"This infernal road will never come to an end! That peasant must have directed us wrong. We shall end by going astray, by losing ourselves in these mountains.—Ah! how sorry I am now that we didn’t take a guide!"
"It’s your own fault; why did you refuse to accept the services of that man who offered?"
"Whom do you mean? that beggar, that miserable fellow who didn’t even take off his hat when he spoke to us?"
"Is it necessary for a guide to study good manners?"
"At least it is necessary that he shouldn’t have the manners of a brigand; and that’s the impression that man produced on me. Didn’t you notice those underhand glances that he gave us? and that big stick that he carried in his hand?"
"What! you were afraid of that man, when there were three of us?"
"No, it isn’t a question of being afraid! But how do you know that he hasn’t friends, confederates in the mountains? He could have taken us wherever he chose, and all of a sudden a dozen gentlemen of his stamp would have fallen upon us."
"Oh! my poor Robineau! I see that you will never take a walking trip around the world!"
"Faith! I confess that I prefer riding in a carriage to walking; you go forward, at all events—you make some progress. But with you, I have to stop every second; and with all this I see no more of a château than there is in my hand!—Here it is almost seven o’clock, and I am beginning to be very tired."
"And I to be very hungry," said Alfred; "evidently the air in these mountains is good for the digestion."
The two friends could not help laughing at Robineau’s face, as he stared about, sighing dolefully. However, they went on, left the path behind, and seeing a village on the shore of a lake, bent their steps in that direction.
"We will ask about my château in this village," said Robineau.
"We will have something to eat there, too," said Alfred, "for the walk we have taken has given me an appetite."
"Yes, this walk has been very pleasant! I am sure that we have gone more than six leagues out of our way!"
They drew near the shore of the lake on which the village was built. The peasants sat in front of their cottages; there were old women spinning, young women sewing, and children playing and rolling about on the ground.
"They are a little dark," said Alfred as he scrutinized the young women; "however they are not bad-looking—bright eyes and white teeth; their method of arranging their hair is original; and with the little straw hats, set back and tied under the chin, one would almost take them for Englishwomen.—Come, messieurs, let us go on; I fancy that there are no inns in this place, so that we must ask hospitality at the hands of these good people, like the chevaliers of old; with this difference, that we will pay for what we consume—which is less chivalrous, perhaps, but which seems to me more natural."
They entered one of the most pretentious cottages; the inmates gazed at the three young men with an expression of curiosity blended with kindliness and good humor.
"Can you give us something to eat?" inquired Alfred; "to be well paid for, of course."
"Oh, yes! messieurs, right away; and even if you shouldn’t pay, it would be all the same."
"You see, messieurs," said Edouard, "that hospitality is not a lost art; these good people do not know us, yet they would entertain us gratis!"
"Oh! that’s because they see that we will pay," said Robineau.
"Don’t you believe in the virtues of the ancient patriarchs, pray, Monsieur Jules?"
"I will believe in whatever you please when I have seen my château, messieurs!" said Robineau.—"Where are we, my good people, if you please?"
"At Ayda, monsieur."
"Is it far to Saint-Amand?"
"Two good leagues, monsieur."
"Which proves that, although we walk, we make little progress!—To table, messieurs!"
A table was laden with eggs, fresh cheese, old cheese, milk and fruit; the three young men seated themselves on stools, and the villagers remained standing around them. In vain did Alfred urge them to sit—the honest Auvergnats would do nothing of the sort, and Robineau said to himself:
"That is very well done—these peasants are respectful; I am very glad that I have bought an estate in Auvergne."
Two girls of fifteen or sixteen waited upon the travellers, filled their glasses, and served them zealously with fruit, bread and milk, smiling all the while, and making a slight courtesy each time.
"They are very pretty," said Alfred, "and I consider that it’s much more agreeable to see such amiable children behind one’s chair, with a smile always on their faces, than to have a dozen prying, talkative footmen hanging over one’s shoulder. Look you, Robineau, I advise you to set up your establishment with girls like these; you will be served like a sultan!"
"Oh! messieurs, you see only the trivial side! But I cannot have a woman for coachman, for groom, for valet de chambre. A coachman in petticoats—that would be very pretty!"
"You could dress them as men."
"Oh, no!" said Edouard, "they are so charming as they are!"
"‘Nothing so lovely as the true,The true alone is lovable.’"
"‘Nothing so lovely as the true,The true alone is lovable.’"
"The pleasantest thing," said Robineau, seizing a bowl of milk; "would be to have arrived at our destination.—I say, Monsieur l’Auvergnat, do you know the estate of La Roche-Noire in this neighborhood?"
The peasant whom Robineau addressed reflected a moment, then replied:
"Oh, yes! monsieur—La Roche-Noire—I know it well——"
"He knows it!" cried Robineau; and in an ecstasy of delight he threw his arms in the air and dashed into Alfred’s face almost all the milk contained in the cup he held in his hand.
"The devil take you and your château!" cried Alfred, rising from the table to take off his cravat, which was drenched with milk, while Edouard roared with laughter.
"Oh! I beg your pardon, my dear fellow!" said Robineau; "but really I was beginning to be anxious about my château! This excellent man has restored me to life."
"Were you afraid that your house had flown away?"
"I’ll give you another cravat, Alfred.—Tell me, worthy villager, who knows La Roche-Noire, is it a fine estate?"
"Oh, yes! it’s very large, monsieur! It’s a sort of château, as they say, and it’s got some big towers. They say that in old times they used to fight there, and it was besieged."
"Besieged!" cried Robineau, springing to his feet and overturning his stool, in his haste to run to the peasant’s side. "My friend, here’s a five-franc piece; now tell me, I beg you, all you know about La Roche-Noire."
"You are very generous, monsieur, that’s sure!"
"I am more than that: I am the owner, the new châtelain of the château which you tell me was once besieged.—I promise you that there’ll be some more wonderful doings there! I will give tournaments, jousts, and—and—But let us return to my domain. Can it be seen from a distance?"
"Yes, monsieur, it’s on a hill."
"It’s on a hill! Delightful!—And the park and gardens?"
"The park is still very large, so they say; I don’t know it, but I was in the gardens once.—Oh! they’re fine! There’s marble fountains—they’re a little damaged, but that’s no matter. And splendidestatues! with men and women all naked—why, it gives you a fright!"
"Statues!"—And Robineau took the peasant in his arms; he would have kissed him but for his fear of compromising his newly acquired dignity. He tried to calm himself and continued: "Now, my good man, let us come to the essential point: in which direction is my château?"
"La Roche-Noire? Bless me! monsieur, it’s about a league from Saint-Amand."
"In that case, as Saint-Amand is only two leagues from here, we are within a league of my estate."
"Oh! excuse me, monsieur! you’re much more than that, because La Roche-Noire ain’t in this direction at all. If you came from Clermont, you didn’t take the best way to get there."
"There! I knew it! We have gone astray! Do you hear, messieurs?"
Robineau turned and looked about for his friends; but they had left the cottage while he was talking with the peasant.
"Well done! I’ll bet they have gone off to walk now! They have sworn to kill me with vexation!—But at all events my mind is more at rest about my estate.—Tell me, my good man, how far are we from La Roche-Noire?"
"Why, three short leagues, monsieur, at most."
"Three leagues more! What road must we take?"
"Why! you must go by crossroads now. First to Chadrat; then you will see Saint-Amand, and you can inquire there."
"If we get there before dark, we shall be very lucky!—Well! I’ll run after those gentlemen and then we’ll be off."
Robineau left the cottage and asked some peasants in which direction his companions had gone; they pointed to the lake and he hastened thither and soon discovered Edouard sitting on the shore, writing on his tablets, while Alfred, a little farther on, was dancing with a girl to the strains of a fife played by a small boy.
"Let’s be off, messieurs, it will soon be dark!" cried Robineau.
But Alfred continued to dance and Edouard to write.
"They have the very devil in them!" muttered Robineau; and he walked up to Edouard and tapped him on the shoulder as he was reading over the lines he had written.
"We must start, Monsieur Edouard!"
Edouard looked up at Robineau, and declaimed:
"Que j’aime ce séjour! près de cette onde pure,Qu’il est doux, sur le soir, d’admirer la nature!"
"Que j’aime ce séjour! près de cette onde pure,Qu’il est doux, sur le soir, d’admirer la nature!"
"I tell you that it will soon be dark."
"Né sous cet humble toit, l’habitant de ces lieux,D’un œil indifférent, voit ces monts sourcilleux!"
"Né sous cet humble toit, l’habitant de ces lieux,D’un œil indifférent, voit ces monts sourcilleux!"
"We have three good leagues to travel through these frowning mountains, monsieur."
"Mais, pour un cœur sensible à la mélancolie,Ce site romantique est plein de poésie!Ces rochers escarpés, ces limpides ruisseaux,Ces sentiers tortueux, ces flexibles roseaux."
"Mais, pour un cœur sensible à la mélancolie,Ce site romantique est plein de poésie!Ces rochers escarpés, ces limpides ruisseaux,Ces sentiers tortueux, ces flexibles roseaux."
"It is almost eight o’clock, and we shall break our necks on these winding paths."
"Tout m’agite, m’émeut, et cet endroit sauvageÀ mes sens étonnés parle un nouveau langage."[3]
"Tout m’agite, m’émeut, et cet endroit sauvageÀ mes sens étonnés parle un nouveau langage."[3]
"Oh! if the streams speak to you, they must make some poor joke, Monsieur Edouard!"
"Well, my dear Jules, what say you to those lines?" said Edouard, as he rose and put his tablets in his pocket.
"I say that they are charming, admirable; but I say also that, with your poetry, you will make us pass the night in these mountains, which will not amuse me in the least."
"Would you like me to repeat them to you?"
"No, I want to push on.—And there is Alfred dancing like one possessed!—A young man of his rank, a baron, dancingflicflacswith a buxom Auvergnate!—Alfred! Alfred!"
"One minute! she’s teaching me abourrée," said Alfred, continuing his dance, and whirling his partner about in his arms.
The dance came to an end at last; Alfred kissed the peasant girl and joined his companions, saying:
"Messieurs, the Auvergnat dance is not light and ethereal, but I assure you that it has its merits. So, my dear Robineau, I promise to dance with all your female vassals."
"Have you finished, messieurs?"
"Yes, we are ready to go with you."
"I am not sorry for that! Let us walk faster, I beg you. This road should take us to Chadrat, and thence, if God please, we will go to La Roche-Noire."
The three travellers waved their hands to the people of the village and resumed their journey, Alfred practising the step of thebourrée, Edouard reading over his verses, and Robineau looking at his watch every instant.
They had been walking for a considerable time through the mountains when they descried a small village in the distance. It was growing dark; Alfred was obliged to cease dancing, because he was in danger of stepping into some hole; Edouard could read no longer, and Robineau could not see the time by his watch. It soon became impossible to see even the village toward which they were walking, whereupon Robineau wrung his hands in despair. Alfred laughed and Edouard uttered poetry.
"I foresaw what has happened!" said Robineau with a dismal groan. "Here it is dark, and we are in the midst of the mountains, in a region of which we know nothing! At every step we are in danger of falling over some precipice, or at least of plunging down some horribly steep slope! Instead of finding my château, we may be going farther and farther away from it—and that makes you laugh, messieurs! I can’t understand that!"
"Do you want us to weep, Robineau? would that please you? Come, come, O châtelain of La Roche-Noire, recall your high-born courage. When one is about to take up one’s abode in an ancient château, one should possess the heart of a paladin, eh, Edouard?"
Edouard’s only reply was to declaim:
"Tout repose dans l’ombre, et le seul IdamoreDes mues de Bénarès s’échappe avant l’aurore.Quel est ce bois antique où vos pas m’ont conduit?Mais j’entrevois un temple, et l’astre de la nuit!"[4]
"Tout repose dans l’ombre, et le seul IdamoreDes mues de Bénarès s’échappe avant l’aurore.Quel est ce bois antique où vos pas m’ont conduit?Mais j’entrevois un temple, et l’astre de la nuit!"[4]
"You see a temple?" cried Robineau. "Where, in heaven’s name? I can’t see anything at all."
"Ha! ha! ha! Do you mean to say, Robineau, that you don’t recognize Casimir Delavigne’s beautiful verses? Don’t you realize that Edouard is declaimingLe Paria?"
"Faith, messieurs, I didn’t suspect that you were going to begin on tragedy!—Oh! that’s all right! laugh away! you don’t know what you lose by not reaching my estate before dark. You fancy that we should have been received by the concierge alone. But you would have seen something very different!—The bouquets and the dancing and the congratulations that awaited us—we are missing all those!"
"Why, how do you know they would have celebrated our arrival?" asked Edouard.
"Ah! I can guess!" cried Alfred; "François didn’t go on before for nothing.—Oh! I understand: Robineau had ordered an extemporaneous reception—that his people should surprise him with cries ofVive monseigneur!and bombs, after the style of popular celebrations."
"No, messieurs, no; I ordered nothing; but I know François’s zeal, he is certain not to have concealed the fact that I should soon arrive, and it seems to me quite natural to think that the news would make some sensation in the neighborhood."
"Well! don’t be disheartened; if we don’t arrive until to-morrow morning, the fête will be all the better for the delay; they will have had time to prepare, to commit complimentary speeches to memory, and to wash their faces, which is never a disadvantage. To be sure, if they have a display of fireworks for you, it will be in the daylight; but that’s the fashion in China, and the Seigneur de la Roche-Noire cannot object to bear some resemblance to a great Mandarin."
"And poor François! how anxious he will be when we don’t appear! You forget that, messieurs."
"Oh! my dear Robineau, it isn’t on François’s account that you are so annoyed!—But, after all, there is some hope left, we are sure to arrive somewhere!"
"Yes! somewhere! in some excavation into which we shall tumble without a branch to hold on to! You can’t see your hand before your face."
"It’s becoming more romantic; you don’t feel the beauty of our situation—travelling at night among the mountains."
"It is certain that I don’t see the beautiful side of it; if we only had weapons—but you left your pistols in my post-chaise!"
"We need only lances, to have the aspect of genuine knights-errant."
"We haven’t even a stick, which would be much better!—Monsieur Edouard! where on earth are you? Don’t go so fast, or you’ll lose us! that would be the last straw—to be separated! I can’t walk fast when I don’t see where I am going.—Hello! Monsieur Edouard!"
Edouard halted and exclaimed in a sepulchral tone:
"Où suis-je? Quelle nuitCouvre d’un voile affreux la clarte qui nous luit?Ces murs sont teints de sang! je vois les EuménidesSecouer leurs flambeaux vengeurs des parricides!Le tonnerre en éclats semble fondre sur moi,L’enfer s’ouvre!"[5]
"Où suis-je? Quelle nuitCouvre d’un voile affreux la clarte qui nous luit?Ces murs sont teints de sang! je vois les EuménidesSecouer leurs flambeaux vengeurs des parricides!Le tonnerre en éclats semble fondre sur moi,L’enfer s’ouvre!"[5]
"Monsieur Edouard! don’t joke like that, I beg! What do you see?"
As he spoke, Robineau overtook Edouard and passed his arm through his.
"I don’t see anything at all, I am waiting for you," replied Edouard calmly.
"Fear must have deprived you of memory, Robineau, since you don’t remember what you have heard so often at the Français."
"Fear?—You are unique, messieurs, to accuse a man of fear because he doesn’t care to pass the night out of doors! My constitution is not of iron, and I am sure that it would do me much harm!"
"I advise you to complain; you’re as plump as a partridge!"
"That proves nothing; one may be stout and still be delicate.—Come, let us all three go arm-in-arm; I will walk in the middle and guide you."
"You are trembling, Robineau."
"Because I am cold."
"Cold, in the beginning of August?"
"In the mountains there is frost all the year."
"Ha! ha! that is too absurd!"
"Yes, it is absurd, in very truth! Why did I trust to you to take me to my château?"
"Monsieur Jules, Saint-Grégoire said: ‘When any great calamity happens to you, search carefully and you will always find that it is in some measure your own fault.’"
"Saint-Grégoire was quite right!—Oh! mon Dieu! I thought I heard a roar quite close to us!"
"Bah! a bleat, you mean! We must be approaching a farm."
"Or a cavern!"
"Ah! victory, messieurs! I see a light—a very small one, to be sure, but still it’s a light."
"Really? I can’t see anything myself."
"Look where I am pointing."
"I can’t even see your finger. Ah, yes! I see it; let us go toward it."
"Suppose we should find ourselves at the ogre’s house?"
"As you are the smallest, Robineau, you shall be Hop-o’-my-Thumb, and steal the seven-leagued boots."
Robineau, who kept his eyes fixed on the light, soon exclaimed:
"Two, three, four, ten lights! we are saved! It’s a village; it’s Cha—Cha—Mon Dieu! what do they call it?"
"Chadrat."
"That’s it. Forward."
Five minutes later the three travellers found themselves among buildings in which lights were shining; but they were simply wretched hovels built of earth and straw, compared with which the humble cottages of Ayda might have passed for châteaux. Robineau stopped and gazed at his companions in dismay, saying in an undertone:
"Mon Dieu! where are we?"
"In a village, as you see."
"A pretty village, on my word! One would say that we had fallen among savages."
"The place certainly does not seem prosperous; but the inhabitants may be very worthy folk."
"They may be something else too—people who live in mole-hills like these!"
"Let us knock and call; they can’t be asleep yet as their lights aren’t out."
"One moment, messieurs," said Robineau, running after Alfred, who was walking toward the largest of the huts. "One moment—let us consult first; is it quite prudent to place ourselves in the power of these people in this way?"
"Nonsense, Robineau; let us alone!"
"At least, messieurs, conceal your watch chains, I entreat you, and don’t say that you have money about you; opportunity makes the thief."
Alfred knocked at a low, ill-jointed door, above which was a round hole that answered the purpose of a window. It was some time before there was any reply; at last a hoarse, but loud voice was heard, asking with a sort of drawl:
"Well! who’s there?"
"Say nobody," cried Robineau, whom the tone of the voice did not reassure.
"Three travellers who have gone astray in the mountains," said Alfred.
"Three beggars who have had no supper," added Robineau.
"If you don’t keep quiet I’ll push you to the bottom of this hill," said Alfred testily.
As there was no reply from the hovel, Edouard stepped forward and said:
"Admit us, good people; we will pay you handsomely for your trouble and for the guide you give us."
"That is to say, we will pray for you," added Robineau, "for we have forgotten to bring our purses."
The door opened at last, and a man clad in a goatskin jacket, like the Swiss shepherds, came out and gazed stupidly at the three young men.
"Oh! mon Dieu! what in heaven’s name is that?" exclaimed Robineau, stepping behind his companions; "it’s either an orang-outang or a counterfeiter!"
The peasant, after contemplating the young men in silence, pointed to the doorway of his hovel, saying:
"Will you come into our house, messieurs?"
"With pleasure," said Alfred; and he walked in, followed by Edouard; whereupon Robineau, who had no desire to be left alone, was obliged also to enter the shepherd’s abode.
The interior was larger than one would have supposed from the outside. The roughly built structure was cone-shaped, and received light from above. The ground floor was divided into two parts; but the partition, made of rough planks not fastened together, seemed intended rather to support the walls and prevent their falling in upon the inmates, than to keep them apart.
There was a fire in one corner of the first room; a huge earthenware kettle was set upon some crackling twigs; a woman of some forty years, seated, or rather crouching, in front of the fire, was stirring the contents of the kettle with a wooden spoon, and by her side knelt three tall, sturdy boys, gazing at what was on the fire. Farther on, an old man, still hale and hearty, sat upon a bunch of straw, patting an old he-goat that lay on the floor beside him. This picture was lighted but dimly by a lamp standing on a small wooden table, because the smoke from the fire formed dense clouds which emerged very slowly through the vent in the roof.
The three travellers, having entered the hovel, stopped to examine the curious scene before their eyes. The occupants scrutinized them in their turn, but with a sort of stupid amazement, and without moving.
"This is very original!" said Alfred to his friends.
"It is very ugly!" said Robineau.
"It is a most picturesque interior, strongly tinged with local color," said Edouard.
"I don’t know whether it has any color," muttered Robineau, "but this same picturesque interior smells horribly!"
"Where are we, please, good people?" inquired Alfred.
"At Chadrat," the old man replied.
"At Chadrat!" cried Robineau; "what! this is Chadrat! and they dare to call this a village! I wouldn’t take it to stable my horses in."
Apparently paying no attention to Robineau, the shepherd, who had entered with the travellers, made an imperative sign to the boys kneeling by the fire; whereupon they decided, although with regret, to rise, and brought forward some small wooden benches for the travellers.
"Sit down, messieurs, and rest yourselves," said the Auvergnat.
Alfred and Edouard seated themselves, while Robineau gazed in alarm at the three tall youths who had risen, and glanced out of the corner of his eye toward the doorway of the hovel. But his companions paid no heed to the signs he made them, so he decided at last to take a seat.
"We were anxious to arrive to-night at a château called La Roche-Noire," said Alfred; "do you know it?"
The peasants looked at one another and shook their heads.
"Parbleu! how does he suppose that these clowns, these idiots should know my château?" said Robineau to himself.
"But you know the town of Saint-Amand?" said Edouard.
"Saint-Amand-Talende—oh, yes, monsieur!"
"Are we far from it?"
"Not very—still, it’s some distance."
"Look you, my good man—these three tall fellows are your sons, I’ll wager."
The peasant made an affirmative movement with his head.
"Well! as they must know these mountains by heart, do us the favor to give us one of them for a guide—all three, if they prefer; we will pay them well."
"Yes," said Robineau, "we’ll pay them at the town; our money is there."
The peasants looked at one another for some time without speaking; then the father asked his sons:
"Do you want to go, young ’uns?"
The boys seemed to hesitate; at last the oldest one said in an undertone:
"We should have to pass the White House!"
"The White House!" said Alfred, "what’s that? Is it an inn?"
The peasants shook their heads.
"Is it a farm-house, or a wine-shop?" asked Edouard.
The peasants still said nothing, and Robineau muttered between his teeth:
"These clowns are terribly stupid!"
At last the old man drew nearer to the travellers and said in a low voice:
"The White House is a place that I don’t much like in the daytime, and still less at night! It’s a dangerous place! All the accidents happen near there! in fact, it’s a bewitched place!"
"Ha! ha! Do you mean to say, good people, that you believe in witches?" exclaimed Alfred; while the peasants, amazed that anyone should dare to laugh while speaking of the White House, recoiled from the travellers and gazed at them with mingled surprise and terror.
Robineau, having discovered that the people of whom he had been afraid were themselves very timid, sprang suddenly to his feet, and exclaimed, pacing the floor with a firm tread:
"What! are you so stupid as all that, you unfortunate peasants? You believe in stories of magic and devils? such stout fellows as you, of five feet six! It makes me feel sorry for you; it—oh!"
In the heat of his harangue Robineau had barely escaped overturning the kettle, and he had just discovered that he was walking on burning brands.
"Messieurs," said Edouard, "it does not seem very surprising to me that the people of a small village among the mountains, far from frequented roads, who seem to retain the manners and customs of primitive times, should place faith in errors of which we ourselves have not been cured so very long—indeed, are we fully cured even now? In Paris, the centre of the enlightenment and civilization of our era, Mademoiselle Le Normand made a fortune, and fortune-tellers and necromancers are patronized by the very highest classes of society. Men have a decided penchant for error; the Romans hadharuspicesand sibyls; the Greeks, oracles and pythonesses; the Gauls, Druids; the Egyptians, their mysteries of Isis, Eleusis, Apis and Anubis; and the Jewish prophets were far superior to all the magicians of the Middle Ages!—And lastly, messieurs, I find that some great men, men of vast intellect, have been superstitious; and, without believing as Plato did in the existence of sorcerers, I see nothing extraordinary in the fact that the people of a poor hamlet have a weakness toward which men of culture show so much inclination."
"My dear Edouard, I don’t attribute their ignorance as a crime to these poor people; I shall not undertake to cure them of their superstition, because I think that that might be too long a task; but I will call your attention to the fact that we are not now interested in knowing whether all nations have entertained a belief in magic, but simply whether these young men, who seem to be from fourteen to sixteen years of age, will consent to act as our guides, so that we may reach the town nearby, to-night."
"Yes, that’s it," said Robineau; "it’s no time for exhibiting knowledge—we must come to the point.—Tell us, young Auvergnats, will you take us to Saint-Amand? I am the Seigneur de la Roche-Noire, and I will reward you handsomely."
But neither the entreaties nor the promises of Robineau availed to induce anyone of the inhabitants of the hovel to undertake the task of guiding the travellers; the dread aroused by the White House, which it was necessary to pass, was stronger than their desire to oblige.
"Faith, messieurs," said Alfred, "as these mountaineers have decided not to guide us before morning, we have but one course to pursue, and that is to pass the night here."
"Let us pass the night here," said Edouard.
"J’en ai l’heureuse promesse,Vers le milieu de la nuit,L’amour m’ouvrira sans bruitL’alcôve de ma maîtresse!"[6]
"J’en ai l’heureuse promesse,Vers le milieu de la nuit,L’amour m’ouvrira sans bruitL’alcôve de ma maîtresse!"[6]
"Oh, yes!" said Robineau; "if you find an alcove here, you’ll be very clever! For my part, messieurs, it seems to me that before making up our minds to sleep in this stifling mouse-trap—to say nothing of the fact that it doesn’t smell like the rose—we should apply to some others of the villagers; perhaps they are not all such cowards as these people!"
"Oh! they are all quite as superstitious, my dear fellow!—As you see, this White House is to them what the White Lady is to the people of Glendearg in Sir Walter Scott’sMonastery."
"This is no question of novels—we are not in Scotland; I tell you that I don’t propose to sleep here myself, and I’ll show you that I know how to get out of the fix we are in."
As he spoke, Robineau strode to the door of the hovel, opened it, and thrust his head out; but, terrified by the dense darkness which reigned in the mountains, there being no moon, and unable to discover a single light in the neighboring houses, he quickly drew in his head, closed the door, and returned crestfallen to his friends, saying:
"Well, if that suits you, let us sleep here; I am willing."
Alfred asked the head of the family if it would disturb him to allow them to pass the night under his roof. Far from that, the Auvergnat, his wife, his father and his children united in assuring the young men that the house was at their service. Our travellers concluded that, although the people of Chadrat might be dull-witted and stupid, they were humane, kindly and hospitable; virtues which we do not always find among refined, clever and well-educated people.
As soon as it was decided that our travellers were to pass the night in the abode of the Auvergnats, they thought of nothing but making themselves comfortable and acting as if they belonged to the family. Alfred and Edouard gayly made the best of it; they laughed and sang and chatted with the peasants; Robineau alone continued to scowl, and viewed everything with a pessimistic eye.
"What is your name, my good man?" Alfred asked the shepherd.
"My name is Claude, monsieur, and my wife’s name is Claudine."
"And I’ll bet that the children are called Claudinet," muttered Robineau with a shrug.
"What do you do?"
"I am a shepherd."
"And your children?"
"They work in the fields; we have a small field close by."
"And your father?"
"Oh! he don’t do anything now, he’s taking his rest.—As to our wife, she makes the soup and brings it to us in the fields."
"Are you satisfied with your lot?"
"What do you mean, monsieur?"
"I mean to ask if you are happy."
"Pardi! what more would we want? We have enough to eat and clothes to wear, and a good house to live in; ain’t that enough?"
"My friend," said Edouard to Alfred, "this is man in his primitive state, without ambition, without desires; nature has given him none but pure and simple tastes, he has no vision of happiness outside of the place where he was born, and his desires never pass the summits of the mountains that surround his dwelling place. I maintain that this is such a man as Diogenes wished to find, but sought in vain among a people addicted to all sorts of pleasures, over-refined in its tastes and enslaved by its passions."
"If this is Diogenes’s man," said Robineau, tilting his bench, "he’s a clean, gentlemanlike person!"
"What is there in that kettle? Your supper, I presume?" said Alfred.
"Yes, monsieur, the soup."
"Well, my friends, we will eat it with you. We had our supper at Ayda; but no matter, we will sup again, eh, Edouard?"
"Yes, to be sure; we will keep our hosts company. And then there is an indefinable attraction about such a meal in my eyes."
"They’re not easily disgusted!" thought Robineau.
The soup being ready, the huge kettle was placed in the centre of the company; as the table was too small for the whole party to sit around it, the mountaineers considered it the simplest way to sit on the ground. Alfred and Edouard did the same, and Robineau alone remained on his bench.
"What, messieurs," he said to his friends, "you mean to sit on the floor?"
"Why not?" said Alfred; "we must do as these good people do."
"It’s the most natural seat," said Edouard.
"You look like savages!"
"The savages are the children of nature, my dear fellow, and we are the children of prejudices."
"In that case, messieurs, I will go from here to-morrow without trousers and declare that that is the most natural costume."
"Oh! Robineau, that’s very different! Decency is of all times—the fig-leaf dates from a long way back!—However, you are absolutely at liberty to show your posteriors to the people of Chadrat and to those on your own estate too, if it will give you any pleasure. As you have just bought the château, they will think that it’s an ancient custom which you mean to revive, and it is possible that they will decide to imitate you, which would be extremely interesting, especially on the days of large parties."
During this colloquy the mistress of the hut distributed wooden plates and spoons to everybody, and the aged father cut slices of rye bread. Despite his repugnance, Robineau accepted a plate of soup and ended by eating it like the others, although he muttered that it was too thick and too salt, and swore at the wine, which he considered too new. But the mountaineers did not notice his ill humor; they kept putting more soup into his plate, although he said that he had had enough. And the old man shared his bowlful with the old goat by his side, which seemed to be an old friend of the family.
During the supper Edouard returned to the subject of the White House, because the little that had been said about it had roused his curiosity.
"Pray tell us, good people," he said, "what you know about this place that frightens you so. How long has this White House been the terror of the country?"
"Oh, yes! do tell us that," said Alfred. "I like ghost stories; they make you shudder; it’s delicious!"
Robineau said nothing, but he drew his seat a little nearer to the circle formed by the others.
"Well! messieurs," said the old man, "it ain’t so very long that the White House has been such a scarecrow to all of us. I must tell you first that it ain’t very far from here, to the left, at the foot of the mountains. You go down into a pretty little valley, where there’s vines and lucern and some fine walnut trees, and the White House in the midst of it all."
"It doesn’t seem to have made the land sterile at all events.—To whom does the house belong?"
"Oh! that’s just what nobody don’t know, monsieur, for it ain’t ever been lived in, in the twenty years since it was built, unless the devil’s been living there lately. You see, messieurs, that there’s a pretty little cottage just about a hundred yards from the White House; it’s a kind of a little farm house that used to belong to a man named André Sarpiotte. André was pretty well off; he had some good-sized flocks and some cash; so he went to work and built this house that we call the White House, because when it was new, it was just as pretty and white, and finer than any house hereabout. So André Sarpiotte built the house, thinking he’d sell it to some one as might want it; but, bless me! it’s a big house, with a fine garden with walls all round it, and it was too high-priced for us poor folks!—So André, he couldn’t get rid of it; but he took comfort for his disappointment with his little wife, for he was married, André was, and his wife had just give him a little boy."
"But, my good man, I don’t see what connection all this has with the terror inspired by that spot?"
"Oh! yes, monsieur! Oh, yes! It’s all connected, and that’s what I’m coming to. One fine morning, we heard say in the village that André’s wife had took another child to nurse, with hers. It was a little girl. No one in this region had ever seen her parents, but André, he said that they was folks as lived some distance off and wasn’t rich; but still we took notice that André’s wife was better dressed and had lots of fine things to wear, and that André had a better time than ever. As he was in a lucky streak, he sold his White House six months after to a stranger who was travelling through here. The deeds was passed at the notary’s at Saint-Amand. The man’s name, they say, was Gervais, and that’s all anybody knows about him; for the most surprising thing is that this gentleman sent for furniture and everything he needed to run the house, but he didn’t never live in it. He went right off again, and he ain’t been seen again since; and that’s what makes folks think that the devil had got possession of the cursed house, and the poor man that bought it found it out and swore he wouldn’t never come back to it. Still, nobody didn’t notice nothing, only folks thought it was a strange thing that the owner of the house shouldn’t come to live in it. Time passed, and the little girl André and his wife had took in was still with ’em. After two years they said as how her parents was dead and that they’d adopted the child; but, my word! that good deed didn’t bring ’em luck. Their own child died, and about a year after, André, who had a way of drinking a little too much, fell into a hole on his way home from the fêtes at Saint-Gall, and he wa’n’t alive when they took him out. So then there wa’n’t nobody left at the farm but André’s widow and little Isaure—that’s the name of the little girl they adopted. That was when folks began to notice strange goings on in the White House. In the first place there wa’n’t nobody in the house, and yet there used to be lights going to and fro sometimes at night; then someone heard stamping in the garden—like horses’ feet!—You may be quite certain that that gave folks a bad fright. If it had been the owner of the house come back, somebody’d have seen him; he wouldn’t have kept out of sight and never come except at night. All these doings began to make people talk, to give ’em strange ideas; and then that house, with all the doors and windows shut and locked all the time, and yet noises and lights inside—you see that wa’n’t clear at all!"
"And André’s widow, who lived very near the White House, must have been more frightened than the others, I suppose?"
"Not a bit of it, monsieur; and that’s another thing that wa’n’t clear either; when anyone spoke to the widow Sarpiotte about them noises and lights, she’d just answer that we was all idiots, and that it wa’n’t none of our business anyway."
"It would seem that the widow Sarpiotte was strong-minded."
"My word, monsieur, I don’t know whether it was her mind, but it didn’t prevent her going to join her husband—twelve years afterward, to be sure!"
"Ah! so the farmer’s wife is dead too?"
"Yes, monsieur; she died nigh onto three years ago, and left her farm and cows and goats, everything she had, in fact, to little Isaure, who was fifteen years old then."
"And did this girl continue to live near the White House?"
"Bless my soul! yes, monsieur! And not a bit more scared than if she was in the middle of the village; and yet we noticed that the noises and lights came much oftener in the abandoned house after André’s widow’s death. Before that, we often went six months without hearing a sound; but now there ain’t hardly ever two months goes by without someone being in that house at night, for sure. And it wa’n’t long ago that Jacques, who went by the house before sunset and saw that all the shutters was shut, went by again the next day just as it was light, and saw two shutters open on the first floor! They didn’t come open of themselves, you know. The next night they was shut again. And that little girl, who ain’t eighteen years old yet, if I’m right, lives all alone close by a fearful place like that! a place we men don’t dare to pass after dark!—Oh! that’s mighty queer, I tell you!—So the old men of the neighborhood, and I’m one of ’em, we put this and that together, and we come to this conclusion: that little girl ain’t no common girl!"
"What’s that? do you think that she’s a boy?" asked Alfred with a laugh.
"Nay, nay, monsieur; that ain’t it at all. But you see I took notice that it was just about the time she come to André’s that these strange things that have been happening begun. The sale of the White House to a man as we never see again; the house always locked up, but with lights in it sometimes—and then a sort of black ghost that’s been seen prowling round the farm!"
"Ah! there’s a ghost, is there?" asked Edouard.
"A ghost!" echoed Robineau, who during the old man’s narrative had gradually moved his bench so far that he was now in the centre of the circle formed by the audience.
"Yes, messieurs, yes, there’s a ghost—or an imp—that shows himself in the valley now and then."
"Have you seen it, excellent old man?"
"No, monsieur, oh, no! but Claude’s seen it."
"I ain’t seen it myself," said Claude, "but my oldest son Pierre, he’s seen it."
"It wasn’t me," said Pierre, "it was Joseph."
"I didn’t just exactly see it myself," said Joseph, "but I was along with Nicolas, and he said he thought he saw something."
"Oh! according to that," exclaimed Alfred, "the existence of the ghost is abundantly proved.—But let us return to little Isaure, who is neither a boy nor a girl, you say, which would give her more or less resemblance to an imp."
"Well, monsieur, to go back to her, we folks think that, if she ain’t afraid of the devil, it must be because she’s in league with him; and we say—but we don’t say it out loud—that the girl may be bewitched, or at any rate have some sly tricks we don’t know about, for snapping her fingers at evil spirits. For just see! take the family that took her in—they all died——"
"Yes, in the space of fifteen years."
"But does this girl live absolutely alone now?"
"Yes, messieurs, all alone and close by the White House, where folks like us wouldn’t like to live in a crowd!—It’s a very strange thing. And then, you see, this young Isaure, she ain’t like the other girls here in our mountains; and yet, as she was brought up here, there ain’t no reason why she should know more’n we do; for André and his wife wa’n’t no scholars, although they was well off."
"What do you say? that this girl is better educated than the people of these mountains?"
"I should say so! she knows lots of things! In the first place she knows how to read printed books, and they say as how she reads ’em right off, too! And yet André Sarpiotte wasn’t very smart at that! How is it that she knows more’n her master?"
"That happens every day, my good man; but what else?"
"Why, she sings lots of songs that we don’t know and that don’t belong to this part of the country.—I ask you who can have taught her them? And then, when she talks to you, she smiles and curtsies just like a fine city young lady!"
"And you don’t tell it all, father," said Claudine, who thus far had maintained a respectful silence and allowed the old man to talk; "Isaure knows a lot too about planting trees and raising flowers and sowing grain; she knows an amazing deal about that! You ought to see the garden at her farm-house; everything grows there, and it’s wonderful to look at! And she has medicines for doctoring animals."
"She has medicines for animals?" exclaimed Robineau with a stupefied air.
"Yes, monsieur; it ain’t long ago that she cured her cow that looked like she was going to die, with some herb or other she give her to eat; and Jeannette’s goat, as had a swelling under her stomach—why, Isaure went an’ cured her too, with some drug or other she made her take."
"What’s that? she cured Jeannette’s she-goat?" cried the shepherd. "Well! I tell you, all my goats could just die before I’d let little Isaure touch ’em.—Seems to me, messieurs, we’ve told you things enough to prove that the girl has dealings with Satan."
"If she cures cows and goats," muttered Robineau, "she must certainly know a lot."
"In fact, messieurs, for a girl brought up among these mountains—why, she ain’t our sort, not a bit; she talks to us sometimes in words we can’t understand; in short, she has a kind of a silver-gilt, honey-sweet language that ain’t like what our goatherds use."
"Parbleu! I am very curious to see this girl," said Alfred.
"So am I," said Edouard.
"Faith," added Robineau, "I give you my word that she doesn’t tempt me in the least!"
"But let us come to the most interesting point," said Alfred; "what sort of looking girl is this Isaure? You have not described her. Is there anything devilish in her face, her features?"
"Well! messieurs, as for that," said the shepherd, "I can’t deny that she ain’t bad-looking—there’s even some folks hereabout who say she’s pretty."
"Oh! yes, father," said Claude’s three sons, "she’s very pretty, Isaure is, and her smile is very sweet!"
"Hold your tongue, little ones!" said Claudine; "you don’t know what you’re talking about! I tell you that there’s something wicked in her blue eyes—something that covers up treachery; and her soft voice is just a cheat to trap people. Besides, as if a little witch like her could be pretty!"
"No," said Robineau, "I agree with the Auvergnate; a witch is always frightful."
"Pretty or not," said the shepherd, "this much is certain, that everybody in this neighborhood keeps out of her way instead of seeking her. When they see her in one direction they go in the other. When she takes her goats to the mountain, they hurry down into the valley; and bless me! they’re quite right, for she’s capable of throwing a spell on you, of bringing you bad luck!"
"Yes, yes," said Claudine; "and if Bastien’s sheep is dead, I know well enough it’s because Isaure patted her the other day."
"Oh, mother!" interposed one of the young Auvergnats, "Bastien’s sheep fell fifty feet."
"That may be," rejoined Claudine, "but what made her fall? because Isaure had touched her; do you suppose she’d have lost her footing if it hadn’t been for that?"
"True," said the old man.
"These are the arguments of ignorance," said Edouard; "the simplest things become supernatural in the eyes of these honest folk! They do not care to seek causes, they refer everything to the first idea that strikes them; and behold a girl, who is perhaps a pretty, gentle creature, becomes an object of terror to these mountaineers, because she lives quietly in a place which they imagine to be inhabited by the devil! But these peasants never leave their hovels, so they are excusable! Think how many people there are in our large cities in whom education has not destroyed superstition!"
"I say, Edouard, you, who have all the sentiments of a paladin of old,—fidelity excepted,—ought to do as they do in theChâteau du Diable, an old play that was formerly acted in the Cité—visit this haunted mansion and deliver young Isaure, who may be a princess in disguise, from the spell which keeps her with her cows and goats! For my own part, I propose to see the girl to-morrow; I wish with all my heart that she might prove to be a witch; for, having never seen one, I should be enchanted to know how they are made. You will go with us to see the White House, won’t you, Robineau?"
"Oh! messieurs, it’s to be hoped that I shall be in my château to-morrow; then you can wander where you choose, but the deuce take me if I go with you! I shall remember too long our journey through the mountains!"
The young men laughed at their companion’s ill humor. But the evening meal was at an end and the Auvergnats were already thinking of going to rest.
"Messieurs," said Claude, "I wish I had beds to offer you, but we sleep on plain straw, and that’s all we’ve got to give you, with some sheepskins I keep for the winter."
"We shall be very comfortable," said Alfred; "besides, a night is soon passed."
"If you have no bed," said Robineau, with a grimace, "at least give me the sheepskins; they’ll be softer than your straw!"
"Yes, monsieur; I’ll go fix ’em for you."
They made a bed with the sheepskins in one corner of the hovel; but Alfred and Edouard preferred to lie on the straw, whereon they stretched themselves, laughing good-humoredly; while the three young Auvergnats did the same near by. The old man followed the example of his grandchildren and lay down beside his he-goat. Claude and his wife retired to the other compartment of the hovel, to which a rough sort of curtain served as a door. But, before joining his wife, Claude blew out the lamp, and only an occasional fitful gleam from the fire lighted the interior.
"Why do you put out the light?" cried Robineau.
"Oh! because it wouldn’t be safe to keep it lighted all night, monsieur. If the house should catch fire, we should all be baked like coals."
With that, he threw water on the remains of the fire, to extinguish it completely.
"How amusing this is!" said Robineau; "to go to bed without a light—I, who always have my night light in Paris!—By the way, mountaineer, are you sure you locked the door of your cottage?"
The shepherd made no reply; he had gone to join his wife, by whom he lay down, and ere long their prolonged snoring, reinforced by that of the old man and the three boys, announced that the whole family was enjoying sound sleep.
"How pleasant!" muttered Robineau, throwing himself testily on his sheepskins; "the idea of sleeping in the midst of an uproar like this! It seems to me as if I were at a funeral, with six bass horns tooting in my ears!—I say, my friends, can you sleep?"
Alfred and Edouard in reply made a pretence of snoring with the rest.
"They’re asleep! they’re very lucky!—But that peasant didn’t answer my question about the door; I’ll just go and make sure that we’re safe."
Robineau rose, felt his way to the door, found the latch, raised it, opened the door, and discovered to his horror that it could be opened as easily from the outside.
"How imprudent these peasants are!" he cried; "a door that can be opened from outside! We’re about as safe as we should be on the high road! I say! Monsieur Claude! boys! Hallo! old grandpa! why don’t you answer?"
Robineau’s outcries and the uproar he made roused the old man.
"What’s the matter with you, monsieur?" he said.
"The matter with me! Why, I think it’s an outrage that there isn’t so much as a bolt on your door! The first thief that passes can come in and murder us."
"Oh! monsieur, there ain’t no thieves in this part of the country! Besides, we ain’t got anything to steal!"
"You haven’t! that’s just it! There’s selfishness for you! They think only of themselves.—But, old peasant, I shouldn’t be pleased if they stole no more than my hat.—I say, old man——"
The old man had fallen asleep again, and Alfred said to Robineau:
"For heaven’s sake, let these good people sleep in peace! Are you going to make this noise much longer?"
"Ah! so you’re not asleep either?"
"Parbleu! with such a row as you are making!"
"But there’s no sense in lying in bed at the mercy of every passer-by!"
"Do you suppose anyone is passing at this hour?"
"Nobody knows.—However, I’ll put the table in front of the door; that will offer some little resistance."
"Why don’t you put yourself there?"
"Oh, of course! to act aschevaux de frisefor you! God! what a pleasant night I am going to have! I trust that I can find the table."
Robineau felt his way about the room, and, having found the table, placed it against the door; then, feeling a little more at ease in his mind, he threw himself on his sheepskins again, and exclaimed with a long-drawn sigh:
"Was it worth while to buy a château, to be rich, to inherit Uncle Gratien’s fortune, in order to lie on sheepskins like an Indian? I shall be able to say that I have known the vicissitudes of fortune.—It is stifling in this damned hovel. Not even a pillow or a bolster to put one’s head on! God! how I will make up for this to-morrow at La Roche-Noire! I will lie in cotton!—I shall never be able to sleep in this bed; it smells horribly of game.—I say, Alfred! Alfred! are you comfortable on your straw?"
"My dear Robineau," replied Alfred with a yawn, "it’s the novelty of the position that makes its charm; it seems so amusing to me to lie on straw!—Only it’s a pity not to have a little Auvergnate—because—oh——"
"Because what?" said Robineau.—"Well! he’s asleep.—I say, Monsieur Edouard, are you asleep, too?—It seems that the poet sleeps; I will try to follow his example. If only I could dream of my poor château, at which I have so much difficulty in arriving!—God grant that that witch may not come here to-night and cast a spell on us! With their White House—they’ll give me bad dreams!"
However, fatigue triumphed over fear, and Robineau fell into a deep sleep, like his companions.
The new landed proprietor had a most delectable dream: he was at his château at last; he was called monseigneur, and was being fêted and congratulated, when he was suddenly and painfully awakened by a heavy weight resting on his chest.
"Who’s that?" he cried, trying to escape from the burden that weighed upon him. But there was no reply, and he felt an additional weight on his shoulder. A cold perspiration stood out on his forehead; he no longer had the strength to cry out, but said in a faltering, trembling voice:
"Who—who is it? In heaven’s name—what do you—want of me?"
There was no reply; the weight did not move but continued to rest on the traveller’s chest and shoulder. Several minutes passed thus. Robineau no longer had the strength to cry out, but waited until he should be at liberty to move, praying fervently meanwhile. But, after some time, surprised to find that the intruder did not stir, he softly raised his head to try to free himself, and his face came in contact with a long beard which seemed to cover almost the whole of his bedfellow’s face. Robineau uttered a loud shriek, thinking that he had the devil upon him, and in his terror threw himself to one side; whereupon he found that he was clear of the object that had held him down, and he sprang to his feet and ran to the middle of the room. But he fancied that he heard footsteps and he was convinced that the devil was pursuing him. In his terror, he ran about at random, came in contact with the curtain that separated the two parts of the room, caught his feet in the straw, fell headlong into it and lay there all huddled up, praying to heaven to protect him.
Meanwhile, tranquillity was reestablished; Robineau concluded that the devil had lost trace of him and had gone to torment one of his companions; so, after remaining a quarter of an hour under the straw, where he was nearly stifled, he turned over to try to get a little air.
When he turned, Robineau’s face found itself once more in contact with something, which, however, did not resemble a beard, for it was large and fat and smooth, soft to the touch, and endowed with a pleasant warmth. Robineau drew back his head and put out his hand to ascertain whether his suspicions were well-founded; but at the same instant the person to whom that plump object belonged turned over, and stretching out an arm and a leg, enlaced Robineau, who was thus caught anew and dared not stir.
This time Robineau was less alarmed than before, for he realized whom he had to do with; he had no doubt that it was Madame Claude who was lying upon him, and he preferred to feel the weight of Madame Claude rather than of the devil. However, he reflected that, if he remained there, the shepherd would find him there, and that he might not be gratified to see him lying under his wife. On the other hand he feared that, if he went away, he would fall once more into the clutches of the long-bearded creature who had waked him; and the fear of the devil was stronger than the fear of the shepherd. So he decided to retain his position until daybreak, when demons cease to be dangerous.
It was decidedly difficult to remain quiet in such a posture. Robineau instinctively remembered that the Auvergnate was still very comely, albeit a little dark; but all women are fair at night, when we choose to consider them so, and Robineau, still instinctively, put out his arms and let his hands run over everything that they came in contact with, until his fear gradually vanished, and his ideas became much less black.
By dint of toying with the Auvergnate, Robineau finally woke her; she supposed that it was her husband who was dallying with her, and like a woman who knew what that meant, she gave him a hearty kiss. Robineau submitted to the caress; he rather liked it; moreover, he did not choose to undeceive the Auvergnate, and to avoid that, it was necessary for him to play the part of the husband. He had been doing so for several minutes, when the same object which had driven him from his bed, came gambolling over the straw and jumped upon the couple who were not asleep. Again Robineau felt the long beard, and he cried out, thinking that the devil meant to punish him for his incontinence. Claude’s wife cried out in her turn; she discovered, rather tardily it is true, that it was not her husband whom she was kissing. The shepherd woke and cried out to ascertain what the matter was with his wife.
This uproar awoke the other inmates of the hovel. Alfred and Edouard rose to find out what was happening; the old man managed to find a little fire and lighted the lamp. The three boys alone continued to snore.
Those in the outer room went with the light to inquire as to the cause of the outcries, and they saw the husband and wife holding Robineau, who was trying to bury himself under the straw anew, while the goat jumped upon all the company impartially.
Robineau was gazing with a terrified expression at the goat and the shepherd. Alfred and Edouard began by laughing at his face, while the old man cried:
"What’s got into you all?"
"Why, Claudine woke me up by yelling like one possessed," said the shepherd.
"Pardi!" said Claudine, "I cried for I felt something—I mean someone, and I wanted to find out what it was."
"What were you there for, so close to my wife?" the shepherd asked Robineau; "what made you leave your sheepskins?"
"Faith, my dear friends," said Robineau, emerging entirely from beneath the straw, "I really don’t know just how it happened; but something woke me up,—I felt a long beard and something walked on me."
"Ha! ha! it was the old goat that woke you, Robineau, and you took him for the devil or the little sorceress, I’ll bet!"
Robineau opened his eyes to their fullest extent, stared at the goat and cried:
"What! was it that infernal beast? That’s what comes of sleeping in a Noah’s Ark!"
"Well, well!" said Claudine, "I don’t see as there’s any great harm done after all. You got frightened, that’s all."
"That is all, absolutely!" rejoined Robineau, with a furtive glance at Claudine, who cried:
"Pardi! it wa’n’t worth while to wake up the whole house for such a little thing! But look you, monsieur, next time you’d better try not to throw yourself down on us so sudden like; because it—it surprises a body, you see."
Robineau apologized anew and returned to his sheepskins, happy to have escaped so cheaply. The Auvergnats went to bed again, and so did Alfred and Edouard, laughing over the adventure of the goat; and this time Robineau laughed with them.
The rest of the night was uneventful. At daybreak everybody was out of bed. The young men accepted a jug of milk and prepared to resume their journey. Claude himself offered to serve as their guide and to show them the White House, for he was brave enough to pass it in broad daylight.
Our three travellers left the house therefore, after rewarding the Auvergnats for their hospitality. As she bowed to Robineau, Claudine bestowed upon him a furtive little smile of which many a city coquette would not have been ashamed.