"‘Oh! you who, burning with an ardor danger-fraught,Follow the thorny path of literature,Go not—’"
"‘Oh! you who, burning with an ardor danger-fraught,Follow the thorny path of literature,Go not—’"
"Stand aside, Monsieur Férulus, stand aside, I beg you! I am in a great hurry."
"I simply wanted to show you a very valuable book which I have under my arm. I found it among some old trash; it is a precious pearl for a scholar. But you must know it:Aurum ex stercore Ennii."
Edouard was not listening to Monsieur Férulus; he urged his horse, and left the scholar untying his books in the middle of the courtyard. Spurred on vigorously by her rider, Nicolas’s mare made very good speed. The more heated she became, the less she limped, and Edouard did not allow her to slacken her pace. The road soon became difficult for a horse; but they drew nearer the valley, and soon he would see Isaure’s abode; that thought calmed Edouard’s excitement a little. He longed to know how the girl had received Alfred, and if she had manifested more liking for him than for himself. But how was he to learn what they had said to each other? Suddenly he heard a noise; it was made by the big carriage horse, which was tied near at hand. Edouard at once dismounted, fastened his steed near Alfred’s, and then walked down into the valley, with a weight at his heart, thinking bitterly how short a time the happiness had endured which he had enjoyed in that spot only the day before.
When the young man was in the valley, he looked restlessly about in every direction; he had not yet discovered those whom he wished, and at the same time feared, to see. He went up on the hill where he had sat beside Isaure on the previous day; he found the spot that they had occupied; but the hill was deserted, the goatherd had not brought her flock thither. Therefore they must be in her cottage. Edouard, more agitated than ever, walked hastily toward the house, which on the day before he had not dared to enter, because it had seemed to him more proper not to enter her abode the first time he was with her. But Alfred evidently had not been so considerate. He was in the girl’s house, and perhaps had been there a long while.
Edouard soon reached the cottage; he ran to the door, which yielded to his touch, and entered abruptly. Isaure was seated and working, with Vaillant at her feet. A short distance away was Alfred, seated by a table on which was fruit which he had not touched, and his eyes were amorously fastened on the girl, who kept her own lowered.
At the noise which Edouard made on entering the room, she raised her head, and a pleased smile added to the beauty of her face. Vaillant walked around the young man without growling. But Alfred’s features contracted, and an angry expression gleamed in his eyes.
"I beg pardon!" said Edouard, stopping in the doorway; "I entered rather suddenly, but I came—I was looking——"
"Why all this beating about the bush?" said Alfred; "you came here in search of the mistress of this house, and you came in a great hurry because you suspected that I was with her."
Edouard made no reply, but Isaure rose and offered him a chair, saying with a charming grace:
"You will breakfast with me too, will you not?"
"With pleasure," said Edouard, "you invite me so graciously, that I cannot decline."
As he spoke he seated himself opposite Alfred, who thereupon decided to eat. Isaure, after bringing them the best that her garden afforded, returned to her work. She seemed less cheerful, less at her ease than usual. Edouard noticed it, but he dared not question her. Alfred looked at them both, and several moments passed in this mutual constraint, the two young men seeming eagerly intent upon watching each other. At last Alfred said to Edouard:
"Tell me why you did not confess the truth yesterday, when I asked you where you had been? Were you not at perfect liberty to come here if you chose? Why make a mystery of it with me? Had you promised anyone to keep it secret? At all events she has been more discreet than you."
"Since when have I been obliged to account to you for all my actions?" inquired Edouard angrily; "What difference does it make to you whether I came or did not come to this valley? A friend may receive our confidences, but he should not try to pry into what we choose to keep secret from him."
"A friend!" exclaimed Alfred sarcastically; "that name is as common as it is rarely deserved!"
"True enough! A man is no longer our friend when he seeks to open our eyes to the consequences of our passions, or to prevent us from doing some new foolish thing!"
"It is very fine to give advice to others, when one needs similar advice oneself!"
Again the young men were silent. Isaure looked from one to the other with amazement mingled with anxiety, but she dared not speak to them.
After a little time, Alfred burst out laughing as he looked at Edouard, and then exclaimed:
"Upon my word, my dear Edouard, we are like two great children! The idea of having a row, of being sulky with each other, just for a pretty face, for a pair of lovely eyes; in short, for this lovely child, who perhaps will not listen to either of us."
"Alfred," cried Edouard, "is it decent to speak thus before her?"
"Bah! why not? For I do not conceal what I think! Ask Isaure; I have already told her that I adore her, that I am mad over her, that I wish to make her happy, that I can’t get her pretty little face out of my head.—Is it not true, Isaure, that I have told you all that?"
The girl blushed, and without raising her eyes, said:
"I don’t remember what you said to me."
"The deuce! In that case it would seem that my declaration did not produce a very deep impression upon your heart."
"Alfred, how can you talk so frivolously to this girl? You think that you are dealing with one of your Parisian ladies. But the solitude in which Isaure lives should make us consider it a duty to treat her with the greater respect. Remember that we are under her roof, that she receives us here trustfully, and that it would be shocking to abuse her trust."
"Oh! you assume to preach, and yet you heave sighs and cast languishing glances! My dear Edouard, every man has his own way of making love, and with an innocent girl, yours is the more dangerous, I believe. For my part, I don’t beat about the bush, I say instantly whatever I feel. What harm is there, pray, in thinking Isaure lovely, in loving her? Is she not her own mistress? Is she not free to dispose of her heart? Why should I not try to make it my own? However, Isaure is safer than you think. I tried to kiss her—just a little kiss, that isn’t much to ask. But deuce take it! that attempt came near costing me dear; mademoiselle defended herself—and her dog—he saw it all, and for a moment I thought that he was going to swallow me whole! Parbleu! if I ever marry, I’ll have such a dog to leave with my wife!"
Isaure hung her head over her work and said nothing. Edouard rose angrily and paced the floor for several minutes; but on looking at the girl he saw that tears were rolling down her cheeks, although she lowered her eyes to conceal them.
"See, see, Alfred! This is your work!" cried Edouard; "here you hardly know her, and already you make her weep!"
"What do you say? She is weeping! Is it possible? And I am the cause of it! Isaure, dear Isaure, tell me that you forgive me."
As he spoke, Alfred ran and threw himself at the girl’s feet and seized one of her hands, although Vaillant raised his head and uttered a low growl of evil omen.
"How distressed I am to have made you unhappy!" continued Alfred; "I swear to be more considerate in the future! Edouard is right; I am a thoughtless fellow; I don’t know what I do. But you are so pretty! you fairly turn my head; really it isn’t my fault."
"Now you are beginning again, Alfred," said Edouard, who was not in the least amused by this scene.
"No, no, let me alone! I must excuse myself, I must try to obtain forgiveness."
"Rise, monsieur," said Isaure in a sad, soft tone; "I bear you no ill will, it was not you who made me weep; but I was thinking of my situation, I was thinking that I have no parents, that I have lost my adopted mother. When she was with me, no one tried to kiss me."
"There! you see that it was I who caused you to make these melancholy reflections!" said Alfred, rising. "Well, I realize that I was wrong, but I will not distress you again. Look you—in order to be more certain of behaving myself, which is not always easy for me, I will not come again alone to see you. Edouard shall always be with me. That I trust is a praiseworthy resolution."
"Oh, yes! that is very satisfactory," said Edouard.
"Very satisfactory—yes! But it is coupled with one little condition, and that is, my dear friend, that you will not come without me to see this charming child."
Edouard was no longer so well pleased at Alfred’s project; but Isaure looked at him as if she feared that he would refuse, and he answered with a sigh:
"Well, yes, I agree; we will come together."
"Good!" said Alfred; "that is a resolution worthy of our chivalrous ancestors. But I am inclined to think that it’s time for us to say adieu to the lady of our thoughts for to-day.—Come, Edouard, let us return to the château.—Au revoir, my sweet child; we shall see you again to-morrow, but I trust that those lovely eyes will shed no more tears."
Isaure bestowed a gentle smile on the two young men as they left her abode and returned to their horses.
"Ha! ha!" said Alfred; "you followed my example, and took a horse. Faith, we are equally well mounted. It is agreed that everything is common between us, until the little one has made her choice, and that cannot be long. It would be a deuced strange thing, agreeable and comely as we both are, if one of us should not succeed in pleasing a peasant girl, after making so many conquests at Paris!"
Edouard did not share Alfred’s merriment; he did not treat so lightly as his friend the sentiment that he felt for Isaure.
"My friend," said he, "I am really sorry that you are thinking of that girl."
"What’s that? Why so? You are thinking of her yourself."
"But I am thinking of her in rather a different way."
"Oh! my dear Edouard, you can’t make me believe that you have formed a plan of marrying this little goatherd! You would like perhaps to have me suppose so, so that then,—respecting so pure and spotless a love, I would not go again to talk nonsense to the girl. That would be very clever!"
"Alfred, you judge your friend very ill!"
"I know that friends cease to be friends as soon as love comes in between them. However, because you pretend to love this girl seriously, why should you not believe that I may love her too?"
"Look you, Alfred, a very bright woman said to me not long ago, at Paris: ‘There’s a vast difference betweendesireand love’; you desire to possess Isaure, but you do not really love her."
"My dear Edouard, your lady friend told you nothing new; I learned long ago that to desire and to love are not synonymous; but because one loves, that is no reason for not desiring; and the fact that one desires does not prove that one does not love. You may say that to the lady from me, when you see her.—However, how do you know that Isaure won’t prefer me to you?"
"Oh! I don’t know it, of course!" Edouard replied, forcing back a sigh.
After that they were both silent, and returned, deep in thought, to the château.
Several days had passed, during which Alfred and Edouard had not failed to pass every morning with Isaure. Faithful to their agreement, they started together from the château and returned together. It was easy to see, however, that the compact was displeasing to both, but neither dared to break it; each was very glad to accompany his rival when he went into the mountains, but would have liked to return thither alone, to see the young woman.
Isaure, being accustomed to see the two friends every morning, had resumed her happy and trustful demeanor with them. She laughed and romped with Alfred, whose pranks and nonsense seemed to amuse her; then she would return to Edouard and ask him innocently:
"Why don’t you play with us?"
Whereupon, Edouard would say nothing, but would try to smile; the more merry Alfred was, the less inclined he felt to share his enjoyment; he suffered in secret; it seemed to him that Isaure showed a greater preference for Alfred, that it was he at whom she looked and smiled most frequently. He tried to conceal the suffering that he felt, but jealousy was already rending his heart. This condition of affairs could not last long. Alfred flattered himself that he pleased the girl, but he desired to acquire the actual certainty of that fact. Edouard was in despair, but he was determined to avow his suffering to her who was the cause of it, and to learn from her mouth whether he must abandon the hope of being loved by her. Isaure, alone at ease in the presence of the two young men, who had ceased to speak to her of love, passed a certain part of every day with them, with no suspicion of the danger to herself which was likely to result from their frequent visits.
Several times on leaving the valley, the young men had noticed the vagabond, who, sometimes seated on a cliff, sometimes standing in the middle of a field, would cast a mocking glance at them, and then turn his head away in order to avoid entering into conversation.
"There’s that extraordinary man with whom you talked," said Alfred one day as they left Isaure’s house. "What the deuce is he doing here? I begin to agree with Robineau that that fellow has evil designs. But the little one must know him; I am curious to know if he has ever spoken to her. I propose also that the rascal shall tell me why he presumes to smile when he looks at us; there’s something sarcastic in his expression which I am going to ask him to explain."
"The man is unfortunate," said Edouard; "we must overlook eccentricities in him which are perhaps the consequence of the troubles he has undergone."
"Troubles! He doesn’t seem to have had any; he whistles and sings and laughs all to himself."
"But with all that, Alfred, one can detect a bitter expression, which indicates that his gayety is not altogether genuine!"
The next day the young men asked Isaure if she knew the man who was wandering about the mountains. From the portrait which they drew of him the girl remembered that she had seen him once or twice; but he had never spoken to her and had never entered her house.
"If he ever should come here," said Alfred, "I advise you to be on your guard."
"Why so?" said Isaure; "is he a bad man?"
"I don’t know, but I am not prepossessed in his favor. However, if he should venture to offer you the slightest affront——"
"Why on earth should he want to injure me? I have never injured anybody!"
"That’s not always a reason, but I hope that Vaillant will defend you. I remember the way in which he receives those who try to kiss you."
As he said this, Alfred smiled and took the girl’s hand; she blushed; Edouard, who was some yards away, said nothing, but his features betrayed all the suffering of his heart. Isaure glanced at him, and instantly taking her hand from Alfred’s, she ran to Edouard and said in a tone which went to his very heart:
"What is the matter, pray? One would think that you were suffering. Can it be that I have pained you?"
That sweet, tender voice, and the way in which Isaure looked at him, revived hope in Edouard’s heart, while it produced an entirely contrary effect upon Alfred. He frowned, moved about impatiently, and exclaimed:
"Let us go, it’s time!"
And he instantly left the cottage, much less satisfied than when he had entered, dragging away Edouard, who would gladly have remained longer.
Only a word, a glance, a smile from beauty is necessary to make us happy or to destroy our hopes.
On leaving the cottage the young men saw the stranger seated on the ground a few yards away. According to his custom, he was watching them, and his face wore its habitual mocking expression. Alfred dropped Edouard’s arm and walked toward the vagabond, who remained calmly in his place. When he stood in front of him, Alfred said to him in a haughty tone:
"You seem to spy upon all our actions, and you look at us with an expression that I don’t like. I am not fond of insolent or inquisitive people, I give you fair warning."
The stranger leaned back, and merely replied:
"I am like you: I am not fond of insolent or inquisitive people. I have always avoided the latter and have found a way to punish the former."
"Do you mean that for a challenge?" said Alfred, with a contemptuous glance at the stranger.
"A challenge! Oh! dear me, no! I no longer amuse myself in that way. Other times, other manners. As for your actions, it isn’t necessary to watch them long to understand them, as well as your schemes."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Parbleu! when young men go to see a young girl, anyone knows what the result is likely to be, and one need not be very shrewd to guess it. But, after all, I assure you that it makes no difference to me; I see nothing out of the common course in it."
"I consider you very presumptuous to dare to indulge in such reflections. If you were not constantly at our heels, how would you know where we go? But if you presume to say another word about that girl, I shall find a way to chastise such insolence!"
The vagabond’s only reply was to stretch himself out on the turf with a sneering laugh; then he took a snuffbox from his pocket, and after dipping his own fingers in it, handed it to Alfred, saying very calmly:
"Do you use it? It’s fresh, I bought it this morning at Saint-Amand."
The stranger’s placidity upset all Alfred’s ideas; his wrath redoubled, and he was on the point of resorting to some act of violence; but Edouard held him back and stepped between him and the stranger.
"My dear De Marcey, what are you thinking about? and why are you so incensed with this poor fellow?"
Alfred stopped, blushing as if ashamed because he had been unable to control himself. But at the name of Marcey, which Edouard had pronounced, the stranger acted as if he had been struck by lightning; and a sudden change took place in his whole aspect. His face no longer wore an expression of indifference or irony, but of surprise, interest and disquietude. He rose suddenly and walked up to Alfred, scrutinizing him anxiously; then he said to him:
"I beg pardon, monsieur, but your name, please?"
The stranger’s voice was no longer the same; it had lost the harsh, stern accent which seemed natural to it and had taken on an entirely new tone; his changed manner of address was that of a man who is accustomed to good society.
Alfred and Edouard were struck by the change which had taken place in the poor devil’s aspect. But he repeated his question and Alfred replied:
"My name—why, you have just heard it,—Alfred de Marcey."
"Are you the son of the Baron de Marcey who was a colonel of cavalry?"
"Yes, he is my father. How do you know? Did you ever know him?"
"Yes,—that is to say, I have often heard him spoken of. But how old are you?"
"How old!" said Alfred in surprise; "twenty-four years."
The stranger seemed to reflect and to try to collect his memories; then he muttered in an undertone:
"Twenty-four years! Oh, yes! I remember, he had a son by his first wife—I heard that. And have you any brothers or sisters?"
"No, I have none," replied Alfred, whose curiosity was keenly aroused. "But might I know what interest you can possibly have in knowing about my family?"
The stranger evidently tried to assume his usual air of indifference as he replied:
"Oh! I asked you that just for the sake of talking, that is all. Is your father still alive?"
"To be sure he is."
"But he isn’t in this region?"
"No, he is in Paris. Did you ever serve in his regiment?"
"No; not in his regiment exactly; but I did serve in the army once."
"You have defended your country, and now you are unfortunate and a vagrant!" cried Alfred. "Oh! forgive me, monsieur! I spoke to you rather hastily just now; I am a thoughtless fellow; I often make mistakes and am sorry for them afterward; but Edouard will tell you that my heart is in the right place. Come, prove that you bear me no grudge by accepting this purse, and let me have the pleasure of helping an old soldier."
As he spoke, Alfred handed the traveller a purse filled with gold; he glared at it with covetous eyes, but still his hand repulsed the hand that was held out to him, and he answered with something like bitterness in his tone:
"No, I don’t want your money; I am not in need of anything."
"You refuse me," said Alfred; "I see, you bear me ill will for my hasty speech of a moment ago. Well! as you have known my father, I offer you this trifling sum in his name."
"In his name!" cried the stranger; and his eye gleamed with repressed rage. But soon, seeming to obtain control of himself, he continued:
"I say again, I am not in need of anything now; later, it is possible that your money may be of use to me. Adieu, young man; we shall meet again."
And the vagabond walked away, after casting upon Alfred a glance of strange meaning. The young men returned to their horses and rode back to the château, discussing this meeting, which caused them to forget Isaure and their rivalry for the moment.
While the two friends spent their time making love to the pretty goatherd, while Monsieur Férulus placed his grammars and his dictionaries on the dusty shelves of the library, while Mademoiselle Cheval exercised her talents in the kitchen and Cunette in the cellar, while the gardener was digging up the garden and the workmen were repairing the whole domain of La Roche-Noire, Robineau passed his time at the dinners and other parties which were given him at Saint-Amand, whither he went every day. Like all small provincial towns, the little town of Saint-Amand contained its proportion of originals, gossips, pretentious folk, and heads of families who had daughters to marry. Robineau was rich, he had just purchased a château, and he proposed taking a wife; that was more than was necessary for him to be fêted, made much of and invited everywhere.
Robineau created a sensation in every house that he visited; people said to themselves: "That is Monsieur de la Roche-Noire, the new owner of the château; he is rich and he means to marry; he told his notary, who told his clients, who told the rest of the town." All the young ladies glanced furtively at Robineau and assumed pretty little airs to attract that gentleman, who was not particularly fascinating; but it is so cruel to remain unmarried, and on the other hand so pleasant to have a château, and to be called Madame de la Roche-Noire, that those young ladies were very excusable for trying to captivate the newcomer. Their mammas also heaped attentions upon him; they applauded what he said and smiled at what he did. Even the widows darted at the new landed proprietor an occasional flashing or tender glance, accompanied by a stifled sigh; for many widows are not at all sorry to contract a second marriage, in order to divert their minds from their grief, if they have had a good husband; to recompense themselves, if they have had a bad one; or to draw distinctions, if they have had a passable one. Amid all these allurements, Robineau hardly knew where he was; he considered the soirées at Saint-Amand far preferable to the balls in Paris; he deemed himself at once an Apollo and a Voltaire, and did not reflect that it was his twenty-five thousand francs a year, which, in the eyes of many people, endowed him with charm, wit and learning; whereas in reality he was still as dull and as great a fool as ever! Bridoison declares that that is the sort of thing which people say to themselves; but there are many people still, who never do.
Robineau, thus fawned upon, flattered and courted as an oracle, and at a loss to know in which direction to throw the handkerchief, determined meanwhile to return the courtesies which he had received from the society of the town; he spurred the workmen on when he was at the château, and when he left it, he instructed his librarian to take his place and to hurry the work along. The librarian, who had as yet succeeded in collecting only twenty-three volumes in the library, was not sorry to have another position to fill and to be monseigneur’s man of business as well. Through his efforts, two young Auvergnats were placed under Mademoiselle Cheval’s orders, as scullions; for the scholar began his improvements in the culinary department. Next he inspected the cellars, and required the keys to be placed in his hands, to the intense disgust of Monsieur Cunette. But Monsieur Férulus had read somewhere that the great noblemen hadofficiers de bouche, and he declared that butlers were just that; consequently, he took that position upon himself also. He hired two new servants, who were to act as coachman and as footman; he suggested to Robineau to purchase a small horse and a chaise, in which he made his daily visits to the town. Lastly, a stout girl of twenty years was retained as assistant to Monsieur Vincent, who was forever saying that he could not do everything; and the new gardener was expected, when she should be called upon, to warm the beds and warm Monsieur de la Roche-Noire’s feet. This clause was expressly stipulated by Monsieur Férulus when he engaged the peasant girl; "for," said he, "servants used to do that for their masters, when they needed it; and Monsieur de la Roche-Noire and I have agreed to reëstablish the praiseworthy customs of ancient times."
The stout girl, who had engaged to do everything,—like the young ladies who advertise in the Petites-Affiches,—promised to do whatever was wanted, and the librarian-man of business-butler installed Jeannette at the château.
After a few days, the château assumed a much more attractive aspect; one could ascend the staircase without the risk of falling; the walls were repaired, and fresh papers replaced those blackened by time; the windows were provided with glass, the doors could be closed, and the wind could not be felt in every corner. Robineau concluded that he could safely give the party which he had promised to the swell society of the town. His household was established, his cellar supplied, the servants had their livery, the garden was despoiled of beets in a large measure, and embellished with new flowers; and lastly, Monsieur Férulus had written some poetry for the occasion. Robineau fixed the day, and despatched his invitations, and everything was made ready at the château for that grand event, in which the new proprietor proposed to demonstrate at once his good taste, his refinement and his magnificence.
On returning from the valley of Chadrat, Alfred and Edouard were not a little surprised to find everything up in arms at the château; servants were running hither and thither, setting up in the courtyard posts upon which lamps were fixed; stringing cords, with colored lanterns attached, along the garden paths; and in the midst of it all, Monsieur Férulus, holding a book in one hand and a corkscrew in the other, went from this person to that person, issuing orders and wiping his brow with the end of his sleeve, because, presumably, he had not yet taken charge of the handkerchief department.
"Bless my soul! what is going to happen here?" asked Alfred.
"Can it be that Monsieur Jules de la Roche-Noire is going to be married?" said Edouard.
"Messieurs," said Férulus, "I have read in some Italian author—as he said this he waved his corkscrew—‘Lontano dagli occhi, lontano dal cuore!’ You, messieurs, are away from the château all day, and consequently you cannot know what is in preparation here. But here is Monseigneur de la Roche-Noire, who will inform you."
Robineau was in fact coming toward the young men at that moment.
"Upon my word, messieurs," he said, "you are very agreeable! I never see you now; you start off in the morning to go—I have a shrewd idea where! If I had not had Monsieur Férulus, this estimable scholar who has established my household upon a magnificent footing, I should never have got through with it. I hope that to-morrow at least you will be kind enough not to absent yourselves. I am giving a party—a magnificent dinner, a ball, and games of all sorts; the entertainment will begin at noon precisely; is that not so, Monsieur Férulus?"
"Yes, monseigneur; at noon the cannon, that is to say, three muskets fired spontaneously, will give the signal for the party."
"Mon Dieu! it is after the style of the Tivoli at Paris," said Alfred.
"First of all," continued Férulus, "a foot race in the gardens, followed by homage to the ladies."
"What is this homage to the ladies to be, Monsieur Férulus?"
"A bouquet presented to each one of them, monseigneur, in which there will be a little compliment in verse, of my composition."
"That will be very gallant."
"In order that there may be no jealousy, I shall put the same compliment in each bouquet. Next, a foot race through the apartments of the château."
"Ah! Monsieur Férulus," said Alfred, "you should have made it a horse race; it would have been more exciting."
"Next, refreshments of all sorts, consisting of red wine and water, distributed to all the company; then a little concert, performed under the windows of the balcony."
"Monsieur Férulus," said Robineau, "I won’t have bagpipes. The villagers hereabout are very obliging, but I remember my first party, and I don’t propose that those fellows shall dance here again."
"Never fear, monseigneur, they will not dance; they will come into the courtyard simply to be present at the games and to see the greased pole."
"Ah! We are to have a greased pole, are we?"
"Yes, monseigneur, we shall have two, in fact; I thought that it would be courteous to have one for the men and one for the ladies."
"Parbleu!" said Alfred, "I have never yet seen women climbing a greased pole; but it cannot fail to be very amusing. You will supply them with drawers, I presume, Monsieur Férulus?"
"I have not gone into those details, monsieur; but in order that it may be easier for the ladies to reach the top, I have conceived rather a happy idea: while the men’s pole will be greased and rubbed with soap, I shall have the ladies’ pole rubbed with honey from top to bottom; in that way, they will be able to ascend as easily as if it were a ladder."
"That is altogether novel!" said Robineau; "and what are the prizes to be?"
"Superb, monseigneur! aSyntaxand theDe Viris Illustribusfor the men; theExplanation of Participlesand theCuisinière Bourgeoisefor the ladies."
"The Auvergnats who win those will be well pleased!" said Edouard.
"What next, my dear friend?" said Robineau.
"Next, monseigneur, to take the place of tournaments, which we could not give for lack of knights, it occurred to me that you would not be sorry to have an imitation of the gymnastic games, as they used to be performed at the festival of Eleusis, and even before the Roman Emperors. Consequently, some Auvergnats, to whom I have given full instructions, will execute in the courtyard such sports as throwing the discus, foot-races, wrestling and boxing."
"You won’t serve them with anything to drink beforehand, I trust!"
"No, monseigneur! Next, flourishes, executed by the three musicians whom I have hired in the town, will announce that the banquet is served. At dessert, I shall sing couplets in your honor, and you will be kind enough to encore the last—that is always done."
"Very well, that is understood."
"Next, monseigneur, we shall go to the ball room, which will be decorated as the Greeks used to decorate the places devoted to such assemblages: flowers, garlands, and mottoes everywhere."
"You will have the mottoes written in French, won’t you, Monsieur Férulus?"
"No, monseigneur, in Latin and Greek, that is more dignified."
"Never mind, do me the favor to write them in French; otherwise, if the ladies should ask me for their meaning, it might embarrass me."
"If you absolutely insist upon it——"
"Yes, I insist upon it. What next?"
"Next, monseigneur, a bomb, fired in your courtyard, will announce the fireworks, which will crown that beautiful day by a rain of fire."
"A rain of fire! The deuce! You will take care that it doesn’t rain on the company."
"I will answer for everything, monseigneur; I, myself, shall handle the fireworks, and I am as expert at it as if I had invented powder."
"Well, messieurs, what do you think of this fête?" said Robineau, rubbing his hands in high glee.
"I hope that you will distribute programmes," said Alfred. "But who are to be your guests to-morrow, pray?"
"All the best people of Saint-Amand: nobles, people of great wealth, and men of great merit. You will see, messieurs, that all the agreeable people are not in Paris. And the women too! Dieu! you will see women of all colors!"
"What! do you mean that you expect to have Africans, mulattoes?"
"No, not that; I mean that you will see beauties of all types; and such wit! and such style! It’s a pity that we haven’t adopted the custom of Turkey; if we had, I would marry twelve wives instead of one, for upon my word, there are more than twelve of whom I have made the conquest. But above all, there is a certain Mademoiselle de la Pincerie. Ah! as for her, I believe that I have dealt her the fatal blow, and she has excited my imagination considerably, too!"
"Who is this Mademoiselle de la Pincerie?"
"She is a charming young lady: tall, well-built and stately, and dances like a fairy! In short, she is Mademoiselle Cornélie de la Pincerie, daughter of Monsieur le Marquis de la Pincerie, of one of the oldest families in Poitou, who settled in Auvergne because they found that butter was cheaper here. It was the father who told me that; he is a very profound thinker, a great political economist. For forty-three years he has been working at a philanthropic project, tending to prove that one can make soup with nothing but a calf’s foot, which would effect a great saving in soup stock!"
"Deuce take it! It is very unfortunate for the oxen that he has not finished that work yet!"
"There’s another daughter too, but she is a widow: very good-looking still, but rather a flirt, I am inclined to think. And then there is a brother of the marquis; and he is good nature personified! However, messieurs, you will see the whole family to-morrow; indeed, I intend to ask them to pass some time at my château."
The young men were about to leave the courtyard, when Monsieur Férulus, who had disappeared for a moment, ran back and detained Robineau, saying:
"You know, Monseigneur de la Roche-Noire, that I have engaged a full staff of servants; but you have not yet had the opportunity to see them all. By the way, I have deemed it proper to give them names more befitting their employment than those which they formerly bore. I have just called your household together in the large gallery; do you care to pass them in review?"
"It seems to me that that is the correct thing to do," said Robineau; "I ought at least to know all the people who are in my pay. Let us go to pass my servants in review."
They went to the gallery, where all the domestics of the château were assembled. Monsieur Férulus, who was very fond of ceremonials, had drawn up all the servants in a line, ordering each of them to hold in his hand some implement of his profession. The concierge had his keys, the gardener a spade, François a switch for beating clothes, the coachman a whip, the groom a cap, the scullions larding-needles, Mademoiselle Cheval a saucepan, and Jeannette, who had found no warming pan in the château, held a foot-warmer under her arm.
"Excellent! this looks exceedingly well," said Robineau, halting in front of them; "nine servants, to say nothing of the horses and dogs; that is very nice."
"Allow me, monseigneur, to tell you the new name of each one," said Férulus; and taking his stand before one after another, and pointing to them with a stick, as if he were exhibiting wax figures, he began with the concierge.
"This, monseigneur, is your concierge. Instead of Cunette, an unseemly name, which suggests a rebus, we will call him, with your permission, Custos, which, as you well know, is the Latin for guardian;—you hear, your name is Custos."
"My name is Cunette," cried the concierge; "and I maintain that it is a better name than your Cudechausse."
"I tell you it is Custos, you ignoramus."
"But——"
"Silence!—This, monseigneur, who is your gardener, is named Olitor, the real name of his profession. Olitor, present your spade."
"What nonsense is that you are talking?" said the gardener angrily; "my name is Vincent. What have you to say against that name? Do you suppose that at my age you are going to stuff a new one into my ears?"
"Olitor, my dear fellow, is very easy to say."
"Catch me answer that name! It’s a dog’s name."
"It’s a gardener’s name; just look in the dictionary."
"Oh! let me alone! Do you suppose dictionaries grow in my garden?"
"I tell you that you are called Olitor by monseigneur’s orders."
"And I tell you that our master can’t order such silly nonsense as that!"
"Silly nonsense! The fruit of my long investigation!"
"My dear Férulus," said Robineau, stepping forward majestically, "I do justice to your learning, and I know that so far as erudition is concerned you could swallow all these fellows without winking; but I shall not give new names to my servants; it would be likely to mix me all up; so I shall simply call them by the name of their profession, that is to say, concierge, gardener, valet; I like that better."
"Vive monseigneur!" said Cunette, tossing his hat in the air; while Férulus turned away, muttering between his teeth:
"This is what comes of taking pains to establish a household with taste! This is the way learning is encouraged!Numerus stultorum est infinitus!"
Robineau, having made the acquaintance of all the rest of his new servants, came to Jeannette, who was the last in the line, and who presented the foot-warmer to him.
"What is that thing, my dear?" said Robineau, as he looked at it.
"Why, monseigneur, it is anattribute, as that gentleman all dressed in black called it, who engaged me to work for you."
"What, do you mean that you have entered my service to hand me foot-warmers? It seems to me that in summer you might find something better to do than that."
"Monseigneur de la Roche-Noire, that is a figure of speech," said Férulus, stepping forward; "this girl is here to do everything, and principally to warm the bed when you want it done; but as I could find no warming pan at the moment, she offers you the implement of her duties."
"Yes, monseigneur, I will warm you," said Jeannette with a curtsy.
"Monseigneur," continued Férulus, "Agar performed that service for Abraham, Ruth for Boaz, Bathsheba for David, and I do not see why Jeannette should not perform it for your lordship."
"I don’t see either," said Robineau, "and I highly approve the creation of this position in my château.—Well, my friends, be zealous and active, and above all things see to it that to-morrow you work with redoubled zest and do not get drunk."
As he said this, Robineau walked away with his two friends. The servants returned to their work, and Monsieur Férulus went to Jeannette and whispered in her ear:
"You will warm my bed this evening."
"What, monsieur, already? in such warm weather as this? it’s early in September."
"That proves nothing; it may be hot and still be damp."
"But, monsieur, I can’t find any warming pan."
"Never mind, my dear girl, at your age the centre of gravity should be warm enough to take the place of one."
"What’s the centre of gravity, monsieur?"
"What you sit down on, Jeannette."
"What, monsieur,—you want me to warm your bed with my——"
"Even so, my dear; that is the way beds were always warmed in ancient times, for in ancient times there were no warming pans."
"Then it’s all right, monsieur."
"Oh! by the way, Jeannette, you will be careful to leave the warming pan in the bed, so that I shall find it there when I retire."
Jeannette opened her eyes and curtsied, while Monsieur Férulus walked away playing with his corkscrew.
While everybody at the Château of La Roche-Noire was engrossed by the great festivity which was to take place on the morrow, the most profound tranquillity reigned about Isaure’s dwelling. When the young men had left her, the little goatherd had taken her flock onto the mountain. On the way, she often turned her eyes toward the White House; she seemed to gaze inquiringly at it; then she went on, and from time to time a faint sigh escaped from her breast. Isaure had unconsciously become pensive since she began to receive the visits of Alfred and Edouard; she frequently thought of the two young men. Alone in her cottage, or among the mountains, Isaure had abundance of time to think; and when love makes her heart beat fast, the busiest woman finds leisure to think of the man she loves, or rather she thinks of him all the time. Even in the midst of society and of the restraints to which it subjects us, the image of the person we love follows us everywhere. It is our veritable sylph, or guardian angel.
Alfred and Edouard were both made to be loved, and they both did their utmost to please Isaure. A heart that has never known love is certain to surrender more easily and to receive more quickly the impressions of that passion. The girl whom the mountaineers and the shepherds had avoided, experienced a novel pleasure with those persons who seemed so happy in her presence; but that pleasure was inevitably attended with risk; and already fits of musing announced the birth of a new sentiment in Isaure’s heart.
Reading was no longer a sufficient distraction for the little goatherd. Still, she had carried a book upon the mountain with her, to occupy her time; but although she opened it and looked at it, she did not read; her distraught eyes sought the road by which the two young men always came to the valley.
"I shall see them to-morrow," she said to herself; "they are not afraid of me! they do not run away at sight of me; they do not think me wicked. Ah! I begin to feel that it is very melancholy to live alone, not to have a single friend with one. And yet, a little while ago I never thought of that; I was perfectly happy. What can it be that I lack now?"
Isaure let her head sink upon her breast; the book was thrown aside. Her mind abandoned itself to a delicious reverie; it is so sweet to dream, when the image of one we love is mingled with all our thoughts! And yet how many people live and die without knowing the most blissful sensations of love!
Suddenly the girl raised her head, put aside with her hand the long fair curls which fell over her great eyes, and turning her head anxiously, looked once more at the White House, with her head bent forward, as if she were listening, waiting, hoping.
But nothing disturbed the absolute calm that reigned all about; and that house, an object of terror to the credulous mountaineers, seemed to be as usual entirely deserted.
At last Isaure ceased to look in that direction; but, having glanced about, as if to make sure that no one could see her, she took from her breast a little locket, put it to her lips, and kissed it fervently; and a tear or two, which glistened in her eyes, fell upon that object upon which she lavished so many manifestations of affection.
After a few minutes she carefully replaced the locket in her breast, wiped her eyes, rose, assembled her goats and walked slowly back to her cottage.
Vaillant came rushing out to jump and fawn upon his mistress.
"My poor Vaillant," said Isaure, passing her hand over the head of her faithful companion, "you are not pleased with me; I am sure of it; I do not play with you as often as I used; I fondle you less; and yet I still love you, you are my faithful companion; but I don’t know what is the matter with me, Vaillant; and sometimes it really seems to me as if I were angry with myself for not being so merry as I used to be."
The dog pricked up his ears and looked in the girl’s face; one would have thought that he was seeking some means of raising her spirits. Several moments passed, and Vaillant, overjoyed to be caressed by his young mistress, did not stir from her side. But suddenly he lowered his head, walked away from Isaure, and took his stand close to the house door, uttering a low, prolonged growl.
"What is it, Vaillant? What’s the matter with you?" said the girl, calling him back to her. But he remained near the door, and would not leave it; he continued to growl, while his eyes expressed his ill humor and an uneasy curiosity.
"Is there anyone there?" continued Isaure. "Can it be that they have come back to see me? or perhaps only one of them?"
At the thought, a deep blush overspread the girl’s cheeks. She ran to the door and hastily threw it open; but instead of her young friends, she saw the man who had been wandering about the mountains standing a few yards from her house.
He was standing perfectly still, leaning upon his stout stick; he seemed to be scrutinizing the cottage in every part, and at the same time to be deep in thought; when the door opened and the dog went to him, he did not move; but his piercing black eyes rested upon the girl, who had remained in the doorway.
The stranger’s appearance and the expression of his face had at that moment a tinge of gloom, which, combined with the shabbiness of his clothes, inspired a sort of distrust. Isaure had never been so near that man; she had only seen him passing at a distance; but now he was only a few yards away from her, and his glances, spanning that distance, seemed by the smouldering fire that gleamed in them to seek to read the very bottom of the girl’s soul.
The vivid blush which tinged the little goatherd’s cheeks gave place to a sudden pallor; Isaure felt her heart sink, and she began to tremble. Never before had she had such a feeling of oppression as that which seized her at the sight of the stranger. However, ashamed of having given way to a feeling of alarm, she tried to recover herself, and said to him in a voice which she did her utmost to make steady:
"Monsieur—do you wish for anything?"
The vagabond gazed at her a long while, then replied:
"Faith, no, I do not want anything. However, as I happen to be in front of your house, I would be glad to eat a bit if it were possible."
"Oh, yes! that is very easy, monsieur. Come in."
From that moment Isaure saw in the stranger only an unfortunate, and the pleasure that she felt in doing good speedily dissipated her terror. Still, while the stranger entered and seated himself in the living room, Isaure, as she went to and fro to fetch what she had to offer him, kept Vaillant constantly by her side; and her voice, as she spoke a few affectionate words to her faithful guardian from time to time, seemed to urge him to watch over her more heedfully than ever.
The stranger threw himself upon a chair, put aside his hat and his stick, and examined with interest the interior of the cottage. When the girl returned to the living room, he scrutinized her again, and the more he looked at her the more amazement his eyes seemed to express.
Isaure, having placed the food upon a table which she moved to her guest’s side, said to him pleasantly:
"There, monsieur, is all that I have to offer you, but I do it gladly."
"There is much more than I need, and it is a most sumptuous repast, compared with those which I have had for some time past," said the stranger, seating himself at the table. "But I warn you, my child, that I shall not be able to pay you for what I consume in your house."
"Pay me, monsieur! Oh! I am not in the habit of asking pay for such trifling services as I can render. Is not one too fortunate to be able to be of use sometimes to one’s fellow creatures?"
"That is a most beautiful reflection, my child!" said the stranger ironically; "but I doubt whether your fellow creatures would do so much for you, if the opportunity should offer! You are still young; it will be well for you to learn thus early never to rely upon the gratitude of those whom you have obliged."
"I do not need their gratitude to take pleasure in doing good; my reward is in my heart." As she said this, Isaure raised her blue eyes with a touching expression of sincerity, and her whole face seemed lovelier than ever. The stranger gazed at her constantly while he ate.
"Young woman," said he, "it was not among your goats and your dull-witted mountaineers that you learned to express yourself thus."
Isaure blushed and faltered:
"What! do you think, monsieur, that the people in our mountains are not so hospitable as I am?"
"Hospitable! yes, indeed! But there are so many ways of being hospitable; and I see by your manner, by your speech—yes, yes, I know what I am talking about, and hereafter I think it would be difficult to deceive me.—Come, sit down here, and keep me company. I don’t frighten you, I trust?"
"No, monsieur," replied the girl timidly, as she seated herself a few steps from the table, taking care to keep Vaillant beside her.
After eating and drinking for some time, the stranger rested his elbows on the table, placed his head on his hands, and, gazing steadfastly at Isaure, said to her:
"People talk much about you in the neighborhood."
"About me, monsieur?"
"Yes, about you. The mountaineers declare that you are a witch."
"A witch?"
"Yes. That makes you smile and you are right; these idiots deserve nothing but pity; and yet in the old days such a reputation might have been most disastrous to you. In the days when people did not take the trouble to reason, they burned those who were accused of witchcraft; that was the quickest way. The goodwomen of those times did not doubt that witches rode to their revels on broomsticks; and there were people interested in having three-fourths of the human race become as foolish as the goodwomen. We have got beyond all that, and you will not be burned. But I begin to think that the peasants may well have been surprised at the difference between you and themselves, although I do not imagine that it is due to any but a perfectly natural cause. You will say that this is none of my business, I suppose; and that if you express yourself in better language than the mountaineers, it is, presumably, because your education was looked after. That is all very well; but you must agree, my child, that it was absurd to fit you for something better than tending goats, and then leave you in these mountains to follow that trade."
Isaure made no reply; she lowered her eyes, feeling intimidated by the tone of the stranger, whose glance, fixed constantly upon her, caused her an embarrassment which she could not overcome.
"You are pretty, my child!" continued the vagabond; "very pretty, on my word, and much more so than I thought before I had such a good look at you. But this beauty will lead you into adventures. Men adore pretty women, or at least, if they do not really adore them, they pay assiduous court to them. For my part, that seems to me no more than right; it is more natural to offer incense to a lovely woman than to adore oxen, stags, crocodiles, monkeys, cats, and even onions, as used to be done by the Egyptians, the most ancient of nations, and yet, as you see, not the most sensible for that reason. So you will be adored.—But what am I saying! it has begun already, no doubt. You blush! deuce take it! there’s nothing out of the common course in that."
"I do not know what you mean, monsieur," rejoined Isaure with a sincerity which would have convinced any other than the man who sat opposite her.
"You do not know!" muttered the stranger, shrugging his shoulders. "That is the way they all talk! they never do know! they are always innocent and pure! And when we have proofs of their treachery, when we place those proofs under their eyes, they still answer with an air of the utmost good faith, that they do not know how it happened!"
A bitter smile played about the stranger’s lips; his eyebrows contracted, and he seemed engrossed by painful memories. Isaure, trembling violently, moved her chair away; her eyes expressed the terror which had taken possession of her. Soon the stranger glanced at her, and divined her fear; whereupon he resumed his customary careless air and said to her:
"Why do you move away from me like that?"
"Why,—monsieur,—I thought that you were angry."
"Angry? not at all! With whom do you suppose that I am angry, for heaven’s sake?—Let us come back to you, my child; come, move your chair nearer and do not tremble so."
Isaure complied, as if against her will, with her guest’s request; the familiar tone in which he addressed her would have offended her if he had not seemed so destitute; but she believed him to be unfortunate, and she attributed to compassion the submission which she displayed.
"I told you that you were pretty; it certainly was not that which made you move your chair away. Others must have told you so before; and among others, the two young men who have called upon you every morning for some time past."
Isaure blushed hotly as she stammered:
"The two young men? Ah! you know—do you know them, monsieur?"
"Yes, I know them very well now. But do you know them? do you know who they are?"
"I know that their names are Edouard and Alfred, that they are staying at the Château of La Roche-Noire, and that they are pleasant and very courteous to me."
"And is that all that you know?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"You lie, girl; you know very well that both of them are in love with you."
Isaure tried to raise her eyes, but the stranger’s expression forced her to lower them again at once, and she replied in a trembling voice:
"Those gentlemen may have told me that in jest; I should have done wrong to believe them."
"Morbleu! in jest or otherwise, as if there were not a thousand ways of making themselves understood! The silliest woman sees when she makes an impression; all the more she who, like you, is neither a fool nor affected. Oh! my dear, believe that I know women better than you know your goats and your hens! I have had my day; it was short, it is true, but I made the most of it! They found me as agreeable, as fascinating, as you find Alfred and Edouard, but I rushed my intrigues more rapidly than these young men do. How many beauties seduced, and then abandoned that I might seduce others! How well I could assume all tones, affect all the varying shades of sentiment, to ensnare my victims! I would feign love, grief, despair; I would shed tears; but in reality my heart was dry, and I laughed in my sleeve at the sighs which moved those women to compassion. Ah! yes, I may say that I have had a very brilliant flight—it’s a pity that it ended so badly!"
Isaure listened to the stranger with amazement, not daring to interrupt him; he sat for some moments as if absorbed by the memories which had awakened in his mind; then he let his head droop upon his breast, and continued:
"Yes! all that has vanished! Love, friendship, wealth! I shall never know any of them more; I am alone, destitute, and I have not a single friend!"
The stranger’s tone became slow and melancholy as he uttered these words. Isaure felt deeply moved; she rose, walked toward the stranger, who no longer terrified her, and said to him with touching concern:
"Have you been very unfortunate?"
The stranger raised his head, gazed earnestly at her, and exclaimed:
"Why, this is most extraordinary! I had not noticed it before so strongly as I do now!"
"Noticed what, monsieur?" said Isaure.
"Nothing; oh! nothing. It is the effect of my recollections, no doubt. What in the deuce set me to thinking about all that? No, henceforth there is but a single sentiment that can revive my heart; but I feel that that sentiment may still afford me most delicious enjoyment."
Once more the stranger’s eyes gleamed; they seemed alight with savage joy. Isaure moved away from him, and quickly resumed her former seat, while her hand rested on Vaillant’s neck.
"My child," continued the vagabond, after drinking a glass of wine, "I was saying that the two young men who come to see you so often are in love with you. There is no harm in that, but you must realize that it is not to see this valley or to gaze into the lovely eyes of your goats, that these two young men from Paris rise so early in the morning! But I have reasons of my own for being curious to know which of the two you prefer—unless indeed you love them both, for such things have been seen! But no, no; I think that you are not sufficiently advanced for that. Come, speak, answer."
Isaure rose with dignity; she no longer trembled, for she felt offended; and looking fixedly at the man whom she had received as her guest, she answered:
"Your questions surprise me, monsieur! Who, pray, has employed you to ask them?"
"Who? Morbleu! I myself, who ask them; I, who question you! Is there any need of making so much fuss about saying: ‘I love this one better than that one?’"
"No one ever spoke to me so, monsieur, and when my dear mother was alive——"
"I am not talking about your mother. If she were here you probably would not receive visits from young men every morning. I see that you make the most of your liberty; don’t take so much pains to play the prude! Grimaces do not succeed with me. Come, sacrebleu! answer me!"
The stranger rose abruptly and walked toward Isaure. She, yielding to a thrill of fear caused by his approach, stepped back with a cry of alarm. Instantly Vaillant, thinking that his mistress was menaced, sprang to his feet, and with the rapidity of a lightning flash leaped upon the stranger and seized his leg with his teeth.
"Well, well! call off your dog! Heavens and earth! Don’t you see that he is biting me?"
Isaure called Vaillant, who made up his mind only with great reluctance to release the leg that he had seized, and returned to his mistress, growling, and keeping his flashing eyes fixed on the stranger.
"I beg pardon, monsieur," said Isaure, "but this faithful animal evidently thought you were threatening me."
"Morbleu! why do you shriek because I approach you? Do you think that I am going to eat you? What fools these girls are! You have a guardian there who does not understand joking; the rascal—his teeth went into my flesh. If he should receive your young men in the same way, I fancy that they would not come so often. But you don’t shriek when they come near, do you?—Adieu, my pretty discreet one! Oh! I shall soon find out what you refuse to tell me to-day! Yes, I shall find out all about you. I do not believe that you are a witch; but I do not think it natural that you should talk like the ladies from the city, that you should live alone with your flocks, and that you should be rich enough to entertain for nothing all those who stop at your house. There is something underneath it, and I shall find out what it is; for as I have told you, it is not easy to deceive me, and I believe neither in the innocence which runs about fields, nor in Platonic love, nor in innate knowledge. Adieu."
The stranger took his hat and stick and walked slowly from the house, with a contemptuous glance at the girl. Isaure felt that she breathed more freely when she saw that man take his departure, and Vaillant, who had not ceased to growl since his brief struggle with the stranger, went to the door to look after him, and did not reenter the house until he was entirely out of sight.