be a postern to be burst open by a powerful shoulder, you will be there, Mont-Rognon.”
“Porc-en-Truie, Lord of Machavoine,” cried Mitaine.
“I am in luck to-day, by St. James! You are known to be experienced, Porc-en-Truie, and you will conduct the adventure, I entrust to you, to a prosperous end, I feel sure. But I am curious to know who is my fourth champion.”
“Maragougnia, Count of Rioin,” said Mitaine.
“Now we have wisdom, strength, and cunning. Maragougnia can give the serpent points at wisdom, and beat him. If I do not succeed with such knights I shall despair altogether.”
Charlemagne withdrew with his four champions, told them of the perils to which his god-child had been exposed, the investigation he had instituted, the suspicions he had entertained; and finally, he spoke of the Fortress of Fear, winding up in these terms:—
“I am anxious to square accounts with this Croquemitaine. You will pass through the forest till you arrive at Alagon, a little hamlet on the banks of the Ebro. There you will inquire for the Fonda del Caïman, or, if you prefer it, the sign of the Crocodile. You will there rest yourselves for a short time, and then set out on your quests. You, Allegrignac, striking off from the river, will pursue your course towards Pampeluna. You, Mont-Rognon, will proceed in the direction of Catalyud; and look out for the Saracens, my friend, who on that side are disgusted enough with the trouble we have given them. You, Porc-en-Truie, will make for Fuentes. If you are guided by me, you will travel by night only, and conceal yourself carefully by day. You will appreciate my counsel when once you are on the road. You, finally, my gallant Maragougnia, will have to direct your steps towards Lerida, but you will not go beyond the river Alcander. I have reserved this expedition for you because it is the most hazardous—there, you need not thank me. I understand you! Quarter the country in every direction, and find out for me this Fortress of Fear. He who brings me the head of its dreaded lord shall be created a baron and peer of my realm.”
The Emperor replenished the purses of his champions, and took leave of them with an embrace. When they’ found themselves alone they interchanged looks of bewilderment.
“What do you think of that?” said Porc-en-Truie, with a grimace.
“That I shall be a duke,” said Allegrignac, cutting a caper. “This adventure won’t take me a minute!”
“To think that we must set out to-night!” said Mont-Rognon, in tones of regret; “and to think that I have ordered a splendid supper for to-night, which my fellows will get the benefit of!”
“To think that we shall none of us ever come back again!” said Maragougnia, in a melancholy voice, as he wiped away a tear with the sleeve of his chain-mail.
“Pshaw! who knows?” broke in Porc-en-Truie, with a smile. “Let us set out, and then we can see!”
They appointed to meet on the borders of the forest, and within an hour afterwards they’ were all on the spot, equipped for war or for travel.
Porc-en-Truie, Lord of Machavoine, was a great fellow of thirty years of age, more skilled in avoiding blows than in dealing them. He invariably shirked all his military duties, not because he was a coward, but because he was incorrigibly idle. He had been known to tramp three hours afoot to save himself the trouble of saddling his horse, and he had killed his dearest friend in a tournament, in order to terminate a long and fatiguing tilting match. He arrived at the rendezvous on horseback, with no weapon but his sword.
“How imprudent!” cried Allegrignac, the moment he saw him coming. “Are we going to a wedding only, or are you desirous of emulating Miton’s great feat at the Tourney of Fronsac?”
“I hate a load of weapons, and I don’t mean to kill myself for this Mitaine—for whom, between you and me, I don’t care a grain of mustard-seed!”
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Allegrignac of Cognac, Count of Salençon, was twenty-five years of age, and six feet six high. He had an open countenance, a stout heart, an untiring tongue, limbs of steel, a stomach of leather, and a very slender patrimony. His hair was curly, his teeth were white. He was as proud as a Spaniard, as brave as a Frenchman, as simple-minded as a goose. He was possessed of a pleasant contralto voice, a cheerful spirit, and a grey horse called Serenade.
Picture to yourself a figure clad in complete steel, and with weapons of vast weight, like one of those armed and bandy-legged giants you see in a procession of trades, capable of lifting enormous weights, not to mention cattle, and any other unconsidered trifles he could lay hands on, and you have a portrait of the Baron of Mont-Rognon, Lord of Bourglastic, Tortebesse, and elsewhere. This huge mass of muscle existed only to eat and drink. He was a descendant of Esau on his father’s side, and of Gargantua on his mother’s. He once performed a gigantic feat—he killed six hundred Saracens who happened to get in his way as he was going to dinner. He had an elastic stomach, and a mouth armed with four rows of teeth.
Having described his stomach and his mouth,
I need not go on with the likeness, for all that remained were mere incidental appurtenances.
He arrived third at the place of meeting, leading by the halter a mule laden with provisions and bottles.
“What’s this?” said Allegrignac, laughingly.
“That!” said Mont-Rognon, offended at his bluntness. “That’s supper.”
“What’s the use of that?” said Porc-en-Truie.
Mont-Rognon the Monstrous.
Mont-Rognon in a hurry for his dinner
“Charlemagne has ordered us to perish for him,” broke in the Lord of Bourglastic, “but he did not stipulate that we should perish of hunger.”
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Maragougnia, Count of Riom, was the last to arrive. He was equipped in the most gloomy style. His armour was of browned steel, sprinkled with silver tears. From the coronet that surmounted his helmet sprang a few mangy black feathers, which drooped over his shoulders like the branches of a weeping willow, and all the rest of his accoutrements were to match.
He had one extraordinary quality, which was his strong point—instead of making him lose his head, fear only gave him increased presence of mind. They related deeds of prowess of his which were, in reality, only prodigies of cowardice. He did everything with a profound air of melancholy. His first wife, they say, died of yawning; the second perished of sheer weariness in three weeks.
Behind him came a page, who might be considered to have originated the sombre livery worn nine hundred years later by the page of the Duchess of Marlborough.*
* Vide “Malbrouck:”—“Elle voit venir son pageDe unir tout habillé.”
This lugubrious squire bore the count’s change of arms—to wit: two daggers of mercy; three swords, various; one lance; one helmet; one morion; two daggers, poisoned; one battle-axe; one flail, iron; one shield; one breastplate; one shirt of mail; two pairs of gauntlets; three pairs of spurs.
“Good heavens!” said Allegrignac; “are we going to equip all the nation for war? Look, Porc-en-Truie! the Count of Riom has stripped the armouries of his ten castles.”
“I wouldn’t stir an inch,” said Porc-en-Truie, in the interval of a couple of yawns, “to assure myself that Maragougnia has done something silly. If you assured me to the contrary, I might perhaps be surprised into getting up to see. And yet no! I couldn’t believe it; so I should stay where I was.”
Porc-en-Truie, I must observe, sat himself down on the grass the moment he arrived.
“You’re quite welcome to laugh at my prudence,” said Maragougnia, “but I don’t forget we are going to certain death.”
“Certain death! Fiddlesticks! I mean yet to rival the Methusalems of the period,” said Porc-en-Truie, rising. “And now let’s be off, if we are to reach Alagon to-night.”
“To prepare for death,” said Maragougnia, dashing away a tear with his gauntlet.
“To go to sleep,” said Porc-en-Truie, with a yawn.
“To try a throw with the dice,” said Allegrignac, jingling the money in his purse.
“To make a good supper,” said Mont-Rognon, with a hollow voice, gnashing his teeth like castanets.
In ten minutes the four knights had entered the wood. At sunset Alleericmac was hammering with his fist at the door of the Fonda del Caïman.
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THE innkeeper was a man of middle size, half Spaniard and half Moor, with a big body and thin leys, a brown skin and grey eyes. He had acquired considerable reputation in the district for his mode of dressing calves’ feet with saffron, and his handiness in stabbing people in the right place. He made everything a matter of trade, and used to regret that he had inherited no religious opinions which he could have abjured at a fixed price to be got either from the Saracens or the Christians. For the rest, he was a most obliging host, provided your purse was well supplied; and I believe I shall put the finishing stroke to the likeness when I say he was the biggest robber in all Spain, from Pontevedra to Girone.
Ali Pépé opened the door. One is always forgetting something, and I forgot to tell you his name was Ali Pépé.
“Where’s the landlady?” asked Allegrignac, twisting his moustache.
“I want a bed,” yawned Porc-en-Truie.
“Some supper!” growled Mont-Rognon.
Maragougnia said nothing. He was absorbed in studying the inn, and the estimate he formed seemed far from satisfactory.
Ali Pépé stood on the defensive, blocking the entrance of the inn.
“Your lordships appear of too exalted a station for me to omit to inform you that you will find the accommodation here very unsuited to you.”
“Here’s frankness and disinterestedness! But where can we find better accommodation?”
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“My inn is the only one in the district.”
“Then make way for us,” said Mont-Rognon, catching up Ali Pope by the girdle, and carrying him in at arm’s length into the kitchen. “We shall be able to converse better here!” Maragougnia entered last. He tried all the locks, in order to see whether the doors closed securely. He examined all the outlets, sounded the panels, and ordered his squire to bring him his arms.
“We want four beds,” said Porc-en-Truie.
“In the same room,” said Maragougnia, who had a horror of being solitary.
“First of all we want supper,” bellowed Mont-Rognon; “don’t let us forget the most important of our wants.”
“A modest supper,” suggested Maragougnia, who was afraid of the expense.
“A modest supper!” bellowed the Lord of Bourglastic. “Don’t you do anything of the kind, landlord, or I’ll burn the place about your ears. Empty your poultry-yard, drag your fish-ponds, uncork your bottles; set to work—kill, pluck, draw, and broach,—in short, make ready, to the best of your power, a feast for an emperor or a sultan!”
“You will lay for me separately,” said the Count of Riom, tearfully, “a few radishes and some wine of first-rate——”
“Cheapness,” kindly suggested Allegrignac, with a smile.
“May I know whom I have the honour to serve?” said Ali Pépé, with a bow so respectful that Maragougnia was horrified to see it, fearing it would be included in the bill.
“Nothing easier,” said Allegrignac, returning Ali’s bow. “The short gentleman you see there is Purveyor-in-Chief to Charlemagne and all the crowned heads of the civilised world, from Armenia to Lusitania, from Scandinavia to Tripoli. He travels from district to district in search of new dishes to delight the royal tables. His dissertation on roasts is in everybody’s mouth. He has proved satisfactorily that beef ought not to be taken from the spit until the meat begins to turn brown and show the gravy; that mutton should be taken from the fire as soon as it begins to redden; and that veal should not be dished up until the meat is quite white. This man, who seems so unpretending, has discovered that thirst is fostered by currents of air; that the Scythians have stomachs an inch smaller than the Germans have; but then, on the other hand, deeper by seven times than those of the Cimmerians. He was the first who fried carp in rose-water; and he has, at last, after long and wearisome research, found in an old manuscript the recipe for garum, which was so highly prized by the ancients, but was thought to be lost. He has confided the secret to me, and I reveal it to you, in the hope that it will incite you to give us a better supper. Learn then, profane wretch! that in order to prepare this dainty dish, you must let a hen-mackerel lie in pickle with small mushrooms for seventeen nights at the full of the moon. The inside must be removed carefully, pounded, soaked, and braized with religious care in a bag of rose-coloured silk—and mind, it must be rose-coloured. The liquor thus procured is gathered in a silver vessel, when the weather is fine—or stormy. It must be left to settle for three weeks and seven hours, after having been mixed with a preparation, of which I forget the composition, but which is the chief ingredient, and gives all the value to the dish. You see with whom you have to deal: be sure, therefore, that the repast is worthy of this great dignitary and of us!”
Ali Pépé bowed.
“That gentleman who is snoring yonder travels in the hope of introducing some improvement into the royal sleeping arrangements. No one knows better than he the wisest adjustment of counterpanes, quilts, blankets, bolsters, pillows, and valances. His comparative treatise, entitled ‘Lectus cubilaris, Lucubratorius, Emortualis, Genialis et Decubitorius,’ has been engrossed on vellum by the monks of Monte Casino. To him belongs the honour of superseding the sack of maize-straw by the down-bed, which he imported from Cimbria; as also that of adding a second mattress to the sleeping-tackle of Royalty, which used to consist solely of a ticken, a pillow, and a bundle of straw. You see, therefore, that you must be careful to lodge us well for the night.”
Ali Pépé made another low bow.
“I don’t like talking about myself,” said Allegrignac, “but for this once I will yield to your importunity, ami inform you who I am. You must surely have heard of the great giantess Alcomiroziropoulopilousitounitapignac!”
The landlord eyed the Count of Salgoon askance for awhile, then, resigning himself to his fate, he made an assenting gesture.
“She was my mother,” said Allegrignac. “She perished after six: years of married happiness, murdered by my unhappy father, who was never tired of beating her. Disgusted with matrimony—and not without cause—she determined to live single. I came into the world within twelve months afterwards, and chose the profession of arms. My fortune, my noble birth—everything assured me that I must owe everything to my own prowess. I cheerfully accepted my lot, and crossed the Alps to avenge my father. I laid siege to Toulouse. Need I continue to relate my misfortunes?”
“Not on my account, my lord. The particulars you have just related suffice to inform me with whom I have to deal. I have only to ask you who the fourth warrior of your party is?”
“This weeping willow——”
“I am a poor devil of a wanderer in search of fortune,” hastily interposed Maragougnia. “My wants are as modest as my means: I know how to be satisfied with little.”
“I treat my customers according to their tastes and their purses,” said Ali Pépé. “You have, noble sirs, asked for a good many things. I will now give you a sketch of the accommodation I have to offer. I have but one room and one bed to let——”
“I’ll take it, then,” said Porc-en-Truie, promptly: “I wouldn’t sleep out of doors to-night for the world. I shall not resume my journey till to-morrow. In the meantime, though, if either of you wishes to have half the bed——”
“Thanks, I shall push on to-night,” said Maragougnia, as he left the room to find his squire, and tell him not to give the horses a feed. “They will find grazing on the road,” he remarked.
“As for me,” said Mont-Rognon, “I give up the room to you with all my heart. I intend to spend the night in eating. I shall not start till to-morrow morning.”
“I’ll keep you company till then,” said Allegrignac; “we have a few bottles and an old dispute to settle. You owe me a dozen, and I’ll bet you that you’ll be under the table by the ninth. I feel just in the humour for the trial to-day.”
A scornful smile was the only answer vouchsafed by Mont-Rognon, who turned to the host, and asked, “What soup do you think you can give us?”
“Can your lordship put up with pomegranate soup?”
“Let us see the pomegranates.”
Ali ran to his larder, and returned with a basket-full of fruit. Mont-Rognon selected a dozen.
“Don’t forget to serve it up warm, and with a slice or two of orange in it. What next?”
“If your lordship will leave it to me, you shall have no reason to complain. I have been head cook to the King of Mesopotamia for ten years, and His Majesty told me, only eight days since, that he has no pleasure in eating now I have left him. I would suggest, for soups, pomegranate, water-gruel, and ortolan; for entrees, calves’ feet and saffron, and fillet of venison with sweetbreads. For the next course, chickenfarci a la Madame Râpée, heron garnished with woodcocks, roast sucking-pig with cameline sauce.”
“I should like well enough a quarter of whale served up on a layer of eggs,” said Allegrignac, carelessly.
“You might have had it this morning. Unfortunately, they had the last of it for King Marsillus to-day.”
“You will give us, instead, a peacock. You will stuff it with chestnuts and saffron, and serve it up with fennel and powdered sugar.”
“I can also offer your lordships dory with orange-juice, and lampreys with lily sauce.”
“Is that all?”
“Yes, sir. The bill of fare is simple, but select!”
“Now, by Lenten fasts! you want to starve us to death,” said Mont-Rognon. “You must improve this poor fare, Master Head Cook of the King of Mesopotamia. Let us have ragout of venison, salt quarter of hare, preserved cabbage, purée of foreign figsà la Sardanapale, pigs’ chitterlings with sweet wine sauce, and ribs of beef in honey. Now, be off to your kitchen, and if we want anything else, we’ll let you know.”
Ali made a low bow, and was about to leave the room.
“One word more,” said Allegrignac. “Don’t forget to send up the roasts on the spit, and, above all, be particular about the wine Don’t be afraid of sending up plenty of bottles.”
“And, stay, landlord!” said Porc-en-Truie, “as you go you can show me my room. Farewell, Allegrignac! Your hand, Mont-Rognon! Good luck to you, Maragougnia! I shall be asleep, no doubt, when you start. I trust you will succeed, and take back to the Emperor what he wishes.”
“We shall be sufficiently fortunate if we take back a whole skin!” sighed the Count of Riom, preparing to depart.
In the next chapter you will see how the four knights set about the accomplishment of Charlemagne’s wishes.
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PORC-EN-TRUIE followed Ali, who conducted him to the first floor, where they entered a chamber that was shabby enough in appearance in all conscience.
“Are you silly enough to think of putting me to sleep here?”
“It is the best room in the inn. King Marsillus slept here the day——”
“Come! I hope you are not going to talk more absurdity of that kind to me. Learn to understand better those with whom you have to deal. Where’s the bed?”
“Yonder, sir.”
“That a bed! By the beard of Solomon! what you have the impudence to call a bed would have horrified Job himself, and he passes for a person not easily dissatisfied. What is all that hanging about the curtains?”
“Those are cobwebs,” said Ali, with an air of satisfaction. “We take them down when our customers wish it, but they never do.”
“How is that?” asked Porc-en-Truie.
“Why, you see,” said the other, quietly, “the spider is insectivorous.”
“And you dare bring me here?” asked Porc-en-Truie, pale with rage. “I dare swear to your lordship there is not a better bed in the house.”
“Let me see yours;” and the knight seized the landlord, and made him conduct him to his own bedroom. It was not palatial by any means, but all was clean and neat in the host’s room, and the bed looked inviting.
“How, rogue! you would sleep in this lordly bed without a scruple, while I am served as food for the spiders you rear! Leave the room, and thank Heaven that you leave it by the door instead of the window!”
The Lord of Machavoine thrust the landlord out of the room. He, poor wretch! gave up his apartment with a very bad grace, and strove to argue the matter, but he got no answer. The shooting of the bolts, the creaking of the bed, were soon succeeded by a loud snoring, which deprived the defeated wretch of his last hope.
He was going down-stairs in anything but a good temper, when he heard some one moving cautiously at the bottom. The host of the “Crocodile” possessed the courage of those cowards who lie in wait to strike, but who succumb before a hidden danger or an imaginary one, and shrink from an open attack. Porc-en-Truie had kept the lamp—all was buried in complete darkness.
“Who is that?” asked Ali, in a disquieted tone.
“A friend,” answered a voice no less apprehensive.
The landlord drew from the folds of his tunic one of those formidable knives which are still the fashion in Spain, and, having opened it, softly descended the last few stairs.
“Who are you?—what do you want?”
“Don’t speak so loud, for goodness’ sake? Don’t you recognise my voice? I am one whom you supplied with radishes an hour since.”
“The knight with the black plume?”
“The same. Can I have a word with you in private?”
“We should find it difficult to discover a more secret and solitary spot than this. What is it you wish?”
“I should like to stop here a month, unknown to my four travelling companions—why, I will tell you later.”
“Nothing is easier. They will leave to-morrow.”
“I want a very humble lodging, which I expect I shall occupy for a month. But what I want more than all is your silence.”
“I am as mute as my conscience, and I have a room that will suit you to a nicety.” And Ali flattered himself that he had virtually let the lumber-room which had so distrusted Porc-en-Truie.
He retired for an instant, then returned with a light, and once more ascended the stairs, followed this time by Maragougnia. He opened the door, entered first, and putting his hand behind the flame to throw a good light on the scene, turned and said, with the tone of a man who feels he had done the right thing, “There—that’s the article for you.”
183s
The sudden appearance of the light put to flight a myriad of little black specks, that, hustling, scrambling, and running to and fro over the walls, finally disappeared in the hangings and wainscot.
“I want something more unpretending,” said Maragougnia, shading his eyes, dazzled by the light.
Ali could scarcely refrain from expressing his surprise in a shout. “More unpretending!” said he to himself, utterly disheartened. “These travellers are all alike—there’s no satisfying them!” But the landlord of “The Crocodile” was not the man to let himself be beaten by such a trifle. “If you will follow me, I have exactly what you require. I can let it you for next to nothing;” and he led the knight to a wretched outhouse, without either air or light, except such as came to it by reversion from the stable.
“There!” said Ali, briefly.
“This will suit me admirably. The smell of a stable is good for the lungs, so this atmosphere ought to be very healthy.”
“I let it to invalids,” said the landlord, stopping his nose. “Sleep in comfort; the straw is this year’s;” and Ali, taking the lamp, left Maragougnia alone with his thoughts.
“Go,” said the Count of Riom—“go, my dear fellow-travellers; go and get your necks twisted, and your bones broken. Go and seek a castle in the air for the satisfaction of a royal vagary. I, more wise than you, shall stop here. Who knows but that fortune may not visit me here?” Thus musing, he fell asleep, and dreamt that his squire had obtained for him a reduction of rent by turning the spit in the inn kitchen.
185s
When the host re-entered the supper-room he was astonished to see the table overturned, with its legs in the air, and Allegrignac and Mont-Rognon making a bed of it. They were sound asleep, far gone in that state of intoxication of which in after years the Templars afforded so many instances. Wrapt, up in the most brotherly way in the table-cloth, they reposed on a heap of odds and ends and broken crockery. The lamp had succumbed to the general disaster, and was sputtering and mouldering in the ruins of a venison pasty.
“Bravo!” said Ali, rubbing his hands. “These are the sort of customers I like. Furniture never gets faded with them, for one is always having new.” With that he set himself to break whatever had escaped the general smash; he even brought in a few damaged chairs, and distributed them artistically in fragments all over the room. Then, having picked up some gold pieces that had fallen on the floor, he went and lay down in the stable till morning.