Chapter XIII: Part 13

"And you call that want of courage, my brave girl?" I replied. "Now don't be troubled and leave me to act. The devil will be very cunning if I can't discover for myself, without suspicion falling on you, what those bagpipers are about; and if your father blames me, if he even drives me away and refuses the happiness I have been hoping to win,--I shall not care, Thérence! So long as I bring him or send him safe back to you, and Huriel also, I shall have my reward even if I never see you again. Good-bye; don't give way to anxiety; say nothing to Brulette, for she would lose her head. I know what should be done. Look as if you knew nothing. I take it all on my shoulders."

Thérence flung herself on my breast and kissed me on both cheeks with the innocence of a pure girl; so, filled to the brim with courage and confidence, I went to work.

I began by finding Leonard, whom I knew to be a good fellow, very bold and strong, and much attached to Père Bastien. Though he was rather jealous of me on the score of Thérence, he entered into my scheme, and I questioned him as to the number of bagpipers who were to meet for the competition, and the place where we could watch the assembly. He could not tell me anything under the first head; as to the second he knew that the trial was not to be in secret, and the place appointed was Saint-Chartier, in Benoît's tavern, an hour after vespers. The deliberation on the merits of the candidates was all that was to be held in secret, and even that was to be in the same house, and the decision was to be rendered in public.

I thought of half a dozen resolute lads fully able to keep the peace if, as Thérence feared, the matter should end in a quarrel; and I felt that justice being on our side, plenty of other fellows would come forward to support us. So I chose four who consented to follow me,--making, with Leonard and myself, six in all. They hesitated only on one point,--the fear of displeasing their master, the Head-Woodsman, by giving him help he had never asked for; but I swore to them that he should never know that they gave it deliberately, for we could easily pretend we were there by accident, and then, if any one were blamed, they could throw it all on me, who had asked them there to drink without their knowing what was going on.

So it was all agreed, and I went to tell Thérence that we were fully prepared against every danger. After which we started, each carrying a stout cudgel, and reached Saint-Chartier at the hour named.

Benoît's wine-shop was so full there was no turning round in it, and we were obliged to take a table outside. Indeed I was not sorry to leave my contingent there (exhorting them not to get drunk), and to slip myself into the shop, where I counted sixteen professional bagpipers, without reckoning Huriel and his father, who were sitting at table in a dark corner with their hats over their eyes, and all the less likely to be recognized because few of those present had met them in our parts. I pretended not to see them, and speaking so that they could hear me, I asked Benoît what this meeting of bagpipers was for, as if I had not heard a word about it, and did not understand its object.

"Why, don't you know," said the host, who was getting over his illness but was pallid and much reduced, "that your old friend Joseph, the son of my housekeeper, is going to compete with Carnat's son? I must say it is great folly on his part," added Benoît, lowering his voice. "His mother is much distressed, and fears the ill-will that grows out of these competitions. Indeed, she is so troubled that she has lost her head, and the customers are complaining, for the first time, that she does not serve them properly."

"Can I help you?" I said, glad to get a reason for staying inside and going about among the tables.

"Faith, my boy," he replied, "if you really mean it, you can do me good service; for I don't deny that I am still pretty weak, and I can't stoop to draw the wine without getting giddy. Here is the key of the cellar. Take charge of filling and bringing in the jugs. I hope that Mariton and her scullions can do the rest."

I didn't need telling twice; I ran out for an instant to tell my companions of the employment I had taken for the good of the cause, and then I went to work as tapster, which enabled me to see and hear everything.

Joseph and the younger Carnat were at either end of a long table feasting the guild, each taking the guests half-way down. There was more noise than pleasure going on. The company were shouting and singing to avoid talking, for they were all on the defensive, and it was easy to feel the jealousies and self-interests heaving below. I soon observed that all the bagpipers were not, as I had feared, in favor of the Carnats against Joseph; for, no matter how well a guild is managed, there are always old grudges which set members by the ears. But I also saw, little by little, that there was no comfort for Joseph in this, because those who did not want his rival, wanted him still less, and hoped to get the number of professional bagpipers lessened by the retirement of old Carnat. I even fancied that the greater number thought in this way, and I concluded that both candidates would be rejected.

After feasting for about two hours, the competition began. Silence was not demanded; for bagpipes in a room are instruments that don't trouble themselves about other noises, and the shouters and talkers soon gave up the contest. A crowd of people pressed in from outside. My five comrades climbed on the open window sill, and I went and stood near them. Huriel and his father did not stir from their corner. Carnat, who drew the lot to begin, mounted the bread-box and, encouraged by his father, who could not restrain himself from beating time with his sabots, played for half an hour on the old-fashioned bagpipe of the country with its narrow wind-bag.

He played very badly, being much agitated, and I saw that this pleased the greater part of the bagpipers. They kept silence, as they always did, so as to seem solemn and important, but others present kept silence too. This hurt the poor fellow, who had hoped for a little encouragement, and his father began to growl, and to show his revengeful and malicious nature.

When Joseph's turn came, he tore himself away from his mother, who was still entreating him in a low voice not to compete. He, too, mounted the box, holding his great Bourbonnaise bagpipe with great ease, the which quite dazzled the eyes of all present with its silver ornaments, its bits of looking-glass, and the great length of its pipes. Joseph carried himself proudly, looking round contemptuously on those who were to hear him. Everyone noticed his good looks, and the young fellows about asked if he could really be "José the dullard," whom they had once thought so stupid, and seen so puny. But his haughty air disgusted everybody, and as soon as the sound of his instrument filled the room there was more fear than pleasure in the curiosity he excited.

Nevertheless, there were present persons who knew good music, particularly the choir of the parish church and the hemp-spinners, who are great judges, and even elderly women, guardians of the good things of the past; and among such as these Joseph's music was quickly accepted, as much for the easy manner in which he used his instrument as for the good taste he displayed and the correct rendering which he gave to the new and very beautiful airs he played. A remark being made by the Carnats that his bagpipe, having a fuller sound, gave him an advantage, he unscrewed it and used only the chanter, which he played so well that the music was even more delightful than before. Finally, he took Carnat's old fashioned bagpipe, and played it so cleverly that any one would have said it was another instrument than the one first used.

The judges said nothing; but all others present trembled with pleasure and applauded vehemently, declaring that nothing so fine had ever been heard in our parts; and old mother Bline de la Breuille, who was eighty-seven years old and neither deaf nor dumb, walked up to the table and rapping it with her distaff said to the bagpipers, with the freedom her age warranted:--

"You may make faces as much as you like and shake your heads, but there's not one of you can play against that lad; he'll be talked of two hundred years hence; but all your names will be forgotten before your carcasses are rotten in the earth."

Then she left the room, saying (as did all present) that if the bagpipers rejected Joseph it would be the worst injustice that was ever done, and the wickedest jealousy that could be confessed.

The conclave of bagpipers now ascended to an upper room, and I hurried to open the door, hoping to gather something by overhearing what they said to each other in going up the stairs. The last to enter were the Head-Woodsman and his son; as they did so, Père Carnat, who recognized Huriel from having seen him with us at the midsummer bonfire, asked what they wanted and by what right they came to the council.

"The right of membership in your guild," answered Père Bastien; "and if you doubt it, ask us the usual questions, or try us with any music you like."

On this they were allowed to enter and the door was shut. I tried to listen, but every one spoke in a low voice, and I could not be sure of anything, except that they recognized the right of the two strangers to be present, and that they were deliberating about the competition without either noise or dispute. Through a crack in the door I could see that they divided into parties of five or six, exchanging opinions in a low voice before they began to vote. But when the time for voting came, one of the bagpipers looked out to see if any one were listening, and I was forced to disappear in a hurry lest I should be caught in a position which would put me to shame without an excuse; for I certainly could not say that my friends were in danger in such a peaceful conclave.

I found my young fellows below, sitting at table with others of our acquaintance, who were toasting and complimenting Joseph. Carnat the younger was alone and gloomy in a corner,--forgotten and mortified. The monk was there, too, in the chimney-corner, inquiring of Mariton and Benoît what was going on. When told all about it he came up to the long table, where they were drinking with Joseph, and asking him where and from whom he had got his teaching.

"Friend Joseph," said he, "we know each other, you and I, and I wish to add my voice to the applause you are now, of good right, receiving. But permit me to point out that it is generous as well as wise to console the vanquished, and that in your place, I should make friendly advances to young Carnat, whom I see over there all alone and very sad."

The monk spoke so as to be heard only by Joseph and a few others who were near him, and I thought he did so as much out of kind-heartedness as by instigation of Joseph's mother, who wanted the Carnats to get over their aversion to her son.

This appeal to Joseph's generosity flattered his vanity. "You are right, Brother Nicolas," he said; then, in a loud voice, he called to young Carnat:--

"Come, François, don't sulk at your friends. You did not play as well as you know how to, I am quite sure. But you shall have your revenge another time; besides, judgment is not given yet. So, instead of turning your back on us, come and drink, and let us be as quiet together as a pair of oxen yoked to a cart."

Everybody approved of this speech, and Carnat, fearing to seem jealous, accepted the offer and sat down near him. So far so good, but Joseph could not keep from showing his opinion that his art was far above that of others, and in offering civilities to his rival he put on such a patronizing manner that Carnat was more hurt than ever.

"You talk as if you were already elected," he said, "and it is no such thing. It is not always for the skill of the fingers and the cleverest compositions that those who know what they are about select a man. Sometimes they choose him for being the best-known and most respected player in the country, for that makes him a good comrade to the rest of the guild."

"Oh! I expect that," returned Joseph. "I have been long absent, and though I pique myself on deserving as much respect as any man, yet I know they will try to fall back on the foolish reason that I am little known. Well, I don't care for that, François! I did not expect to find a company of good musicians among you, capable of judging me or my merits, and lovers enough of true knowledge to prefer my talent to their own interests and that of their acquaintances. All that I wanted was to be heard and judged by my mother and friends,--by intelligent ears and reasonable beings. For the rest, I laugh at your screaming and bellowing bagpipes, and I must say, God forgive me! that I shall be prouder of being rejected than accepted."

The monk remarked gently that he was not speaking judiciously. "You should not challenge the judges you demanded of your own free-will," he said; "pride spoils the highest merit."

"Leave him his pride," said Carnat; "I am not jealous of what he can show. He ought to have some talent, to cover his other misfortunes. Remember the old saying: 'Good player, good dupe.'"

"What do you mean by that?" said Joseph, setting down his glass and looking the other in the eye.

"I am not obliged to tell you," said Carnat; "all the others understand it."

"But I don't understand it, and as you are speaking to me I'll call you a coward if you dare not explain yourself."

"Oh, I can tell you to your face," returned Carnat; "it is something that need not offend you at all, for perhaps it is no more your fault to be unlucky in love than it is mine to be unlucky to-night in music."

"Come, come!" said one of the young men who were present; "let _Josette_ alone. She has found some one to marry her, and that's enough; it is nobody's business."

"It is my opinion," said another, "that it was not Joseph who was tricked in that affair, but the other who is going to shoulder his work."

"Whom are you speaking of?" cried Joseph, as if his head were reeling. "Who is it you call _Josette_? What wicked nonsense are you trying on me?"

"Hold your tongues!" cried Mariton, turning scarlet with anger and grief, as she always did when Brulette was attacked. "I wish your wicked tongues were torn out and nailed to the church door."

"Speak lower," said one of the young men; "you know that Mariton won't allow a word against her José's fair friend. All beauties uphold each other, and Mariton is not yet so old but what she has a voice in the chapter."

Joseph was puzzling his brains to know whether they were blaming or ridiculing him.

"Explain it to me," he said, pulling me by the arm. "Don't leave me without a word to say."

I was just going to meddle, though I had vowed I wouldn't get into any dispute in which Père Bastien and his son were not concerned, when François Carnat cut me short. "Nonsense!" he said to Joseph, with a sneer; "Tiennet can't tell you more than what I wrote you."

"That is what you are talking of, is it?" said Joseph. "Well, I swear you lie! and that you have written and signed false witness. Never--"

"Bravo!" cried Carnat. "You knew how to make your profit out of my letter! and if, as people think, you are the author of that child, you have not been such a fool, after all, in getting rid of your property to a friend,--a faithful friend, too, for there he is upstairs, looking after your interests in the council. But if, as I now think, you came into these parts to assert your right to the child, which was refused, that accounts for a queer scene which I saw from a distance at the castle of Chassin--"

"What scene?" said the monk. "Let me tell you, young man, that I too may have witnessed it, and I want to know how truly you relate the things that you see."

"As you please," returned Carnat. "I will tell you what I saw with my own eyes, without hearing a word that was said; and you may explain it as you can. You are to know, the rest of you, that on the last day of last month Joseph got up early in the morning to hang his May bunch on Brulette's door; and seeing a baby about two years old, which of course was his, he wanted no doubt to get possession of it, for he seized it, as if to go off with it; and then began a sharp dispute, in which his friend the Bourbonnais wood-cutter (the same that is upstairs now with his father, and who is to marry Brulette next Sunday) struck him violently and then embraced the mother and child; after which Joseph was gently shoved out of the door and did not show his face there again. I call that one of the queerest histories I ever knew. Twist it as you will, it still remains the tale of a child claimed by two fathers, and of a girl who, instead of giving herself to the first seducer, kicks him away as unworthy or incapable of bringing up the child of their loves."

Instead of answering, as he had proposed to do, Brother Nicolas returned to the chimney, and talked in a low voice, but very eagerly, with Benoît. Joseph was so taken aback at the interpretation put upon a matter of which, after all, he did not know the real meaning, that he looked all round him for assistance, and as Mariton had rushed from the room like a crazy woman, there was no one but me to put down Carnat. The latter's speech had created some astonishment, but no one thought of defending Brulette, against whom they still felt piqued. I began to take her part; but Carnat interrupted me at the first word:--

"Oh! as for you," he said, "no one accuses you. I dare say you played your part in good faith, though it is known that you were used to deceive people by bringing the child from the Bourbonnais. But you are so simple, Tiennet, you may never have suspected anything.--The devil take me!" he continued, addressing the company, "if that fellow isn't as stupid as a basket. He is capable of being godfather to a child believing all the while they were christening a clock. He probably went into the Bourbonnais to fetch this godson of his, who, they told him, was found in a cabbage, and he brought it back in a pilgrim's sack. In fact he is such a slave and good cousin to the girl, that if she had tried to make him believe the boy was like him he would have thought so too."

THIRTIETH EVENING.

There was no use in protesting and getting angry; the company were more inclined to laugh than to listen, for it is always a great delight to misbehaving fellows to speak ill of a poor girl. They make haste to plunge her in the mire, reserving the right to deny it if they find she is innocent.

In the midst of their slanderous speeches, however, a loud voice, slightly weakened by illness but still capable of drowning every other in the room, made itself heard. It was that of the master of the tavern, long accustomed to quell the dissensions of wine and the hubbub of junketing.

"Hold your tongues," he said, "and listen to me, or I'll turn you out this moment, if I never open the house again. Be silent about an honest girl whom you decry because you have all found her too virtuous. As to the real parents of the child who has given rise to these tales, tell them to their face what fault you find with them, for here they are before you. Yes," he continued, drawing Mariton, who was holding Charlot in her arms and weeping, up to him, "here is the mother of my heir, and this is my son whom I recognize by my marriage to this good woman. If you ask me for exact dates, I shall tell you to mind your own business; nevertheless, to any who have the right to question me, I will show deeds which prove that I have always recognized the child as mine, and that his mother was my legitimate wife before his birth, though the matter was kept secret."

The silence of astonishment fell on everybody; and Joseph, who had risen at the first words, stood stock still like a stone image. The monk who noticed the doubt, shame, and anger in his eyes, thought best to add further explanations. He told us that Benoît had been unable to make his marriage public because of the opposition of a rich relative, who had lent him money for his business, and who might have ruined him by demanding it back. As Mariton feared for her reputation, specially on account of her son Joseph, they had concealed Charlot's birth and had put him to nurse at Saint-Sevère; but, at the end of a year Mariton had found him so ill-used that she begged Brulette to take charge of him, thinking that no one else would give him as much care. She had not foreseen the harm this would do to the young girl, and when she did find it out, she wished to remove the child, but Benoît's illness had prevented her doing so, and moreover Brulette had become so attached to Charlot that she would not part with him.

"Yes!" cried Mariton, "poor dear soul that she is, she proved her courage for me. 'You will have trouble enough,' she said to me, 'if you lose your husband; and, perhaps your marriage will be questioned by the family. He is too ill to trouble him now about declaring it. Have patience; don't kill him by talking of your affairs. Everything will come right if God grant that he recovers.'"

"And if I have recovered," added Benoît, "it is by the care of this good woman, my wife, and the kindheartedness of the young girl in question, who patiently endured both blame and insult rather than cause me injury at that time by exposing our secrets. And here is another faithful friend," he added, pointing to the monk,--"a man of sense, of action, and of honest speech, an old school friend of mine in the days when I was educating at Montluçon. He it was who went after my old devil of an uncle, and who at last, no later than this morning, persuaded him to consent to my marriage with my good housekeeper; and when my uncle had given his word to make me heir to his whole property, Brother Nicolas told him the priest had already joined Mariton and me, and showed him that fat Charlot, whom he thought a fine boy and very like the author of his existence."

Benoît's satisfaction revived the lost gayety of the party; every one was struck with the resemblance, which, however, no one had yet noticed,--I as little as any.

"So, Joseph," continued the innkeeper, "you can and ought to love and respect your mother, just as I love and respect her. I take my oath here and now that she is the bravest and most helpful Christian woman that ever a sick man had about him; and I have never had a moment's hesitation in my resolve to declare sooner or later what I have declared to-day. We are now very well off in our worldly affairs, thank God, and as I swore to her and to God that I would replace the father you lost, I will agree, if you will live here with us, to take you into partnership and to give you a good share of the profits.' So you needn't fling yourself into bagpiping, in which your mother sees all sorts of ills for you and anxieties for her. Your notion was to get her a home. That's my affair now, and I even offer to make hers yours. Come, you'll listen to us, won't you, and give up that damned music? Why can't you live in your own country and stay at home? You needn't blush at having an honest innkeeper for a step-father."

"You are my step-father, that's very certain," replied Joseph, not showing either pleasure or displeasure, but remaining coldly on the defensive; "you are an honest man, I know, and rich, I see, and if my mother is happy with you--"

"Yes, yes, Joseph, as happy as possible; above all to-day," cried Mariton, kissing him, "for I hope you will never leave me again."

"You are mistaken, mother," answered Joseph; "you no longer have any need of me, and you are contented. All is well. You were the only thing that brought me back into this part of the country; you were all I had to love, for Brulette--and it is well that all present should hear this from my own mouth--for Brulette never had any feeling but that of a sister for me. Now I am free to follow my destiny; which is not a very kindly one, but it is so plainly mine that I prefer it to all the money of innkeeping and the comfort of family life. Farewell, mother, God bless those who make you happy; as for me, I want nothing in these parts, not even admission to the guild which evil-intentioned fools are trying to deny me. My inward thoughts and my bagpipe go with me wherever I am; and I know I can always earn my living, for wherever my music is heard I shall be welcome."

As he spoke the door to the staircase opened and the whole company of bagpipers entered in silence. Père Carnat requested the attention of those present, and in a firm and cheerful manner, which surprised everybody, he said:--

"François Carnat, my son, after careful examination of your merits and full discussion of your rights, you are declared too much of a novice for present admission. You are advised to study a while longer, without discouragement, so as to present yourself for competition later when circumstances may be more favorable. And you, Joseph Picot, of the village of Nohant, the decision of the masters of this part of the country is that you be, by reason of your unparalleled talents, received into the first class of the guild; and this decision is unanimous."

"Well," replied Joseph, who seemed wholly indifferent to his victory and to the applause with which it was received, "as the matter has turned out this way, I accept the decision, although, not expecting it, I hardly care for it."

Joseph's haughty manner displeased everybody, and Père Carnat hastened to sav, with an air which I thought showed disguised malignity: "Does that mean, Joseph, that you wish for the honor and the title, and do not intend to take your place among the professional bagpipers in these parts?"

"I don't know yet," said Joseph, evidently by way of bravado, and not wishing to satisfy his judges. "I'll think about it."

"I believe," said young Carnat to his father, "that he has thought about it already, and his decision is made, for he hasn't the courage to go on with the matter."

"Courage?" cried Joseph, "courage for what, if you please?"

Then the dean of the bagpipers, old Paillou of Verneuil, said to Joseph:--

"You are surely not ignorant, young man, that something more than playing an instrument is required, to be received into our guild; there is such a thing as a musical catechism, which you must know and on which you will be questioned, if you feel you have the knowledge and also the boldness to answer. Moreover, there are certain oaths to be taken. If you feel no repugnance to these things, you must decide at once to submit to them, so that the matter may be settled to-morrow morning."

"I understand you," said Joseph. "The guild has secret oaths, and tests and trials. They are all great folly, as far as I know, and music has no part in them, for I defy you to reply to any musical question which I might put to you. Consequently, the questions you address to me on a subject you know less about than the frogs in the pond, are no better than old women's gabble."

"If you take it that way," said Renet, the Mers bagpiper, "we are willing you should think yourself a great genius and the rest of us jackasses. So be it. Keep your secrets, and we will keep ours. We are not anxious to tell them to those who despise us. But remember one thing: here is your certificate as a master bagpiper, which we now hand to you, signed and sealed by all, including your friends the Bourbonnais bagpipers, who agree that all is done in good order. You are free to exercise your talents where you please and where you can; except in the parishes where we play and which number one hundred and fifty, according to the distribution we make among ourselves, the list of which will be handed to you; in those parishes you are forbidden to play. We give notice that if you break this rule it will be at your own risk and peril, for we shall put a stop to it, if need be, by main force."

Here Mariton spoke up.

"You needn't threaten him," she said, "it is safe to leave him to his own fancy, which is to play his music and look for no profit. He has no need to do that, thank God, and besides, his lungs are not strong enough for your business. Come, Joseph, thank them for the honor have done you, and don't keep them anxious about their interests. Let the matter be settled now, and here's my man who will pay the pipers with a good quartern of Sancerre or Issoudun wine, at the choice of the company."

"That's all right," said old Carnat. "We are quite willing the matter should end thus. It is best, no doubt, for your son; for one needn't be either a fool or a coward to shrink from the tests, and I do think the poor fellow is not cut out to endure them."

"We will see about that!" cried Joseph, falling into the trap that was set for him, in spite of the warnings Père Bastien was giving him in a low voice. "I demand the tests; and as you have no right to refuse them after delivering to me the certificate, I intend to practise your calling if I choose, or, at any rate, to prove that I am not prevented from doing so by any of you."

"Agreed!" said the dean, showing plainly, as did Carnat and several others, the malignant pleasure Joseph's words afforded them. "We will now prepare for your initiation, friend Joseph. Remember there is no going back, and that you will be considered a milk-sop or a braggart if you change your mind."

"Go on, go on!" cried Joseph. "I'll await you on a firm foot."

"It is for us to await you," said old Carnat in his ear, "at the stroke of midnight."

"Where?" said Joseph, coolly.

"At the gate of the cemetery," replied the dean, in a low voice. Then, without accepting the wine which Benoît offered them, or giving heed to the remonstrances of his wife, they went off in a body, threatening evil to all who followed them or spied upon their mysteries.

The Head-Woodsman and Huriel went with them without a word to Joseph, by which I plainly saw that, although the pair were opposed to the spirit of the other bagpipers, they thought it none the less their duty not to warn Joseph, nor to betray in the slightest degree the secrets of the guild.

In spite of the threats which were made, I was not deterred from following them at a distance, without other precaution than carelessly sauntering down the same road, with my hands in my pockets, and whistling as if I were paying no attention to them or their affairs. I knew they would not let me get near enough to overhear their plots, but I wanted to make sure in what direction they meant to lie in wait, so as to get there later, if possible, unobserved. With that notion in my head, I signed to Leonard to keep the others at the tavern until I returned to call them. But my pursuit was soon ended. The inn stood on a street which ran down-hill to the river, and is now the mail route to Issoudun. In those days it was a breakneck little place, narrow and ill-paved, lined with old houses with pointed gables and stone mullions. The last of these houses was pulled down a year ago. From the river, which ran along the wall below the inn of the Bœuf Couronné, a steep ascent led to the market-place, which was then, as it is now, that long unevenly paved space, planted with trees, bordered on the left by old houses, on the right by the broad moat, full of water, and the great wall (then unbroken) of the castle. The church closes the market-place at the further end, and two alleys lead down from it, one to the parsonage, the other past the cemetery. The bagpipers turned down the latter path. They were about a gunshot in advance of me, that is to say, just time enough to pass along the path by the cemetery and out into the open country by the postern of the English tower, unless they chose to stop at this particular spot; which was not very convenient, for the path--which ran between the moat of the castle on one side and the bank of the cemetery on the other--was only wide enough for one person at a time.

When I judged that the bagpipers must have reached the postern, I turned the corner of the castle under an arcade which in those days was used as a footpath by the gentry on their way to the parish church. I found I was all alone when I entered the path by the churchyard, a place few Christian men would set foot in alone after nightfall,--not only because it led past the cemetery, but because the north flank of the castle had a bad name. There was talk of I don't know how many persons drowned in the moat in the days of the English war; and some folks swore they had heard the cocadrillos whistle on that particular path when epidemics were about.

You know of course that the cocadrillo is a sort of lizard, which sometimes seems no bigger than your little finger, and sometimes swells to the size of an ox and grows five or six yards long. This beast, which I have never seen, and whose existence I couldn't warrant, is supposed to vomit a venom which poisons the air and brings the plague. Now, though I did not believe much of this, I was not over-fond of going along this path, where the high wall of the castle and the tall trees of the cemetery shut out every speck of light. On this occasion I walked fast, without looking to the right or left, and passed through the postern of the English gate, of which, by the bye, not one stone upon another remains to the present day.

Once there, and notwithstanding that the night was fine and the moon clear, I could not see, either far or near, the slightest trace of the eighteen persons I was after. I looked in every direction; I even went as far as Père Begneux's cottage, the only house they could have entered. The occupants were all asleep, and nowhere about was there any noise, or trace, or sign, of a living person. I therefore concluded that the missing bagpipers had entered the cemetery to perform some wicked conjuring, and--though far from liking to do so, but determined to risk all for Thérence's relations--I returned through the postern and along the accursed path, stepping softly, skirting the bank so close that I touched the tombstones, and keeping my ears open to the slightest sound. I heard the screech-owl hooting in the casemates, and the adders hissing in the black water of the moat, but that was all. The dead slept in the ground as tranquilly as the living in their beds. I plucked up courage to climb over the cemetery bank and to give a glance round the field of death. All was quiet,--no signs whatever of the bagpipers.

Then I walked all round the castle. It was locked up, and as it was after ten o'clock masters and servants slept like stones.

Then I returned to the inn, not being able to imagine what had become of the guild, but determined to station my comrades in the path leading to the English gate, from which we could see what happened to Joseph when he reached the rendezvous at midnight at the gate of the cemetery. I found them on the bridge debating whether or not they should start for home, and declaring they could see no danger to the Huriels, because it was evident they had agreed amicably with the other bagpipers in the matter of the competition. As for what concerned Joseph, they cared little or nothing, and tried to prevent me from interfering. I told them that to my thinking the danger for all three would be when the tests were applied, for the evil intentions of the bagpipers had been plainly shown, and the Huriels, I knew, were there to protect Joseph.

"Are you already sick of the enterprise?" I said. "Is it because we are only eight to sixteen, and you haven't a heart for two inside of you?"

"How do you count eight?" asked Leonard. "Do you think the Head-Woodsman and his son would go with us against their fellow-members?"

"I did count wrong;" I answered; "for we are really nine. Joseph won't let himself be fleeced if they make it too hot for him, and as both the Huriels carry arms, I feel quite sure they mean to defend him if they can't be heard otherwise."

"That's not the point," returned Leonard. "We are only six, and they are twenty; but there's another thing which pleases us even less than a fight. People have been talking in the inn, and each had a story to relate of these tests. The monk denounced them as impious and abominable; and though Joseph laughed at what was said, we don't feel certain there is nothing in it. They told of candidates nailed on a bier, and furnaces into which they were tripped, and red-hot iron crosses which they were made to clasp. Such things seem hard to believe; and if I were certain that that was all I'd like to punish the fellows who are bad enough to ill-treat a neighbor in that way. Unfortunately--"

"There, there!" said I, "I see you have let yourself be scared. What is behind it all? Tell the whole, and let's either laugh at it or take warning."

"This is it," said one of the lads, seeing that Leonard was ashamed to own his fears. "None of us have ever seen the devil, and we don't want to make his acquaintance."

"Ho, ho!" I cried, seeing that they were all relieved, now the words were out. "So it is Lucifer himself that frightens you! Well, I'm too good a Christian to be afraid of him; I give my soul to God, and I'll be bound I'll take him by the horns, yes I myself, alone against the enemy of mankind, as fearlessly as I would take a goat by the beard. He has been allowed to do evil to those who fear him long enough, and it is my opinion that an honest fellow who dared to wrench off his horns could deprive him of half his power, and that would be something gained at any rate."

"Faith!" said Leonard, ashamed of his fears, "if you look at it that way I won't back down, and if you'll smash his horns I'll try to pull out his tail. They say it is fine, and we'll find out if it is gold or hemp."

There is no such remedy against fear as fun, but I don't deny that though I took the matter on that tone, I was not at all anxious to pit myself against "Georgeon," as we call the devil in our parts. I wasn't a bit more easy in mind than the rest, but for Thérence's sake I felt ready to march into the jaws of hell. I had promised her, and the good God himself couldn't have turned me back now.

But that's an ill way to talk. The good God, on the contrary, gave me strength and confidence, and the more anxiety I felt all that night, the more I thought on him and asked his aid.

When our other comrades saw that our minds, Leonard's and mine, were made up, they followed us. To make the affair safer, I went back to the inn to see if I could find other friends who, without knowing what we were after, would follow us for fun, and, if occasion came, would fight with us. But it was late, and there was no one at the Bœuf Couronné but Benoît, who was supping with the monk, Mariton, who was saying her prayers, and Joseph, who had thrown himself on a bed and was sound asleep with, I must own, a tranquillity that put us to shame.

"I have only one hope," said Mariton, as she got off her knees; "and that is that he will sleep over the time and not wake up till morning."

"That's just like all women!" cried Benoît, laughing, "they want life at the price of shame. But I gave my word to her lad to wake him before midnight, and I shall not fail to do so."

"Ah, you don't love him!" cried the mother. "We'll see if you push our Charlot into danger when his turn comes."

"You don't know what you are talking about, wife," replied the innkeeper; "go to bed and to sleep with my boy; I promise you I'll not fail to wake yours. You would not wish him to blame me for his dishonor?"

"Besides," said the monk, "what danger do you suppose there is in the nonsense they are going to perform? I tell you you are dreaming, my good woman. The devil doesn't get hold of anybody; God doesn't allow it, and you have not brought your boy up so ill that you need fear that he will get himself damned for his music. I tell you that the villanous tests of the bagpipers are really nothing worse than impious jokes, from which sensible people can easily protect themselves; and Joseph need only laugh at the demons they will set upon him, to put them all to flight."

The monk's words heartened up my comrades wonderfully.

"If it is only a farce," they said to me, "we will tumble into the middle of it and thrash the devil well; but hadn't we better take Benoît into our confidence? He might help us."

"To tell you the truth," I said, "I am not sure that he would. He is thought a worthy man; but you never know the secrets of a family, especially when there are children by a first marriage. Step-fathers don't always like them, and Joseph has been none too amiable this evening with his. Let's get off without a word to anyone; that's best, and it is nearly time we were there."

Taking the road past the church, walking softly and in single file, we posted ourselves in the little path near the English gate. The moon was so low we could creep in the shadow of the cemetery bank and not be seen, even if any one passed quite close to us. My comrades, being strangers, had no such repugnance to the place as the villagers, and I let them go in front while I hid within the cemetery, near enough to the gate to see who entered, and also near enough to call to them when wanted.

THIRTY-FIRST EVENING.

I waited a good long time,--all the longer because the hours go so slow in company with dead folks. At last midnight struck in the church steeple and I saw the head of a man rising beyond the low wall of the cemetery quite near the gate. Another quarter of an hour dragged along without my seeing or hearing anything but that man, who, getting tired of waiting, began to whistle a Bourbonnais tune, whereby I knew it was Joseph, who no doubt betrayed the hopes of his enemies by seeming so cool in presence of the dead.

At last, another man, who was stuck close to the wall inside the gate, and whom I hadn't seen on account of the big box-trees which hid him, popped his head quickly over the wall as if to take Joseph by surprise; but the latter did not stir, and said, laughing: "Well, Père Carnat, you are rather late; I came near going to sleep while waiting. Will you open the gate, or must I enter that 'nettle-field,' by the breach?"

"No," said Carnat, "the curate would not like it; we mustn't openly offend the church people. I will go to you."

He climbed over the wall and told Joseph he must let his head and arms be covered with a very thick canvas sack, and then walk wherever he was led.

"Very good," said Joseph in a contemptuous tone. "Go on."

I watched them from over the wall, and saw them enter the little path to the English gate; then I made a short cut to the place where I had left my comrades and found only four of them; the youngest had slipped off without a word, and I was rather afraid the others would do the same, for they found the time long and told me they had heard very queer noises, which seemed to come from under the earth.

Presently Joseph came along, with his head covered and led by Carnat. The pair got close upon us, but turned from the path about twenty feet off. Carnat made Joseph clamber down to the edge of the moat, and we thought he meant to drown him. At once we were on our legs to stop such treachery, but in a minute more we saw they were both walking in the water, which was shallow at that place, until they reached a low archway in the wall of the castle which was partly in the water of the moat. They passed through it, and this explained to me what had become of the others whom I had hunted for.

It was necessary to do as they did; which didn't seem to me very difficult, but my comrades were hard to persuade. They had heard that the vaults of the castle ran nine miles out into the country, as far as Deols, and that persons who did not know their windings had been lost in them. I was forced to declare that I knew them very well, though I had never set foot there in my life, and had no idea whether they were common wine-cellars or a subterraneous town, as my friends declared.

I walked first, without seeing where I set my feet, feeling the walls, which inclosed a narrow passage where one's head very nearly touched the roof. We advanced in this way for a short time, when a hullaballoo sounded beneath us like forty thunder-claps rolling round the devil's cave. It was so strange and alarming that I stopped short to try and find out what it meant; then I went quickly forward, not to let myself get chilled with the idea of some devil's caper, telling my companions to follow me. But the noise was so loud they did not hear me and I, thinking they were at my heels, went on and on, till, hearing nothing more, I turned to speak to them and got no answer. Not wishing to call aloud, I went back four or five steps; it was all dark. I stretched out my hands, and called cautiously; good-bye to my valiant contingent,--they had deserted me!

I thought I must be pretty near the entrance and could surely catch up with them within or without. I returned through the arch by which we had entered, and searched carefully along the little path beside the cemetery; but no! my comrades had disappeared just like the bagpipers; it seemed as if the earth had opened and swallowed them up.

I had a moment of horrid worry, thinking I must either give up the whole thing or return to those devilish caverns and take myself all alone into the traps and terrors they were preparing for Joseph. But I asked myself whether, even if the matter concerned only him, I could quietly leave him in danger. My soul answered no, and then I asked my heart if love for Thérence wasn't quite as real a thing as one's duty to one's neighbor, and the answer I received sent me back through the dark and slimy archway and along the subterranean passages--I won't say as gayly, but at any rate as quickly as if I were going to my own wedding.

While I was feeling my way forward I found, on my right, an opening to another passage, which I had not found before because I then felt to my left; and I thought to myself that my comrades in going out had probably found it and turned that way. I followed the passage, for there was no sign that the other way would bring me any nearer to the bagpipers. I did not find my comrades, but as for the bagpipers, I had not taken twenty steps before I heard their din much nearer than it sounded the first time; and presently a quivering kind of light let me see that I was entering a large round cave which had three or four exits, black as the jaws of hell.

I was surprised to see so clearly in a vault where there wasn't any light, but I presently noticed that gleams were coming from below through the ground I trod upon. I noticed that this ground seemed to swell up in the middle, and fearing it was not solid, I kept close to the wall, and getting near to a crevice, I lay down with my eye close to it and saw very plainly what was going on in another cavern just below the one I was in. It was, as I afterwards learned, a former dungeon, adjoining an oubliette or black hole, the mouth of which could still be seen thirty years ago in the upper hall of the castle. I thought as much when I saw the remains of human bones at the lower end of the cave, which the bagpipers had set up in rows to terrify the candidate, with pine torches inside their skulls. Joseph was there all alone, his eyes unbound, his arms crossed, just as cool as I was not, listened contemptuously to the uproar of eighteen bagpipes, which all brayed together, prolonging a single note into a roar. This crazy music came from an adjoining cave where the bagpipers were hidden, and where, as they doubtless knew, a curious echo multiplied the sound. I, who knew nothing about it then, fancied at first that all the bagpipes of Berry, Auvergne, and the Bourbonnais were collected together in that cave.