Chapter II: Part 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

V

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Every marquis must have pages_,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"This wigmaker must be right," he thought.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But am I old, pray?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She proposed a walk in the garden before separating.

VI

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

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

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

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

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

But the courtly marquis also stepped back.

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

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

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

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

"Oh! that is much to claim!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I was not thinking of anything."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

VII

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She found her father greatly excited.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

VIII

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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